Rocket was sick.
Very, very sick.
The movements of his ringed, flossy tail were revolving, almost as if the base of the procyon lotor's tail were trochilic. His mouth felt dry yet sticky. Blood and scabs clung to his fur. Now, he didn't expect any of the Guardians to care. He wasn't exactly on the best terms with any of them. He spat up blood again. God, it hurt so frickin' badly. Every time. His fingers grabbed the sheets, pulling them over his sickly chest. The exordium that came with most illnesses in the form of basic symptoms decided to tear away from him near the very beginning. There's not much more he could lose except his life.
He licked his teeth. The curtain pulled away. The raccoon shot upright in his bed, growling. "GET OUT! GET THE KRUTACKIN HELL OUTTA MY ROOM!" He heaved, drops of blood falling from his pallet. He looked like a mess.
"I am Groot?" (Rocket?)
"Groot? Buddy?" Rocket gulped. He shifted off of his tail. The signature mask on his face looked more like weeping marks, and he was in horrible shape. No... he never wanted Groot to see him like this.
"I am... Groot." (Rocket, you're... sick.)
"No, no, I'm fine... see, I got th' tunes to listen to. They'll keep me sane. All I'm worried about are all th' frickin' crazies here." He couldn't help but laugh feebly. Maybe it seemed a little more sad when he did that. He hoped not. He tried to crawl forwards on the bed, holding the IV/INFUSION stand to help himself. He noticed silence from the tree. "Groot...?"
"..."
"I am Groot." (You're dying.)
"Oh god. Oh god, Groot, no." Rocket's voice cracked, and it sounded like ceramic on concrete, echoing across the way. His feet ached, no; all of him did, but he had to get to Groot, no matter how menacing the tree's new appearance looked. "GROOT, NO, NO NO-"
"Y'know what? It was gonna happen any day."
There was apathy now. Just complete apathy. He couldn't believe he'd said that. He could see it click in Groot. Spikes from his dendroid husk, they were poking out. The doctors came in... it was time for Groot to go. Rocket was terminal, of course they'd take Groot away, of course, of course, of course.
He ran over, tears in his eyes. Fuck. He hated those.
Memories. Only memories were there now. No sad stories about how he thought he would die. He and Groot sitting, listening to songs. The songs that Groot would dance to and he would think were ridiculous... he still cared. When Groot lied to the reporters about... peace and stuff... he still cared. When Groot wouldn't listen, and Rocket knew he had a mind of his own even though this was really important... he still cared. When he would argue with Groot... he still cared. When he ate dinners with Groot, and it was just the two of them and he was tired... he still cared. When they faced what they thought was imminent death with what seemed to be knockoff counterparts... he still cared. When he would steal batteries and everyone thought it was a bad idea except for Groot... he still cared. When he was sad and he was crying and his eyes were red and everything he didn't want other people to see, and Groot came to him, alone; he cared. So much.
His IV unplugged. He didn't care. He was bleeding through his bandages. He didn't care. His heart rate was slowing down... he didn't care.
For Groot? He needed to do everything for him.
"GET BACK! Patient's IV is out, he's in critical condition..." his head felt like it was underwater. They couldn't take him away now, no, not while he was hugging the only one that he wanted to see right now. Like sap down a trunk, his tears fell onto Groot and dripped down with the physics of rain runoff. He couldn't hear anything from behind him. It was stupid to think, but if he'd gone out with a bang maybe it wouldn't hurt as much for him or for Groot. He wanted to live forever... or at least, die quickly.
"I am Groot." (It's going to be okay.)
"Yeah... yeah, Groot... it's goin' to be okay..."
The blue light faded into red. Wasn't that sudden? What's going on? He looked back on his bed, where they'd placed nothing but a puppy pad beneath him. His grip slipped on Groot's branches.
He touched the wood. It seemed smoother than normal. Did he shave or something? Rocket couldn't resist making a little joke in this time of what could only be described as desolately melancholy. It brought some... calamity comfort, so to speak.
"Like Mantis 'd say... I'm just goin' to sleep. An' I'll be up in the morning..."
"I am Groot?" (You'll be up in the morning?)
"Yeah."
"I... am Groot...?" (Promise... Dad?)
"I promise."
It was the day after that, Rocket flatlined.