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Peter isn’t sure what he finds in himself when the dust settles. More dust, maybe. Another rock bottom beneath the bedrock.
But, for all their talk about lily pads and ponds, he’s mostly content trying to keep his head above water. It’s enough to just be alive.
Above water is the best way to view sunsets on Earth, anyway.
“It’s nice,” Rocket says, his feet buried in the sand. He looks toward the skyline and tosses a rock out onto the lake. It skips three times before making its final splash, sinking under the rippling water.
“Yeah,” Peter agrees with a soft exhale. “I never thought I’d see it again,” he admits. The sun casts warm rays across the water, a golden glow covering the surface. He shuts his eyes as the breeze hits his face.
He turns toward Rocket and watches as he processes this, his brown eyes shiny, reflecting the oranges and yellows gleaming back at them. It’s been weeks, maybe a month, since Peter was certain he was about to lose his best friend forever. Peter shuts his eyes and breathes through the feeling, still fresh and persistent, like a sharp pebble stuck in his shoe. Brushes with death always linger.
“The sunset?” Rocket asks. He isn’t snarky, his voice full of a pensive sadness as he turns, finally, to look at him. He seems to watch him in a similar way, an expression reflecting the grief of a loss narrowly avoided.
Peter digs his hand in the sand, feeling as the grains fall in between each of his fingers. The Zune sits between them, humming some foreign tune that snakes into the back of Peter’s thoughts. He doesn’t know this song; it’s one of Rocket’s. He tries to commit it to memory.
“Well, yeah, but no—” he pauses, thinking. “I meant… Earth. My grandpa. Missouri,” he says. “All of it.”
Rocket hums in understanding. “Looks like it's been good for you,” Rocket says, drawing circles in the sand with a curved fingernail. “You learn how to swim yet?” he asks, only slightly snarky this time, a thick chuckle in his voice.
Peter laughs too. He pulls his outstretched legs inward and reaches out, wrapping his arms around his bent knees. The silence between them stretches on for a moment, the Zune faintly playing in the background. “I haven’t drank since…” he says finally, trailing off. Peter shrugs, still ashamed and hurting but glad to admit it out loud for once. “So, you know. Progress, I guess.”
He thinks of drowning himself with liquor and pushing them all away months and months before that. He thinks of Nebula, Mantis, Drax, Groot, Kraglin… Rocket… all reaching out with open arms, waiting for him to finally accept their love and support.
He remembers it being too late, watching his family’s faces crumble as his eyes froze over, reaching out for them in vain, far too close and yet too far. Too late.
He won’t make the same mistake again. Peter will always, always reach back.
“Good,” Rocket says, looking up at him. When Peter doesn’t meet his gaze, he adds: “That’s good, Pete.”
He nods, biting down on his inner cheek and forcing himself to face Rocket despite the guilt that’s still gnawing on him. “And you?” Peter asks, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “Got any sympathy for me now that you’ve taken up the ole mantle?”
Rocket lets out a guttural laugh. “Sympathy? Pssht,” he says. “I make bein’ captain look easy.” He sobers up a bit, his laughs subsiding.
Rocket swallows, clearly trying to find it within himself to express vulnerability when he’s feeling it so intensely within himself. Peter watches, letting him control how deep the conversation will go. He doesn’t want to push. It’s a big day for Rocket. He’s seeing Earth with a new perspective now, for one, and that isn’t lost on Peter.
“Oh, really?” Peter says, laughing.
“It can be a lot,” Rocket admits, tapping his foot against the floor, finding rhythm with the music. “But it’s good. I’m… happy. Or getting there anyway.”
“Good,” Peter says, smiling. “You deserve it.”
Before Rocket can respond, the Zune changes tracks, a familiar melody floating in the space between them. Peter recognizes the tune and hums along. Rocket joins him, singing the words under his breath almost instinctively, looking back out at the sun as it gets closer to dipping beneath the surface entirely.
The song reminds Peter of home. He thinks of flying the Benatar, and later the Bowie, with his team—each one bobbing their heads to the music. “Groot giving you any trouble?” Peter asks, thinking of the teen’s troubled years.
