Chapter Text
You barreled onto the Milano, limbs tangled, lungs screaming for air, and the familiar hiss of the boarding ramp sealing behind you hit like a sweet promise: safety. Temporary, but real. Escape. Relief. Every fiber in your body trembled from the near-death chase, the explosions, the Badoon screaming, and the raw terror of seeing Rocket and the others restrained and in danger.
Pete was already in the cockpit, grinning wildly as the Milano shuddered and lifted off, blasting into open space before anyone else had a chance to process what had just happened.
“Woo! That’s how you make an exit, people!” he shouted, hands dancing over the controls like he hadn’t just survived the most intense boarding situation of his life.
Drax was trailing behind him with a growl that sounded more like protest than complaint. “I did not get to fell enough of them!” he bellowed, slamming a fist against the railing of the walkway as if the ship were a personal sparring partner.
You didn’t have time for arguments or congratulations. Your eyes locked on Rocket, and instinct—or perhaps sheer pent-up relief—drove you to your knees. You wrapped your arms around him without hesitation, hauling him close, ignoring the blood, the dirt, the sweat, the singed fur. His claws scraped briefly against your shoulders as he froze, surprised. For half a heartbeat, the world collapsed to the two of you, the chaos outside the ship reduced to nothing.
Then you kissed him. Hard. Desperately. Like you might not get another chance, like this single moment could undo the last hour of terror. His nose bumped yours awkwardly, his ears flicked back in startled surprise—but then he responded, claws clenching in reflexive anticipation, teeth grazing your lips briefly as he returned your assault with all the fervor of someone who had just realized you were alive. He was tense, raw, fierce—but trusting.
You didn’t pull back. Not even when you realized you were on the Milano, in plain view of the rest of the crew. Not when you felt Rocket’s arms tighten around your neck, tail brushing your side with each eager movement. Not when the adrenaline still coursed through you, making your heartbeat feel like it was synchronized with the hum of the ship’s engines.
Gamora rolled her eyes from across the cargo bay, her expression amused but affectionate. “Honestly,” she said dryly, “I should have expected that.” She left without another word, leaving you and Rocket alone in your own moment amid the hum of the engines and the steady shudder of escape.
Rocket finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his muzzle brushing against your cheek as he let out a low, ragged laugh. “You… you’re insane,” he muttered, voice rough with exertion and something warmer.
“And you’re… impossibly hot when you do that tech-magic thing,” you shot back, grin splitting across your face despite the lingering panic and exhaustion.
He smirked, wicked and satisfied.
Your hands traced along his jaw and down his neck, brushing against the rough fur and the residual cuts from the muzzle, clinging to him like you wouldn’t let go. The ship rocked gently as Pete piloted through the debris-strewn expanse of space, and for a moment, the only reality that mattered was that Rocket was here. Alive. Safe. Fighting by your side.
And damn it, you weren’t going to hold back. Not now. Not ever.
The ship surged forward, lights flickering across the metallic hull, alarms still faintly echoing from damaged systems, but inside the Milano, you were home. For the first time in hours, with Rocket pressed to you, alive and infuriatingly perfect, and the rest of your ragtag family somehow still in one piece.
You pressed another lingering kiss to his lips, teeth grazing briefly, and whispered against him, “We’re not done here.”
Rocket’s claws tightened around your shoulders, a promise and a warning all in one. “Good.”
The Milano shuddered again as Pete veered around a damaged section of the Badoon warship, sparks showering from ripped conduits outside the viewport. The hum of the engines was steady but strained, groaning against the sudden bursts of acceleration as Pete threaded the ship through the debris.
You and Rocket stayed close, chest-to-chest for a few more seconds before the reality of the mission—or survival—pulled you back. He shook his head, brushing the dirt and blood-soaked fur off his forehead, beads in his beard bouncing lightly against your shoulder. You caught the faint clink, and it was almost enough to make you cry with relief.
“Stay with me, hotshot,” you murmured, gripping his arms as he moved to check the ship’s systems, eyes sharp and scanning.
