Close Encounters

Five days after the Benatar crashed, Rocket finally came out of his room.

He seemed alright, or at least, his usual self—making bombs in Shuri's lab while Okoye looked on with stoic disapproval, joking with Thor and Bruce at dinner, joining Steve and Rhodes on their runs to the bazaar, sparring with Natasha and shooting with Clint as if nothing had happened. As if nothing had changed.

He was not alright. The other Avengers were smart enough, or respectful enough, or whatever, to let the raccoonoid grieve in his own way—if they ever heard the crying behind closed doors, they didn't say anything. They kept their silence even as they saw how vacant his expression would get as he stared at the Zune, idly flicking through the songs but never wearing the earbuds.

All of the songs that the Guardians had listened to, and several which they hadn't gotten around to playing yet. All of the songs that Rocket could never again share with his family.

"It's not mine, guys. It's Pete's," he would say. "I'm just holdin' onto it until he gets back."

He knew that Quill would not be getting back.

It was another two months after the crash before Stark was deemed recovered enough to leave the infirmary. As Shuri had put it, "Our technology can do much towards healing the body. Healing the mind is something that he will have to do on his own."

Healing the mind. Yeah, right. More like drowning it in the nearest bar.

Well, apparently the space-raccoon had the same idea and beat him to it. When Stark arrived, the bar was empty save for the lone figure sitting at the counter, legs dangling from the stool and tail swishing idly. He watched the raccoonoid grab another bottle from the countertop and crack it open, downing almost half of it in one go. It should have been funny.

It wasn't. But Tony Stark was never one to not speak his mind.

"How many of those have you had today, Rascal?"

Stark saw the raccoon's ear twitch and swivel in his direction as he took another swig from the bottle in his hands. There were four or five more bottles, all empty, strewn across the bar. The ones scattered behind the counter were probably his, too.

"…Not enough, since I can still feel my legs. Even the alcohol on this planet is primitive..."

A quick look behind the counter told Tony exactly why Rocket had chosen this bar, and he wasn't sure what made him more sick in the stomach—the ashy dust forming a film on the wooden floor, or the idea that the raccoonoid was so desperate to get drunk that he had chosen a place where he wouldn't have to worry about paying, and could help himself to the entire amount.

Hell, he probably had come here because he couldn't pay, Tony realised with a start. From what little he knew about aliens, they probably didn't carry around cash in their wallets. "Hey. How about we get out of this dump? Hit up somewhere nice, or—well—somewhere with real alcohol."

Rocket drained the rest of the bottle and set it down none too gently on the counter.

"…It is real, by your weak-ass Terran standards. See? Says 'fifty percent alcohol'. I've had like…ten of these and don't even feel a tingle in my tail."

Stark grabbed a bottle and gave the label a read. He couldn't help but let out an amused snort, which promptly transitioned to laughter.

"What-what're you laughin' at me for?"

"You've basically been drinking fruit juice. This says five percent alcohol, pal. Can't you read?"

A pause. Tony felt the smirk leave his face as Rocket just stared between him and the bottle, grabbing it in his little hands and scrutinising the label closely.

"…You—you can read, can't you?"

The raccoonoid remained seated for a few minutes, pointedly ignoring Stark and growing visibly frustrated with the bottle. He finally snarled and threw the bottle at Tony's feet, not even waiting for it to shatter against the ground before he jumped off the stool and started to head for the door.

"Hey, wait up, I didn't mean anything by it—"

"—I can read, Stark. I can read Skrull, Xandarian, Kree, Halfworlder and enough Shi'ar to get by. But Terran? I ain't never had a reason to learn how to read it…"

Rocket stopped at the door, shoulders drooping and ears flattening against his head as Tony approached him.

"…Not—not until now, I guess. Quill only had, what, three or four years of education here when he was taken? Not exactly the best teacher. We picked up a bit over the past few years, but…it ain't enough to matter now that I'm here."

"You seem to be able to speak English well enough—"

"—I have a universal translator implant in my brain that's wired to my vocal processing unit. I'm actually speakin' a form of Xandarian. My implants automatically detect the language you're using when you talk to me and adjust the output to match."

"That—that's actually really cool. So what do you sound like normally? I mean, without the filter?"

The raccoonoid gave the genius a look and crossed his arms. "Nuh-uh. You ain't gonna get me to turn off my VPU."

"Aw, come on—"

"—Ugh, stop talking. How about this…"

Tony waited as Rocket cleared his throat and coughed several times, scrunching up his face a bit. When he spoke next, Stark could still understand what he was saying, but…

"…Prithee, mayhap I show thee what mine other tongues doth sound like?"

"Holy. Shit. You sound like something straight out of Shakespeare. What language is that?"

"I doth protest, I hail not from this land of 'Shakespeare'… 'tis how the Skrull commoners talk!"

