Work Text:
𓆩༺✧༻𓆪
You wake up teetering on the edge of the bunk, with your foot throbbing and your heart in your mouth. It takes you a second to orient yourself — a process made a little easier by the fact that Rocket had doubled the number of tiny security-lights dazzling the edge of the floor in here, just for you.
God knows he doesn't need 'em — not with his eyeshine. He’d probably see just fine even if he had nothing but the void of space to guide him.
Gingerly, you roll onto your side — careful not to fall off thin mattress of the shelf-bed — and set your feet to the cold metal floor. Yeah, you must've done a number on your foot in your sleep — probably kicked the wall.
Cool.
You shake your nerves out — starting with your shoulders, then moving down to your fingertips — before bundling yourself up in a hoodie that would've been oversized on drax. Your fist scrubs at your face from inside one drooping sleeve; you wiggle your nose and scrape the sleep from your eyes.
Then you pad your way up to the Benatar's cockpit.
Rocket's there already, of course. You'd known he would be. Generally speaking, if there's no active crisis, he spends his nights snuggled up in the bunk: tucked neatly into your side, all warm fur and hard muscle and slow, even breaths. Maybe an arched brow and a red-moon eye, glaring at you balefully from under the crescent brush of his tail when he's pretending to be annoyed.
Pretending to be, because that’s all he does these days. You can tell he doesn’t have it in his heart to get really angry with you — not anymore. It had been a different story in the beginning, when the five mammals of the crew had been trying to figure out how to divide up the four tiny bunks in the M-ship.
“I need my own space for sleeping,” you’d said apologetically. The five words had been devoid of entitlement — you simply hadn’t wanted to impose your own sleepshift-miseries on anyone else.
But of course Rocket hadn’t understood that. How could he? He’d barely known you, and you hadn’t exactly been sharing all your secrets. Not yet, anyway. Instead, he’d bared his teeth and spit underhanded words at your feet like spent shell-casings, determined not to let you have your own quarters. You’d been ruefully impressed when he’d snarled and volunteered to bunk with you himself — just to spite you.
You’d perched on the thin mattress with your arms around your shins and your chin on your knees, watching as he’d rigged up a hammock in the corner, cussing the whole time. But you hadn’t bothered sleeping — blinking rapidly to ensure your eyes stayed open, to wake yourself up. When his stare — slitted and gleaming from the corner, studying you with visceral scarlet suspicion — had finally gone dark, you’d eased yourself from the bed and slipped out the door, drifting up the hatch to the bay where Groot was dozing, then down into the cockpit. Quietly, you’d curled up in the second row of seats with a datapad, and tried to keep yourself awake with a few archived games and some old reality holocasts. You hadn’t retreated to the bunk until you’d seen Rocket the next wakeshift: making a show of stretching his arms and sneering at you, telling the others how well he’d slept that night, as if anyone believed that was normal chatter for him.
You’d finally gotten a fitful few hours of sleep, only to wake up fistfighting your flimsy quilt, the insides of your throat ripped up from the force of your ragged gasps.
Thank goodness your roomie hadn’t been around.
You’d lasted through the next two cycles before the sleeplessness had caught up with you. Maybe you would have expected to make it a little longer, but between the battle of Xandar and the death of your most-lovable fellow crewmember, you’d been even more exhausted than usual.
And when the lights of the Milano had dimmed, sleep had claimed you — despite your best efforts.
“For fuck’s sake — what the hell—“
Those were the words that had ripped you from sleep — those words, and a weight on your chest, and two hands clamped around your wrists, pinning you to the bunk. You’d flailed — surged — and nearly thrown him off you in panic, but he’d held on like you were nothing more than a firearm with particularly pesky recoil. Then he’d buried his nose in the side of your throat and clamped down with teeth on the muscle bridging nevk to shoulder, and you’d frozen with a shudder.
The bite hadn’t been enough to break skin or bruise — not yet. It had only been a warning, the way a cat might scruff their babies.
A snarling, guttural little whimper had curled up from your throat — terrified, furious — before you’d remembered where you were and who you were with, and a sort of humiliated gratitude had you going limp beneath him.