He shot you a sideways glance, half-smirk, half-grimace. “I am trying to keep us alive, and here you are, telling me how hot I am. Helpful.”
“Extremely helpful,” you corrected, letting a hint of your adrenaline-spiked humor slip through. “Keeps me sane while you save our asses.”
Rocket growled softly—an amused, frustrated sound—before leaning into the console, tapping away at lights that flickered erratically. Every clawed movement was precise, quick, practiced. You watched him, half in awe, half in disbelief at how calm and focused he could be after what you’d all just been through. The confidence radiating from him made your chest ache in relief and something else—something harder to name.
“Alright, we’ve got damage to port thrusters,” Rocket muttered, low and fast, “and half the sensors are fried. Comms are a joke. I can patch something together, but don’t expect it to last.”
Pete, still shouting over the engine thrums, laughed. “Yeah, and we just dodged death like it was a morning traffic jam. Calm down, Rocket!”
Rocket shot him a look that could curdle coolant, sharp enough to make you flinch. “You think I’m calm?” he barked, and then muttered under his breath, “I am not calm.”
“Neither am I,” you admitted, brushing a hand over his arm briefly. Just a touch. Grounding. He glanced at you, eyes flickering for a split second with something like recognition. Then he turned back to the console, but the twitch of his mouth betrayed it—a small, nearly imperceptible smirk.
Drax leaned against the railing, arms folded, head cocked like a predator observing a hunt. “You are both… strange,” he said, deadpan, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he found it… amusing.
“Strange keeps us alive,” you muttered back, glancing at Rocket. He didn’t argue. Didn’t need to. His attention was divided between keeping the ship functional and—just enough—to notice you.
Groot leaned over the console rail, vines brushing the panels like he was trying to help. “I am Groot,” he murmured, almost to himself, but you understood the tone. Protective. Reassuring.
Rocket gave a sharp exhale, shoulders loosening slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” he said quietly, almost to Groot—but you heard it too. Almost like a promise.
You leaned against him again, careful not to distract him, and whispered, “That was insane.”
For a brief moment, in the chaos, the trembling Milano, and the lingering echoes of the Badoon attack, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you—trust, adrenaline, and shared survival.
Then the ship jolted again as debris scraped along the hull. Pete shouted, Drax roared, Groot’s vines twitched—but Rocket’s claws moved faster than any of them, tapping, sliding, rerouting.
“Hold on,” he muttered, and you tightened your grip on his arm, letting him feel that tether, that reminder that he wasn’t alone. That he didn’t have to be.
And for the first time since the Badoon had boarded, Rocket didn’t flinch, didn’t growl, didn’t fight it. He just… moved. And you moved with him.
Because out here, in the quiet terror of deep space, he was your anchor. And you were his.
The Milano shuddered violently one last time as you cleared the debris field, sparks flickering off the hull from torn conduits. Then—finally—open space. Pure, empty, infinite. Stars stretched ahead like a promise, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the alarms weren’t screaming. The engines hummed in steady, controlled rhythm.
Pete threw his hands up in triumph. “Woo! Look at that beauty! Nothing like the smell of freedom in the morning!”
Drax, still scanning the sensors with a frown that betrayed both irritation and relief, grunted. “I prefer when enemies do not chase us through space.”
Groot’s luminous eyes flicked from the viewport to Rocket, then to you. “I am Groot.” His tone was simple, but the weight behind it made you smile—a calm reassurance that everything was intact, for now.
And then you realized… the ship wasn’t shaking, lights weren’t flashing, nobody was shooting at you. The immediate danger was gone.
You exhaled sharply, letting the tension drain from your shoulders, though adrenaline still throbbed in your chest. Your hands immediately found Rocket’s, gripping him with a mixture of relief and lingering panic. He looked up at you, and you could see the exhaustion in his furrowed brow, in the set of his shoulders—but also the quiet satisfaction that came from surviving, from outsmarting a force that had underestimated him at every turn.