The man stifled a laugh and started to walk out the door of the bar. "Well, keep it up, will you? We gotta show the others."

Rocket tilted his head, ear twitching in confusion as he followed Stark out the bar.

"Ha. You sound like Clint." Natasha smirked as the archer in question started to protest, only for Thor to clap him on the back heavily.

"The lady Romanoff speaks true, Barton. That particular tongue does sound…uncultured. No offence."

Clint looked to Bruce next, who just looked at him sympathetically and took another sip from his glass of water.

Rocket snickered and cleared his throat before switching back to Xandarian. "Right, so that was Kree… Now for what little Shi'ar I know—"

"Hey, you skipped one. What about…what was it called, Halfworlder?"

The raccoonoid froze, staring at Stark for about ten seconds before shaking his head and mumbling in reply.

"I'm sorry, what? I didn't quite catch that—"

"I said—don't. Ask. Me. To. Speak. Halfworlder."

Tony frowned, but the witty remark on his tongue was cut short as the Guardian had already begun speaking again. It was almost impossible to understand what he was saying, as the output from his VPU had a peculiar accent. Steve was visibly uncomfortable with whatever he said.

"Let's…not do that one again, alright Rocket?"

"I mean—that's the only Shi'ar I know, so—yeah. No problem. Why though? How'd the translation filter sound to you?"

"…It...You sounded like Red Skull."

Rocket's ear twitched and he leaned over the table a bit more, about to ask the super-soldier who this "Red Skull" was, but—

"—are you saying that you remember his voice, like, seventy years later, Rogers? That's some pretty good recall."

Steve glared at Tony across the coffee table and nodded stiffly. "You don't easily forget someone like him, Stark. Just be grateful you won't have to meet him in person."

"I'd say the guy I met on Titan is close enough—but, you wouldn't know about that, would you?"

The captain's eyes narrowed as he stood and faced the other man. "You've only mentioned it about a dozen times. All you had to do was use that phone—"

"—I'm sorry, aliens were invading New York—again! What should I have done, Cap? You've been off the grid. Was I supposed to wait for you to pick up and then another few hours for you to travel across the planet from God-knows-where? I was the only one who was prepared, and it still wasn't enough!"

Rocket hopped down from his seat and tried to get their attention, not seeming nearly as uncomfortable as the other Avengers had become. "Hey, uh. Rogers? Stark—"

"I'd recommend you stay out of this if you know what's good for you, Rocket. This has been over two years coming—"

The super-soldier squared off against the genius as he crossed around the coffee table to be face-to-face with him. "—Thanos has apparently been coming since before we even formed the Avengers, and you're going to tell me that you were prepared, Stark? Really?"

"Yes, I was prepared! We fought Thanos on Titan, Rogers, and we almost had the Gauntlet!"

The ruckus quieted almost as quickly as it began. Steve shook his head and took a step back, clearly surprised. "You—you what?"

Tony's face was tight as he sat back down, breathing heavily. "…Yeah. We almost had the Gauntlet off. Your teammate, Rocket—Mantis, I think? She was doing some kind of…sleep thing on Thanos. There was this whole plan, and we would have gotten the damn thing i-if not for—"

He clenched his hands into fists a few times, before letting out a joyless laugh and gesturing at Rocket. It was clear there was no stopping Tony now.

"—if it weren't for our new friend here, Sly Cooper's band of idiots!"

The raccoonoid drew his lips back and snarled, eyes narrowing to slits. "You take that back—!"

"—that's right, everyone! Half of the universe is gone because of the damned Space Avengers. It was this close, Rocket—and then your pal Star-Douche starts throwing down on Thanos while I was helping the kid pull the Gauntlet off…and just like that, it's over. He wakes up, starts wiping the floor and I'm the last one standing!"

His voice cracked after "the kid", and although in retrospect he should have just stopped there, Tony Stark was never one to not speak his mind—even when that mind was being irrational at best.

Or spiteful, at worst.

"You know, what, Rocket? You should be grateful that Thanos killed Quill. I wouldn't have even left a pile of ash."

Silence.

It seemed as though everyone had turned to stone. Only their eyes were moving, six pairs of eyes watching as the space-raccoon climbed down from his seat and started to walk. Only when they heard the door to the palace shut did any of the Avengers move. Soon enough, Stark was alone.

So much for healing the mind.

He held his head up high as he clambered down the palace steps and navigated the streets of the Wakandan capital. He was alright—only getting fresh air, he told himself. It wasn't until he reached the wreckage of the Benatar, still lying just outside the capital two months later, that he allowed himself to react.

Out here, nobody would be able to see how vacant his expression would get as he stared at the Zune, idly flicking through the songs but never wearing the earbuds. Out here, nobody would be able to hear him cry behind closed doors.

He was not alright.