I love this show... The characters feel real and is a good warning for self-destructive habits... I highly recommended the show to anyone... The show, specifically the eponymous character, BoJack makes me want to be a nicer guy, a better friend, and a better person. It has, in my opinion, has the best asexual rep (Todd Chavez) in media (eat your heart out Alastor fan). It help me better understander my self and I believe it can do the same with other asexuals.
I want to talk about the brilliance of "Ruthie"(s4 e9) "Time's Arrow"(s4 e11) and "The View From Halfway Down"(s6 e15) in later post... but its 2am... and the last time I did this... it was Little Hope... and I thought about following Andrew's foot steps in "Blame Megan" enddding.
If anyone wants to watch BoJack, the later season are way better... and the pilot sucks, but the rest of the show is nothing like it (thank god).
I keep looking and found Young’s run of Rocket and wanted to give it a read (I already know it mis characterizes Rocket)… so in total, I got 9 new Rocket Raccoon comic books
(I went straight from work to the comic book shop 😭… I was in a neon green and blue uniform)
In an effort to distract myself from an extremely poor mental state, I wrote this spontaneously. The Rocket in my headcanon is a blend of MCU and Eidos. Consider this my introduction to my character, Matthew aka Ambassador; a more detailed origin story may follow if this is received ok. It isn't very well written as I have no writing experience but nonetheless, Rocket may have saved my life. Regardless let me know what you think and how I can improve.
Warning: Upsetting themes ahead.
The Milano's cargo bay smelled like burnt circuitry, space llama fur and a dull stench that blurred away the longer you stayed aboard and got used to it. Such a process took a long time, longer than anyone aboard would be willing to admit.
The newest member of the Guardians of the Galaxy sat on the cold metal floor, back against a crate of salvaged tech, trying to steady his breathing. Matthew - known to the stars at large as Ambassador - wanted to say he was used to this, but that would have been an outright lie. His heart was still racing. One moment he'd been helping unload dubious inventory, the next his vision had swum and his legs had gone weak, his centre had ceased up and his breath had left for better pastures. He'd stumbled, knocked into the stack, sent the whole damn crate tumbling down a flight of stairs.
The worst part was that it had happened at all. That his body had betrayed him like that, in front of everyone. That he'd felt his heart skip and flutter in his chest like something was fundamentally but indistinguishably wrong with it, and there was nothing he could do but simply feel it happen, when he thought it was all past him. A painful memory at best.
Quill had laughed it off as he always did. Gamora had given him one of those looks that said you're trying, that's what matters. Drax had clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to bruise and said something about how clumsiness was not at all a dishonourable trait in warriors who relied on cunning instead. Groot had just said, "I am Groot," in that tone that somehow meant "it happens."
But Rocket— Rocket had gone silent. That terrible, seething kind of silent where his ears flattened back and his tail went stiff and he'd just turned and walked away without a word.
That was four hours ago. Matthew pushed his glasses up his nose with a trembling hand. The frames felt too heavy. Everything felt too heavy. His chest ached—not the sharp, stabbing pain that meant something was wrong wrong, but that deep, exhausting pressure that meant his heart was working too hard just to keep him upright. He pressed his palm against his sternum, feeling for the faint hum of the metal medical belt beneath his coat and shirt. It was there. Still working. Still keeping him alive. For now.
But the thought slithered in faster than he could hope to stop it:
What's the point?
Matthew squeezed his eyes shut behind his glasses. No. He wasn't doing this. He wasn't going back to that place, that apartment in Devon where he'd lain on a bare mattress, stared at water stains on the ceiling that he'd even memorised the patterns of, and wondered if anyone would even notice if he just... stopped. Where every doctor had looked at him like he was making it up, like his racing heart, shortness of breath, dizzy spells and even blacking out entirely were just anxiety, just stress, just in his head. Where he'd been too poor to afford the tests that would've proven he wasn't crazy, that something really was wrong.