“You… you’re alive,” you breathed, voice low, trembling slightly. “All of you. And… you’re here.”
He blinked, caught off-guard for just a fraction of a second before a smug, satisfied smirk spread across his muzzle. “Yeah? Guess I do clean up nice under pressure.” He tilted his head, claws brushing lightly against your wrist as if testing the ground for tension.
Pete clapped from the cockpit. “Awww, this is adorable. Get a room, you two!”
“Pete, now is not the time,” you muttered, but couldn’t hide your grin.
Drax leaned against the console, arms crossed, expression as unyielding as stone. “Yes, this… is ridiculous. Yet somehow, I am glad you are not dead.”
Groot made a low, satisfied rumble, wrapping one vine around the base of the console, just close enough to brush your shoulder, anchoring you. “I am Groot.”
Rocket let out a short huff, looking back at the crew for a moment, eyes scanning the systems. “Alright, all safe… for now. But let’s not get sentimental. We still have a ship to fly and bad guys to kill if we run into trouble.”
And in that moment—floating in the quiet hum of the Milano, surrounded by stars and the battered crew you’d all survived with—you let yourself breathe. You let yourself feel relief. You let yourself hold Rocket close, and he let himself stay there, no pretense, no restraint, just… trust.
For now, the war was over. For now, the two of you could exist in the small bubble of victory, laughter, and adrenaline that had carried you here.
The Milano hummed steadily, gliding through open space with the ease of a predator returning to familiar territory. The tension that had gripped every muscle for hours was finally starting to ebb, replaced by shaky laughter, quiet sighs, and the small noises of crew settling back into routine.
Pete leaned back in his pilot’s chair, tossing an empty ration wrapper over his shoulder. “You know, I never thought I’d be so glad to see this place after that.” His grin was sheepish, a little embarrassed at the sheer chaos he’d survived.
Drax, pacing near the weapons console, muttered as though to himself, “Next time, fewer traps, more fighting. I prefer clear objectives.” He shot a glance at Pete, who shrugged helplessly, still flushed from the adrenaline.
Groot sat cross-legged on the floor, vines curling loosely around the console. He hummed softly, a quiet reassurance that grounded the room. “I am Groot,” he said, and the simplicity of it made you exhale fully for the first time.
You slid over to Rocket as he leaned against the bulkhead, fur still matted from exertion, claws catching faintly on the fabric of your shirt as you brushed past him. His braided beard swung lightly with the movement, beads clinking softly, almost like a private metronome marking the slow return of calm.
“You know,” you said, voice low, almost teasing despite the exhaustion in your limbs, “you are still incredibly hot, even after getting beaten half to death and saving all our asses.”
Rocket huffed a short, ragged laugh, tail flicking irritably as he tilted his head to meet yours. “I told you. High stress, high stakes—look good, kick ass, survive.” His smirk was smug, satisfied, and somehow private, as if it belonged only to you.
“I don’t know if I can survive not kissing you after that,” you whispered, brushing a hand along his jaw. The beads in his braids clinked again, nudging against your wrist.
He leaned closer, just enough for your foreheads to touch, the faint smell of burnt circuits and motor oil clinging to him. “Yeah? Well, lucky for you, I don’t mind.”
Pete groaned theatrically from the cockpit. “Oh, for crying out loud! I literally just saved your life, and now you’re making out in the hallway! Come on!”
“Pete,” you said, voice still low, not even trying to hide the grin, “stop being jealous.”
Drax, unbothered by the display, shook his head slowly. “This is… illogical. Does Peter Quill desire the rodent for himself?”
Rocket let out a short, amused bark, tugging you slightly closer. “See? Even Drax gets it. Not that I need his approval, but, y’know… bonus.”
The room felt warmer suddenly, safer, even with the ship still carrying scars from the fight. Every complaint from Drax, every rumble from Groot, every soft exhale from you, threaded together—a quiet testament that you had all survived, together.
And in that moment, amidst laughter, lingering adrenaline, and the hum of the Milano, you realized how tightly your life had intertwined with Rocket’s. Chaos could take the corridors, the alarms, the fighting—but it couldn’t touch this. Not here. Not now.