“For fuck’s sake,” he’d repeated. The words had been growled around a mouthful of your shoulder before he’d cautiously released his teeth. “Is that why you keep bailing in the middle of the frickin’ sleepshift?”
You’d said nothing, defeated, and he’d finally let go of your wrists, rocking back into his heels — settling against your tummy. You could hear his tail flick along the knotted twist of sheets.
“I thought you were asleep,” you’d tried to explain weakly, and he’d palmed his face: thumb and forefingers digging into his orbital sockets as he’d shaken his head, then pulling at his whiskers as he’d dragged his exhausted hand downward. When he’d opened his glowing-garnet eyes, they’d glowered down at you.
“You’re lucky you didn’t break a fuckin’ bone against the wall. Or fall outta bed.”
You’d swallowed. “So lucky,” you’d agreed, though you certainly hadn’t felt it at the time.
Later, you reflect back on this moment and realize:
Yeah. So lucky. Less for avoiding broken bones, and more because this moment – this interaction — had been a spindle. A hairpin turn.
But at the time, he’d only squinted at you, then shaken his head again. “Unbelievable,” he’d muttered. “I finally get over my own nightmares, an’ now I gotta deal with yours?”
Your mouth had opened, then snapped shut as he’d clambered off your body — already missing the warmth and weight of him, which had been oddly reassuring. Grounding. You hadn’t been sure whether or not he’d meant for you to catch that. Later, you’d realized that along with deeply underestimating the physical resilience of Terran human bodies, he’d also underestimate your hearing.
All the time.
In that moment, however, he’d simply climbed back into his hammock and ordered you to keep it down and stop tryin’ to frickin’ break yourself.
𓆩༺✧༻𓆪
If there’d been an additional discussion to have, it had been lost in the next rotation’s debacle on Sovereign, and the subsequent bullshit on Berhert and Ego. And Yondu’s funeral. To be honest, it had slipped your mind entirely by the time you’d ended up on the Third Quadrant. The new ship had been so much bigger than the abandoned Milano, left alone and broken on Berhert — but the jackroom had been on the other three-quarters of the Ravager freighter, and now all those beds were just a handful of cinder scattered amongst the stars.
The only bunk remaining on the Quadrant was the Captain’s quarters.
Which meant that when you’d all finally decided to get some shut-eye, it had been a trial to find somewhere reasonable to sleep. You’d wandered away from the others — only to hear the soft rattle of Rocket’s claws on the grated catwalks behind you. Baffled, you’d half-turned, walking backward a few stumbling paces before you’d stopped abruptly and stared down at him.
“What’re you — why are you following me?”
Your voice had still been hollowed out from grief and exhaustion, and you’d been able to see the same things reflected in his tired ruby eyes. Still, it hadn’t prevented him from halting and folding his arms stubbornly over his chest, both brows arched.
“What? You thought you were gonna sleep alone? Here?”
You’d opened your mouth. Normally something dry and sarcastic would fall out — not mean, necessarily. Just a bit of smartassery before you turned your back and went on your way, resigned to him following you until you found a place to bed down.
But that’s not what had happened.
Maybe it had been the cycles of limited sleep, or the two back-to-back tragedies with Groot and Yondu, or the way that your body had ached all over with bruises from that imploded fucking planet. Maybe it had been because you had just overheard Rocket have such a tender moment with Pete, but he’d still seemed unable to forgive or forget whatever grudge he’d held against you, despite the fact that you’d never said a cruel word in his direction.
Maybe it had been any one of these small wounds. Maybe it had been the accumulation of them, like erosion. Either way, nothing had come out of your parted lips.
Instead, your eyes had stung, and your vision had blurred.
You’d frozen, stiff with horror. You’d known that if you were to blink, all those tears would spill out, and then it would’ve been game over.
Rocket would never let you live it down.
“Are you crying?”
It had sounded strange in your ears: less scathing than you'd have expected. More panicked. You’d wished you could blink out the tears so you could see his face, because you hadn’t trusted your hearing.
“N-no.”
It had been a blatant, obvious lie, fully ruined when you’d instinctively sniffled and the tears had fallen anyway.
