𝐷𝑅𝐸𝐴𝑀𝐿𝐴𝑁𝐷

the paralysis is worse than the terrors themselves. at least, with the terrors alone, rocket wakes up already fighting. so far he’s never accidentally shot anyone — least not anyone who didn’t deserve it — and he’s only punched Star-Lord once, which actually seems like a testament to his own self-control, all things considered.

but when he wakes up paralyzed, he feels so helpless. so weak. sometimes he even wonders if he’s still back in the lab, and all his circs of flight and freedom have only been a hallucination.

so he tries to avoid sleep, not realizing he’s making it worse: pushing himself to the point of exhaustion again and again, taking only sporadic naps at erratic intervals. trying to self-medicate with bottles of angargal’s and twelve-packs of blubber ale.

they all make it worse.

not that he draws the connection.

it’s not till you show up, then start hanging around, that things begin to change. god, rocket probably hates sharing a bunk with you at first — annoyed at having a newcomer bumping around in his ship, a stranger intruding in his family, an innocent little terran taking up his space and interfering with his already-questionable sleep schedule. he stays away from the bunk even more, of course — wrinkling his nose at the thought of you in it.

but his avoidance can’t last forever. at some point, he attempts to sneak a twenty-minute nap, only for deprivation to send him sprawling into hours of deep-dreaming in his hammock. when the sleepshift rolls around, you’re reluctant to wake him — so you simply sneak in quietly to catch some Zs on the shelf-bed, tiptoeing through the shadows.

you wake an hour later to the sound of his tight lungs and wheezy breaths, each inhale and exhale slivered and split like his ribs are a cheese grater. cautious, you rise, your bare feet padding on the grates — and when you see his eyeshine catch the dim glow of the security lights, you understand what’s happened to him.

hey, you’re safe, you remind him gently, your voice a crushed-velvet whisper in the dark. you’re here, in our bunk in the benatar, and you’re safe. i’m going to touch your shoulder, okay? i want you to focus on that for now, so you remember I’m with you, and where you are.

do you feel me? can you just blink for me? just once for yes, okay, handsome?

a moment. a blink. you let out a sigh of relief.

good, you praise him, thumb stroking his shoulder. his fur is softer than you’d imagined — and you had imagined, much to your embarassment. you’re doing so good for me. can you try to take a deeper breath for me? slow it down just a little, okay? i’ll do it with you. we’re going to to try for a four-count.

he fails the first time, lungs stuttering and shaking with each broken, ragged inhale, right and shallow.

that’s okay. we’ll keep trying, you and me. i know it’s hard and you’re doing so well. it’s going to get easier each time you try. i’m just going to talk to you, okay? so you know i’m here and you’re not alone.

a brief, self-deprecating laugh filters from your lips.

and if you hate me and never wanna see me after this, that’s okay. I don’t mean to annoy you so much.

his heart’s already clenching and thudding in his chest, but something about your words makes it twist.

but you ramble on, oblivious to the achy little secondhand wound you’d given him: explaining the mechanics of sleep paralysis in a half-apologetic tone, like you’re afraid you’re telling him shit he already knows. and you slide your other hand into his, your fingers tracing the lines of his palm in a way that puts a new kind of starburst-explosion behind his eyes, because you prob’ly have no idea how sensitive his hands are.

can you feel this? you trace a line down the inside of his forefinger and he’s suddenly feeling more in his body than he’s felt since this nightmare started.

maybe since long before that.

blink for me if you can feel it.

his eyelids flutter.

thank you, sweetheart. focus on this finger for me, okay? i want you to curl it closed for me, all right?

your thumb massages his palm encouragingly, more stars flare behind his eyes, and he realizes — for fuck’s sake — he’s prob’ly gonna frickin’ fall in love with you now.

