#rocket gotg

The air on the artificially-constructed world of Kalos-IV was a peculiar thing, a permanent, climate-controlled twilight that tasted faintly of copper and recycled ozone. It was the kind of place where legitimate business went to die a quiet death, and illegitimate business thrived in the cacophonous, neon-lit chaos that took its place. The market, known only to those who needed to know it as the “Bazaar of a Thousand Regrets,” was a sprawling, multi-leveled labyrinth of stalls, temporary structures, and repurposed cargo containers. It was the exact sort of place where a well-meaning Nova Corps officer would tell you to never, ever go, and the exact sort of place where the Milano’s crew found themselves at least once a quarter for supplies that couldn’t be found anywhere else.

You’d been walking for what felt like hours. The initial thrill of seeing the impossible array of alien species—hulking, four-armed Brinaris, hissing, translucent Yautja, and squat, fur-covered Vellusi—had long since given way to a bone-deep weariness. Your feet ached in your boots. The constant press of bodies, a tide of strange textures and smells, was exhausting. Peter was up ahead, his red leather jacket a familiar beacon in the crowd as he chatted with Drax about something you couldn’t quite hear over the din. Gamora walked beside you, her posture a study in coiled alertness, her eyes scanning the crowd with the practiced ease of a former assassin.

And then there was Rocket.

He was trying to navigate the forest of legs, his small, furry form a stark contrast to the towering aliens that surrounded him. He was grumbling, a constant, low-level stream of profanity directed at the shins of a group of oblivious, six-legged Lax’thorians who had just blocked his path for the third time. His ears were flat against his head, his tail twitching with irritation. He was a master engineer, a brilliant tactician, a being capable of building a bomb that could crack a small moon, but here, in the Bazaar of a Thousand Regrets, he was a creature of shin-height, constantly jostled and overlooked.

You watched him for a moment longer, a familiar, fond ache settling in your chest. It was the same feeling you got when you saw him doze off after a long job, his small body curled up on a pile of scrap metal in the Milano’s cargo bay, or when he’d get so caught up explaining the intricate workings of a new gun that his voice would lose its usual cynical edge and become animated, bright. He was, in your opinion, the most incredible person—raccoon, person—you’d ever met.

Another alien, a massive, lumbering creature with tusks the size of your forearm, jostled Rocket, nearly sending him sprawling. The sharp, angry yelp that escaped him was your final cue.

Without a second thought, you broke away from Gamora’s side. You moved through the crowd with a singular focus, bending at the waist as you reached him. Your arms slid around his small, tense body, and in one fluid motion, you scooped him up.

“Wha- HEY!” Rocket’s protest was immediate, a startled, indignant yelp. For a split second, he was a whirlwind of fur and panic, his claws twitching instinctively. “Put me down! What in the- I was FINE! I had it under control! I was about to bite that guy’s ankle clean off!”

But you were already settling him against your chest, cradling him like a very bristly, very argumentative baby. You held him securely, one arm beneath him, the other wrapped around his back, mindful, as you always were, to keep your hand away from the base of his tail and to not put any pressure on his ears. He was warm and surprisingly solid.

You looked down at him, a sleepy, utterly unbothered smile playing on your lips. The exhaustion of the long day had softened your features, and there was a gentle, dreamy look in your eyes. “Now you won’t get pushed around,” you said, your voice soft, meant only for him. “Or stepped over. I don’t mind carrying you.”

He froze, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had come. This had happened before. Twice, actually. Once on a chaotic spaceport on Tivanus, and once during a particularly long trek through a muddy swamp planet. Both times, he had grumbled, he had protested, he had insisted he was perfectly capable of walking on his own four paws, thank you very much. And both times, he had ended up silent and still in your arms, lulled by the steady rhythm of your heartbeat and your warmth.

This time was no different. His ears, which had been flattened in annoyance, began to relax. His tail, which had been lashing, gave a final, half-hearted flick and then curled loosely around your wrist. He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the sleeve of your jacket, but the tension in his small frame was melting away by the second. It was impossible to stay angry while being held like this. You were so warm.

He’d never admit it, but it was a heat he craved. Humans, he’d discovered, ran warmer than most humanoid species. And sleepy humans? Sleepy humans were like portable space heaters. And you, a young human, were the warmest of all. Your body was smaller, he’d reasoned to himself the first time this happened, so the heat was just more concentrated. A perfect, fur-sink-into-it warmth. And the smell. He’d never mention that, either. It wasn’t perfume or cologne, none of that chemical garbage. It was just… you. The soft, sweet scent of vanilla from that stupidly expensive body soap you liked, mixed with the spicier, warmer scent of gingerbread from the shampoo Peter always made sure to stock for you.

He let out a long, slow breath, his body going limp against you. The cacophony of the market faded to a dull roar. The press of the crowd no longer mattered. Your arms were a safe harbor, your chest a soft, warm pillow. His eyes grew heavy. The rhythmic sway of your walk, the gentle rise and fall of your breathing, it was all too much. He was tired. Tired from the job, tired from navigating a galaxy that wasn’t built for his size, tired from pretending he didn’t like this. His eyes closed. His little paws, which had been braced against your arm, relaxed and curled inward. Within minutes, he was asleep.

He drifted back to consciousness an hour later, slowly, like surfacing through warm water. The first thing he registered was the continued, gentle rocking motion of your walk. The second was the soft fabric of your jacket against his cheek. The third was the sound of voices. Gamora, to his left, and you, to his… everywhere. He was still cradled in your arms.

He kept his eyes firmly shut. Groot was back on the Milano, busy with growing in his new pot, which meant no one was going to tattle on him for being awake. He could just… stay here. Just for a little while longer. He burrowed his face a fraction of an inch deeper into the crook of your arm, feigning the deep, boneless sleep of the truly exhausted.

