#ioft

There’s something grounding in the feel of you pressed against Rocket’s side, however fleeting the sensation may be—lasting only moments before the thick cord of the grappling gun ripples through the air and sinks its hooks into the surface, launching the two of you upward and hurtling toward the sky. He clutches you tight and twists to soften your landing, taking the brunt of the impact as he hits the ground hard. 

Rocket hisses at the sting of rubble grating against his back, and the even further unpleasant sensation of dirt caking into his still-damp fur. His whole body aches after his tumble down the canyon, from the twinge in the base of his neck down to the persistent throb in the leg that had been trapped beneath the rubble—but he still squints past the blinding columns of sun piercing through the cracks in jetsmoke and soot that cloud the skyline, and tilts his head to assess you.

“You okay?” Rocket asks, running his hand along your upper arm. You open your eyes blearily and attempt to regain your bearings, then nod into his chest, before carefully easing yourself out of his grasp. 

The ache you must feel is evident in your slow, staggered movements as you gently rise onto your elbows. Your face screws up as you come to a sit, one hand coming down to brace against your stomach. Then, you take in a sharp inhale through your nose, and he watches something determined settle in your expression as you nod at him.

“I’ll be okay,” you respond.

Rocket dips his head hesitantly in acknowledgement, then lifts himself from the ground.  “We gotta get moving,” he states, scanning his surroundings. 

He doesn’t have a good vantage point over the battlefield from this position, where the ground still dips inward toward the gully below. The two of you have at least landed far enough from the thick of the fight to remain unnoticed for the time being—but every precious second spent out in the open runs a greater risk of being caught in a bad position. He spots a thick piece of jetsam jutting from the ground at the peak of the incline, and signals for you to follow him toward it. 

“Lay low,” he says, unholstering his rifle. “Stick close to me.”

As the two of you inch forward, something roars past overhead, blasting his eardrums as dense clouds of debris whorl up into the air. Rocket whips his head up just in time to see a horde of Thanos’ ships slicing through the skyline, packed in a tight formation. He furrows his brows at the profound scale of it—so numerous that they almost seem to take the shape of an ominous cloud, formed of sleek metal, raining laser-fire.

Rocket ducks down, pulling you with him as he sprints to tuck himself against the cover provided by the rubble. He leans back against its surface as he racks his rifle, listening for the familiar metallic click of a plasma-bullet sliding into the chamber.

In the meantime, you take a moment to peek around the edge of the cover. Whatever you see causes a hitched gasp to fall from your lips, eyes widening dramatically as you blanch and slip back into hiding. 

“…It doesn’t look good out there,” you say, head jerking to the side in a gesture for him to take a look. “You should see for yourself.”

Rocket nods, then slips away from your side. As he creeps toward the jagged rim of the scrap metal, he hears the deafening patter of gunfire and shouts of agony, married into an inharmonious clamour that portends a difficult battle laying ahead…but it still does nothing to prepare him for what he sees once he breaches the corner and sets his sights on the valley before him.

It’s…it’s grim.

Rocket’s throat tightens, like a lump has settled somewhere halfway down his neck; he attempts to swallow it—but his mouth feels too dry, and the mass seems to fall down and sink heavily into the pits of his stomach instead. 

The lakeside he’d looked upon with you atop the Benatar only nights ago, teeming with life and strikingly beautiful against the silvery Terran moonlight, has been ravaged—the plush, verdant grass has been reduced to a desolate canvas of dirt and ash, not even a hint of the various flora and fauna to be seen among the unending bombardment of blood and bullets. 

Rocket scans further down the valley and spots the other Avengers and Strange’s reinforcements clashing with Thanos’ grunts up ahead. A slow drip of familiar faces flow in from Strange’s portals above, but not enough to overtake the sheer mass of the Black army; despite the extra aid, the struggle hasn’t seemed to lessen—there are just so many of them. Enemy troops seem to flow in like water with overwhelming force, crashing against the Avenger’s front lines like an unconquerable wave against a crumbling cliff face.

Worst yet, Groot’s somewhere down there, in the middle of all of that.

Rocket grits his teeth and tries to focus, one hand rising to activate his comms and tune it to the Avengers’ channels. “What the hell is happening out there? Nebs, do you still have the stones?”

The radio crackles, and Nebula’s voice sounds out from the other end.

“There’s more of them than I expected. We’re drowning down here,” she replies, speech dampened beneath the sound of thunderous gunfire. “I had to pass it off. We can’t let Thanos get to the stones—that’s the priority.”

“Then who has the gauntlet?”

“I do,” Clint says in between heavy breaths. He stops talking for a moment as he grunts with effort—seeming to be running from something—before speaking again. “Not sure what the hell I’m supposed to be doing with it, but I’m willing to take suggestions—quickly.”

Nebula speaks up again. “We need to get the stones out of here—“

“No, we need to send them back where they came from,” Bruce interrupts. “It’s the safest option. We can’t outrun him, and we can only fight for so long.”

“How do you propose we do that?” Nebula replies with an irritated huff. “Our options are limited and we don’t exactly have the luxury of time—if Thanos gets to these stones, there won’t be a fight. It’ll be over for us all.”

“I don’t think it’s possible, Bruce,” Tony says. “The quantum tunnel’s been shred to pieces."

“Then we need to figure something else out. Anything,” Bruce argues. “There’s too many of them for us to take head-on.”

…Shit. 

Rocket glares into the distance, fist curled over the jagged edge of the shrapnel, claws scraping thin, shaky lines against the sheet metal. 

The prospects are bleak, to say the least. He does his damndest to think—there’s gotta be something else they can do—but every thread of thought seems to unravel before him. He can’t think of any way out of this that doesn’t end with him and everyone else dead.

The comms go quiet for a few tense, bleak moments. 

Then, Scott Lang speaks up.

“Wait—the van!” Scott exclaims. “If you can get the stones to me, we can send them back through the van.”

For a moment, Rocket remains silent, baffled. Then, he speaks up.

“The frickin’ van? That’s the plan?” he asks dryly. The van’s technically a time machine, as artless and inefficient as it is. It…It could work. And right now, it’s the best working option they’ve got. 

“It’s a plan, at least. Which is more than what we had five seconds ago,” Scott replies. “I’ll send the coordinates.”

The rest of the Avengers verbalize their understanding, and Rocket clicks off his comms, before pulling the coordinates up in his map. It places the van right in the epicenter of all of the commotion.

Rocket sighs, raking his hand through the fur on his head in frustration. “‘Course that’s where it’d be. Can’t ever have anything easy.”

He then angles his head to address you.

“They’re gonna need help out there. A hell of a frickin’ lot of it,” he says solemnly. “We have to get in closer; start clearing a path toward the van.”

You nod, back straightening. “Where do you want me?”

“Rear. I’ll take point,” he replies, crouching down as he readies himself to leave the protection of the coverspace. He waits for you to position yourself behind him before continuing. “We’ll go from cover to cover as long as we stay unnoticed, then take turns on overwatch until we get to the others.” 

“Okay,” you reply, reaching down to unholster and load your weapon.

Your hands tremble as you grasp each bullet between delicate fingers, carefully dropping them into the magazine before reinserting it into the well, knuckles pale-white against the grips of the rifle. 

Rocket frowns, then places a gentle hand on your forearm. He’s reminded again that you were a civilian before you’d gotten wrapped up with the rest of the guardians; you haven’t been fighting, not as long as he and the others have. You meet his eyes as he studies you closely, an unvoiced question lingering cloyingly in the air. 

“I’m fine,” you insist. Still, you clasp your other hand over his and squeeze before pulling away, lips curving in frustration at the way your hands still quaver as you move to place them back over your rifle.

You pause, looking down at your palms for a moment, glaring; then, you close them into tight fists before clamping them down over the grips, eyes clenched shut as you take a few deep breaths in and out.

“You’re shaking,” he observes quietly.

“I know.” You inhale again. Another exhale. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

“…You don’t gotta be sorry about anything.”

Rocket watches your movements closely—the way your fingers flit methodically to check the safety, then travel down to readjust your hold on the foregrip, firm and controlled even as fearful as you are. Even now, still crouched low behind the cover, he sees your feet shift as you adjust your stance in preparation for a firefight. It’s a perfect echo of past lessons he’s given you, rehearsed with studied precision despite your trepidation. Just how long has he been underestimating you?

The quiet huff that leaves Rocket’s lungs is fond. 

“I’m not worried, you know,” he says.

You blink at him, brows pulling together in confusion. “No?”

“Nah,” Rocket encourages gently. “You’re my best student, after all.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m your only student,” you snip back, but the small grin that cracks away at the edges of your frown is genuine. 

Rocket lets out an amused chuckle in return, before mellowing as he readies his own equipment. He checks his weaponry one last time, reactivating his shields and loading his extra firearms, before tilting his head at you. “You ready?”

You take one last nervous glance over his shoulder as you prepare yourself to enter the fray, then nod firmly. “Right behind you.”

Rocket points out his trajectory, gesturing toward the next viable piece of cover. Then, the two of you sprint into the battlefield.

The Black Orders’ ships shriek past as Rocket tries to maneuver past the inarticulate clash of bodies and bullets, so dense he can hardly see past them. He finds himself sending plasma-blast after plasma-blast through the troops standing in the way, watching them get eviscerated only for another of Thanos’ soldiers to replace them. Reinforcements from Strange’s portals fare similarly, trying and failing to regain control over the offensive as more of Thanos’ army surge in from every direction.

Rocket swears under his breath, lungs heaving with exertion as the two of you duck beneath an overhanging piece of a ship’s outer hull.

He’d known the odds were stacked against him, but it’s another matter entirely to see it exemplified before him as the others further fall under the relentless assault. 

Then, he hears the clink and hum of charging cannons, and the pungent scent of burnt electronics begins to fill the air.

Rocket whips his head up with wide eyes, and looks up just in time to Thanos’ gunships beginning to rain napalm from above, falling in molten comet-streaks from the sky. The Leviathans above creak and begin to sink to the ground under each relentless impact, and Rocket watches as Thanos’ troops are launched up into the air with every devastating blow, slaughtering friend and foe alike. 

“He’s fucking insane. He’s killing his own army,” Rocket bites out in alarm. He flinches back against the cover and pulls you into him as a strike lands nearby, feeling the heat of the flame prickle his skin beneath the fur, so hot that it seems to singe the very air around him.

The sorcerers’ shields come up to block some of the assault, but they flicker dangerously upon impact.

“What do we do?” you ask, gnawing at your bottom lip as you tuck your body inward, trying to shield yourself from the spray of debris.

“S’too risky to keep pushing forward,” Rocket begins, assessing the situation. He turns to you, ready to tell you to hunker down, but his movements stop in his tracks as his vision drifts over your shoulder.

His pulse bangs at his temples, the rush of blood flooding his ears. 

He sees Groot.

Groot, fighting bravely in the middle of the fray—eyes wide and afraid and so damn stubbornly courageous, as he tilts his head up to the sky and watches the bombs come down. 

Rocket’s feet move instinctively, and next thing he knows, he’s running, narrowly dodging the explosions around him. Distantly, he recognizes that he’s being sloppy, rifle trained down at the ground as he sprints toward the kid, his kid, with no regard for his surroundings. One of the Sakaarans takes advantage of the momentary lapse in guard and moves to throw himself into Rocket’s path. Rocket lunges out of the way, lifting his rifle, but the Chitauri is faster; it aims its own weapon at him, ready to fire—only to crumple onto the ground, a sizzling hole burned through his chest. Rocket chances a glance back over at you, and spots you crouched safely behind the rubble, muzzle still smoking as you adjust from the recoil and recenter the barrel of your gun.

“I’m covering! Go!” you yell out. 

Rocket nods his thanks and continues his mad dash toward Groot, slipping past enemy troops until the kid is close enough to reach. 

“Groot!” Rocket yells, and the second Groot spots him, he throws himself into Rocket’s arms, allowing Rocket to pull him to safety.

“I am Groot,” Groot wails as Rocket clutches him to his chest.

Tears sting the corners of Rocket’s eyes, beginning to blur the edges of his vision, but he blinks them back and takes in a wobbling breath before speaking.

“I know. I’m sorry, kid,” he mutters. “You must’ve been so scared.” 

Despite himself, Rocket’s voice cracks. He feels the thrum of Groot’s voice reverberating against him as the latter lets out a mournful cry, clamping down on Rocket’s shoulders even tighter. Rocket takes a selfish second to hold Groot there, safe and in his arms again, before pulling back and beginning to tug Groot back along toward your position. 

“I’ll make it up to you later, buddy—I promise,” he says. “But we gotta go now.” 

“Reloading,” you yell, reaching for a new magazine, before letting out a gasp. “Shit—Rocket, behind!”

Rocket twists around just in time to spot a Chitauri infantryman closing in on him. Rocket maneuvers to center his aim between its eyes, but the Chitauri quickly knocks Rocket’s rifle askew with its fist, then lifts its shotgun in retaliation. The movement knocks Rocket off balance, and he uses his momentum to throw himself in front of Groot, toppling them both to the ground as the infantryman gets ready to fire—until the butt of a familiar quad-blaster comes down onto its head.

The Chitauri stumbles back then sinks to the floor, snarling, before Pete angles his gun down and fires an energy blast through its chest, then a second and a third.

Once the Chitauri has stopped moving, Pete swipes away the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Whew,” Pete says, offering a hand to Rocket. “Close one, right?”

Rocket grasps Pete’s hand, and allows himself to be hauled back up onto his feet. Above, the bombardment comes to a sudden stop, engines buzzing as the gunships’ fuel cells begin to power down—before the ships erupt in a series of shrapnel-filled explosions as Danvers blasts through them.

“Now’s our chance,” Rocket presses. “Go!”

He ushers Groot and Pete in your direction, and they all rush toward cover once more. You raise your weapon, nervously laying fire to facilitate their approach, then shuffle aside to make room beside you as they draw near. 

Rocket all but crashes into the metal surface in his urgency, boots sliding against the sand as he throws himself back against the hullpiece, one hand still clutched tightly around Groot’s, with Pete following close behind. Once everyone is pressed back against the safety of the overhang, Rocket lets out a shaky sigh of relief. 

“I am Groot!” Groot launches himself into your arms the second Rocket relaxes his grip. You hug him tightly in return, glancing up for a moment to give Pete a watery smile. Pete returns your warm look, but his grin falls when he notices the deep red stains soaking through your shirt, beginning to turn mottled-brown at the edges where the blood is beginning to dry. 

You shake your head gently in an attempt to ease his worries. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him, though fatigue runs thick in your voice. “Are you guys alright?”

“We’re okay, I think,” Pete replies hesitantly, eyes still trained toward the gash in your stomach. Then, he tilts his head toward Rocket and scans him carefully. “You okay, dude? Almost took a couple of bullets back there.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Pete,” Rocket says after taking another moment to catch his breath. 

Pete briefly lays a hand on his shoulder in response. Beside him, Groot reaches over for Rocket’s hand with an outstretched arm, attempting to grab his hand while remaining planted firmly in your embrace. 

Rocket chuckles, then takes Groot’s hand in his. 

He…he feels like he should say something more, but nothing he could voice aloud would ever be enough to convey the erratic jumble of thoughts and feelings crowding his mind, and the rush of adrenaline seems to stun his tongue.

It’s been a long five circs without you guys.

I thought I’d never see any of you again.

I missed you all so fucking much.

“I—it’s good to have everyone back,” Rocket settles for saying. It’s all he can manage right now, but there’s something frightfully raw layered beneath the statement that has Groot squeezing his fingers in turn and Pete shooting a crooked smile in his direction.

“Didn’t think I ever left,” Pete quips. Then, he pulls something out of his pack. “So, uh…was I supposed to do something with this?” 

Rocket looks down at the gauntlet nestled between Pete’s palms, and does a double take. He yanks Pete's palms down and forces him to shove the gauntlet aside, hiding it from view. “Fuck—keep that thing out of sight!”

Pete glares, then raises both hands defensively.

“Alright, rude. I didn’t ask for the thing, someone just handed it to me. How was I supposed to know to keep it hidden?”

“We need to get this to Scott,” Rocket mutters, looking past Pete and in the direction of the van. 

“Right,” Pete says with a single, firm nod. “Let me just, uh…” He pauses and turns, squinting his eyes in the approximate direction of where Rocket is focusing his attention. Then, he faces forward again with an expression that is terribly, woefully blank. “Sorry, who is that again?”

Rocket stares back at Pete and sighs. Then, after a few more leaden moments of hesitation, he speaks.

“There’s no time to explain the specificals. We have to move now if we want a shot at winning this,” he says. There’s still an obscene number of troops to cut through, but thanks to Danvers, the skies are clear; still, this newfound advantage can only last so long, and every moment the stones stay in one place is time lost that could cost everything. So, Rocket tucks the gauntlet snugly beneath his arm, and slowly rises from his haunches. “…I’ll do it.”

Pete gapes, closing a fist around Rocket’s forearm to stop him. “How the hell are you gonna get past all of that?” He gestures toward the sea of enemies—wave after wave of Chitauri, Outriders, Leviathans, and the Black Order—all standing in the way between the galaxy and another sunrise.

Rocket raises his rifle, and begins to charge the next blast. He grins as the plasma warms and buzzes in his hands, circulating through the spark coils like a heartbeat.

“Eh,” he replies glibly, racking his gun. “I’ve fought scarier assholes for bigger payouts, I’m pretty sure.” A plasma round slinks into the chamber with a pleasant click, and the capacitor hums, a gentle purr beneath his fingertips. 

“‘Sides,” he says, looking meaningfully up at all the sunburst ripples in space still dotting the skyline, and the army of Avengers and friends and family that have resolved to risk everything in one, last stand with him—to Pete, Groot—and finally, to you. “I’ve got help.”

He’d have never made it back to safety with Pete and Groot without you here, he realizes. Maybe he’d have even died cycles ago in Asgard, if you hadn’t been there to help him.

But if Rocket’s being honest, you’ve probably been saving him for a long, long time—way before the time machines, and unstoppable armies, and impossible circumstances.

He thinks that maybe, you started saving him five circs ago—over gentle words and cups of coffee.

Your eyes widen as you catch his gaze with your own.

Then, you smile, so bright and brimming with so much radiance it could rival the dimmest of days—even now, with the sky ink-black with soot, the light seems to shine through in a halo over you and you alone, embers dancing through the air and across your features like a parade of shimmering solar-bugs.

“Whatever you need, Rocket,” you say. “We’ve got you.”

Pete’s brow furrows for a moment as he looks between you and Rocket. He presses his lips together, and his grip around Rocket’s forearm tightens momentarily—then, it eases, and he lets go. 

“I think you’re crazy, dude,” Pete says with a disbelieving puff of laughter and a shake of his head. Still, his blasters find their way back into grip as he fits them snugly into his palm, and he repositions himself to return to the fight. “But I’m behind you anyway, I guess.”

Rocket dips his chin in gratitude, then turns back toward the van, ears swiveling as he starts considering his path. He reaches for his comms and clicks them on.

“Nebs,” he says, sending her his coordinates before speaking again. “I’ve got the stones—gonna make a run for it. You close enough to help clear my way?”

There’s a pregnant pause where Rocket hears nothing but the crackle of Nebula’s mic; he knows he’s transmitting, knows that she’s heard him based on the quiet intake of breath he hears on the other end, and patiently waits for her to respond. After another second, Nebula replies.

“…Are you sure?” she asks.

Rocket’s tail flicks against his calf as he considers her question, whiskers twitching. Then, he barks out a humorless laugh.

“M’not sure about shit,” he says with a snort. “But I know what I have to do.”

“…Okay, Rocket,” Nebula replies after a moment. “We’ll help.”

The comm fizzles for a moment, with some muffled interference on the other end—the noise of something brushing against the mic.

“Oh! Is that Rocket? Tell him I say hello!” someone chirps brightly through the radio. Then, loudly: “Rocket! It is me, Mantis. Hello!”

There’s another scuffling sound, as if someone is making an attempt to wrestle Nebula’s comms away, followed by hushed bickering.

“What are you doing? I'm his best friend—he’ll want to hear me say hello first. Are you listening? This is important; tell him Drax says hello. Here, give it to me—“

There’s another brief commotion that signals a struggle, before one last scraping noise plays out, followed by a few inscrutable sounds of muted disappointment as Nebs’ comms click on once more.

“Enough,” Nebula says sternly, before sighing into the mic. “Did you get all of that, Rocket?”

Rocket can’t help it—a smile splits across his face.

“Hey, Mant. Drax,” he rumbles fondly into the mic. He glances back at you, Pete, and Groot once more, and signals for the three of you to re-arm yourselves and prepare. “It’s time. Everyone ready to take this bastard down?”

“I am Groot!” Groot concurs excitedly after everyone voices their assent. Rocket dons a stern look, but before he can admonish Groot for swearing, his attention is pulled back toward you as you speak again, your soft voice lilting into his ears like windchimes.

“Good luck,” you say, words so saturated with something like adoration that his heart feels like it's been yanked up and out of his chest, beating in his throat. Rocket turns to look at you—your eyes silvery and dazzled, plush lips slightly parted like he’s stolen another one of those tiny, delicate little gasps he likes so much, straight off your tongue—and yeah, he decides that he’s willing to gamble whatever odds he has tonight, if playing savior means you might look at him like that again. 

Rocket shoots you one last grin and a wink, before turning around. 

“Alright, let’s do this,” he mutters. The van is just up ahead—one sprint away, just within eyesight.

Rocket shifts, clutching the gauntlet tightly beneath one arm.

Then, he slings his rifle across his chest with the other. 

He begins to lower his center of mass, the balls of his feet digging into the soil as he prepares to take off. 

Finally, he takes a deep, shuddering breath—and then, he runs.

Rocket cleaves through the battlefield, kicking thick plumes of dust up into the air as he weaves himself through gaps in the enemy line and cuts beneath the falling leviathans being shot out of the sky. His free hand sweeps the ground to propel him forward while he springs his legs back, muscles cording tight with every contraction; every inhale burns his windpipe on its way to his lungs, as if the very air itself is barbed and layered with silver-thin spikes, fiery-hot—but he ignores the discomfort and the panicked rattling of his augmented heart, and focuses solely on the path ahead.

He hears the telltale patter of Pete’s quad-blasters as he runs—he hears the familiar crack of the rifle he’d made for you too, unmistakable even in the mash of discordant noise projecting around him, as the enemies that surround him fall one by one under the assault. In his peripheral vision, he sees everyone—all of his friends, his family, all of the Avengers he’d fought with and cried with and bled with these past five circs—fighting alongside him, clearing the way for him. Any stragglers still left are met with the open end of his rifle as he blasts steaming holes into anyone who stands in his way, wrinkling his nose at the tarry scent of burnt flesh searing his nostrils. 

“Scott, I’m on my way over to you,” Rocket pants into his comms. “I’ve got the stones; tell me you’ve got the damn car working.”

“It’s ready!” Scott replies urgently, peering out from within the van to wave him forward.

Up ahead, Rocket sees the van suddenly come alight, flashes of color stretching outward in a hypnotizing kaleidoscope. He’s close now, only a couple dozen meters away—and from there, the stones will be out of Thanos’ hands for good.

Rocket pitches himself forward with every modicum of strength he has left as Scott frantically prepares for his arrival, only to skid to a stop. 

Thanos slouches into view, moving to intercept. Frighteningly, the air about him is…cold, austere—one end of his double-edged sword drags lines in the mud as he simply walks. His pace is calm and unhurried, as if the battle is already won.

Rocket grits his teeth, dirt flying up into his eyes with his sudden shift in momentum as he turns and tries to reroute.

Thanos narrows his eyes, and points. “Stop him!” he commands.

Rocket frantically scans his surroundings to see all of Thanos’ nearby troops suddenly turning toward him. He presses the gauntlet tight to his side, so much so that he feels the solid metal ridges of it digging harshly into his ribs, and attempts to break into another sprint—but a Sakaaran soldier grabs onto his tail, yanking him back. Rocket hits the floor with a grunt, teeth clattering together as his temple knocks against the ground. For one, dizzying moment, the world around him is hazy as his head throbs—he squeezes his eyes shut, then blinks them back open, only to find himself looking straight up and into the muzzle of a rifle. Rocket’s stomach lurches; he quickly kicks the barrel aside in an attempt to get his head out of the crosshairs as the Sakaaran squeezes the trigger in the same moment—the blast only narrowly misses, and Rocket flinches back as the deafening crackle of gunfire pummels his eardrums from close range. The Sakaaran growls, pulling back and re-aiming. Rocket whips his pistol from its holster before the Sakaaran can move any further, littering its skull with bullets as it jerks and crashes to the ground. 

Rocket attempts to come to a stand, but an outrider dives to take the Sakaaran's place while he’s still gathering his bearings, pinning him to the floor once more. Rocket rears back, using his forearms to push the outrider away as it snaps its razor-sharp rows of teeth; tarry, caustic drool spills out from its filthy mouth and soaks into the sand adjacent to Rocket’s head. Rocket’s strength falters, and it manages to bore a single, blistering bite into his bicep. Writhing tendrils of pain maul Rocket’s arm as the outrider’s fangs dig deep through the muscle, past the armor-weave and into his flesh. He yelps, angling his pistol in preparation to take the shot, finger heavy on the trigger.

“Finally,” Thanos says, voice echoing from somewhere startlingly close. Rocket doesn’t turn to look—he fires and dispatches the outrider, haphazardly tossing the body aside with a grunt once it goes limp.

His blood curdles as it stomps through his veins. He needs to get to the van—he’s so close—he’s running out of time. Rocket rolls himself over, his knee burrowing into the dirt as he braces himself against the floor, pushing up against gravity as he attempts to pull himself off of the ground.

“I’ve finally done it,” Thanos continues, sounding so near that he could be mere feet away, and this time, Rocket chances a look—and glances up just in time to see Thanos with his arms stretched high toward the blazing sunset-sky, ready to swing his double edged sword down and into the space between Rocket’s eyes. 

“Rocket!” Nebula cries out. She and Tony bolt to Rocket’s assistance.

Thanos briefly turns to look, calm and assessing, before glaring back down at Rocket, his blade still looming threateningly overhead.

For a few, heart-catching milliseconds, Rocket is sure that this is it—that this is how it ends, and this is how he joins Lylla and Groot and the others, wherever they may be. 

He just hopes it’s somewhere nice.

But instead, Thanos coils his arm further back, and throws his weapon, aiming for something in the distance. The silver blade cuts across the air, landing with a clang—and Rocket watches with horror as its sharp end pierces straight through the van’s energy core. 

His surroundings are suddenly set ablaze as the van ignites, a cloud of vivid flame flourishing outward and licking along the skyline as the bright flashover suddenly engulfs his vision. Rocket is launched backward with the force of the explosion, tumbling through the dirt as his body is inundated with ripples of pain, tracking along every nerve in erratic jolts of bright-white lightning that threaten his consciousness. His momentum is halted as he collides with a patch of scorched earth, choking on the lingering remnants of acrid smoke as the gauntlet slips from his grasp. It thuds heavily into the dirt, landing far from his reach. 

Rocket fights to keep his eyes open; he can do nothing but watch as Thanos steps toward the glove, leaning down and slipping it over his fist. The metal warps to fit his larger stature, and he flexes his fingers, admiring the metallic glint of the glove as it luminesces under the light of flame. He then turns his hand from palm to back, fingers trailing along the sparkling stones that crackle and glow with just-barely encapsulated energy.

Rocket groans, rolling onto his front and spitting onto the ground, startled to see the contents of his mouth tinged scarlet. His tongue flicks along the edges of his teeth, tasting of bitter iron as he tries to get ahold of his bearings. Tony has landed somewhere nearby, shifting similarly on the floor.

Rocket’s body feels two tons heavier than before as he struggles to lift himself up; he dazedly attempts to keep track of the battle ahead as he moves, but most of his focus ends up going toward getting both boots back onto the ground. He notices, distantly, that Thor and Steve are attempting to stall, but are quickly overpowered. Danvers, at least, seems to fare better, if only for a few moments—but she too, quickly succumbs to Thanos’ strength.

Above him, the sky continues to open up, and more of Thanos’ reinforcements arrive. He clenches his teeth, jaw working as his muscles scream for him to give up. 

They’ve lost. There are too many ships; too many troops. And for the Avengers, for him and his family, for everything that they’ve got; for everything they all collectively have to give, and to lose—it still won’t be enough to win.

…There’s comfort in that, Rocket supposes. If everyone he cares about dies here tonight, it won’t be his fault anymore, not really—because it was never going to end any other way. But he hopes to at least live long enough to be able to look you and Groot in the eyes one last time and say that, for once in his life, he at least tried. So he’ll try.

Rocket finally—finally—gets up onto his feet. He stumbles soon after, blood rushing from his head down to his toes from his shift in posture. He catches himself before he tilts too far forward and ends up face-first in the dirt again, then shakes his head, willing the wave of dizziness to pass as he clamps his eyes shut. Then, he reopens them, and begins to step toward Thanos. 

Tony’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder and holds him back before he can make it another step forward.

“Get to your kid, Rocket. I’ll handle it,” Tony states, an air of finality in his tone. “Let me fight him alone.”

