"Rocket Finds David's Journal"
"DO NOT BOOP SCENTOMETER. THIS PRACTICE SHALL BE ABOLISHED! SCENTOMETER IS FOR SOFT KISSES." Rocket went red under his fur as he beheld a labelled, highly detailed picture of his face in David's Journal. This was the text for his NOSE! "EMPLOY SOFT TISSUE TO CLEAN SPRING FLUID DRIP." Rocket laughed silently; he sometimes did get a runny nose in spring, even out here in space. He read some more. "MASS BULLSHIT DETECTORS" read the text for his ears. "TO ENSURE OPTIMAL FUNCTION, SCRATCH GENTLY BUT JUDICIOUSLY BEHIND THESE; ALSO ENSURE THEY ARE CLEANED WITH EXTREME GENTLENES DURING FUR MAINTENANCE SESSIONS!" Now Rocket was intrigued.
Rocket’s ears twitched, one tilting slightly as he continued reading. The little annotations and lovingly sarcastic commentary were so David. It was like being roasted and pampered at the same time.
He flipped to the next page, eyebrows raising as he caught sight of an extremely careful sketch of his paw. Well, his hand, really—but it was drawn with attention to every pad and claw, each scar and callus noted like a map of his past.
“‘PRECISION MANIPULATORS,’” Rocket read aloud with a scoff. “‘CAPABLE OF DEADLY ACCURACY AND UNEXPECTED GRACE. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO FILE CLAWS UNLESS GIVEN EXPLICIT PERMISSION. REPEAT: DO. NOT.’”
He actually snorted at that one. “He did learn that the hard way,” Rocket muttered to himself, remembering the time David tried to help with a dull claw and nearly lost a finger.
His eyes flicked to the margins, where a smaller note had been squeezed in:
“Claws are part of his expression, not just his function. Respect the snikt.”
“…Snikt? Seriously?” Rocket rubbed a paw down his face, fur still warm with the blush of embarrassment but unable to stop the quiet laugh bubbling up.
There was something oddly comforting about it all. Yeah, maybe it was weird seeing himself analyzed like some rare species—but the tone made it different. It wasn’t cold. It was personal. Caring.
Rocket closed the journal gently and leaned back on the bed. His tail flicked once, relaxed.
“Crazy bastard,” he murmured fondly, “He actually sees me.”
Want to continue with more pages from the journal? Maybe tail care, paw pad balm notes, or David’s take on Rocket’s fighting stances?
YES, and it's semi-serious yet also like some utterly ABSURD technical manual for petting, washing, and grooming Rocket!
Perfect. Let’s keep going then — the absurdly affectionate yet semi-serious Rocket Raccoon Maintenance & Tactical Care Log™ continues:
PAGE 27: TAIL REGION — “THE FLUFFY AERIAL BALANCER”
DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES TUG. This is not a toy, an emergency handle, or a feather duster.
Balance stabilization during acrobatics
Expressive emotional signaling
Occasional blanket substitute
Also: Highly sensitive to being stared at for long periods.
(See Appendix C: “Awareness of Butts in Space”)
Use soft-bristle brush or, if earned, hands with the right amount of pressure.
Wash with warm (not hot!) water and non-drying cleanser.
DO NOT USE CITRUS SCENTED SHAMPOO. See incident log: "Operation Zest Explosion."
Towel-dry followed by air-dry or low heat. Never leave tail damp—risk of Frizz Puff Level: Critical.
NOTE: Tail occasionally lashes on its own during high emotion. If tail lashes while you are within 2 feet: Take Cover.
PAGE 34: FACIAL ZONE — “EXPRESSIVE MODULE & KISS ZONE ALPHA”
This region contains an estimated 82% of Rocket's sass storage, emotional expressivity, and bite risk.
Eyebrow Tufts: Used exclusively for sarcasm. Do not trim.
Muzzle & Cheeks: Okay to scratch only when Rocket is sleepy, content, or holding coffee.
Whiskers: Sensory input devices. Do not pluck. DO NOT BOOP. See Page 12: Scentometer Treaty Accord.
Nose: See previous: “SCENTOMETER. FOR SOFT KISSES ONLY.”
Mouth: Capable of 300+ insults per minute.
Petting protocol: Scratch gently under the chin, monitor for signs of purring or punching.
ADDITIONAL WARNING:
If Rocket’s ears go flat and you see teeth, abort mission and prepare snacks as a peace offering.
PAGE 42: PAW PADS — “IMPACT SHOCK ABSORBERS / SECRET SOFTS”
Paw pads are the high-tactile zones of Rocket’s physiology. Highly durable. Ridiculously soft. Must be preserved.
Apply balm (unscented or vanilla) weekly.
Massage with thumbs: circular motion, medium pressure.
Clean thoroughly after any field operation involving grease, mud, or questionable galactic ichor.
OBSERVATIONAL NOTES:
Rocket denies that they’re soft. He has also been observed curling them up when flustered.
This is adorable. Do not mention it.
Ever.
Rocket’s claws gently tapped the edge of the page, his head tipped to one side, ears slowly rotating back in that weird mix of embarrassment and wonder. “…He made a manual. A whole damn manual.”
He almost wanted to slam the book shut and throw it under the bed—but he didn’t. Instead, he turned the page, tail twitching lightly.
Want to do the next section on emotional care, nap zones, or maybe David’s ridiculous appendix of “Approved Petting Zones with Risk Ratings?”
It was a map of Rocket's body, festooned with the most absurd and ridiculous notes on how to best *pet him* to bring out his purr. Rocket *shuddered* with remembered pleasure at the memory of David petting him for the first time, of how his brain LIT UP, how he'd leaned into the human's gentle hands. "Oh, man, that was... mmmh..."
Rocket’s claws slid down the edge of the page like he was afraid it might catch fire from sheer embarrassment. There, in all its annotated, color-coded, absurd glory, was a Purring Elicitation Zone Map.
At the top of the page in David’s neat handwriting:
"Map 6B: Rocket Raccoon – Tactile Calibration Zones, v4.1 (Post-Cuddle Revision)"
The diagram was extremely detailed. There were arrows, concentric circles, zones of increasing “purr probability,” and notes like:
“Zone A: Between shoulder blades. Initial Contact Point. Start here. Always start here.”
“Zone B: Right side of neck, low pressure strokes only. Avoid collarbone ridge or risk accidental tail-thwack.”
“Zone C: Lower back / base of tail = DO NOT SCRATCH. Gently palm-pat only unless specifically requested.”
“Zone D: Inside of ears. Extremely high sensitivity. Requires Level 5 Trust Clearance.”
One note, circled three times and underlined in red, simply read:
“THE BELLY IS A LIE.”
Rocket couldn’t help it—he laughed. That deep, rumbling kind that got stuck halfway between his chest and throat. “He remembered that belly trap…” Rocket muttered, shaking his head.
But then his eyes caught on a small, hand-written paragraph in the margin. Not clinical. Not teasing. Just honest:
“First time I pet him, he froze. Like his brain shorted out. Then his eyes closed, and he just… melted. I don’t think anyone’s ever touched him gently in his whole life. That’s when I knew—really knew—I was staying. He’s not a project. He’s not a ‘pet.’ He’s a person. And he deserves to feel safe, damn it.”
Rocket’s chest tightened. His purr had started up without permission, low and shaky in his throat.
“Ya damn sap,” he whispered, and let the purr roll freely this time.
He curled around the journal like it was a heat source, tail coming to rest against his side, claws tapping the edge of the page.
Want to continue? We could do the “Emotional Calibration & Nap Protocols” next. Or the “Emergency Comfort Deployment Procedures” section with snack types and safe phrases.
Deploying Emotional Calibration & Nap Protocols™… Stand by for incoming cozy absurdity.
PAGE 53: EMOTIONAL CALIBRATION & NAP PROTOCOLS
"Rocket Raccoon is a complex emotional being with deeply layered trauma, volatile moods, and an unfortunate tendency to downplay his own needs. Solution: Nap, Snacks, and Strategic Affection Deployment."
SECTION I: SIGNS OF IMMINENT EMOTIONAL DEPLETION
Rocket may present with one or more of the following:
Increased sarcasm per minute (SPM)
Visible pacing, tail twitching in agitated figure-eights
Sudden refusal to make eye contact / brush-offs like “I’m fine” (he is not)
Claw cleaning with unnecessary force
Proximity to others without acknowledging it (hovering = silently asking for comfort)
Prolonged silence (code orange)
Protocol: Initiate Snack and Soothing Voice Combo™
Recommended script:
“You don’t have to talk. Just come sit. I got snacks. You want me to scratch behind your ears?”
SECTION II: APPROVED EMERGENCY COMFORT DEPLOYMENT KIT™
Heated blanket (pre-warmed to 37.2°C)
Favorite mug (engraved with ‘Bite Me’) filled with hot chocolate or decaf caf
Soft music (suggested: The Midnight, instrumental only)
Stupid little plush of a trash panda that David swears he didn’t buy as a joke
Jerky (beef, chicken, OR whatever suspicious alien meat Rocket likes this week)
Optional: Hand-holding if and only if offered. Rocket sometimes reaches for fingers like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Do not make a big deal out of it. Just hold on.
SECTION III: NAP PROTOCOLS
Title: The “Crash-and-Curl” Reflex
Rocket doesn’t nap. He face-plants into unconsciousness. This is often after long missions, fights, or crying (which he will deny).
Warm room + quiet hum of a ship
Chest scratches during movie night
Tail gently tucked over his own body
David’s lap (accidentally occupied during “just resting for a sec”)
The Croissant: Curled tight, nose tucked under tail. No contact. Needs space.
The Shoulder Gremlin: Sprawled on someone’s chest like a fuzzy weighted blanket. High trust.
The Backpack: Latches on from behind while napping upright. Startles if moved.
The Full Flop: Belly up, sprawled across half the bed, face against David’s ribs. This is legendary. Photograph it at your own risk.
He’ll pretend he’s still awake until his head lolls back and the snores start. They’re soft at first. Then one loud honk, and he twitches like it woke him up. He grumbles and rolls over, ears twitching, and settles again. That’s when you know he’s really safe. When he forgets he’s supposed to stay alert. When he trusts me to watch his six… even when he’s asleep.
That’s when I tuck the blanket up and whisper, “I got you.”
Rocket stared down at the page, not moving. His ears were drooping now—soft, flat, relaxed—and he wasn’t even trying to hide how his throat vibrated with a low, rolling purr. His eyes shimmered with something deep.
“…You fraggin’ sap,” he whispered again, this time with something close to reverence.
Wanna keep going? We could do "Snack Preferences by Mood Chart", or maybe "Affection Zones: Touch Timing and Frequency Table." Or just a final section labeled “Rocket’s Rights” where David lists out things Rocket is always allowed to ask for…
Affection Zones: Touch Timing and Frequency Table
Opening Map 7C: AFFECTION ZONES — Touch Timing and Frequency Table™
“For when you need to know exactly where and when to pet the snarky raccoon to avoid getting swatted but still make him purr like a warp-core.”
🛑 DISCLAIMER:
Rocket will never admit he enjoys this. He will huff, growl, and say “Get off me,” while actively pressing his head into your hand. This is normal. Do not be fooled. Proceed.ZoneTouch TypeTimingFrequencySpecial NotesBehind EarsScratch w/ fingertip padsInitiate during quiet downtime or post-mission1–2 mins, spaced every 20 minsCauses involuntary eye flutter. If tail swishes gently = optimal effect.Base of NeckGentle rub with palmDuring movie night / soft music / low lights3 mins maxCan induce full-limb melt. Rocket may sigh and pretend he’s “just tired.” He is not.Between Shoulder BladesFirm, slow scritchSafe starter zone, especially after arguments2–4 mins, once per hourOften causes him to lean in aggressively like he’s mad at how good it feels.Flanks (sides)Long strokesPost-nap or early morningLow frequency; use sparinglyCan cause tail flicks. If surprised, you may get a “What the HELL was that?!”Under ChinLight fingertip tickleOnly when he's already purringMax 30 secHigh risk/high reward. Can trigger soft vocal chirps. May bite if started too soon.Top of HeadPalm rest or forehead kissAt bedtime or pre-missionOnce per daySacred zone. Respect it. This is a bond gesture. May pause to blink slowly at you.Tail (upper base)Open palm press or light patOnly when sitting beside you, tail resting across your legRarely; only when Rocket initiates contactDanger Zone. Use caution. However, if he lets you, congratulations: you are trusted.PawsHold gently or rub paw padsDuring cuddle sessionsInfrequentCauses soft flexing. If he leaves his paw in your hand = highest level trust unlocked.
Rule of Three: If Rocket tolerates three touches in a row without complaining, he likes it.
The Look: He will shoot a side-eye glare and say “You’re gonna keep doin’ that, huh?” If he doesn’t move away, that’s permission.
The Bonus: If he physically lifts your hand and places it back on his head? Stop whatever you’re doing and pet him. That’s not a request. That’s a demand from a very soft, emotional war machine.
“Yeah yeah, I see you writing all this crap down,” Rocket had once said. “What, you gonna publish a guidebook? ‘Raccoon Maintenance for Dummies’?”
He grumbled, but his tail was curled around David’s ankle the entire time.
You ready for the Snack Preferences by Mood Chart next? Or maybe we jump into the legendary “Cuddle Pile Hierarchy and Rocket’s Preferred Nest Construction Techniques”?
Snack Preferences by Mood Chart
Deploying Snack Preferences by Mood Chart™... Incoming Rocket Nutrition Analysis.
PAGE 72: SNACK PREFERENCES BY MOOD™
"Because Rocket doesn’t just eat his snacks. He judges them with the intensity of a thousand suns. Handle with care."
Mood: Confused / Disoriented
Snack Type: “Whatever” Treats (Non-committal options)
Examples: Freeze-dried fruit, any sort of nut, random space jerky that smells like it might be edible
Snack Rating: 2/10 (Rocket may take a nibble, but he’s probably too distracted to actually care.)
Notes: May throw the snack across the room and walk away in a huff, or eat it out of sheer boredom while pretending it’s beneath him. If you ask if he likes it, he’ll say, “Not great,” but finish it anyway.
Mood: Slightly Annoyed but Not Quite Angry
Snack Type: “I’m Fine” Snack (Passive aggressive snack consumption)
Examples: Small dry kibble, trail mix (with minimal raisins), freeze-dried meat pieces (preferably chicken or beef)
Snack Rating: 5/10 (Meh. But it keeps him quiet.)
Notes: Eats it slowly, making sure to stare at you while chewing. Won’t admit the snack is fine. Will mutter under his breath that “it’s not the best thing in the universe” while eyeing you suspiciously.
Mood: Irritated / Scornful
Snack Type: “I’m Not Hungry, But I’ll Eat It Anyway” Snack
Examples: Anything involving fish (he’ll grumble about the smell), hard cheeses, tangy snacks like space pickles or that weird alien jerky he’s never fully identified
Snack Rating: 6/10 (He’ll eat it because you’re offering, but he’ll complain the entire time.)