He'd left that behind. He'd left Earth behind. But sitting here in the cargo bay, chest aching and hands shaking, wondering if this would be his last day alive, it didn't feel like he'd left anything behind at all.
"You gonna sit there all cycle feeling sorry for yourself, or you gonna get up?"
Matthew's eyes snapped open. Rocket stood in the doorway, arms crossed, goatee dangling, tail swishing in that agitated way that meant he was pissed but trying not to show it - and clearly failing. Then his eyes actually focused on Matthew, and his whole body went rigid.
"Flark. What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing, I'm—" Matthew tried to stand, but his legs felt like water. He sank back down.
Rocket was across the cargo bay in few strides for his size, his paws clicking against the metal floor. He stood in front of Matthew, his small face suddenly all sharp focus, ears perked forward. "You're pale as a ghost, Fruitcakes. And you're shaking like I see you in a speedo. What happened?!"
"I just got dizzy earlier, that's all. I'm fine—"
"You're not fine." Rocket's paw shot out, pressing against Matthew's chest. His eyes went to the medical belt visible beneath Matthew's partially unbuttoned shirt. "Your belt. Is it working?"
"It's... it should be."
"Should be." Rocket's voice went tight. "That's not an answer."
Before Matthew could respond, Rocket was already pulling his coat open, yanking his shirt up to expose the medical belt. The small display panel that should have been glowing a steady blue was dark except for a faint, flickering red light.
Matthew wanted to argue. Wanted to say he was fine, that he could help with repairs or inventory or something to make up for screwing up so badly. But his chest ached and the words died in his throat. He felt like he'd sprinted an entire marathon. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. The cargo bay tilted. Or did it? Didn't it?
Rocket's eyes narrowed. "You okay?"
"Fine," Matthew lied.
He made it three steps before all he could remember was that his vision had grayed at the edges.
***
He woke up in his bunk with Rocket's face inches from his own.
"Argggh... This thing should be—d'ast it, it's not even registering your vitals—"
"Rocket—" Matthew tried to sit up. The room spun. He fell back against the thin pillow, gasping.
Any further exertion and he would surely pass out, though even this wasn't even close to new for him.
"Don't move, you flarking idiot." Rocket was examining the silver, medical belt, wrapped around the chest. The small display panel that should have been glowing a steady blue was dark except for a faint, flickering red light.
"What—" Matthew's voice came out thin. "What's wrong with it?"
"What's wrong with it? What's wrong with it?!" Rocket's voice climbed an octave. It was unlike his voice to reach a squeaking pitch but this was a truly angry Rocket as though his prior bad moods were a gentlemanly touch. "How long has this thing been malfunctioning?"
"I don't—I didn't know—"
"You didn't know?! These things have warning indicators! Alarms! How did you not—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching. "Forget it. Just—just stay still."
He started working at the belt's clasps with quick, precise movements. Matthew felt the pressure around his ribs release, and immediately his chest seized up. The ache became a vise. He couldn't get a full breath.
"Rocket—"
"I know, I know, just—hold on—" Rocket tossed the useless belt aside and grabbed something from the shelf above Matthew's bunk. Another belt, this one clearly older, the casing scratched and dented, but better than nothing with the med bay depleted. "Flark it. This one isn't perfect but it'll keep you stable until I can fix yours."
He wrapped it around Matthew's chest. The device hummed to life, and slowly—agonizingly slowly—the vice around Matthew's chest loosened somewhat. He dragged in a shaky breath, halfway to a death rattle. Rocket watched Matthew's face with an intensity that made something in Matthew's chest twist in a completely different way.
"Better?" Rocket's voice had lost its sharp edge.
Matthew nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.
"Good." Rocket's ears were still flat. "You're staying in this bunk until I get your belt fixed. No arguments."
"How long will that take?"
