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Rockets' day started out cold.
His numerous blankets were tossed off him and somehow landed on the floor. His pyjama pants have somehow ridden up enough to look like Victorian pantaloons, and his shirt managed to catch on one of his horns, leaving his stomach exposed to the chill.
His neck cricked as he sat up, smoothing over his shirt and groaning as he looked over to his alarm: 6:54 am.
Great, running on four hours. He glances mournfully at his rocket launcher, the cause of said neck pain. It's not his fault his rocket launcher is nice to hold when he sleeps, OKAY?
He drags himself to the shower, nearly bumping into the wall with his eyes heavy-lidded, his frozen feet meeting the cold floorboards, and maybe now he understands the people who sleep with socks on. Frost sits on the window as Rocket glances out after his shower, thick steam curling around the room (because he isn’t some cold shower taker, ew.) as he clicks on his prosthetics, wiggling his fingers out of habit.
Maybe he should slip back into bed when he has the chance.
He wanders downstairs, a yawn on his lips as his dad passes by, muttering something about being back in the evening.
Rocket wasn’t listening, only nodding with blank eyes as Zuka jingles his keys. He's probably out on the road being a menace with his truck, or buying some fish, or smoking with the Broker.
Rocket only realises as he shovels down his breakfast that this means he’s manning the shop. Alone.
It’s only 7am, and he’s regretting waking up.
–
With his arms crossed and waiting, Rocket sat at the counter of Da Shop, watching as disinterested people walked by. Crossroads was as busy as usual, which, to be fair, the city never really died down.
But with this thin mist rolling in? Probably from Blackrocks mountains if Rocket had to garner a guess; yeah, Rocket couldn’t blame them for not stopping by; all of them were probably too busy trying to escape the cold.
He glanced over, squinting under his goggles at the sun-like glare he was receiving despite it being overcast.
Oh right.
He should probably explain that.
'Sword', it called itself.
Appeared one day in his life when he dealt with a customer who apparently had their head up their arse and couldn’t listen correctly when he told them they did not sell whatever they were asking for. Rocket had half the mind to blow that stupid customer up sky-high if ‘Sword’ wasn’t staring at him intently with those eyes and making him nervous enough to back down.
Rocket still rues the day he didn’t try to punch them in the jaw.
And before you blame him – "Oh, Rocket, you got into fights in the past! How does one shiny sun deity cause you to stop in your tracks?’
Clad in bronze, you would think this helmeted warrior would be...bloodthirsty, cruel, and maybe even cunning; from first glance, that's maybe what Rocket thought too.
Maybe try the complete opposite.
He had a certain... charm to him. Clearly not accustomed to city life, Sword seemed to admire every single weed sprouting between the cracks in the concrete to the sweet treats from the food trucks, which seemed to be in abundance in Crossroads. Rocket's wallet has become increasingly empty lately.
Sword met his eyes, letting a sheepish smile cross his face, with a small head tilt that reminded Rocket too much of a curious bird.
"Slow today, isn’t it?"
It’s a nice smile, Rocket has to admit – kind of dorky. The type that Rocket would sneer at when he was younger and call him ‘soft as a marshmallow’ or something.
It’s a funny thing how Rocket had gotten used to the deity looming around, sleeping in a pillow nest at the foot of his bed, and doing the dishes without being asked. Zuka didn’t even have a problem with him either, saying he was the one ‘cleaning’ up after Rocket.
And before you ask, no, his skin hasn’t started tingling uncomfortably with his time in the deity's presence; he’s found that Sword only lets out a comfortable amount of heat from his body, not scalding hot, not like how you would probably expect if you were ever thinking about how sitting next to the sun felt, just enough to make the rapidly approaching winter season more bearable.
He rolls his shoulders, his prosthetic clicking with the movement, his eyes never moving away from Sword. “It’s cold; don’t think I would want to be out here myself if I had to.”