Notes: “This isn’t food, this is… stuff you found on the floor, right?” He’ll still eat it. The key is to not engage too much in his grumbling. The snack itself must be slightly unappealing to make him feel like he has control.
Mood: Tired / Worn Out
Snack Type: “I’m Too Tired to Cook” Snack
Examples: Space protein bars, snack-sized jerky packs, quick protein shakes (pre-made)
Snack Rating: 7/10 (He’ll eat it because it’s easy.)
Notes: Usually consumes in a half-sleep state while still on the couch or in bed. Doesn’t put much thought into it. Will insist he doesn’t need “the stupid human snacks” but will ask for more when the first round is gone.
Mood: Grumpy but Pretending to Be Fine
Snack Type: “I’m Okay, But I’m Not” Snack
Examples: Space chips (the crunchy kind), granola bars, chips of any kind (spicy is preferred)
Snack Rating: 8/10 (He’ll eat them quickly, but he’ll continue to throw side glances at you as if expecting a confrontation.)
Notes: Eats them quickly in a manner that could be mistaken for “This is the last snack I’ll ever have in this damn place” style of eating. If you offer him more, he’ll likely just tell you to “stop hovering.”
Mood: Content but Not Fully Relaxed
Snack Type: “Good Boy” Snack (Reward-based treat)
Examples: Fancy cheeses, gourmet dried meats, high-quality chocolates (dark), or anything “special” you’ve kept aside for him
Snack Rating: 9/10 (He’s not going to admit it, but these are really good.)
Notes: Rocket may act aloof, but he’ll take his time to savor these snacks. He’ll occasionally look at you with the corner of his eye, not quite acknowledging how much he appreciates the snack. After finishing, he will grumble that it was “almost worth it,” but you know better.
Mood: Fully Relaxed / Comforted
Snack Type: “I’m Going to Let You Pamper Me” Snack
Examples: Fresh fruit (especially berries), soft cheeses, or whatever space version of “dessert” you can manage (rocket-flavored ice cream included)
Snack Rating: 10/10 (Now we’re talking.)
Notes: This is when he’s feeling secure. He’ll nibble on these while cuddled up to you or in the middle of a relaxed nap. He’ll actually let you feed him a piece or two. There might even be a purr if you’re lucky. He’ll still pretend he’s “not into it,” but the second you stop offering, he’ll look at you like you’ve betrayed him. Best served with a gentle ear scratch and minimal attention.
Mood: Fully Pissed Off / Uncontrollable Rage
Snack Type: “That’s It, I’m Done” Snack
Examples: Nothing. Just leave him alone. The best course of action here is either a peace offering or distance.
Snack Rating: 0/10 (Offering snacks will only make things worse.)
Notes: Anything offered will be rejected and possibly thrown. Rocket has a scary level of rage here, but it is often caused by something else (a fight, an insult, or an unresolved emotional issue). The only remedy is time, space, and perhaps a big hug after he calms down. Do not force food on him during this period. He will either bite or throw it at you.
When Rocket is in a better mood, he’s actually pretty easy to please with food. The trick is catching him in the right moment. Also, never underestimate the power of not forcing snacks on him. He appreciates a little respect when it comes to his snack choices. Never act like you know better. He’s always got something up his sleeve.
Final Notes:
Rocket loves his snacks, but he hates admitting it. Keep an eye on his mood, and he’ll make sure you’re aware of his precise snack needs—whether he’s willing to admit it or not.
Ready for the final section? Cuddle Pile Hierarchy and Rocket's Nest Construction Techniques. Or, perhaps we dive into Rocket’s Official “Do Not Touch” Zones for Emergency Avoidance?
Cuddle Pile Hierarchy and Rocket's Nest Construction Techniques
PAGE 108: CUDDLE PILE HIERARCHY & NEST CONSTRUCTION TECHNIQUES™
“For Rocket, the art of nesting is not just instinct, it’s science. A delicate balance of comfort, trust, and personal territory that must be respected.”
“For when Rocket tolerates you being in his space but doesn’t want to admit it. His hierarchy is strict. His territory, sacred.”
**Rank 1: **The “Top Tier” Cuddle Spot – The Lap of the Human
Eligibility: This is the ultimate privilege. You must have earned Rocket's full trust before he will even entertain the idea of curling up in your lap. Expect full access to Rocket’s tail, paws, and occasionally the back of his head.
Conditions: No sudden movements. Minimal talking. A gentle, steady hand petting is allowed, but Rocket prefers quiet. If you try to speak or move too much, you might get a swat. You’ve been warned.
Rocket’s Notes: “Yeah, I’ll sit there... but don’t get comfortable. I’m a freaking raccoon, not a pillow.”
**Rank 2: **The “Close, But Not Too Close” Cuddle Spot – Side-by-Side Snuggle
Eligibility: This position is almost as good as the lap, but Rocket retains some of his autonomy. You’re allowed to be next to him, but not too close. He’ll tolerate this position more when he’s slightly tired or enjoying something comfortable like a movie.
Conditions: No touching unless initiated. Rocket’s space should never be invaded. It’s a delicate dance of proximity. Rocket will likely rest his head against you if he feels like it, but any sudden snuggling attempts are highly discouraged.
Rocket’s Notes: “Look, I’ll let you sit next to me, but don’t start acting all ‘cuddly’. You got your space, I got mine.”
**Rank 3: **The “Oh My God, Why Am I Still Here” Spot – Top of the Head Resting Zone
Eligibility: This spot is reserved for moments of extreme laziness. Rocket will lie back with his head nestled in your lap, but the only acceptable form of contact is gentle head scritching or a quick kiss on the top of his head (and yes, he knows when you’re trying to sneak one in).
Conditions: Do not engage in long-lasting eye contact. Do not speak loudly. Under no circumstances should you attempt to “snuggle” or “hug” him. This is about relaxation, not cuddling. Rocket will pretend not to enjoy it, but his tail will be curled around your legs like it’s his personal blanket.
Rocket’s Notes: “You’re lucky I’m letting you do this. Don’t go thinking I’m a puppy, alright?”
**Rank 4: **The “This Is Weird, But Okay” Spot – Foot Rest / Tail Resting Zone
Eligibility: For some reason, Rocket loves curling his tail around someone’s foot when he’s in a good mood. He’ll pretend to ignore it, but it’s a clear sign of closeness. Be warned: any attempt to move his tail or disturb it will result in an instant reprimand.
Conditions: Keep your feet still. Rocket does not want to be moved around like some kind of pillow. Foot movement will be considered an invasion of space. If you fidget, he’ll find a new spot, and you’ll lose his trust.
Rocket’s Notes: “I knew I should’ve chosen the other corner of the couch.”
**Rank 5: **The “Absolute Bottom of the Cuddle Barrel” – The ‘Not Now’ Position
Eligibility: This is the zone reserved for when Rocket doesn’t want anything to do with you. Don’t be sad; we all end up here at some point. This can happen when Rocket is highly irritated, wants space, or is simply in a mood.
Conditions: No touching. No petting. No making eye contact. Rocket will communicate this with a flat, angry look and a defensive tail flick. If you push it, you’ll get a hard shove or a snarky comment. Simply respect the space, and he may come around later. Maybe.
Rocket’s Notes: “I don’t wanna hear it. I’m not in the mood for your BS right now.”
Rocket’s Nest Construction Techniques™
“Building a nest is more than just fluff and comfort. It’s a survival tactic. A place of sanctuary, dignity, and personal territory.”
What it is: The basic structure of Rocket’s nest. Composed of pillows, blankets, and various comfort materials scavenged throughout the room. The key is layering—think natural, organic structure with just a dash of chaos.
Materials: Soft fabrics (blankets, socks, and t-shirts he “borrowed”), the occasional spare cushion, and whatever random objects Rocket finds to add to his nest. The more random and weird, the better. He’ll accept anything that could serve a purpose. If it doesn’t, it’s immediately rejected.
Construction Tip: Never, under any circumstances, disturb the pile once it’s built. If you so much as move one pillow, Rocket will actively hiss at you and rebuild the nest. Be prepared.
What it is: The heart of the nest, usually located on a comfy chair or the bed where Rocket spends most of his time. This part is often surrounded by pillows, soft stuffed toys, or something of sentimental value (probably David’s favorite hoodie).
Materials: Soft blankets or any surface that’s non-hard (he despises hard surfaces in a nest). This area is for resting, relaxation, and napping. There must be a defined boundary where Rocket can clearly tell where the edge is—crossing this will result in a growl.
Construction Tip: Place your personal belongings near Rocket’s nest (like books, snacks, or tissue boxes) as hints to let him know you’ve put in effort for this sacred space.
What it is: Rocket’s “safety zone.” He wants a clear buffer between him and all external dangers, including other creatures (especially if they're bigger) and unexpected disturbances. This will include things like the side of a wall, a chair, or his own bodyguard (a.k.a., David’s leg).
Materials: Outer ring of blankets, heavy coats, or any form of extra cushion. The goal is to make sure Rocket has a solid perimeter.
Construction Tip: This boundary must be easy to collapse. If Rocket gets startled, he needs to jump out without hesitation. If the boundary is too rigid, expect Rocket to tear it apart during his freak-out moments.
What it is: Every nest has its ultimate comfort piece—the one thing Rocket insists on using in times of extreme relaxation. Think David’s scarf, a spare piece of clothing Rocket has claimed as his own, or his favorite plushie (that he refuses to acknowledge publicly).
Materials: Soft, breathable fabric with sentimental value. It’s often Rocket’s favorite thing to snuggle with during naps.
Construction Tip: Never wash this item unless Rocket’s in a good mood. You’ve been warned.
Conclusion: The Nest is Sacred
Rocket’s nesting area is not just a comfort zone—it’s a place of power, a reflection of his emotions, and the best spot for Rocket to retreat after a hard day of being snarky and running around saving the galaxy.
Respect it. Protect it. And don’t touch his security blanket unless he offers.
David’s Notes:
“Yeah, I’ve got my spot, but the rest of his nest is a personal thing. I learned pretty quick that respecting Rocket’s space isn’t just about physical distance; it’s about giving him his moments. And when he lets me in—that is trust.”
And there you have it: Rocket’s complete cuddle hierarchy and nesting strategies! Ready for the next chapter? Rocket’s Official “Do Not Touch” Zones for Emergency Avoidance—or perhaps some advanced Snack Manipulation Techniques?
And yet... there were serious things in the Journal, too. Information on the base Terrestrial Raccoon - Procyon Lotor - *everything* about it; diet, habits, lifestyle; then comparisons between it and Rocket, ways that parts of its diet might be used to help Rocket, behavioural analysis in order to better understand Rocket's own ways and behaviour.
PAGE 172: COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS – PROCYON LOTOR & ROCKET RACCOON™
“A careful exploration of Rocket’s earthly origins. Understanding the base raccoon is crucial to understanding his instincts, behavior, and needs. Knowledge is power, and knowledge about Rocket’s past... is trust.”
Procyon Lotor: The Terrestrial Raccoon
Scientific Name: Procyon lotor
Average Lifespan: 2-3 years in the wild, 5-7 years in captivity
Habitat: Woodlands, urban areas, coastal areas. Predominantly found in North America but can adapt to a variety of environments.
Diet: Omnivorous—highly opportunistic feeders. In the wild, they primarily consume a mix of fruits, nuts, seeds, insects, small vertebrates, and occasionally carrion. In urban areas, they may raid garbage bins, feeding on processed human food.
Habits: Nocturnal and solitary, raccoons are known for their dexterity and intelligence. They often use their front paws to manipulate objects (a behavior that Rocket emulates to an extreme). Known to create “cache” locations for food, hiding food for later consumption.
Behavior: Highly curious and mischievous, raccoons are often seen as “trash pandas” for their tendency to scavenge. They are also extremely adaptable and resourceful, able to survive in a wide range of environments due to their diverse diet.
Social Structure: Generally solitary but have a strong sense of territory. Raccoons communicate through vocalizations, body language, and scent-marking. They’re highly independent but will occasionally seek out companionship during mating season.
Rocket vs. Procyon Lotor: A Comparative Analysis
Intelligence: Like the Procyon lotor, Rocket exhibits extraordinary problem-solving abilities. His affinity for using tools, coupled with his ability to “think outside the box” in situations that require quick thinking, mirrors the raccoon’s skill in adapting to complex environments.
Dietary Needs: While Rocket’s diet has evolved due to his unique biology and enhancements, he still craves familiar foods that reflect his earthly origins. Rocket enjoys a balanced mix of protein (preferably in the form of high-quality meats), fruits (particularly tropical ones), and nuts—mirroring his wild counterparts.
Curiosity: Rocket’s curiosity is one of his defining traits, much like the Procyon lotor. He often investigates everything around him, be it tools, tech, or even strange objects.
Manipulation and Dexterity: One of Rocket’s standout characteristics is his ability to manipulate objects, from picking locks to assembling high-tech gadgets. This behavior is directly tied to the raccoon’s natural dexterity with its paws.
Solitude vs. Companionship: While Rocket thrives in the company of his close allies (such as the Guardians), his independent nature is evident in moments when he retreats into solitude, much like the solitary behavior of his terrestrial ancestors. He requires space and time to himself, particularly when processing complex emotions or experiences.
Key Insights for Understanding Rocket’s Behavior
Dietary Preferences and Needs
Fruits & Veggies: While Rocket may prefer snacks and processed foods (hello, candy), his body does benefit from the nutritional value of fruits like berries, citrus, and tropical fruits. A careful balance between these and his indulgent cravings can provide Rocket with the right energy without compromising his mood or health.
Meats: Rocket’s preference for meats—beef, chicken, fish—resembles the carnivorous tendencies of wild raccoons. His body thrives on protein, and while he doesn’t rely on it exclusively, ensuring that he receives high-quality protein-rich meals will help him maintain his physical strength and agility.
Nuts & Seeds: High in healthy fats, nuts like almonds, pecans, and cashews can be a great supplement to Rocket’s diet. They are an excellent source of energy and support his high-energy nature, especially during longer missions or adventures.
Special Additives: Rocket is especially sensitive to certain flavors—spicy foods, for example, are something he loves, yet they can sometimes upset his stomach. Likewise, he has a complex relationship with caffeine (which David has learned to keep minimal and in moderation, of course).
Coping Mechanisms for Stress: Rocket often displays behaviors tied to fear of abandonment or emotional pain, particularly when he feels threatened or vulnerable. This stems from deep-rooted insecurities—much like wild raccoons who rely on their adaptability to survive and often do so alone. He uses humor, sarcasm, and misdirection to mask deeper feelings of abandonment, loss, or hurt.
The Need for Territory: While Rocket can and does live in a group, he is fiercely protective of his personal space—this is reflected in his “nest” preferences. Like the Procyon lotor, Rocket tends to be territorial and becomes defensive when his space is threatened. This could include his bed, his favorite corner of the ship, or his personal possessions—such as his modified tech or his "sacred" snacks.