“Goddammit,” you'd muttered under your breath. The words had wobbled. You'd tried to scowl at him, unable to take in the fact that his own eyes were wide too, ears flicked downward and tail tucked in at his ankle. “I’m not trying to be a dick, Rocket. I just don’t want to bother anyone with my nightmare-bullshit.”
He’d leaned back and uncrossed his arms. Schluffed his hands into his pockets and torn his eyes away from you, as if something off the edge of the catwalk had just caught his attention. Cleared his throat. Grimaced.
“I ain’t tryin’ to be a dick either. Just. Uh. Comes a little too natural, I guess.”
You’d blinked. The last, desperately-clinging teardrops had given up their tenuous balancing act on your lashes. “What?”
He’d cleared his throat again. His lip had curled in an ugly sneer — but not, you'd thought for the first time — not directed at you.
“Look,” he’d said, palming the nape of his neck and rolling his eyes, though he still hadn’t met yours. “M’not losin’ anyone else today, okay?”
Your brow had furled tight. “I’m not — I’m not going to get lost on the Quadrant. Not irrevocably, anyway.”
His ears had tilted upright again and he’d shot you a withering look. “I seen the way you sleep, kid. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t roll off a catwalk or punch scrapmetal — ‘specially in this place. Yoi’d prob’ly end up with tetanus.” He lifts his gaze to peer around the cavernous belly of the freighter, grudging admiration painted into his features. “This ship’s a frickin’ deathtrap.”
He’d sounded half-in-love already.
Still. You’d shaken your head, brow still furrowed and creased — uncertain what to make of his protests. “I’ll be okay. I’ll just find somewhere tucked away and—“
“You don’t sleep alone,” he’d interrupted sharply. Firmly. As if this were some old ship-rule you'd forgotten. “Not anymore. Not while you got these dreams.”
You couldn’t have realized it in that moment, of course. That you don’t sleep alone had meant you go to sleep at a normal hour, and I take care of things when you wake up swinging.
And he had.
The first few cycles you’d woken up with him on top of you, having abandoned his own hammock whenever you’d roused him with your tossing and turning. His warm weight had anchored you in place, and any panic you’d felt on waking had dwindled immediately underneath all that muscle and metal grounding you. Sometimes he’d use his teeth, but usually his strength and his scent were enough: holding you down, and bringing you back.
He’d smelled like autumnal forests, you’d realized at some point. Like pine and petrichor at midnight, and smoky cedar bonfires burnt bright under the stars. Sometimes the scent alone had seemed like enough to hold the dreams at bay.
If not for the scent, it would have been the songs, though. Rasped low along the dark, eternal night of deep space — etched amongst the stars. Pete’s songs, crooned deep and hushed long after the sound system had been turned off for the sleep-shift. Rocket’s gravelly, smoky voice had held you like a cradle, more comfortable and deep than the human-sized hammock he’d rigged up next to his.
You’d told yourself it had been another case of him underestimating your hearing. You’d been certain he never would have sung for you if he’d known you could hear him. So you hadn’t said a word — hoping instead that he wouldn’t notice how much the sound of his half-uttered lyrics always eased the set of your shoulders, or forced your breath into something steady and swept and slow.
Hoping he wouldn’t notice how much you had come to love his accidental lullabies.
Eventually, rough bunks had been constructed aboard the Eclector — enough for everyone to have their own — but he’d stayed with you, even when you’d encouraged him to take the peace and privacy of his own quarters.
“I used to have plenty of dreams, too,” he’d confided grudgingly one sleepshift, after you’d woken three times and he’d told you he was just gonna stay right there, slouched on top of your bedcovers beside you. His eyes, glowing in the light of the security-orbs, had been trained on the ceiling. He’d tucked both hands behind his head, and his voice had been so smoky and quiet that you’d almost dozed through it.
“Hmm?” you'd asked groggily, and he’d shrugged. His bent elbow had whispered against the pillow beside you.
“Just sayin’. If you ever wanna talk about ‘em.”
You’d licked your lips nervously, suddenly wide awake. “Someone’s trying to hurt me.” The words were a whisper on the dark — a gauzy shadow floating against the air. “Someone’s trying to hurt me. Sometimes I hurt them instead.”
For a long moment, he’d said nothing. Your muscles had begun to cramp beneath the blankets, slowly coiling with the slow dawning horror of what you’d revealed under the cloak of the sleepshift.