The door to your bunk hissed shut behind you, muffling the distant hum and chatter of the rest of the crew. The small room was dim, lit only by a strip of amber light along the bulkhead, casting long shadows across his fur and the few pieces of furniture in the room.
You sank onto the edge of the bed, shoulders sagging with exhaustion, and Rocket immediately slid into the space beside you, careful of your proximity but close enough that his warmth seeped into your side. His eyes scanned your face briefly, gauging if you were really okay, before letting his gaze drop to his hands, scarred and bloodied from the fight.
“’M’fine,” you said softly, though your voice still trembled from adrenaline. “You—” your words caught in your throat. You exhaled, pressing a hand to his arm. “You look like shit.”
Rocket let out a low, tired growl, not quite a purr, not quite a bark. His claws flexed against the fabric of your shirt. “Yeah… but still kickin’. Thanks to you, mostly.”
You smirked, brushing your fingers along the side of his face, over the matted fur, careful not to touch any of the raw spots. “Mostly me? Don’t sell yourself short, Rocket. You saved all of us back there.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah… well, high stress, high stakes. Makes a guy do stupid stuff. Or smart stuff. Hard to tell sometimes.”
You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “I know which one it was.”
For a long moment, you just sat together, the quiet punctuated only by your shared breaths and the faint click of beads in his beard as he shifted slightly closer. The proximity felt natural. You reached up, brushing am unruly tuft of fur from his cheek, and he leaned into it, jaw relaxing against your fingers.
“I don’t know how I’d do this without you,” he murmured, voice low, almost vulnerable. “Without you… everything’s worse.”
Your chest tightened. “You won’t have to find out,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Rocket’s tail brushed along your leg, a gentle reminder of his presence, and you leaned forward, letting your forehead rest against his. The sharp edges of exhaustion and adrenaline softened in that contact, replaced by a quiet intimacy that had nothing to do with words.
“You smell like trouble,” you teased lightly, trying to draw out a laugh.
“I am trouble,” he replied with a faint, exhausted grin, the first real one since the Badoon ship. “But… I’m your trouble now.”
You reached over, tracing a careful line along his jaw, and he let out a low hum, eyes closing briefly. It was the kind of quiet that only came after survival, after danger passed, when the world outside didn’t matter quite as much as the person right in front of you.
No one else. No alarms. No chaos. Just the two of you, breathing in sync, tangled together in the relief of being alive, and the unspoken certainty that you’d face whatever came next together.
The room was quiet except for the soft hiss of the ship’s systems, a soothing contrast to the chaos you’d just escaped. Rocket slumped on the edge of the mattress, still tense, shoulders rigid even in the dim, safe space of your quarters. You slipped from the bed and knelt before him, letting your hands hover for a moment before settling on the side of his face, gently brushing the fur away to reveal the bruises and lacerations left by the muzzle.
“Rocket,” you murmured softly, your fingers tracing the dark marks along jaw. “These look terrible. You need to let me see.”
He tensed under your touch, claws flexing slightly, but didn’t push you away. “I’m fine,” he muttered, teeth gritting as his lips curled into a stubborn snarl.
“I know, I know,” you said gently, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his head before continuing. “But I need to make sure you really are.”
Your hands moved with care, cleaning away the dried blood and grime, your fingers brushing over his fur gently. He flinched at first, growling under his breath, but didn’t stop you.
“You’re… really going to poke at all of this?” he grumbled, voice low, strained, but the tension in his body softened slightly as you worked.
“Yes,” you replied simply. “Every inch. You survived, and I’m not taking any chances.”
You traced along his flanks, pressing gently over ribs that had taken hits. His claws flexed at your wrist instinctively, but he allowed your careful inspection. The fur around his shoulders was matted with blood and dirt; you worked methodically, wiping it away and letting your hands linger to soothe the bruised muscles.
