Chapter Text
destine (v) :
1. To preordain.
2. To assign something for a particular use.
3. To have a particular destination.
Peter isn't entirely certain how the clock came to be in the first place. After having had it for such a long time, he decidedly doesn't care about that part anymore; there isn't a point to it. Every now and then, though, during his rare moments of calm and quiet, he looks over at it and thinks for a while. He hadn't previously been one to believe in destiny and all that existential jargon, but suffice to say, this item somehow finding its way to him did make it hard to believe in just mere coincidence.
Admittedly, he sometimes doesn't treat it with as much reverence and care that it obviously deserves - and he'll be the first to say that he is incredibly stupid for such - but it was often difficult not to lose his composure and take it out on whatever was closest at hand. Peter Quill was not a particularly violent man in nature, but neither was he a saint.
After all, he supposes, he is only human.
When they managed to make it all the way to Xandar to confront Ronan, Peter was more than nervous, a rapidly building hope bubbling just beneath the surface.
Of course, he should have known better.
To an extent, he already did, but as time passed and they managed to make it further and further into the plan, his excitement really was getting harder to control. So far, so good - it was getting to the worst part, but as long as things kept going as smoothly as they had been so far, they definitely stood more than a chance, right? They were so close, he could practically see the metaphorical light at the end of the tunnel right in front of his very eyes. All that was left now was actually stepping through to the other side and calling it a job well done.
And as he lay on the rocky ground, slowly dying and watching Rocket savagely cut down before him, he thought,
"Of fucking course not."
With trembling hands, he reaches into his jacket to take out the clock, and pulls the small lever on it's side.
Do you want to try again?
[YES] NO
"Quill, are you even listening?"
Peter looks up with a start, flushing in slight embarrassment as he meets the frustrated gazes of his cohorts.
"Y-Yeah, of course I am!"
"Oh yeah? Repeat what Gamora just said, then," Rocket challenges, staring him down from the seat across from him.
He opens his mouth to respond, but thinks better of it and shrinks back. He's been caught, no use in pretending; there isn't enough time for them to waste on it.
"Yeah that's what I thought," the raccoon snarls, glancing around the room at the others. "Remind me why we're working with this idiot again?"
Said idiot takes the painful sting of these words gracefully, and when Rocket and Gamora continue the discussion amongst themselves, he lets himself slip back into his thoughts. It was alright; he couldn't let every single biting comment get to him anymore. Before, it would have definitely been different. Before, he would have taken this more to heart and almost instantly jump up to defend himself and incite an argument over his place in the group, but before was not now.
Rocket didn't know any better. He didn't know. None of them knew - he couldn't possibly fault any of them.
His fingers lightly stroke the uneven surface of the clock, resting comfortably just inside his jacket, and he mentally reminds himself to at some point improve the lining of it's pocket to better protect this most precious object.
The clock had practically fallen into his hands one day during his travels, shortly before he went to Morag to steal the orb that had, unbeknownst to him, housed a goddamn Infinity Stone, of all things.
He had been visiting some other planet - but what was it's name? It always eluded him, seemingly just out of his reach, as if someone had completely wiped his memory of only the planet's name. Taking an interest in one of its many shopping districts, he happened across the clock sitting inconspicuously enough in a bin, heavily surrounded by other mostly-useless items.
It could very well have been easily passed by with barely a glance - and in fact, he likely would have missed it by completely if he hadn't tripped at a precise moment and nearly fell into the table - but he had felt drawn to it, in a way. As he caught himself before he could make a messy landing, the clock fell directly into his line of sight, mere inches from his face. Mainly, he was struck by how human it looked; it looked to be completely Terran, like one of those antiques he could recall seeing many times back on his home planet during his relatively short time spent there, and he reached out to hold it, like a lifeline. It was only hours later, after carefully sneaking it onto his person and managing to leave the planet undetected, that he thought of how stupid it was to have bothered taking it.
Later, as he was preparing to sleep, he examined the hand-sized clock more closely, taking in every feature - the smooth, almost shiny surface that made it seem brand new, the peculiar little lever at it's right side, the unmoving hands of the clock itself. He supposed wanting a piece from his home with him wasn't exactly the end of the world; it was only natural to be a bit homesick from time to time, wasn't it? Resolving to keep it as a small memento, he placed it carefully amongst the mess of his things and promptly fell asleep.