“What?” Rocket looks up at Tony in shock, unable to piece together a coherent reply. His suggestion is little more than suicide. Tony doesn’t return Rocket’s gaze, opting to look past him. Rocket turns to see that he’s looking at Strange, and narrows his eyes. “What the hell did he tell you to do?”

“I swore to you we’d get your kid home after this,” Tony says evasively. “Can’t do that if you’re dead.” The arc reactor in his chest flickers under the strain of keeping his body upright, but his words remain strikingly resolute in comparison. “This one’s my fight.” 

“It’s all our fight,” Rocket hisses. “You’re as good as dead if you go at him alone. You need help.”

“Your family needs you more,” Tony replies firmly. He squeezes Rocket’s shoulder, then pulls away. “Trust me.”

Rocket swallows, fists curling at his sides. He recognizes a goodbye when he sees one.

“You’d better not do anything stupid,” he says, stepping back. “You promised me the Maldives.”

Tony laughs—a sound that seems to surprise them both, before giving Rocket his signature, roguish grin. Then, he lumbers toward Thanos. 

Rocket turns to make his way back to you and Groot once more. He spots both of you in the distance; the two of you are running toward him, looking frantically upward as more of Thanos’ ships begin to crowd the sky like a swarm of locusts. Meanwhile, the troops on the ground collapse in from both sides, their onslaught pinching inward like a colossal claw. Rocket hastens his pace; behind him, the clang of metal against metal rings across the battlefield as Tony and Thanos fight for the stones. 

“Rocket! What’s happening?” you call out. The second he’s close enough, you sink down to your knees and hug him tightly, and the three of you crawl beneath cover. Your eyes go wide and glazed as you track the battle behind him, hands flying up to your mouth to stifle a horrified gasp.

The gauntlet remains in Thanos’ hands as he stands, uncontested; the stones glitter, facets gleaming in the light like they belong there, in his palm—but the only thought running through Rocket’s mind is that he’d forgotten just how big Groot has gotten.

Tony throws himself at Thanos one last time, only to be slung into the ground, landing with a thump before lying limp.

Above, the gunports on the enemy airships begin to release, aiming down at the ground to pick off what’s left of the Avengers’ resistance.

Rocket wraps his arms tightly around Groot’s torso, shielding him as much as he can with his own body. 

“I am Groot?” Groot questions fearfully, voice muffled as he cowers into Rocket’s shoulder.

“M’sorry,” Rocket replies, tucking Groot further into his chest.

You stare down at Rocket, terrified, crystalline tears beginning to prickle at the edges of your eyes like dewdrops. Then, you squeeze your eyes shut and join him, folding yourself over on top of Groot as the airships’ cannons begin to extend.

Thanos lifts his hands within the same moment, fingers poised.

“I am inevitable,” he says—and the following snap that reverberates along the valley is all but deafening.

Rocket sucks in a quiet breath and holds it, waiting.

…And yet, nothing happens.

Thanos pauses in confusion, before stepping back in alarmed dismay as he turns the gauntlet once more, and finds its gemsockets empty.

The infinity stones glimmer as they begin to coalesce with Tony’s hand, swirling into place on his suit; shock-blue lines of electricity streak along his arms in sizzling fractals that radiate from each stone.

“And I…am,” Tony begins, grimacing as he fights the raw power within the stones, undeniable and unrelenting; he stumbles onto his feet, hand raised as he stares Thanos in the eyes, before finishing, “—Iron man.”

A flash of light occludes Rocket’s vision, and he hears the roar of an engine before he sees anything. His vision adjusts in time to see a leviathan swooping down from above, ready to catch the three of you within its jaws, so large and so close that its teeth and the inky void within its unhinged mouth nearly consumes his entire field of vision. 

Rocket flinches and braces himself—but then, he recognizes that familiar, electric scent of cold stone and ozone permeating the air, reminiscent of the moment the first snap had come and taken everything…but he’s still here. He feels you and Groot still beneath him, solid and warm and alive in his arms.

Rocket opens his eyes, and looks up to see the ship above him begin to crumble into flaking petals, before wisping harmlessly away with the breeze. The other airships follow, then the ground troops.

The Avengers watch in stunned silence as Thanos’ army evaporates, one by one.

Thanos looks around at all of the gentle annihilation surrounding him. He takes a few, staggered steps forward. Then, he sits down, looking almost at peace—before he, too, begins to splinter from shoulder to heel. He comes apart in fragments until nothing is left but ash, until finally, he floats away with the wind, to land somewhere in the innumerable distance, if at all.

Rocket peels himself off of you and Groot and hesitantly releases his fists where one had been twisted into your shirt and the other clamped around one of Groot’s branches.

You peer back up at him, eyes wide and still afraid, lower lip trembling as your voice creaks in an attempt to speak. “Is it done?”

“I…” Rocket begins, mouth dry. 

Yeah. I think it’s over, he wants to say, but that doesn’t seem like an adequate description. None of it feels like it’ll ever really be over, especially not after everything that’s happened and everything that’s been lost. The past five circs, the past five cycles—he’ll carry all of it for the rest of his life, he thinks, and that’s never going to be done…but life will continue, and that’s more than he could have asked.

“I’m glad you were here,” he says instead.

Dirt cakes your cracked lips; he can see the painful-looking raw pink in the gashes where some of the skin there has split. And yet, you still muster up the energy to give him a small smile, fragile as it is—so sweet to him, despite everything.

“Told you. This is where I want to be,” you reply softly, reaching over to interlace your fingers with his, letting him relish in the slide of your smooth, warm skin against his palm. “Nowhere else.”

Rocket finds himself at a loss for words. So instead, he leans forward, and feathers his lips over your bruised knuckles in the softest kiss he can manage, before returning your hand to your lap.

There’s nowhere else.

It’s a sentiment you’ve repeated before, over and over again—and maybe that’s why he missed it. It’s not an ‘I love you.’ Not explicitly, at least, and not aloud—not the way it was when he had you sprawled out and bare underneath him; not the way it was when the two of you had been a hairsbreadth from death at the bottom of that chasm, wrapped up in one another in what you’d thought would be your last moments alive.

But this—there’s nowhere else—this is a confession all the same, and the longer he lets the sentence echo in his mind, the closer it feels to ‘I love you,’ stronger and truer than the exact words themselves could ever hope to portray. He begins to wonder if, all this time, he’s been denying himself something good, just because he was too much of an idiot to realize he even had it. 

He wants that, he thinks. Something good. 

Something with you.

Just as he’s about to open his mouth to speak, he hears the shuffle of boots grinding into the sand. Rocket looks up to see Pete’s approach, flanked by Nebula, Drax, and Mantis.

He looks back at you, and then down at Groot, who’s blinking up at him. There’s something intent in the kid’s look, as his gaze flips from Rocket, to you, then back to Rocket, as if coaxing him to say something; then again, the kid’s always been too much of a busy-body for his own good. Rocket grimaces, and locks his jaw shut. 

He’ll talk to you later, when the two of you aren’t surrounded by carnage, and you don’t look two seconds from toppling over, and when he can plan far enough ahead to keep himself from fucking things up with you any more than he already has…if you’ll still have him, after all of this. 

He really, really frickin’ hopes you will.

Pete limps toward you, Rocket, and Groot, finally holstering his blasters.

“Is everyone okay?” Pete says, pausing to clear his throat and cough the remnants of gunsmoke out of his lungs as he wearily brushes some of the grime off of his jacket.

Everyone lets out a weak mutter of affirmation, tired and injured, but ultimately alive.

You hum in agreement, but the tone of your voice warbles toward the tail end of the sound, and a sobbing gasp clambers its way out of your throat instead.

“You alright?” Rocket asks, reaching forward instinctively to brush the hair away from your face where it slicks against your cheek, sticky with tears. He hesitates for a moment, glancing at the others—but he tucks your hair back behind your ear anyway, gently brushing a stray tear off of your chin with his thumb.

“I’m—I’m okay, I just—I’m just processing everything,” you reply tearfully. “I—that was a lot.” You sniffle again, pressing your face into your palms, shoulders hitching as you try to speak between weeping breaths. “I was really—really scared.”

“It was scary,” he agrees gently. “The stim’s probably starting to wear off. The adrenaline, too. Makes people shaky, afterward.” His eyes trail back down to your stomach. The majority of the blood has dried a copper brown, but he can already see a fresh bloom of red beginning to ooze out from beneath. “You’re prob’ly gonna start hurting a lot more in a bit. You should head back.” 

You lift your head from your hands, nodding as you wipe your face into your sleeve. “Okay. You’re right.”

“Let’s get her some medical attention. We could all probably use some,” Nebula says, helping you up to your feet. True to Rocket’s predictions, your knees buckle underneath you and you cry out in pain; Nebula carefully catches you and pulls your arm over her shoulder to support you as she begins to guide you away, and the others follow suit.

Rocket lingers behind.

Drax looks back to see him standing in place, and pauses. “I think Rocket’s legs may be broken. He still hasn’t moved.”

“His legs are not broken,” Mantis scolds, and turns to address Rocket. “Rocket? You are coming with us, right?”

Rocket meets Mantis’ gaze. One heel lifts slightly to take a step forward, only to come back down as he hesitates, unmoving.

“Yeah,” Rocket replies after a moment. “I’ll meet up with you guys later. I’m just…gonna hang back for a while.”

“…Is it because your legs are broken?” Drax asks.

Before Rocket can respond, Mantis rolls her eyes and ushers Drax away.

Rocket waits for them to disappear past the debris, then looks back behind himself, back where Tony lies near motionlessly on the ground. He sees the slow rise and fall of Stark’s chest, but the movement is uneven and halting. Rocket is overcome with a sudden need to approach, and begins to step forward, but stops when he sees Tony’s family sinking to the floor to be beside him.

The woman Rocket had seen a glimpse of on Tony’s phone the other day—Pepper, he thinks—leans forward and rests her forehead on Tony’s, closing her eyes as she cradles his head. 

Rocket brows pull together. He feels like he’s intruding on something intimate. 

He looks away for a moment, but by the time he looks back, Stark has stopped moving. The glowing light in his chest pulses defiantly, before dimming. Then, after a few, final beats, it goes dark.

“…I am Groot?”

Rocket blinks, then tilts his head to the side. Groot stands beside him, waiting. The kid must not have followed after the others. 

He turns away from the Stark family, deciding to give them the privacy they’re due.

“Yeah. I’m alright. I was just thinking,” Rocket replies. Then, he stands on his toes and reaches up—Groot immediately comes down to meet him halfway, and allows Rocket to give him a few gentle pats on the head.

Groot rises up with a grin, and the sight of it makes Rocket’s heart pang as something longing and regretful begins to ache within.

“…I missed you,” Rocket says quietly, after a few moments of silence.

“I am Groot,” Groot replies, and Rocket chuckles fondly. 

The two of them begin to walk together through the aftermath of ruination, stepping over dust, rubble, and dog tags. 

It’ll take a long time to rebuild. There are certain things, certain people that have been lost that can’t ever be brought back…and yet, darting across the sky above, a flock of birds fly past in a crescent—more than Rocket thinks he’s ever seen since the snap. He doesn’t recognize the species, but they’re pretty: silver-grey wing-tips merging into jewel-toned feathers, such a striking lapis that they nearly blend together with the hints of blue sky that still stubbornly peek in between the smoke clouds.

As he goes, he spots the other guardians in the distance. Drax, Pete, and Mantis have you wrapped up in a hug; your eyes are still reddened and your face is still marked with tear-tracks. You give everyone a watery grin, then open your mouth to speak—Rocket can’t make out what you’re saying, but he sees Nebula sneakily wiping tears of her own across her cheek with her wrist as you talk.

He sees the other Avengers from this vantage point too, and finds himself temporarily rooted to the ground. Bucky and Steve, arm in arm; Clint speaking joyfully to someone on the phone, smiling wide; Bruce and Thor and countless others, joining together in camaraderie and meeting once more with lost loved ones after five, long years. Thor notices Rocket staring from afar, and waves in greeting.

Rocket raises a hand in return.

“I am Groot?” Groot asks.

The flock of birds chirp overhead. Rocket glances up, and watches them disappear into little pinpricks on the horizon.

“Yeah. You’re right,” he says finally, giving Groot a pat on the back as he starts walking again. “Let’s go home.”

Sun seeps through the foliage that hangs over the lake, dappling over your skin. Each fleck moves independently, flitting around with the sway of the leaves in the wind, before they all settle into an archipelago of light against the banks of the shore.  

A dragonfly buzzes past your ear. There’s yelling too, followed by hushed whispers—frantic footsteps thudding back and forth along the dock. You close your eyes and drown out the noise, focusing instead on the sound of burbling water and the croaking of frogs.

It’s…nice, you suppose. Serene—though part of you hopes it rains tomorrow. Still, when you open your eyes again, you find that you don’t feel any less hollow.

Natasha is dead, and the world turns on its axis without her.

Beside you, Thor paces.

“As long as we have the stones, we can bring her back,” he asserts, turning back toward you and the other Avengers. There are no thoughts exchanged; everyone seems to share solemn glances, letting words hang in their throat unvoiced. Thor glares, huffing in disdain. “Well? What are you all just sitting there for? Let’s do something, damn it.”

Steve and Bruce give one another pained looks, but neither of them manage to pull together the courage to respond. After another beat of silence, Thor rolls his eyes, ready to storm away before Clint catches him by the arm.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Clint mutters.

Thor’s jaw slackens for a moment, fixing his gaze upon Clint. He then lets out a derisive bark of laughter before roughly pulling his arm out of reach. 

“What are you—do you hear yourself? Get it together.” Thor whirls around to face the others once more, trying desperately to meet someone’s eye. “We’re the Avengers. Okay? We’re the Avengers. You expect me to believe that she just—that she’s—“ He cuts himself off, expression twisting in dismay as his gaze darts around. “Why are you all looking at me like that? She’s not dead. I’m not giving up on her.”

Clint stands abruptly, leveling Thor with a furious look. “You think I just gave up on her? You don’t think that if it were possible, I wouldn’t be the first one tearing everything apart to get her back?” he snaps. Thor’s eyes widen, then he stiffens, gaze dropping guiltily to the floor. At that, Clint sighs, rubbing a palm over his face. His voice warbles when he speaks again. “She…she was my best friend. And now she’s gone . She never should have even—it should have been me. ” 

“…I wasn’t trying to say you’d given up on her,” Thor replies.

Clint simply shakes his head and returns to his seat, resting his forearms on his knees as he thinks. 

“A soul for a soul. That was the price for the stone. And she—she paid it. For my sake,” he says, looking up once more to level everyone with a heartbroken look. “For all our sakes. To make sure our families have futures; to make sure that we have futures…even if she doesn’t live to see it. That’s the kind of person she was.” Clint’s voice cracks, and he tilts his head back over toward the lake, wiping his sleeve over his eyes.

“Damn it,” Bruce swears, slamming a fist onto a nearby bench. “We have to make it worth it.”

Steve takes a heavy breath, then comes to a stand. “We will,” he affirms, voice never wavering. “We’ll work on the gauntlet tomorrow. For now, let’s just…let’s give ourselves some time.”

He gives everyone a somber nod, then turns to start heading back toward the base. After a few moments, more people follow suit.

Nebula leans against the trellis, silently watching the others pass by. You wait alongside her, and chew your lip as you turn over the events of the last rotation within your head.

The snap is close to being undone. You and the Avengers have achieved what you sought to accomplish…but it feels little like a victory. 

Everything seems quieter now, without Natasha around. Quieter still, now that you and Rocket are little more than strangers. He hadn’t even bothered to join the rest of you on the dock.

You swallow, and the knot in your throat sinks down into your stomach like a stone in water. 

Meanwhile, Nebula pushes off the column to trail after the crowd. Your heart lurches at the thought of being alone, and you scramble for an excuse to get her to stay.

“Hey, Nebs?” you call out. To your surprise, her stride doesn’t falter. You frown, then repeat yourself, louder this time. Perhaps she didn’t hear you. “Nebs?” 

Nebula pauses with one foot off the ground at the sound of your footsteps following after her. A moment of hesitation—then, she lets her heel hit the floor. When she turns back toward you, her movements are slow and stilted.  

“Did you need something?” she carefully replies.

“I just…” You trail off after glancing up at her, taken aback by her guarded expression. 

Nebula’s shoulders are stiff and tight, and her features are unreadable in the way they always are when she’s uncomfortable. Your mouth snaps shut, and something like guilt begins to creep into the back of your mind.

You hadn’t even bothered to check on her after coming back from Asgard, had you? Hell, for the past few cycles you’ve done nothing but get her caught up in your own whirlwind of emotions. 

Your complaints die on your lips, and instead, you offer a halfhearted smile. It isn’t fair to keep burdening her with the same old problems. 

“Nevermind,” you amend. “I wanted to ask if you were doing okay.”

Nebula looks blankly at you. “…I’m fine.”

“Did…was everything okay?” You tilt your head, trying to glean what you can of her thoughts from her dark eyes, but she gives nothing away. There’s something bothering her, but what? “With Morag?”

“Everything was fine.” She turns halfway, speaking to you over her shoulder as she gets ready to leave. “I don’t really care to discuss it.”

Your face falls. Have you done something to offend her? 

“Ah. Okay then,” you say hesitantly. “Just take care of yourself, okay? I’m here for you if you need me.”

Nebula stops once more. She tilts slightly, looks over her shoulder, and simply stares for a moment. Her expression remains inscrutable. Then, she walks away without another word.

The rest of the day goes by in a haze.

You sit alone by the lake for a while, watching the water ripple against the bank. It doesn’t do much to ease your nerves. From there, you float from place to place within the base, trying to find a distraction as the night grows nearer.

Most of the Avengers have scattered, returning home to their families and friends to cope with the day’s events…and you are left alone.

Your aimless wandering leads you to the armory, dimly lit and already shut down for the day. As you feel around for a light switch, something glittering in the darkness catches your eye. 

The infinity stones lie encased in an alumino-silicate glass display. They seem to pulsate with a luminescence of their own, reflecting an entire galaxy within despite the absence of light. Your hand falls away from the wall as you step closer. 

…They’re deceptively beautiful. You’d expected them to be ugly, monstrous things. All of this death and destruction, for gems not unlike what you’d find in a pendant.

On a whim, you press an ear to the glass. The stones project a quiet hum, near imperceptible.

In the morning, the gauntlet will be assembled and the snap will be undone…but there are certain things even manipulating time won’t fix. You think of the turbulent state of things between you and Nebula, between you and Rocket. 

You think of Natasha. Of Gamora. Of the people who entered your friends’ lives and died before you got a chance to meet them.

Then, you step away from the glass and head back to the Benatar, while the crystalline stones still glow—sunset-pink, hellfire-red, ocean-blue—in the back of your mind.

—

There are forty vibranium panels that make up the ceiling of your bunk.

Your eyes trail along the perimeter of the roof, mapping out imaginary constellations upon the textured tile. You count sixteen little plasma lights that line the walls too. 

Your gaze dips further down. 

There are two screws missing on the airvent in the corner of the room. 

Forty. Sixteen. Two.

You’ve gotten very well acquainted with this ceiling over the many circs spent tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable position in a room that seems perpetually over-warm while your mind forever races. Still, tonight is particularly bad. You’ve counted the tiles and lights and screws at least twice over, you think. This seems to be happening to you more often as of late.

You kick off your duvet and settle onto the edge of your bed.

More than ever, you miss being starside. The rumble of the engine is usually enough to lull you to sleep.

With a sigh, you grab a blanket and step out of your room, then pad barefoot toward the cockpit. Maybe you just need a change of scenery.

It’s not a surprise when you find Rocket in the flight deck, tinkering away at something with only a few low-lit plasma lamps to light his workspace. You hesitate at the doorway, debating whether or not you should turn around and leave. The dilemma is achingly familiar, but as you press one foot backward, you find yourself unable to step away.

So, you take in a slow, steady breath, wrap yourself tighter within your blanket, and settle into the copilot’s seat beside him, just like always.

Rocket’s gaze flickers briefly to you, calm and assessing, before returning to whatever piece of tech he’s working on. That’s the only acknowledgement he gives you.

You frown, but tuck your legs underneath you as you sink back into the chair.

“You’re up,” you observe after a few more moments of quiet. Rocket grunts in response. “Why are you working in the dark?”

“I can see just fine,” he replies curtly. You observe him silently for a moment, listening to the clink of metal against metal as he removes a set of screws from whatever device he’s working on.

“I hope you don’t mind if I sit here,” you try. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Rocket holds the screwdriver between his teeth for a moment as he jots something down on a blueprint, then shrugs noncommittally. He pulls the tool from his mouth and continues unscrewing the cap, ever aloof. “S’a common space. Can’t make you leave.”

…That’s not a very encouraging reply.

“You didn’t show up to the dock.” 

“I was busy.” 

You press your lips together and nervously play with the ends of your hair. 

At a glance, he doesn’t look mad. There’s no telltale twitch of his ears, no tension in his shoulders, no fur prickling along the length of his tail—but the iciness in his voice does more than enough to convey how he feels.

You continue your attempts to make conversation nonetheless, though you’re not sure if the decision should be attributed to bravery or plain foolishness at this point.

“Nat’s really gone, you know. Everyone is really shaken up about it. I know we won, but…I don’t know. I’m still waiting for it to feel like it,” you confess. Before you can continue, you notice Rocket stiffen in the middle of repositioning himself. He flinches, then resettles carefully into his seat, rubbing his knuckles against his lower back all the while. 

Your brows furrow, recalling the fight he’d gotten into in Asgard. 

Did he ever even stop by the medbay? 

“Are you okay?” you ask, reaching toward him. Rocket jerks away from you, and your lips curve further down as you hesitantly place your hand back in your lap.

“What does it matter?” he huffs.

“…Are we okay?”

“I dunno, are we?” he retorts. Rocket finally looks up from his project and steadies you with a cold look. “Are we talking to each other now? You done avoiding me?”

You can feel your patience beginning to wear thin, and sit up a little straighter as you address him. “I’m not trying to start a fight.”

“Well I’m just tryin’ to meet you halfway, sweetheart,” he replies slowly, tone steeped with false cordiality. “You only gonna bother to interact with me when it’s convenient for you?”

“Why are you being like this? I’m trying to—I’m trying to make things right with you.”

“Ever stop to consider that I’m not interested in ‘making things right,’ or whatever the hell?” he says, still feigning rapt focus on his project even as the cool detachment fades from his voice and makes way for irritation. The muscles in his biceps strain as he pries off the cap with a bit more force than you suspect is strictly necessary. “You think you’re so frickin’ perfect, I bet. Think everyone’s just gonna fall all over themselves to do whatever you want ‘em to. Well I ain’t playing your games, princess .”

“You know what? I don’t care if you don’t—if you don’t like me anymore,” you snap, trying not to sound as hurt as you feel.

This arguing, this complete apathy toward taking care of himself, this coldness —all of his behavior is frustratingly reminiscent of his worst days, right when the snap had just occurred.

You feel your blood pressure begin to rise as you speak to him.

“Have you even slept? Checked yourself for wounds? Anything?” you press. “What you did in Asgard was reckless. You should’ve never tried to take things on by yourself. We don’t have to get along, but we’re supposed to be a team.”

“S’less risk if I do it myself. And I handled it, didn’t I?” 

“Less risk of what? I don’t get why you don’t trust me,” you argue. Rocket rolls his eyes and starts picking up his things, haphazardly shoving everything back into his toolbox. His equipment noisily clatters together within as he picks up his stuff and rises to a stand. You trail along after him. “Nat died, Rocket. You could have died.”

“I’m done talking about this,” Rocket growls, shooting you a final glare before making haste for the door. 

As words fail you, you do the only thing you can think to do in a moment of panic—you move over to the captain’s seat, hands running over the flight controls before grasping the emergency airlock switch, and pulling the lever. 

Rocket’s exit is abruptly interrupted as the pocket door shutters closed before him and locks tight. He stands stock-still and stares ahead for a few moments, processing your actions. Then, he turns, slow and daunting. You wince at his expression, teeth bared and tail thrashing in barely restrained anger.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks darkly.

“Can we please just talk?”

Rocket stomps over to the controls, scowling all the while, and flips the lever. The second he lets go, you switch it again.

Rocket gives you a searing look and clicks his tongue, then reaches for the controls once more. This time, you engage the childlock he’d implemented for Groot’s sake—or perhaps for Pete’s—then take a seat on the console, planting yourself firmly on top of Rocket’s only method of escape.

Rocket’s jaw drops, and he blinks at you, bewildered. “Did you just—are you a flarkin’ idiot?”

“Oh, very mature, Rocket. How many times are you gonna insult me before you get tired? Because personally, I’m exhausted.”

“ I’m bein’ immature?” he squawks. “You just locked me into the goddamn flight deck! You seriously think a frickin’ childlock is gonna keep me in?”

“You can’t keep putting yourself at risk. All of this talk about wanting to protect me, yet you went and did the most reckless thing possible—”

“—Oh it’s frickin’ rich that you’re trying to tell me what to do when you’ve been avoiding me. Is that how it’s gonna be? Whenever you don’t wanna talk I gotta roll over and listen, but when I don’t wanna frickin’ talk, it doesn’t matter?” he argues, lowering his voice into something deep and dark and furious. 

You flinch, breaking eye contact.

He’s not wrong. You’ve been avoiding him ever since you embarrassed yourself again, over another stupid drink and another stupid, ill thought-out proposition. The situation you’re putting him in probably isn’t entirely fair, but…it hurts to be around him. Still, you can’t stand to ignore it when he doesn’t take care of himself, either. He’s still your friend. 

You attempt to gather your thoughts, scrounging for a way to articulate your complicated feelings without giving too much away. “I…I just…The other night…”

“The other night? That’s what this is all about?” Rocket barks out a cruel laugh, and your heart sinks. He rounds on you, stepping into your space, upper thighs just inches away from brushing your knees. “All this, just ‘cause I wouldn’t fuck you? Get over yourself.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks; your whole face burns .

“You are being such an asshole,” you squeak.

“Oh, boohoo ,” he jeers, eyes dramatically round and pitiful as he brings his hands to each side of his face in false distress. His ridicule only lasts for a second before he drops the act and turns an accusatory finger toward you. “I’m always the fuckin’ asshole, huh? Always the bad guy with you.”

“You are such a jerk,” you hiss. “How is any of this my fault? You’re the one who’s so embarrassed about—about you and me.”

Rocket’s whiskers twitch. He doesn’t look any less angry, but there’s an undercurrent of confusion that mellows his fury. “The hell are you even talking about? Embarrassed?”

“You’re the one who’s been pushing me away, and now you’re upset that I’m doing what you wanted me to? Giving each other some ‘space’ was what you’d wanted in the first place. Remember?”

His ears flutter, tilting downward, then back up as he hesitates. “I obviously didn’t frickin’ mean it like that.

“What do you expect me to do then, Rocket? Read your mind? I just—I don’t get you.” You hold both hands outward in exasperation, then let them fall back into your lap. “What do you even want from me?”

“What do I want ? You’re so—“ Rocket growls in frustration, then plants a hand onto the surface beside you, blocking you in as he glowers up at you. “You’re such an insufferable little flarkin’ brat.”

“What the hell is your problem?” You lean forward, unwilling to back down. You won’t let him intimidate you. 

Rocket places his other palm on the console, fully caging you in. 

“You wanna know so bad what the problem is?” he snarls. “The problem is that I can’t stop fucking thinking about you.” 

You blink. Time seems to stand still, and you feel your heart stumble over itself as it desperately tries to catch up to the last missed beat.

“It’s driving me insane, and you practically frickin’ rubbing yourself all over me all the time isn’t flarking helping,” he spits, fists clenching over the edges of the console. His copper-flecked eyes gleam in the dark, bright and furious. “I can’t fucking get over you, no matter how hard I try.”

“I…I don’t…”

“And you have the gall to sit there, acting all sweet—like you even actually care . Fuckin’ tormenting me, when you know I can’t have you,” he mutters ruefully, before his voice takes a turn for the bitter again. He finally backs up, pulling his arms back to his sides and stepping out of your space. “Are you happy now? Does that make you fuckin’ feel better? Can I go? ”

The breath you’d been holding leaves your lungs in an airy sigh. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to believe that I…”

His eyes lock on to yours. 

“That you what?” he asks quietly.

In lieu of a response, you gently reach out and place a hand on Rocket’s cheek, thumb stroking along the dark patch of fur beneath his eyes. The rise of his chest hitches upon his next inhale, but he doesn’t pull away. 

You used to think you’d give anything for him to look at you like he is now. Like you mean something to him…but here, while he awaits your next words as if they’ll dictate the stars in the sky or the shift of the moon—you wonder if maybe you simply hadn’t been looking hard enough.

Your touch lingers as you examine him carefully, searching for signs of hesitation, of uncertainty—but the only thing you find is that familiar, tumultuous heat that had darkened his expression right before he’d laid you out beneath him on the night that changed everything. A second passes, and you spot something softer still, something gentle and adoring in his eyes that you can’t quite place. It urges you to draw nearer.

