Work Text:
The workshop was dark.
Not completely.
Rocket never worked in complete darkness.
A few suspended work lamps cast pools of cold white light across cluttered benches. Half-disassembled blasters hung from magnetic racks. Wiring spilled from open panels like exposed veins. Tiny indicator lights blinked throughout the room, green and blue and amber.
The Benatar itself hummed around him.
Alive.
Breathing.
Always breathing.
Rocket sat hunched over a workbench near the rear bulkhead.
A plasma rifle lay disassembled in front of him.
Drax's.
Again.
The idiot somehow managed to break something every mission.
Rocket's hands moved automatically.
Remove housing.
Check capacitor.
Replace damaged coil.
Reassemble.
Test.
Done.
His hands never stopped moving.
If they stopped moving, he started thinking.
And thinking was dangerous.
The rifle clicked together beneath his claws.
Functional.
Ready.
Finished.
Rocket shoved it aside.
Reached for the next project.
Mantis' communicator.
The casing had cracked.
Simple repair.
Easy.
Easy was good.
Easy meant his brain stayed occupied.
The tiny screwdriver spun between his fingers.
Turn.
Remove.
Replace.
Turn.
Replace.
Turn.
Replace.
Mechanical.
Predictable.
Safe.
Machines made sense.
Machines always made sense.
He knew what every piece did.
Knew why it existed.
Knew how to fix it when it broke.
If something malfunctioned, there was a reason.
A cause.
A solution.
A replacement part.
Simple.
Unlike people.
Unlike himself.
His gaze drifted downward.
Toward his own arm.
Metal glinted beneath fur where the cybernetics disappeared into flesh.
Cold.
Permanent.
Wrong.
The screwdriver stopped turning.
Rocket stared.
The workshop suddenly felt quieter.
The ship's hum louder.
His heartbeat louder.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
His claws flexed.
Metal.
Wires.
Artificial reinforcement.
Synthetic tendons.
Support structures.
Implants.
Augmentations.
Upgrades.
Repairs.
The words bounced around inside his skull.
Upgrades.
Repairs.
Modifications.
Things people did to machines.
Things people did to him.
His stomach twisted.
Rocket looked back at the communicator in front of him.
Broken.
Fixed.
Broken.
Fixed.
The distinction felt thinner than it should have.
A machine was built.
Made.
Constructed.
Opened.
Modified.
Improved.
Changed.
He swallowed hard.
His eyes drifted toward the reflection in a dark monitor.
A raccoon stared back.
No.
Not a raccoon.
Not really.
Something else.
Something assembled.
Something altered.
Something that should never have existed.
The High Evolutionary's voice surfaced from memory.
Sharp as a blade.
Cruel as ever.
Subject eighty-nine.
Excellent progress.
Further modifications approved.
Rocket's jaw clenched.
The screwdriver bent slightly in his grip.
He remembered tables.
Straps.
Needles.
Saws.
Metal.
Always metal.
Cutting.
Removing.
Replacing.
Opening.
Fixing.
Improving.
Making.
The memories came fast.
Too fast.
His breathing shortened.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
The lights brighter.
The walls closer.
Rocket shoved away from the bench.
The chair crashed backward.
The noise barely registered.
Because suddenly he could feel everything beneath his skin.
The implants.
The reinforcement bars.
The ports.
The machinery.
The things inside him.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
His claws dug into his arm.
Hard.
Pain flashed.
Good.
Good.
At least that was real.
At least pain made sense.
Rocket's breathing became ragged.
He clawed harder.
Fur tore.
Skin split.
Blood surfaced.
Still not enough.
Still couldn't feel where he ended and the machinery began.
His hands moved lower.
Toward his chest.
Toward the places he hated most.
The places hidden beneath fur.
The places nobody ever saw.
Metal beneath flesh.
Support structures.
Reinforcements.
Implants.
Evidence.
Proof.
Proof he wasn't real.
The thought hit with horrifying certainty.
Not an animal.
Not a person.
Not anything.
Just something built.
Something assembled.
A project.
An experiment.
A machine pretending to be alive.
His claws dug into old scars.
Rocket hissed through clenched teeth.
The pain barely mattered.
He wanted deeper.
Wanted underneath.
Wanted to tear the metal out.
Rip it free.
Get it out.
Get it—
A sharp sting burned across his chest.
Blood.
More blood.
His vision blurred.
He barely noticed.
His claws hooked against scar tissue.
Pulling.
Digging.
Trying.
Trying.
Trying.
The door opened.
Rocket didn't hear it.