“Nah, he’s good. Misses you a lot, though,” Rocket says. “It’s weird not having you around. Even weirder knowing you’re down here bein’ all domestic and shit.”
Peter laughs. They have no idea. “My grandpa doesn’t have much time left,” Peter says with some note of finality. He hasn’t so much as put it into words in his own head, but he knows it’s the truth. “I think I want to be here when he goes. And not run away this time.”
“Okay,” Rocket says, nodding. “But… you get bored down here, just give me the word, alright?” He fidgets with the corner of the box in front of them, drumming his fingers against it. “We’ll even set up a nice rehab facility on Knowhere. Get you all sobered up for good.”
“I’ll be fine, Rocket,” Peter says, recognizing Rocket's concern. “Thank you.”
Rocket nods. “Yeah. You will,” he says.
They sit in silence again, soft chirping and chittering pairing nicely with the Zune’s low drone.
Silence never lasts long, though. “But sheesh, Creve Coeur Lake,” Rocket mutters the words he had read on the sign posted near the beach, rolling them around on his tongue. “When I got down here a few years back I equipped my translator with most Terran languages.” He cocks his brow and fixes Peter a knowing look. “I guess it’s fitting, at least, you hanging around Broken Heart Lake in your free time.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “It’s the closest one to my grandpa’s house,” he says, his voice going quiet. “I feel close to them here—Mom and ‘Mora. Is that stupid?”
Rocket looks back out into the skyline, his eyes filling once more with that shiny glaze—glassy and stinging with grief. He clears the emotion from his throat. “Nah,” Rocket says. “S’not stupid.”
Peter peers down at the box in front of them, the litter inside it surprisingly calm. Rocket picks up the two most rowdy kits in the box, raising them so that their eyes are level with the skyline. They squirm in his grasp, stilling once Rocket pulls them close to his chest, simply holding them as they gaze out toward the lake. The other raccoons begin to squirm about in the box, grabbing hold of the sides and peering out, curious. They’ve just been woken from their slumber, their fur-covered faces matted to one side.
Peter swallows, thinking of kill-switches and cages and a sick hologram of his best friend being torn apart.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Peter asks.
“Yeah,” Rocket says, placing the kits back in the box. “They’ve been waiting to come home.”
-o-
The woods aren’t far from the shore.
Peter hesitates as he places the box down, watching as Rocket paces beside him and scopes out the area. He moves as if he’s half-expecting the High Evolutionary to hop out of the bushes, ready to have another go at kidnapping and dismembering these innocent creatures. Of course, it doesn’t happen, but Rocket’s fear is so palpable that Peter’s heart thuds wildly against his chest.
“You don’t have to do this now, Rocket. They can stay on Knowhere, or we can—”
“No,” Rocket snaps, keeping himself upright by leaning heavily against a tree to his left, almost like he’d collapse without its support. “They were taken from their home and… I don’t get to say what’s best for them just because I… just ‘cause I’m—”
“Okay, okay,” Peter says, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he takes a knee, dirtying the denim of his jeans. “Okay, we'll do this. They’re gonna be fine, Rocket.”
Rocket finds his balance as he straightens away from the tree, stepping toward the box. Peter’s hand drops from his shoulder, but he remains on the dirt floor, moving to kneel on both knees. A tree root digs into his shins, but Peter doesn’t dare move. He holds his breath, waiting.
Rocket leans over the box, reaching out and collecting the kits in his arms. He’s gentle with them as they run up his arms and shoulders. It’s a bit awkward for him to carry them all, them being much bigger than they were when they were rescued weeks ago. They look more capable, their size giving Peter more hope for their wellbeing out here. But this is the wilderness, and nature can be cruel and hard. Rocket knows this too.
Releasing them back into their native habitat is the right thing to do, but that doesn’t make it any less difficult.
Rocket places each on the floor, one by one. Some jump off of him, or fall, but most scurry off as soon as their feet hit the ground. They run about, some testing their luck climbing up the trunk of a nearby tree.
