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The silence of the hospital room is interrupted as the door opens. Rocket shuts his eyes automatically, in case it was one of the nurses on their routine check-ins. He really wasn't in the mood to engage in their stupid small talk.
Footsteps make their way to the edge of his bed, halting a few studs away. Then, rustling clothes before the clamor of something scraping over the floor to his bedside sounds. He hears the creak of a chair being leaned into, and Rocket realizes he recognizes the weary sigh that comes from the mystery Inphernal seated next to him.
Rocket opens his eyes to see Zuka peering down at him.
He doesn't seem surprised at the fact that Rocket wasn't actually asleep. He just offers him a small, tired smile and hunches over to scoot closer.
"Hey. You feeling alright?"
Rocket shoots him a look. What the fuck does it look like?
"Just dandy." He sneers, waving his stump around. He's doped up on enough painkillers that it doesn't hurt one bit to move.
Zuka hums, seemingly unbothered. "The nurses giving you any trouble? I know how big of a pain they can be."
He gives a half-hearted shrug. They definitely were, with all their forced cheery bullshit, but it was more of a personal gripe than something to trouble Zuka over.
"When can I leave?" He asks instead, because the sooner he can get out of this damn room he's been cooped up in for the last few days the better.
"About a week. I tried to negotiate for sooner, but they're pretty adamant on giving you some basic physical therapy before your dismissal."
More time spent around the hospital staff? Rocket scowls.
"Actually, they're supposed to call me over in a few minutes to talk over your options for long-term therapists, along with some other stuff."
The news doesn't upset him as much as it should have. Rocket thinks it's because Zuka is the one informing him, unlike the past few times that have been from overly chatty nurses.
He has a sort of bluntness to him that Rocket has come to appreciate. Zuka wasn't one for beating around the bush or trying to soften any blows - he tells everything exactly how it is, but it's not in an uncaring manner either.
It was refreshing to talk with someone so grounded. Everyone who worked in the hospital was always so optimistic, it was unbearable.
They were constantly talking about how well his recovery was coming along or how strong he was for surviving, and how he must be blessed for simply fucking living.
'You're lucky the damage wasn't worse,' 'it's a miracle you've only lost an arm and a leg,' 'you should be grateful you're even alive, that fall should've killed you.'
It makes him sick. Lucky? Grateful? In this body? Rocket almost laughed in each of their faces.
If he were as fortunate as they said, he wouldn't even be there in the first place.
Sometimes, he wonders if he were better off dead. At least then he wouldn't have to suffer with a mangled body in a wheelchair for the rest of his pitiful life.
A knock sounds from the door, before a nurse peaks their head into the room. Rocket blinks his eyes open. When had he closed them? He must have dozed off for a second.
"B. Zuka?"
Zuka stands from his chair with a sigh. "Right, that's me. I'll be back in a bit."
Rocket doesn't say anything as Zuka walks over.
He pauses at the front of the room, looking over his shoulder at Rocket.
"You know, I've seen seasoned soldiers lose far less, and somehow you're taking it better than anyone I've ever met."
Rocket frowns, turning away to stare at the bare wall. Oh shut up, not you too.
"You're a real survivor, kid. Don't forget that."
Rocket hears the door close and lets out the shuddering breath he was holding.
Survivor.
He's lost half his fucking limbs and Zuka thinks he's some Swordsdamned survivor.
What a fucking joke.
Rocket lost. That's what happened. He's finally pushed his limit and met his match and this was the shitty consequence.
There was nothing heroic or admirable about it. He didn't endure any hardships. His amputations weren't fucking battle scars or something.
They were the shameful, hideous memory of his foolishness there to remind him for the rest of his days. A cautionary tale to rebellious teens. A warning to those who would ever think to cross Splintered Skies.
He doesn't understand how nobody else can see that. How they could look at his misery and still be so hopeful and encouraging. How they can say such things with their limbs still intact and not a single scratch on their skin and decide that he’ll somehow be able to live content like this. It pisses him off, why can't anyone else see that?
He curls into the hospital bed as much as he can. Angry tears dampen the pillow, and he mistakenly moves his stump in a feeble attempt to wipe them.
Frustrated, Rocket weeps.