Didn't notice footsteps.
Didn't notice anything.
Until—
"Rocket?"
Your voice.
Soft.
Confused.
Concerned.
The world stopped.
Rocket froze.
Every muscle locking instantly.
His claws still buried in his own chest.
Blood staining his fur.
Silence.
Complete silence.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
He looked up.
You stood frozen in the doorway.
Still wearing sleep clothes.
Hair messy from bed.
Eyes wide.
Not because he'd startled you.
Because of what you'd found.
Rocket stared back.
For one horrible second neither of you moved.
Then he saw it.
Recognition.
Understanding.
Not complete.
Not yet.
But enough.
Enough to realize this wasn't an accident.
Enough to realize this had happened before.
Enough to realize he'd been hiding something.
For a long time.
The panic hit instantly.
Far worse than anything before.
"No."
His voice came out rough.
Broken.
You took a cautious step forward.
"Rocket—"
"No."
Another step.
His heart hammered.
"No, no, no."
You stopped.
Hands raised slightly.
Like approaching an injured animal.
Which somehow made it worse.
Rocket immediately dropped his gaze.
Humiliation crashing over him.
He'd hidden this.
For years.
Years.
Nobody knew.
Nobody saw.
Nobody noticed.
Not Quill.
Not Gamora.
Not Drax.
Not Mantis.
Nobody.
Because Rocket was careful.
Rocket always hid the ugly parts.
The broken parts.
The pathetic parts.
The parts that proved something was wrong with him.
But now—
Now you were looking at him.
And you knew.
And somehow that terrified him more than any nightmare.
"Get out."
The words came sharp.
Automatic.
Defensive.
You didn't move.
"Rocket."
"Get. Out."
His voice cracked.
He hated that.
Hated that you'd heard it.
Your expression changed.
Something softer.
Something that made his chest hurt.
Not disgust.
Not fear.
Not pity.
Somehow that was worse.
Because it looked like concern.
Real concern.
And Rocket didn't know what to do with that.
His claws trembled.
Blood dripped onto the floor.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
You looked down at it.
Then back at him.
"How long?"
Rocket's stomach dropped.
"No."
"How long?"
"None of your business."
Your eyes never left him.
The silence stretched.
Rocket hated silence.
Silence gave truth room to breathe.
Finally he laughed.
A harsh sound.
Humorless.
"Congratulations."
His voice shook.
"You figured it out."
You didn't answer.
That hurt too.
Because if you had argued—
If you'd gotten angry—
If you'd called him crazy—
That would've been easier.
Instead you just looked heartbroken.
And Rocket couldn't stand it.
Couldn't stand being seen.
Couldn't stand someone finally looking beneath the armor he'd spent years building.
The sarcasm.
The insults.
The jokes.
The anger.
The genius mechanic.
The weapons expert.
The Guardian.
All of it.
Armor.
Just armor.
And somehow you'd accidentally walked straight past it.
Found the thing underneath.
The thing he'd spent his entire life trying to hide.
The thing crouched in the dark workshop at three in the morning with blood on its claws.
Trying to tear itself apart.
Trying to find out whether there was anything real left underneath.
And for the first time in years—
Rocket had absolutely no idea what to do next.
The only sound in the workshop was the quiet hum of the Benatar.
And your breathing.
And his.
And the blood still dripping from his shaking hands.
Rocket couldn't look away from the blood.
His blood.
Bright against the metal floor.
Wrong.
It felt wrong in a way he couldn't explain.
You should have recoiled.
You should have looked disgusted.
Alarmed.
Afraid.
Something.
Instead, you just stepped closer.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like approaching a wounded creature cornered in a trap.
Rocket hated that comparison.
Because it fit.
Every instinct screamed at him to run.
To disappear into a vent.
To shove past you.
To throw some insult and make this ugly enough that you'd leave.
That was how he handled things.
Push.
Bite.
Snarl.
Make people back away before they got close enough to see what was underneath.
But somehow—
You kept moving anyway.
One quiet step.
Then another.
Then another.
Until you reached him.
Rocket's shoulders tightened.
Every muscle coiled.
Ready.
Waiting.
Expecting the moment you finally said something awful.
Expected disappointment.
Expected horror.
Expected confirmation of everything he'd always believed about himself.
Instead—
You sat down.
Right there on the floor.
Beside him.
Not across the room.
Not at a safe distance.
Beside him.
Close enough that he could feel your body heat.
Close enough that he could hear your breathing.
Close enough that he should have moved away.
But somehow didn't.
His body felt frozen.