“…do find some similarities,” you were saying. Your voice was a low, sleepy murmur, and he felt the words vibrate through your chest, a soothing hum against his fur. “The sense of humor is… I mean, I think a lot of it is just human. It’s the same kind of stupid. And the music thing, obviously.”

“Yes,” Gamora’s voice was a smooth, thoughtful contralto. “I have noticed that Quill’s nostalgia is a powerful force. It is… endearing. At times.” There was a pause. “Do you find comfort in it? His familiarity? Being of the same race, in a place so far from your home world?”

You were quiet for a moment. Rocket felt your grip on him tighten almost imperceptibly. “Yeah, I do,” you said finally. “It’s nice to have someone who just… gets it. Without having to explain. The little things, you know? Like what a dog is, or why Christmas is a big deal. He makes it less… lonely.”

“Then he is your favorite,” Gamora stated, and there was a hint of a knowing smile in her voice. “Among us. It is only natural.”

Rocket felt a strange, cold knot tighten in his stomach. Favorite. Of course the kid’s favorite was Quill. Same planet, same stupid music, same stupid… everything. It was logical. It was fine. He didn’t care. He was a master criminal, a genius, he didn’t need to be some human kid’s favorite. The knot tightened further. It wasn’t a nice feeling.

And then your arms tightened around him. It was a subtle movement, but to Rocket, who had his eyes closed and his senses attuned to you in a way he refused to analyze, it was as clear as a shout. You had stopped walking.

“Peter?” you said, and there was a strange note in your voice. A note of… confusion? Disbelief? “No.”

Rocket’s ears, hidden against your chest, twitched.

“No?” Gamora echoed, her voice genuinely curious now.

“No,” you repeated, firmer this time. “My favorite is Rocket.”

The cold knot in Rocket’s stomach evaporated, replaced by a sudden, electric jolt. A surge of something hot and fierce and utterly wonderful shot through him. His heart, which he was sure had just stopped, started beating again, double-time. He was intensely grateful his face was hidden.

“Rocket?” Gamora’s voice was a mix of surprise and dawning amusement. “Not Quill?”

“Rocket,” you confirmed. Your voice was soft, but there was a bedrock of conviction in it. You looked down at the 'sleeping' bundle in your arms, and though Rocket kept his eyes closed, he could feel your gaze. It was like a physical warmth. “He’s my favourite. He’s the coolest person I know.”

Rocket’s tail, which had been lying limply around your wrist, gave an involuntary twitch and curled more around it. Coolest. She said coolest.

“I mean, he’s a raccoon, I know,” you continued, a small, fond smile in your voice, “but he’s like… the coolest friend I have. All of his inventions are incredible. Do you know he built a bomb once that could’ve blown up a mountain? And he made a toaster? Do you know how difficult is it to make a toaster? He’s a genius. A grumpy, sometimes bite-y genius, but a genius. And he’s loyal. He’d never, ever leave anyone behind. How could he not be my favorite?”

Rocket was beaming. It was a full-body experience. If anyone had been looking at the small, furry creature cradled in your arms, they would have seen a sleeping raccoon whose mouth had curved into a distinct, smug little smile. His mind was already racing ahead, cataloging the perfect moment to bring this up. Later. On the ship. When Quill was being particularly insufferable. He’d just saunter up, maybe clean his claws nonchalantly, and drop the bomb. "The kid says I’m her favourite, you know. Said I was the coolest. Which, by the transitive property of coolness, means I am objectively cooler than you. I don’t make the rules, Quill, I just get to rub your face in them." He was going to savor it.

Gamora laughed. It was a low, genuine sound. “I understand completely,” she said. “He is… formidable. In a very small, very angry package. I would pick him over Quill, as well. I would pick anyone over Quill, for that matter.”

“Hey!” Peter’s voice rang out from a few paces ahead. He had turned around, his hands on his hips, a look of mock outrage on his face. “I heard that! I heard both of you!”

“What is it you humans say? ‘No offense’?”

“Hell no!” Peter started walking backward, keeping his eyes on you. “I am taking offense! I am writing this down in my journal, and I am holding this grudge until the day I die! My own species, kid! My own flesh and blood! betrayed by my favorite saying her favorite is the furry gremlin who got me to steal my prosthetic leg that one time!”

Drax, who had been walking patiently beside Peter, looked between him and the group with a placid expression. “I, too, would choose the rabbit,” he stated, his voice a low rumble that carried through the crowd. “His methods, while unorthodox, demonstrate a tactical cunning that Quill sorely lacks. Quill relies on dance-offs and luck. Those are not reliable strategies.”

“His name is Rocket, he’s not a rabbit, and you are all dead to me!” Peter declared, spinning back around and stalking forward with exaggerated indignation.

In your arms, Rocket’s smile had grown so wide it was threatening to split his face. He listened to Peter’s sputtering protests, to Drax’s matter-of-fact insults, to Gamora’s quiet, amused chuckles. He was warm, he was comfortable, he was surrounded by the sounds of his dysfunctional, bickering family, and he was, unequivocally, undeniably, the favorite.

He let out a contented sigh, a tiny sound he was sure no one would hear over Peter’s continued grumbling about “loyalty” and “the sanctity of the human connection.” He shifted slightly in your arms, pretending to be readjusting in his sleep, and buried his face deeper into the soft, vanilla-and-gingerbread scent of your jacket.

He didn’t open his eyes. He wasn’t going to. Not until they were back on the Milano. Not until he’d had at least another hour of this. This, he decided, was his favorite thing. The kid—his kid—was his favorite. And that was a secret he was perfectly fine with everyone knowing, even if he’d never, ever say it out loud. For now, this was perfect. He was right where he belonged.