"Couple hours, maybe. Depends on whether the power cell just needs replacing or if the whole regulator system is shot." Rocket hopped down from the bunk. "I'll bring you some water. You need anything else?"
I need you to not look at me like I'm about to break.
"I'm fine," Matthew settled on instead.
Rocket's tail lashed once. "Yeahhhhh. Sure you are." He left.
Matthew stared at the ceiling of his bunk—gray metal, a few dents, a scratch that looked almost like a star if you squinted—and felt the familiar weight settling over him like a blanket made of lead.
What are you even doing here?
He'd asked himself that question a hundred times since Rocket had crash-landed taking out his apartment ceiling eight months ago. Matthew had thought it a mere quirk of fate. That as quick as he'd crash landed, Rocket would leave him back on Earth, and Matthew would go back to his life of medical bills and dismissive doctors and lying awake at night wondering if this would be the fateful day his heart would just stop while he slept. But Rocket hadn't left his side. Matthew had accidentally called him a raccoon on their first meeting only to feverishly apologise; catching the space ranger by total surprise. Rocket had defended him from the wrath of the Universal Church Of Truth. And when his ship was fixed, he'd looked at Matthew and said, "So you coming or what?"
Just like that. Like the answer was plainly obvious. Like he was wanted. And Matthew, who'd never been wanted for anything in his life had said yes. The crew had welcomed him with open arms, embracing the faith energy powers he had used to escape otherwise certain death at the hands of Raker, weaponising them, gifting him the medical chest belt as though it were a miracle cure. But lying here now, chest aching even with the spare belt, chest still crushing. He wondered if he'd made a mistake from the word go. If Rocket had made a mistake? No. Not Rocket. Just him.
You're not strong. You're not smart. You're not talented. You're just... here. A body that's falling apart. Someone they have to keep fixing. It will never get better.
The thoughts came faster now, a familiar spiral he'd thought he'd escaped.
They'd be better off without you.
Rocket would be better off without you...
Matthew's hand drifted to the spare belt around his ribs. His fingers found the power switch. It would be easy. Just flip it off. Let his heart do what it wanted to do anyway. No more being a burden. No more screwing up. No more anyone suffering for his sake, least of all Rocket.
His thumb rested on the switch...
The door to his quarters hissed open.
"Okay, so the good news is your power cell isn't completely—" Rocket stopped dead, his eyes locking onto Matthew's hand. Onto where Matthew's thumb pressed against the belt's power switch.
The water Rocket had been carrying hit the floor. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Rocket crossed the room in three bounds, grabbed Matthew's wrist, and yanked his hand away from the belt.
"What the flark do you think you're doing!?" His voice was low. Dangerous.
Matthew couldn't answer. Couldn't look at him.
Rocket's grip on his wrist tightened. "Matthew. Look at me."
Matthew shook his head.
"Look at me."
Something in Rocket's voice—not anger, but something rawer, more desperate—made Matthew's eyes snap up. Rocket's face was inches from his, ears pinned back, teeth bared. But his eyes—his eyes were wide and bright and terrified, as though his own life were in just as much danger.
"You don't get to do that," Rocket said, his voice shaking. "You don't get to—to just—" He made a frustrated growling noise. "Dman it, Matthew! You don't get to leave."
"I'm not—" Matthew's voice cracked. "I'm not trying to—"
"Bullscut." Rocket's other paw came up to grip Matthew's shoulder. "I know what you were doing. I know that look. I've had that look."
Matthew's breath hitched. How could he lie to Rocket? "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just—everything's wrong, Rocket. My body's falling apart. I can't do anything right. I'm just—I'm just a burden. You'd all be better off if I—"
"Stop." Rocket's claws dug into Matthew's shoulder. Not painfully, but firm. "Stop talking."
"But it's true—"
"It's not true, you d'ast idiot!" Rocket's voice rose. "You think—what, you think we keep you around out of pity? You think I—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching. "You don't get it. You don't get it at all."