Like some vital command pathway had simply stopped functioning.
Then your hand closed around his.
Rocket flinched so hard his entire arm jerked.
The contact felt electric.
Your fingers wrapped carefully around his bloodied hand.
Gentle.
Steady.
Warm.
Too warm.
His chest tightened.
"No."
The word came out weak.
You didn't let go.
Rocket stared.
His blood smeared across your fingers.
Across your palm.
Across your wrist.
Red against skin.
You should have let go.
Why weren't you letting go?
The thought repeated itself over and over.
Why weren't you letting go?
Rocket tugged.
Not hard.
Just enough to test.
You held firm.
Not forcing.
Not trapping.
Just...
Holding.
Like it wasn't something disgusting.
Like it wasn't something broken.
Like it wasn't him.
The realization made his stomach twist.
Rocket swallowed.
His throat felt raw.
"You don't gotta do that."
His voice sounded distant.
You didn't answer immediately.
Your thumb brushed lightly over the back of his hand.
The motion nearly made him yank away.
Not because it hurt.
Because it didn't.
Because it felt unbearably kind.
And Rocket had never known what to do with kindness.
Not real kindness.
Not the kind that expected nothing back.
Not the kind that stayed.
Silence settled between you.
Heavy.
Not uncomfortable.
Just...
Full.
Then you lifted your free hand.
Grabbed the sleeve of your shirt.
And pulled it upward.
Rocket frowned.
Confused.
Then froze.
Scars.
His eyes locked onto them instantly.
The workshop disappeared.
The humming engines disappeared.
Everything disappeared.
All he could see were the marks running along your arm.
Some pale and faded.
Others darker.
Some thin.
Some jagged.
Some so old they were barely visible anymore.
Others newer.
Still carrying faint traces of pink.
Evidence.
History.
Pain carved into skin.
Rocket stared.
His mind struggled to catch up.
For a moment he couldn't understand what he was seeing.
Then understanding crashed into him all at once.
Not accidents.
Not random injuries.
Not mission wounds.
Not all of them.
His breathing stopped.
You said nothing.
Just held your arm where he could see.
Letting him look.
Letting him understand.
Rocket's gaze moved slowly over each scar.
Tracing them.
Cataloging them.
The way he cataloged damaged machinery.
The way he assessed broken components.
His stomach twisted.
Because he recognized some of the patterns.
Recognized exactly what they meant.
The realization hit like a punch.
No.
No.
His chest tightened painfully.
"No."
You looked at him.
Quiet.
Patient.
Rocket stared harder.
As though looking longer would somehow change what he was seeing.
It didn't.
The scars remained.
Real.
Permanent.
Proof.
Proof that pain wasn't unique.
Proof that brokenness wasn't unique.
Proof that he wasn't the only one carrying old damage beneath his skin.
Something ugly twisted inside his chest.
A strange mixture of grief and anger.
Not at you.
Never at you.
At the idea.
At the fact that you'd ever been hurt badly enough to leave marks behind.
At the fact that someone had managed to make you understand this.
Understand him.
Understand what it felt like to need pain.
To need proof.
To need something stronger than numbness.
Rocket's voice came out barely above a whisper.
"What happened?"
You looked down at your arm.
Then back at him.
A thousand different emotions passed through your eyes.
Sadness.
Regret.
Understanding.
Acceptance.
All tangled together.
Rocket couldn't breathe.
Because suddenly he realized what you were doing.
You weren't showing him the scars.
You were showing him yourself.
The parts nobody liked displaying.
The ugly parts.
The hidden parts.
The things people buried beneath sleeves and smiles and jokes.
The parts that stayed hidden until three in the morning when someone accidentally found them.
The realization hit so hard it physically hurt.
Because it mirrored his own secret too closely.
His chest.
Your arm.
His scars.
Your scars.
His damage.
Your damage.
Neither of you saying the words aloud.
Neither of you needing to.
The workshop suddenly felt very small.
Very quiet.
Rocket looked down.
His blood still covered your fingers.
You still hadn't let go.
Hadn't flinched.
Hadn't pulled away.
The self-loathing he'd been drowning in moments earlier suddenly felt tangled up with something else.
Something unfamiliar.
Something terrifying.
Because for the first time—
Someone had seen the worst thing about him.
Seen it clearly.
And stayed.
Not because they didn't understand.
Not because they hadn't noticed.
Because they had.
Because they understood more than he'd ever realized.
And somehow—
They stayed anyway.
Rocket felt something crack.
Not dramatically.
Not all at once.
Just a tiny fracture.
