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The night is quiet, for not a sound has been heard within Zuka’s ears. The soft lull of the blaring crickets provided aid for his weary heart; one sound he could never get sick of. Up alone at night where the bugs and night owl birds accompany him, he’s happy. Rested upon the soft couch, lonely body leaning up against the arm of the seat, eyes glued to the numbing sound of a television to blur his senses away – he’s okay tonight.
He’s okay, as any other thoughts are blotted out by the blaring television. Forget, he wants to; why dwell on broken memories that he cannot fix? Why piece them together with feeble strips of tape and botched glue, for the glass shards to cut into his palms in return. No matter how hard he tries to clutch them close to his chest, for his fingertips to gently trace against those ridged edges only to be met with pearls of blood in their wake – why?
One answer; his son. His son was always the answer, no matter how difficult it was. No matter how many things he had to sacrifice for his own son, no matter how much wire would tie around and squeeze his poor old heart, for razors to dig into his flesh and soak up the blood upon the blades – it was never difficult when it came to Rocket. Sacrifice was always a word in Zuka’s book, and he’ll make damn sure Rocket does not follow in his footsteps. To lie, to deceive and to break down himself for his son to gain the life he never got, he’d do it.
Zuka can’t mourn the boy Rocket used to be – or the boy he could’ve been. He can’t mourn those missed memories where he was too busy to hang out with Rocket for the day, cannot mourn those missed hugs and gentle kisses upon the forehead, cannot mourn late night story books he used to read when Rocket would come crying to his room over a nightmare. He cannot mourn that missed warmth against his chest, that quickly beating pulse against his arms as he allows his son to use his chest as a pillow, for his heartbeat to sing his son to sleep. He will not mourn, and he will not let Rocket touch that broken glass.
How is it supposed to get easier when Rocket refuses to come out of that dreary room of his? He wants to talk, he needs to talk to his son, but ever since Sword and Medkit left those few days ago, his son hasn’t been the same. No longer does he come out of his room, nor does he smile at his dad like he used to. He barely sees his son and despite them living under the same roof, Zuka has never felt more alone. For Rocket to hole himself up behind his bedroom door and to never come out ever again, Zuka is alone.
He’s regressing – regressing into those angsty teenage years where nothing ever went right for poor Rocket, where many months were wasted with a sore body sunken deep into caved in mattresses. How ivy sprouts up from bed sheets to twist and twirl around the wrists and ankles of Rocket, to forever keep him in a slumbering abyss; Zuka would not allow that. He’s tired of never being able to speak to his son, but tonight, he’d change that.
Lifting himself up from the couch with a breathy groan from his throat, Zuka stumbles for a moment before his eyes fixate on the blaring T.V. once more. His lips purse, and he squints as his hand fumbles around in search for the remote, successfully finding it and shutting the useless static off. Stepping back from the seat where he’s been rotting at for the past few hours, Zuka’s feet force themselves to carry over towards the endless hall that leads to his son’s bedroom, and he stops. A million thoughts rush through his head, the simple feeling making his mind spin and for something sinister to claw at his gut.
Why is he scared? Why is his throat locked up when he swallows, why does his gut sink with each and every heavy step he takes, would Rocket –
..No. He needs his son back.
As his throat bobs with every swallow he takes, he decides to finally gulp down that last shred of shame he has left. Those walls that were built up so high so Rocket could never see the man he used to be all come crumbling back down, and yet Zuka doesn’t care. He’d rebuild that wall, made with finer materials and to close around him and his son, for that wall to engulf the two in that embrace he so desperately yearned for; he’d talk to Rocket.
Another step goes another, and Zuka finds his way outside of Rocket’s bedroom door. Nervous he is, but that does not stop him from lifting a hesitant hand to gently knock his knuckles against the wood. No response , though he expected that. As he stands silent for a few moments by himself, he strains an ear to see if he can catch note of any sounds coming from within. One second, two seconds, three seconds and.. nothing. Zuka frowns.
Tonight, he tears away those ropes holding his limbs behind him, and his hand immediately makes way for the doorknob. Fingers ghost against the knob before they finally make contact and with a slow twist of his wrist, the door creaks open. Taking in a soft breath, Zuka leans his head to peer through the crack, eyes scanning the dimly lit room before falling on that familiar lump hidden beneath blankets. It’s hard to see, and he doesn’t dare shut on the light before he pushes the door open further, now taking a full step to stand in the doorway.
Sniffling. As much as Rocket tries to hide it, it all bubbles up from his throat to let out pathetic whimpers he desperately attempted to lock up, to put a lock and key wrapped with chains around his throat to never make another sound again. Shifting, his body nuzzles further beneath the blankets as he listens to the sound of his father’s footsteps, hands buried knuckle deep into that pillow he used to silent his woes with tear stained fabrics. He couldn’t let his dad see him like this, especially not now – he would not taint himself in front of Zuka.