“You’re… ridiculous,” he muttered, a faint huff of laughter escaping even as he winced at a particularly sore spot. “I told you I’m fine. Don’t need all this fuss.”
“I know you’re stubborn,” you said, brushing your fingers over a darkening bruise. “But stubborn doesn’t mean indestructible. I want to make sure you’re okay, Rocket. That’s all.”
He sighed, a soft, exasperated sound, but leaned slightly into your touch, letting you check him. “You’re… dangerous when you focus like that,” he said, a small, crooked grin tugging at his muzzle. “I might… start liking this. Maybe.”
You laughed softly, brushing your fingers through his fur. “Good. You should like it. You’ve earned it.”
Your hands lingered over the worst of the bruises, tracing along the harsh lines left by the muzzle, pressing lightly to soothe the muscle memory of pain. He flinched once, a sharp intake of breath escaping him, and you paused, letting him adjust.
“You’re… being too careful,” Rocket muttered, shaking his head slightly, though his tail brushed lightly against your leg in acknowledgment of your care.
“I’m always careful with you,” you replied, voice soft. “You’re worth it.”
For a long moment, you continued, methodically tending to the damage. The ship hummed around you both. The chaos of the Badoon, the fear, the adrenaline—it all seemed impossibly far away. Only the quiet intimacy remained, a stark contrast to the violence that had nearly claimed you both.
Rocket finally exhaled, a low, relieved sound, and leaned his head against your shoulder. “Okay… okay, maybe you’re right,” he muttered, voice rough but tinged with something softer. “This… helps. Don’t stop.”
And you didn’t.
Rocket complained the entire time.
Not convincingly.
But consistently.
“You are way too calm about all this,” he grumbled as you dabbed antiseptic carefully along a scrape near his shoulder. “Normal people panic after prison breaks.”
“You hacked a warship in the dark while wearing a literal bomb strapped to your face,” you replied without looking up. “I think my threshold for ‘concerning behavior’ shifted a little tonight.”
“Hm.” He huffed through his nose. “Fair.”
The bunk was warm now, the small heater tucked somewhere beneath the floor panels humming softly beneath the constant vibration of the Milano’s engines. It smelled faintly medicinal from the supplies you’d dragged out of the medkit, layered over oil, metal, and Rocket himself.
He sat on the edge of the bunk while you knelt between his feet, methodically working through every visible injury despite his increasingly theatrical objections.
“That one’s barely a scratch.”
“It’s still bleeding.”
“Barely.”
“You are literally proving my point.”
Rocket muttered something under his breath in at least two languages before letting his head thunk lightly against the wall behind him.
The amber light overhead caught against the beads in his beard, making them glint every time he moved. They clicked softly together whenever he tilted his head to watch you work.
Which he kept doing.
You could feel his eyes on you even when you weren’t looking directly at him.
Not guarded now.
Just…fixed there.
Present.
You cleaned another scrape near his wrist carefully, thumb brushing through singed fur. His claws flexed once against the blanket beneath him.
“Hold still,” you murmured.
“I am holdin’ still.”
“You’re fidgeting.”
“I’m injured. Dramatically.”
That earned a quiet laugh from you.
Rocket’s ears twitched at the sound.
The tension in the room eased another fraction.
You reached carefully toward his side, fingers brushing the edge of his shirt where the bruising disappeared beneath the fabric. The second your fingertips grazed there, he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.
Your eyes lifted immediately.
“Rocket.”
“M’fine.”
“You are absolutely not fine.”
He opened his mouth to argue again.
Stopped.
Because you were already looking at him with that same steady expression that had apparently become his greatest weakness.
Patient.
Unmoved by his bullshit.
“…Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered.
“Like what?”
“Like you already know I’m gonna lose this argument.”
You smiled faintly.
“You are.”
Rocket groaned softly, dragging both hands down his face before glaring at the ceiling.
“This is humiliation,” he informed the universe.
“Take the shirt off.”
His eyes snapped back to yours immediately.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward exactly.
Just charged.
Different now.
Because this wasn’t adrenaline anymore.