When one remains in the box, Rocket pauses, his hands outstretched. The kit pushes themself into the corner of the box, cowering from the hands that reach out.
Rocket visibly flinches. He shakes his head and steps back, his eyes going dark. He stumbles, steadying himself with a hand against the floor, nearly falling completely to his knees.
“Hey, hey, hey. Rocket?” Peter rushes forward, staying close to the ground. “You’re okay, buddy. It’s—”
He fucks up by placing his hand against Rocket’s back, a poorly timed (and poorly placed) attempt at comfort. Rocket lashes out, understandably, fearfully clawing Peter’s upper arm. Peter’s thin long-sleeve tears easily, thick streams of red staining the gray fabric.
“Shit,” Peter hisses, instantly removing his hand and attempting to get back and give his friend some space. He winds up in a sitting position, his legs stretched out in front of him, putting a few feet of space between him and Rocket. He clamps his hand over the scratch, partly to shield it from Rocket and partly because it’s burning.
Rocket’s eyes seem to clear at Peter’s hiss of pain, becoming aware again only seconds after his initial panic. He sucks in a large gulp of air, shaking with the force of it. “Shit,” Rocket says, tears springing to his eyes quick, “Shit, Pete, I—”
“No, Rocket. It’s my fault.” Peter says, frantically. He places his hands in front of him in what he intends to be a calming gesture but probably isn’t, given his right hand and upper left arm are each dripping with blood. “I shouldn’t have tried to—” he cuts himself off. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“No,” Rocket shakes his head. “No I—”
He steps back, stumbling wildly on his feet. He pulls at the fur on his face, covering his eyes and letting out a half-sob, half-scream.
“Fuck,” Peter breathes out, fully out of his depth here. He scrambles back onto his feet, approaching his panicking friend. “Rocket, come here, it’s—”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish that thought, rushing forward to catch Rocket as he keels over. He takes a fist full of Peter’s shirt and clutches it tight, wailing into his non-bloodied shoulder. He shakes with the force of his cries.
Tears well up in Peter’s own eyes, a few quickly racing down his face. He doesn’t hold Rocket at first, just sitting and allowing his sobbing friend to clutch onto him. He does eventually, moving to rest the back of his hand against Rocket’s head once it’s clear that his touch won't trigger Rocket any more than it already has.
“I‘ve got you,” Peter whispers, stroking the back of his head softly. “You’re gonna be okay.”
Rocket’s wails don’t stop, only cut off by frantic apologies and the utterance of several, unrecognizable names. He doesn’t shy away from Peter’s touch this time, actually burying his face into his shirt, trying to find some needed comfort in the midst of so much pain.
Peter’s never seen Rocket like this, and he thinks that maybe this has been a long time coming.
Reaching over with his right arm, Peter picks up the final kit. The baby raccoon shakes in his hold too, but he’s able to safely put them down and watch as they run off with the rest of their kind. It takes everything in him to not join Rocket in his despair. He knows he has to be there for him; he has to get him through this.
“You did good, Rocket,” he says. “You did a real good thing.”
Rocket’s sobs intensify, his grip even tighter around the gray fabric. “I got them killed,” Rocket cries out.
“No,” Peter says, though he doesn’t really know what Rocket’s talking about. There’s still so much about Rocket that he doesn’t know. “You saved all of the animals on that ship. And the people. They’re alive, because of you. God, I’m alive because of you.”
Peter’s eyes prick up again, tears pooling above his lower lashline. “You were confronted with so much shit, and so much pain, and you still showed that… that monster mercy. Because you’re a Guardian and a damn good captain. You led all of us to do what needed to be done. You, Rocket. No one else. You saved us all.”
Peter feels it the moment that Rocket’s grip goes loose and slack. He’s exhausted, clearly, having tired himself out to the point of unconsciousness. Peter sighs, adjusting his grip so that he’s carrying Rocket more evenly.
He’s careful not to wake up his friend, stepping carefully over a large tree root. Above their heads the sky is dark, the stars twinkling bright enough to guide Peter out of the woods.
A few million light years away, the Andromeda galaxy shines back at them, waiting for the day they find their way home again.