"Friend Quill, you are unusually distracted tonight. What troubles your mind?"
Jolted from his thoughts again, he grins lightly at Drax, who he notices is eyeing him rather closely now.
"Nah, I'm just...Just tired, man. We got a big day ahead of us."
His excuse sounds weak even to his own ears, and for a few moments he thinks he's about to be more heavily interrogated. Luckily for him, Drax finally backs down and nods once.
"We are indeed facing a most grave and monumental occasion. It would do you well to obtain some rest beforehand," he says, rather carefully and continuing to watch Peter closely.
"...Yeah...Yeah I think I'll go do that now."
Standing up, he pats Drax's shoulder in thanks and is about to make a swift exit out of their sight when a sharp blast hits the Milano's side, sending their bodies flying across the room and careening them headfirst into a violent attack.
They spring into action and immediately attempt to gain some ground, but Peter already knows far too well that they aren't going to make it this time around.
Barely registering the confused looks he gets from the other four, he takes out the clock.
Do you want to try again?
[YES] NO
Sometimes, he'd only have to pull the lever after a very short while, and if he was to be completely honest, he often preferred those times to the rest; it meant that his hopes didn't get the chance to grow beyond a seedling before they were crushed. It was easier, those times.
Other times, when he was feeling particularly strong, he preferred the instances where they'd very nearly won; it meant that they had at least tried their damned best, and that was definitely something to be proud of.
It was easier in the beginning, he thinks. It usually is, for many different situations.
As he finds himself back on Xandar, standing once again in front of that certain shop, he frowns and carefully carves another line into one of its wooden panels.
Officially beginning his journey with an attack on him that quickly blossomed into multiple attacks - it was basically the same exact start each time, at least - he finds that he has to smile even as he's roughly shoved into the back of the Nova Corps vehicle alongside Groot, Rocket, and Gamora.
"What're you smilin' at, pretty boy?" Rocket snarls at him.
Peter merely shakes his head and shrugs lightly, turning his eyes to the floor.
It always feels good to be home.
When they get to the prison and are thrown into the registration and jailing process, Peter doesn't struggle or say much; he's been through this exact process far too many times, down to the last minute detail. Nothing about this process changes normally, something he finds some comfort in - at least this part he could always count of to happen the exact same way each and every single time, minus the fight against it that he stopped bothering with a long, long time ago. There was comfort in routine - this, he knew.
Sometimes, only sometimes, they'd manage to outrun the Corps.
Those were the times he'd have the pull the lever almost right away.
He doesn't miss the odd looks Rocket gives him throughout their journey to the inner rooms of the Kyln, and when they get a few moments of silence as they complete this journey, he hears Rocket get a little closer to be heard better.
"You been here before, humie?"
Peter bites back a small grin.
"...Sort of."
Rocket slows his pace to go back to his original spot in line.
"...Fuckin' weirdo..."
Later that night, as he finds he is too late and watches Drax practically gut Gamora like a fish, spilling her organs onto the cold floor below, he only barely holds back his vomit. Almost immediately afterward, he drags himself back toward the sleeping cells and demands that Rocket help him get to his personal belongings.
They manage it, of course, and Peter soon finds himself standing there before them, sirens blaring deafeningly loud and Rocket screaming at him even louder to 'hurry the fuck up, Quill, they're coming!' Breathing a sigh of relief as he holds the key to fixing this - fixing everything - he drops to his knees to give Rocket a quick hug, pulling back to hold his shoulders firmly and look him in the eye. Shocked into silence, or perhaps an unimaginable fury for even being touched, he can only stare back.
"I'm gonna fix this, buddy. I'm not gonna stop until I get it right. I promise, I'll save you guys," he says, squeezing the raccoon's shoulders one final time before reluctantly pulling himself away to gather the clock.
"Quill...What the fuck are you-"
Hand on lever, he keeps his eyes on his small friend, keeping the growing threat of tears under a strict hold.
"I'll see you soon, okay?"
"Quill-!"
Do you want to try again?
[YES] NO
Peter Quill stands before a familiar shop in a familiar city, on a bright, sunny day. Taking in a deep breath of fresh air, he pulls a small knife from his jacket and carves a single, small line onto an already heavily-marked wooden surface.
Storing these two items away, he takes a quick look around, and starts walking.