Fight
Fight
Every time he’d return from a fight, Rocket swore that he would soon hear of a fight Avery had been in almost as if they were trying to keep up with some form of imaginary tally. He asked them if they were after the fourth fight he patched the hands up after.
“No just trying to protect my community in a sea of Chaos”
After the snap, people had gotten worse and while he was fighting threats in space, Avery was on the ground stopping homophobes from taking their aggression out on their community. The bar functioned as a community center trying to direct people to whatever help they could, and not a damn person asked them to; Rocket admired that in Avery.
Rocket had held those hands enough times over the first year that he was able to fashion a set of metal knuckles with some added features to help keep the hands a little less swollen.
It had bothered him how much he wanted to lay soft kisses against the eggplant bruises marred with scarlet slashes on Avery’s hands.
It bothered him more how much he wanted to hold them when they weren’t injured.
It bothered him most that neither of the two sentences above were true.