Zuka stills for a moment in the doorway, eyes boring holes into that pathetic lump of cloth before he ultimately decides to slowly shut the door behind him. He lets out a sigh, lowering his head as his feet shuffle their way to Rocket’s bed before he plants himself down on the edge. The mattress sinks in Zuka’s direction, and yet Rocket doesn’t move. It’s pitiful, and it eats away at Zuka’s heart to see his son like this.
His hand twitches against his lap, fingers fumbling with themselves as he searches for the right words to say. He’s unsure if Rocket even wants him in here right now, but when his son is upset, Zuka is not one to ignore his cries. He can’t, he can’t for the damn life of him to open up his lips to speak, as his throat betrays him and closes up tight.
Instead, Zuka reaches a wary hand to outstretch towards his son, hand falling flat to rest upon the curve of the blanket. He hears that soft breath hitch beneath, though Rocket doesn’t move away from that touch. That once shaky breath evens out as Zuka slowly runs his thumb over the lump of blankets, hoping to reach his son under.
“What’s the matter, kid? Tell your old man.” His voice is soft, and the room falls silent yet another minute more. It’s deafening as Rocket doesn’t reply, resulting in Zuka debating if he should’ve said anything at all. Just once, he would like to hear his son’s voice once more, no matter if he had to claw his way through mud and dirt to reach it. He’d do it. Silence, and it feels like they’re the only two demons in the world.
Slowly, the blankets shift beneath Zuka’s hand. The lump beneath writhes around for a moment, seeming to push itself up before two blue horns pop themselves from beneath the blanket. After that, heavy eyes peer their way to glance at his father, exposing how red and puffy Rocket’s poor eyes were, how tears stained his cheeks and how his bottom lip is bruised from biting it so hard – and he stares at Zuka. He stares with that tiny glint in his eyes, one that his father has not seen for a long time; not since Rocket was a kid, and Zuka’s heart aches.
Rocket’s tired eyes dart around the room quickly, attempting to lay focus on anything but his father right now. His throat bobs when he swallows that thick mass forming inside of him, and it hurts.
“..I-I’m sorry ‘m not the son you wanted.” Rocket croaks out with a sniffle, hands burying themselves deeper within that warm blanket of his to shield himself away from the world. How he wishes to curl up inside of that deep dark abyss of his bed again, how he wishes his father would just get up and go away, but he cannot stop the endless leak of tears dripping down his face, and Zuka’s eyes widen.
‘Not the son I wanted?’ He repeats his son’s words over and over inside of his head, hitting him like an endless onslaught of knives lodged deep into his chest. He’s stunned, to say the least – never would he have guessed these words to come out of Rocket’s mouth. Though, he’ll comfort him; he’ll comfort Rocket through it all as that is his job as a father, a job he willingly picked up years ago and to never set back down.
“Rocket..” Zuka starts, feeling his breath hitch in his lungs, but before he can continue his words, a whole waterfall comes spilling out of Rocket.
“I-I’m sorry I’m – ssuch a fuck-up,” And he blabbers on and on , fingernails grasping the only source of comfort he had as hard as he could. “ Shit , I c-can’t do anything, can I?” A sniffle, and Rocket cannot stop his tears. He cannot stop the way he shakes as if every word took a hit on his feeble little body, he cannot stop that dread rising in his throat as it has engulfed everything, and will continue to engulf him too. Though, Zuka lets his son vent – he lets Rocket nuzzle his nose into his mattress in a poor attempt to muffle his words, he lets Rocket bang his fist against the bed and he lets him growl and grit his teeth, lets him bite his lip hard enough to make it bleed; he lets him, never once taking his hand off of his son.
“I’m – I’m ssupposed to – t-to make you proud, I –” Rocket gasps as if he were deprived of air, hand flying up to his chest to clutch onto that one red sweater he always wore, even if it was a tad bit too small on him. “I’m – I failed. ” Rocket cannot handle disappointment. He cannot handle being second place, cannot handle sneers and glares over his stupid mistakes; he cannot afford that. He can walk in those footsteps Zuka has carved for him, and he’ll make his father proud.
No matter what, Zuka would not allow Rocket to steer down this path. He can’t let his son hurt himself again, can’t let those binding chains wrap around his wrists and ankles and to dig into his skin, for that scarlet liquid to pearl into crimson teardrops for all of those times Rocket couldn’t cry.
“..No, no , my boy,” A soft whisper comes from Zuka, and he finds himself sinking further into the bed. “That’s not true at all.”