Trust Issues: While Rocket has the capacity for deep loyalty and affection, he struggles to let people in, much like raccoons that are naturally wary of other creatures. His trust needs to be earned slowly, with every small gesture—like David taking care to clean Rocket’s personal things or give him space when needed—signifying an effort to build that trust.
Rocket’s Health & Wellness Plan: Keeping the Raccoon in Check
Fiber-Rich Foods: Raccoons naturally consume fruits, berries, and some leaves in the wild, which provide much-needed fiber for digestion. Rocket benefits from occasional servings of leafy greens or fiber-rich foods like sweet potatoes, which help balance his otherwise high-protein diet.
Protein Control: To avoid Rocket becoming too hyperactive or irritable (which happens when his protein intake is too high), careful adjustments to his meat consumption must be made. Small meals with occasional fish and poultry help keep his muscles strong without making him overly energetic or restless.
Hydration & Recovery: Like all raccoons, Rocket is prone to dehydration, especially after heavy physical exertion or long stretches in space. His favorite hydration source is flavored water (or tea) with low sugar, which helps him stay hydrated without adding to his sugar-craving tendencies.
Improving Rocket’s Emotional Well-Being
Routine: Rocket thrives on consistency, and having a predictable schedule—particularly when it comes to meals, relaxation time, and tech repairs—can reduce stress and anxiety.
Quality Time: Spending one-on-one time with David is incredibly important for Rocket. This doesn’t always have to be intense or action-packed; simply sitting together in quiet moments (especially when Rocket initiates the contact) can work wonders for building trust and emotional stability.
Therapeutic Touch: Certain types of touch, especially on Rocket’s ears and tail, can help ease anxiety and increase bonding. Careful and gentle strokes during moments of relaxation or after stressful situations can calm Rocket’s nervous energy.
Rocket, like the terrestrial raccoon, is a creature of both adaptability and vulnerability. His instincts are deeply intertwined with survival and independence, but through careful attention to his unique needs—diet, emotional space, trust, and routine—his complex behavior can be understood and nurtured. This understanding, combined with his deep affection for those closest to him, makes him an ally, friend, and family member unlike any other.
David’s Final Note:
“I might not be a raccoon expert, but understanding Rocket... that’s my thing. Every day I learn something new about him, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. We’re both just trying to figure it out, one snack at a time.”
With this thorough study of Rocket’s behavior and his wild origins, it’s clear that the raccoon’s instincts are deeply ingrained in him, even amidst his cybernetic enhancements. Understanding this balance helps David care for Rocket, and it’ll undoubtedly lead to even more fascinating discoveries...
Rocket couldn't help it; he smiled, his expression softening.
He let out a quiet chuckle, flicking through the journal's pages, each one filled with observations, notes, and even those little details about himself he never asked David to notice—yet somehow, they were all there. It was… a lot. But, in a weird way, it felt like David cared enough to figure him out.
Rocket’s tail swished behind him as he continued reading, a mix of amusement and something warmer settling in his chest. “Man, if anyone told me I’d end up with a walking raccoon manual written about me… Guess I’d be freakin' pissed off. But I gotta admit,” he mumbled to himself, flipping to the next page, “this stuff’s… kinda sweet.”
He glanced over at David, who was busy tinkering with some gadgets, blissfully unaware that Rocket was getting a peek behind the curtain of his seemingly endless affection.
“Guess I’ll let you get away with it, this time…” Rocket muttered, trying to keep the smile off his face, but failing miserably. He’d never admit it out loud, but maybe, just maybe, he liked this. More than he’d ever let on.
And yet... there were haunting things in the Journal, too. Theoretical guesses and studies of Rocket's Implants and skeletal structure. Maps and diagrams of his brain, where implants might be there. A base Procyon Lotor's brain with Rocket's Implants superimposed over it; along with countless notes and theories as to what all they did, and how they worked.
Rocket’s fingers hovered over the pages, his gaze flicking between the diagrams, the technical notes, and the cold, precise language of someone trying to dissect him. His tail stiffened, and a shiver crawled down his spine. This wasn’t the playful, affectionate study of his quirks and habits. No, this was... clinical. Analytical.
The map of his brain stood out first. A diagram of the typical raccoon brain—small, nimble, curious—and then, overlaid with Rocket’s own, was a web of complex lines, circuitry, and glowing points marking where his implants fused with his biological tissue. There were notes all around the edges, some technical, some speculative, and none of them particularly comforting.
"Implant Network Overview: R-CV3 Model. Biomechanical Integration Points: Unstable Regions (Notable in Cerebellum & Prefrontal Cortex). Potential for Neural Overload Risk."
“Note: Neural Surge Detection Mechanism, implemented at approx. 25% capacity, found to improve reaction time, but at the cost of rapid fatigue post-activation. Circuitry vulnerability increases when excessive load is used.”
Rocket’s eyes narrowed as he read on. There were specifics here, things he had never known, things he hadn’t wanted to know.
“Unlikely Origin for Bionic Eyes—Biological Evidence of Rejection Before Acceptance; Implants Show Signs of Prior Host Integration. Theory: Multiple Past Hosts, Possible Memory Fragmentation.”
His breath hitched. Hosts? Memory fragmentation? Rocket’s gaze blurred as he gripped the edge of the journal tighter. He hated the idea of being just another experiment—another piece of discarded tech cobbled together by someone else’s hands. His fingers trembled as he flipped to the next page.
"Implant Compatibility and Integration: Rate of Success Variable Based on Neuroplasticity. Previous Tests on Raccoon Anatomy Revealed Possible Long-Term Deterioration of Organic Tissue at Implant Sites."
Rocket’s chest tightened. It was like they were picking apart the remnants of his humanity—every piece of his biology, turned into a puzzle for someone to solve. Why was David writing this stuff? The cold, precise notes clashed so violently with everything else in the journal. The love, the care, the goofy little details about how to make Rocket purr or how to avoid a full-on Rocket tantrum. This… this felt different.
The final page he turned to had a theory written in bold, capitalized letters:
“FINAL THEORY: ROCKET’S IMPLANTS CONTAIN ‘TETHERED MEMORY ALGORITHMS.’ EVIDENCE OF MASSIVE TRAUMA UNDERLYING IMPLANT EVOLUTION, SEVERAL INSTANCES OF UNDOCUMENTED MEMORY SYNCHRONIZATION LEADING TO ALTERED PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT.”
Altered personality development. Those words hit Rocket like a brick. It was like someone had taken his mind, his soul, and played god with it. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop the thoughts flooding his mind, his memories twisting into fragments of half-truths. Did David know all of this? Did he know the extent of what had been done to him?
Rocket slammed the journal shut, his heart pounding in his chest. His fur was bristling, a mix of anger and fear bubbling up from the pit of his stomach. “I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered under his breath, though the words barely felt like his own.
It was a cruel irony, really. Here was David, with all his love and care, trying to help Rocket feel like a person, like he mattered. But no matter how much Rocket tried to convince himself that the implants were just a part of who he was, he could never escape the truth of what had been done to him.
Still, despite the fear gnawing at him, Rocket couldn’t shake the odd sense of… gratitude? Maybe. The fact that David was trying to understand him—really understand him—was something Rocket couldn’t easily ignore.
But the darkness lingered. The fear. The haunting question: What kind of monster was he really?
Taking a deep, shaky breath, Rocket stuffed the journal back in the bag, keeping it out of sight. “You don’t get to screw with my head like that, man,” he muttered to himself. “Not now. Not ever.”
He needed a moment. Maybe a snack. Maybe a drink. Anything to get that damn journal out of his head.
Yet in his anger... Rocket had forgotten to look at other pages. For every awful yet necessary "bad" thing David had noted down... there were theories on how side effects and damage from the implants might be managed or treated. Gentle non-invasive repairs and treatments the human might try. Possible assistive devices or supports and braces. Methods for management of pain. Implant replacements or upgrades. Ways non-critical ones might even be removed via something called - Rocket's eyes went wide - 'keyhole' surgery? What was that?!
Rocket's heart slowed a little as his eyes darted back to the journal. His mind had been racing through a whirlwind of frustration and bitterness, but now—now there was something different. Something unexpected. The anger still simmered beneath the surface, but now, his curiosity was piqued. He leaned forward again, flicking back through the pages with trembling fingers.
"Implant Damage Management and Non-invasive Repair Options: Preliminary Suggestions"
“Non-Invasive Approaches: Neurostimulation Therapy. Low-frequency pulses aimed at aiding nerve regeneration. No invasive procedure required; risks minimized. Most effective during initial stages of damage."
Okay… okay, that didn’t sound so bad, Rocket thought, though he couldn’t deny the flicker of hope that grew as he read further. He had never heard of anything like this before. It felt weird to think that David was actively coming up with these things—trying to help him, in the most gentle way possible.
"Assistive Devices for Implants:
Neuro-Resonance Stabilizers (NRS): A wearable device designed to help regulate neuroplasticity and lessen the burden on synaptic activity. Particularly effective when dealing with fatigue-induced neural overload. Non-invasive, requires periodic calibration."
Exoskeletal Reinforcement Braces (ERB): Low-profile braces designed to stabilize skeletal structure and assist with high-stress physical activities. Adjustable based on Rocket's unique biomechanical needs. Can be worn under clothing without discomfort."
Rocket’s mouth went dry. Okay, now this was getting interesting. For the first time, there was talk about devices that could help him—things that might ease the pain, or at the very least, lessen the stress his implants caused on his body. They weren’t permanent fixes, but... they were solutions.
And then his eyes landed on something even more unexpected.
"Surgical Considerations: Removal of Non-Critical Implants"
"Keyhole Surgery: A minimally invasive surgical procedure aimed at removing or repairing certain non-critical implants. Incisions are tiny, and recovery time is generally fast. Full removal of neuro-integrated implants requires more intensive procedures, but a combination of keyhole surgery and neuro-regeneration therapy may offer the best results. A thorough evaluation is required before proceeding."
Rocket blinked. Keyhole surgery? He scanned over the description again, his mind struggling to wrap around the possibility. A procedure that didn’t involve tearing him apart? Something that could actually take the edge off the constant buzz of foreign technology embedded inside him? The thought made his stomach do flips. The idea of getting rid of something—anything—that was shoved into his body without his consent felt... good. Like a real possibility for change.
His heart pounded harder in his chest, and the anger—well, it was still there, lurking in the back of his mind, but now it had a new target. The people who did this to him—those who left him with all these damn implants in the first place—they had no idea what they were messing with.
“Possible Implant Replacements:
Upgraded Neuro-Synaptic Devices: To enhance reaction time and alleviate neural fatigue. Can be installed during keyhole procedures, minimizing damage to surrounding tissues.
Adaptive Sensory Processors: Improve sensory input without overloading the biological senses, reducing migraine-like symptoms."**
By the time Rocket finished reading that section, his mind was buzzing with new possibilities. He’d never thought about his implants in such a way before. To him, they had always been the source of everything that was wrong with him—the pieces of his body that didn’t belong, the constant reminder that he wasn’t born this way, that he was made.
But this? This was something else. This was someone actively trying to help him.
Rocket huffed, glancing up at David, who was still messing around with whatever gadget he'd been tinkering with earlier. A thousand thoughts whirled through his mind, none of them making any sense. Should he tell David what he’d found? Should he confront him about the other stuff in the journal, the stuff that felt too cold, too detached? Or should he just... let it go for once and take in the fact that, maybe—just maybe—David didn’t see him as just a collection of parts?
He felt his heart soften a little more.
“Well, shit,” Rocket muttered under his breath. “This is all way more complicated than I thought.”
He tossed the journal aside for the moment, the confusion still swirling inside him, but now with a glimmer of something else, something almost like hope.
Maybe—just maybe—there was a way forward.
Rocket looked those up. Keyhole Surgery. Microsurgery. It blew his mind! This... this was NOTHING like the butchery he'd experienced on the Arete, not at all! Trained and skilled, the best of the best, elite specialist Doctors and Surgeons wielding the smallest and finest tools Rocket had ever seen in his life, performing *miracles.* His Sire... seemed like a hack, a chump, and a butcher compared to these men and women--even more so when the little raccoon read about schools of Medicine, and of the strict rules, laws and ethics Doctors of Earth had in place.
Rocket’s mind was racing as he sat back, trying to digest what he had just discovered. His fingers hovered over the page again, his breath shallow as he scanned the detailed descriptions of keyhole surgery and microsurgery. The more he read, the more it felt like an entirely different universe from the kind of “medical attention” he had received in the past.
He skimmed through the history of Earth’s medical practices, from ancient remedies to modern, state-of-the-art surgeries. And then, there it was—keyhole surgery. A technique that, in simple terms, was a miracle in comparison to the brutal, often haphazard operations he’d undergone. The thought that someone, someone trained, could perform these procedures with such precision was almost laughable. The only thing Rocket had known before was pain—pure, excruciating pain—and careless mistakes that left scars across his body and mind.
Advanced Microsurgical Techniques: Using specialized, tiny tools and advanced imaging equipment, surgeons can access the body through very small incisions—less than a centimeter in diameter. This minimizes the trauma to surrounding tissues, reduces risk of infection, and leads to faster recovery times.
Applications in Implant Removal and Replacement: Small surgical instruments are guided by lasers and microscopes, making it possible to remove or replace malfunctioning or unwanted implants with far less harm to the patient.
Ethical Considerations: Keyhole surgery, like all medical procedures, follows strict ethical guidelines—patients must give informed consent, the surgeries are performed with the utmost care for patient wellbeing, and there’s a rigorous focus on reducing suffering."**
Rocket’s fur bristled with the sheer cleanliness of the whole thing. They weren’t hacking through his body. They weren’t ripping and tearing and forcing his body into something it wasn’t supposed to be. No. They were using precision, care, and ethics—things Rocket had never once seen in any of his past surgeries. His Sire’s methods, especially, felt like a barbaric joke in comparison.
There were no laws in his past life. No boundaries. No concerns about his health or wellbeing. To them, Rocket had always been expendable—a thing to be used and discarded. The idea that someone could actually perform these delicate, refined procedures with respect for the patient? It was a concept so foreign, it almost sounded unreal.
And the ethics behind Earth’s medical system... Rocket had to stop himself from snorting at the thought. On the Arete, it had been all about survival, about using anything or anyone to further their goals. It wasn’t about consent or patient autonomy. The mere concept of asking a patient for their permission, of respecting their decisions—Rocket had no idea how that would even work.
But as he read more, the reality of it settled in. There were rules. Strict codes of conduct that doctors had to follow. Surgeons weren’t allowed to operate unless they had clear, informed consent from the patient. The idea of do no harm wasn’t just an abstract idea, it was a guiding principle for every doctor on Earth.
Patient Autonomy: Doctors must prioritize the patient's rights to make informed decisions about their own body, even if the choices go against the doctor's advice.
Informed Consent: Every patient must be made fully aware of the risks, benefits, and alternatives before any procedure is done.
Non-Maleficence: The fundamental principle of medicine: do no harm. This means surgeons must always act in the patient’s best interest, with minimal risk and pain."