And then his voice had grazed your cheek — a rasping curl of smoke, dark as a ghost. Infinitely more reassuring. “Yeah. I been there, too.”
There had been another moment of quiet, only broken by the purr of the ship and the sound of his steady breathing. Fabric hushed against fabric as his chest rose and fell beside you. The shadows above you had spun lazily, and it had dawned on you that you’d been holding your breath. A shaky sigh had released it along with all your tension, and you’d melted against the blankets at his side.
You hadn’t even remembered falling asleep that time, and you hadn’t woken up until halfway through the next shift. The hesitant flutter of your eyelashes had revealed him still sitting beside you: half-turned now, with his spine pressed against the wall of the bunk.
Sharing a space had become so much easier after that. He’d be tinkering with something while you’d read yourself to sleep. Maybe you’d read him an interesting passage, or he’d raise an eyebrow at you when he caught you grinning at your datapad. Sometimes you’d show him a holovid that you’d thought would make him laugh, and then he would: teeth shining in a sharply-amused bite. Other times, you’d share an old memory, or something sad, and he’d give you a few whispered shreds of his history in the dark, tattered and quiet and haunting.
And sometimes, when you’d wake in the dark with your heart battering itself against your ribs, it wouldn’t be to the pressure of his knees in your shoulders or his hands on your wrists, or his teeth clamped gently against the side of your neck. Sometimes it would just be to the ghost of a callused thumb smoothing the divot between your brows, or the little scrape of claws tracing the edge of your hairline as he’d hummed you another unconsciousness, unintentional lullaby.
And on the rare occasion when you hadn’t been able to get back to sleep afterward, he’d rolled his eyes and forced you out of the bunk and up the hatch, turning on the hot-water generator and pouring you a cup of what he’d gruffly referred to as uh — sleepytime tea, or somethin’ like that. He hadn’t named it, he’d grumbled defensively — it was just something he’d stumbled across while hunting for a bounty on Inix, and he’d found that it had helped. Apparently, it was available in every spacestation and rations-depot in this sector, and he kept a stash down in storage.
“I’m grateful you’re sharing this with me,” you’d told him delicately, choosing each word with care. “I’ve tried something similar on Terra, and it didn’t help much.”
He’d set the steaming, chipped mug in front of you with an arched brow. It had smelled like oranges and honey and mint, and something a little medicinal.
“This ain’t Terran,” he’d informed you dryly. “It’ll knock you on your ass, and you probably won’t dream half as much. Or half as ugly.”
He’d been right. The tea had hit fast and hard, and you’d been a little too fuzzy the next day to be comfortable drinking it every night — but at least you'd gotten the sleep you'd needed for once.
By the time the Benatar had been built — with eight tiny bunks, and only seven of you to fill them — he hadn’t been bothering with his hammock anymore. It had dangled from the rafters in the corner like an empty, airless banner: the only casualty in a forgotten war. Instead, every night, you’d fall asleep with the warmth of him beside you, and the low rumble of him humming one of Pete’s songs under his breath.
He hadn’t given you the option of moving into a bunk by yourself, though there had been plenty to choose from.
And you hadn’t tried to.
𓆩༺✧༻𓆪
The dreams don’t come as often these days. You find that you never stare at the clock anymore, dread building in your bones as it ticks down till the sleepshift. Sometimes, you even look forward to it: curling up in your bunk with one ear pressed to Rocket’s chest, the thrum of his heartbeat and the hum of his lullaby both purring under your cheek while he draws little diagrams and schematics sightlessly onto the skin of your shoulder. It’s not even unheard of for you to doze off alone these days— not when there’s so much less to fear while you’re sleeping.
Which means sometimes — on missions like this, when time is of the essence and the Benatar needs to maximize its flighttime — Rocket doesn’t come down to the bunk till late.
You try to stay awake for him. He still doesn’t love the idea of you sleeping alone — for reasons exactly like this, you suppose, testing your sore foot as you move through the shadowed corridors to find him.