You bend forward and lay your forehead against his, cradling his face between both palms. Rocket stiffens, as if worried that any sudden movement might scare you away. After a moment, you place a feather-light kiss against the bridge of his nose, delicate and soft. His eyes squeeze shut as your lips trail along the high points of his face and press kisses there too, pouring rivulets of lovelorn affection in steady streams along his features.

Rocket’s next breath comes as a shaky hiss between his teeth, and his hands leave the console to grip roughly at the fat of your thighs.

“How th’fuck am I supposed to stay away from you?” he says mournfully, leaning into your touch as his hands climb further up your body to paw at your waist, before stroking reverently back down to your hips. “Just wanna give you everything you want. It’s fucking infuriating.”

“I want you ,” you sigh.

He gives you a sorrowful look, but allows you to tilt his head to fit his lips against yours.

His kiss starts off slow—skittish, unsure. You pepper little kisses along the edge of his mouth, then lick along his teeth as you grow bolder. A sharp fang scrapes along your bottom lip, and you jolt, moaning into his mouth.

“Rocket,” you gasp, pressing yourself against him, and something within him snaps.

Rocket grunts, pulling you in and engulfing you. He nibbles vengefully at your bottom lip, catching it between his teeth, then laps at the bruised flesh left behind. Your hands travel down to climb across his broad shoulders, dragging your nails lightly over his upper back. You leave fluttering, petal-soft kisses against his lips all the while, in discordance with the rough, subjugating drags of his canines and licks of his tongue.

Rocket pinches at your hip and your breath hitches into his mouth. You spread your legs apart, and he takes the opportunity to fit himself into the gap between your thighs, hand trailing around to rest against the small of your back. Then, he pulls you in; your lower body slides down the console, pressing the crux of your thighs right against the length of his cock, thick and warm in his pants. 

You gasp, and your hips roll instinctively. Rocket groans and pulls away from your mouth, hands returning to your hips to still you. His face screws up as if pained, and he lets out a shaky exhale as he rests his forehead against your chest, like he’s trying to steady himself against you. His hands slide under your shirt and begin to map out the plane of your stomach, creeping upward toward the curve of your waist. Your top slides up the further he treads, exposing more skin with each passing second.

You gently place your hands overtop his, guiding him as his fingertips stroke along your skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts before he trails them back down.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

Rocket pauses, then chuckles humorlessly, nuzzling his face into your neck—if only to avoid having to look you in the eye. You feel his breath, warm and rumbly against your skin when he speaks again. 

“What, you tryin’ to talk me out of it?” he questions softly, hands leaving your waist.

Your eyes widen and you clasp your hands around his wrists. His gaze shoots back up to your face in surprise, ears twitching.

“No. I want this,” you reply, pressing pleading kisses against his fingertips. “I need you. Please.”

Rocket watches you closely, throat bobbing as he swallows before speaking again.

“Okay,” he responds, leaning in to float a returning kiss into your wrist before he gathers your hands in his and places them at your sides. His own hands don’t linger, trailing up to pluck at the waistband of your sleep shorts. “…Prove it.” 

“Prove it?” You tilt your head in confusion, and he quickly moves in to occupy the space, teasing his canines along your neck. 

“You heard me, angel.” 

He presses his teeth against the delicate skin on your throat and lets them sink in, just so. You rock your head further back, hands clutching at his shoulders. He hums in approval, and laves at the stinging marks left behind on your neck while you moan.

“You want me to keep touching you?” he offers, voice rough and taunting. His hands dance up to suggest a proposal of their own, fingertips slipping just past the edge of your shorts. “Then tell me just how much you need me.” 

His sentiment is domineering, but there’s still something ragged and desperate laced into the silence between each sentence; something about the way he clutches at you, claws sunken into the fat of your hips, like he worries he may fall into you if he’s not careful—or that you might simply sieve between the gaps of his fingers if he doesn’t hold you tight enough.

“If you knew the way I feel when I’m around you, you wouldn’t have to ask.” You brush your lips against his ears, and they flutter against your mouth as you trail over to lay a gentle kiss on the top of his head. He tilts his head up toward you, and you press another kiss onto his cheek. “You’re all I can think about sometimes.”

Rocket gestures for you to stand momentarily, then lays the blanket you’d brought beneath you before settling you back down on the console.  

“Really? Just sometimes, huh?” he asks wryly, reaching for the waistband of your shorts then easing them down your thighs as you lift your hips to assist him. 

Despite his good-natured tone, Rocket’s tail swishes to and fro, and his nose twitches the way it always does when he’s nervous. There’s a self-deprecating quirk to the curve to his smile too, clouding his features in a way that makes you fight a heartbroken tightness in your chest.

Somehow, he seems less in control than he did the first time you’d beckoned him into bed with you, all those nights ago.

“I think about you all the time. Can’t get you out of my head some days,” you amend softly, placing a hand on his cheek to direct his gaze back toward your face. “I wonder if you think about me too.” 

“…I do,” he says. He reaches up, tucking a lock of hair behind your ears. “Sometimes.”

You giggle, and Rocket pulls away from your touch to continue undressing you. His grin lightens into something more genuine once he glances down and takes notice of your underwear. You feel one of his claws snag beneath the strap by your hip, and a light sting as he lets it snap back against your skin. 

“These’re cute. Dainty,” he observes indulgently, rolling the ruffled edge between his fingertips, before trailing his thumb along the edge toward the little bow that decorates at the front. He looks up at you again. “What else?”

“I love being around you,” you continue. You playfully dot a kiss against his nose, then press another one to the corner of his mouth. “I’m constantly coming up with excuses to just be near you. You’re funny; you’re smart. You’re one of my best friends.”

Rocket’s eyes widen, as if that wasn’t what he was expecting to hear. His mouth falls open just slightly, as if to speak, just to shut again as he exhales through his nose and lets his gaze drop to the floor.

You frown, unsure of what to make of his reaction. Perhaps you’re being too intimate.

“…I think about the other night a lot. When you fucked me,” you say, leaning back onto the flight console.

You take his wrist and slowly guide his hand lower, letting your lashes flutter as his calloused fingers glide over your cunt. Rocket’s dark eyes return to you and dart down to his own hand over your pussy, only separated by the silky fabric of your underwear, now turned gauzy and translucent with your slick.

“Do you?” he asks as he presses his thumb down over your clit and starts rubbing light circles over it. You arch your back, tilting your hips into his touch, and he hums low as he swipes up and down your slit. “Yeah, keep movin’ just like that. Good.”

Rocket runs his other hand back up the center of your torso, letting your shirt ride up along with it until your breasts are exposed to the frigid air. He pushes down on your sternum, forcing you further onto your back. You feel a bite of pain as he sinks his teeth into the underside of one tit before scraping a canine threateningly over your nipple. 

“I miss feeling your hands all over me,” you say, rolling your lower half in rhythm with the stroke of his fingers against your sensitive nub. 

“Mm. I can tell,” he replies, pausing his ministrations to grasp the front of your panties in a tight fist, then pulling upward.

You squeak as you feel every seam suddenly press into your cunt. He twists his hand, and the fabric rubs delectably against your clit, creating sparks that thrill throughout your nerves with each passing glide. Rocket chuckles into your skin, and begins to lap at one nipple while he roughly pinches and kneads at the other breast. 

“…I think about you when I touch myself,” you admit. He pauses then to give you a glazed, awe-struck look, and you take the opportunity to grab his hand and slip it beneath your panties. His fingers slide easily through the folds of your dripping cunt, igniting a need in you like a match against a strikepad. You let him cup your pussy in hand, fingers twitching against your core. 

“Is this proof enough?” you ask, voice low.

Rocket dips a finger into you just slightly, then drags your slick back up to your clit as he rubs his attention into it once more.

“Ha. I s’pose I’m starting to believe you,” he says as he moves to pull at the waistband of your underwear before pausing. “…You still okay? Is it alright if I take these off?” 

“Yes,” you reply. “Please keep going.”. 

Rocket sighs in relief, as if worried you might still say no, then pulls off your underwear while you slip off your shirt and bare yourself before him once more. His hand slides up from your knees to your thighs, pushing them further apart as he looks down admiringly at all the skin laid out before him.

“You’re even prettier than I remember,” he coos, kneading at both of your thighs before both hands move in to frame your core. “Perfect fuckin’ pussy. All puffy and pink.” He gives a light swat to your cunt, angling his knuckle to strike directly against your sensitive clit, and you jolt upon impact. He chuckles at your expense, then takes both hands and spreads you wide open, watching you drip as your aching pussy clenches over the empty air. “Practically begging for a load, right in here,” he continues, pulling you apart even further to admire your twitching cunt. 

“Please—need you to fill me up, please, ” you moan.

Rocket spits, letting his saliva drop directly onto your clit, and works it in with his thumb while you writhe beneath him. He dips down to collect more of your slick onto the pad of his finger and drags it to the apex of your cunt, then repeats the motion until he has you sufficiently mindless and helpless to his whims.

“What do you think about?” he asks. “When you play with yourself?”

“I think about you,” you sigh, fumbling for words as you find yourself increasingly distracted by his touch, running lovingly over your pussy. “Think about you spreading me open. Think about how good it felt when you were inside me.”

“Poor thing,” he croons. He does it again, like clockwork—fingers sliding down between your labia, smooth and slick, before running back up to pinch meanly at your clit. “Fucked you once and now you’re all addicted. Not a thought in that gorgeous head ‘cept for getting stuffed with cock.”

You whine in confusion when he suddenly pauses and steps away. Your heart sinks to your stomach, fearing the worst, but you hold your tongue as he considers you carefully. 

“You trust me?” he asks, one hand stroking affectionately down your calf.

“More than anything.”

Rocket snorts at your quick reply. 

“Alright,” he says fondly, letting his hands fall to his sides as he gives you a soft look. “…You know you can tell me, right? If you don’t like something.”

You find yourself momentarily at a loss for words, heart pounding with affection for him.

He’s still so sweet. It hurts.

Rocket seems to mistake your silence for unease, and swipes his thumb over your brow to smooth the furrow that you hadn’t even noticed was beginning to form. He tilts his head at you questioningly, letting his hand graze down to stroke lightly at your cheek.

“I know,” you finally reply, tilting your head into his touch. You close your eyes and breathe him in—cypress, vetiver, and smoke; the smell of a ship landing in a deep-rooted forest, the sun hanging low in the sky after rain. Dewdrops on leaves, creeping mists. When you open your eyes again, you shoot him a teasing grin. “Don’t think I can handle you?”

Rocket chuckles, then drops a kiss onto your stomach before pulling away entirely. 

“Never doubted you for a second, sweetheart. I know when I’m out of my league,” he replies, before kneeling down to dig around in his toolbox. 

You lean up on your elbows to watch him, puzzled, as he fumbles through his equipment in search of something.

After a moment, he pulls out an oscillating multitool. 

You watch as he begins to clean it, still unsure of how to interpret what you’re seeing. He delicately runs disinfectant over every crease and groove, polishing it carefully. Then, he removes the attachment from the head.

You blink at him, watching as he strolls languidly back toward you, multitool in hand. “Uh…What’s that for?”

Rocket grins wickedly, making it clear that he’s heard you, and just deigns not to reply. He simply slots himself back between your legs, resting one hand on your thigh. 

“You’ve been so sweet to me lately. Always willing to take whatever I give you,” he says, casually shifting his weight as he pretends to examine the multitool, turning it over in one hand. “Curious to see just how much more you’ve got to give.”

He finally clicks the multitool on, and it rumbles in his hand. 

The pieces of the plan Rocket’s brilliant mind has concocted for you begin to fall into place, and you look up at him, doe-eyed and flushed. “Oh.”

Rocket tilts his head at you. “Hey. You still okay with this?”

Your eyes flicker over to the tool. “Yes. Please don’t stop.”

Rocket nods, tapping the head of the multitool against his other palm. Then, he smiles . The salacious curve to his grin spells nothing but trouble for you as he approaches you once more.

“Been thinkin’ about this for ages. Always wondered if that sweet little cunt of yours would play nice with my tools . Didn’t think I’d ever be the lucky son of a bitch that’d make it happen though.” Rocket carefully runs the multitool along the length of your inner thigh. It buzzes pleasurably against the supple skin there, and you feel your muscles tighten in anticipation as the cool, smooth silicone edges toward the crease of your hip. “But you’re always so eager to please, aren’t you?”

His other hand grasps your thigh to press it against your chest, and holds it there. He watches you carefully as he traces the omnitool over your mons, then gently presses it down right above your clit. 

Even the indirect contact makes you squeak—the vibrations from the tool run deep and low, reverberating down to your cunt as he slowly allows the head of the tool to creep closer to your clit. 

“God, you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he says, reaching down to adjust himself before running his other hand teasingly over your slit. “Got such a tight little body—makes me so hard.” 

Rocket slowly dips one finger in, then two. Your mind twists into knots over the medley of sensations that wash over you as he begins to pump in and out of you—then, he adjusts his other hand, and the powerful hum of his omnitool suddenly buzzes directly over your clit. You squeal; the pleasure you feel is all encompassing, near bordering pain as your thighs quiver in his grasp. Rocket watches you carefully, angling the tool in rhythm with every roll of your hips, varying the pressure in a mind-numbing ebb and flow of pure sensation.

“Mm. There we go,” he says, leaning in to trace his nose along your side before nibbling lightly at your hip. Your hands scramble for something to hold on to—passing over every dip and divot along the flight console, running over buttons and knobs, grasping over metal panels before settling on Rocket’s shoulders. “ Yeah , keep squirmin’ around just like that, sweetheart. I can tell it feels real fucking good, huh?”

He pulls fingers out of your cunt, and the sudden emptiness makes you want to sob. He works quickly—spreading you wide to admire the glistening of your slit under the low light, dripping down your thighs.

“Sure looks like it feels good—you’re fucking soaked. Gettin’ my tools all drenched,” he observes glibly, shooting you another lecherous grin. He gathers up your slick and takes a moment to lick his fingers with a satisfied groan, then slips them back inside of you. They curl within you, massaging the front walls of your core as you writhe beneath him.

Then, he clicks the powertool off. Before you can beg him to please, don’t stop, he sets the tool down and lifts a hand to his ear.

“Shh. Hear that?” Rocket says. He tilts his head, ears fluttering as he urges for you to listen. The absence of vibration leaves the cockpit quiet but for the lurid slurp of your pussy wrapped around his fingers, and the sound of your own breathing, leaving your lungs in gasping sighs. You flush and avoid his heated gaze, even as he chuckles at your expense and fucks his fingers further into you, wet and obscene. “Yeah, sounds like it feels good too.”

When he turns the tool back on and presses it back onto your cunt, the sensation somehow feels doubly intense. Your back curves into a crescent, hair falling over your face and spreading out over the console. The multitool thumps diligently over your swollen clit, battering at it, uncaring of whether your fast-approaching orgasm is pulled gently from you or ripped out under Rocket’s unrelenting assault.

“Maybe even feels like too much. But you can handle it, can’t you?” he asks, voice dulcet and overflowing with mock-pity. “Such a good fuckin’ girl, with a candy-sweet cunt to match. Look at you, always doin’ your best for me.”

“Yes, yes, yes. I can do it—I can be good,” you gasp. “Please—I’m close.”

“That’s my girl,” he hums into your skin.

His girl. His girl. 

It’s those two words, strung together so beautifully that your back arcs and your eyes roll. It plays in your head as a symphony; all other noise turns to static as the words sing within your mind in a diapason of sound.

His-girl-his-girl-his-girl , like glimmering, iridescent pearls beaded upon a delicate necklace.

“Yours,” is all you can say in return, as the orchestra swells and the strings snap taut—and oh, you clutch at him in between shivers, nails digging into his back, and contract to tilt yourself into him—or perhaps to tilt yourself further away, as he fucks every last note from your lips with his clever fingers.

Rocket groans and presses the multitool into your clit just so, keeping you right at the precipice between too much and not nearly enough as you ride your orgasm through. His movement slows, but he doesn’t pull away until tears begin to bubble in your eyes and you’re babbling, grasping frantically for his forearms.

He shuts the powertool off and sets it aside as he pulls you into him, running one hand soothingly through your hair.

“I’ve got you,” he says, peppering appreciative kisses over your chest and your stomach. He gently brushes his fingers over your oversensitive cunt, letting you tremble in his arms, working you through the final throes of your orgasm before his ministrations slow to a stop. His hands come back up to rest at your hips, and he begins to draw comforting shapes into your skin as his gaze flits back up to your face. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you reply with a delirious giggle. You take a few more moments to catch your breath, then reach for the buckles of his jumpsuit. 

Rocket’s eyes widen and he straightens in surprise, catching your hands in his. You stop short, wilting before him. “Do you not want to…?” 

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he replies with a wince. His ears fall flat and his tail droops, but he frees you from his grasp and runs his hands soothingly over your thighs in consolation. “Don’t worry about me, princess.”

“But you didn''t—”

“That’s okay. Just…just wanna take care of you tonight.”

You duck your head to look him in the eye, brows pulled together and mouth tugging into a frown. “You said you’d give me anything I want.”

Your statement gives him pause. Rocket considers you carefully, eyes dark and unreadable. 

“I did,” he agrees.

He watches as you place a hand on his chest, letting your fingers trace over the cool metal buckles and armor-weave fibers of his jumpsuit. You walk them lower, until your palm finally rests over the heat of his length, denting his pants.

“I want to help,” you say, trailing a finger over the curve of his cock. The feel of him is familiar to you now, bringing back memories of under him, you, leaving your cheeks feeling heated and your cunt throbbing once more. “Please? Please let me.”

”Please?” he teases, voice low, and starts unbuckling his jumpsuit. “Please help me do…what, exactly?”

You roll your eyes, and help him slip his jumpsuit off of his broad shoulders and down over his hips. “You know what I mean.”

At that, Rocket grins and pulls you off of the console, only to turn you around and bend you over onto it. You grunt as your lower abdomen presses into the edge of the surface, and the blanket you’d been laying on partially slides off with the movement. A shiver rolls down your spine, nipples pebbling against the cool, newly-exposed metal. 

Rocket grabs a fistful of your hair and presses your cheek into the controls while the switches and buttons dig mercilessly into your stomach.

“I know,” he says dreamily. He nuzzles up against your spine, layering hot, fervent kisses along your back that contrast with the biting cold and sharp edges of the flight panel beneath you. “I just like hearin’ you say it.”

“You’re so difficult,” you reply, curling back into his touch as he slots his hips against yours. You feel it then—the press of his dick against your thigh as he slowly grinds against you. His hand roams lightly over your ass, claws scraping over whatever delicate flesh he can reach.

“ I’m difficult?” He pushes down on your lower back, forcing your hips upward, presenting you to him. His cock slides up against the folds of your cunt, already coated with your slick; then, he presses your thighs together, briefly fucking the plush space between. “You know how difficult you’ve been making things for me? I’ve been trying to focus on work and instead I gotta handle a little slut tryin’ to climb all over me.”

Each thrust nudges the weeping tip of his cock dizzyingly against your clit, and the press of his hips into yours only pushes you further against the unforgiving surface of the console. The fat of your stomach and your thighs and your tits will probably be sore and dented with impressions of various knobs and levers, but all you can focus on is him, kicking your legs apart as he finally taps his dick against your pussy, then fucks you onto him.

You feel him take a palmful of your ass in each hand, spreading you apart as he watches his cock sink into you—spits down onto himself, watching saliva and precome mix as your cunt eagerly consumes his length, before brutally tugging you closer as he bottoms out.

“Such a gifted fucking pussy,” he says roughly. “S’tighter than I remember it being. Nice and fuckin’ sloppy , too. Like that sweet little cunt of yours was made for milking cock.”

Every moan leaves your mouth half-interrupted by his bruising thrusts, punched out of your lungs and accompanied by hiccuping sobs as he maneuvers your body how he likes—like a toy . You do your best to shift your hips back to meet him halfway, trying to get him to sink even deeper , letting your ass bounce against the front of his muscular thighs.

Rocket watches and whistles low, mesmerized.

“Yeah, keep fucking yourself back onto me just like that, princess. Fuck, you got such a tight, slutty little cunt. Squeezin’ me so nice,” he says roughly, staring down at where his cock meets the puffy folds of your slit and splays them apart, then gives your ass a worshipful pinch. “Could pump this pussy load after load and never get tired of it. Bet you’d love that, huh?”

He snakes his hand around the curve of your waist and down your front, until his leather-rough fingertips make contact with your battered clit, and strums.

“God, please, please—Rocket, please —” The edges of your vision blur with tears; all of the glowing sensors and flickering lights on the control panel smear into star-spangled shapes and colors as you sob into your fist.

All the while, your pussy spasms and squeezes around his cock, gripping tight even as he pulls back and plunges back in. Rocket grunts and pinches roughly at your clit as a reward, tugging and pulling at it, up and down, as he forces your legs even farther apart.

“Shouldn't even let you off of the ship anymore—not when I’m putting you to so much good use right here. What do you think, sweetheart? Maybe we keep that gorgeous cunt nice and stretched out on my cock while I fly.” Rocket levies a harsh slap against your ass and you yelp and tense up, inadvertently skewering yourself even deeper and tighter onto his cock. He smooths an apologetic hand over the mark on your ass then grabs a rough fistful, letting it jiggle in his hand. “Or maybe I’ll keep you all tied up in my bunk; my little resident whore . Like a l’il reward for every job well-done, huh?”

“Yes, please. I—you make me feel so—“ His cock curves deliciously, hot and hard within you, fucking through your sore cunt as your arousal begins to wrap around the base of his dick in a creamy ring. It’s all you can do to not simply fizzle and wisp away into the air, body at his mercy. “Rocket, please— “

“No one makes you feel good the way I do,” he interrupts. “No one else knows how to fuck you the way I can.” There’s a warbling note to his voice that gives away his looming peak, a desperation in the way his claws sink into your skin and the stutter of his hips as his cock drives into you. “That makes you mine. ”

He grunts, and curves himself over you, as if trying to maintain as many points of contact with you as possible. You grind your pelvis further into his hand as he strokes masterfully at your aching clit, massaging it with the pad of his index then letting it slip through the gap between his fingers.

“Tell me again,” he says, rolling his hips, panting against your back. His tail wraps around your calf, stroking devotedly at your skin. “Tell me you need me. Tell me you’re ruined for anybody else.”

“Yours,” you moan with a broken sob. “Always. It’s only ever been you.”

His girl.

Rocket always tells you he’s not good with words, but you wonder if he underestimates how easily he could read you, if only he tried. Your pussy aches, your clit throbs—you want to kiss him. But perhaps it’s better that your back is turned to him, lest he sees the thoughts written all over your face: I love you . 

It’s all you can think about, even as his thrusts grow more haphazard but no less bruising—even as your breathing stutters and stops at the feel of him playing with your clit, holding you in place with his iron-clad grip as you wriggle beneath him.

All those essays you’ve rehearsed in your head about what he means to you float around in your thoughts as he fucks you—about what you’d give to be his . Never said aloud but for once, never announced explicitly in hopes that he’ll read between the lines and understand, or better yet—simply sink his teeth into the gaps between each paragraph and render you wordless; mark you up like pen upon paper, leaving remnants of him that will last long before the ink has dried.

An orgasm floods you again in waves of mind-warping pleasure, less intense than the last, but strong enough that your cunt still flutters weakly around his length. Rocket grunts, hips driving into you once—twice—thrice more before he wrenches himself back out. 

You feel his breath, hot against your back as he shuffles behind you, hear the sound of something slick and rhythmic as his arm pumps and ruffles the fabric of his pants. Something hot and sticky splatters against your twitching cunt and your inner thigh, and he groans, collapsing back on top of you.

For a moment, there’s nothing but quiet in the cockpit, bar the sounds of your combined breathing, and the gentle hum of exhaust fans whirring in the background.

“You okay?” he asks, lifting himself off of you and gently swiping a sweat-soaked lock of hair out of your eyes.

You nod, looking blearily up at him. 

Rocket helps you up to a stand. Your legs wobble beneath you, and he winces once he sees your stomach, reddened and stamped with impressions of the flight controls he’d pressed you into. 

He carefully runs the pad of his thumb over a mark, examining you closely. 

“Does this hurt?” he asks. You shake your head, and he exhales through his nose in relief.

“Okay,” he says, seating you in the pilot’s seat then wrapping your blanket back around your shoulders. He drops a quick kiss to the top of your head, then disengages the emergency airlocks. “Stay there,” he says, looking at you over his shoulder as he makes for the exit. “I’ll be back.”

When he returns, the scene becomes woefully reminiscent of the first time he’d cared for you. More glasses of water exchanged, more careful swipes of damp cloth against your skin, more achingly-gentle touches and even gentler words.

“…I said so much stupid shit earlier. Been sayin’ stupid shit for the past few cycles, really. Didn’t mean any of it. You didn’t deserve any of it either,” he says after some time of cleaning you in silence, kneeling before you. He puts down the cloth and lets his fingers brush over the marks on your abdomen, then toward the growing spattering of bruises where he’d gripped you too rough or sank his claws in too deep. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I keep doing it anyway. I’m sorry.”

His apology seems to be for a million different transgressions, both realized and not. You place a hand on his cheek, and tilt his head up for him to look you in the eye. “It’s okay.”

Rocket looks somehow more dejected, face falling and ears flattening against his head.

“S’really not,” he says, laying a solitary kiss against the inside of your knee. “You’re just too sweet for your own good.”

Once the both of you are dressed, he guides you back to bed, though he takes you back to your own room instead of his. 

Rocket tucks you in and lays your head onto the pillow. You find yourself staring at your own familiar ceiling once more, and wonder if the one in his bunk looks any different from yours. It’s been long enough since you’d fallen asleep in his bed that you can’t quite remember anymore.

“Goodnight,” he says, standing awkwardly at the foot of your bed. You hum in response, and he shifts in discomfort. “…You sure you’re okay? You’re bein’ kinda quiet.”

You roll in bed, turning over to face him. 

“Can I ask you something?” you reply.

You can’t make out his expression in the dark, but you do catch the slight twitch to his ears and the straightening of his shoulders as he listens to you.

“Yeah. Of course.”

You run your tongue along the back of your teeth as you think, then suck in a small breath before you speak again.

“What am I to you?”

“…What?”

A self-deprecating puff of laughter leaves your lungs.

“I know what you mean to me, ” you say as your heart pounds in your ears. You wonder if he can hear it—the blood pulsing through your veins, coursing through your arteries. “But I’m scared that if I tell you, you’re going to leave.” Your voice softens into something more vulnerable than you’d hoped to reveal. “…I don’t want you to go.”

You still can’t make out his features. Can’t tell a single thought that may be going through his head.

“I don’t have anything to offer you,” he says after a moment. “I promise you’re better off without me.” 

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“…You deserve someone that’ll take care of you.”

“You do take care of me. You…the way I feel about you, I…” The sentence dies on your lips. You’re still not sure if he’s ready to hear it, or if you’re really ready to say it out loud again. Maybe one day—some other time. Still, you stubbornly repeat your initial sentiment. “You do take care of me. I just wish you’d let me take care of you too.”

“I’ll try to let you, princess,” he replies softly. You see him turn in the dark, angling toward the door, but he doesn’t make any further moves. “…I don’t really wanna go either.”

“Then tell me,” you press. “What am I to you?”

“I…I dunno.”

You frown. That’s…not what you’d hoped to hear.

His silhouette shrinks slightly in the dark as he slumps his shoulders, as if he’s sensed your disappointment. Then, you catch a silver gleam in his eyes as he tilts his head, considering you. 

His voice is quiet when he speaks again. “…But I know I want to make you happy. I know you deserve somethin’ good—someone that’d give you the whole world, if they could.” He sighs, kneeling beside you. “I don’t know if I can be that for you. But I really want to be.”

“Oh,” you reply.

Rocket awkwardly scratches at the back of his neck, then clears his throat. “Shit. S’that too corny?” 

“No. It was sweet.” You smile softly and reach for him, hand facing upward in a silent offer.

“It’s all of your stupid, sentimentalistic crap rubbing off on me,” he grumbles morosely, even as he takes your palm in his, and gently turns it over to lay a kiss on the back of your hand.

“…Can I tell you what you are to me?”

Rocket hums in thought, running his thumb over your wrist. He carefully feels for your pulse, then looks to the ground. 

“Tell me in the morning. Once we undo the snap.”

“Once we undo the snap…? Why would that matter?”

Rocket shrugs.

“We’ve got the stones. Half of the rest of the damn universe will be back. You’ll have more options, other than just…just me,” he says softly. “You don’t gotta be stuck with me, sweetheart.”

“We could bring back the whole galaxy two times over and there still wouldn’t be anyone else. I want you to know that.”

You can make out more of his face, now that your eyes have adjusted and he sits a little bit closer. Rocket smiles, though it’s rueful and somber.

“Too sweet for your own good,” he repeats.

Rocket gets up, and hesitantly lets go. He tucks your arm back under the blanket, and lets his own hand fall loosely at his side. 

“Good night,” he says. “I’ll be here in the morning. I promise.”

Then, he leaves. 

You’re left alone to stare at the ceiling once more.

Forty, sixteen, two.

All you can really do is take him at his word, and close your eyes.

The first thing to go had been her eyes.