A hairline break in walls he'd spent decades building.
The feeling terrified him.
His eyes burned unexpectedly.
Immediately he looked away.
Jaw tightening.
"No."
The word sounded strained.
Weak.
Pathetic.
You didn't argue.
Didn't press.
Didn't move.
Just sat beside him.
Still holding his hand.
Still letting him hold yours.
And somehow that made everything worse.
Because Rocket had spent his entire life convinced that if anyone ever saw this—
Really saw it—
They would leave.
They would recoil.
They would confirm every terrible thing he believed about himself.
Instead you were sitting on a workshop floor at an ungodly hour with his blood staining your skin.
And you were still there.
Still holding on.
As though letting go had never even occurred to you.
And Rocket didn't know how to survive that kind of kindness.
Because every defense he'd built for years suddenly felt useless.
And for the first time in a very long time—
He felt dangerously close to crying.
Rocket didn't realize how exhausted he was until he tried to stand.
The moment he shifted his weight, his legs trembled.
Not enough to collapse.
Enough to notice.
Enough to make him angry.
He hated weakness.
Hated vulnerability.
Hated anything that reminded him of operating tables and restraints and scientists taking notes while he struggled.
So when you slowly rose from the workshop floor, still holding his hand, his first instinct was immediate.
Pull away.
Retreat.
Hide.
"Alright."
His voice sounded rough.
Recovered.
Controlled.
Or close enough.
"I'm good."
You looked down at him.
Not convinced.
Rocket scowled.
"I said I'm good."
"You've got blood running down your arm."
Rocket glanced at it.
"Oh."
There was, in fact, blood running down his arm.
Quite a bit of it.
He hadn't noticed.
Or maybe he had.
Maybe he just hadn't cared.
Your expression softened.
That hurt more than if you'd looked angry.
"Come on."
Rocket immediately bristled.
"No."
You waited.
Rocket folded his arms.
Or tried to.
Then hissed because he remembered you were still holding his hand…
"Damn it."
You didn't say anything.
Just stood there.
Waiting.
Patient.
Infuriatingly patient.
Rocket hated patient people.
Patient people didn't get distracted.
Patient people didn't back down.
Patient people waited until you ran out of excuses.
Eventually he realized that was exactly what you were doing.
Waiting.
Waiting for him to stop fighting.
Waiting for him to stop pretending.
Waiting for him to accept help.
The realization made him want to climb into an air duct and stay there forever.
Instead, he muttered something deeply unflattering under his breath.
You smiled.
Actually smiled.
Rocket glared.
"Don't."
"What?"
"That."
"Smile?"
"Yeah."
The smile widened.
Rocket groaned.
"You're impossible."
"Come on."
You gently squeezed his hand.
Still hadn't let go.
Somehow that fact had stopped feeling strange.
Not normal.
But...
Less strange.
Rocket stared at your joined hands.
Blood still stained your fingers.
His blood.
The sight made something uncomfortable twist inside his chest.
Before he could examine it too closely, you started walking.
And somehow—
Rocket followed.
The corridors of the Benatar were mostly dark.
Sleep-cycle lighting glowed softly along the floor.
Blue strips illuminated the curved walls.
Everything quiet.
Everyone asleep.
Drax snoring somewhere several decks away.
The faint vibration of the engines humming through the hull.
Rocket kept expecting you to steer him toward the medbay.
Instead, you walked straight past it.
He noticed immediately.
His ears twitched.
"You missed it."
You didn't stop.
"I know."
Rocket frowned.
"The medbay's back there."
"I know."
"You literally walked past it."
"I know."
Rocket stared.
"You gonna keep saying that?"
"Maybe."
He scowled.
You were impossible.
The realization wasn't new.
But it felt particularly aggravating tonight.
You led him farther down the corridor.
Toward the crew quarters.
Toward your room.
Rocket's stomach immediately tightened.
Danger.
Danger.
Danger.
His brain supplied the warning automatically.
Not because of you.
Because of proximity.
Because being seen was dangerous.
Being known was dangerous.
Being cared about was dangerous.
The closer someone got, the more they could hurt you.
That was simply how the universe worked.
Rocket knew that better than anyone.
Yet somehow, he kept walking.
One step.
Then another.
Then another.
Your door slid open.
Warm light spilled out.
Soft yellow.
Not the harsh white illumination of workshops or medbays.
Comfortable.
Lived in.
Rocket hesitated.
You glanced back.
Neither of you spoke.
Then you gently tugged his hand.
And he followed.
The door slid shut behind him.
The room immediately smelled like you.