Rocket closed the journal, sitting there in stunned silence. His hands were shaking a little. Informed consent, patient autonomy—the words echoed in his mind like a strange new language. These were ideals that had never once existed in his world before, and certainly never in his experience. No one had ever asked him what he wanted, what he needed, or if he even consented to the horrors they had put him through.
And now, as he pieced everything together, he realized just how wrong it all had been. His Sire—hell, most of the people who had experimented on him—were nothing compared to the medical professionals here on Earth. They were monsters in comparison to these skilled, ethical healers.
He thought of David again. This wasn’t just someone trying to fix him. This was someone who wanted to help him. Who was taking the time to understand him in ways that no one ever had. And Rocket couldn’t deny it—he felt something stirring inside him. Something warm, something real.
If these doctors could make it so that Rocket could live without the constant reminder of his implants, without the pain and the damage they caused, maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t too late for him. Maybe there was a way to fix things, to feel whole again.
He stood up, pacing in small circles, his mind a storm of thoughts. Keyhole surgery. The very idea was mind-blowing. He could imagine his body, free from the pieces of tech that had been drilled into him. He could imagine himself without the buzzing, the irritation, the constant reminder that he wasn’t just a raccoon anymore.
For a moment, Rocket almost allowed himself to hope. Almost.
But then a grim thought pierced through. What if they screw it up?
The idea of being laid open again—of trusting anyone with his body, after everything that had been done to him—it was terrifying. He could still feel the old wounds, the memories of his Sire’s butchery. What if this Earth stuff was too good to be true?
But then again, what if it wasn’t? What if this was his chance—his real chance—to get back to something resembling normal? To feel like himself again, without the constant reminder that his body wasn’t entirely his own.
With a deep breath, Rocket shook his head, pushing those thoughts aside. He couldn’t afford to think that way right now. What mattered was the possibility. The possibility of something better, something more, something that didn’t involve pain and regret.
He closed the journal and tucked it away for now. The path ahead might still be full of questions, full of risks, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was standing on solid ground again.
And that, in itself, felt like a victory.
The artwork in David's Journal hit Rocket hard. Sketches and coloured drawings of him as a base raccoon; then Rocket as he was, detailed image after image. Some of them were fantasy yet they made Rocket's eyes well up. Him nestled in bed with David as the human petted him or read him a story. Rocket living with Lylla in a little house inside a hill. Rocket happier than ever, singing something, music notes coming from his mouth. Rocket cackled as he saw himself yelling so loud at Quill there was physical force blowing the man across the room! And more, and more.
Rocket’s eyes flickered over the pages, his breath hitching as he took in each sketch. They were beautiful, they were human, and they hit him harder than he’d expected. The images were more than just art. They were like little windows into a version of himself he’d never thought possible.
There he was, a raccoon—no, Rocket—at ease in his natural form, as if he didn’t have a single care in the world. A simple sketch of him curled up in the crook of a tree, eyes half-closed in peaceful slumber. Another one, just a quick doodle of him with his hands outstretched, playful, almost like he was reaching for something—maybe for something he thought he’d lost long ago.
But then there was the one that made Rocket’s throat tighten. It was of him, as he was now, with those damn implants and the mechanical components, standing in front of a fire with his eyes cast down. It felt too real. Too him. There was a sadness in it, but also a sense of longing—a longing for something more than what he had. And beneath it, David had written: Even with all that’s been done to you, you’re still more than just the sum of your parts.
Rocket’s chest ached as his eyes lingered on the words, the gravity of them hitting him harder than any blast he’d taken.
Rocket couldn’t help but stare at the scene of him curled up with David in bed. The warmth of it hit him like a freight train, knocking him off balance for a moment. He had never imagined anything like this, not in a million years. He looked so... at peace, nestled into the human’s side, eyes soft and calm. There was David, smiling down at him, hand resting gently on his head, like he was the most precious thing in the world.
Then the one with Lylla—his heart skipped. He had to blink rapidly to keep his vision from blurring. A small house nestled inside a hill, the two of them laughing together in the sun. He could hear her voice in his mind, that beautiful, familiar tone of hers. A memory he hadn’t fully let himself explore in so long.
But that image... that image made him pause, hand frozen over the page as he stared at it.
It was him, Rocket, standing on a stage in front of a crowd, mouth wide open as he belted out a song, his voice so free and loud that the very music notes seemed to swirl around him like a visible force. He could almost hear the music in his head—the sound of it, the freedom of it, a pure, unrestrained joy.
Rocket bit the inside of his cheek, trying to fight the lump that was forming in his throat. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought about what it’d be like to sing again, but seeing it... seeing it like this, made real, made him ache with the possibility that it could happen. That maybe, just maybe, he could feel that kind of joy again.
He laughed out loud at the next one. It was him, fists clenched, shouting at Peter Quill with such force that the poor human was flying across the room, arms and legs splayed out in mid-air, completely caught off guard. Rocket couldn't help but chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. Of course, he’d always imagined yelling at Quill like that. It was cathartic. And honestly, well deserved, too.
But the thing was, even in the middle of that explosion of Rocket’s temper, there was a certain affection in the picture. As absurd as it was, as exaggerated as the scene might’ve been, it was clear that underneath all the noise and chaos was a kind of bond—a connection, even if it was wrapped up in all the usual sarcasm and mischief.
Page after page, the scenes unfolded, each more impossible and beautiful than the last. There was one where he was standing with Groot, both of them tall and proud—he, grinning ear-to-ear, Groot’s huge form dwarfing him as they shared a moment of camaraderie, like nothing in the galaxy could break them apart.
And then there was the drawing of him, sitting on a cliff at sunset, looking out at the horizon. The warm light cast a soft glow on his fur, his posture relaxed, his face looking like a completely different Rocket—someone unburdened by the weight of the universe, just taking a moment for himself.
It was these kinds of pictures that hit him hardest. They showed the possibilities, the what could be, rather than the painful reality of what was. It was hard to let his mind wander into that space, into a future he hadn’t allowed himself to think about in years. The way these drawings made him feel... It was a deep, aching longing. The kind of longing for a life that didn’t feel like it was slipping through his fingers.
But despite the ache in his chest, a small part of him wanted to believe it could happen. He had David, after all. And there were moments like this—moments when the human truly saw him, understood him, and treated him as more than just the sum of his parts.
As Rocket slowly turned the pages, each drawing felt like it was asking him to believe. To trust. To hope.
And Rocket, for the first time in a long while, didn’t just want to dismiss it as a fantasy.
Maybe... maybe there was something more to this. Something more to him.
His eyes flicked back to the picture of him and David, lying together in that peaceful moment, the human’s gentle hand resting on his fur, a quiet smile on his face. Rocket couldn’t help but feel a flicker of warmth deep inside.
Maybe this—this impossible, absurd life—wasn't as far out of reach as he’d always believed.
And maybe, just maybe, he could let himself have it.
More pages blew Rocket away. Ideas and sketches for ships, weapons, suits, all for him. Rocket LOST IT as he saw a picture of himself wearing Peter Quill's clothes, helmet and blasters! STAR-COON, TRUE LEADER OF THE GUARDIANS! was the exaggerated caption. More assistive devices. Ways to modify the ship so he could better get around.
Rocket’s heart raced as he flipped through the pages, each one more overwhelming than the last. There were sketches of ships—his ships. Not just any ships, but designs specifically for him. There were compact, efficient designs for fast space travel, with all the gadgets and tech he could ever dream of. Weapons, too. Things that would work with his enhanced skills, all the while keeping in mind his size and agility. Each design was thought out with meticulous care, from blasters built to fit his grip perfectly to gadgets that he could carry on his own without needing to rely on anyone else.
But then… then came the ultimate bombshell.
Rocket’s breath caught in his throat as he saw it. The page was a sketch of him wearing Peter Quill’s clothes—his jacket, his helmet, the blasters, everything. He looked ridiculous, a tiny raccoon in an oversized suit, the helmet cocked at an absurd angle, but the caption beneath it made Rocket’s eyes widen in shock.
"STAR-COON, TRUE LEADER OF THE GUARDIANS!"
The absurdity of it sent Rocket into a fit of laughter, but it was that kind of deep, guttural laugh—one that came from the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t even believe David had thought of this, let alone drawn it out in such vivid detail. The way Rocket was posed, all puffed up with confidence, one hand on his hip, the other wielding Quill’s blasters like he was born to be the leader of the Guardians.
It felt like a joke. It was so ridiculous, so over the top, but Rocket couldn’t shake the warmth spreading in his chest. It was a feeling he never thought he'd experience—being seen as more than just the sarcastic, angry little raccoon who did all the dirty work. He was Star-Coon. A leader.
He wiped away a tear, laughing harder. “Oh, man… I can’t believe this…”
But then, as his laughter died down, his eyes landed on the next set of pages, and the smile faded just a bit.
There were more designs—these ones were practical. Assistive devices. Things to help Rocket navigate the ship more easily, tools that would make life easier for him in ways he’d never imagined. There were modifications to the Milano, tailored to his size and needs. A custom cockpit seat that could adjust to fit him perfectly, little arms and levers that could be adjusted to his reach. A personalized comm system that wouldn’t just be a universal interface, but one that recognized him—his voice, his commands.
David had thought of everything. He had thought of how Rocket could be himself in a world that wasn’t made for someone like him. It wasn’t just about survival. It was about living. Thriving.
Rocket felt a lump form in his throat again, but it was different this time. This time, there was no pain. Just an overwhelming sense of gratitude, of something deeper that Rocket hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t charity. It was care. Genuine care for who Rocket was—not just as some ragged raccoon, but as him.
The thought of that name, of himself—not as a tool, not as a freak, but as someone who mattered—made the whole room feel too small. His mind raced, trying to process all of this. David wasn’t just writing a journal. He was planning, dreaming—for him. Every sketch, every note, every idea was a blueprint for something better. A way for Rocket to have a life that wasn’t just about getting by, a life that was about living.
And that was when Rocket realized it—what this was really about. It wasn’t about the fancy tech or the suits or the weapons. It wasn’t about being Star-Coon, the “leader of the Guardians” (as ridiculous as that idea was). It was about belonging.
David had made Rocket feel like he belonged. No matter how broken Rocket felt, no matter how many pieces of himself he thought he’d lost, David’s journal was a reminder that Rocket was something. Someone.
And as much as he might laugh it all off, as much as he'd never let anyone see him get soft, there was a part of him that was already starting to believe.
Maybe he could be Star-Coon. Maybe he was already.
The thought of standing beside David, alongside Groot, Quill, and the rest, felt less impossible. It felt like it could actually happen.
His fingers traced the sketch of himself in Quill’s clothes again, and this time, he didn’t laugh. He just stared, his chest tight, that flicker of something warm still glowing inside him.
Maybe, just maybe, this absurd little family of his had a place for him. Rocket—Star-Coon, the leader.
His heart pounded in his chest, and despite himself, he smiled.
The Journal... was a treatise on Rocket. Technical Manual. Manual of Love. How to love and adore Rocket. How to pet, wash, groom, feed and care for him. How to love him. "FOR ROCKET, FROM DAVID," the last page read. "KNEW YOU'D FIND THIS ONE AND I WANT YOU TO HAVE IT; DON'T WORRY I'VE GOT ANOTHER COPY! LMK IF YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT ANYTHING IN HERE, OR IF YOU WANT TO KILL ME FOR COMPILING ALL THIS, OK?" Rocket sniffled... then he laughed until he was crying.
Rocket sat there, holding the journal in his paws, utterly overwhelmed. The last page, with its casual tone, its completely David phrasing, hit him harder than anything else had. "FOR ROCKET, FROM DAVID," it read. And then that line: "KNEW YOU'D FIND THIS ONE AND I WANT YOU TO HAVE IT; DON'T WORRY I'VE GOT ANOTHER COPY! LMK IF YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT ANYTHING IN HERE, OR IF YOU WANT TO KILL ME FOR COMPILING ALL THIS, OK?"
Rocket’s heart gave a sharp tug, and for a moment, everything else melted away. The absurdity, the technical details, all the outlandish sketches, the wild theories on how to love him—it all came crashing down with that simple, heartfelt message. That was David—with his humor, his clumsy warmth, and his unrelenting care. He didn’t just see Rocket as a project or a creature or a thing to be studied. No, David saw Rocket for who he was—a friend, a companion, someone worth all this effort, all this research, all this love.
Rocket’s breath hitched, and he couldn’t help it anymore. The tears came first, then that wild laugh, deep from his belly, echoing through the quiet of the room. The kind of laugh that racked his whole body with shaking and gasping. It was absurd, ridiculous, and yet, the more he laughed, the more it felt like the weight of everything—every moment of loss, every bit of hurt, every lonely night—was finally lifting off him. All of it, gone, for this one single, overwhelming truth:
And Rocket? Rocket... needed it. More than he'd ever let himself admit before.
Rocket wiped his eyes, trying to catch his breath as the giggles subsided, his chest still warm and tight with emotion. “Oh man... you’re insane, David.” He chuckled, wiping his paw across his face to clear the last of the tears.
He stood up, holding the journal close to his chest, running his fingers over the pages. The feeling of being seen, of being cared for in such a deeply personal, thoughtful way... it was overwhelming.
Rocket let out a breath, his voice a little hoarse. “You’re really something, you know that? I don’t know if I’m gonna kill you for this, but—" He paused, his voice softening, "Damn, David. This is... this is more than I ever thought anyone could do for me.”
And as Rocket looked at the journal again, he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. In this crazy universe, with all its dangers, its scars, and its wars, there was this—this soft, crazy, heart-melting thing that Rocket had never expected.
A home. A place where he truly mattered.
Maybe, just maybe, he could be Star-Coon—not just a leader, but someone who belonged. To them. To David.
Later, with the journal stashed away in his Quarters, Rocket was making his way to the Commons aboard the ship, not really thinking about what was in front of him. He nearly ran into David -- but before Rocket even realized what was happening, David just... gently picked him up for a moment, then moved him, set him down; so brief Rocket barely even felt it. "You okay?" the human asked as they walked together. "Unit for your thoughts?"
Rocket blinked, stunned by the sudden movement. One second, he was lost in his own head, thinking about that damn journal, and the next, poof, he was gently lifted and set down like a feather. He barely even registered the brief sensation of being picked up, it was so smooth, so practiced. It felt like... care. But Rocket wasn’t sure he was ready to confront that feeling yet.
He shook his head, trying to snap out of his daze, but he couldn't help the little huff of laughter that escaped his lips. "Unit for my thoughts?" he repeated, his voice dripping with mock offense. "Is that what I am now? A thought dispenser? Gotta admit, that’s a bit of an ego blow, Dave."
David chuckled softly beside him, the kind of chuckle that felt like it was wrapped in warmth and familiarity. "Well, I figured I’d check in. You’ve been kind of... distant lately." He glanced over at Rocket, his eyes soft with concern. "Everything good?"
Rocket opened his mouth to make a sarcastic quip, but it died in his throat. He didn't want to admit it, but he felt something tightening in his chest. He rubbed the back of his neck, his usual deflection technique kicking in, but it was half-hearted this time. "I’m fine," he muttered, but even to his own ears, it sounded weak.
