#rocket gotg

He remembered the weight of the Ravager jacket, grudgingly bestowed, a symbol of belonging he'd craved for so long. He remembered the whooping laughter as Yondu taught him to pilot the M-Ship, the glint of genuine affection hidden beneath layers of gruffness. He remembered every moment, every sacrifice, every gruff word of encouragement. He needed to remember.

He closed his eyes, pouring his energy, his very being, into the void where Yondu’s life had been extinguished. Minutes stretched into an eternity. Doubt gnawed at him, whispering insidious failures. Then, a gasp. A ragged, broken sound that ignited a wildfire of hope in Peter’s chest. Another breath, shallow and weak, followed by another.

Yondu's eyelids fluttered open, revealing bloodshot, confused eyes. "This… this don't look like hell," he rasped, each word a monumental effort.

Relief washed over Peter, so potent it nearly buckled his knees. Tears streamed down his face, tears of joy this time. "You're back," he choked out. "I... I did it."

A ghost of a smile touched Yondu's lips. "Good work, boyo," he whispered.

The reprieve was fleeting. As Yondu attempted to sit up, a strangled cry ripped from his throat. It was a sound Peter had never heard from the stoic Ravager, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony.

"Yondu!" Kraglin, ever loyal, was instantly at his side.

Pain contorted Yondu's face. "Feels like Knowhere's havin' a goddamn rave in my skull," he groaned, clutching his chest. He coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and blood sprayed across Kraglin's hands. Drax, ever the pragmatist, helped Kraglin support Yondu.

"Get him to the ship!" Gamora barked, her voice tight with concern.

The journey to the med bay was a nightmare. Once there, Gamora delivered a grim assessment. "His ribs are shattered, multiple fractures. Internal bleeding, significant. Possible brain damage."

Yondu, in the midst of another coughing fit, waved a shaky hand. "Dealt with worse."

Everyone knew it was a lie.

Thankfully, medical droids and human doctors, dispatched by Peter's half-sister Victoria, the newly appointed ruler of Spartax, were arriving. While the reinforcements were a boon for the other injured, Yondu was a different story.

“I don’t need no damn sawbones pokin’ around!” he roared, trying to bat away a hovering droid. "Survived this long without 'em, ain't startin' now!"

"Yeah, that might be more convincing if you didn't cough blood every time you talked," Rocket snarked, perched precariously on a nearby console.

Despite his ravaged state, Yondu fought them off with surprising ferocity. He clawed, kicked, and cursed, insisting he'd weathered worse with nothing but grit and grit. He even bit a doctor who dared to approach the faded Kree brand etched onto his arm – a relic of his first twenty years spent as a slave. He'd rather die again than let anyone touch that.

Kraglin tried to reason with him, but Yondu was as stubborn as a space mule. Peter offered to use his powers again, but the suggestion was met with a chorus of vehement protests, including Yondu’s own.

It was Drax, Groot, and a reluctantly compliant Kraglin who finally managed to subdue him, wrestling him down long enough for the doctors to administer a powerful sedative. As Yondu drifted into unconsciousness, muttering obscenities, the medical team finally went to work on his extensive injuries.

As if fate was determined to test Peter's limits, the ship's communication panel blared to life. It was his grandfather, Jason, his voice thick with worry. He hadn’t heard from them, and was anxious about Peter.

Later, Peter would blame his next decision on a cocktail of exhaustion, shock, and lingering grief. He couldn’t bear to tell his grandfather the truth. Not yet. So, he did the only thing he could think of – he lied.

He frantically turned to Drax. "Drax, please! Just... make up a story. Anything! But don’t tell him… don't tell him about J'son, the Cosmic Seed, any of it. Or Yondu. Especially Yondu being dead and coming back to life."

Drax, ever eager to help, nodded solemnly. He understood the complexities of human emotions… or at least, he thought he did.

He cleared his throat and addressed the screen. "Jason, your grandson is well. J'son, did not turn out to be evil and did not attempt to use Peter as a weapon. There was not a cave-in that claimed the life of the respected Ravager, Yondu. We did not engage in a conflict with J'son, and Peter certainly did notresurrect Yondu from the dead."

Drax continued, his voice gaining momentum. "J'son is a kind and benevolent ruler, an excellent father who would never contemplate exploiting his offspring after discovering they possessed extraordinary powers derived from experiments J'son did not perform on himself years ago to gain the power of the non-existent Cosmic Seed. Yondu is enjoying perfect health and was not killed. Furthermore, he is very cooperative and fond of the medical professionals and did not at any point try to curse, fight, or bite them. Peter also does not possess the ability to restore the dead and did not perform this ability on Yondu.”