It’s not difficult, of course. Even if you didn’t know he was planning to fly through the shift, you think you’d feel his presence pulling you in like a meteorite. Overhead, the air vents gently rattle. The stars and the cockpit lights bloom in front of you. You can tell the moment Rocket realizes you've stepped on the flightdeck, no matter how quiet your slippers are against the metal-plate floors. His tail drapes over the edge of the pilot’s seat, and the tip gives a little flick and twitch when he hears you. Or smells you. Or does whatever he does to sense you, like he always seems to these days.
Then the striped brush settles into an indolent, hypnotic little sway that hadn’t been there before.
“Thought you’d come up, sooner or later,” he grunts, leaning to one side to nudge the copilot’s chair with his foot. It spins jerkily.
There’s a blanket already waiting for you, folded on the empty seat. A small, puffy pillow perches on top like a cloud.
A half-smile, tired and content, curls the corner of your mouth. Instead of sitting, you step toward him and lean over the back of his chair: threading your arms around his shoulders, resting your chin between his ears.
“When are you coming to bed?”
His reflection arches a brow against the stars. “If you’re okay sleepin’ up here, I’ll prob’ly just fly through the shift. Get there quicker.”
You frown at him in the armored glass. “I don’t like when you don’t sleep at all.”
His ears flutter, one gently flicking against your cheeks. You can hear his throat working, as if your concern for him is still hard to swallow, even after all this time. In the starshield, his hand rises, claws prickling along your forearm.
“I don’t need as much sleep as you. And it’s still gonna take us another two rotations to get there. I’ll nap when Pete takes over.”
You hum your discontent, and he rolls his eyes.
“It’ll go quicker with you here, anyway,” he mutters, and shrugs when you arch your own eyebrow at him. “What? You’re decent company.”
“Even if I’m asleep?”
He snorts. “Even better.” His eyes dart to yours in the glass: twin crimson stars, glinting playfully. “Less yappy.”
You scoff lightly and push yourself away from him. “I’m going to make some tea first,” you tell him, baking up toward the hatch. “Do you want anything from the galley?”
He shakes his head and takes one hand off the yoke to gesture to the cup holders he’d built into the console. “Already got what you need, sweetheart.”
Your eyes widen. Sure enough, there’s a covered thermal-mug waiting for you, keeping the tea he’d already brewed nice and hot. Your breath catches for a moment in your lungs. Then it sighs out of you, softening all your muscles with it. Another smile curves the corner of your mouth, bemused.
“You’re sweet.” It’s a hushed, conspiratorial accusation. He sputters while you settle into the copilot’s seat, tucking the pillow beside you as you spread the blanket over your lap. There’s a medpack compress on the pile too — probably intended for any bruised bodyparts you might’ve sustained. You crack it to activate the cooling function, then wrap it snugly around the arch of your foot. The ache fades almost immediately, and when you reach for your thermal-mug, the ceramic warms your palms.
“Don’t worry,” you add, slanting a teasing grin in his direction as you slide open the cap. A curl of steam twists through the air, tickling your nose: oranges and honey, cinnamon and mint. Something medicinal. And underneath that, his own scent: pine and petrichor, and the warm rich scent of an autumn forest floor. Cedar and smoke, and midnights under the stars. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“You better not,” he rumbles at you. “I gotta frickin’ reputation to maintain. Or whatever.”
“Mmhmm,” you murmur agreeably, not bothering to tell him that you’re pretty sure that anyone who’s seen him with Groot would say that his reputation had already been shot to hell.
Probably anyone who had seen him with you would say it, too.
You sit with him against the stars for an hour or longer, much like you’ve done — well, probably a hundred times or more by now. Underneath the drowsy purr of the Benatar, clones of Pete’s old music continue to croon low and sweet. You sip at your tea and let the warmth soothe away any lingering tension.
Beside you, Rocket croons along to Pete’s music, and your lashes grow heavy. The stars soften outside the armored glass, turning into quiet divine halos and faint shimmers in the dark.
You rouse a little when Rocket’s fingers pluck at yours, uncurling them from the mug. He tugs your pillow into a better position, and you feel him pull the soft oversized blanket up to your chin. Claws trace the shape of your brow, and low on the star-shivering air, you hear him rasp, “Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”
You snuggle in, unafraid of what might come to you in your sleep.
And beside you, Rocket hums.
𓆩༺✧༻𓆪