Soft, round globes; gel-like and easily plucked from the socket with but a single scoop of the finger—Nebula had screamed her throat raw that day, until the only noise left still strumming from her vocal chords were rasping, bleating sobs.

“It was a lesson,” she’d explained to you one night. Her fists had been clenched so hard in her lap that her knuckles had gone pale, skin turning near translucent over the bone like spider-silk. “To teach me not to hesitate. He said my fingers would be next if I didn’t do what he said. I don’t remember how old I was anymore, but it was—I was young.”

Nebula was never one for stories, but she’d made an exception, just that once. 

You’d exhaled, slowly. Hesitantly opened your mouth, then let it gently click shut. Swallowed what felt like a pound of stones, dropping down into your stomach, and mulled over what to say next.

Apologies had roiled within you on instinct, but none of them felt like they’d ever be enough.

“So what did you do?” you’d asked instead.

“I stopped hesitating. I went back to where he’d commanded me to go, and killed who he asked.” Nebula slanted her head to the side, gazing through the viewport. Her dark eyes had seemed to lap up every bit of light from the stars, and swallow them whole. 

“She wasn’t much older than me. I still remember her so clearly,” she said, slowly trailing her eyes down toward her hands. “I remember how warm the blood was when it first spilled. How sticky—the way it clung to the gaps between my fingers. My clothes stank of iron for rotations after. I washed my hands, over and over, but somehow I could still feel it, crusted up beneath my fingernails.”

Her fists had unfurled from where they had lain clutched in her lap and her voice had never wavered, but you’d still caught the slight tremble in her movements right before she stilled once more.

“You didn’t deserve that, Nebs,” you’d offered quietly.

She shook her head, seeming frustrated—like you’d missed her point entirely.

“For every bit of pain and suffering I’d experienced, I dealt it back tenfold,” she’d hissed, suddenly losing the dispassionate tone she’d used to describe her own torture. “I killed a lot of people after that—and other than her, I don’t remember them at all.” 

You’d flinched back under her glare, once again unable to piece together an adequate reply.

Nebula examined you closely for a moment; her brows had twitched into a deeper furrow, before straightening out. Then, she’d sighed, and the anger had left her gaze and wilted into something regretful. 

She tilted her head, and asked you a question—softer, this time. “Does that scare you?”

You’d met her eyes, steely and resolute.

“No. It doesn’t,” you replied.

The strict certainty in your voice had made Nebula’s lips twitch up into an almost-smile, before neutralizing once more.

“You’re kind,” she’d said, tone admiring and admonishing all at once. “But sometimes, that isn’t enough.” She turned toward you, gaze sharp and unrelenting. Then, she’d left you with a final piece of advice. “Sometimes, it’s them or you.”

—

Nebula stands alone in the hangar, head held high and shoulders squared, seeming to tower above it all: a monolith of stone and machinery, lithe muscle spliced with sleek metal—unyielding, indomitable, alone. 

You know she hears the soft click of your boots against the epoxy floors by the way her head tilts ever slightly in your direction, though her expression is obscured by shadow, barely lit by the overcast sky that peeks through the windows. 

“Nebula? Why aren’t you with the others?” you call out. 

Nebula doesn’t move, stock-still and statuesque and strained in a way that reminds you of a loaded spring. Her head simply tilts further as she listens. 

As she observes.

There’s something to her—something that has your footfalls stumbling to a hesitant stop. Your heart beats in your ears; each breath rattles on the way in and out of your chest. The scuff of your heels, echoing so gratingly loud against the relative quiet, makes you wince.

You scan your surroundings for some sort of hidden danger that might explain the sensation of uncanniness that rakes its claws up your back—but not even a sliver of shadow seems to stray from its place. 

It’s just you and Nebula.

You swallow the nervous bulb that seems to be stuck in your throat, then speak out again.

“Rocket and I are worried about you. Why don’t we head back together?” 

You take one shuffling step closer with every sentence, strides growing smaller yet somehow sounding deafening in the comparative silence. 

Then, Nebula’s voice cuts through the room, so sudden and jarring that you halt your approach.

“Piece. By. Piece,” she announces. 

She raises a slim, powerful hand, and turns it over, palm to back—as if examining herself. The metal catches the light and reflects it against the walls as her forearm rotates. Her other hand lifts soon afterward, trailing along the seams where carbon-fiber and steel meet to approximate flesh.

Your expression screws up, settling into a puzzled frown. “What?”

Nebula’s fingers suddenly pause in their exploration of her modified limb, and she makes a noise of pure, consummate disgust.

“You have no idea what it’s like, do you?” she asks, voice low and foreboding.

You step closer again, despite every nerve in your body screaming at you and stretching you thin, urging you to run.

“I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through, and I won’t make you tell me if you don’t want to…but I’m here for you if you need me,” you say cautiously. “I’ll be with you, no matter what.”

Nebula is mere feet away from you now, her shoulders lax and her breathing calm: the perfect picture of unhindered composure despite her reticence.

But if nothing is bothering her, then why is it that you feel so hunted? 

Your mind scrambles to make sense of your emotions—something is wrong, something feels wrong—but you come up blank.

“Not even the slightest clue,” Nebula huffs indignantly. She drops her arms. Then, she finally twists to face you, movements unhurried and deliberate.

There’s nothing to be read in the blank stare she offers you, though she seems to have no trouble gleaning what she can from you—eyes narrowed consideringly, lips pursed in thought; examining you in a manner that feels all-encompassing and indecipherable all at once.

Your eyes widen, and your mouth suddenly runs dry. “…Nebs?” 

The next few sensations are familiar: the prickling of invisible nails, burrowing into your back and drawing shivers down your spine; gooseflesh dotting your skin as every hair seems to stand on end, running parallel to the frissons of frantic energy that clamber up and down your every nerve; your heart, battering in your chest like an animal throwing itself against the walls of a cage—you are afraid.

You understand now, what it is you see in her eyes—something cold and calculating and precise—a look you’d only seen in passing before, not dissimilar to the gleam in a predator’s eyes before it sinks its teeth into your throat.

Suddenly, Nebula’s own words of warning blare within your head:

Fear is a gift.

That instinct will keep you alive.

Listen to what it tells you.

And that’s all it is—instinct—that pulls your body into motion, as you duck forward just in time to see your own reflection in the glint of Nebula’s blade, slicing right past where your neck had been.

Quick as the crack of a whip, her stance shifts, clasping your shoulders in a harsh, unforgiving squeeze—before she uses your momentum against you to pull you further down as her knee lifts to jab into your stomach. Your next breath is punched out of your lungs on impact, so sudden and shattering that your cry comes out as a croaking squeak. You gasp for air, crumpling in on yourself as she roughly tosses you to the ground, sending another shooting bout of agony along your side. 

God, it feels like your insides are rebelling against you, throbbing with a pain so sharp that you worry your viscera might simply burst from within you. You twist onto your back, but there’s not even a second of warning before Nebula lunges for you once more. 

You brace your muscles and lean back on your elbows, delivering a swift kick to her abdomen before she can seize you, knocking her back. She stumbles away with a soft grunt—but if you manage to stun her, the effect lasts only for a brief moment; she doubles back almost instantly, blade at the ready. You scramble onto your hands this time, leg swinging out to try to catch her shins with your boot.

Nebula moves to dodge your heel with little effort, but her change in trajectory buys you time to clamber onto your feet and run.

“Rocket!” you screech, throat burning. Your feet drag along beneath you—you will yourself to go faster, but your body betrays you, and every move sends more searing pain down your limbs in dizzying jolts.

Then, the world turns over on its side. 

Nebula’s body crashes against yours with full force as she tackles you to the ground, grappling for your limbs as you struggle to push her off of you. Her fist wraps around a lock of your hair and she yanks; you cry out, both hands reaching up to unclasp her hands on impulse. That moment of weakness is all she needs to force your guard down; it’s all you can do not to choke as she maneuvers to hold you beneath her, one forearm against your windpipe and one knee trapping your leg below her own. 

“Is that it?” she sneers, letting go of your hair and reaching down. You barely glimpse the shimmer of her blade before she swipes the sharp edge against your abdomen—and this time, you scream, so frightfully that the sound seems to pierce your skull as the skin on your stomach slices apart with ease. Your hands rush down to stop the assault, muscles shaking in an attempt to overpower her—but she’s so much stronger than you.

Nebula presses harder, and cold knife seems to sear into your skin, parting flesh like butter. 

You can’t die like this. You can’t die like this.

In a last ditch effort, you throw your upper body forward—crying out as the blade sinks momentarily deeper—and let the crown of your head smash against her forehead. 

Nebula snarls, backing off of you as you writhe. You press your trembling fists against the gash in your abdomen, sobbing, before raising one hand to bite down onto your knuckle in a bid to distract yourself from the pain—the taste of copper fills your mouth as you grit your teeth, eyes squeezing shut as you will yourself to focus.

“Weak,” Nebula spits, turning away from you to return to the machine, seemingly deciding you aren’t a threat any longer. She travels from one end of the control panel to the other, turning dials and adjusting sliders. The machine's curved spires bloom open like a flower, then begin to buzz with electricity.

“Nebula, you can’t,” you grit out, fumbling through your pockets for a spare stim.

You look down at your stomach as you search—the cut seems mostly superficial, but the amount of blood soaking your uniform lush shades of rose-petal scarlet sends your mind reeling with wave after wave of vertigo.

Your fingers grasp at nothing. Just as you begin to panic, wondering if perhaps this really is the end for you, and if you’re destined to simply bleed out on the floor, alone—your hand wraps around a slim, metal injector. You nearly cry out in relief, shakily piercing the stim into your thigh with a groan as the needle pinches through your skin. 

You feel a rush of adrenaline as the medicine pumps through your body. It won’t be enough to close the wound, but it’ll slow the bleeding—and you pray frantically that it’ll buy you enough time to survive.

Nebula ignores you, hand lingering on the final switch. Then, she yanks it down.

There’s a crackle, like thunder—a splash of light that drowns the room in glittering, spark-spun blues—then the machine opens further, as if it were a gaping jaw, its metal arms like teeth—and you have no choice but to watch in horror as a fleet of ships pass through the gap in time, and punch through the ceiling in an explosion of rubble.

You cower, shielding your eyes from the debris as the roof partially caves over your head.

Nebula turns back around to look at you, then begins prowling forward. You shudder, wide-eyed as you crawl away on your back, wildly racking your brain for a way out—your blood leaves streaks upon the glossy, once-pristine floors as you drag yourself away.

She stops before you, jamming her boot against your shoulder and sending you back into the ground. You groan, head knocking back with the impact. Then, her foot shifts, and moves to rest on your neck. 

You flinch as your pulse drums against the sole of her boot; pure, weltering fear begins to overcome all your senses.

“Is that really the best you can do?” she asks, glaring down at you. “This is what I gave everything up for? That was hardly even a challenge.”

“Nebula, wait—“ You gasp as she tests her weight against your delicate throat, and presses down threateningly for a single, stomach-turning moment—before easing up.

“Everything I had worked toward, everything he put me through—and I gave it all up. For what? For someone like you? For that stupid little fox? It makes no sense.”

“You don’t have to do this—don’t—“

“Shut up,” she sneers, bearing her heel down against your windpipe once more. Your eyes widen as you clutch your fists into her calf.

“I’m—your friend,” you plead, choking around each syllable. Your vision begins to blur as tears prickle at the corners of your eyes.

“I said, shut up. I’m not your Nebula. Your Nebula was weak; she was a coward. And now, she’s probably dead. And even if she isn’t,” Nebula begins, looming over you as her features contort in bitter rage, “why should she get to be happy?”

“Nebula, please,” you sob. Your nails dig into the leather of her shoes. Nebula remains silent, and for a moment, she crushes you harder. 

“Nebs,” you croak out with your last remaining breath.

Nebula pauses, boot suddenly still against your neck. Her eyes shutter, rounding out as if dazed, nostrils flaring—then her whole body lurches, and she steps off of you like you’ve burned her. 

You gasp as your throat opens up again, and hack up your lungs; every breath comes in as a gulp and leaves as a heave as you struggle air down, starving and desperate. Your expression twists in pain as you roll over onto all fours, one hand lifting to rub at your aching throat. 

Behind you, Nebula watches, fists set so tightly that they shake at her sides.

“That’s not my name,” she spits. “You know nothing about me. You don’t know anything. You—“ 

She grunts in anger, then darts toward you. You coil yourself up, bracing—but nothing happens. You chance a glance upward after a few seconds to see Nebula staring down at you. Her expression is warped in equal parts fury and anguish, eyes tenebrous.

She takes one step back. Then another. 

“You’re not even worth sullying my shoes,” she says quietly, but her voice quavers almost imperceptibly. “Don’t let me see you again.”

You cautiously begin to crawl away, then move faster once she makes it clear that she won’t try to stop you, fighting through the pain as you pull yourself across the floor.

Nebula opens her mouth to say something more, then pauses as her eyes focus on something behind you.

Her face darkens, and she slowly drops down to place her blade neatly on the floor, before standing back up with both hands raised beside her head.

“Don’t fuckin’ move,” a familiar voice growls from behind you. 

Rocket steps in front of you, rifle aimed between Nebula’s eyes. His finger flexes on the trigger, teeth bared as he crouches before you to block your body with his.

Nebula remains impassive to his threats, silently observing him.

“Rocket,” you sob, voice warbling as you take respite in his presence. You lean forward to rest your forehead against his upper back, breathing in the scent of rain-soaked forests and motor oil as tears spill down your cheeks.

Rocket’s unrelenting focus never falls from Nebula—but his tail still curls to wrap soothingly around your ankle, and the barrel of his gun dips slightly.

“Thought I heard something out here. I never should’ve left you on your own, sweetheart,” he grits out. “We gotta get you out of here. I don’t have any med-paks on me.” 

Nebula suddenly shifts, and Rocket raises his weapon and angles it back up at her. The plasma rifle hums in his hands as he cocks it, charging up for a blast. 

“I thought I told you not to fucking move,” he snarls.

Nebula ignores him, brows furrowed as something seems to compel her to look out the window, even in spite of the gun being brandished in her face. Her eyes widen, and you turn to follow her gaze outside…but see nothing out of the ordinary. You squint, puzzled.

Rocket’s gaze trails outward too. He stiffens, biceps tensing as his spin straightens.

His ears twitch, then flicker—flatten, then perk up again, as if trying to locate the source of a sound too subtle for your ears. 

“What the fuck?” he says, shaken.

Rocket hastily drops his aim and reholsters his rifle, gaze flitting frantically around the room as he searches for something. 

Then, he turns back around to you, hands wavering over your wound, before he moves to cradle you in his arms—as if to shield you from something.

“What is that?” he demands, sounding frightened. He squeezes you tighter against him. “Nebula, what the hell is that?”

Suddenly, the room is plunged into darkness—an object passes over and eclipses the sun, drowning everything in shadow as Nebula takes a few, slow steps away from the glass. Then, she swivels and breaks into a sprint, disappearing around the corner. Rocket lets her go, muttering into your hair.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he says, shakily activating both his and your kinetic shields as he wraps himself around you. One of his hands comes down to press against the gash in your abdomen—stinging—in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. “Just hold on to me, baby. Hold on.”

You frown, licking your lips. The air feels staticky and textured—corporeal, like you could take a bite of it—as your mouth fills with fuzz. 

“Rocket, what’s happening?” you ask.

He simply shakes his head, breathing heavily as he tucks you further into his chest. “Hold on.”

Then, you hear it: a high pitched whir, like a kettle left too long on the stove, that slowly morphs into a deep, rumbling cacophony of noise—and then, just as suddenly, your vision is filled with a spectacular flash of light.

The first missile crashes through the base. 

Rubble rains down upon you both as the walls come toppling down over your heads under the bombardment, and Rocket’s hand comes up to protect your head, bracing you against him.

You curl yourself up into his protective embrace, eyes squeezed shut. 

Another impact erupts violently overhead; your gravity shifts and you sway, suddenly losing balance—the foundation crumbles beneath your feet. You yell out as a fissure forms beneath you, and the two of you begin to slide deep into the cavity left in the ground.

You lose track of which way is up as you fall—slamming against the rocky walls in a multitude of breath-stealing collisions; you feel your body screaming in protest, aching with every impact that fights through your shields and threatens your consciousness. And then you land hard, head hammering against the unforgiving bedrock. 

Your hands and cheek meet something damp, too, and you hear the roar of water crashing down beside you; you glance up, watching the lake pour down over your head in a towering waterfall that threatens to fill the bottom of the cavern if you don’t act fast.

You hear a pair of claws scraping against stone, and your eyes snap toward the noise.

“Rocket!” you yell out, voice rubbed tender as you wade through the water to reach him.

Rocket lies crushed beneath a bed of rubble, chest rising and falling in shallow, barely-there breaths as he struggles against the weight flattening his ribs against the ground.

“I can’t breathe—I can’t breathe—“ he chokes out, clawing at the debris as he attempts to push it off of him to no avail. You scramble to his side, ignoring the cutting pain—your abdominal muscles flex, and your wound threatens to split open even further in a blood-curdling shock under the strain—and lift with all the strength you have left. Rocket gasps for air as some of the pressure eases.

The slab of concrete digs into your palms and abrades your tender skin, but if you let go, it all clamps back down onto his lungs. You grit your teeth and hold tight, even as the wound across your abdomen continues to soak scarlet billows into your clothing. The water around you tinges a lovely red; your vision grows dotted and black at the edges, like a lit candle put to the edges of a photograph. 

“I can’t lift it all the way off,” you say shakily, trying to stay awake. “Help! Anyone!”

More pockets of your sight go dark. You feel lightheaded—airy, like you could float. Your strength fails you momentarily and the rubble clamps down onto Rocket’s chest once more. He wheezes, wrenching in breath after breath as he fights to squeeze air into his lungs.

“I don’t know what to do,” you cry, nails digging painfully hard into the rock; it grates against your fingertips as you desperately attempt to find purchase along the damp, slippery surface.

“The rebar—“ Rocket croaks out, muscles tensing as he pushes up against the rubble. “Leverage—“

You let go momentarily to turn toward the steel reinforcement bar jutting from the ground then yank it upward with a grunt, before jamming it underneath the debris. Then, you slam all of your weight down onto the free end with a scream; the harsh movement makes the gash in your stomach ripple with a pain so fierce that you choke on a sob, biting harshly into your lower lip as tears streak down your face.

The rubble lifts partially, and Rocket scrambles just enough to free his chest from beneath—but your fingers slip and your muscles give out, and the slab falls right back down over his other foot before he can escape entirely.

“Shit,” he rasps, kicking at the concrete and trying fruitlessly to pull his foot from beneath the debris.

Your arms shake as you press down against the rebar again, but this time, nothing budges.

“Rocket,” you heave, panicked—throwing your weight further against the steel. “I can’t. I can’t.”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. I’ll get us out of here,” he says, though you can hear the jagged edges of fear serrating his tone. He reaches up for his radio, then growls in frustration when the device practically disintegrates in his hands. “Shit. My comms got crushed up. See if you can get any transmissions.”

He grabs a broken piece of pipework, and starts ramming it against the debris, trying to knock it loose.

You nod, pressing down to activate your comms—it crackles, then fizzles in and out. 

“Hello? Can anyone hear me?” you yell, voice drowned out over the sound of rushing water. Your comms click, but you hear nothing but static on the other end. Your heart drops and you swear, striking the device with the flat of your palm before pressing down again. “Does anybody read?”

You think you hear little blips of noise—warbled sounds that could be construed for voices—but it could very well just be interference. There’s no telling if anyone has heard you. In desperation, you speak your coordinates aloud into the radio as a final leap of faith.

Your comms flicker in and out once more, echoing more inscrutable noises, before letting out an electric twang—then, it falls silent.

Your chest squeezes tight, like knots of rope have been threaded around your heart and pulled taut; the rapid pulsations of panic start to thrum along your veins.

“Wait—the glove’s down here with us,” Rocket says, setting the pipe down as he grasps a loose chunk of rock and pulls. It crumbles, revealing the infinity gauntlet, previously hidden be eath the debris. He reaches forward to grasp it in hand, then tries once more to wrest his foot out from beneath the rubble, only for his boot to jam against the rock, still trapped. 

Rocket clicks his tongue, hand wrapped around the gauntlet, and tilts his head skyward. 

“We need to get this out of here,” he says.

You follow his gaze up toward the narrow aperture where thin columns of light stream through, opening up into the yawning cavern that you and Rocket now lie in the pit of—the water cascading down from above has risen to your waists now too, when it had only been up inches just moments before.

How are the two of you ever going to get out?

Thinking too much about the distance the two of you had fallen makes your head spin, and you falter on your feet—like little fluttering moths have eaten away at the forefront of your consciousness, leaving pin-prick holes in their place.

Rocket’s eyes widen, catching you by your shoulders and bracing you against his strong torso.

“Hey. Hey. Look at me. Keep your eyes open,” he says.

“I’m okay,” you murmur drowsily. Your pulse threads weakly beneath your skin, pounding fast yet feather-light. You feel the adrenaline rush from the stim and the fall begin to slowly ebb away, leaving you feeling tired. More tired than you’ve ever felt before.

Rocket gently notches his forefinger beneath your chin and tilts your head, brows knotted in concern. His gaze dips from your eyes and down to the wound on your stomach, slowly disappearing beneath the waterline.

“Oh fuck,” he hisses. “You’re gonna bleed out.”

“It’s fine, Rocket. I’m fine.” You shake your head and grit your teeth, pushing yourself away from him and attempting to rise from your slumped position. 

You need to stay awake.

You take a deep breath, letting your canines dig into your tongue, testing—before you clamp down hard with your teeth, letting the sharp pain ground you in the moment. You manage to hold your head upright, but are unable to find the strength to stand under the pull of the rushing water, and remain kneeling.

Above you, the earth rumbles. More of the cliff-face disintegrates and topples down into the chasm below, sending another rushing cascade of water along with it; the water ripples and waves, rising threateningly close to your shoulders. 

Rocket grimaces, lifting himself up with his free foot to try and gain as much height as he can as the waterline continues to move. Then, he looks at you, eyes wide and alarmed.

“Sweetheart, listen to me very carefully,” he says, unstrapping his chest rig. 

You watch, confused, as he unclasps the buckles one by one and slips the rig off of his broad shoulders, before moving to wrap it around you. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you gasp out, startled. He gently untucks your hair from beneath the shoulder plates, then activates the extension switch. The rig expands, and the motor hums, readying for flight. Then, he presses the gauntlet into your chest. “No. No.”

You struggle against him, pushing his hands away, but he softly hushes you, clasping both of your hands beneath his and wrapping them back around the glove.

“You need to leave me,” he says, amaranth eyes burning into yours with a severity that makes your heart kick in your chest. 

“I need to—what? Do you hear yourself? I’m not doing that!” 

You drop the gauntlet to clutch him desperately, hands fisted into the front of his jumpsuit. Rocket gently peels your fingers from their tight grasp around his collar, and simply holds the gauntlet back over your sternum.

“You need to let go. Get help, get a med-pak, have someone take the gauntlet back to the others, then get the fuck out of here. You gotta leave me behind—“

“No! Someone, help!” you warble out, frantically scanning your surroundings for a sign—anything—some way out. The water is icy-cold, licking against your collarbones and locking all your muscles into place; your teeth begin to click and chatter. “Please! Anybody, help!”

Rocket gives you a defeated look—soft, despite everything.

“You have to go, love. You can’t help me. If you stay here, neither of us will make it out.”

You lean into him, pressing your cheek against the damp fur at the top of his head.

“Rocket, you’re scaring me,” you plead, eyes shut. Your head tilts, lips brushing against his ear. “Please stop talking like that.”

His hands come up to wrap around you, resting at the base of your spine. “If you stay here, you’ll die.”

You rear back, placing both palms against the sides of his face to angle his head upward, forcing him to look at you. The water flows in wavelets around his neck. 

“If I leave then you’ll die. I’m not fucking leaving you. Please stop trying to make me,” you say, burrowing your face into his fur again.

“Hey. Look at me, baby,” he says soothingly, though there’s a rough quality to his voice that betrays his fear. “I’ve made it outta worse cinches than this before. Twenty-four prisons, remember?” He reaches up, brushing a lock of wet hair away from your forehead. The water slicks it against your cheek, and he moves to tuck it past your ear. “Come on, angel. One last favor for me.”

“I’m not going to—I’m not going to—Rocket, please. I can’t do this without you.”

His nose nudges up to cradle against your jaw, and he sinks further into you. He has to twist and tilt his head up now just to keep his head above the water.

“Sweet girl. Bravest, smartest thing I know. You can do this,” he urges. You shake your head, sniveling. He looks panicked now, struggling to stand on the tip of his free clawed foot as the water grazes his chin and quickly climbs up to his cheeks. “Sweetheart, you have to go—“

“I love you!” you sob, hugging him close. You feel his chest hitch beneath yours, the sudden pause of his warm breath against your neck. “I love you. I’m not going to leave you here.” One of your hands rises to grasp at the damp fur on the nape of his neck, holding him against you as you lift him above the water as best you can. “You promised me you’d be here in the morning. Please. Please don’t make me leave you.”

You feel his fists tighten into your shirt, claws digging into the seams.

Then, a beam of light shines into your eyes from across the cavern, momentarily flooding your vision with white. You squint past it, one hand raising to hover over your eyes, while the other arm remains wrapped tightly Rocket.

“They’re over here!” a woman calls out, her voice painfully familiar.

The light moves closer, two shadow-hazed figures standing just behind it, and then the bulb dips down out of your field of view.

Nebula and…and Gamora stand before you, eyes wide.

“Rocket needs help,” you plead, moving to shove yourself up against the rubble trapping him once more. The two women flank your sides and throw their weights against the surface alongside you. The rubble creaks, then lifts slightly—just enough for Rocket to pull his foot out from underneath.

He immediately swims up, gasping for air as the water begins to ebb and flow over his nostrils with every wave.

“We need to leave, now,” Nebula says urgently, nodding to Gamora and gesturing her toward you. “Get the gauntlet, grab her then go.”

Nebula heaves Rocket’s arm over her shoulder, before fussing with her grappling hook as Gamora moves to do the same to you while you clutch the glove to your chest. They both fire their devices, and a sharp zip rings out as the rope launches upward, followed by a clanging noise as the anchor hooks onto the rock face.

Then, the grapples propel the four of you up toward the surface in a few dizzying, wind-swept seconds, before you all tumble onto the unforgiving floor of one of the base’s miraculously still-intact lower levels.

With a groan, you try to lift yourself up off the floor—then slip over your own water and blood-slicked palms and crash back down onto the ground with a heavy thump. The gauntlet rolls away from you, settling somewhere across the room, but you find yourself unable to focus on it—unable to focus on anything anymore, really. Your limbs feel unbearably heavy, like lifting even a finger is worth the weight of two tons…but your mind feels like it could take flight.

“Nebs, she needs a med-pak, now,” you hear a voice say, low and comforting to your ears despite the urgency you sense in it—though the quality of the noise is murky, like you’re listening to someone speak through a wall of frosted glass. 

A blue blur turns you over onto your back. You hear a metallic whir, then feel something heavy being set over your stomach. There’s a click, and then—fire, electrocuting all of your nerves in a blazing storm of pure, searing pain. You scream, sore and crackling; it feels like a million knives piercing your skin as bone and flesh and sinew stitch itself together within you—and then it’s done. 

You shoot upward, steadying yourself on your elbows as you turn your head to the side and retch; Rocket is quick to come to your side, running a gentle hand between your shoulder blades and tucking your hair out of your face.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” he says to you, before his tail flicks and he looks up with a jolt. Suddenly, he’s tugging you behind him, his plasma rifle armed with the buttstock braced steadily against his shoulder. He cocks his gun, aiming ahead into the darkness, before someone steps forward. 

“Father, I have the stones,” a voice murmurs from the shadows.

You see the silver gleam of a gun’s barrel before anything else, as Nebula—no, someone who used to be Nebula—steps into the light, the gauntlet in one hand and a pistol in the other, trained directly at Rocket. Beside you, your Nebula tenses, her hand twitching toward her holster…but she doesn’t draw her weapon.

“He isn’t worth it,” Gamora says softly, though the gun she has trained on the other Nebula’s forehead never wavers. “You know he isn’t.”

“Just because you’d betray him doesn’t mean I will too,” the other Nebula spits, holding the gauntlet tighter. Her finger twitches over the trigger as she swaps targets. “Not now. Not after everything.”

Your Nebula slowly rises with both hands raised—then, she takes a tentative step forward. She pauses as the other Nebula swiftly redirects her aim.

“You don’t have to do this,” Nebs says, not letting the eye of the muzzle faze her.

The other Nebula’s expression gnarls into something ugly, confused, and strikingly afraid. 

“I am this,” she replies, backing away as your Nebula continues to approach. She lowers her gun, just slightly—hesitating.

“No. You’re not,” Gamora says. You see her work her jaw, before she carefully turns her pistol down to the floor.

“You’ve seen what we become. You can change,” Nebs says. She extends one hand forward, palm up. “We’re more than what he made us.”