"Then explain it to me!" Matthew's own voice rose to match. "Explain why you keep me around when all I am is-"
""Because you see me!" The words burst out of Rocket like they'd been trapped too long. "Because you look at me and you don't see a weapon or a freak or a—a thing someone made! You see me!" He started to trip over his own words. "Even Groot—Groot's my best friend, but—" Rocket's ears flattened further. "You're the only one who gets it all. Who gets me. And you think I'm just gonna let you—"
He stopped. Took a shaky breath.
Swallowed an angry snarl.
"I've lost too many people. Too many. And I'm not—I'm not losing you too. Especially not to—to this. Not to your own flarking head of all flarking things."
Matthew stared at him. At this small, fierce creature who'd somehow become the center of his entire world. Whose gruffness hid so much pain. Who'd been torn apart and put back together and still somehow found it in himself to care, try as he might to hide it.
"I'm sorry," Matthew whispered. "I'm sorry, I just—I don't know how to stop feeling like this."
Rocket's grip on his shoulder loosened slightly. "Like what?"
"Like I'm not enough. Like it'll never get better,' Matthew's eyes burned behind his glasses. "I felt like this on Earth. Every day. And I thought—I thought leaving would help fix it. I thought being here, with you guys, with you—I thought it would be different. But it's not. I'm still the same screwed-up person I was back there. For eleven flarking years..."
"You're right," Rocket said flatly, raising an eyebrow with a small scowl. "You are screwed up. A total screw up."
Matthew flinched.
"But so am I." Rocket's voice softened just slightly. "So's Gamora and Drax, and Quill (especially Quill) and even Groot. We're all screwed up, Fruitcakes. That's kind of our thing." He paused. "Difference is, we don't give up. We keep going. Even when it's hard. Even when we screw up. Especially when we screw up."
"I don't know if I can—"
"Yeah, you can." Rocket's paw moved from Matthew's shoulder to the side of his face, forcing Matthew to meet his eyes. "You can because I'm not letting you quit. You can because you're stuck with me now, and I'm a stubboen ass who doesn't know when enough's enough." His thumb brushed Matthew's cheekbone. "You can because I—because you matter. To me. Got it?"
Matthew's throat tightened. "Rocket—"
"Say you got it."
"I—"
"Say it."
"I got it," Matthew whispered.
Good." Rocket's paw dropped away. He sat back, tail curling around his feet. Despite everything—despite the weight in his chest and the breath he kept letting get away, and the voice in his head that still whispered not enough, never enough—Matthew felt his mouth twitch. Almost a smile. Rocket saw it. His ears perked up slightly.
"There," he said. "That's better. You look less like a corpse."
"Thanks..?" Matthew said dryly.
"You're welcome." Rocket hopped off the bunk. "Now I'm gonna go fix your belt. You're gonna stay here and not do anything stupid. We clear?"
Matthew nodded.
Rocket started toward the door, then stopped. Turned back. His ears flicked in that way that meant he was about to say something he didn't want to say, but had to nonetheless.
"Look, I'm—" He made a frustrated noise. "I'm not good at this. The whole... talking about feelings thing. I ain't a freaking therapist. I'm way better at just blowing stuff up. But I meant what I said. About you mattering. About not wanting to lose you." His tail lashed once. "So don't make me go through that. Okay?"
"Okay," Matthew said quietly.
Rocket nodded once, sharp and decisive, and left. Matthew lay back against his pillow, staring at the ceiling. The weight was still there. The voice was still there. But underneath it, something else had taken root. Something small bur very real.
You matter. To me.
He closed his eyes and tried to believe it.
An hour later, the door hissed open again.
"Okay, so your belt's gonna take longer than I thought," Rocket announced, walking in with a toolkit under one arm. "The regulator system's completely fried. Gonna have to rebuild it from scratch."
Matthew pushed himself up on his elbows. "How long?"
