It started with Mantis.
No, really, he realized that long before she became a part of the team. She simply brought it back.
Rocket wasn't expecting it to resurface so easily. She tried to treat him like some goddamn kitten. The time or place made no difference – if they were close enough, her hands would search for him and find a home in his fur. “I told you, Mantis, I ain't your flarkin’ puppy!” He'd tell her, and growl and snarl just like a dog. Out of all the things he could've said, all the threats. All the “Let go of me or you'll never touch anything ever again,” or “Watch your fingers before someone chews ‘em off,” or “Do this again and I'm throwing you out the airlock in your sleep.” He was just rude enough to avoid suspicion and restrained enough for her to keep risking.
She'd stop when he snapped, and then either forget it all in a few minutes or decide her burning urge to savor the warmth of soft fur was stronger than fear. And then he'd glare at her and she'd stop, and then start again, and the never-ending cycle continued.
And his attempts to break free weren't exactly vicious. His efforts were limited to mild yelling, mild squirming and mild flickering his ears back just to see if she'd give in to the temptation of doing it again. She mostly did. He mostly repeated the ritual.
Goddamn it, stop. You're not a housecat.
It seemed her insufferable predictableness was contagious. The first to join her was Drax, occasionally rubbing behind his ears when they were both distracted. It turned natural, like muscle memory. He didn't mind Groot holding onto him for support, but Gamora's hand running down his forehead and cheeks like a little child was new. And so was Quill's rare back rubbing. New, and haunting.
Rocket hated it. It made every atom in his skin crawl, his fur bristle and his jaw clench as though he was being cradled by the devil in person. He hated it even when it made his eyes roll back with pleasure, when it sent shivers down his spine and when his tail started wagging against their legs, or when they poured all their undeserved tenderness on the countless spots they didn't know had been stitched up before, or when he…
He found himself craving contact with an anticipation thick like blood and as agonizing as the process of achieving it.
He knew he had a problem. And it wasn't Mantis who made it, he'd known since Halfworld. It was present in the way he discreetly followed them around with whatever shitty excuse he could find, in the way he'd sit on the couch when they were there and carefully scoot a little closer. It was there when he accidentally brushed his tail against them or shifted slightly, wishing it’d remind them they could maybe pet the back of his neck for him to glare at them and complain about it in case they really, really wanted to. But he couldn't care less, really.
He was doing just that when he heard Peter chuckle beside him. “Rocket, what are you doing?”
Rocket froze. He tried to look angry. “Ever heard of sitting?”
“Yeah, but does it have to be on us?”
He aggressively scratched at his arm, but it wasn't itching. “I wouldn't have to if your fat ass wasn't bigger than the couch! Where else am I gonna sit?”
Peter deliberately glanced at Gamora, and she didn't bother hiding a snicker either. “Uh-huh, sure,” Quill deepened his voice on purpose, nodding and reaching out to touch his shoulder.
Rocket squirmed away. He desperately needed to put in some extra effort to keep up his act. “If I wanted your hands on me, Star-Munch, I'd ask! Or any of you!”
Except he wouldn't. He'd stare, nudge them aimlessly and stay as close as his mortifying shame allowed, but he wouldn't ask. And he wasn't afraid to ask, and certainly not afraid of them, but still…
His body belonged to someone else before it was his. Someone who used it, weaponized his needs and had power over everything he wanted. Someone who always knew what he wanted. He was always bending, always prone to break. And if someday Mantis got a little bolder and decided to feel him just out of curiosity, she'd know it too, and he'd be fucked.
What if she already had and he simply didn't notice, and that's why she kept fearlessly coming back for more? What if that's the reason Peter and Gamora kept giggling and exchanging looks behind his back? What if they already knew?
Oh, hell no. He let his door close shut behind him and started looking for something to tinker with. He'd never let them find out, needed them to think he was unreachable. And never, ever ask.
Usually, his nightmares weren't that bad.
Because, in order to have nightmares, he needed to sleep, which was rare. And the bad ones weren't nearly as often as most of them, which was twice as abnormal.
So, when he woke the entire ship with a shattering howl as if he was being tortured by the horrors of hell, the whole team rushed to his quarters.
He was still half-asleep when hands started supporting his back and holding his arms, and he squirmed and twisted and screamed until he choked. He tried to breathe, tried to claw them off and kick at their shadows until he noticed Drax's chest against his back and Quill's hands around his wrists, which still didn't keep him from shaking so much that they shook with him. Gamora was sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes wide and concerned, and Mantis stood by the doorway, pale and still.
He was disgusting. Drenched in sweat and shivering like a rabid dog, his fur sticking in weird places like he'd been in a washing machine and they held him anyway, whispering gently even though he could barely make it out as Drax rocked him up and down. Peter rubbed his arm. Gamora held his shoulder. He drowned and gripped their hands and arms and clothes as if these were his last five seconds alive and couldn't move when they touched him.