The other Nebula’s eyes grow frantic and glassy as her gaze darts from person to person. She pinches them shut, each weak breath from her lungs coming in and out as a tremulous huff. Then, she shakes her head.

“He won’t let me.”

She raises her weapon again, training it at Gamora—then a bang resonates through the room, and she topples to the ground as a sizzling hole blasts through her chest.

You flinch away, closing your eyes; for a while, nothing breaks the silence but the sound of everyone’s ragged breathing.

Your Nebula finally lowers her weapon, the muzzle smoking as she stares down at her past self for a moment. 

“Nebs?” Rocket asks gently.

Nebula shakes her head almost imperceptibly, picking up the gauntlet and tucking it beneath her arm.

“Not now,” she replies, looking back up toward the surface. The sky is tinged red-grey with smoke and gunfire, speckled with flecks of ash. “Thanos can’t be allowed to get to the stones again. We need to get the gauntlet to the surface, then take it as far away as possible.”

Then, she looks at you, brows knitting in concern, before turning to Rocket.

“Gamora and I will meet you up there. Will the two of you be okay?” she asks, tossing him her grappling gun and a spare comm. He catches both in one quick motion.

“We’ll be okay. I’m gonna get her somewhere safe,” Rocket replies.

“I feel fine,” you argue, stumbling onto your feet. The place where you’d been stabbed is still sore, and your head is pounding—you’ll need medical attention later, but right now you can help.

“I’m taking her somewhere safe,” Rocket repeats sternly, even as you glare down at him.

Nebula nods in response as she and Gamora prepare to grapple back to the surface, but her gaze shifts back toward Rocket as she gives him a long, searching look. Then, the two of them turn and go up, disappearing past the clifftop.

You gaze down at Rocket tiredly, lips curving downward. “You’re really going to make me leave?”

He furrows his brows, glowering at a far corner of the room, before sighing. He carefully moves to place your palm in his, and traces his thumb along the veins on the back of your hand. “…You know I’d feel better if I knew you were safe.” 

“I won’t undermine you if you really want me to go,” you say exhaustedly. “But if I go, who keeps you safe?”

His eyes flash and he bares his teeth, frustrated—but the hand holding yours remains gentle.

“I thought you were gonna die down there,” he argues. His narrow eyes round out and soften, turning pleading. “I thought both of us might.”

“We made it out though,” you insist, moving to cradle his jaw in your hand. He leans into the touch, ears fluttering even though his expression remains seeded with apprehension. “Rocket, we’re okay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Isn’t that what we both signed up for? Not knowing?” you ask, thumbing the dark patch of fur that runs beneath his tired eyes. “I asked you once, if you thought we’d survive this. You asked me if I understood what it might cost.”

Rocket grimaces, looking pained, as if your weighted words had crushed him.

It seems so long ago, when you’d let your tears soak into your shirt as you clutched at him and confessed that you didn’t want to die. You still don’t…but you’ll do what you have to.

One final stand: for the galaxy, with an innumerable amount of stars and just as much life in it. For the Benatar, which was never meant to be as quiet as it’s been for the past five circs.

For Rocket, and his sharp grin and his caramel-mocha eyes and the feel of his calloused palm: rough, warm, and so painstakingly gentle against your skin—despite how often he insists he isn’t—as he reaches up to cup your trembling hand in his, steadying it against his cheek. 

You smile down at him. There are certain things worth dying for.

“I remember,” Rocket replies with a grimace.

His eyes flicker and dart around, searching for answers.  His tail taps restlessly against his calf; he shifts from leg to leg, corded muscles flexing. His firm grasp on your wrist tightens ever so slightly. And then, when he can’t find the solutions written on the wall, he just looks at you —supplicatory and desperate. 

He doesn’t open his mouth to speak again, but the rest of him is so strikingly honest that it betrays his every thought anyway. 

You watch him turn it over in his head—the urge to run, to bundle you up in his arms and shuttle you both off to the farthest reaches of the universe, until Terra disappears and becomes just another hazy little iota of light in a sky already dotted with stars.

Still, he humors you. Rocket’s ears perk up when your voice creaks through air once more.

“Then you remember why we have to stay. We only have one chance at this. Just one, in fourteen-million. I know as well as you do that our odds are bleak,” you explain. “But we owe it to the galaxy to try.” 

His uncertain expression fractures, and is replaced with something like recognition—like you’ve said something familiar.

“We owe it to Natasha. To Gamora. To everyone,” you continue. Your hand leaves his cheek, and you move to gingerly sandwich his palm between both your own. “So let’s see this through—together.”

Rocket stares up at you, then slowly drops his gaze toward his hand, still clasped between your fingers in a delicate cocoon. 

“Just one shot, huh?” he echoes. His ears flatten toward his head, and he stands there for a moment, unmoving except for the gentle brush of his thumb against your pulse. Then, he rolls his eyes and lets out a long-suffering sigh—a beleaguered little noise that could have been convincing if not for the heavy puff of affection left so clear in its wake—and shoots you a roguish grin.  

“...Alright, sweetheart. Let’s make this one count,” he says, before pausing to consider something. Then, he speaks again, as if adding an afterthought. “For the good of the frickin’ galaxy, or whatever.” 

“And for the good of everyone living in it?” you clarify, with a playfully chastising note to your tone.

Rocket snorts. 

“Sure. Somethin’ like that,” he snarks lightheartedly, before giving you a mean pinch to the thigh. You squeal, shoving him gently away while he chuckles, shoulders hunched in mirth as he gives you a fond grin. 

The two of you soak in the momentary comfort you’ve created, hand in hand. But then, once the humor dies down, there’s nowhere else to look but back past the jagged crest of the ravine and up toward the hazy sky, turned fiery red from the combination of sunset and mortarfire. The mood mellows.

“Do you think we’ll survive this?” you ask quietly, reprising the question you’d asked him all those nights ago.

Rocket looks at you somberly, and squeezes your hand.

“…I don’t know. Probably not,” he says, his answer remaining unchanged. His tail whisks at his legs. “This ‘hero’ shit really ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it?” 

“It really isn’t. But I guess that’s on us for building our brand around it,” you reply with a shaky smile. 

He returns it, but it’s cracked along the edges nonetheless. “I guess so, sunshine.”

He unholsters the grappling gun, and flips the switch to activate the compressor.

“You still owe me a conversation after this, by the way,” you say lightly as he lifts his hand and smooths his finger over the trigger.

“And you still owe me another drink.”

You raise a brow, stepping closer to his side. You reach to lay your hand over his on the grappling gun, then widen your stance as you prepare for the launch. Rocket slots his fingers into one of your belt loops and tugs you even nearer.

“I’m fairly sure I’ve given you plenty of booze in the past few cycles already,” you reply.

“Yeah, well. Maybe I’m just lookin’ for reasons for you to keep comin’ around,” Rocket murmurs. He lifts your hand and brushes a kiss against your knuckles, then aims the grappling gun skyward. “You ready?”

You smile and squeeze his hand, then let him wrap his arm around your waist and tuck you against him. 

“There’s still nowhere else I’d rather be, Captain.”

And you love him—for tonight, for tomorrow, and for however long he’ll let you…though by the reverent look in his eyes, you can’t help but wonder if you’d simply always been his, long before either of you had ever realized it.

The corners of Rocket’s mouth quirk upward. You feel his hand shift underneath yours as his index lingers on the trigger for a moment. Then, he aims, and squeezes.

Above you, a thousand portals open up, poking holes in the horizon like a myriad of jewels beset into the skyline—marking the beginning to an end, once and for all.

Rocket—though he denies it vehemently—has multiple tells that signal when he’s moments away from pulling out his blaster and aiming it straight between someone’s eyes. 

For one, his nose twitches as the corners of his mouth pull up into a snarl, baring sharp canines that flash dangerously in the light. His shoulders hunch as he tilts his head downward to scowl beneath heavy lids. The tail, of course, puffs up and thrashes around, wild and erratic like a sail weathering a storm. The most damning signs, however, are found in the movement of his hands: the way they eagerly twitch toward his holsters, dangerous and lightning-fast. 

His arms will flex, lithe muscles straining as he hauls the cannon over his shoulder in the span of seconds. You’ll hear a click as he racks the slide; the staticky hum of a loaded plasma charge will fill your ears. 

From there, you’ll only get a blink of warning before you find yourself staring straight down the barrel, awash in the electric-blue glow that builds in the chamber moments before the bullet cracks through the room and into your skull.

You count multiple of those signs right now—pledges of violence, harbingers—which means that Tony Stark may be in for a very painful evening if he doesn’t choose his next words carefully.

You pause in the middle of transporting a pallet jack full of raw materials, eyes flickering between the two men. You’re not sure what it was that Tony had said, or if Rocket’s ire is deserved, but you do know that blasting iron man’s head off his neck won’t bode well for morale. You grimace, and begin heading quickly toward the commotion.

Rocket narrows his eyes and languidly drops himself from where he’d been perched atop the time machine, then carefully sets down his wrench. His approach is slow and methodical; casual, in a way that fails to convey the threat of danger that is clear in his fiery, burnished-copper eyes.

“The name’s Rocket. I’d watch myself if I were you, pal,” he sneers. His clawed feet scrape against the slick epoxy flooring as moves, stalking closer. “You’re only a genius on earth, you know.” He points an accusatory finger at Tony, and the man in question rolls his eyes. 

“Really?” Tony responds irritatedly. When the gleam in Rocket’s eyes grows even darker, Tony halfheartedly holds both palms up in surrender.  “Just wanted to know how everything was coming along,” he reassures, though his tone is flippant at best. He looks down at his watch, then waves Rocket off disinterestedly. “No need to get all bite-y.”

Rocket freezes. 

Then, after a moment, he chuckles. 

His hands edge dangerously close to his holsters once more, and he steps forward. “Better listen close, humie, ‘cause I’m only gonna say this once,” he starts, and your brisk walk turns into a half jog.

You place your palm on Rocket’s shoulder and discreetly shake your head, eyes wide. He stiffens under your touch, glancing up at you with an annoyed huff, but snaps his mouth shut and allows his arms to relax at his sides once more. 

Rocket watches you carefully as you lift a hand to get Tony’s attention, a placid but stern smile on your face.

“Rocket’s been working hard on making your device a reality, you know. It’s practically finished. You should be more respectful about it,” you say curtly.  “You can probably tell we’ve gotten a lot done in the past cycle. We appreciate you checking in, but we’ve got it handled from here.”

You gesture to the structure behind you, composed with sleek lines of metal and towering prongs that rise up from a base that should, in theory, collapse with a force capable of blurring the lines between then and now —intermingling them until the point where here starts and there ends is indiscernible. It’s nothing short of a technological marvel, and while it may be Stark’s idea, the product is Rocket’s handiwork. 

Tony looks at the machine consideringly, then sighs. 

“Alright, alright. I know how to read a room. I’ll see myself out,” Tony says, pivoting on his heels to start meandering in the opposite direction. Then, he pauses and glances over his shoulder to look dubiously at you and Rocket—and then at Thor, who is stumbling his way across the room, slurping loudly at a near-empty can of beer. “…Though it is my design. And my money. And, you know, the fate of half the known universe. Can’t really blame a guy for being invested in the outcome, can you?”

You cross your arms and give him an unamused look. 

“No?” Tony questions, looking between you and Rocket. “No—alright, my bad then. Tough crowd.” He turns to leave, but not before giving Thor a quick nod after the man nearly stumbles into him. “Keep right, Lebowski.”

Thor looks blankly at him, and takes another sip of his beer. “I don’t know what that means.”

Rocket still looks moderately pissed—your speech was likely too polite for his tastes, and probably involved too little gunpowder—but he leans back against the machine and lets the tension in his shoulders drop a little as Tony makes his exit. 

“You should’ve just let me at him,” he grumbles, twisting from side to side to stretch out his back. He then picks up his wrench and twirls it in his hand before clambering back into the guts of the machine. “Guy’s a grade-A prick. Hand me that, would you?”

He points at a screwdriver. You pass the tool to him, kneeling down to watch him work. The corners of your lips turn downward slightly when you spot him rubbing his lower back with a wince, then lifting his palm to his mouth to stifle a yawn. 

“Are you okay? You look exhausted,” you ask.

There’s a pause in the clanging sound of metal striking metal as Rocket stills for a moment, considering your question. Then, he sighs heavily, and drops down to reach for another bolt.

“Oh, sure—of course I’m fine,” he says sarcastically, screwing the bolt in place. “Other than the fact that I’ve been buildin’ that’s asshole’s fucking machine for the past cycle and he can’t even get my name right.”

You frown, chewing on your cheek contemplatively. “Do you want to—“

“No. I’m not talkin’ about it right now. I’m busy,” he says dismissively. You sigh and begin to unload more materials from the pallets, silently watching him as he turns away from you.

Rocket heads back toward his toolbox, but pauses when he sees Thor perched atop it. He exhales slowly, briefly massaging his forehead before glancing up to address Thor. “Think you could sit someplace else?”

Thor gives Rocket a genial smile, then stands up with a luxurious stretch. “Ah yes, of course! And I see you’ve made great progress on the time device,” he says amicably, beer still in tow. He belches, then roughly knocks his knuckles against the metal with a few loud thuds. The machine creaks in protest under each consecutive impact. “Huh. Rather sturdy, that.”

Rocket’s eyes widen and both of his hands fly to the sides of his head. “Don’t! Don’t touch anything,” he says, arms coming down to hover in place before him, like he’s trying to soothe a rambunctious child. 

“Oh. Sorry about that!” Thor chirps, giving Rocket a friendly clap on the shoulder as he takes another long sip of his drink through a straw. A gurgling sound echoes through the room as he attempts to siphon every last drop.

“I think that drink is empty ,” Rocket says irritatedly.

Thor tips his can of beer upside down, and assesses his drink with a grim expression when nothing spills out. “I suppose you’re right.” The smile comes back full force as he turns toward Rocket, arms wide. “Good eye, rabbit! Your instincts are unmatched, as per usual.”

Thor approaches with a hearty laugh, wrapping an arm around Rocket’s shoulder to lock him in place before giving him multiple enthusiastic pats on the head.

“Okay, no—we don’t gotta do all that— no —“ Rocket says, trying to worm out of the God of Thunder’s iron-clad grasp. His fur is mussed and sticking out in every direction by the time Thor releases him, and he fussily tries to pat it back into place. “Yeah, you really gotta stop doin’ that, buddy.”

Thor simply shrugs unapologetically and grins. Then, he gives Rocket a thoughtful look. “I wouldn’t let Stark talk down to you.”

Rocket looks up from brushing off his clothes and frowns, ears traveling downward. “You heard him?” he asks. You pause in your task too, tuning into the conversation.

Thor nods, settling down onto a crate. “He’s insufferable at the best of times. He called me Lebowski, ” he says with no shortage of affront, gesturing to himself. “What even is a ‘Lebowski?’ Some sort of band? Well, no matter. It’s irrelevant.”

Rocket shifts in discomfort. “I don’t let him talk down to me.” His hand comes up to his belt, then moves up to scratch restlessly at his neck, before both arms settle to cross against his chest. “I don’t let anyone talk down to me.”

“Ha! You always did retain one of the strongest of wills, my friend. I’ve never once had any doubt in you,” Thor responds graciously. 

You hide a soft smile beneath your palm. There’s something in Thor’s tone of voice that tells you he means everything he says. 

Rocket, for his part, has the opposite reaction: his eyes get big and round, and he suddenly turns away, looking dismayed. He clears his throat as he reaches for one tool, then sets it down and reaches for another, trying to keep his hands busy.

“There’s no reason for you to sit around and try to flatter me,” he grates out. 

Thor tilts his head confusedly at Rocket’s detached response. “You know, I haven’t forgotten what you did for me on Nidavellir. You command your crew with excellence—with honor . Stark’s manner was preposterous, really. The man doesn’t know what you’re capable of.” Thor perks up once he spots a full can of beer on the floor beside him. The seal crackles and hisses when he pops it open, and he takes a long, indulgent sip. He smiles and lifts the can upward. “These are fantastic. Where can I get more of these?”

Rocket grits his teeth, nudging you out of the way as you struggle to lift a particularly heavy metal bar. “Can’t be all that honorable,” he says, heaving the bar over his shoulder and setting it down by the machine. “I left my crew to get snapped out of existence. I wasn’t even with them when it happened, even though I should have been.” Rocket twists the bar into position with a grunt, and begins securing it in place. “But I guess it wouldn’t have made a difference even if I was there. Makes me a shit captain either way.”

Thor sets his drink down, and the sunshine-y smile finally drops from his face.

“I…I understand how you feel,” he says.

“Do you?” Rocket responds gruffly.

Thor’s expression settles into something somber. “I do. It’s a difficult thing to bear such guilt. The people of Asgard are…I—I don’t…” He trails off, looking down at his hands.  “Well. I don’t much know how to deal with it myself, these days.” 

You can’t see Rocket’s face from where you stand, but you notice the way his shoulders stiffen, and the way his hand wavers slightly when he reaches for his wrench once more. “…M’sorry. Must suck,” is all he says.

“No need for apologies. Just know that I feel your pain,” Thor says, standing up to place a consoling hand on Rocket’s shoulder. “And that I stand alongside you, brother.” 

“That’s…” Rocket stops and takes a second to collect himself, letting out a slow exhale. When he speaks again, his voice comes out raw, creaking out of his throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”

”Of course, my friend.” Thor comes up to you with a smile and claps you on the shoulder too. “Well! The watering hole beckons me,” he says, waving goodbye. He turns to Rocket, giving him a playful salute. “The next drink I pour will be in your name, little rabbit.”

Rocket nods in acknowledgement, and gives Thor a lazy wave in return.

For a while, you and Rocket work in silence. You observe him closely as he continues to diligently assemble the machine. From a distance, you’d never be able to tell something was wrong—his hands never stutter as he fits parts together, not even a fragment of hesitation belied in his steady, practiced movements—but the look in his eyes is achingly solemn.

You approach slowly, crouching down to look at him on eye-level. “Do you need any help here?”

“I’m good,” he responds, fiddling with the holoprojector to take a look at the blueprints once more.

“And you’re sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Rocket’s hand pauses briefly before moving again, swiping at the holo to take a closer look at one of the mechanisms on the blueprint. “…I’m good.”

“…Okay. I’ll still be here if you change your mind.”

You reach out and put a hand on his forearm, running your fingers gently against his fur. To your surprise, he places his palm over yours and allows his thumb to stroke your skin briefly before pulling away.

“I know, sweetheart. I just need a second to think. I should be able to get this done within the next couple of hours, anyway.”

You nod, then rise from your crouch and glance up. The machine that towers before you is a near perfect replication of the one displayed in the holo. You suck in a quiet breath before speaking. 

“In that case, I’m going to go help Nebula with the exosuits,” you say carefully. “It’s time for us to test if this works.”

As expected, Rocket glowers moodily at his toolkit. “Let one of those other assholes test it. You’ve done plenty,” he responds, then turns around to give you a concerned once-over. “And I still think it’d be better if you just laid low. Didn’t involve yourself.”

You frown. “I’m not going to just stand by and do nothing.” 

“I figured you wouldn’t,” he says with an exhausted shake of his head. “Just think about it before you commit to anything. This mission is going to be da—“

“Going to be dangerous, I know.” You look down, picking at the hem of your shirt. “Rocket, everyone’s bringing something special—something vital to this team.”

You leave out the crux of your statement: everyone but me. Still, the implication must carry through in the tone of your voice, or maybe Rocket senses the sullen curve to your lips, or notices the threads of self-doubt tucked and woven into every syllable, because your statement makes his tail swoop upward in distress.

“I don’t want to sit back at base and do nothing while everyone else risks their lives,” you continue.

Rocket rises to his feet, looking at you with an unyielding intensity that threatens to make your knees buckle. “You’ve done a lot for us. For everyone,” he asserts.

You smile softly at him, but it wavers and fades away after a moment. “…Even so, I don’t want to come out of this thinking I didn’t give it my all. Not with everything at stake.”

Rocket gives you a tired look, then shakes his head and turns back to the device with a huff. 

It won’t be long until the moment of truth arrives: the day all of you find out if the last five years of suffering were all for naught, and if the oncoming sacrifices will turn out to be worth it. 

—

“Easy! Easy!” Scott exclaims, jerking away as Bruce attempts to slot a vial of pym particles into his exosuit.

Bruce gives him a flat look. “I’m being very careful.”

“No, you’re being very hulky,” Scott snaps, swiping the vial out of Bruce’s hands and carefully tipping it between two fingers. The matter within flows like molten magma—deep red with faint flashes of light that flicker within as the movement agitates the viscous liquid, like embers crackling from a flame. “These are pym particles—and in case you forgot, the guy who made ‘em? Snapped out of existence. Gone,” Scott states, raising the vial. “This is all we have. We’ve got enough for one round trip each, and a single test run. That’s it. No do-overs.”

You, Nebula, and the Avengers in the room look meaningfully at the pym particles, then at each other. No one acknowledges the sensation of dread that permeates through the air, sticking to your lungs and making each breath fall shallowly from your chest.

After a moment, Hawkeye speaks up. “I’ll test it.”

Nebula assists him in getting fitted into the exosuit, and the Avengers spur up an argument about the specifics and implications of time travel. Somebody mentions the present becoming the past becoming your future—you don’t pay much mind to the conversation; thinking too hard about it makes you feel lightheaded.

As they speak, you chew on your lip, eyes drawn to the pym particles once again. Glass tubes, one inch across; little vials of encapsulated sun, with enough energy trapped within to decimate a planet or send someone to the quantum realm…and the lot of you get one chance to use them correctly.

It’s a daunting thought.

You take one of the vials into your hand then roll the glass in your palm as Nebula takes the others; it’s surprisingly warm to the touch. The two of you then begin slotting the pym particles into Hawkeye’s exosuit. They slide in easily, each capsule snapping into place with a light clink.

Hawkeye adjusts the straps on the suit, then looks around at everyone in the room and takes a deep breath.  

“I’m ready,” he says, resolute.

“Meet Rocket by the machine. It should be ready by now,” you tell him, and briefly touch a reassuring hand to his arm. “Good luck.”

Hawkeye gives you a weak smile, then nods. The group begins to file out of the room, with Nebula trailing along after them, but you gently tap her shoulder before she can cross the threshold.

“What’s your take on all of this, Nebula?” you ask, nodding toward the other exosuits still racked on the armory wall. Pretty soon, you’ll be donning one yourself.

Nebula raises a brow, dark eyes ever inscrutable. “What do you mean? The concept of time travel is pretty cut and dried.”

“...I disagree with that, but that’s not what I’m talking about,” you say, then gesture broadly in an attempt to convey your point. “I’m talking about all of it—the time heist, the machine—does it seem dangerous to you?”

Nebula pauses, contemplating your question. Then, she simply shrugs, leaning back against the wall. “Not any more dangerous than what we normally do,” she says.

Her frank tone startles an amused chuckle out of you; Nebula always has been incredibly sincere. 

Your soft smile falls when you turn toward the exosuits again. You approach, and run your hand across one of the sleeves. The sleek fabric is cool and coarse to the touch, lined with armor-weave. You trail your fingers upward to the vibranium plating across the chest, built to withstand the immense gravitational forces required to push a person through time. Or, if your understanding of the science is correct, pull you apart through time—the essence of you fragmented and splintered, down to every last atom, then coalesced into a close approximation of you at another point in space. The protection inset into the suits should be comforting, but for some reason, it feels frighteningly like an omen of what’s to come. 

“I’m jealous of how calm you sound,” you say, turning back to Nebula with a shaky grin. Her disposition remains unwaveringly collected, and she tilts her head at you. You allow the corners of your mouth to flatten, settling back against one of the tables in an attempt to steady yourself. “...I’m terrified of what’s ahead.”

Nebula hums thoughtfully, then walks up to stand beside you.

“It’s not that I’m not scared,” she concedes, looking to the floor with a distant expression. “When I was doing Thanos’ dirty work, there were no opportunities to be afraid. It was just another flaw for father to pick apart and destroy. I learned pretty soon how to hide it.”

Grief rips across your expression. “That’s…I’m sorry, Nebs. You should’ve never had to go through that,” you say, though the apology feels woefully inadequate in the face of her confession.

“Can’t change what happened. But sometimes I wish I had the chance to be a scared little kid, like everyone else did.” Nebula turns her head and gives you a solemn look.  “Fear is a gift. That instinct will keep you alive. Listen to what it tells you.”

You nod, and run your knuckles over your sternum to try and ease the pounding of your heart. “Rocket doesn’t want me to come with you guys. He doesn’t want me touching the time machine at all,” you admit.

Nebula suddenly looks uncomfortable, eyes shifting away from yours like she knows something you don’t. She suddenly claps you on the back in a way that you can tell is meant to be comforting, but instead just knocks the wind out of you.

“…You’re a competent soldier,” she says cryptically, after a moment of hesitation.

“Uh, thanks?”

“And formidable on the battlefield,” she adds.

“You too, Nebs,” you respond, giving her a suspicious look. You squint and try to meet her eyes, but she conveniently twists away from you. “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

“And I don’t know what it is that Rocket is doing, but he’s an idiot. He’s just trying to protect you,” Nebula says with pressured speech. She lets out a heavy exhale, as if the thought had been burdening her for quarters. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It reminds me of the way Quill looked at my sister, sometimes.” 

You stare at her wide-eyed, unable to help the way your jaw drops open and the astonished titter of laughter that spills from your lips. Then, your brow furrows in pure concern, suddenly filled with the urge to ensure that she wasn’t somehow concussed.

“It reminds you of Pete and Gamora? Sorry, we’re talking about Rocket , right?” you question. This is not the direction you’d expected this conversation to go in. You step away from her and begin to walk aimlessly out of the room. “Either way, I don’t need to be protected, and I doubt he’s into me the way you’re saying he is.” 

Nebula rolls her eyes, trailing after you. “Trust me, he likes you. Obnoxiously so.”

You whip around before you reach the exit, and Nebula stops in her tracks. You quickly glance over your shoulder and out the hall, before continuing to speak in a low tone. “Nebula, I tried with him. I really did. He told me he’s not interested. It’s not like I can just keep throwing myself at him in hopes that he’ll change his mind.” Your voice warbles despite your best attempts to keep things light. “I told him that I lo—that I have feelings for him. He didn’t care.”

“You love him?” Nebula repeats in shock, completing the word you’d left half-spoken. You wince, bringing a single finger to your lips. “You told him that?”

“…I do,” you admit. “And I did.”

Nebula wears an expression of pure bewilderment. “And he said he didn’t care ?”

You shrug helplessly, and blink back the watery sensation that begins to build in the well of your eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe not in those exact terms, but he may as well have.” 

Nebule presses her lips together.

“That’s…surprising to me. I would have thought that he…” She trails off, appearing frustrated. “I—I don’t have any advice for you.” 

“It’s okay,” you respond gently, turning away once more. “There are more important things for us to be dealing with right now, anyway. Let’s go meet the others outside.”

Nebula grabs your wrist, and you twist back around to look at her in confusion.

“Your feelings are important. You—I—damn it,” she stutters. “…Gamora was always better at this sort of thing than I am. But I’m trying.”

She lets go of you, but you make no moves to leave. “Nebula…” 

“She’s not even here and she still manages to outdo me. She’d have known what to tell you,” Nebula says weakly. “…I wish she were here.”

You swivel to face her fully, and take one of her hands in both of yours, squeezing. “You’re not Gamora; you don’t have to be. You’re you. Your friendship means everything to me. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through the past five years without you.” Nebula looks down at your interlocked hands, then back up at you with vulnerability etched across her face, visible even across the metal plating and cybernetics that invade her features. “…And I miss Gamora too.”

Nebula nods, and squeezes your hand back.

The two of you sit down on the floor together, shoulder to shoulder. Melancholy pervades; it’s reminiscent of the early days of the snap, when the loss was fresh and the pain was still raw. Though you suppose this grief doesn’t hurt any less—more dull and aching, but ultimately still as profound as it was five years ago.

After a few silent minutes, Nebula gets up.

“Thank you,” she says. “Are you ready to head out?”

“I think I’m just gonna take a couple more minutes. I’ll meet you outside,” you reply softly.

“Alright.” She stops before leaving the room and glances at you over her shoulder. “Rocket’s an idiot.”

“You said that,” you respond with a snort.

“He wouldn’t know a good thing if it had kicked his head in. You are a good thing. Don’t let him convince you otherwise,” she says. “And I wouldn’t blame you if you did kick him at this point. I would, if I were you.”

You giggle and offer her an appreciative smile. “I’ll definitely consider it. Thank you, Nebula.”

She gives you one last contemplative look, placing a hand on the doorframe. “…There’s probably little he wouldn’t do for you if you asked, you know.”

You frown, giving her a puzzled look. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you should talk to him. Try again. He might surprise you,” she says, before disappearing behind the threshold of the door.

…Try again? He doesn’t even trust you enough to believe you’ll make it through the next few nights alive .

You stare at the space Nebula used to occupy, then drag your gaze back toward the suits, and the peril they insinuate.