Wow... So does this mean Rocket basically found the equivalent of a random grandpa wandering down the highway and adopted him?? Really changes the dynamic for me. I thought it was a play on the smart-dumb duo trope not adopted grandpa trope!

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Bill, a hulking, four-armed creature with a perpetually scowling face, slowly rose from his stool. His friend, still looking utterly bewildered, scooted away, trying to melt into the shadows. Bill’s six eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Special?” he rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. “That wasn’t a song, you… you tone-deaf space pirate! That was an auditory assault on my very being! And touching my sweater? Do you know how much this custom-woven Gorax wool cost?”

Kraglin, ever the opportunist, despite his mounting fear, tried to rally. “Ah, well, you see, Bill! The passion! The art! I was merely expressing the profound emotional resonance your… your choice of attire evoked! A symphony of stripes!” He gestured grandly with the microphone, almost clocking a passing waiter.

Rocket, who had been guffawing so hard he’d nearly fallen off his chair, choked on his drink, a wheezing sound like a faulty airlock. “Symphony of stripes? More like a cacophony of crap, Kraglin! You sound like a dying bantha!”

Drax, still booming with laughter, pointed at Kraglin. “His voice is indeed terrible. It lacks the melodic subtlety of a dying man’s last breath, or the graceful silence of a truly broken bone.”

Gamora, her small hand already gripping the hilt of a decorative knife she’d ‘borrowed’ from the bar, exchanged a look with Nebula. Nebula’s mechanical eye whirred, and a faint smirk played on her lips. They looked less ready to kill Kraglin and more ready to enjoy Kraglin being killed.

Peter, his Walkman clutched tightly in his hand, felt a cold dread in his stomach. He’d tried to warn Kraglin. He always tried. His grandfather, Yondu , simply leaned back in his chair, a knowing smirk twisting his lips, occasionally flicking a glance between Kraglin and Bill as if watching a particularly entertaining sporting event. Baby Groot, perched on Yondu’s shoulder amongst his fin, tilted his head, his wide eyes following the escalating tension. “I am Groot?” he squeaked, a tiny, worried sound.

Bartender Starley, a massive, tentacled being with eyes on stalks, had finally had enough. She slammed a mop handle on the bar. “That’s it, Kraglin! Get off my stage! And you, Bill, sit down!”

But it was too late. Bill, his face a mask of purple fury, lunged. “You’ll regret defiling my sweater, pirate!” he roared, a guttural sound that vibrated through the floor.

Kraglin yelped, dropping the microphone with a clang that echoed through the sudden silence of the bar. “Whoa, whoa, easy there, fella! Just a bit of artistic expression!” He fumbled for his laser pistols, but Bill was faster. One of Bill’s four arms shot out, grabbing Kraglin by the scruff of his neck, lifting him off the sticky floor.

“Artistic expression?!” Bill bellowed, shaking Kraglin like a rag doll. “This sweater was a gift! From my mother! You insulted my mother, you tuneless fool!”

Rocket, despite himself, found this hilarious. “Oh, it’s about his mommy’s sweater! Gold, Kraglin, pure gold!”

Drax nodded sagely. “The emotional attachment to garments is a common weakness among lesser beings. My mother knitted me a loincloth once. It offered no strategic advantage in combat.”

Gamora and Nebula, seeing the chaos unfold, didn’t hesitate. Gamora, with a feral grin, launched herself at Bill’s legs, aiming for a kneecap. Nebula, with surprising speed, vaulted over the bar, snatching a bottle of something fiery-looking from a shelf. “Nobody insults Kraglin like that but us!” she shrieked, aiming the bottle at Bill’s head.

Peter, eyes wide, instinctively turned up the volume on his Walkman, the familiar comfort of his mother's music a small, tinny shield against the pandemonium erupting around him. He saw Yondu sigh, a genuine, albeit exasperated, sigh, before pushing himself up from his seat, his control fin glowing faintly.

"Well," Yondu drawled, a glint in his eye. "Looks like it's a good night for a bar fight after all." He looked directly at Peter, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Stay clear, boy. Or, you know, join the fun. Whatever floats your boat."