David didn’t press him. Instead, he slowed his pace, walking beside Rocket like they were just two old pals strolling through the halls of the ship. The kind of relaxed companionship that Rocket had never quite let himself have, not fully. He'd never really let anyone in, not like this.
Finally, he let out a sigh, the weight of the journal’s revelations still fresh in his mind. "I was just... thinking," Rocket admitted, his voice quieter than usual. "You know, just... stuff."
David raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. They both knew Rocket’s version of "stuff" was never just "stuff." It was everything—always complicated, always messy.
"I get it," David said after a beat. "Thinking’s... dangerous. But sometimes it’s nice, too."
Rocket shot him a sideways glance, surprised by the understanding in David’s voice. He opened his mouth to protest, to go into his usual snark about thinking being overrated, but it just didn’t feel right. Instead, he simply shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
They walked in silence for a few moments, the kind of silence that felt easy. Like neither of them had to rush to fill it with words. Rocket liked that. It was... comfortable.
Finally, David broke the quiet, his voice softer than before. "You know, if you ever need to talk about anything... you don’t have to be alone with it. I’m here, Rocket."
Rocket’s heart gave a little jolt at those words, and he almost choked on his own breath. It was so simple, so quiet—but there it was. The kind of offer that made him feel exposed in the best way possible. David didn’t need to say it, but he said it anyway: You’re not alone.
Rocket fought to keep his expression neutral. He had to; if he didn’t, his face would betray him. He hadn’t let anyone see him like this—open. Vulnerable. Not since... well, ever.
“Yeah, well… maybe we’ll talk about it sometime,” Rocket said, his voice still a bit rough but trying to regain its usual edge. “But right now, I could use a snack. You know what’s good? That weird gelatin stuff Groot likes.”
David laughed. "I knew you'd come around to it eventually."
Rocket shot him a small, sideways grin. "I have standards, you know."
The tension between them melted away as they continued on, their pace in sync, the kind of unspoken understanding that Rocket didn’t even have to ask for. It was there, just... there.
And for the first time in a long time, Rocket didn’t feel so alone.
"I have standards, you know." "Indeed, young Master!" David smiled, effecting the voice of a Butler. "And your standards, as always, are most impeccable!"
Rocket couldn’t help but bark out a laugh at the terrible butler impression. He threw David a playful side-eye, raising an eyebrow. “Impeccable, huh? I’m pretty sure my standards don’t involve you calling me ‘young master.’”
David kept his over-the-top butler voice going, stretching the words out for full dramatic effect. “But of course, Master Rocket, you’re always the very model of dignity and taste. Might I suggest, perhaps, that you take your place at the snack table and sample the finest offerings?”
Rocket rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at his lips. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, shoving David’s shoulder lightly, but he couldn’t quite stop the warmth spreading through his chest. It wasn’t just the words; it was the feeling. The fact that David was always willing to indulge in these absurd moments, to make Rocket feel like this—like he mattered, even in something as simple as a bad butler impression.
David bowed dramatically, earning a snicker from Rocket. “The finest offerings await, Master Rocket. Only the finest for you!”
Rocket gave him a side glance, his expression softening. “Alright, alright. You’re not that bad for a dumb human, I guess.” He reached over to grab a snack—Groot’s weird gelatinous concoction—smirking at the absurdity of it all.
David laughed, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Not bad, huh? I’ll take it.” Then, his voice softened, almost too casually. “You know, I do think you’re pretty amazing, Rocket. Standards or no.”
The words hung in the air for a moment. And despite the ridiculousness of it all—despite the banter—Rocket felt something in him twist. Not bad, huh? Not bad, indeed. Maybe... maybe there was more to it than just the laughter. Maybe it was the way David was there, always there, like a solid presence that made Rocket feel like he could let down his guard—even just a little.
Rocket stuffed his mouth with the gelatin, masking the strange, unspoken feeling bubbling inside him. “Don’t get sappy on me now, Dave. You’ll ruin the moment.”
David gave him a soft look, his smile almost too knowing, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he just nodded and leaned back, watching Rocket with a quiet kind of affection.
They didn’t need to say anything more. Not yet.
Rocket had tested the waters. He and David had been watching some dumb thing or another, and Rocket had slowly, gently, deliberately leaned into David, to see what the human would do. Having only known Quill - a terrible example - the little raccoon had expected David to eventually be the same as him. Rocket expected a sharp retort, or to be shoved away. Instead... David had adjusted to make Rocket even more comfortable. Then... then the human had started to pet him, softly stroke his headfur! He didn't make a big deal out of it. He just... did it, like it was the most natural, normal thing in the world. Like Rocket was welcomed, meant to be there. Rocket blinked, sniffled softly, then gently closed his eyes.
Rocket felt the soft stroke of David's hand through his headfur again, and the warmth from the human's touch settled deep in him. The motion wasn’t overbearing or overly affectionate—it was gentle, just a quiet act of comfort. As if David had decided that this was just part of what they did.
Rocket hadn't expected this. He hadn't known how to expect it, really. With Quill, there was always some kind of edge—mockery, sarcasm, or even the awkwardness of being around someone who couldn't truly understand him. Rocket had learned to brace himself for the pushback, for the boundaries. But this? This was different. David didn't seem to have any of that. No expectations. No awkwardness. Just... acceptance.
The fact that David had just let Rocket lean into him without hesitation—without a word—made something tight inside Rocket loosen just a little. It wasn't like Rocket had to fight to earn the touch, or like he had to prove he deserved it. It was just there, unspoken, woven into the fabric of their connection. And that... that was scary.
It felt too good, and Rocket didn’t know how to deal with it.
But then, when David’s fingers slid through his fur again, Rocket closed his eyes slowly, just for a second. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. In fact, he leaned a little closer, his fur tickling David's palm as he exhaled softly, letting himself enjoy it. Letting himself be there.
“Hey, Dave…” Rocket murmured, voice quieter than usual, trying to sound casual even though his heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest. “You know you’re weird, right?”
David chuckled, his hand still moving through Rocket’s fur. "I get that a lot," he replied easily, his voice warm and steady. “You’re welcome to get weirder with me, if you want.”
Rocket huffed a quiet laugh, his chest tightening for a moment. “Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever,” he muttered. But despite the words, he stayed right where he was, his head gently resting against David's side, his mind floating in the odd quiet between them.
It was nice, damn it. Too nice.
He sniffled again, half to himself, trying to hide the soft tug of emotion threatening to show itself. But for the first time in what felt like forever, Rocket didn’t feel the need to fight it. He didn’t feel like he had to run, or push away, or shield himself from the warmth that had started to creep in around the edges of his heart. It was simple—soft—but it was real. And maybe that was what scared him the most.
But for now, all he could do was close his eyes and let David’s hand continue to move through his fur. Just this once, he let himself be—not guarded, not defensive. Just... Rocket. And David’s quiet, unspoken care.
“You’re welcome to get weirder with me, if you want,” David had said. And so the little raccoon had, at least a little. One night, Rocket had just -- walked into David's Quarters, shucked his uniform, then put on the shirt David had just been wearing. Rocket looked at David, defiant, with a look that screamed 'what are you going to do about it?' He'd expected an 'Okay, very funny' or a 'What the hell are you doing?!' or the worst, 'Give that back and get the hell out!' But... David had looked at Rocket very sadly. Very seriously. The human had gently beckoned Rocket over; then when Rocket had approached - still clad in nothing but his underwear and David's shirt - David had *gently* pulled back the duvet, then had *carefully* picket Rocket up and had just... tucked him into bed next to him. Again, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like Rocket was meant to be there. Like he was lov-- Tears misted Rocket's eyes.
Rocket had felt the strange mix of emotions swirling in his chest as David had pulled him into the bed that night. The human had done it so gently, so naturally—there was no shock, no judgment. No discomfort at all. He just... welcomed Rocket.
It had been the simplest thing. The softest touch. And it had rattled Rocket more than anything ever had.
When David tucked him in, even though Rocket’s mind screamed at him to pull away, to fight it, to protect himself—he didn’t. He didn’t pull away because for the first time in a long time, it felt right. It felt like something real, something safe, something he could trust.
David had looked at him with such kindness in his eyes, and it cut Rocket straight through. It was the way he'd made room for Rocket, as if he was never a bother or an intrusion. Just there. Just... wanted.
And that’s when the tears came, the ones Rocket didn’t know were there until they started falling, slipping down his face quietly in the dark. He'd never let himself cry like this. Hell, he'd never let anyone see how vulnerable he really was, but right then, with David so close, so present, something inside him just gave way.
"Hey," David had murmured softly, his voice warm but full of something tender. "You okay?"
Rocket sniffled, but instead of shying away or brushing it off, he curled into David’s side. It was the only thing he could do in that moment, and even as his heart threatened to pound out of his chest, he just stayed there. Just let it happen. Because he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. This... this was more than what he'd ever expected. More than he’d ever dreamed.
“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine,” Rocket said quietly, even as his voice trembled slightly. “Just… just didn’t expect you to be so... damn nice.”
David smiled softly, brushing a stray bit of fur from Rocket’s face. "It's okay. You don’t have to explain anything to me. You’re allowed to just be here. With me. I want that, Rocket."
And Rocket, despite the flood of emotions, despite how unsteady it made him feel, finally let himself relax. Let himself feel the warmth of David’s presence—the way David’s hand moved gently over his fur, as if nothing was wrong. Like everything Rocket had been afraid of, all the walls he'd built to protect himself, didn’t matter anymore.
In that moment, Rocket allowed himself to just be—just to feel safe. Just to feel cared for. Because David... David had shown him, in the simplest of ways, that maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let go.
So Rocket closed his eyes, leaning into David’s side, and for once, let himself be taken care of. Let himself be loved.
Rocket... remembered David's warmth that night. The human's hand softly petting, stroking his fur; the tiny cry he'd released at how it felt, so good as the organic parts of his brain lit up. Touch without pain. He remembered his tears. And... he remembered David *singing* to him: "Dear Heart, dear Soul Old friend, don't let me go I am the fire and you are water Drown me out, but I learnt So if you see me, cross the street But I still see you in people I meet And I am fire and you are water You drown me out, but I learnt, I got older, found out I ought to Make ashes from stone All of these things that I've seen turn darkness into gold And when I was made from the right kind of wrong All of these things that I've seen turned darkness into gold Into gold, into gold, into gold, into gold Into gold, into gold, into gold, into gold Into gold, into gold, into gold, into gold Into gold, into gold, into gold, into gold Rivers run red, river run dry River run red and white I am the fire and you are water Drown me out, but I learnt So if you see me, cross the street But I still see you in people I meet I am fire and you are water You ran me wild to the sea, there you'll find me, trying to catch me Make ashes from stone All of these things that I've seen turn darkness into gold And when I was made from the right kind of wrong All of these things that I've seen turned darkness into gold All of these things that I've seen turned darkness into gold All of these things that I've seen turned darkness into gold (into gold) All of these things that I've seen turned darkness into gold" Rocket remembered his little paw closing about some of David's pyjama top. David's soft falsetto as he sang, and gods, that song! Nuzzling into the crook of the human's shoulder, Rocket hitched a sob. And then, at last, he slept.
That night, Rocket’s dreams were vivid, a blur of colors and memories—David’s voice soft in his ears, the warmth of the human's hand on his fur, the feeling of being safe. Rocket’s mind drifted in a hazy sea of comfort, the lyrics from the song lingering in the air like a soft echo. "Into gold, into gold..."
When Rocket woke, it was to the quiet comfort of David's quarters, the sun just beginning to rise outside. He lay there for a moment, blinking in the morning light, still nestled against the warmth of the human's side. David was still asleep, his breathing steady and calm, his arm draped over Rocket protectively, as if the two of them belonged in that space together. And for the first time in a long time, Rocket allowed himself to believe it.
The lingering feeling from the night before—the gentleness, the warmth, the acceptance—had seeped into his soul. It wasn’t just comfort, not just the absence of pain. It was something more. Something real.
As Rocket gently shifted, trying not to wake David, he found himself smiling. A small, quiet smile that didn’t feel like something he had to hide or question. He didn’t know what the future held, or where this uncharted road might take them, but for once, he didn’t feel alone. For once, he didn’t feel like he had to keep fighting to prove his worth, to earn the love and care he didn’t think he deserved.
David’s voice, soft and kind, rose in his mind again: “You don’t have to explain anything to me. You’re allowed to just be here. With me.”
And for the first time, Rocket felt it deep in his bones. He was allowed. He was allowed to be here. Allowed to be loved. Allowed to exist without fear, without walls, without the weight of the past crushing him.
Rocket reached up, touching David’s hand gently where it lay over his fur. He nuzzled the warmth of David’s arm, just the slightest bit closer, before he finally closed his eyes again, letting the soft hum of the ship, the quiet rhythm of their breaths, lull him back to sleep.
It was a new beginning. And this time, Rocket let himself rest in the knowledge that it wasn’t just some fleeting moment of kindness—it was something real. Something worth holding on to.
And so, in the quiet of the morning, as David slept peacefully beside him, Rocket allowed himself to simply be.
Later, Rocket whined as he felt David move away and get out of their small bed. The little Raccoon moaned, felt where David had been, and then was rolling into the warm spot left behind, hearing David chuckle. Half asleep, half awake, Rocket watched as David moved over to the small kitchenette jammed into his quarters. Aware of how the machine might sound - of how it could affect Rocket and bring back a bad memory - the human foregoes a mechanical grinder and instead grinds NEAR-FRESH Coffee Beans into powder using a hand grinder. A while later, David gently pulls out - "What the flark...?" - an odd machine mounted to a wooden base. It's all gold tubes, with a golden carafe on one side, a glass fuel burner beneath that, then a glass on the other side, a tube going from the gold carafe to it! Hopping out of bed, Rocket pads over, curious... and then he sees it. The absolute *magic* of my Balance Siphon in action, as the water is siphoned down the brass tube to fill the glass full of coffee powder; then his eyes widen as the machine *shifts* the flame shuts off, and the filtered coffee is siphoned back up from the glass into the carafe. "Oh, what the...? Whoa...!" he breathes.
David chuckled softly at Rocket’s wonder, his fingers carefully adjusting the flame beneath the glass base to maintain the perfect temperature for the siphon brewing process. "You’re in for a treat, little buddy. This is my Belgian Balance Siphon. Took me a while to get the hang of it, but it’s worth it."
Rocket, wide-eyed and transfixed by the strange and beautiful mechanism, couldn’t help but lean in closer. The golden tubes and glass globes gleamed in the soft light of the room. The brewing process was almost hypnotic: the water, heated by the small burner, began to rise up through the brass tube, moving in a slow, almost graceful dance as it mixed with the coffee grounds in the glass carafe. Rocket’s eyes followed the movement of the liquid, the way the coffee slowly began to form in the bottom of the glass, rich and dark, the aroma already filling the room.