—

Hawkeye comes and goes through a ripple in time—teary-eyed, shaken, but otherwise intact—and the Avengers spend the rest of the night laughing and sharing a round of drinks in celebration. You stand in a corner of the room, content to observe the camaraderie from afar and lull yourself into a state of peace over the sound of clinking glasses and soft, strumming music. There’s still something off about the atmosphere though; a silent tension in the words left unsaid and the uncertain curve to everyone’s smiles as they attempt to forget the promise of tomorrow. Someone raises a glass with a cheer and everyone else follows suit, all trying to live strictly in the moment, however transient it may be. 

You tilt your glass toward your mouth. The amber liquid that hits your tongue is acrid and bitter, and you wrinkle your nose as you scan the room. You see Tony, teaching Nebula how to play pool; Scott cheers along beside them while Thor pours Hulk a generous drink by the bar. The other, more reserved Avengers share a bottle among themselves and converse quietly on the couch.

You tilt your head. There’s someone missing here. 

You grab a full bottle—bourbon, dark and malted—and tuck it into your pack, then quietly slip out of the room. 

Rocket is exactly where you’d last left him, still working tirelessly beneath the machine. You watch him curiously. The device is fully assembled now, and had provided a magnificent spectacle earlier, to say the least; the base had sunken inward and imploded in a ray of electric color and streaking light before pulling Hawkeye through. Whatever it is that Rocket is doing, you doubt it’s necessary. 

He toys with some wiring within one of the pillars, and is inadvertently shocked with static. “Ow, fuck,” he swears, promptly wringing his hand back. He then digs back in almost immediately after.

You grin, and step up behind him. “You’re still working?”

Rocket’s ears perk up slightly at the sound of your voice. His back straightens, but he only turns his head slightly to address you. “What else would I be doing?”

“Everyone else is inside having drinks,” you say, leaning over his shoulder to watch his dexterous hands move. “You gonna come join?”

“Haven’t had the time. Someone’s gotta be the frickin’ brains of this operation. It sure as hell ain’t any of those other bozos in there.” Rocket leans back to inspect his work, and his shoulder brushes your thigh. He jolts, jerking away from you. “Shit, sorry, I—” He pauses, and his gaze slants down toward the liquor in your pack, the neck of the bottle hanging out of its opening. “What’s in the bag?”

You maneuver to hide it around your waist. “It’s a surprise. I have something to show you.”

“The surprise looks an awful lot like booze,” he responds, offering you a teasing grin. His gaze drifts back over to the mess of wires he’d been tampering with, and the smile slowly fades. “…I should really do some last couple maintenance checks on this. Make sure that the test run didn’t blow all the circuitry. The Avengers’ll expect it to be up and running by the wakeshift.”

You lift a hand, palm up, and offer it to him.

“Screw the Avengers. They can afford to let me pull you away for just a minute,” you say. Rocket stares at your hand suspiciously, unmoving. “Please?”

He huffs and places his hand in yours, allowing you to pull him up into a standing position. His fingers are rough and calloused, but his grip around you is strikingly delicate. “…You get a minute.”

“I can work with that,” you chuckle, taking just a second too long to let go before leading him outside.

The two of you walk side by side toward the landing field, and the noise from within the base fades into the distance and gives way to crickets and the rustling of grass underfoot. Rocket looks at you strangely when you stop at the back of the Benatar, near the tail. You pass him your pack wordlessly, then place both palms flat on the horizontal stabilizers and haul yourself upward with a grunt. By the time you swing your leg over, your boot sliding against the ship’s smooth frame, Rocket is sprinting to your side in panic.

“What the hell are you doing?!” he squawks, voice teetering on manic. He gestures wildly at you, before his hands come up to the sides of his face and drag downward. “You’re gonna frickin’ fall off the side of the ship!” 

He grabs your hips, and you nearly lose your footing at the sudden touch. His grip grows tighter, one clawed hand digging into the plush of your thigh as he stabilizes you. Then, to your surprise, he lifts you upward to help facilitate your climb and settle you more firmly onto the ship. 

“Whew! I appreciate the help,” you say lightly once you’ve planted yourself confidently on your hands and knees. You wave him toward you. “Come on up!”

You twist around into a sitting position to look at him and dangle your legs over the low edge of the ship, just to nearly lose balance again when Rocket walks up and cages you against the Benatar’s hull. His hands rest on either side of your thighs, not quite touching you; then he leans in, trapping you in place. “No.”

His deep voice rumbles through his chest, plants itself in your brain and settles somewhere low in the space between your legs. Your breath hitches, and you find yourself squirming a little—the movement causes your knees to lightly brush against his chest. If he ducks his head a little further, and you spread your legs just a bit wider, he’d be in the perfect position to be face-first and tongue-deep in your cunt again. The memory of it makes your clit pulse and you press your thighs together more firmly, both to get away from his increasingly tempting touch and to give yourself some much needed friction. It does occur to you that these thoughts are inappropriate considering you’re outside and on top of the Benatar, but for some reason that doesn’t make the idea any less thrilling.

“You’re so bossy,” you attempt to tease, but your voice comes out more shaky and breathless than you’d like.

Rocket barks out a cruel laugh, and he presses even closer, steadying his weight against the ship’s exterior and casually crossing his legs while you remain fixed between his arms.

“So? I recall you like that sorta thing,” he says, voice low and taunting. His nose twitches and his gaze drags down from your face, to your neck, to somewhere achingly close to the apex of your thighs. His eyes widen once he spots his own hands, his thumbs inches away from brushing your skin. The provocative position he’s placed himself in seems to hit him all at once as he backs away, clearing his throat. “If you slip and crack your head open, I ain’t payin’ for your medpack.”

“It’ll be fine, Rocket. Besides, I’ve done this plenty of times behind your back,” you say mildly, trying to keep your racing heart under control.

Rocket dips his head and looks darkly at you. “Oh, so you’re the one who’s been scuffin’ up my baby’s hull, then.”

“I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me,” you say with a laugh, giving him a pleading look. “So you’re not gonna join me?”

“No.”

You huff and cross your legs. Rocket’s eyes drop down to watch one thigh hitch over the other. “Not even if I beg?”

His gaze shoots back up to your face and the exasperated look on his face grows flustered. “…You ain’t bein’ cute,” he strangles out.

“Please?” You give him your best, winning smile, and watch his resolve crumble before your eyes as he works his jaw. He lets out a heavy sigh, bringing a hand to the bridge of his nose.

“You’re such a frickin’ handful,” he grumbles. “Move the hell over, then. What’s all this even about?”

Rocket nimbly leaps up onto the ship’s tail, maneuvering himself with infuriating ease. 

“I told you I wanted to show you something,” you say, clambering past the rudder and up toward the fuselage. 

“…You want to show me the top of the ship’s hull,” he responds dryly.

“Shush. We’re almost there.”

As you near the top, you attempt to work your foot into a gap in one of the ship’s panels, and yelp when your heel slides right past it. 

“Watch your flarkin’ step!” Rocket reaches out and braces his hand against your waist, then rests it on the small of your back once you’ve regained your footing. “You okay?”

You’d kept your center of gravity low enough to not lose much balance, but the scare gets your blood rushing through your veins nonetheless. Still, you find yourself unable to focus on anything but the heat of his touch, and the feel of his bare hands on your skin where your shirt rides up your back. 

Rocket looks at you strangely and you realize you’ve been staring back at him without responding. “Yeah. Yeah, of course I’m good,” you say distractedly.

“…Right.” He narrows his eyes, but doesn’t question you any further. “Babysittin’ you is takin’ years off of my lifespan. Hope you know that.”

“We all have our crosses to bear,” you reply impudently.

Once you reach the top of the Benatar, you take a seat and offer Rocket your hand again. He takes it and allows you to pull him up.

As you pull the bottle of bourbon out of your pack, Rocket’s gaze is drawn past the treeline, and out toward the horizon. The top of the ship peeks right over the densely packed forest canopy and opens up a view of the sky and stars, like a spattering of ivory paint on a dark canvas. Terra’s moon shines brilliantly onto the lakeside below, reflecting a diamond-dusted echo of its shape into the water, occluded only by the passing of a few sparse clouds.

The ever-present tension in Rocket’s shoulders slowly ebbs away, and he looks at you softly. “S’this what you wanted to show me?”

“Yeah.” The gentle breeze whirls locks of your hair past your eyes; you tuck it behind your ears and then shift to rest your chin on your bent knees. “Not as good as the views we get outside of orbit though. Too much light pollution on Terra, I guess.”

You offer the bottle of bourbon to him, and he takes it with a grin. He then settles down beside you, close enough that the heat of his fur tempts you to close the distance.

Rocket takes a hearty gulp from the bottle, then passes it back to you. “View’s still pretty,” he says.

You smile and look over the waterfront. It’s not much compared to the places he’s shown you over the years, and practically nothing when considering all the times he’s flown you to the prettiest patch of sky he could find and comforted you beneath the stars…but you hope it comes close.

You take a much smaller sip of the bourbon than he does, and enjoy the pleasant warmth that settles in your chest as the liquor slides down your throat. “So…Tony Stark is kind of a piece of work, huh?” you begin.

Rocket barks out a laugh. “ Kind of? The guy has his own head worked so far up his ass that I’m surprised he can even still frickin’ see.” He rolls his eyes, motioning for you to pass him the bottle. “‘Specially not with those stupid fuckin’ sunglasses. Does that moron know he’s indoors when he wears ‘em, or is that too nuanced a concept for him?”

“The aviators are certainly a choice,” you agree, nodding your head with solemnity. “…Don’t let him get to your head.” 

Rocket huffs, taking a long swig of the bourbon before focusing his gaze on the sky.

“I’m not . I’m just gettin’ real frickin’ tired of slaving away for a bunch of damn ingrates.” He sets the bottle down next to him and leans back, holding his weight up with his palms. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now,” he says. 

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“Look at me. To most people, I’m…I dunno. Vermin, I suppose.” There’s nothing bitter in his tone; he simply sounds…weary. Tired. He drums his claws against the hull of the ship. “The only people who take me seriously that aren’t dead or missing are you and Nebs.” He hesitates on his next few words before speaking again. “…Thor too, maybe.”

“Thor likes you, you know. Respects you a lot.”

Rocket chuckles derisively. “Sure, but he doesn’t know any better. The guy’s completely plastered half of the time.”

“He liked you before, too,” you argue.

Rocket shrugs, before picking up the bottle once more. He doesn’t drink from it this time; he simply thumbs the rim, looking contemplatively into the glass.

“Yeah, well. We can just chalk that up to poor judgement on his part.” 

You touch his forearm to get his attention. Rocket’s gaze travels to your hand and lingers there, before rising up to your eyes.

“What you said earlier,” you start softly—slowly, like you worry the words will spill too fast from your lips and startle him into locking himself up tight. “Do you really feel that way? Like you abandoned Pete and the others?”

Rocket’s ears tilt backward and his features draw tight as he looks away from you. “Didn’t I?”

“You did everything you could, Rocket. We all did.” You sidle up closer to him, letting his arm press against yours. He doesn’t move away.

“I still should’ve been there,” he says roughly. “Only reason I wasn’t was because I was frickin’ posturing. Tryin’ to impress the space pirate, tryin’ to one-up Quill. Stupid, inconsequential shit.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” you try to assert, but your consolations seem to thin out and dissipate into the air as Rocket continues his quiet self-condemnation.

“Last thing I ever said to Pete was an insult. And if we don’t make it out of this—and odds are, we won’t—I won’t ever be able to take that back.” His ears droop further down and his tail curls around his leg. You watch as his shoulders curve inward as if he’s ashamed, as if to hide , and the image of it makes a sickly feeling settle in your gut. You’ve never known Rocket to make himself small. “...There are lots of things I’ve said and done that I can’t take back. I probably shouldn’t even be trusted with something as big as what we’re doin’ here,” he adds, whisper-soft. “I’ll find some way to fuck it up.”

He says it like it’s a vow. The resolution in his voice is a heavy, weighted thing—a promise of damnation, dark as soot and thick as tar—like he sees himself a black hole that consumes the light around him. You wonder what he thinks that makes you, then; a star, perhaps—happy to fall into him, eager to be snuffed out. 

You shift closer still.

“I wish you could see what I see in you,” you say softly, taking the bottle from his hands and setting it beside you with a clink. “There’s no one else I’d trust more to have my back.”

Rocket looks longingly at the bourbon, but doesn’t reach for it. Instead, he turns away from you, and sets his eyes on the sky; when he tilts his head up, the moon casts his features in a silvery veil. “The only thing in life I’ve got a consistent track record on is gettin’ everyone I know killed. You really shouldn’t put all that faith in me.”

You trail your hand downward, intertwining your fingers with his.

“Then I guess we’ll have to chalk that up to poor judgement, on my part.” Rocket doesn’t move his head, but you see his eyes flicker downward toward where your thumb grazes the back of his hand. “I’m with you. No matter what.”

Rocket lets out a sigh, then squeezes your hand once before gently easing himself out of your grip. 

“You’re too soft. Hard for a greedy bastard like me not to take advantage,” he says. There’s a fond note to his voice, if not slightly disbelieving. “But alright, sweetheart. I’m with you too, or whatever.” 

You grin brightly at him, and he rolls his eyes, allowing a soft chuckle to bubble up from within him. The wind blows your hair into your face once more. 

Rocket looks at you consideringly as he watches the strands dance along with the breeze. His fingers twitch at his side, the way they do when he’s caught eye of something pretty and shiny—something he wants— right before he gets his hands on it. After a brief moment of indecision, he reaches up and tucks your hair away for you, thumbing a lock between his fingers before gently brushing it behind your ear. His claws scrape against your cheekbone, then trail lightly over your neck as he pulls his hand away.

Your heartbeat stumbles over itself, hopelessly chasing after every missed beat as you instinctively press your hand to where he’d touched you, trying to capture his warmth and savor it for as long as you can. 

“Oh. Um,” is all you can bring yourself to say. 

Rocket laughs hard at your expense then clicks his tongue.

“O-oh. Uh…Um,” he repeats mockingly. “You speechless, angel?” He cackles again, moving to grab the liquor from your side. Your face flushes even further as he leans into you, reaching around your lower back to grasp the neck of the bottle. “You’re way too damn easy to impress. Gotta make it a little harder, sweetheart, or else whichever lucky son of a bitch you end up with is gonna turn into an ego-frickin’-maniac.”

You watch him dazedly as he brings the bourbon to his lips. “Why did you do that?”

Rocket shrugs.

“Dunno. Wanted to,” he says, chuckling into the rim of the bottle. “Can’t help myself around you, I s’pose.”

The liquor has made him more honest than usual.

Maybe it’s the booze that loosens your tongue, too. Or maybe it’s what Nebula had said earlier, about trying again — or perhaps it’s the fact that last time you’d shared a bottle with him and spoken your mind about what you wanted, he’d railed you within an inch of your life, stuffing your cunt up so deep that every waking moment afterward made you feel achingly empty —but the words end up pouring from your mouth before you can properly think them through.

“You can touch me more, if you want,” you offer breathlessly.

The liquor sloshes as Rocket abruptly lowers the bottle. “…What?”

The puzzled, almost disapproving look on his face sends you into a panic. A barrage of intrusive thoughts pummel your head, filling every waking thought with gut-churning possibilities. 

Is this the right choice? What if he hates you for bringing it up again? You can’t tell what hurts more—him thinking of you as a stupid, desperate whore; or a stupid, desperate idiot that’s hopelessly in love with him, willing to spread your legs as if it’d make him love you back.

You can still turn it around. Play the whole thing off as a joke, and end the night with your dignity intact…but you hesitate.

…You don’t think he’ll let you be his home. You don’t think he’ll let you be his lover.

And there’s the heart-wrenching, pathetic truth of it all: you don’t think you’d mind being nothing more than just his stupid little slut, so long as it means that, on some level, you get to be his. 

You do want to be his. However he’s willing to have you.

So, you barrel through your embarrassment, and offer what little of yourself you can.

“I know you don’t…that you don’t want anything serious,” you say, trying to keep the pressure to accept low. Rocket’s expression takes a turn for the grim, and you scramble to regain control of the situation. You think back to how he reacted when you mentioned your sudden confession—when you told him you loved him—and quickly add, “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Somehow, your statement makes him grow even colder. His eyes harden, and the look he gives you holds none of the warmth that it did mere moments ago. 

“Thought we already agreed it didn’t,” he says coldly.

An invisible force clamps down over your chest and squeezes, holding your heartstrings tense and rigid and taut, and the severity of it threatens to pull you under. It’s stupid—you know this was never meant to be anything more than just sex. You want this. You want this. So why does it hurt so much to hear him say it out loud?

You take a deep, slow breath into your nose, and push forth.

“You’re right. We did,” you reply weakly. “But if you—if you need to relieve some stress…I don’t mind, um, being that for you. No strings attached.” 

You resist the urge to wince at your meek proposition, withering at the inadequacy that rings clear in every stuttering sentence. 

“What are you trying to say?” Rocket asks sharply, a warning rumbling in his low tones.

His glare almost, almost cows you—but he was angry like this the first time, too. Maybe that’s his real problem with you; your lack of conviction. He’d already told you once before, hadn’t he? To be outright about what you want? 

Tell me you want me to fuck you.

You steel your nerves, and lift a hand to tug loosely at the collar of your top, before sliding your fingers down toward the zippered front. You pull down—just a few inches—letting the sleeves fall loosely over your shoulders and exposing your collarbones to the frigid, nighttime air. 

“I’m saying that I think you’re attracted to me,” you say slowly, clutching your hand over your chest to prevent your clothing from falling any further. “I think you liked…that you liked fucking me.”

You watch Rocket closely; his eyes widen and you notice the near imperceptible bob of his throat as he swallows, eyes roving over your bare shoulders, and the suggestion of soft skin hidden further beneath the fabric. The rise and fall of Rocket’s chest hitches slightly when you thumb the zipper once more, emboldened by his reaction.

“What are you—“ he starts, before cutting himself off to watch the zipper slide further down its track as you pull, parting to reveal the moonkissed tops of your breasts.

“It’s okay. I liked it too. You can have me again if you want.” The breeze rakes itself through your hair and brushes against the valley of your tits; you shiver and your nipples harden, poking through the thin fabric of your top. Rocket takes notice.

“Sweetheart, listen to me for a second,” he says raggedly. His features are screwed tight, but his eyes stay locked onto the growing expanse of skin you reveal for him. The zipper drags further down and his gaze follows close behind it, trailing along the curve of your tits and down to your navel. Your sleeves slip lower, breasts running dangerously close to popping free, and Rocket swears lowly as he reaches out. You still when he places his hand over your own, holding it in place over your zipper; his knuckles brush against your stomach and he sighs.. “…What the hell am I gonna do with you?”

“What do you want to do?” You carefully pry his hand off of yours, then place his palm against your cheek, letting the pad of his thumb brush against your lower lip. 

His eyes dart upward, and the heat of them running over your skin is near palpable—smooth and decadent, like wine; rich and warm, like bourbon —pouring over you and filling your mind with static.

When he doesn’t pull away, you press a kiss to his fingertip then push it into your mouth, licking and sucking just the way he likes—just the way he taught you, back when he had you settled on your knees between his legs and bucked his hips up between your welcoming lips. 

Rocket groans and pulls his thumb out of your mouth, only to squeeze your chin in his hand and roughly angle your head down toward him. His fingers slick your spit against your cheek and his grip forces your mouth to purse into a slippery little ‘o.’

“You— fuck . You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he mutters, eyelids lowering as he loosens his hold. You part your lips once more, and Rocket gratefully takes the opportunity to hook a finger into your jaw, forcing you to open your mouth wide. You loll your tongue out obediently in a silent offer. Rocket sucks in a shaky breath and slowly drags his thumb in a stripe down your tongue. You close your lips around his finger once more, allowing him to pull out of the wet warmth of your mouth with a decadent pop; he ends the motion with a swipe across your bottom lip, and his hand lingers on your cheek.

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” you promise him. Rocket grimaces and begins to pull his palm away but you wrap one fist around his wrist and the other around the back of his hand to hold him where you need him. You close your eyes, turning your head to press a soft kiss to his palm, then lower, onto his fast-beating pulse. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“You shouldn’t be offerin’ to let people fuck you just because they’re a little frickin’ burnt out,” he sneers, and this time he wrenches his hand away.

“I’m not offering just anyone,” you say quietly. “I’m offering you .”

Rocket shakes his head and pinches the space between his eyes, like he’s being inconvenienced. “I ain’t using’ you like that.”

“You don’t want to?” You frown, clasping your hands together in your lap to keep yourself from reaching for him. The movement presses your breasts together just slightly, plump and plush and biteable, and Rocket looks, then stifles a groan.

“…I ain’t using’ you like that,” he repeats rigidly.

“I’d let you,” you press. “I want you to.”

Rocket’s hand drops from his face and he clenches his fists at his sides in frustration, before turning to give you a pained look.

“Fuck, you’re makin’ it so hard for me to—I’m tryin’ to help you out here.” Rocket’s quick hands reach forward, taking a fistful of your top in one and the zipper in the other, and then—he drags it upward. He zips your shirt all the way back up, past your collarbones, up toward your neck. He only lets go when his thumb hits your chin and the zipper can’t go any further. “We’re not doing this. You deserve better.”

“I deserve better?” you echo in confusion.

Rocket doesn’t clarify, and just stares at you searchingly. He pauses, then pulls the hem of your shirt down too, tugging where the fabric had begun to ride up over your hips. You blink at him, then look down at your top. You’re more covered up now than you had been even before you’d started undressing.

You can’t help but glance down at his crotch too, at the hard length of him tenting his jumpsuit. He stills once he notices where your eyes have landed, and awkwardly clears his throat. Reaches down, tucks himself into his waistband. Then, he begins to stand. “Thanks for the—uh. The drink. And the pep talk and the view and all that. But I should head back down to the base.”

The shock passes, and you feel a telltale pressure rising in your throat, climbing up your face and through your sinuses, signalling a bout of tears. You blink it back, and clear your throat as well. 

“Okay…I’m sorry,” you say.

“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” he responds stiffly, before clambering down the side of the ship.

You don’t follow him down, and simply tilt your head skyward. The clouds have thickened, obscuring the few visible stars from sight and casting the forest glade in shadow. The radiance of the moon, at least, never wanes; its unerring reflection flickers in rippling, silver waves within the water below.

—

Rocket’s feet meet bare earth as he steps off of the Benatar’s ramp. 

He lets out a slow exhale, letting his heels dig into loose soil and plush grass, still damp from the early morning dew settled between each blade. Then, he leans up against the ship’s hull, and lets his head hang back and thud against the frame. 

The past half an hour has consisted of a series of pitiful indecisions, doomed to repeat. He’d spent the first few minutes of it staring at the seams of your pocket door, hesitating at the entrance, one hand hovering halfway toward the opening mechanisms. 

He stood there, undecided, until his head had started to pound and urged him to walk it off.

From there, he’d begun ghosting the halls of the Benatar, looping through corridors and stopping at dead ends with no destination in mind.

His mind ran a tempest of erratic thoughts all the while—ash and dust, a gleaming golden gauntlet inset with twinkling stones, long-gone friends resurrected, and you, you, you—supple skin and cinnamon and flowers, still sweet on his tongue.

At some point, his mindless pacing led him outside, dripping with starlight—just need off the ship, he’d told himself, just need some fresh air—only for him to turn around and somehow end up back at your door. Then back outside. Then back at your door.

He did that for the past half-a-fucking-hour, and now he’s outside again, standing a whopping five feet from the boarding ramp after thirty minutes of winding up to it. The stars seem to wink down at him from above, callous and uncaring.

…He still debates going back inside.

It’s a lot colder out here than it is in your bunk. Presumably, it’s even warmer in your sheets. 

Rocket kicks irritatedly at a chunk of dirt, letting it scatter and ruin the stupid, pristine turf.

Today might be one of the biggest days of his life, and so far all he’s got to show for it is another night spent fucking you, then disappointing you. He still doesn’t even know he how he managed to wriggle his way between your legs twice; tries not to let himself stay so damn preoccupied with the thought when he’s still got half the damn galaxy to bring back.

But it’s hard not to think about it; not when his heart is still racing, thumping against the walls of his chest, so loud he can hear it flooding his ears. Or maybe it’s the mechanical parts he hears—the rumble of pistons, the hiss of hydraulics—pumping blood through each chamber, muscle and machinery cobbled together. He wonders if you hear it too, every time you rest your head against his sternum.

Something halfway to a growl rumbles up from his throat as he slams his palm against the side of his head a couple times for good measure, as if it’ll knock even a lick of sense back into him.

“I’m such a frickin’ idiot,” Rocket says aloud to no one, before hissing out a heavy sigh.

He looks down, thumbing the cap of the bottle of liquor he’d mindlessly pulled from the ship’s reserves at some point after stumbling out of your quarters. The alcohol sloshes around within the smooth glass as he turns it over in his hands. Then, he pops off the lid, lifts the lip of the bottle to his mouth, and takes a hearty swig. 

The fumes sear his nostrils, and the liquid burns his throat on the way down—but Rocket takes another few gulps for good measure before raising his drink to the sky in a toast.

“Cheers to me for bein’ the sorriest fucker in the galaxy,” he mutters, before raising the glass even higher. “And cheers to victory.”

Then, he tips the bottle back into his mouth and drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

It’s his frickin’ right to celebrate, after all. He won—the Avengers have all the stones, all his hard work is finally paying off, and he even got to lay his greedy hands on you one last time before dawn.

Tomorrow morning, everything will be okay again. He’ll have his kid back, he’ll have his family back, you’ll come to your senses, and everything will go back to the way it was. The way things should be.

…So why isn’t he happy?

Rocket’s hand trembles as he lowers his drink, and the liquor within inadvertently spills over onto his palm.

It’s been five circs. 

His fur’s more grizzled. His eyes are more tired than they were. There are aches in his muscles that weren’t there before, and scars in places previously unmarred, already grown silvery and thin with time.

He was only in charge of the ship and the armory before, but since the snap he’s been leading the remnants of the Guardians of the Galaxy near single-handedly—back then, he could barely even lead himself out of the bottom of a bottle. Now, he’s an Avenger, or whatever.

He’s older now. More jaded. More bitter.

…More afraid than ever.

Rocket chuckles humorlessly. The noise falls hollowly from his mouth, interlaces itself with the chirp of crickets and the whistling breeze and other such sounds of a chilled summer night, before dissipating—as if he’d never even made a sound at all.

Some fucking hero he makes.

When the rest of guardians return, a stranger will await them on the other end.

He wonders if his family will still see whatever the hell it was they saw in him all those years ago, or if he lost it over time; if they’ll be proud or disappointed in everything he’s done in the wake of their absence.

He wonders if you’ll still see whatever it is you saw in him tonight, once the sun rises and casts light over everything he is.

It’s only a matter of time until you change your mind, but every day it gets harder and harder to convince himself that he’s capable of letting you go.

His fingers squeeze tight around the neck of the bottle. 

Groot’s father probably would’ve reassured him, if he were here—you are loved, no matter what—filling Rocket’s head with a bunch of sappy nonsense that he had always pretended not to appreciate.

Rocket swipes his forearm over his mouth as he looks consideringly at his drink again, letting the moonlight bounce off of the cool, brassy surface. 

He takes one last, stinging mouthful, and then—he tips it over.

“This one’s for you, bud,” Rocket says. Amber liquid burbles from the mouth of the bottle and splatters onto the grass below. “…You’d have liked her.”

Rocket pauses, tilting the glass to stop the flow of alcohol. After a moment of thought, he upends it entirely, and watches silently as the rest of the liquor meets earth. 

To Lylla, Teefs, and Floor. To Yondu and Gams and Groot. To all the people he’ll never see again.

He stands and waits as the stream begins to dwindle, then shakes the bottle, letting it run dry to the last drop. 

Then, he sets the glass down and heads into the base.

The hangar is still vacant this late into the night as Rocket makes his way deeper inside. The journey is silent but for the sound of his own footsteps echoing throughout the large chamber, and he makes a right into the workshop once he reaches the end of the hall. He expects it to be empty too—which is why he startles when he sees Tony Stark, bent over the central workbench as he examines the material prepared for recreating the infinity gauntlet. 

Tony doesn’t pay him any mind; he barely even spares Rocket a glance before returning his focus to the half-assembled glove, rotating it in both hands.

Rocket’s fur prickles in annoyance at the lack of greeting, a halfhearted insult already hanging off of his tongue—not that he’s trying to be buddy-buddy with the guy, but it’s about the frickin’ principle—and is swiftly interrupted by Tony before he can even start.

“Did you do this?” Tony asks, gently testing the weight of the sleek metal in his palms. “This isn’t the way my prototype looked before we left.”

Rocket finds himself surprised Tony even noticed the improvements to the gauntlet he’d been making over the past cycle; he’d been convinced the guy would have his head too far up his own ass to notice. In lieu of deigning Tony with a reply, Rocket snorts and shifts his weight onto one leg, one thumb tucked into his belt loop—the perfect pinnacle of indolence.

At the lack of response, Tony finally looks up, eyes guarded but curious. Rocket shoots him a brief grin in return, too sharp to be interpreted as particularly friendly.

