#regrwxth

It shouldn't be a big deal. Next to everything Rocket's seen, next to everything he's experienced, it's nothing. A papercut, next to some of the wounds they've had over the years. Hell, Peter's in the next room with a broken rib, and Gamora's out like a light trying to sleep off the mother of all headaches from the skull-whomping she took from those krutackin' Kree. Even Rocket himself is pretty banged up.

He doesn't care about any of that, though.

What he cares about is one single solitary graze on the bicep of one single solitary former flora colossus.

He's been staring at it for ten minutes. By now, he's memorized every surgically clean edge, every centimeter of cauterized skin. He could've bandaged it up ten times by now, but he hasn't moved from his seat at the table, so close to Groot their knees are nearly touching.

"I am Groot."

Groot's voice is soft and low, but it shakes him abruptly from his thoughts nevertheless.

"I ain't worried," he says gruffly. "Don't go gettin' full of yourself."

Groot's expression is hard to read, but Rocket knows him well enough to know that's skepticism written across his face, and just the faintest hint of amusement. The cheeky bastard. "I am Groot." 

Rocket scowls. "Okay, okay. I might've been a little ... concerned. You ain't so good at watchin' your own back." Probably because there was so much of it to watch, but he digressed. "Exhibit A." He nods to the cut on Groot's arm, because he still can't bring himself to move his hands, to touch it. Touching it makes it real. 

And that's the whole problem: it's real.

Before the Scarlet Witch, Groot was this constant thing. He could die, but he could be reborn. There was tragedy to it, but no real finality. 

But now, he's human, more or less, and Rocket's not really sure it works the same way. There's no cutting to replant, no seed to sow. If Groot dies ... that could be it. End of the line. And that's not a thought Rocket knows how to deal with. Groot's the immovable object to his unstoppable force. They're supposed to go together, he and Groot. He doesn't know how he got along without him, and the thought of trying to ... he can't do it.

Today showed him that Groot, in this form, is just as fragile as the rest of them. He still seems to be healing a little faster, but that's not going to stop some psycho from blowing a whole in him or breaking him in half.

He doesn't realize his hands are shaking until Groot's larger ones settle over them, and then he can't even bring himself to try to hide it.

"You can't go playin' the hero anymore, buddy," he says, and there's a plea in the words that he doesn't give voice. Don't sacrifice yourself for anybody, least of all for me. Don't leave me alone. "You ain't gonna grow back like you used to, and if you leave me alone with these idiots, they'll be dead within the week. Guaranteed." 

It's as close as he can bring himself to saying what he's really thinking.

Apparently, it's close enough for Groot. His hand tightens around Rocket's own, and his lips curl in a smile that looks a little more subtle when it's not carved in bark. "I ... am Groot."

Rocket raises an eyebrow. "You don't think I would? Hah, shows what you know." Too much. Groot knows him too well; sometimes it's scary. Case and point:

Groot's eyebrows furrow, and that's a new expression for his repertoire. Rocket's got no idea where he picked that one up. "I am Groot."

"Yeah, yeah, maybe they're starting to grow on me." But even though they've made it into his orbit, they're still on the outer rings. Groot's the only one he's ever let that close, and the only one he thinks he ever will. He can't lose him. He can't. 

He almost did. A few inches to the right, and that would've been his heart. A few inches up, his head. It could be anything, anytime, anywhere, and this is the first time Rocket's really had to face that with Groot. Groot was always the safe bet. He can still trust him with his life; that hasn't changed.

He's just not sure he can trust Groot with his own life.

"You gotta start looking out for yourself better, buddy."

Groot tilts his head. "I am Groot." 

"What do you mean that's what I'm there for. I ain't your baby sitter."

But Groot just gives him that bland look of his, and Rocket smiles a little despite himself.

"Yeah, alright." He's right; Rocket won't say it out loud, but he's right. And Groot knows it. "You got me, buddy." And maybe that makes it a little easier to bear, because Groot's not unprotected. Rocket's there, and it's always been his job to look after Groot as much as Groot looks after him. That hasn't changed.

He takes a deep breath and pulls his hand out from under Groot's. He still feels raw, still feels unsteady and a little, well, concerned. But he feels better. 

   It takes a few years, but he learns.

   With hands running down the curve of his neck and thighs around his hips. He learns how to phrase eloquent thoughts into rough rudimentary words. It doesn’t matter though, because Rocket always knows what he means. Fingernails bite and claw down his back and his palm braces the curve of the other man’s posterior.

   Rocket is uttering words that make his ears go hot because he knows what they mean now, he recognizes the heat behind them. It’s been a year since they awkwardly fumbled into whatever this is. Months since he closed the distance between them shyly with a touch of hesitance. But that first soft press of lips makes something curl pleasantly beneath his skin.

   Now they’re here, his breath haggard against the curve of Rocket’s lips and a hand snared in soft hair. A tug yields a bared throat and he drags teeth along soft flesh, brows knitting together. It’s still so fascinating how Rocket is so closely bonded with him despite their altered state. Rocket is whining softly, a quiet feeling tickling his consciousness begging for him to go faster, to give him more.

   It’s still so breathtaking watching Rocket’s face when they finally slide together just right.

   Rocket never looks away until he rolls his hips, burying all the way inside with a hitch in his breath.

   “R-Right there, ’s perfect…”

   He swallows the words down in a languid kiss as fingers tighten at his shoulders.

   Rocket moans and his face flushes hotly.

   “…Rocket.”

   Another moan and that heat tightens at his stomach.

   Each time, each slow thrust, each moan—