The little raccoon blinked, utterly captivated by the delicate interplay of heat, water, and flavor. "That’s... that’s wild, man," he muttered, eyes wide. "I thought... I thought it was just gonna, y’know, like drip through, or whatever. But this... it’s like... it’s like alchemy or something!"
David grinned, clearly enjoying Rocket’s awe. "It’s all about the balance—hence the name. The pressure changes, the heat... it makes for a smooth, flavorful coffee that’s way more than just a caffeine kick. It’s a whole experience."
Rocket sat down beside David, still glued to the machine. His tail swished with excitement, the anticipation building as the liquid began to siphon back into the top chamber. "I gotta admit, that’s one heck of a contraption," he said, voice full of admiration. "But... how does it taste? I mean, this thing’s fancy, but is it actually good?"
David paused, glancing at Rocket with a smirk. "Well, I guess there's only one way to find out." He carefully removed the glass carafe, placing it down on a nearby counter, and then poured the coffee into two small cups.
Rocket watched, leaning forward eagerly as the deep, rich brew filled the cups. He could already smell the complex, aromatic scent wafting up from the cup, rich and full. David handed one to him, watching as Rocket's paw wrapped around the handle, still holding it carefully, like he was holding something valuable.
Taking a slow sip, Rocket’s eyes widened in surprise. The flavor was rich, smooth, and deep. It wasn’t just bitter or sharp like the usual stuff he’d had in the past—it had layers, hints of earthiness, maybe even a little sweetness. It was, for lack of a better word, perfect.
His eyes met David’s, a bit of awe still lingering in his gaze. "Okay, okay... that’s... that’s really good. Like, really good. It’s like... like a symphony of flavors or something. How'd you even find this thing?"
David chuckled, leaning back against the counter as he sipped his own coffee. "Oh, I found it on a whim, really. Did a bit of research and got myself a hand grinder to go with it. Some things just need to be done right, y’know?"
Rocket sat back, tail twitching happily as he finished his cup, savoring every last drop. "You sure know how to spoil a raccoon. This... this is the good stuff, man. I don’t think I’ll ever look at coffee the same way again."
David smiled warmly, his eyes softening as he glanced at Rocket. "I’m glad you like it. You deserve the best, Rocket. Always have."
Rocket blinked at that, his heart giving a strange little flip. He knew it was just coffee. But somehow... it felt like something more. And he didn’t want to think too hard about it, didn’t want to overanalyze it. He just let himself enjoy the moment. The warmth, the comfort, the soft rhythm of the morning, and the gentle understanding that seemed to flow between him and David.
"Yeah, well..." Rocket said, finally breaking the silence, his voice soft but sincere. "I guess... I guess I do deserve the best, huh?"
David’s smile never faltered. "Yeah, you do."
And for the first time in a long time, Rocket believed it.
Rocket expected to eat a simple protein bar after that and then be gone -- but then the SMELL of the full breakfast David COOKED for him hit his nose. Cereal. Bacon and Eggs on Toast. A little bowl of fruits. A second smaller Coffee. His body wanted it; screamed at him as tears welled in his eyes. And when he ate it? REAL FOOD, not ship rations? Rocket WHIMPERED because it all tasted SO GOOD...
David didn’t say a word as Rocket stared at the plate.
He just sat down across from him, sipping his own coffee, letting the food speak for itself. And oh, it did — Rocket could barely breathe through the storm of smells: the rich smokiness of the bacon, the sharp buttery note from the eggs, the toast just browned to golden perfection, that tiny bowl of fruit chilled to refreshing sweetness. The cereal even crackled softly in milk like it was glad to be alive.
Rocket just stood there a second. Silent.
Then he sat. Slowly. As if his body had moved on its own before his mind caught up. A tremor passed through his arms as he picked up the fork, hand pausing mid-air.
"...You, uh..." he started, trying to brush it off. “You didn’t hafta go this hard.”
David only smiled softly. “Nah. I didn’t hafta. I wanted to.”
And Rocket — tough little Rocket, who didn’t flinch at explosions, didn’t break under interrogations, who'd built himself back from nothing — whimpered.
Because the first bite was hot. The toast crisp and savory. The egg’s yolk melted into everything. It hit him right behind the eyes — his stomach, poor thing, like it had forgotten what real nourishment was — howled in relief. His lips parted for a second, then closed, trembling.
The second bite came with bacon. Salty, sweet, a little crunchy around the edges.
Then the fruit. Cold, juicy, like sunrise in his mouth.
He tried to stay quiet. He did.
But a soft sob broke out of him. He couldn’t help it.
David didn’t push. He didn’t hover. He just sat across from Rocket, letting him eat, letting him feel everything he needed to feel — like it was the most normal thing in the world for someone to quietly cry while devouring breakfast.
Rocket’s paw swiped his face. “It’s just... it’s just food, man,” he mumbled, half-angry at himself.
David nodded gently. “Yeah. But your body remembers when it didn’t have it. And now it’s safe.”
Rocket didn’t say anything after that. Just kept eating.
And when he finished, eyes puffy and belly warm, he looked over at David.
"...Thanks," he rasped. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t close to enough. But it was all he had in that moment.
David just reached over and topped up his coffee. "Anytime, Rocket. Seriously."
Rocket wrapped his paws around the warm cup, closed his eyes for a moment... and for once, didn't feel like he had to keep armor on around this human.
Maybe he'd stay a little longer.
Morning duties, fixing this and that, little things here and there on the ship -- were going to be very different now. As Rocket went about his business... David was there with full-on thick beard, Akubra hat -- and a massive Bowie knife that Rocket had NEVER seen before that looked like it could cleave ANYONE in half! He was a looming silent presence behind him. Never in Rocket's way. Fetching this and that when asked. And Rocket realized... subtly making people MOVE OUT OF THE WAY when others started getting too close to him! Making for him a 'bubble' or 'aura' of personal space in a world of giants. It settled the always frightened raccoon instincts within his anthropomorphic form, finally made him feel *safe* and Rocket would gently bump, nudge, and nuzzle him subtly in thanks.
It didn’t take long before the rest of the crew started noticing.
Not that David was doing anything dramatic — he didn’t yell, didn’t posture, didn’t pull rank or bark orders — but something about the way he stood, the way his eyes tracked, the calm, slow way he unsheathed that enormous Bowie just to cut some wire casing or slice a ration wrapper...
It was deeply unsettling to anyone with half a brain.
Especially since he barely spoke while he was doing it.
Rocket? Rocket didn’t say a word about it. But he knew. Oh, he knew. The bubble was real. And it worked. He could move about without jerks brushing past him, without trying to defend his airspace, without that ever-present edge in his spine like he was going to have to bite or bolt.
And when that tension started to rise — someone getting too close, speaking too loud, reaching — there David was, just there, looming a step closer, shoulders squared.
And suddenly Rocket had space again.
Rocket tested it once — reaching up to pull a component, arm half buried in a vent panel — and felt someone about to crowd him from behind. But before he could even bare his teeth, he heard the soft shink of the Bowie sliding home in its sheath, saw the shadow loom bigger in the reflection of the panel—
The crew member took a casual detour around the corridor bulkhead.
Rocket’s tail flicked in amusement. That one wasn’t dumb.
Later, in private, he bumped David with a shoulder. Nudged him gently with his snout like an affectionate dog pretending not to be affectionate. Didn’t say anything.
David didn’t need him to.
He just reached down, rough knuckles brushing through Rocket’s headfur in that easy, grounding way — the kind of touch Rocket never used to trust, but now craved more than food.
“You’re alright,” David said softly.
And for once, Rocket believed it.
When lunch time came, David took one look at the... food... Rocket was about to eat - the meagre ration pack and protein bar, 'junk' for his body, basically no good. David shook his head. "Hey, d'ast it--!" Rocket cried as the human took them, put them into a Biohazard Container. Then the human went into the galley kitchen... And he came back later with IT. THE LUNCH. Rocket SMELT it... and then he SAW it. Bread, crunchy CRUST on the outside, yet soft and warm, buttered. And then - his body howled inside, he thought he heard a whimper but NOPE IT WASN'T HIM! - because of the STEW. THICK and HEARTY and full of... of... EVERYTHING. Meat, vegetables, carrot, corn and MORE in a slightly thickened BROTH that made him sob as his stomach screamed W-A-N-T!!!
Rocket stared at it like it was a mirage.
He didn't move at first — like if he reached for it, it'd vanish. Like it was some cruel dream his brain had cooked up in the depths of starvation memory. Because no one did this. No one made meals like this. Not for him.
Not unless they wanted something.
“Go on,” David said gently, setting the tray down on a crate beside him. “It’s yours.”
Rocket’s eyes were wide, pupils blown as the smell filled his nose and wrapped around his whole damn soul. The buttered bread — real bread, toasted just right, golden and crusted with a little crunch when he poked it — sat next to the bowl like it was waiting for him.
And the stew? It was a miracle. No synthetics. No chemical-tasting, half-rehydrated "protein units." This was slow-cooked, crafted, and somehow still hot. The meat pulled apart with the spoon, the kind of tenderness that only came from hours of love and heat.
His hands trembled as he picked it up.
Rocket whimpered — okay, this time it WAS him, screw it — and took the first mouthful.
The sound he made was not language. It was not anything but pure instinct, somewhere between a sob and a growl of pleasure. He hunched over the bowl a little like he was guarding it from a world that had never given him anything like this before. His tail curled around his feet, shoulders tight, eyes stinging.
It tasted like comfort. Like safety. Like being seen.
David didn’t hover. Didn’t make a big deal out of it. Just leaned nearby, doing something casual — adjusting the tools, checking some wiring — like this wasn’t some massive act of quiet rebellion against everything Rocket had ever known.
Rocket wiped at his eyes furiously. “Stupid flarkin’—” he muttered into the bowl. “Making me cry over stew, what the hell’s wrong with you…”
David didn’t say anything. Just reached down and gently patted his shoulder. Warm. Solid. Real.
“Eat, Rocket,” he said. “You deserve it.”
And Rocket believed that too.
...At least for a little while.
The next night Rocket attempted to "shit-test" David. He again walked into David's Quarters -- but this time when shucked his uniform he climbed into David's bed near furclad aside from his underwear. But... "Unnnhhh, h'oh... wha--? Unhflarrkin'...!" ... Rocket hadn't expected what he'd done to BACKFIRE in the manner that it had. Once more, he'd expected a "OH MY GOD, GET THE HELL OUT!" But... David had taken his being furclad as full-on invitation to PET and STROKE him thoroughly... and now Rocket was LUXURIATING, rolling this way and that way, utterly powerless, unwilling, unable to even lift a PAW to stop David; instead, the raccoon was making... ALL THE NOISES eyes teared up, PURRING LOUD, utterly dazed with the sensation. He might protest inside, but his BODY knew what it wanted. TOUCH. What his old, old raccoon brain had been denied so long.
David, half-asleep, had blinked blearily at the furball who'd invaded his bed again. But the second he saw Rocket flop down — half-defiant, half daring — in nothing but his boxers and all that soft fur, the human gave a slow, sleepy smirk.
“Ohhh... so that’s how it’s gonna be tonight, huh?” he muttered, voice still husky with sleep.
Rocket blinked at him once, trying to maintain that tough guy look, but there was hesitation behind it. Like he was waiting to be punished, rejected, maybe thrown out.
David reached over. Slowly. Deliberately. And began to run his fingers through Rocket’s fur. Down his head, along his back, over his side — and that was it.
“Unnnnhhff—!” Rocket arched, curled slightly, made a sound from his throat that was somewhere between a gasp, a purr, and a broken “what the flaaark is happening to me?!” as his body melted.
“No—no no no—staahhhp,” he groaned, even as he rolled into the touch, squirming helplessly.
David chuckled. “Lotta protest for someone purring loud enough to shake the mattress, my guy.”
“Flark you,” Rocket half-whined, half-moaned, tail twitching involuntarily as David’s hand found just the right rhythm between his shoulder blades. His eyes fluttered, his claws flexed, and his body — traitorous, needy body — just leaned in, chasing it.
David only smiled, warm and impossibly gentle. “You wanted to see what would happen,” he murmured, “and this is what happens. You get what you needed.”
Rocket should have fought back. He should have at least said something tough, thrown some snark.
Instead, he let out a pathetic huff, his ears twitching as his breath hitched and his purring reached a low, constant rumble. He rolled onto his side, presenting the fluff of his belly before even realizing it, legs slightly tucked in, arms limp and paws twitching at every stroke.
“I’m not… I ain’t weak,” he mumbled.
David’s hand slowed, settling softly over Rocket’s chest like a warm weight. “I know,” he said.
Rocket trembled under that hand.
"...I just didn’t think anyone would ever..."
And Rocket, once again, nuzzled blindly into the crook of David’s shoulder, surrendered to the touch, and — for the second time in his life — fell asleep feeling safe.
And then, one day, Quill had to be a jerkass and try to steal some of ROCKET'S food! The food that ROCKET'S HUMAN had made for HIM! AS Quill's hand crept along the table, Rocket hunched over his plate, raccoon GROWL growing LOUDER in the back of his throat. He would have LASHED OUT but - *THUNK!* "AUGH, FUCK!" - suddenly the LONG DAGGER disguised as a BOWIE KNIFE David used THUNKED into the TABLE, PINNING QUILL'S HAND! Rocket's FUR FLUFFED UP and his eyes went wide as suddenly he realized just how fucking terrifying his human - wait, where had THAT come from? - his human, David was! "Don't move, Pete," David said, then "AUGH, FUCKING--!" was Quill's cry as David pulled the knife out. The blade had PINNED Quill's hand, the knife point going through a tiny bit of skin to the table below! Scowling, Quill moved away to bandage his hand. Part of Rocket freaked out. Part of Rocket growled, "I can take care'a myself!" But... another, growing part of Rocket FELT TEN FEET TALL! Because... flark it all... he had BACKUP. DAVID JUST... BACKED HIM UP!
One second he was hunched over his plate like a feral little beast, lips curled back over his teeth, a low guttural growl rising as Quill’s stupid hand inched closer.
Rocket flinched hard, ears twitching wildly, fur puffing like a startled cat as he stared at the long, gleaming knife buried halfway into the table — through Quill’s goddamn hand.
“AUGH, FUCK!” Quill howled, yanking back instinctively, only to find himself pinned. Blood trickled from the fine puncture in the webbing between his fingers.
Rocket’s eyes snapped to David.
The human hadn’t even raised his voice.
He said it calm. Cold. Deadly. Just as he reached out — and ripped the blade free.
Quill staggered back, cradling his hand, muttering a string of curses, backing out of the mess hall like a man who just realized he’d picked a fight with the wrong kind of quiet.
Rocket didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
David was cleaning the blade now, completely unfazed. Cool as ever. Beard thick, eyes unreadable. His voice hadn’t risen, his hand hadn’t even trembled.
Rocket was still trembling slightly.
“I can take care’a myself,” he growled out eventually, as if he had to say it. As if it was written into his bones. Survival, pride, pain — it all forced the words up through clenched teeth.