Wasn’t frantic survival or stolen kisses in dark corridors.
This was quiet.
Intentional.
You saw the hesitation flicker across his face before he masked it with annoyance.
“…You askin’ or orderin’?”
“Asking,” you said gently. “But I’d really like to make sure your ribs are okay.”
Rocket looked away first.
His jaw tightened slightly as his claws hooked against the hem of the shirt.
For a second, you thought he might refuse out of sheer stubbornness.
Then he exhaled slowly.
“…Yeah. Okay.”
The words came quieter than usual.
Careful.
He tugged the shirt off with restrained irritation, movements stiff from bruising. Fur shifted beneath the warm light as the fabric peeled away, revealing scar tissue, old surgical seams, patches where metal met flesh beneath the surface.
And new damage.
Your chest tightened immediately.
The bruising along his side was ugly already—deep purple blooming beneath fur parted by the baton strikes. Angry burns cut through the darker marks in uneven streaks where the electrical current had caught him.
“Oh, Rocket…”
He immediately bristled.
“It looks worse than it is.”
“It looks bad.”
“M’still alive.”
“You say that like it’s an acceptable medical standard.”
“It’s worked so far.”
You sighed softly through your nose, reaching toward him slowly enough that he could pull away if he wanted to.
He didn’t.
Your fingers parted the fur carefully along his ribs, checking for swelling, deformity, breaks. Rocket went tense beneath your touch immediately—not from fear, but instinct. You could feel how hard he was trying not to flinch.
“You can tell me if something hurts.”
“Everything hurts.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s accurate.”
You pressed lightly along one rib.
Rocket hissed.
“Sorry.”
“No, y’ain’t.”
“…Okay, maybe not.”
His tail flicked weakly against the mattress beside him as you continued the examination with maddening patience. Every careful touch grounded him a little more despite himself.
You could feel it happening.
The way his breathing slowly eased.
The way his shoulders stopped locking up every time your hands moved.
The way he started leaning into your touch without realizing it.
Finally, after checking the last bruised section near his flank, you exhaled quietly in relief.
“Nothing feels broken.”
Rocket visibly relaxed.
Only slightly.
But enough that you noticed.
“Told you.”
“You also told me you were ‘fine,’ which was a lie.”
“Slight exaggeration.”
“Rocket.”
“Selective truth.”
You laughed again, softer this time.
And something in his expression changed when he heard it.
The sharpness easing.
The exhaustion underneath finally showing through.
He watched you as you cleaned the burn marks carefully, your fingers gentle against skin made hypersensitive by electricity and bruising.
“You know,” he said quietly after a while, voice rough with fatigue, “most people don’t stick around for this part.”
Your hands stilled briefly before continuing.
“What part?”
He shrugged one shoulder.
“The ugly part.”
You looked up immediately.
Really looked at him.
At the bruises.
The scars.
The exhaustion dragging at his posture.
The stubborn vulnerability he kept trying to hide beneath sarcasm and teeth.
Then you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against the edge of one dark bruise along his ribs.
Rocket froze.
Completely froze.
When you pulled back, his eyes were wide with something dangerously close to emotion.
“You don’t get to decide what parts of you are worth caring about,” you said softly.
For once—
Rocket had absolutely nothing to say to that.
Rocket stayed still beneath your hands.
Not tense this time.
Just tired.
The kind of tired that settled deep into the bones after adrenaline burned itself out. After terror finally loosened its grip enough for the body to realize what it had survived.
You sat back slightly on your heels, antiseptic cloth still loosely clutched in one hand, and looked up at him properly.
Really looked at him.
At the bruises blooming dark beneath his fur.
The raw grooves the muzzle had carved into his face.
The exhaustion dragging at his posture despite the way he kept trying to sit upright like he could sheer-force-of-will himself back into fighting shape.
And suddenly—
it all hit you again.
Not in flashes this time.
All at once.
The moment he’d been dragged away from you.
The sound of the stun baton cracking against him.
The image of him disappearing down that corridor while you screamed and fought and failed to reach him.