That hand that lies upon Rocket is removed, only to gingerly sink his palm into the boy’s hair. Fingers tangle themselves into strands, slowly combing that mess upon his head as he feels Rocket relax beneath his touch. Though he’s still silently sobbing, Rocket finally glances over to face his father properly after all these years.
“You have made me proud, kid. And you’ll continue doin’ so.” Shifting, Zuka finally lowers his body to lay down against the bed, facing his son. His hand continues to brush through Rocket’s scalp, noticing the soft flutter of eyelashes as if the gesture lulled the boy to sleep. Honestly, it’s a surprise Rocket has allowed for Zuka to get this close, and he’ll take each and every chance he can get.
The two fall silent once more, and it’s a pleasant quiet. It’s a quiet that you don’t feel pressured to speak up, how you don’t have to fidget awkwardly in hopes of someone calling your name to break it; it’s nice. It’s nice, for that ivy to be torn away by rough, calloused hands and to be tossed away, for it to never scratch and swell Rocket’s skin ever again – Zuka would use claws and teeth to keep that away. That was his job, as a father.
After the long silence, Zuka finally takes his hand away from Rocket and opens his lips to speak once again.
“Mind if I snuggle myself in here?” He gestures towards the bunched up blankets, and Rocket gives a feeble nod before raising an arm to open up the soft sheets. Using that opportunity, Zuka quickly slides himself beneath the blankets as Rocket lowers it once more, enveloping the two in that shared warmth they sought out for, always too afraid to ask.
“Now, where did this all come from? Tell your papa.” His voice is soft, like a mother gently cooing soft words to her baby. A knuckle reaches over to brush away a stray tear, and Rocket sniffles once again in response. His mouth is strung open in wordless breaths, and he swallows once again to gulp down that fear.
“..I just,” Rocket starts, fumbling with his own fingers in search of the right words. He would not hide, not cower and to bare his teeth whilst clawing nails deep into his own skin, would not allow those disgusting parts that he hated about himself to seep through again.
“Am I.. a good son? Like, I-I..” Another stutter, and he's fumbling with his words once again. “I-I don’t feel – I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing. ” It all comes spilling out and he can’t stop it. “All of these – these years, SO much time I.. I never got to do anything..”
Zuka nods, for he lets his son vent his heart out. He lets him get rid of that heavy weight holding him down, for it to place itself upon Zuka’s shoulders, he does not mind. He’d carry those burdens far, far away, to a place where Rocket could never stumble up upon them ever again. He knows of his son’s troubles, he knows all of those missed years that Rocket spent nights up mourning for, though he knows he’ll never get them back. He’s allowed to be angry, and that’s okay.
“I-I feel like I’m.. disappointing you? Y’know, you’re just.. you’re my dad , and I’m just.. Rocket.”
Just Rocket.
“..I’m sorry I couldn’t live up to your expectations.”
If only Rocket knew just how much Zuka was proud of him. How far he’s come, how far he’s grown and how he’s developed; it doesn’t matter if there were setbacks or road bumps, minor little regressions – he’s proud, and that's all he ever could be. Zuka has no words to speak right now, so instead, he slowly wraps his arm around his son’s body in a warm embrace, pulling him closer for Rocket to drink in that comfort. He replaces that pillow beneath his head with his own chest, the lull of a quiet heartbeat giving aid to Rocket’s poor head.
“You being my son was my only expectation, and I couldn’t have been happier to have that in my life.” Those words of Zuka’s shoot through the rocketeer, breath hitched in his throat as he takes a moment to process them. The gears churn, and suddenly Rocket cannot stop the endless leak of tears. To cry right into his father’s chest, as he buries his face within his shirt although the stench of smoke burns his nostrils, he cries like a kid again. His hand reaches up to clutch at his father as if something, anything threatened to take him away, and he cries until his head hurts. All Zuka could do was smile softly.
To have that loving embrace the two both sought out years for, to fight your way through it and to take it with open arms, for reassuring kisses to butterfly against your forehead and for husky words to mumble, ‘It’s okay.’ Rocket knows he’s okay, and he accepts for that wall to be rebuilt with his dad right beside him.
A soft hum trails from Zuka’s throat, and he finds himself slowly rocking his son against his chest. That same tune, same melody he used to sing to Rocket whenever he’d wake up crying from a bad dream, whenever he’d get hurt and he had no other methods of comfort, whenever Rocket would fall asleep in his lap right on the couch; he sings, and he feels alive again. It flows through Rocket’s ears, to gingerly kiss his tears away and for his breathing to soften as his eyelashes flutter before falling shut. For that once tense body to relax beneath his father’s touch, they’re alive.
It’s quiet, and they’re happy.
“Goodnight, son.”
Silence, but only for a moment.
“..G’night, papa.”