“I made it better,” Rocket finally replies, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall with a lazy shrug. “Just because we’re mostly dealing with gamma rays doesn’t mean you can ignore all the particulate radiation the stones’ll generate. It’s all tungsten alloy now, with carbon nanotubes dispersed inside of the material,” he says, approaching the workbench and gesturing to a spare sheet of metal. He drags his gaze back up toward Tony, and continues with an unconcerned flick of his wrist. “It’ll still pulverize the poor sucker that ends up putting the glove on, but it’s an improvement on whatever the hell kinda protection you thought steel was gonna give.”

Tony’s eyes flick dubiously up to Rocket’s. Then, he leans back in his chair and slackens, matching Rocket’s languid posture. “Hm. Well, that does sound better in theory, I suppose.” 

A noise rises up from Rocket’s chest that sounds somewhere between outrage and affront.

“It ain’t just better in terms of theoreticalistics,” he sneers, voice swelling up an octave in a scornful imitation of Tony’s words. “S’the same concepts of radioactivity in the nuclear propulsion mechanisms that makes ships fly—which is my line of expertise.” Then, just because he can’t help himself, and because he’s still a little pissed off about the lack of frickin’ respect around here, and because maybe there’s still a little bit of liquor running hot in his blood, he makes sure to dig his heels in for one good jab. “But maybe all that’s a little more complicated than makin’ a couple of tin suits, iron-munch.”

Tony raises a brow, before his mouth curves into a slow smile. “Fair enough, Roger Rabbit. Won’t complain if you want to do all the work for me,” he says leisurely, relaxing even further in his chair to fold his palms over his abdomen with a thoughtful expression. “Ever think about picking up work on earth? Stark Industries is always looking for new talent.”

The rigidity in Rocket’s shoulders falls away and he offers Tony the blandest look he can manage. 

“Terra,” he corrects. “And you can’t afford me.” 

“Oh, I doubt that,” Tony says with a good-natured chuckle. He reaches for something from below the workbench then tosses it, and Rocket instinctively catches the object in one swift hand. “Either way, I’m glad it’s not just me doing all the heavy-lifting in the tech department. Now, help me finish up the glove.”

Rocket blinks down at the item now resting in his hands—a multitool, of Terran make and model. He tests its mass, familiar and comforting in his palm. It’s nowhere near as advanced as the stuff he’s used to working with, but it’s still surprisingly sturdy.

…It’s also a clear olive branch, as far as humie analogies go. 

Rocket rolls his eyes, hefts the multitool up in a casual grip, then cautiously approaches the workbench and takes a seat. 

Minutes pass where no one speaks, and an amicable silence falls upon the workspace with surprising ease. Soon, Rocket finds himself lost in the meditative qualities that accompany the sureness of a new piece of tech, pliant in his hands, and the gentle clatter of tools and metal.

A few times, Rocket finds himself stealing glances across the table at his…colleague, he supposes. Tony hunches over a piece of alloy, carefully welding it into its desired place on the gauntlet.

It’s the quietest Rocket’s ever seen the guy be. 

Didn’t think he was frickin’ capable of it, Rocket thinks spitefully…but there’s no real heat to the thought. Despite himself, Rocket finds that he’s got somewhat of a begrudging respect for the guy.

Tony doesn’t seem to give a shit about what other people think of him, for one. It’s annoying, but there’s something to be admired in his brazen confidence.

Rocket’s gaze flicks up again, and he watches as Tony swipes a palm over his forehead as he works, brows furrowed in concentration.

Tony’s phone buzzes in the corner—Rocket’s eyes drop toward it, just in time to see screen flash and glimpse a picture of a woman, grinning brightly as she cradles a young girl, no older than four, maybe five.

Tony glances down at his phone too, and chuckles quietly at whatever message he reads. He types out a quick response to the comm, then returns his focus to the task at hand.

…There’s also something to be said about the fact that Tony’s even here at all, risking his own skin given how much he has to lose.

Rocket had pegged Tony to be the selfish type. There’s really nothing wrong with that—hell, Rocket’s the selfish type—and maybe that slight similarity in temperament is why any loathing he feels is marked with an undercurrent of bitter understanding.

Rocket would hardly blame the guy if he’d decided to keep his hands clean of this whole situation…and yet, Tony is here.

Rocket shifts uncomfortably in his seat, tapping a claw against the silicone handle of his multitool as he thinks.

If the rest of the Guardians hadn’t fallen victim to the snap, would he have stayed to help the Avengers turn back time?

…Probably not, if he’s being honest. 

“I’m surprised you stuck around,” Rocket finds himself voicing aloud. His jaw clicks shut the second the words slip out of his mouth, and he regrets it almost instantly.

Tony doesn’t even look up, and continues to screw a bolt into place. “Hmm?”

Rocket’s ears swivel, and he frowns. Curiosity gets the best of him.

“You weren’t too keen on joinin’ up again at first, if I remember right,” Rocket elaborates. “What with your family and all. They survived, didn’t they?”

“…Not all of my family,” Tony replies after a moment of consideration, though his voice sounds somewhat distant. He looks down at his phone again, and the pensive look on his face falls away and morphs into something softer. “But yeah, I got lucky. I have my wife and kid waiting for me back home.” Tony nods in Rocket's direction. “What about you? You and your team seem pretty close.”

The automated movements of Rocket’s hands stutter to a stop, floating in place for a brief moment. 

“We were,” he affirms, tone more defensive than he means it to be.

Tony stops working and looks up, tilting his head as if he’s waiting for the rest of some sad, schmoopy speech that’ll never come; Rocket sure as hell doesn’t intend on giving anything else away…so what tipped Tony off?

Rocket’s brows sink together, and then he realizes his mistake—were. 

He winces and shrinks back in his seat, tail swooping between his legs. Tony doesn’t say anything; if he senses Rocket’s discomfort, he pretends not to notice.

Rocket waits for the silence to turn cloying, invasive…but there’s nothing expectant about it. There’s simply the implication of choice hidden in the quiet that hangs—an offer to forget, or an offer to listen. 

Rocket taps restlessly against his thigh as he thinks, turning the decision over in his head while Tony waits patiently for him to come to a conclusion. 

The knot between Rocket’s brows furls tighter. Then, he sighs, and keeps his gaze carefully trained on the workbench before him as his hands begin to move once more.

“Only three of us survived,” Rocket continues as he pieces metal parts together. He’s not sure why he says it; not sure why he’s even bothering. Still, he tries to keep his voice even and steady, his tone as certain as his hands—but his next words seem to slice his throat on the way out nonetheless, like he’d swallowed a mouthful of glass. ”My kid didn’t make it.”

The stricken expression that harrows Tony’s face makes Rocket want to rear back and pull every stupid confession from the air, brought to light like fluttering moths.

“That’s—I’m sorry to hear that,” Tony says solemnly.

Rocket rolls up his sleeves and busies himself with hammering more alloy into shape, carefully avoiding eye contact.

“I ain’t tryin’ to make this about my sob story. I just don’t really get your decision to stay, is all, ” Rocket replies with a sniff, voice clipped. 

Tony taps a pen to his cheek in thought. “Well, Pepper did try to talk me out of it. Almost very successfully, I might add—I try to be in tune with what women want,” he says blithely, sporting a grin that Rocket returns with the most impassioned eye-roll he can manage. “I tried to talk myself out of it too, if that’s any consolation.”

“Fine, so you and your girl both knew it was a piss-poor decision and you still stayed,” Rocket observes. “So why?”

Tony considers Rocket’s question, and Rocket considers Tony’s motivations.

The thing is, Rocket can extrapolate the reason why someone like Steve Rogers might help, but there’s nothing about Tony Stark that strikes Rocket as particularly ‘heroic.’ It might be the one common ground Rocket feels he has with Tony—which makes his choice to stick around all the more baffling.

“I did it for the same reasons as anyone else,” Tony replies after another moment of thought. He begins to tap at his fingers one at a time, as if going down a list, then goes over his rationale. “There’s fame, of course.” One finger comes up. “Glory.” Another finger. “There’s the fact that, of everyone, I was the only one who could figure it out—“

“Wow. Anyone ever tell you that you’re kind of a douchebag?”

“And then there’s the fact that it’s the right thing to do,” Tony finishes simply. He gestures before him, like he’s just laid all the answers Rocket could ever possibly want out on the table. “There you have it.”

Rocket’s eyelids lower in irritation.

“The right thing, huh?” he mocks. “Please. If I were you, I’d have taken everyone worth carin’ about then gotten the hell out of the crossfire.”

Tony narrows his eyes, then settles against his seat’s backrest, arms crossed and a single fingertip tapping against his bicep while he sizes Rocket up.

“I don’t believe you,” Tony replies with an assessing tilt of his head. “I think you’d have helped, same as me.” 

There’s an aggravating conviction in his voice that makes Rocket’s fur bristle and stand on end.

He grits his teeth, setting his tools down. He’s more sure than ever that Tony is a real piece of fuckin’ work, but he’s probably the bigger idiot for thinking he’d be able to hold an actual frickin’ conversation with the guy.

“Then you clearly ain’t as smart as you think you are,” Rocket snaps. “You don’t know me, Stark.” 

His remarks seem to roll off of Tony like little raindrops on a waxed leaf.

“I know somebody’s been leading your outfit for the past five or so years—and apparently, that person has been you,” Tony says, jabbing his pen in Rocket’s direction. “Guardians of the Galaxy, yeah? It’s a pretty big galaxy. That counts for something, I think.”

“Doesn’t count for shit. I’m only doing it ‘cause I have to,” Rocket sneers. “And I didn’t sit my ass down so you could frickin’ moralize at me. Just cut the crap—either give me your real reason, or stop wasting my time.”

“None of us have to do anything,” Tony says instead.

Rocket stares for a moment, then huffs, picking his multitool back up and focusing back on the gauntlet. No point in wasting his breath—he really should’ve figured from the start that there’d be no conversating with someone like Stark.

But then, Tony’s voice crackles through the silence.

“…A lot of people died so I could call myself Iron Man—so I could stand here today and tuck my daughter into bed when I get home,” Tony admits quietly. There’s a somber quality to the words spoken, a story layered thick underneath the brevity of his statement. Tony pauses, then touches a hand to the glowing arc reactor that sits deep in his chest, trailing a thumb over its curved edges. “I owe it to those people to try. That’s the reason I stayed.” Tony lets his hand fall away, then looks up to meet Rocket’s eyes. “Besides, we still gotta save your kid, right?”

Rocket’s breath hitches. His eyes shift away from Tony’s, landing on a random corner in the room. Then, he lets out a slow exhale through his nose.

“Got me there, Stark,” he says, before asking a final question. “What are you gonna do? Once all of this is over?”

“Oh, I’ll be spending the weekend in the Maldives,” Tony replies glibly, waving his pen then pointing it at Rocket with a look of false consideration. “You know—you look like a Mai Tai sort of guy. I’ll make sure to save you a drink.”

Rocket’s ear twitches and flickers at the word drink, and he lets out an amused snort. He’s not sure where the ‘Maldives’ is or what a ‘Mai Tai’ entails, but he still pictures a sun-drenched little resort planet skimming the outer reaches of the universe, with crushed-diamond sand and water so clear he’d be tempted drink it—glimmering and glassy and a million shades of blue-green, like tourmaline.

“As long as it’s all on your tab,” Rocket retorts.

Then, he resettles more comfortably into his seat, twirls his omnitool between deft fingers, and watches the infinity gauntlet become whole under his careful hands.

—

“It’s almost time,” Tony says, opening the plexiglass case and gingerly lifting the glove from the display. “Just have to run the last few stress tests before we get the stones in.”

“Are the stabilizers ready?” Bruce asks with a meaningful look toward Rocket. There’s no joviality in his tone this morning—only a contemplative determination as he helps Tony handle the gauntlet.

Rocket nods in affirmation, gesturing toward the assembly machine. Bruce and Tony speak quietly amongst one another as they conduct their examinations, and Rocket takes the opportunity to finally get a little bit of rest.

He allows himself to slump over, running a knuckle over his drooping eyes. 

Hints of daybreak cast themselves upon the walls of the workshop, creeping through the windows. Finishing the gauntlet had taken up the better part of the sleepshift. Every tweak of movement makes Rocket’s body cry out in protest, but a bout of adrenaline courses through his veins and keeps him from nodding off—in a few moments, everything will come to a head.

A steady stream of other Avengers begin to gather in the workshop to join him, Tony, and Bruce. Everyone seems to wear similar expressions of hope, but any lightness to be found is muddled by a creeping wariness nobody seems to be able to shake.

The decision of who and how is the next topic of conversation that begins to float about the room. Rocket tunes out the murmurs in the background, and lets himself get lost in thought until the doors shutter open once more. 

He sits up once he notices you step inside, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with your wrist as you scan the room. Your gaze is slow and drowsy, but there’s something purposeful in the way you flit from person to person, as if searching for something.

He anxiously smooths a bit of fur on the back of his neck, pats down the wrinkles in his jumpsuit as subtly as he can, then feels like a damn idiot for it. 

It’s just you, he tries to tell himself, even as all the what ifs play out in his head in a montage that threatens to leave him a little sick.

Then, you spot him, lips pursing open when you realize he’s already looking at you. Your hand rises to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, then lingers somewhere over your cheek as your eyes drop meekly to the floor, just to dance back up to meet his in a series of stolen glances. 

Rocket swallows. Then, he lifts a hand halfway in the air in an unceremonious wave, followed by a simple, gruff greeting in the shape of a solitary, “Hey.”

“Hi,” you reply, sounding shyer than he’s heard you in a long time. 

You finally hold his gaze then, eyes glittering—and the way you look at him is so warm it burns, wrapping around him, slicking through his fur and curving along his spine.

It occurs to him that this is how you’ve always looked at him—doe-eyes, dewy smiles hidden behind the palm of your hand when he’s near—for quarters now, maybe. Perhaps even longer, if only he’d taken the time to notice. 

He watches you approach, fluttering past everyone else in the room, then taking a seat beside him. 

His nose twitches as he scents something in the air once you’re close: mulled fruit, night-blooming flowers, a blend of spice and warmth. The pleasant bouquet sits close to your skin with an intimacy that makes him almost jealous—instinct has him reaching out to brush your hair back behind your shoulder absentmindedly, if only for an excuse to touch you.

Your cheeks warm and your eyes widen prettily, but you don’t move away.

Rocket pauses for a moment, hand wavering by your shoulder as his eyes are drawn lower. You’ve chosen a blouse with a collar that sits high on your neck today; it skims along the soft lines of your throat and ends tucked up right beneath your chin. It’s a perfectly innocuous top, but his mind runs dizzying circles around itself anyway, wondering about all the delicate places he’d sunken his teeth into last night, lying barely hidden from sight. 

He resists the urge to strum at your collar. He’s sure the skin beneath is marbled, purple and green, bruised and bitten—like peonies plucked from the stem. 

You tilt your head at him, brow wrinkling in bemusement at his casual touch and extended silence.

Rocket finally lowers his hand, taking a moment to clear his throat. 

“You sleep okay?” he asks.

“I did,” you reply. You examine him closely, gaze drifting along his face, down to his tight shoulders, and even trailing down to where his tail curls exhaustedly around his own leg. “Did you?”

Rocket tries to straighten as best as he can without drawing your notice.

You don’t need to know about the slight stiffness in his lower back, or the fact that he’d fallen asleep slouched over the workbench more than once tonight, with a set of tools digging into his arms. 

The words ‘I’m fine, angel,’ start crawling halfway off his tongue, but he gets stopped in his tracks at the sight of your face. Your eyes are worried and your nose is scrunched in an impression of preemptive skepticism, like you expect him not to be honest.

The white lie fizzles out and dies before he can begin to get it out. The string keeping his head up and posture aligned loosens and unravels; he crumples in his seat, letting the fatigue show through.

“Not really,” he says. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

You let out a weary puff of laughter; compassionate, but too somber to be mistaken for real mirth. “Me too.” 

Rocket scratches behind his ear, letting it flutter beneath his claws as his eyes wander the room, trying to grasp for something else to say.

“So—“

“I—“

The two of you look at each other, mouths snapped shut, waiting for the other to continue.

“Shit, sorry,” Rocket says, gesturing toward you. “What were you saying?”

Fuck. When did everything get so awkward between you two? Things used to be so easy—late nights in the cockpit, quiet conversations that seemed to flow easily from one topic to another. Nowadays, he can hardly even get a damn word out around you unless he's between your thighs—and that’s hardly a solution to things, no matter how much his dick tries to convince him otherwise.

Rocket jogs his leg anxiously, waiting for you to point it out. 

“I’m just glad you’re here,” you say instead, offering him a timid glance. “...I hope you didn’t change your mind about, um…about things.”

You don’t explain what you’re alluding to, but Rocket can hazard a guess or two. 

He doesn’t even know what he did to deserve this kind of persistence, not after how shitty he’s been for the past few cycles, and especially not after last night. You’d all but laid your heart out for him and asked him what he thought of you, and all he could muster up were promises he’s not sure he can even keep, and an uninspired ‘I don’t know.’

You deserve a lot better than ‘I don’t know.’

And now you’re sitting here, asking him if he’s changed his mind, as if he hasn't been waiting around for when you inevitably change yours.

A single thought blares out in the forefront of his mind like a fog siren, drowning everything else out: you might be the one thing I’m sure about.

It’s a frightening little realization, one he snuffs out as quickly as it flickers to life before he can think any further on it.

“I promised you we’d talk, if you still feel…whatever it is that you feel about me, once everything is over with,” he says instead.

There’s something fiery and determined in your eyes when your gaze snaps back down to him—you look pissed on his behalf, lip jutted in the cutest fuckin’ pout he thinks he’s seen in his whole, miserable life. 

It startles a choked laugh out of him, and he cuts off whatever scathing defense of his desirability you’ve got planned out before you can even try to voice it aloud.

“Always so damn stubborn. Save the speech—it’s written all over your face, sweetheart.” His eyes go lidded, and he shoots you a sharp-fanged grin. 

“Gotta say though,” he drawls, letting the words drip from his tongue smoky and low, “a good girl like you really oughta know better than to keep hangin’ out with the riff raff.”

The next few moments seem to unfold slowly before him; your eyes crinkle at the sides, the corners of your mouth twitch upwards—and then, inexplicably, the wings of a smile flutter upon your lips, feather-light, before lifting up and taking flight.

“You are kind of a bad influence, to be honest,” you reply playfully. You press your teeth into your lower lip in an attempt to stifle your grin into a simmer, but it still bubbles over at the edges, pouring radiance over his head like sunbeams. A giggle follows soon after, as dainty as the tinkling chimes of a bell, and Rocket listens, dazzled. “But I really don’t mind.”

He’s still not sure that, in a galaxy restored, that he—of all the other schmucks in the universe—really deserves someone like you, but you make him hope he comes close. 

And when you look at him like that…feverishly, it makes him think that maybe—just maybe—he really could keep you. 

“Rocket,” Tony calls out, waving him over with a pointed glance at the gauntlet. The stones lay encapsulated beside it, waiting for assembly.

The wistful moment passes, and Rocket nods, sobered. He looks over his shoulder to give you an apologetic tilt of his head, before heading toward the worktable.

All eyes fall upon the gauntlet as the metallic, spider-like limbs of the component-placement machine rise toward the glove with a stone in each claw. The gems glimmer under the synthetic lights; hushed whispers lull, and every breath goes shallow.

Rocket flexes his hands at his sides, and he tracks each stone as they carefully approach their respective grooves. The machine whirs as its mechanical arms twist, and then, he hears a light clink. 

His muscles tighten instinctively, unable to hold back a flinch.

And yet, there’s no spectacle in the moment the stones slot into the gloves—no explosions of color, no shockwaves, no disintegrated Krylorians or leveled buildings. They all simply snap into place, as if that was where they had always belonged. 

A collective exhale of relief makes its rounds across the room, but there’s still an unvoiced strain in the air as Rocket approaches the gauntlet.

He cautiously takes the glove in hand, running the pad of his thumb over seams and exhaust chambers, counting safety checks along an invisible list in his head.

“The glove’s ready,” he says, gaze passing along the many faces in the room, all watching him. “Question is, who’s gonna snap their frickin’ fingers?”

Thor is the first to rise, resolve weighing heavy upon his shoulders. “It should be me,” he asserts, reaching forward.

Steve raises both palms placatingly toward Thor to halt his approach, and Thor roughly brushes his hands away as he makes a hasty advance toward the gauntlet.

“Whoa—let’s calm down,” Tony says, grabbing Thor’s forearm before he can make contact.

“Calm?” Thor wrenches out of Tony’s grip, huffing in incredulity. “What is there to be calm about? This is the time for action. We can save everyone now, damn it.”

“We should at least talk about it before we make any big decisions,” Steve says, tone pacifying and reasonable in a manner that somehow seems to set Thor’s anger even further aflame. 

Thor makes another sudden movement toward the glove, cueing multiple people to stand, and an argument is quick to break out from there. 

“Sitting here just staring at the thing is not going to bring everyone back,” Thor argues, scanning the room desperately for any signs of agreement. His gaze falls upon Rocket, eyes widening in urgency with a pleading expression, as if to signal him to say something—to agree. 

Rocket’s brows pinch together and he guiltily drops eye contact, feet scuffling softly against the floor as he backs away. The air in the room turns suffocating then, different voices mashing together in a disorienting cacophony as the Avengers talk over one another; the gauntlet lays inert in its case all the while—like a beast deep in slumber, waiting to be awoken. 

All the fuss is starting to give Rocket another migraine.

He shuffles out of the room, letting the door shut behind him as he lets himself relax and deflate. He sighs, head hung low, before his eyes lift back up as he registers movement before him.

He looks up just in time to see Nebula’s head snap toward him from where she’d been standing, just ahead of him in the hall. She remains half-turned away, as if she had paused to think on her way further down the hall, before being interrupted by him. 

Her posture is tense and alert as she assesses him carefully, lips pressed tight into a frown. Most notably, there’s something fiercely conflicted brewing in her inkwell eyes, a twitch of frustration in the harsh curve of her brows that betrays her distress.

Everything about her demeanor screams that she wants to be left alone, despite the fact that Rocket knows from experience that it’ll probably just make whatever load she’s carrying all the heavier. 

A memory from years ago pops up into his head unbidden: food trays laid carefully outside his bunk, daggerfish fillet and spice-drunk asgardian-apple pie, grilled yaro-root sprinkled with Spartoi sea-salt. Glinting cutlery, with little notes in Nebs’ handwriting telling him to ‘stop being an idiot and let me help’ tucked underneath.

Rocket returns Nebula’s stare. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t leave, either.

He simply shoves his hands in his pockets and leans back against the wall, diverts his gaze somewhere ahead of the hall, and waits. His ears twitch toward the door in the meantime as he tries to make out scraps of the conversation from outside. 

Nebula watches him closely for a few more seconds, dark eyes unreadable while she scans him. The tension seems to recede from her stance once she realizes he isn’t about to hit her with an interrogation. She then turns her gaze to the floor, brows knotted tight and expression solemn as she continues her quiet contemplation of whatever is wearing down her psyche.

The two of them indulge in the silence together for a few brief moments, both clinging to what fragile sense of calm they can retain before reality sets in and claws its way back into the spotlight.

“Needed a little air too?” Rocket asks after a minute, letting his rough voice pierce the quiet.

Nebula’s eyes drag back over to him slowly, as if debating whether or not to reply. Then, her head dips into a hesitant nod.

“Just gathering my thoughts,” she responds. 

Rocket sighs, lifting his hand to scratch lightly at his neck. “Me too.” 

He catches a few muffled words here and there through the glass doors. Seems like the others aren’t any closer to reaching an agreement.

Nebula’s head tips to the side as she studies his face.  “Having doubts?”

“I—yes. No.” Rocket shrugs, rolling the fabric of his pocket between his forefinger and his thumb as he deliberates over her question. “It’s complicated.”

Nebula blinks, turning toward him. “This is what you’ve been working toward, isn’t it? Are you not satisfied?”

“It is, it’s just…I dunno. Five circs is a long time. A lot has changed.” Rocket leans back further and cranes his neck up at the ceiling, staring at the incandescent bulbs hanging above. The filaments sear little criss-cross patterns into his retinae. 

“What a load of shit. For all the crap I’ve been through, you’d think I’d deserve to feel fuckin’ happy that it’s all finally over, but…I just feel tired,” he continues, swiping his hand wearily over his face. “My kid’s gonna come back to see me five circs older, and for him, it’ll be yesterday. That’s time neither of us are gonna get back.” 

He looks down at his palm. There are nicks and scars littered along the leathery surface; raised, scaly strips of flesh rimmed with dusky pink—some old, some new. He tries to remember which are which, and finds he can’t tell the difference anymore. 

Rocket drops his hand and stuffs it back in his pocket, then looks back up at Nebs before speaking again. “…Dunno if I’ll still be a good dad, if I ever even was. I’ll be out of practice either way.”

Nebula hums thoughtfully, though her expression remains carefully neutral. “I see.”

Rocket shifts his weight, gently resting his heel against the baseboard. He thinks again of meal trays and notes, unspoken camaraderie, how tightly she’d let him grip her hand the night they all found out that only three of the guardians would be left to see the next sunrise. He remembers the little pocks where his claws had dented her skin once he’d finally let go, though she never mentioned it and never complained.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for having my back all this time,” Rocket says, clearing his throat into his fist with a sort of forced casualness that he’s sure Nebs can see right through. “I’m a shithead even on my best days. So, thanks for stickin’ by me even in spite of that.”

He’s not sure what he’d said, not sure what sets her off—but any semblance of ease seems to siphon out of Nebula’s limbs all at once, and suddenly she’s standing ram-rod straight, muscles in her neck flexing as her jaw tightens.

 “…Likewise,” she says, slow and stilted—like the words are foreign and bitter on her tongue.

Rocket’s ears press down toward his head, and his brows knit in concern. “You okay?”

“Have I given you any reason to assume otherwise?” she scoffs.

Rocket gives her a dry look.

“I spent the last five circs hanging around your grumpy ass and you think I can’t tell when something’s up with you? Talk to me, Nebs.”

The creases between Nebula’s brows hollow out even deeper. Her lip twitches, like she can’t tell whether to smile or frown, and she looks past him, through the glass door and into the workshop. Her eyes settle on the gauntlet, and the shimmering stones that lay within.

Just when Rocket thinks she’s not going to respond, she speaks.

“…They’re smaller than I thought they would be.” Nebula steps closer to the door as her gaze wanders from stone to stone, draping along each knuckle of the glove. Her fists clench at her sides, and her voice grows sharp and edged with resentment. “All of those years Thanos had me look; everything he’s done to me…and they’re no bigger than a handful of rocks.” One clutched fist rises and pops open, in a scornful mimicry of a magic trick. “And now the stones are all here. Just like that.” When she turns her gaze back toward Rocket, there’s an unadulterated hatred in her eyes that nearly rocks him off his feet. “I spent decades looking for them, you know. And you got them in a span of cycles—like it was nothing.”

“We got them all. And you know it wasn’t nothing,” he argues, stepping out of his casual lean to match her sudden hostility. “Everyone’s been gone for the past five circs, and Gams is—Gams isn’t ever comin’ back. That ain’t nothing.”

The contempt in Nebula’s eyes is diluted with a splash of confusion. 

“Gams?” she repeats, like she’s testing the word for the first time. “…Gamora?”

Her eyes widen a fraction, then narrow again. 

For a second instance since stepping into Stark’s machine, Rocket feels like he’s been transported back in time. A perfect replication of an old memory seems to play out before him through the series of flickering emotions that streak across his friend’s face. He watches as Nebula performs a perfect reprise of her own previous reactions, when the news of Gamora's death was fresh—back when she’d thought her sister unkillable.

It’s funny. I always thought that when she died, it’d be by my hand, she’d told him once.

…I’ll kill him for what he did to her.

Her expression drifts somewhere between shock and rage and genuine anguish—all achingly familiar in a way that jolts Rocket’s core like he’s been wrapped head to toe in sizzling electric wire. 

He takes one heavy step toward her, sharp teeth bared in ill-contained suspicion.

“What? Yes, Gamora,” he snaps. “You good, Nebs?”

The cloudburst of emotion on Nebula’s face drains away, and her mouth clamps shut for a moment before opening again.

“Yes. I just misspoke,” she says evenly, but the twitch of her throat as she swallows gives away her fragmenting composure.

Rocket shakes his head, glaring up at her as he stalks closer, and she staggers a step backward.

“Nah. You’re bein’ weird.”

“I’m fine,” she spits, continuing to back away as he hastens his onslaught.

“No, there’s somethin’ up with you. What’s going on?”

Rocket’s approach comes to an abrupt standstill as she suddenly plants her feet and towers over him with a look of disdain.

“I just told you I’m fine,” she snarls. “I don’t need to listen to the incessant babbling of some little mutt that thinks he knows me.”

Rocket recoils, jaw dropping open as Nebula whirls around and begins striding toward the hangar.

“What the fuck? Who the fuck pissed in your cereal?” he calls out. Rocket raises both arms to the side in indignity as she storms down the hall without a single look back. “Nebs?”

One foot presses forward as he makes to chase after her, but the door creaks open behind him. The noise startles him into motion and he whips around to see you standing in the entrance, lips popped open in surprise.

