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After so many years living bounty to bounty, stumbling through one close shave after another just to keep himself fed, Rocket found it difficult to adjust to the relative stability of life as a Guardian of the Galaxy. Wanted criminal to intergalactic war hero was a big leap, after all. He hadn’t realized how unaccustomed he’d become to such modern conveniences as regular meals and running water until he and Groot had been on the Milano a while. He was constantly on edge, still living as though the perks of living on the ship - not that they were particularly numerous - were subject to be removed at any time. It all felt like the early stages of a very mean joke, the punchline of which would involve them being dumped on their asses on the next asteroid. Because of this, Rocket began to live proactively. He would sometimes catch himself taking more than his fair share of meals, taking bites so big he would have choked to death on more than one occasion had it not been for Groot’s clumsy Heimlich manoeuvres. His interpersonal relationships had begun to suffer as well. He wasn’t without his thorns at the best of times, but it had always been clear in the past that his barbs and cynicism were a harmless, if obnoxious, defence mechanism. Now, though, he was on the offensive, picking fights with Drax every time they were in the same room: calling him names, chucking trash at the back of his big bald head, just begging to be thrown out of the airlock. None of the rest of the crew said anything about it, at least not to his face. Rocket was pretty sure he overheard Gamora trying to convince Quill to stage some kind of intervention or sit him down for a heart to heart or something. Thankfully for everybody Quill had just enough brains to see why that would end in tears, or at least a rabies shot.
The biggest single contributor to Rocket’s moodiness, however, was the fact that he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since they left Xandar. Rocket spent his evenings pacing his and Groot’s small state room until he eventually collapsed at some unholy hour. He’d get an hour or two of sleep then wake up and the grouchy, snippy cycle would begin all over again. Tonight was no exception. He stepped over the threshold, promptly dug three bread rolls out of his jacket and tossed it onto the floor. Groot, close behind, picked up the garment and hung it on the back of Rocket’s chair before sitting down at the other side of the room.
“Don’t get too used to this place,” Rocket said, suddenly, scrambling up onto the desk in between their two bunks. Groot cocked his head and grumbled, inquisitively. “I’m just saying,” the raccoon went on, “it might have to go back to being just you and me. Once you’re back to 100%, that is. Know what I’m saying?”
“I am Groot.” Said Groot, shrugging his shoulders with a creak. Rocket groaned and flopped down on his bunk. Of course Groot wouldn’t understand. He was infuriatingly optimistic, which was understandable for a guy who literally ate sunshine. Rocket squirmed on his mattress, finding it once again impossible to get comfortable. Though not overly luxurious, the beds on the Milano were worlds away from curling up on damp concrete or passing out on a plastic bar top. He just couldn’t get used to sleeping on something soft. Groot, in his own unique way, wondered aloud what was wrong. Rocket sprang back into a sitting position,
“It’s these beds!” He dragged his paws down the length of his face, “They’re too…comfortable! Every time I lie down I feel like somebody’s turned off the freaking gravity!” A rumbling laugh rolled through Groot as he watched his companion violently strip the top sheet from his bed and drag it down to the floor. He fashioned it into a small, round nest and crawled into the centre. After about thirty seconds lying still he rose again, kicking and cursing at the rumpled cloth.
“Even the floors are soft on this damn ship! How the hell am I supposed to get any sleep?” Groot, deciding he could stand by no longer watching such suffering, silently made his way over to his fuming friend and picked the raccoon up in his arms. Rocket flailed in the colossus’s grip, claws scratching at the thick bark of his forearms.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing you stupid shrub!” Groot scratched the nape of Rocket’s neck with a gnarled hand, shushing him gently. The gesture seemed to calm him a little, and when he spoke again his demeanour had shifted from irate to merely bemused.
“Seriously,” he demanded, flatly, “what are you doing?”
“I am Groot.” Groot explained, matter-of-factly, bringing Rocket to his chest and lying down gingerly on the thin mattress. Rocket smiled in spite of himself, bracing his paws agains the rough grain of his friend’s chest.
“Just like old times, huh buddy?” He remarked. It wasn’t strictly true; Groot had grown back slightly differently after the Ronan debacle (which was the only term Rocket would allow himself to use to describe the events), so despite the fact that this had been their de facto sleeping arrangement countless times before, this was a new experience. The knotted fingers picking through his fur had a little less heft to them, and the solid plates of Groot’s chest had a little more give than he remembered. Still, the feeling of that big dumb tree clutching him like a teddy bear was comforting to Rocket. He told himself he could do without the petting, but if it made Groot happy who was he to tell the big lug he had to stop?
“I don’t remember you having pecs like this,” Rocket joked, “Drax got you feeling inferior or something?” Groot’s good-natured laugh felt like an earthquake and Rocket had to wrap his arms around his friend to avoid being shaken off onto the floor. Once his perch settled again he let out a long, wide yawn and rubbed his eyes. Laying his head down, he relished the feel of rough bark beneath his cheek.
“I am Groot.” Murmured Groot, pushing clusters of delicate, white flowers through the cracks between his plates. Rocket grinned, sleepily.
“Yeah, yeah, I love you too,” he replied, “now for god’s sake go to sleep.”