The bar devolved into a maelstrom of flailing limbs, angry shouts, and the occasional blast of ill-aimed energy weapons. Kraglin was still being shaken violently, Gamora was a green blur around Bill's legs, and Nebula had successfully landed a bottle on Bill’s bewildered friend’s head by mistake, sending him sprawling. Rocket was gleefully firing small energy blasts at the ceiling, causing plaster and dust to rain down, while Drax stood impassively, occasionally catching a stray punch from another bar patron and delivering a single, devastating counter-blow. Baby Groot, surprisingly, had found a small, discarded bowl of nuts and was happily munching, oblivious to the chaos around him.

Annie Markson, her braces glinting in the slatted afternoon light, was elbow-deep inside an open access panel. Her Lisa Frank notebook, covered in a psychedelic rainbow of leopards and dolphins, lay open to a page filled with surprisingly precise technical sketches. In her hands was a thick, braided cable that pulsed with a soft, internal cyan light.

“Annie, I swear on my mom’s best mixtape, if you blow yourself up, I’m telling your mom it was all your idea,” Peter said, nervously adjusting the headphones of his Walkman around his neck. The faint sound of The Outfield’s “Your Love” leaked out.

“Relax, Quill. It’s just a power conduit. I’m just… rerouting the auxiliary feedback. I think.” Annie’s tongue was poked out in concentration. She gave the cable a gentle tug.

A blur of brown fur and indignation shot down from the spacecraft’s roof. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What did I just say?!” Rocket landed with a soft thump between Annie and the panel, his small paws grabbing the other end of the cable. “If my memory’s still working, we had a little chat about your tiny earth brain and superior technology.”

Annie’s grip tightened. She met his beady, furious eyes without flinching. “It wasn’t a ‘chat’, it was a threat, which I strongly disagree with.”

The commotion drew an audience. Gamora and Nebula emerged from the shadowy hayloft, their expressions a perfect study in stoic and skeptical. Baby Groot, who had been trying to see his reflection in a hubcap, toddled over, intrigued by the raised voices.

“I am Groot!” he piped up, looking from Rocket’s snarling face to Annie’s determined one.

Rocket snorted, not taking his eyes off Annie. “Okay, okay, he says he is ‘well educated by human emotions due to a doctor on the tv’.” Rocket’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “He would say you have an unhealthy need to prove yourself, which, not the words I would use, but the point gets across.”

“I am Groot,” Groot added, nodding sagely.

Rocket rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. “And that you should tune in every day at 3:00. For the doctor. Ugh.”

Annie raised an eyebrow, her patience wearing thinner than the knees on her favorite jeans. “I have a need, alright, to see things through! And to stand up to annoying, condescending talking raccoons!”

A low, dangerous growl rumbled in Rocket’s chest. Peter stepped forward, hands raised like a tiny, denim-clad peacemaker. “Hey, guys, maybe we should just—"

But it was too late. With a yank born of pure spite, Annie reclaimed the cable. The alien tech hummed louder in her grasp. “Uh huh, I’m no ‘tv doctor’,” she said, her voice sharp with anger, “but it seems like it’s you who is insecure about his position and fears competition, so why don’t you tune in at 3:00?!”

Peter blinked, looking baffled. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He glanced at Gamora and Nebula for help. Gamora just shook her head slowly, while Nebula offered a tiny shrug, just as lost.

Enraged, Rocket made a grab for the cable. As Annie tried to twist away, her thumb scraped hard at a patch of black corrosion on one of the connector nodes.

There was a sudden, high-pitched whine that made everyone’s teeth vibrate. The cyan light in the cable flared into a blinding white.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” Peter yelled, diving behind a bale of hay.

The world erupted in a concussive WHOMP of sound and force. A shower of sparks and acrid black smoke filled the barn. Annie and Rocket were thrown backward as one, slamming against the weathered wood of the wall with twin grunts before sliding to the floor in a heap.

Silence descended, broken only by the ringing in their ears and the gentle plink of falling debris.

Annie sat up, dazed, a fine layer of soot covering her face and her Rainbow Brite t-shirt. Her hair was smoking slightly. She blinked slowly, her eyes unfocused. “I cleaned my room, mom,” she mumbled to no one in particular. “Can I use the computer now?”

Next to her, Rocket shook his head, scattering ash. He looked down at his singed fur, then over at Annie. His nose twitched. He gave her a death glare that could curdle milk, a low, continuous growl building in his throat.

From behind the hay bale, three heads—Peter, Gamora, and Nebula—popped up, their eyes wide. Groot, unharmed, waddled over to the two soot-covered adversaries, pointed, and giggled.

“I am Groot.”