“Eheh… I suppose so, though. I’ve never dealt with that myself.” Being cold and sniffling with the worst runny nose ever wouldn’t be something the deity of the sun would have dealt with.
“Guess deities get it easy.” Rocket muttered, still staring. Odd, he always thought deities would look older, but Sword looks about... twenty? Earlier twenties at least.
It’s a nice face, a small splattering of freckles on sun-kissed (literally) skin, feathers framing his face; he’s pretty sure he caught Sword preening himself in the mirror the other day.
He watches as Sword stiffens, eyes flitting to meet his again.
“...What? Is there…? Something on my face?” Sword moves his gauntlet to wipe at his face, then to smooth down his feathers, but Rocket holds his hand up.
“Wh–no, you're…fine or whatever.” Just...admiring? Too soft, not anything like Rocket. His dad would have a field day laughing at him, staring? Yeah, he totally wants to sound like a stalker.
“Observing.” Rocket lands plainly; usually he isn’t one to mince words, but here he is.
Sword lets out a stifled sort of noise, something too quick for Rocket to actually, you know, try to work out? Maybe Sword is choking on one of those candies Rocket bought for him.
Is it him, or is it warmer?
Rocket blinks back at his company, who seems to be looking away nervously.
Is it him, or is it getting brighter?
Rocket keeps staring because maybe sleeping for four hours was not his greatest plan ever.
He’s physically getting blinded. He’s actually getting blinded right now. He’s pretty sure the temperature just rose even higher.
Is this a survival tactic? Why would a deity need to blind someone anyway? Rocket thought they were on the top of the food chain, like sharks. Or owls? Or something?
“Dude, could you–” Okay, ow, ow. Rocket lifted his hands to cover his already goggled eyes
‘Turn that down?”
The warrior stared back at him, feathers ruffling, and yeah, okay, no, he is glowing right now. Why is he glowing? This is worse than when Rocket flashbanged himself with one of his dad's flashlights when he was younger.
Wait.
Oh. Ohhhhhhhh.
Rocket jolts up, staring intently despite the blinding light he’s facing, forced to squint at the glowing warrior perched on the counter.
“..I JUST LOOKED AT YOU. FOR LIKE. TWO SECONDS–”
“I don’t–control it! It’s not like I let mortals see me very often?!”
“WELL, YEAH – maybe! But you don’t have to BLIND me!”
“I didn’t PLAN to! It just–” Sword sighs, tinged with embarrassment, wings covering his face like a curtain, those brown eyes peek behind plumage as Sword rattles something off too soft for Rocket to hear.
They’re nice eyes, almost hard to look away from. Warm and almost golden under the light, crinkled and averted from his gaze.
He wonders how much more he could fluster the embodiment of the sun if only looking does this.
Look, maybe he was never the smartest Inphernal. Maybe Rocket could stand going blind if that was the view.
His head jerks as a customer comes over, explaining something about their gear jamming.
Rocket shakes away the dots of light in his vision, and Rocket rushes through an explanation, the seat scraping back as he fixes the jamming deftly, explaining where it went wrong with a gesture of his fingers.
He takes a glance at Sword, who covers his face with his face-wings again, having obviously been caught in the act.
Shit. He’s useless at this.
The rest of the day passes unbearably slow, the two of them glancing at each other, trying to pretend like they weren’t both flustered, with Rocket rushing to help whoever actually came to the store (which was fewer than Rocket would have hoped, given he wanted to escape whatever sappy-ass situation just occurred). And by the time Rocket flicks the storefront sign to closed? He just wanted to sleep again.
He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it onto the kitchen chair for him to deal with later.
Ignoring the almost silent footsteps behind him, the door closing quietly with a small click, he looked for a hair tie, rummaging in the bathroom (he doesn’t want hair getting into the dinner, after all; Dad would probably grab him by the horn) before glancing up.
Rocket met his own eyes in the mirror.
And despite the terrible, cold weather, despite it all, he's managed to get himself a faint sunburn.
Damn that deity.