rocket never woulda frickin’ thought that you would be the fix for his bouts of paralysis — but here he is, six cycles later, with more patience and less hostility, and a good-natured edge to his typical mockery that still startles his fellow Guardians. his eyes are brighter and his fur is glossier; he’s eating more and somehow, his aim is even better than it was before.

and the number of times he wakes up in the middle of the sleepshift with his muscles locked and terror still clinging his fur? well, let’s just say it’s decreased dramatically.

it’s not me, you laugh when he smirks and calls you his medicine, his sleep-aid, his little humie cure-all. it’s just that you’re going to bed at a regular time and getting up at a regular time. drinking less. actually sleeping instead of trying to avoid it, and not lying on your back in that hammock.

he only shrugs and grins and tugs you toward the low shelf-bed he shares with you now — sleeping curled into a circle against your flank, or weighing down your belly. you climb in beside him, and he winds his arms as far as he can around you, squeezing you teasingly like you’re his favorite stuffed plushie, pressing his nose to your temple while he chided you smugly:

wouldn’t be doin’ any of that without you.

The big Ravager’s face turns a shade grayer before his mouth pinches and his crimson eyes narrow. “Someone tried to force you into it, girlie?”

She tilts her head. Yes, she almost says, then second-guesses herself. Had she not been complicit?

And then she remembers how she had wanted to run out into the lightning or walk into the sea that night. She remembers the lacelike pattern of the rain reflected on the shadowed walls, the guttered candle, and how she’d craved Rocket’s hot hands crushing her throat rather than signing that electrocontract in antiseptic shadows of the Arete. She remembers how she’d spent most of her existence feeling colder and more lifeless than anything on Fron.

And she thinks about Pete, and his desperation to marry Gamora before the next life-threatening conflict. She thinks about the warmth of the little dining nook in the Fronnish kitchens, and the braziers under the beds where Littlefoot is already snoring and snuffling softly. She thinks of the Fronnishfolk out in the snow, planting posts for stringlights, and digging firepits with Ravagers to keep all the wedding-guests warm. She thinks about a universe that is constantly expanding, with each galaxy growing further away from one beside it, and she thinks of everyone and everything becoming more separate and distinct and alone.

And then she thinks of what it means to find love in spite of all that, and how it’s not only a joy for the people involved, but a lamp-post and a lighthouse for others, too.

Instead of answering directly, she repeats, “I was nearly married once. I was hours away from being a wife. Minutes, maybe. We were going to have dinner. Sign an electrocontract.” She hesitates. Her teeth sink into her lip. “I couldn’t stop shivering. I was fantasizing about death. Ravager-weddings might mean always being remembered — but I would have given up almost anything to make my betrothed forget.”

The Centaurian’s scarlet eyes grow harder. “Did Rat kill ‘em yet?” Then: “Sorry. Rocket kill ‘em yet?”

Pearl pulls back, and when she smiles, it feels surprisingly light on her face. “Oh, no,” she tells the captain. “Not yet."

read chapter forty-one. eisce. ✩ cicatrix masterlist & notes | see warnings and art below.

cicatrix .⋆☁︎:･꧂ navigation | fiction masterlist

a story about scars. two survivors learn about themselves, each other, hope, and the universe. a freakish little monster visits the high evolutionary’s bride on her wedding night. an adventure of intergalactic proportions ensues. aka raccoons make plans; the universe laughs.

ART: pearl’s character design | pearl & rocket’s bunk | heartspur scene | chapter one. nemotia. art by @/frostedwitch| rocket & pearl snuggle | adorable pearl x rocket selfie by @/starriidreams | sexy, evocative waterlily pearl x rocket painting by @/hibatasblog ♡ | rocket combs pearl's hair | immerensis (sketch)

WARNINGS for this chapter: just the briefest mention of hypothetical molestation/sexual assault.

fluff ✮ | spice ✩ | some smut ❤︎‬ | much smut ❤︎‬❤︎‬ cicatrix masterlist | navigation | fiction masterlist