"Rest of the cycle, probably. Maybe into tomorrow." Rocket set the toolkit down and started pulling out components. "You're stuck with my spare for now. How's it feeling?"
"Fine. Good." Matthew paused. "Thank you. For the spare. And for—for earlier."
Rocket's ears twitched. "Yeah, well. Don't make me do it again."
"I'll try not to."
"You better." Rocket glanced at him, then away. "You eaten anything today?"
"I don't think so."
"Damn it, Matthew." Rocket put down the component he'd been examining. "You can't just not eat. Your body's already working overtime keeping you alive."
"I know, I just—"
"Just nothing. I'm getting you food." Rocket headed for the door again.
"Rocket, you don't have to—"
"Yeah, I do." He stopped in the doorway, not looking back. "Because if I don't, you won't do it yourself. And then you'll get worse. And then I'll have to watch you get worse. So I'm getting you food. Flarking deal with it." He stomped out before Matthew could respond.
Matthew stared at the empty doorway, something warm and painful expanding in his chest. Not his heart acting up. Something else. Something that felt almost like hope but mixed in with pressing mental anguish that could rival a moon crushing him.
Rocket came back twenty minutes later with a tray of food—some kind of stew that smelled better than it looked, a hunk of bread, and a pouch of water. "Before you ask, Gamora made the stew," he said, setting the tray on Matthew's lap. "Don't ask what's in it. You don't want to know, and I don't either."
Matthew picked up the spoon. His hand still trembled slightly, but he managed to get a mouthful without spilling. It tasted better than it looked too.
Rocket settled on the floor next to the bunk, pulling Matthew's broken medical belt into his lap and starting to work on it. For a while, the only sounds were Matthew eating and the soft clicks and whirs of Rocket's tools.
"I really am sorry," Matthew said eventually. "About my body. About me."
Rocket didn't look up from the belt. "I know."
"And about—about earlier. Scaring you."
"You didn't scare me."
"Rocket—"
"Okay, fine. You scared the scut out of me. Happy?" Rocket's ears flattened and he couldn't help slamming his tools down. "Thought I was gonna walk in and find you—" He cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head. "Doesn't matter. Didn't happen."
"It won't happen," Matthew said quietly. "I promise."
"...Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I'm not." Matthew set down his spoon. "I can't promise I won't feel like that again. I can't promise I won't have bad days. But I promise I won't—I won't do anything drastic. I'll come find you instead."
Rocket's ears perked up slightly. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Good." Rocket went back to working on the belt. "Because if you did something stupid, I'd have to bring you back just so I could kill you myself."
"I'm a sweet guy." Rocket's tone was dry. "Ask anyone. Anyone that ain't Drax."
They fell into silence again. Matthew finished his stew, then the bread, then drained the water pouch. The food sat heavy in his stomach, but in a good way. Grounding.
Like he was still able to appreciate it in the end.
"Rocket?" he said after a while.
"Mm?"
"Why did you really bring me with you? When you left Earth?"
Rocket's paws stilled again. He was quiet for so long Matthew thought he wasn't going to answer.
Then: "Because you helped fix my ship."
"That's it?"
"No." Rocket set down his tools. "Because you didn't ask questions. Didn't freak out about me being a—a talking raccoon or whatever. You just... helped. Like it was normal to you." He paused. "And because when I was leaving, you looked at me like—like you wanted me to stay Like you were hoping I'd ask something. And I thought..." His tail curled tighter. "I thought maybe you needed to get out of there as much as I needed to get out of there... you know, wherever the flark I'd crashed. You didn't even know about these belts then. I knew you weren't just playing me."
Matthew's throat tightened. "I did. Need to get out, I mean."
"I know." Rocket picked up his tools again. "Could see it in your eyes. That look. Like you were just... going through the motions. Waiting for something to change, and you didn't care if it was good or the worst possible flarking thing." He glanced up at Matthew. "Figured maybe we could both use a change."
"Best decision you or I ever made," Matthew said quietly.