He couldn't fight his way out of this one. Their fingers brushed his fur, squeezed his shoulder, scratched spots on his back his hands could never reach. Five people fussing over him – he could feel Groot leaning on his thigh –, for once undressed from bloody coats and bright lights and sharp needles, just warm and careful hands mending where they touched instead of hurting. And it was awfully despicable. He hated it, hated how it made breathing easier, how his eyelids got heavy, how he felt his chest tightening from love. God, he hated them.
The next morning, no one brought it up. Not a single word was heard about last night's incident, no one tried to push it and when Peter even considered asking him about it, Rocket insulted him one or twelve times and it was never mentioned again. They respectfully, thoughtfully erased it from their memory. Rocket tried not to give them a reason to magically remember it for the next few days, strangely quiet and helpful. No one pointed that out either.
89P13 wasn't stupid.
It was the day after a bad surgery and Sire seemed to notice when he grimaced and squeezed the chalk in his hand. “What's the matter with you?” He asked, and 89P13 raised his eyes to meet his creator's. He saw no anger, just neutral curiosity. Curiosity was good, Sire had taught him already, and he trusted Sire. So he didn't know why he always got so hesitant.
He brought a shaky paw to his brow. “Head.”
“Oh.” The High Evolutionary offered an unbothered nod. “I see. Well, you can't expect your brain procedures to be fully painless, can you? Sometimes, improvement brings unpleasant side effects. But it only shows your development.”
89P13 still didn't look really enthusiastic about that. “Is good?”
He sighed. “Yes, it is. Finish the equation, P13, we shouldn't waste any time.”
And he obeyed, or at least he really tried to, but his headache had other plans. As soon as he started writing on the board, he suddenly shuddered and whimpered. The shame made him wince a second time.
“We are not getting anything done today, are we?”
89P13 still couldn't look at Sire's face, and even so, what made him shiver now was fear. “Sorry,” he whined.
He flinched when a hand was held out to him, but then it just pet him. He was petrified. His head, delicately and softly, was cradled in Sire's hands and brought to his chest, the metallic purple cold against his cheek. It was heavenly. 89P13 could feel the soothing touch of fingers brushing over his forehead, his temples and everything that hurt, the same fingers that'd opened his skull in half before. He was kept there, pressed against Sire's chest and lovingly, mercifully comforted. It even made him sleepy.
“Your results have been widely satisfactory, P13,” Sire said above his head, and his only reaction was twitching his ears. “Maybe a few hours to rest would do you some good. Don't you agree?”
Sire was so generous to him. He didn't deserve it. Guilt infested every corner of his body. Still, he nodded against his shoulder, resting a little arm on his chest.
He wasn't stupid. It was his innocence that was blinding.
He spent the night and part of the morning hidden in the darkest spot of his cell, relatively away from the others of his batch because he was working. Working on ripping chunks of fur from his head and scalp, on clawing at his skin until his fingers were red.
“What happened?” Sire narrowed his eyes.
“Fell.”
“You fell? Mm.” His fingers delicately tapped 89P13’s head. “That's strange. I'm not sure how you could've tripped over something in your cell like that, but accidents happen. Right?”
Sire smiled, so 89P13 mirrored him and agreed. And then he blinked and his eyes widened, the soft touch unexpectedly turning to pressure and pain. His head started throbbing more than it had yesterday. He groaned, clinging to the hands squeezing his head.
“You purposely did this to yourself, didn't you, P13?”
Heat exploded in the back of his mind and spread to his cheeks and shoulders. “No!”
“The next time you hurt yourself for attention, I'll make sure to split you open and restore whatever is wrong with you. From the inside.” He promised, and 89P13 could smell his breath. He was selfish, ungrateful, taking advantage of Sire’s kindness with all his ignorance. He couldn't even begin to imagine how upsetting it must've felt for him. “You, your brain– it's all too precious to risk any damage. Do you understand? Your vocal cords are in perfect state, use them.”
He found it hard to move his tongue. “Yes.”
“Will we have this conversation again?”
“No.”
Sire was either too sick of his bullshit to insist on arguing or simply believed him, because the pressure on his temples lessened and he could feel his body tremble now that nothing was holding him in place. The panic melted into dull anxiety, and when he was dragged back to his cage, he was bleeding more than when he left.
He didn't scream himself awake this time, so there was no one promptly waiting to pet him back to sleep on the edge of the bed.
He hopped onto the floor and felt everything. A sore back, a headache, that hollow dread draped around him like roots, just like a hundred years ago. He opened the door to prove he wasn't in a cage, he walked off to remember the walls weren't horrifyingly rusty or simply just white. The stars were just a window away from him and the light that filtered through it was dry and deep. Stable, safe.