“Rocket? They’re looking for you inside,” you say hesitantly, eyes roving over him and the agitation buzzing off of him in waves. Your gaze flits up to the rest of the hall, catching the tail end of Nebula’s back as she disappears around the corner. “Where’s Nebs going?”

“I dunno,” Rocket says, “but something’s wrong.”

His tail beats against his leg in alarm; his nerves run a rampage beneath his skin as he itches to move. Something isn’t right.

You blink down at him, brows pulling together in concern as your lip plumps up into a frown. “With Nebula?”

“You don’t feel it too? She’s been off.”

Your mouth curves down further as you glance back over toward where Nebula was headed, then shrug past him.

“…I’ll go check on her,” you say, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to usher him back inside. “But they need you in there.”

“Wait—“ He says, grasping your wrist to stop you as you begin to leave. You pause, turning your head to look at him, and the look on your face is…defeated. An exhausted, sorrowful smile hangs off of your lips; an echo of that same, expecting expression you’d worn just earlier. 

We’re supposed to be a team, you’d told him before.

Rocket’s hand tightens briefly, and then—he lets go. 

…You don’t think he trusts you.

He told you last night that he wanted to feel like he deserves you. He admitted that there wasn’t much he could give you, but he promised you he’d try.

So, he’ll try.

His fingers linger on your wrist for a moment, tracing the delicate veins that ornament your skin, before he lets his hand fall away and come to a rest at his side.

“…Be careful,” he says.

Your smile softens and blurs around the edges, then you nod.

“Thank you,” you reply, gratefully misting your hand along his shoulder once more. 

Rocket leans into your touch and savors the warmth until it’s gone, then watches as you turn around the corner and out of his sight.

The first thing you notice is that this room is so obviously Rocket’s— shelves and boxes filled with various gadgets that are hopefully not explosive but probably are, walls lined with complex diagrams and blueprints, pieces of equipment gutted and salvaged for parts—the room isn’t necessarily in disarray , but it is very clearly the bunk of a man with a million different projects and not enough time. Despite that, you’re sure he knows exactly where everything is. 

The second thing you notice is that it smells like him in here, like fuel and pine sap—much to your delight.

You’re careful not to touch anything as you look around his room. Your eyes are drawn to Rocket’s desk, decorated with sentimental little knick-knacks that he pretends not to like. Most charmingly, the pot that he grew Groot from still sits atop it. 

Rocket lightly kicks at some clutter he has laying on the floor—more half-finished weapons and bits of tech that you have trouble wrapping your mind around.

“Sorry,” he says mutedly. “Didn’t clean up. Wasn’t expectin’ guests, obviously.” 

“Rocket, I really don’t mind,” you tell him gently. “In fact, I’m very satisfied with my experience thus far. I’ll make sure to leave rave reviews for the next pretty little thing you bring up here.” You give him a cheeky wink.

Rocket snorts but doesn’t respond, clearing away more of his belongings.

Despite his sullen mood, you beam, flattered that he’s fussing so much over you. It makes your heart flutter stubbornly, despite the fact that you’re pretty sure he’s made it clear that he’s not interested in you past a quick lay. Maybe multiple, if you’re lucky.

You leave him to his devices and take a seat on his bed, running your hand along his soft sheets. 

Rocket has always been a rather private person. You’ve only been in his room once before this; your memory of it is a little shaky, but it was probably on the first anniversary of the snap. You remember waking up in the middle of the night, afraid and not wanting to be alone. So, you had shown up to his door with a cup of coffee and a flimsy excuse to stay—and he let you. Being in his bunk now feels different than it did that night, though. Maybe it’s the low lighting. Maybe it’s because the circumstances have changed.

Rocket continues to flit around the room, rearranging things that don’t need to be rearranged, back always conveniently turned from you. 

“I think the room looks great, Rocket,” you giggle. “I also have a feeling you didn’t bring me in here to watch you clean.”

Rocket jolts like he forgot you were even in there in the first place, and shoots you an apologetic glance. “Sorry. I just…Sorry.”

He thankfully stops messing with his stuff, opting to lean back against his desk instead, but he still keeps looking at you like you might disappear. It’s endearing, but a far cry from the easy confidence with which he guided you earlier.

…He’s obviously stalling.

“Well?” you urge him. “This is the part where you ravish me or whatever, no?”

He chuckles, despite himself. “It could be.” He trails off, looking away. His claws twitch at his sides. “Just wanted to give you the chance to change your mind.”

The corners of your lips tug downward. “Rocket. I told you I wanted this.”

“I know,” he responds gently. A sardonic grin pulls at his mouth. “As crazy as it is, I think I believe you. But I do still think you mighta knocked a couple screws loose at some point,” he teases.

You huff at him, crossing your arms. Rocket laughs at your expense, before looking at you seriously.

“Still. I know the circumstances ain’t exactly ideal.” He scratches self-consciously at his arm and adjusts his stance, tail swishing against his leg as he moves. “I know that if things were different, you’d probably want your first to be with someone else. Someone special, maybe.”

You frown at him. “You are special.”

Rocket looks at you sternly, and curls his lip.

“You can’t just say things like that,” he says sharply.

He looks more closed off now—bruised—though you can’t imagine why. You don’t even know what set him off.

You sigh and stand up, and he eyes you warily as you approach. He’s still so handsome even in the dim light of his bunk, half-dressed, looking equal parts pissed at you and equal parts fucked out . He’s perfect.

You stop in front of him and he assesses you closely, nose twitching and scarlet eyes narrowed; he’s cautious, but not backing away.

You lean down to press a delicate kiss against the top of his head. He stiffens and you feel his fur prickle up against your cheeks. Rocket then exhales a breath you didn’t know he was holding in, slowly bringing his arms up to cradle your waist. You press another set into his cheeks, enjoying the brush of his soft coat against your lips, and he closes his eyes. He unconsciously tilts his head toward your touch as you continue peppering him with kisses. Finally, you bring your head down and kiss his mouth, slow and gentle, dragging your tongue along his canines. Rocket grunts, letting one hand rest at the small of your back, dipping underneath the jacket he loaned you to brush against your bare skin. You luxuriate in the taste of him, the feel of him, and let yourself sink deeper into his lips as his grip tightens around you.

After a moment, you bite down on his lip teasingly, and Rocket pinches your ass in retaliation.

You yelp and pull away, giving him a light swat. He laughs, deep and hearty, and you find yourself giggling along with him. The two of you are still holding onto one another by the time the humor dies down.

You take a chance and throw a heated glance at him, leaning down and letting your lips brush against his ear. It twitches at the touch.

“Would you fuck me if I beg you to?” you ask, soft and sultry.

The hands on your waist snag lower, settling on the curve of your ass. You’re still naked other than his jacket, and you wonder if he can see how wet you still are from where he stands, almost pressed against you. If he can’t see it, he can probably feel it, soaking down your thighs—if he dips his hands down just a little further, they’d be covered in your slick. You shiver and lean a little closer to him, the coarse fabric of his clothing rubbing against your nipples.

“Depends on how nicely you ask,” he responds lowly, giving your ass a squeeze. 

“I have a feeling it won’t be too hard to convince you,” you taunt. “Worked once already.”

Rocket raises a brow.

“You sound real proud of yourself, baby. So confident in your ability to beg for dick like a fuckin’ whore ,” he responds with an air of indifference, even as he unzips your jacket and nips teasingly at the underside of one of your breasts. “But I’m not all that convinced.”

“Please?” you try half-heartedly, enjoying the way his rough hands climb up your waist to palm at your tits.

Rocket looks unimpressed. “Hmm. Not good enough.”

He presses forward, forcing you to back up until your legs hit the edge of his bed. You pull his jacket off and let yourself fall backward with a giggle. “Uh, pretty please? ”

Rocket climbs over you, roughly spreading your thighs apart with his knee. There’s a confidence and grace to his movement that makes you flush. 

Once he’s settled between your legs, he pretends to yawn, of all things—the bastard.

“You even trying?” he asks, face schooled into a carefully bored expression. The side of his mouth is quirked up like he’s holding back a grin though, and he runs a hand affectionately up your thigh while he waits for your response.

You gasp in mock offense, touching an affronted hand to your chest. “You’re such a bully.”

Rocket narrows his eyes and squeezes the sensitive, ticklish spot right at the dip of your waist. “It’s only ‘cause you’re such a brat ,” he drawls. 

You squeal, trying to bat his hand away but he dodges with an irritating swiftness. Failing that, you attempt to squirm out of his grip, but Rocket just laughs and holds you still underneath him with a surprising amount of strength. He hardly even struggles.  

You always forget how strong he actually is—the athleticism normally reserved for darting through the battlefield or wielding a gun three times his size is now being used to pin you in place. 

You give up and pout at him, before letting your face brighten with a self-satisfied grin. Rocket ignores you, hands dipping lower and starting to make their way back down to where you really want him.

“Nice try, but you can’t pretend not to like me anymore,” you sing cheekily. Rocket scowls, and you send him a dazzling smile in return. “You gave away your game. I know you like me.”

You had meant the comment as another offhand joke, and tilt your head in confusion when his hands suddenly pause. 

Rocket stops to consider you. There’s a softness to his gaze that you aren’t sure what to make of. It’s intimate, almost adoring in a way that makes you ache. 

You must be misreading him—you have to be, but you just can’t think straight when he looks at you like that.

Your heart thumps in your chest. 

After a moment, Rocket heaves a dramatic sigh and rolls his eyes, before settling into a gentle smile that’s only a little mean.

“You’re not wrong. There’s a lot I like about you,” he says, placing his hands on the back of your thighs and pressing them against your torso. You yelp, suddenly completely exposed to him. His eyes drop to your cunt and he leers; your clit pulses under his attention.

Rocket lets one hand travel downward, dipping a finger into the wetness of your folds and using your own slick to rub tender circles into your clit. You jolt and buck your hips into his touch. Rocket rewards your enthusiasm with a soft chuckle and works a steady pressure and rhythm against you with his thumb.

“I like the way you look, naked and shiverin’ under me. And I like the way you get a li’l teary eyed when you come,” he continues, sinking one finger, then two into your sopping cunt. “And I especially like the way your pussy clamps down around my fingers when you’re enjoyin’ yourself.”

“Rocket—ah—please,” you say, canting your hips when his fingers curl inside you. Rocket snickers, his other hand squeezing affectionately at the fat of your thigh.

“I’ve got a feeling you’re gonna be like a frickin’ vice around me once I get you wrapped around my dick,” he says, using his thumb to rub your clit while his fingers pump into your cunt. “You gonna be good? Gonna come on my fingers, princess? Just once?”

You babble incoherently at him, hands clawing into his sheets. “Yes—I’ll be good—I’ll be good.” Your head’s all fuzzy and the only thing you can focus on is the feeling of his hands on you and the sound of his voice.

“I know you will. You’re so damn cute. So sweet to me.” Rocket angles his head to nip at one of your thighs before laying a kiss on it. “I don’t deserve you,” he says, whispering the words softly into your skin, “but I’ll still take whatever you wanna give me.”

Your back arches, your muscles tense, and pleasure ripples through you in waves. You clutch at Rocket’s shoulders and he groans, continuing to kiss at your thigh. He slowly works you through your orgasm until suddenly every part of you is sensitive, too sensitive, to the point where even the feel of your own skin brushing against your nipples where he still holds your legs against your chest almost feels like too much.

He strokes soothingly at your hip, leaning forward to kiss at the space between your breasts and your stomach.

“You okay?” he asks. Your hair sticks to your forehead and he brushes the strands out of your face with a gentle claw.

“Yes,” you wheeze. “ Yes. You’re gonna give me more, right?” Rocket tilts his head up at you and cackles. 

“You’re so greedy . I like that about you too, you know. Still comin’ off the last orgasm and already beggin’ for more.” There’s mirth in his eyes as he sighs dreamily into your skin.

“Can you blame me?”  

Rocket chuckles and lets you relax for a moment. He lays his head on your chest and you close your eyes, taking a second to come down from the afterglow. 

You feel it more than you hear it—a soft rumbling from his throat that reverberates into your skin as he melts into you. Is he… purring? You smile wide and opt not to point it out, knowing he’ll probably freak out and strive to never let it happen again, and that’s a tragedy you’ll do anything to prevent.

“You treat me so good. Thank you,” you tell him, running your hand through the fur on his head. One of his ears flutters when your finger accidentally brushes against it.

Rocket smiles into your stomach, then asks, “You ready for me?” 

His hand slides down to give your ass a squeeze, and your cunt drips in anticipation.

You nod, and Rocket pulls himself off of you, eyes dark as he reaches for the front of his jumpsuit. You watch eagerly as he pulls his cock out, hard and pulsing. You think you can still see it glisten with some of your own saliva from when you’d lapped your devotion into it in the cockpit. You lick your lips unthinkingly, eyes glued to him.

Rocket spits onto his hand and strokes himself, watching your face carefully.

“Say it out loud, sweetheart. Not doing this unless you’re sure you want this,” he says. “…Unless you’re sure you want me. ”

The hesitation in his voice makes your heart wrench.

“Rocket, I want you. I want this. I need it,” you tell him honestly, sitting up to look him in the eyes. Rocket grunts and his rhythm stutters. “I think if you don’t fuck me I might go insane. I’ll do whatever you want—anything—just please— “

He shushes you, and places a hand on your shoulder to push you back down onto the bed. You spread your legs to accommodate him as he kneels between your thighs. 

Rocket then spits directly onto your cunt and you gasp. He uses a thumb to spread your folds apart again, watching as his saliva mingles with your slick, and you feel like you’re going to lose your mind—you grab onto one of his forearms as if it’ll ground you, but his proximity only serves to make you feel even dizzier.

You don’t think you’ve wanted anything this bad in your life.

Rocket runs his tip through your folds, indulgently slapping his cock against your cunt once, then twice.

“I’ll go slow, okay? You ready?” he asks.

You nod dopily at him, eyes wide and owlish. Rocket stares at you, not moving.

“Come on. Use your words, sweetheart,” he insists, all kindness and dulcet tones. His hand comes up to rest on your cheek and he swipes his thumb against your skin. You lean into his touch.

“I’m ready. I trust you, Rocket.”

“Alright,” he says huskily, bringing his hand back down to grip at your hip.

Rocket pushes his dick into the wet heat of you, and you jolt at the intrusion. Nothing could have prepared you for how he feels—not your fingers, not his fingers, not even the meager little toys you’ve picked up over the years out of curiosity. He’s so warm and hard inside you. It feels like every curve and line of him is pressed tightly against the spongy walls of your cunt. 

It’s a million times better than anything you’ve ever felt and doubly overwhelming . 

The stretch of your pussy around him makes you wince, and he whispers sweet reassurances to you, pausing his attempts to work himself in any further. “Shit—Don’t tense up, baby,” he says. “Try to relax. You doin’ okay?”

You feel like you’re being split apart, but with every second that passes, the discomfort gives way to warm, tingling pleasure.

“Yes, I’m okay, Rocket. You can keep going,” you sigh.

Rocket nods, and slowly sinks in deeper until his hips are pressed into yours. His cock is rigid and curved, fitting so sweetly inside you.

I’m so happy, you think deliriously.

Rocket doesn’t move, giving you a moment to adjust. He leans forward to rest his forehead against your chest. 

“Hey,” he says roughly, sounding a little wrecked.

“Hey,” you echo.

You can feel him twitching inside you and you reflexively squeeze your cunt. He groans at the pressure, hips jerking involuntarily, face scrunched as he tries to restrain himself.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You take one of his hands in yours and lace your fingers with his, placing a kiss against his wrist before letting go. You then roll your hips against him experimentally. He hisses in response, claws digging into your thigh.

“More than alright. You can move, if you want,” you respond.

Rocket exhales breathily, then starts pumping a slow, gentle rhythm in and out of you. He pulls his hand from your hip to stroke mercifully at your clit all the while. You moan and arch your back off the bed, grinding up into his thumb. The attention to your sensitive clit makes the pleasure of having him rut into you intensify twofold. You feel like you’re floating . Rocket grunts and mouths at whatever parts of you he can reach—your nipples, the valley between your tits, the plane of your stomach, the curve of your waist—and continues to drive his cock into you.

It strikes you how different it feels to be with him. How much safer you feel. 

Your past sexual experiences have never gone very far—always ending in disappointment as the other party fumbles awkwardly around in your pants before you ultimately decide you’re too uncomfortable to continue. You had been frustrated at first, worried that something was wrong with you, wondering why you couldn’t trust anyone enough for that level of intimacy—but it’s so easy with Rocket. He moves around your body like you were made for him, like he has every single nook and cranny memorized . He stops to check in on you, asks you what you like. Compliments you; cares for you. 

You feel safe with him. Wanted.

Adored.

You buck your hips to meet his thrusts, and Rocket shudders.

“You’re so perfect,” he says. He’s staring down at where his cock disappears into you as he moves, watching the way your pussy grips him as he pulls back out. His shaft glistens where it sinks in and out of you, and every little movement is accompanied by a soft, wet sound. It’s all so obscene, and you find yourself looking away in embarrassment, palms pressed against your cheeks.

He’s quieter than he has been all night, only panting against your skin as he sinks in and out of your cunt, slowly. Gently. He grunts with restraint.

You can tell he’s trying to ease his pace for your benefit.

“You don’t have to be so—ah! So gentle with me,” you say in between moans. At that, Rocket’s eyes widen and he slows his hips to a halt.

His expression of surprise warps—suddenly he’s looking at you darkly, a wicked grin creeping across his face, and you can tell he’s about to get mean.

… You’re in trouble.

“Hmm?” he asks mockingly, throwing a hand up to his ear. You roll your eyes at his theatrics. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, beautiful.”

“…You can be rougher. If, um. If you want,” you mutter begrudgingly.

“Yeah? If I want, huh?” Rocket begins to fuck into you again, not necessarily much faster but certainly much harder. Every thrust is punctuated by the wet slap of your skin against his fur. “Don’t kid yourself, princess—that’s what you want.” Rocket laughs unkindly. “Just fuckin’ look at you. Dripping right down my cock.”

He’s so filthy . Nothing you’ve ever read about in romance novels or watched in any cheesy holovids could have ever prepared you for Rocket —Rocket and his dirty mouth, Rocket and his fingers and his tongue and his cock, Rocket and the way he maneuvers around your body like he owns you. 

And isn’t that a nice thought—to belong to him, in whatever capacity he’d allow you to be his .

As if to prove his point, Rocket takes a little bit of the wetness drooling out of your cunt and spreads it across his fingers. He then pops it into his mouth with a satisfied hum. 

You flush scarlet, finding yourself unable to look at him directly and shyly put your hands over your eyes. Rocket grins and pulls your arms away from your face.

“Aw. Don’t be embarrassed. I think it’s cute how much you love it,” he coos. “You gonna be a good girl and tell me how much you love it?”

You stubbornly keep your mouth shut, scowling, and Rocket snickers.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it out loud. Your sweet little pussy gives it all away,” he says. He pumps into you a little faster, and your cunt betrays you, squeezing its approval around his cock. “She’s so fuckin’ honest. So needy too. Deserves rewardin’. Seems to me I gotta fuck your cunt rough—the way it’s beggin ’ me to.” He grabs your hips and manhandles you deeper onto his length. Your eyes roll back and you squeak. He clicks his tongue, mocking. “So pretty when you’re shy. Even prettier when you’re wrapped around my dick.”

He’s fucking into you with vigor now, claws digging into your skin as his cock carves a path in and out of you.

“Thank you, Rocket—thank you, thank you,” you sob.

“You’ve got the most perfect little pussy, all gorgeous and warm and wet,” he says, working an admiring little pinch into your clit. He rolls the little pearl around between his fingers until you shake. He then pushes his length in as deep as he can go, until his body is pressed into yours, like he’s trying to fuck you right through the mattress. “And so goddamn tight , too. Like you were made to take cock. Isn’t that right?”

“Y-yes, Rocket,” you whine, bringing your hands up to tug at your own nipples. Rocket grunts appreciatively, hooking your legs over his hips and leaning in to kiss and lick and bite at your skin.

“Say it proper,” he mutters against you.

“I was made to take your cock, Rocket. It’s all I wanna do—forever. Want you to fuck me every day of my life.” Your head rolls, knowing he could get you to say whatever he wants at this point.

“You’re so fucking cute . Makes me wanna keep you all to myself,” He groans, peppering licking kisses and bites into your tits. “My gorgeous little slut .”

You giggle mindlessly, happy to be his anything.

“I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m your slut, I’m yours ,” you echo.

Rocket’s hips falter in their rhythm and he swears.

“That’s dangerous, sweetheart. You give me all that power and I might actually keep you,” he growls.

“I’m yours,” you insist.

Rocket bucks his hips into you hard, and snarls. He doubles his attention onto your clit, wrenching another orgasm out of you like he’s desperate for it. He grunts at the snug feel of your cunt milking his cock, squeezing and fluttering around him as you ride the waves of your peak.

“There we go. That’s my girl. So pretty,” he croons. He lets you grind yourself up onto his cock and his fingers until you’ve had your fill. “You got another one in you?”

“…nng…Huh?” you mumble, spacy, fucked out, and seeing stars. You tremble under him as he continues his steady pace. Every thrust sends sparks of fire through your nerves, and you whimper. He’s thankfully eased up on your clit, moving to palm a breast in his hand instead.

Rocket observes you, admiring the dazed look in your eyes, and responds with a laugh. “Yyyeah you do. You can for sure give me another. Can’t wait to feel you come on my cock twice. ”

The heat of words fall from his mouth and sink straight to your cunt. You didn’t think it was possible for you to come this many times in one sitting, but Rocket seems eager to rip as many out of you as he can tonight.

“ Rocket—“ you gasp when he starts pinching and rolling and rubbing your clit between his dexterous fingers once more.

“It’s okay, sweet thing. I’ll take good care of you.”

Rocket presses your legs against your chest and shifts, planting a foot against the bed. One hand braces itself beside your head, and the other grips possessively at the back of your thigh. The change in position has him suddenly driving into you even deeper and you go lightheaded , twitching around his dick.

Everything feels so hot . Your mind feels numb to everything around you except the way his stuttering breath tickles your skin and the way he skewers you onto his cock. The movement makes your tits bounce with every thrust, and he watches them like a man put under a trance.

His rhythm is almost frantic now, shaky and frenzied, as he uses your pussy to chase his own orgasm. The clawed hand squeezing your thigh turns almost bruising.

“‘m close,” he pants. His cock, veiny and thick, pulses where he pumps into you. “Where do you want me to…?”

You’d give him anything. Anything he wanted. “ Inside. Inside —please ,” you babble. “I want you to come inside me—pleasepleaseplease—“

Rocket swears lowly, squeezing his eyes shut. The next thrust and accompanying, rough tweak at your clit sends another mind-bending orgasm rushing through you.

The words spill from your lips before you can think any better of them. “ I love you, ” you cry, clutching onto the forearm beside your head for dear life. Your brain melts and tears spill from your eyes at the pure pleasure of it all—you could die here, fucked stupid onto his cock, and be die happy.

He grunts and stiffens, pumping into you once, then twice, then thrice—fucking thick ropes of his come into your welcoming cunt. Rocket collapses on top of you, and you both gasp for breath in the dark, skin slick with sweat.

He shudders as he pulls out, a line of his own spend still oozing out from his tip, dripping down onto his balls. He strokes the rest of it out with a sigh, eyes trailing along your cunt, battered and abused, then up to your face. He collects the leftover come on his cock with his fingers, and pushes it inside of your pussy.

You whine, arching your back, overstimulated and incoherent.

“Sorry, sorry,” Rocket says airily. Unconvincingly. “Just hate to let it go to waste when you were beggin’ me so nice .”

He gives your pussy one last, wet kiss, then crashes into bed beside you. He curls himself around you, nuzzling into your skin, and you bury your face into his chest.

You can feel a rumble from deep in his throat again as he purrs beside you. You smile, turning your head to press your ear against him, lulling yourself to sleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

The two of you lay there for a while, basking in the glory of a night well spent. You nearly fall asleep, but after a while the arm you have tucked underneath him gets sore, and the rest of your overtired muscles ache with the desire to reposition.

You shift beside him, trying to sink comfortably into the sheets. Rocket opens his eyes at the movement, looks down at you, and does a double take. He suddenly shoots up into a sitting position. You’re startled out of your half-slumber and you look at him wide-eyed.

“What? What’s the matter?” you ask.

Rocket looks you up and down and his eyes lose their glazed over look. He suddenly seems distraught, as if remembering himself. “Oh, shit . You okay?”

You lay boneless in his sheets.

“Yeah,” you say, giving him a halfhearted thumbs up. “I feel like jelly.”

Everything is sore. But you feel good. Happy.

Rocket winces. “Fuck.“ He pulls his jumpsuit back on and ties the sleeves around his waist, then throws a clean shirt over his head and turns toward the door.

Panic rushes over you. You grab his arm before he can get too far. “You’re leaving me?” you ask, eyes watery.

Rocket looks shocked, and you let go of his arm like it stings you. You try to tamp down the hurt you feel. 

You’re being ridiculous. This is what you agreed to. It’s just sex . He doesn’t owe you anything now that he’s helped you with your little ‘problem.’ He promised he wouldn’t let you die a virgin, and he delivered. Nothing more, nothing less.

You’re probably just embarrassing yourself by being so needy. Rocket recovers from his initial surprise and grabs your hand.

“What? No. ‘Course I’m not leaving .” He kisses an apology into your fingertips. You blink back your tears, but try not to get your hopes up. “I’m just gonna get you some water. And some towels. Clothes.” Rocket looks at you searchingly. “Maybe some blankets. Are you cold?”

“Um. A little? But you don’t really have to worry about me like that.” You cross your arms self-consciously over your chest. The air is suddenly frigid, and you feel…small. “I didn’t mean to freak out. I just—I don’t really know how this works, I guess. I’m not sure if I should, um, go , or…”

Rocket looks stricken, like he’s suddenly remembering that you really haven’t done this before. “Did you wanna go?” 

You shake your head. “Not really.”

“Then don’t stress about it, sweetheart. Stay the night. You’re prob’ly tired.” He starts making his way toward the door again, but pauses at the exit. “I’ll be back, okay?”

You smile shakily. “Okay.” 

Rocket nods, then walks away.

You lay back in his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking back on the past few hours and cringing at your behavior. 

He’d made you come, and you told him you loved him. He probably thinks you’re some desperate, idiot virgin who falls head-first over the first guy to fuck any attention into her—or, well, ex-virgin .

Your heart sinks.

…You don’t know how to tell him you’ve loved him long before tonight. Or when. Maybe there won’t ever be a right time to say it.

You turn over and look toward the porthole in his room, trying to come up with new constellations, hoping maybe the stars will glimmer and give you some answers. They come up lacking.

You sigh, resolute, then peel the frown off your face. No point moping around. You’re still happy, you think. And you can’t really bring yourself to regret tonight either.

Rocket steps back into the room, balancing a blanket, a towel, some clothes, and a cup of water in his arms. You snort at him. He can be so painfully domestic sometimes.

You let him fuss over you and he drags the towel over your skin while you sip on your water. Once or twice he dips it down to clean around your still sensitive pussy, or smooths it over some of the inflamed scratches where he dug his claws in too hard, and you hiss. He mutters an apology to you, and keeps moving until you’re clean and dry.

Part of you wonders if maybe it would be a good idea to talk to him about tonight. About what this all means. But you’re afraid of ruining the moment, so instead, you stay silent. That conversation can wait until tomorrow. Rocket doesn’t say anything either; he just continues to quietly work on getting you comfortable.

By the time you’re clothed, bundled up, and cozy in his bed, he’s still standing awkwardly at your feet, looking a little lost.

“I could, uh. Take the chair or find someplace outside, if you’re not comfortable with me here,” he offers, scratching awkwardly at his neck.

“You want to sleep in the cockpit?”

Rocket looks away. “I can do it if you’re not comfortable with me here,” he repeats.

You pick at your nails. You’re tired of being so confused around him, and decide to be direct about what you want.

“Will you hold me instead?” you ask indulgently. Tonight is a night of final requests, after all. You want to let yourself have this one last fantasy.

Rocket looks almost relieved. “…Yeah, sweetheart. Whatever you want.”

You hold the blankets open for him, and he climbs into bed beside you. You bridge the gap first, laying your head on his chest and wrapping your arms around him.

Rocket tenses, before cautiously bringing an arm around your back to rest at your waist. After a moment, he dips his hand under your shirt, calloused fingers drawing patterns into your skin. You smile.

The moment is bittersweet, but…honestly?

You’re happy like this. You feel lucky to have been given the chance to be in love with him, even if he doesn’t quite love you back.

…And you wouldn’t give up your friendship with him for anything. That’s what really matters, in the end.

You let yourself relax in his arms, pretending that tomorrow doesn’t exist—that you could live in this moment forever.

You know it’s too good to last. Once day breaks, Terra awaits, and you’ll go back to loving him from a distance—if either of you even live to see tomorrow through.

At least for now, while wrapped up in the comfort of his touch, feather-light and downy-soft, you can dream about a world where you’re his and he’s yours —if only for tonight.

—