Rocket's ears twitched. "Yeah, well. Don't go making me regret it by doing something stupid."
"I won't."
"Flarking better..."
Rocket went back to work. Matthew watched him—the precise movements of his paws, the way his tongue stuck out slightly when he was concentrating, the occasional frustrated mutter of "flark" when something didn't fit quite right. For the first time in a good while he felt mentally able to even admire his slender yet muscular build as he worked.
"Rocket?" Matthew said again.
"What now?"
"I love you."
Rocket's paws froze. His ears shot straight up. For a moment, he didn't even think to move.
Then he set down the belt very carefully and looked up at Matthew.
"You're just saying that because I'm keeping you alive," he said, but his voice was softer than usual.
"No," Matthew said. "I'm saying it because it's true. Because you deserve to hear it."
Rocket stared at him. Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or disbelief, or something more vulnerable than either.
"You're such a flarking sap, Fruitcakes," he said finally.
"I know."
"It's embarrassing."
"I know."
"I should probably say it back, huh?"
"Only if you mean it."
Rocket's tail swished once. "Yeah. I mean it." He paused. "Love you too. Even when you're being an idiot...""
Matthew smiled. A real smile this time, not just a twitch of his mouth. It felt strange. Unfamiliar. But good.
Rocket caught sight of it and his ears perked up fully. "There you go. That's the face I like."
"I have a face you like?"
"Yeah. The one that doesn't look like you're ok to keel over and die." Rocket picked up the belt again. "Much better. Keep that one."
They fell back into comfortable silence. Matthew lay back against his pillow, watching Rocket work, feeling the steady hum of the spare medical belt against his ribs. The weight was still there. The voice was still there. But they were quieter now. Easier to ignore.
He wasn't fixed. He knew that. One conversation, one declaration of love—it didn't magically cure depression or erase years of feeling worthless. The bad days of health would come back. The dark thoughts would creep in again. But lying here, watching Rocket as he worked, remembering the terror in Rocket's eyes when he'd grabbed Matthew's wrist—Matthew thought maybe he didn't have to be fixed. Maybe he just had to keep going. Keep trying. Keep letting Rocket do whatever he could when he started to slip.
You matter. To me.
Yeah. He could work with that.
"Hey, Rocket?" Matthew said after a while.
"If you ask me one more question, I'm stuffing one of my flark grenades in your mouth."
"Just one more."
Rocket sighed dramatically. "What?"
"Earlier, you said you weren't good at the feelings thing."
"Yeah. So?"
"So I think you're better at it than you give yourself credit for."
Rocket's ears flattened, but Matthew could see the pleased twitch of his tail. "Yeah, well. Someone's gotta keep your scrawny ass alive."
"I'm glad it's you."
"Me too, Fruitcakes." Rocket glanced up at him, and for just a second, his expression was completely open. "Me too."
He went back to work on the belt. Matthew closed his eyes, letting the sound of Rocket's tools and the hum of the ship and the steady beat of his own heart lull him into something close to peace. He wasn't okay. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time. But he had Rocket. And Rocket had him. For now, that was enough.
Matthew woke sometime later to find Rocket curled up next to him, the fixed medical chest belt clutched in his paws. He must have fallen asleep while working. It was strangely adorable to see, though Matthew would never admit that to Rocket, at least not while he was awake and conscious. Carefully so as not to wake him, Matthew reached out and ran his fingers through the fur on Rocket's head. Rocket made a small noise and pressed into the touch, still asleep.
"Thank you," Matthew whispered.
Rocket's ear twitched, but he didn't wake. Matthew left his hand where it was and closed his eyes again. The weight was still pressing. The voice was still present and still trying to choose the easy option. But Rocket was there too. And for the first time in a long time, Matthew thought maybe—just maybe—he'd be okay. Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday, somewhere.
Until then, he had this. He had Rocket. That was indeed enough. That was more than enough.