Waking up alone.
Not knowing where he was.
Whether he was hurt.
Whether he was alive.
Then finding him again with a bomb literally strapped to his face.
Your chest tightened so hard it hurt.
Rocket must have seen something shift in your expression because his ears twitched forward slightly, concern immediately replacing some of the fatigue in his gaze.
“…Hey,” he said quietly.
You swallowed.
Tried to answer.
Didn’t quite manage it.
His claws flexed once against the blanket beneath him as he leaned forward slightly.
“Hey,” he repeated, gentler this time. “We’re okay.”
The words nearly undid you.
Because you weren’t okay.
Not really.
Not yet.
You were alive.
You had escaped.
But the fear was still sitting under your skin, tangled around your ribs like wire.
And he was right here.
Warm beneath your hands.
Breathing.
You leaned in before you could overthink it.
Just…moved.
Your hand slid up along the side of his face carefully, thumb brushing beneath one ear as you kissed him again.
Softly.
Not desperate.
Not frantic.
Just unable not to.
Rocket made a quiet sound against your mouth—surprised at first more than anything—and then immediately melted into it.
One hand reached out instinctively, settling against your waist.
His claws caught lightly against the fabric there before relaxing again.
You could feel the exhaustion in the kiss now.
The relief.
The lingering ache of almost losing each other threaded through every slow movement.
Rocket kissed you back carefully at first, like he could feel the emotion bleeding through it and didn’t quite know what to do with that.
Then softer.
Closer.
His forehead bumped lightly against yours when you shifted nearer, beads in his beard clicking faintly as they brushed your wrist.
Your breathing mingled in the small room.
Warm.
Uneven.
Alive.
When you finally pulled back slightly, Rocket didn’t let you get far.
His hand tightened at your side just enough to keep you there, amber eyes searching your face with startling openness.
“…You scared the hell outta me too, y’know,” he admitted quietly.
The confession landed with more weight than anything louder could have.
You blinked at him.
Rocket looked away for half a second like he immediately regretted saying it out loud.
“Watchin’ them drag you off like that…” His jaw tightened briefly. “Couldn’t get to you. Couldn’t do anything.”
“You got to me,” you whispered.
Eventually.
Against impossible odds.
Against an entire warship.
Against torture and bombs and prison cells and every bad decision in the galaxy.
Rocket huffed softly through his nose.
“Yeah. Well.” His ears dipped slightly. “Still hated it.”
You smiled weakly despite yourself, brushing your fingers gently through the fur near his jaw again.
“I noticed.”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Then his expression softened again almost immediately.
His gaze drifted over your face like he was reassuring himself you were actually here.
Safe.
Real.
“You got knocked out,” he muttered after a moment, sounding vaguely accusatory about it.
“You got imprisoned in a cage and electrocuted repeatedly.”
“Yeah, but I had a plan.”
You stared at him.
Rocket stared back for exactly two seconds before his mouth twitched.
Then yours did too.
And suddenly you were both laughing quietly in the middle of your bunk—exhausted, bruised, emotionally wrecked laughter spilling out because the alternative was thinking too hard about how close this had all come to ending differently.
Rocket leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours again.
The laughter faded slowly.
Leaving only warmth behind.
“…C’mere,” he murmured eventually, voice rough with fatigue.
You didn’t hesitate.
You climbed carefully onto the bed beside him, mindful of bruises and burns and healing scrapes. Rocket immediately curled toward you instinctively, one arm wrapping around your waist as soon as you settled beside him.
Protective.
Possessive.
Relieved.
His face tucked briefly against your shoulder, warm breath ghosting against your skin as the ship hummed quietly around you.
And for the first time since the attack began—
Rocket finally let himself rest.
The words slipped out before you could second-guess them.
“…Stay with me.”
Your voice came out roughened by exhaustion, quiet enough that it barely disturbed the soft hum of the Milano around you. More breath than sound against the fur near Rocket’s temple.
But in the small bunk—
with the two of you curled together in the dim amber light—
it felt impossibly loud anyway.