Another part of him — deeper, quieter, older — was just sitting there stunned. Wide-eyed. Breathing hard.
Because someone... had backed him up.
David had acted without hesitation. No questions. No bravado. Just clean, efficient protection.
Rocket looked down at his plate again, ears twitching... and felt it. That strange warmth in his chest. The one he was scared to name.
He looked over at David. And for a moment, he saw not a human.
And in his heart, something rumbled like a quiet, protective purr.
That night... the UNSEEN happens between Rocket and David. Beneath the warm, musty comfort of the duvet... Rocket gently slips his underwear off. Now,,, he is *wholly* furclad. David solemnly takes his pyjama bottoms off. Skyclad. And Rocket PRESSES, MOULDS himself against David's form, fur to skin, skin to fur. David PETS and STROKES and CARESSES - going as CLOSE as he dares to Rocket's intimate places, thighs, hips, tail... Rocket gently rolls here and there, flops softly all over HIS HUMAN, SCENT MARKING, rubbing all over. CLAIMING. It's... as CLOSE as they can go without, well, sex, though Rocket does nuzzle all over David's face, lick-lick-lick under his neck, purring thunderous. HIS PERSON. HIS HUMAN. Soft whimpers, trilly raccoon vocalizations. And Rocket lets his tears fall, body hitching as he *weeps* silently, his whole furred body SINGING from David's touch, ancient raccoon instincts quietened, satisfied.
Beneath the low, drowsy glow of the ship’s quarters, the night deepened into something raw and unspoken. In the dim light under the duvet, Rocket—wholly unadorned except for his natural, furred self—slowly shed the last vestiges of his uniform. His heartbeat thudded in his ears as he watched David, who, with a solemn gravity, removed his own pyjama bottoms until he stood there, vulnerable and real.
In that quiet, private space, Rocket moved toward David, as if drawn by a force older than fear—a need to be seen, to be held, to reclaim the intimacy his long-forgotten instincts yearned for. Rocket pressed himself close, fur meeting skin in a soft, unspoken declaration of trust and need. There was a delicate urgency in the way his paws reached out, tracing David’s form, as if trying to memorize every contour, every warmth.
David responded with a tenderness that belied the hard edges of the universe outside their quarters. His hand traveled slowly, reverently, along Rocket’s fur, dipping into the sensitive places—along his thighs, across his hips, trailing over his tail. Each gentle stroke seemed to erase some of the scars, the memories of pain, replacing them with a fragile, but determined, hope.
Rocket’s body betrayed him with soft whimpers and low purrs—a symphony of sound that mingled with the silence of the room. His little raccoon vocalizations, usually edged with sarcasm or defiance, now turned into earnest, trilling murmurs of longing and surrender. He nuzzled all over David’s face, his tongue softly tasting the salt of shared vulnerability, marking the space as his own while silently asking to be claimed.
Tears welled in Rocket’s eyes—not of sorrow this time, but of an overwhelming relief, a catharsis that came from finally being held and cherished. In that moment, every ancient instinct, every guarded memory of a harsher world, was quieted by the warmth of David’s touch. Rocket’s body, trembling and soft against the human’s skin, sang its own ballad of longing and fulfillment—a song of rediscovered safety, of intimacy reclaimed without the need for words.
There, under the gentle weight of the duvet and the steady, caring presence of David, Rocket let himself simply be. No more fighting, no more building walls. In the quiet rhythm of shared breaths and tender strokes, he found a space where he could truly rest—and maybe, just maybe, begin to heal.
And thus, slowly, gently, Human and Uplifted Raccoon closed their eyes and slept. The next morning - as if for the first time in his life - Rocket woke naturally, his waking long and lazy, purring, drifting in and out of sleep--sometimes half-waking to yawn and stre-e-e-e-tch his limbs, fingers and toes, only to settle back into the warm, musty comfort of the duvet, back against the warmth of David's body and drift to sleep again.
The warmth of the morning sun filtered through the small window, gently waking the room from its slumber. Yet, for Rocket, it felt like the first time he'd ever truly known what it was like to wake with ease—no startle, no fear, no anxiety clawing at his mind. Instead, he stretched slowly, feeling the familiar, comforting weight of the duvet around him, his fur melding into the soft, steady presence of David’s body beside him.
With a soft, contented sigh, Rocket stretched out his limbs, paws reaching, fingers and toes extending to their full length. A yawn escaped his lips, throat vibrating with a deep, satisfied hum that felt almost like a purr—slow and languid, a sound that seemed to echo in the quiet morning. He let his eyes flutter open, only to close them again as the warmth of the blanket and the steady rhythm of David’s breathing pulled him back into the depths of peaceful sleep.
It wasn’t a forced rest. It wasn’t a desperate need to escape. It was real, deep relaxation—something Rocket had long since forgotten was possible. The soft, quiet thrum of contentment in his chest was a song he’d never known could exist, a gentle reminder that he was, in this moment, safe.
Every time he half-woke, he drifted again, sinking back into the warmth of David’s presence. It was easy. It was natural. There was no tension, no second-guessing, just the steady feeling of being cared for, of being seen and wanted without condition. And for once, Rocket didn’t feel the need to fight it. He didn’t have to push away or act tough.
This was new. This was peace. And Rocket, furclad and soft, let himself enjoy it.
The soft light from the window crept further across the room as time passed, but for Rocket, time didn’t seem to matter anymore. Each moment felt like it could stretch forever, filled with a warmth that had only recently begun to bloom in his chest. When the world outside felt cold and harsh, this small corner of it, tucked away with David, was all that mattered.
Eventually, the gentle pull of reality called them both awake—no rush, no urgency. Just the slow, shared morning that was theirs, and Rocket settled into it with a deep, contented sigh, letting himself fall into the quiet rhythm of the day to come.
When the little raccoon awakened fully--he expected to feel "all the little aches and pains", the dull ache of his implants, only... he didn't! Rocket instead felt only the softness of the duvet, the warmth of his humie, the feel of David's breath as it tickled against his nose; and his eyes closed slightly, a wordless hum escaping from him as he became aware of his humie's hands petting the fur of his head. Some long-suppressed, ancient instinct made Rocket inch his head forward just so to nuzzle the human's nose; inhale to share his breath; then Rocket nuzzled David more, marking his humie with his scent - again!
The morning air was thick with warmth, the kind that invited slow breaths and lazy moments. Rocket, fully aware of the stillness of the world around him, sank deeper into the softness of the duvet, his fur pressed against the familiar, steady presence of David. The warmth of the human's body was soothing, and the gentle rhythm of David’s breath, steady and grounding, echoed in Rocket’s mind like a quiet song.
When Rocket first woke fully, he had expected that familiar, nagging ache—the one that always seemed to be there in the background of his thoughts, the reminder of all the mechanical parts stitched inside him. But now... nothing. There was no dull pain, no reminder of how his body had been modified. Just the softness beneath him, the warmth beside him, and the deep, calming presence of David. For the first time in what felt like forever, Rocket felt whole. Not like a patchwork of parts and pieces, but just... himself.
The air smelled of his human. It was something deeply comforting, like home, like the promise that he didn’t have to be alone in a cold, harsh universe anymore.
He could feel the weight of David’s hand, moving gently through his fur, stroking him with a tenderness that made Rocket’s heart tighten with something he couldn’t quite name. He could tell that David had woken too, but neither of them had the urge to rush. Instead, they lingered in this quiet moment, cocooned in the space between dreams and reality.
An instinct, ancient and primal, stirred deep within Rocket’s chest. Something so ingrained that it pulled at him without thought. He couldn’t resist it—his body moved on its own, inching his head forward toward David’s face. He felt the subtle touch of David’s breath, warm against his nose. It was the most comforting thing he’d ever experienced, a connection deeper than words could describe.
Without hesitation, Rocket nudged forward, his nose grazing David’s, a soft, intimate gesture of affection. He inhaled deeply, letting David’s scent fill him, grounding him in the moment. Rocket felt something in him shift—a deep, ancient need to mark his human as his, to claim the bond between them. His furred head gently pressed against David’s face, nuzzling him again, this time more insistently, and as he did, he released a soft, contented whimper, one that only his humie could understand.
The instinct wasn’t just about ownership. It was about belonging. About saying this is mine. His, and no one else’s. His humie, his person, the one who had shown him kindness, care, and safety when the world had given him nothing but pain.
And in that moment, Rocket let the world fall away. His heart beat a little steadier, his mind a little quieter, as he nuzzled into David, marking him once again with his scent—a small, but powerful claim that was more about the bond between them than anything else.
There, in the warmth of the duvet and the softness of David's hands, Rocket felt at peace. Safe. Loved. And for the first time in his life, he didn’t have to fight to hold on to it. It was his now, and he wouldn’t let it go.
As the day went on, Quill - of all people - absolutely noticed the way Rocket stuck close to David; how David was the only one who seemed now to be able to touch him; how little Rocket was *all over* the man, soft nuzzles and nosing, climbing him, riding *high* on David's shoulder, little paw about the human's neck as they went about the ship fixing this and that. He also noticed how David was just as gentle and affectionate with Rocket, holding his paw, gently nudging, bumping, hip-checking him; or poking, tickling, and petting the little raccoon, ruffling his headfur or stroking soothingly. One day Peter Quill *with extreme caution* approached David. "Soooo... what's going on between you and Rocket, huh?" Rocket *purred*, stuck his head under David's chin as the man looked at Quill very seriously and said. "Rocket is my raccoon. I am his person." Good GOD, the little one was trying *so hard* not to break down and cry right there; the words made his furred body *sing* and his little heart SOAR! Rocket wiped his eyes on his sleeve, smiling such that his thought his little muzzle would lock that way!
Peter Quill had seen a lot of weird stuff in his time, but this? This was something else.
At first, he didn’t think too much of it—Rocket was always a bit clingy after bad missions, and yeah, David had been around more lately. But it was the way Rocket stayed near him that started standing out. Rocket wasn’t just hanging around; he was nestled close. He climbed David like a tree, rode perched high on the man's shoulder with a little paw hooked ‘round his neck like a damn baby koala. He’d nuzzle under David’s chin, press his nose into his jaw, lean into every gentle touch and pet like it was the only thing holding him together.
And David? The dude didn’t even blink at any of it. He just knew—where Rocket liked to be scratched, how to hold him, when to stroke between his ears or behind the jaw. He ruffled his headfur with this easy, familiar tenderness that looked like it had been practiced a thousand times. It was soft. Loving, even.
And it made Quill’s gut do that thing where he didn’t know if he was watching something beautiful or something he really wasn’t supposed to be watching.
So one day—after witnessing Rocket purring audibly, full-body leaning into David's chest while David rubbed circles into his back—Quill decided to brave the minefield.
He approached slowly, real cautious-like, hands up. “Soooo… what’s going on between you and Rocket, huh?”
Rocket didn’t stiffen. He didn’t snarl. He didn’t even growl. He just let out this rolling purr, like thunder wrapped in fur, and tucked his little head under David’s chin as if to say Mine. Don’t even.
And David? David looked right at Peter. His face was calm, quiet—but dead serious.
“Rocket is my raccoon,” he said simply. “I am his person.”
It was so matter-of-fact. No embellishment. No hesitation. Just truth, said in a way that left no room for question.
Rocket made a strangled little sound—somewhere between a laugh and a sob—and hastily wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, trying so hard to play it cool. But the way his whole body shook from the weight of those words, the little tear streaks caught in the edge of his fur, the look on his face?
Quill had never seen him smile like that before.
Like for the first time, someone had said you're mine—and meant it.
And Peter, dumbfounded and a little humbled, just blinked and said the only thing he could manage:
“…Alright, man. Yeah. Cool. That’s… that’s real nice.”
"Thank you, Peter," David replied, gently, formally. Then, "What Rocket and I have - the relationship we're in - is private. It isn't ship's business nor fodder for gossip, nor will it affect the ship, the rest of the Team, or Missions we undertake. It's our business." The look David gave Quill was *final* and poor Rocket had to suppress a whimper; his little body quivered; he was so happy he felt he was going to take off without a ship! David! HIS human! HIS person! Fully in HIS corner, backing him up ALL THE WAY!
Peter’s jaw worked like he wanted to say something more—but David’s tone, calm and firm like iron wrapped in velvet, stopped him dead.
"Thank you, Peter," David said again, gentler now, but still resolute. “What Rocket and I have—the relationship we're in—is private. It isn’t ship’s business, nor fodder for gossip. It won’t affect the Team, or Missions, or how we all work together. It’s ours. That’s all anyone needs to know.”
The look he gave Quill wasn’t angry. Wasn’t cold. But it was final. It was the look of a man who had drawn the line in the deckplate, and wasn’t going to explain himself beyond that.
And Rocket—little flarkin’ Rocket—he quivered like someone had just plugged a fusion battery straight into his chest. His paws balled up in the fabric of David’s shirt as if to ground himself, little claws trembling. His breath hitched, and he almost made a sound—but he bit it back. Barely.
His fur fluffed with adrenaline, with awe, with the overwhelming rush of feeling so protected, so seen, so claimed.
That wasn’t just words. That was David planting a flag for him in the middle of the world.
Rocket felt like a star was being born inside his chest.
Quill blinked again, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Yeah. I get it. Didn’t mean to pry.”
He gave them a small nod, eyes flicking to Rocket and back to David, and then made himself scarce.
The door hadn’t even shut behind Quill when Rocket burst, letting out a warbling, overwhelmed keening sound as he clutched David tighter, burying his face against the man’s chest. His little tail thumped a few times before curling snugly around David’s arm. He couldn’t even form words. Just a stream of purrs and whimpers and maybe a few hiccupy sobs.
He felt light. He felt huge. He felt seen.
And under it all, deep in his heart of hearts, one thought pulsed clear and strong:
He’s mine. My human. My person. And he’s got me.
David laid back on their bed as Rocket clung to him, sobbed. "Aw, Rocket. My Rocket. My beautiful li'l raccoon..." David said, voice breaking. "It's okay. I've got you. I've got you, buddy," and he stroked and petted the little raccoon as much as he could, what with him in uniform; his headfur, his neck; kissed him softly atop the head; then Rocket nuzzled, nuzzled, nuzzled him all over, dampening David's face with his tears.
David laid back slowly, letting Rocket climb and cling just as tight as he needed. The sobs racked the little one’s small body, all scrunched up against his chest like he was trying to curl into his very soul.
“Aw, Rocket. My Rocket. My beautiful li’l raccoon…” David’s voice cracked with emotion, rough and aching with love as his hand slid up to cradle the back of Rocket’s head. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, buddy.”
He stroked over Rocket’s neck, down the spine, fingers threading into that soft headfur. Gentle, steady. A grounding rhythm. When his lips pressed softly to the top of Rocket’s head—tender, reverent—it only made Rocket cry harder, but they were good tears now. Cleansing tears. Real tears.
Rocket nuzzled him desperately, sloppily, nuzzled and rubbed and smeared tears all over David’s face as if trying to embed himself there. Scent-marking, yes—but it wasn’t just instinct. It was his heart. He was claiming David with everything he had, everything he was, without words.