“Holy shit, Rocket!” Someone hissed. “Jeez, how long have you been standin’ there?”
All the tension was drained from him so fast he felt limp. Rocket never thought he could feel such a crushing wave of relief seeing the stupidest, most annoying jerk in the whole galaxy. No dubious glares, no purple suit, no bloody gloves. His heart was a hard breath away from bursting.
He realized he should probably say something. “I'm thirsty.”
Peter must've been, too, because he sighed with resignation at the glass he'd just filled with water and handed it to Rocket, who barely glanced at it before resting it on the table because he was lying. He was hoping Quill would notice, and also wishing he was blind all at once.
Quill had just grabbed a new glass of water for himself and was ready to turn around and leave when Rocket stood in front of him. “What?” He chuckled, but little hands clutched his pants and red eyes glowed back at him. His smile faded slowly. “What?”
Rocket considered making something up and going back to his room, but just the thought of meeting all the echoes he kept trying to muffle as soon as he turned off the lights made him shiver. Well, fuck. He already gave it away. He'd gotten this far, he couldn't simply back it off like a coward. They'd never held anything against each other. They never would. He looked up at Peter; no anger, no hidden intentions, no threats. His fist clenched around the fabric in his hands. “Quill. Could you, uh… y'know, like, can you…”
“You're gonna need to help me out here, buddy,” Peter touched the arm clinging to his clothes for dear life and Rocket shuddered. Just what he wanted, God, and he didn't even have to ask. “What? You want the Zune? No? Zarg nuts?” Quill's mouth hung open for a second. “Company?”
Rocket was so desperate he didn't even try to deny it. And, by the way Quill's mouth repeatedly drew weird shapes in silence, he was seemingly expecting his friend to. He wasn't counting on the possibility of having his offer accepted. As Rocket tried to let go of him and get his shit together because he's not fucking allowed to be a pet, Peter suddenly held his wrists. Carefully. Reassuringly, even. “Okay,” he muttered. “That's, that's cool with me.”
Rocket's nose was like a little ice cube against Peter's arm. “Tell this to anyone and when you wake up blind tomorrow, you'll know who pierced your eyeballs with their nails.”
He laughed, but his hand stayed on Rocket's back. “What? How, though? If I tell them, I'd have to already be awake.”
“Wanna fuck around and find out?”
He didn't. And yet he shoved Rocket slightly, who punched his shoulder not so slightly in return. “The closest we got to a telepath on the ship is Mantis, y’know.”
Rocket tried to open both his eyes to give him a proper glare, but one of them was pressed against Peter's side. “So?”
“We can't read your mind. If you want something, you tell us.”
It wasn't accusatory, it wasn't harsh, and it didn't come from Sire's mouth either, but it still caused Rocket's ears to flatten and the blood to freeze halfway through his veins. “When did I do anything remotely similar to that?”
“Like, ten minutes ago?” That easy, playful tone again. Rocket wanted to claw his tongue off. “Look, all I'm sayin’ is no one's gonna slice your throat if you ask us for stuff.”
Rocket rarely knew why he got defensive, but he always did. And he was determined to keep up the tradition right now, if not for the hand loosely wrapped around his neck. And it's usually a lot easier to forget how violently much he likes them in his blind rage, but now there was a chest breathing underneath his cheek and fingers warming up the back of his head as though no one had ever turned his body inside out before, and he didn't even have to ask. Because they cared enough to insist, to guess, to wash away the nightmares he never tells them about without waiting for him to beg. Ah, hell. Maybe he didn't mind the weight of Peter's arms crushing his lungs, after all. Maybe. “I'll try, okay? Will that make you shut up?”
“Not sure about that,” Quill shrugged, pushing his luck and also the warm head tucked in his shoulder. “But seriously, if you ever feel like--”
“I feel like sleeping, jackass,” Rocket stretched, his bones cracking in concerningly odd places that probably shouldn't move. “I know havin’ a consistent sleep schedule probably gets boring, but for some people, it only happens once every two years.”
The hands on his back were gentle, never deceiving, never harmful, except for the achingly sweet warmth like a knife bathed in nectar. He felt laughter rumble above his head and heard Peter's tired and terrifyingly caring “G'night, Rocket,” which made him wonder if they knew he could build a fortress out of the dazzling love he had for them, all without ever mentioning any of it. Fragility was too demanding, too fleeting. He could afford it when it came with them, though.
“Yeah, yeah.” No bitterness kept him from shamelessly snuggling closer to the resting hands holding him like glass, and nothing hurt as it most likely should when he hooked an arm around Peter's neck and closed his eyes. “Night, Pete.”