Shampoo.
Fabric softener.
Coffee.
A faint trace of engine grease because you spent entirely too much time helping him with projects.
Rocket hated how instantly he recognized it.
Your bunk sat against one wall.
Books stacked nearby.
A guitar leaning in the corner.
A mug abandoned on a desk.
Normal things.
Humie things.
Comfortable things.
Things Rocket never quite understood.
You guided him toward the edge of the bunk.
Rocket sat automatically.
Still dazed.
Still exhausted.
Still trying to figure out how this had become his night.
A few hours ago, he'd been repairing weapons.
Now he was sitting on your bed covered in blood.
Life was ridiculous.
You disappeared briefly back into the corridor.
Returned carrying supplies.
Bandages.
Antiseptic.
Medical tape.
A bowl of warm water.
Rocket immediately narrowed his eyes.
"No."
You sat down beside him.
"Yes."
"No."
"Rocket."
"I ain't a child."
"I know."
"Then stop treating me like one."
You held up a blood-soaked cloth.
Rocket opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Because the cloth was very obviously covered in his blood.
An unfortunate amount of it.
"...Fine."
You tried not to smile.
Rocket pointed accusingly.
"Don't."
"Wasn't doing anything."
"Liar."
The cloth touched his hand.
Warm.
Damp.
Gentle.
Rocket flinched anyway.
Not because it hurt.
Because of how careful you were being.
Every movement deliberate.
Measured.
As though he might shatter.
The thought annoyed him.
Until he realized you weren't treating him like something fragile.
You were treating him like something valuable.
The distinction hit harder than expected.
Rocket looked away.
Your fingers carefully cleaned blood from his knuckles.
The cuts.
The torn skin.
Evidence of what he'd done.
Evidence of what he'd been doing for far longer than anyone knew.
His stomach twisted.
He expected questions.
Expected pressure.
Expected interrogation.
You didn't offer any.
Just worked quietly.
Cleaning one wound after another.
Rocket watched your hands.
Steady.
Certain.
Comfortable.
Like you'd done this before.
The realization made his chest ache unexpectedly.
Not because he wanted details.
Because he didn't.
Because he already knew enough.
Your scars had told him enough.
The silence stretched.
Not awkward.
Just quiet.
The ship humming around you.
The occasional rustle of bandages.
Water dripping from cloth.
Rocket found himself relaxing despite every instinct screaming not to.
A dangerous thing.
A stupid thing.
Yet it kept happening.
You moved to a cut near his cheek.
Blood had dried there.
He hadn't even known.
Your fingers brushed through fur.
Rocket froze.
The contact was brief.
Innocent.
Necessary.
Still.
Something strange happened inside his chest.
Something unfamiliar.
Something warm.
It terrified him.
You carefully wiped away the blood.
Examining the damage.
Rocket looked everywhere except your face.
The floor.
The desk.
The guitar.
Anywhere else.
Then your fingers touched his jaw.
Tilting his head slightly.
Without thinking.
Without realizing.
And Rocket's breath caught.
Just for a second.
One stupid second.
You didn't seem to notice.
Or maybe you did.
You simply continued cleaning the wound.
Careful.
Patient.
Gentle.
Always gentle.
When was the last time someone had been gentle with him?
The thought arrived uninvited.
Rocket immediately hated it.
Because he knew the answer.
A very long time ago.
Maybe never.
Not really.
Not like this.
Not without wanting something.
Not without expecting something.
Not without an agenda.
Just...
Gentle.
His throat tightened unexpectedly.
You finished cleaning the last cut.
Applied antiseptic.
Wrapped fresh bandages around his hands.
The white fabric stood out starkly against dark fur.
Rocket stared at them.
Then at you.
You were concentrating.
Focused on securing the final strip of tape.
Tiny crease between your brows.
Completely absorbed in the task.
As though this mattered.
As though he mattered.
The realization landed with painful force.
Because he didn't know what to do with that.
Didn't know how to accept it.
Didn't know how to believe it.
Yet here you were.
Three in the morning.
Sitting beside him.
Cleaning blood from his fur.
Bandaging wounds he'd tried so hard to hide.
And you hadn't asked for anything in return.
Not explanations.
Not promises.
Not answers.
You simply stayed.
And for a creature who had spent his entire life waiting for abandonment—
That simple act felt almost impossible to comprehend.
So Rocket sat there quietly.
Wrapped in fresh bandages.
Watching your hands.
Listening to the gentle hum of the Benatar.
And feeling, for the first time since the panic had begun—
Something that wasn't pain.