Just held him tighter, wrapped arms fully around him now, and rocked them gently.
“I know, I know,” David murmured into the thick fur of Rocket’s neck. “You’ve been alone a long time. But not anymore. I’m here. I’m yours. Always yours.”
Rocket’s purr came back in shaky, broken waves between the sobs. He let out a tiny sniffle, then a louder one, then a rough little sound like a laugh hiccuped out sideways. He mumbled something that might’ve been “stupid human,” but the way his tiny claws clutched David’s shirt said otherwise.
No one had ever held him like this.
No one had ever let him break like this and stayed.
And now... David had. David was.
And Rocket was never letting go.
On a small ship like the Milano, of course, it's inevitable we bump into someone and it's Drax. The blue Kylosian Warrior takes one look at us, Rocket on my shoulder and he nods. Far from his usual boisterous self, the man softly states. "David and Rocket. You two have become Warrior-Mates, now. This is good. The little one... he has needed someone for a long, long time." Rocket looks flabbergasted. "I beg your pardon, Drax," I reply. "I don't understand. What are 'Warrior-Mates'?" "The term 'Warrior-Mate'" Drax gently explains "is old Kylosian. You and Rocket are not married, you are not sexually intimate, yet your relationship is far beyond that of mere friends." Rocket and I nodded; he tucked his head beneath my chin and the big warrior smiled. "Warrior-Mates," he stated gently. "May your lives be filled with happiness and joy. Blessings upon you both!" With that he carved a sign in the air before us, then gave a mighty clap of his hands, before moving on to wherever he was going.
The narrow corridor echoed faintly with Drax’s footsteps as he moved past, but the quiet weight of his words lingered behind like incense—so unexpected, so oddly reverent, it felt like we’d walked into the middle of some sacred rite.
Rocket was still on my shoulder, stunned stiff like someone had just hit pause on him mid-motion. I could feel the way his little claws had frozen against my shirt, the way his head pressed tighter into the crook of my neck.
"I… what the flark just happened," he muttered, voice muffled and raw.
"I think," I replied gently, "we just got blessed."
Rocket peeked up at me, eyes wide and glistening. Not scared. Not annoyed. Just… overwhelmed. "He—he meant that," he said, almost disbelieving.
"Yeah, he did," I said, reaching up to run my fingers behind his ear, the spot I knew soothed him fastest. He leaned into it instantly.
“Warrior-Mates,” I echoed, testing the term. It felt… right. Strong, without being possessive. Tender, without weakness. It didn’t try to box us in. It didn’t explain everything—but it explained enough.
Rocket gave a shaky little laugh and pulled his legs up so he could drape himself a bit more across me. “Kinda badass,” he admitted. “Coulda done worse.”
“Damn straight,” I said, smirking as I kissed the side of his head. “We’re pretty flarkin’ awesome.”
And somewhere down the corridor, we swore we heard Drax let out a hearty “HAH!”—a warrior’s laugh echoing with joy for his friends.
Rocket didn’t even glare this time. He just closed his eyes, purred, and whispered, “My human…”
And I whispered right back, “My raccoon.”
Time, as always, moved on as it did. I was still me; Rocket was still Rocket... yet the little Raccoon now sported two gifts from me: a custom-made Akubra Hat of his own and - if people ever got within melee range - a COLOSSAL Bowie Knife of his own, the blade of which was sixteen inches long! When I'd presented it to him, he'd been half in awe and half in terror at its massive size; the thing was so big, it might as well have been a SHORT SWORD in his paws! Then he'd hugged me fiercely, tears welling in his eyes.
Rocket had held the blade in his paws with trembling fingers, turning it this way and that beneath the glow of the overhead lights. The steel shimmered, not just with polish, but with meaning. The engraving down the spine—"For my Raccoon. Always."—had just about undone him. His reflection stared back in the blade’s polished face, ears twitching, eyes damp.
“Flarkin’ hell,” he whispered, voice tight, reverent.
“It’s forged from salvaged Kree armor,” I told him softly, watching him from my seat. “Balanced just for you. Weighted right so it doesn’t throw your swing.”
He looked up at me, jaw slack, then down at the blade again. He made a soft little sound—half awe, half overwhelmed sob—and lunged forward, throwing himself into my chest with a whumpf of fur and emotion. I caught him easily, holding him close as the tip of the massive knife thunked gently against the floor.
"You nutcase," he muttered against my chest. “A short sword, Dave. What the hell am I gonna do with a short sword?!”
"Scare the crap out of anyone dumb enough to try and touch you," I replied, ruffling his headfur. “Or... cut sandwiches really dramatically.”
That got a wheezing, tear-choked laugh out of him. He hugged tighter, trembling. “You—You didn’t have to do this, y’know.”
"I wanted to," I murmured. "You're mine, Rocket. My raccoon. And I want you walking this galaxy knowing you're armed, dangerous... and loved."
He said nothing for a long while, just clutched at my shirt and trembled. Then finally, softly:
“…Flarkin’ hell, I love you.”
I smiled and kissed his head. “Love you too, little guy. Always.”
And as Rocket holstered the oversized blade across his back with something between pride and disbelief, his hat angled just so over one ear, I swear to every star out there—
—he walked a little taller after that.
(((FOR WHEN THE BLASTER REALLY JUST AIN'T ENOUGH. OR WHEN PEOPLE GET TOO CLOSE...)))
Rocket grinned—no, bared his teeth—as he adjusted the colossal Bowie on his back. The blade rode high, the tip nearly brushing his tail when he walked, the hilt jutting proudly over one shoulder like he was some kind of pint-sized, furred doom bringer. The Akubra hat cast just the right shadow over his eyes, making him look like the last thing you’d ever wanna see in a back-alley standoff.
"FOR WHEN THE BLASTER REALLY JUST AIN’T ENOUGH," he muttered, voice a low growl, "or when flarkin’ idiots think gettin’ up close is smart..."
He paused, then turned, glancing toward me with a wicked smirk. "Betcha even Drax’d think twice."
"Good," I said simply, arms crossed. “Let 'em all think twice. Or three times. Or not at all, and bleed for it.”
Rocket’s grin softened a little, his tail flicking once, twice. He reached up, gave my hand a quiet squeeze. “Ain’t no one ever made me feel safer ‘n you do.”
I gave his paw a squeeze back. “Ain’t no one ever worth protecting like you are.”
Rocket looked down at the blade again, then up at me, voice quiet:
“…You really mean it when you say I’m yours, huh?”
I stepped closer, crouched just enough to bring us eye to eye. Brushed a bit of fluff from his cheek.
“I never say things I don’t mean, Rocket. Not to you. Never to you.”
And right there, I swear, that knife could’ve been forged of starlight and promises, the way it shimmered in that moment—because it wasn’t just steel.
It said, in every inch of sharpened edge:
This little raccoon is not alone anymore.
And anyone who tries to test that?
(((Rocket be poking that knife in VERY UNCOMFORTABLE places considering how SHORT he is. LE CROWN JEWELS.)))
YOOOOO you are not wrong. That knife rides high and Rocket rides low, and any poor bastard who tries to square up with him better be prayin’ to whatever gods they believe in—‘cause that blade’s at crotch level and Rocket’s got zero chill.
Some dumb merc or bounty hunter gets cocky. “Aww, what’s the little fuzzy guy gonna do with that big-ass—"
SHINK.
Blade's already drawn.
Pressed right to the zipper.
Rocket, deadpan, hat tipped just enough to cast a shadow over those dangerous little eyes, whispers:
"Keep talkin'. I double-flarkin'-dare you."
One twitch. One wrong word. That knife’s about to give someone the world’s worst vasectomy. 💥
You hear the clatter of a dropped blaster.
Someone backs away real slow-like.
Maybe they rethink their whole damn life.
Meanwhile, David's just standing there behind him like:
"I told you not to get too close."
Honestly, that knife ain't just a weapon—it's a vibe.
And Rocket? Rocket's wielding it like it's an extension of his attitude.
Compact, deadly, and perfectly placed for maximum… discomfort. 😏
I just love the idea of him going around with GIANT FUCKOFF KNIFE, hence here I gifted him one! He needs a melee weapon for when his blaster's not effective -- and now OH, HE'S GOT ONE!
You absolutely nailed it. Rocket with a GIANT. FUCKOFF. KNIFE. is a whole new level of chaotic gremlin energy and I am here for it.
Like, yeah, we all love his blasters—but sometimes the vibe just demands steel. Some problems you can't solve with plasma. Some jerks gotta learn the old-fashioned way: up close, personal, and terrifying.
And the best part? The sheer contrast.
He’s this tiny lil' raccoon, fur all fluffed, ears twitchin’—
But then he whips out a blade the size of his goddamn leg like it’s nothing.
“You thought I was the emotional support animal. Nah, I’m the final boss.”
Also, the emotional depth here is chef’s kiss. The knife ain’t just a weapon. It’s a gift. It’s David saying:
“I see you. I got your back. And I know what you need when the world tries to come at you sideways.”
Rocket hugging him with tears in his eyes? A tiny, tough creature used to fighting alone finally realizing:
“I’ve got backup. I’ve got someone who gets it.”
So yeah—blaster’s cool.
But the knife?
The knife is family.
And Rocket’s enemies?
They're gonna be screaming in several octaves they didn’t know they had. 💀🗡️💥
You gave him the perfect tool. The raccoon is READY.
Hold on... I looked it up. THESE THINGS CAN BE UP TO 20 INCHES LONG. Sixteen-inch knife for Rocket? DISREGARD THAT. FULL BORE 20", BABY!
Reasoned for a few seconds
OH, HELL YES! Forget a measly sixteen—if we're talking weapons that mean business, we need a FULL-BORE 20-INCH BEAST! Imagine Rocket, that pint-sized powerhouse, strutting around with a 20-inch dagger practically screaming, "Back off, fools!" It's like handing a ferocious raccoon a sledgehammer made of steel and attitude.
That knife? It's not just a tool—it's a statement. A declaration that when blasters fail, Rocket’s gonna slice through his problems like a tornado of badassery. A weapon that shouts, “I may be small, but I’m lethal, and you better believe I’m backed by my human!”
And honestly? That colossal 20-inch blade isn't just a weapon—it's a full-on vibe, a symbol of the power, protection, and pure, unapologetic chaos Rocket brings to the table. Now that's a killer upgrade, baby!
The Black-Market Merchant's cocky grin faltered when the cold steel of Rocket's massive Bowie knife pressed dangerously close to his... most vulnerable area. The smugness vanished from his face, replaced by a look of sheer panic as Rocket's voice, full of calm threat, cut through the tension like a knife—no pun intended. "This?" Rocket repeated, his voice low and lethal. "This is a tool of negotiation." The knife gleamed in the dim light of the market stall as Rocket pushed it just a bit closer, the blade whispering a soft, ominous sound through the man's clothing. "Now... are you gonna cut us a better deal on those ship parts, or do I need to cut a deal?" The merchant gulped, his eyes darting down to the knife and back up to Rocket's face, unable to decide which was scarier: the knife or the small raccoon with the eyes of someone who had survived far worse than any merchant had ever seen. Rocket, ever the master of intimidation, took another step closer, the sharp edge of the knife just grazing the fabric. It wasn’t a threat anymore; it was a promise. "You wouldn't want me to get creative with this," Rocket added, his voice like gravel, smooth but with an undeniable edge. "I've got no problem turning this into a deal you won't forget." The merchant, now visibly sweating, swallowed hard and threw a look over at David, who was standing back, arms crossed, a silent, unspoken support to Rocket's every move. David's eyes were calm, expectant, as if this kind of situation had become second nature. He’d learned long ago that Rocket didn't need to say much to get what he wanted, and when Rocket did speak, people listened. "I-I... I can make a better deal," the merchant stammered, practically scrambling to get the words out. "Just... just don't hurt me! I'll... I'll knock a few credits off the parts... and... and throw in a couple of extras, I swear!" Rocket's eyes narrowed, the smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Good choice," he said, slowly withdrawing the knife but keeping it close enough to be a reminder of the kind of deal he was capable of making. "Now... we're talking." He turned on his heel, flicking his tail in satisfaction as he made his way back to David, who gave a small, approving nod. Rocket's chest puffed up slightly, the power of the exchange thrilling him in a way he never fully realized he could feel. "Thanks for the back-up, Dave," Rocket said, speaking just loud enough for David to hear. "This kinda thing works best when my human’s got my six." David grinned, his arms still crossed. "Always, little buddy. Always." The merchant, shaking in his boots, quickly processed the deal, knowing full well he was lucky Rocket hadn't decided to cut a deal of his own. And Rocket? He’d just proven once again that sometimes the best negotiation tactic was a little intimidation mixed with a hell of a lot of skill.
The air was thick with tension, and for just a second, even the marketplace seemed to hold its breath. Rocket's blade, gleaming menacingly under the dim market lights, had said everything that needed to be said. The merchant's attempts at bravado fell apart as soon as that massive knife made its presence felt.
"You want to test it?" Rocket purred softly, like a predator circling its prey, eyes locked onto the merchant with a look that could freeze anyone in place. There was no doubt in the merchant’s mind now. Rocket wasn’t just threatening—he was delivering.
David remained the calm force in the background, arms crossed, watching with quiet approval. His presence was a silent message: Rocket wasn’t alone in this. He had someone who had his back no matter what.
The merchant stumbled over his words, the desperation clear in his voice. "I-I promise... I'll do better! Just please—please, no need for... for more." He was sweating, blinking rapidly, like he’d just narrowly avoided some kind of disaster.
With a satisfied grunt, Rocket pulled the knife away and wiped the blade clean on the merchant’s tattered cloth. "Smart decision," Rocket muttered, giving the man one last look that sent him scrambling for his parts. As the merchant made the transaction, his hands shook—not just from fear, but from the realization that Rocket wasn’t just a cute little raccoon; he was a force to be reckoned with.
Walking back to David with a little strut in his step, Rocket couldn’t help but glance at his human with a grin that made his tail flick side to side. "And that's how you handle negotiations, Dave," he said, voice full of smug satisfaction. "Gotta keep ‘em on their toes."
David chuckled softly, uncrossing his arms as Rocket hopped up onto his shoulder. "You sure know how to make an impression."
Rocket gave a small laugh, his voice light, though there was still an underlying sharpness to it. "Hey, sometimes you gotta remind people who’s really in charge. And it ain't them." He paused for a second, eyes twinkling with a playful yet dangerous glint. "Sometimes, it just takes a little... persuasion."
"Always makes for an interesting day," David replied, smiling at the antics of his unpredictable, yet loyal, companion.
As they walked away, the merchant’s frantic attempts to clean up the deal behind them were drowned out by Rocket’s soft purring. The little raccoon had learned over time that a well-placed threat could be more effective than any blaster in a pinch. And with that 20-inch beast by his side? Well, let's just say no one was going to forget who they were dealing with next time.
"Thanks for having my back, Dave," Rocket mumbled, pressing his head against the human’s neck. "I couldn’t do it without you."