Rocket stilled.
Not dramatically.
Not like he was surprised by the request itself.
More like the weight of it settled over him all at once.
Stay.
Not for now.
Not until the adrenaline faded.
Not until the next emergency.
Stay.
You felt the subtle pause ripple through him where he lay half-curled against you, his arm looped around your waist, his cheek pressed near your shoulder.
For one brief second, you wondered if maybe you shouldn’t have asked.
Maybe it was too much after everything.
Too vulnerable.
Too real.
Then Rocket shifted closer.
Not away.
Closer.
A quiet, instinctive movement, like his body had answered before his brain could get involved and complicate things.
His nose brushed lightly against your neck as he settled more fully against you, warm and solid and there. One leg hooked loosely against yours to avoid putting too much pressure on his bruised ribs, tail draping across your hip with lazy exhaustion.
He didn’t say yes.
Didn’t make a joke about it.
Didn’t deflect.
His claws simply traced slow, absent paths along your arm where he held you, the touch feather-light despite the sharpness of them.
A silent answer.
Your chest tightened painfully at the tenderness of it.
You turned your head slightly, lips brushing the top of one ear as you exhaled shakily.
“Okay,” you whispered, though you weren’t even sure what you were answering anymore.
Rocket made a soft sound low in his throat—not quite verbal, more vibration than anything else. Contentment edged with fatigue.
The room felt smaller now in the best possible way.
Safe.
Outside the bunk, the Milano continued on through open space. Somewhere down the corridor you could hear the muffled sound of Pete talking too loudly, followed by Gamora telling him to shut up. Drax laughed at something incomprehensible. Groot’s heavier footsteps creaked faintly overhead.
Home.
Alive.
Rocket’s claws continued their slow path against your skin, dragging gently up and down your forearm. Thoughtless now. Comforting himself as much as you.
You felt him breathe in deeply.
Then again.
The tension that had lived in his body since the Badoon attack was finally starting to loosen for real. You could feel it happening piece by piece where he rested against you.
His shoulders lowering.
His jaw unclenching.
The constant readiness to spring into violence easing just enough for exhaustion to finally sink its claws in.
Your fingers moved carefully through the fur at the back of his neck, slow and gentle.
Rocket practically melted.
Not all at once.
But enough that you felt the difference immediately.
A quiet exhale left him, warm against your collarbone, and suddenly the man who had fought through an entire warship like a feral storm looked unbearably tired.
“…Hey,” you murmured softly.
“Hm?”
“You can sleep, y’know.”
Rocket huffed weakly against your shoulder.
“Yeah, well.” His voice was already thickening slightly with exhaustion. “Makin’ sure you’re still here.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Your hand stilled briefly in his fur before continuing more carefully than before.
“I’m here,” you whispered.
His claws flexed lightly against your arm.
“…Good.”
Silence settled again after that.
Not awkward.
Not heavy.
Just intimate in the quietest way possible.
You could feel every slow breath he took.
Feel the warmth of him pressed along your side.
The faint click of beads in his beard whenever he shifted sleepily against you.
Eventually, Rocket tilted his head just enough to look up at you through half-lidded eyes.
The sharpness usually living there had dulled into something softer now. Open in a way he probably wouldn’t allow if he were fully awake.
“…Y’know,” he muttered sleepily, “this is real weird for me.”
You smiled faintly, brushing your thumb along one ear.
“Yeah?”
“Mm.” His eyes slipped closed again almost immediately. “Usually don’t… stay.”
Your heart ached quietly.
Not because the words were dramatic.
Because they weren’t.
He said them plainly.
Like a fact.
Like something he’d accepted about himself a long time ago.
You leaned down and kissed his forehead carefully, right between his ears.
“You can stay,” you whispered.
Rocket went very still for one fragile second.
Then he tucked himself impossibly closer, burying his face against your shoulder like he was hiding there.
And sometime later—
still tangled together beneath the low amber light of his bunk—
the both of you finally fell asleep.