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Peter fell asleep calmly that night, his arms wrapped around Gamora’s waist and her hair soft against his cheek. It had almost been a challenge for him to fall asleep, mainly because he’d tried very hard not to. He didn’t want to miss even a fraction of this moment, as much as that made him sound like the shitty protagonist of a cheesy 60’s cult classic. Sleep did eventually come to get him, though, and even that was wonderful. Everything was just so goddamn wonderful lately. He dreamt of dancing with Gamora, as Patrick Swayze and Kevin Bacon clapped from the sidelines. Christopher Lloyd’s Doc Brown played a sick cover of Paradise by the Dashboard Light on one of those guitars with two necks, and on the sidelines, Ronald Reagan choked to death on a chicken bone. Peter was so disappointed when Groot shook him awake.
“Groot,” he coughed, “What’s going on?”
“Groot?” grumbled Gamora, “Groot is here?”
“Yeah, he just started shaking me. What gives, man?”
“I am Groot,” said Groot.
“What about Rocket?”
“I am Groot.”
“He hurt himself?” Gamora was suddenly wide awake. “How?”
“I am Groot.”
“Shit,” said Peter, getting out of bed almost faster than his knees could handle at such an early hour. He scrambled for purchase, holding on to Gamora, who was also in the process of standing up. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She rubbed sleep out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “Let’s go find Rocket.”
None of the Guardians were strangers to the terrors that move in when it’s dark. They all had their quirks and their protocol. Groot tended to just roar, as loudly as possible, then retract into his various trunks. It was a dangerous move to get close to either Gamora or Nebula post-nightmare. They always went for the knives. Once a few minutes passed, once they stopped panting and remembered where they were, Nebula would find someone to talk to. She was the only one among them who actually wanted to discuss the subjects of her worst terrors. Gamora, meanwhile, never said a word, but found it calming to cry on Peter’s shoulder – and only Peter’s shoulder. Similarly, in the early days of the Guardians, Peter used to lash out, putting up his tough guy front and being a total asshole about it. Gamora figured out how to break through it pretty quickly after their relationship started. The key, she discovered, was to keep doting on him, giving him food and spending time with him, and eventually, he wouldn’t be able to resist. She’d almost gloated about that one, which hardly felt appropriate. It was okay, though. He thought it was hot when she gloated.
But that was hardly the point. Rocket was even worse than Peter was, in terms of hiding. Or at least, he was more literal. More than a few times, he crawled into the vents, where none of the others could fit, just to avoid talking about his fear. Not that they’d tried to force anything out of him.
Rocket’s nightmares made him sad. The vents echoed; they’d heard him sob. When Peter had asked Nebula, who was pretty sure that she could offer a semi-decent psychoanalysis of Rocket, she’d said that his hiding was most likely an effort to offset the shame of the other Guardians recognizing his weakness.
Peter had two thoughts about that:
- The thought that Rocket may have gone through anything that was even slightly comparable to Nebula’s treatment by Thanos wasn’t necessarily surprising, but it did make him feel sick.
- He would not rest until he got to wrap Rocket in a blanket. Seriously. He added it to his bucket list that same night.
Tonight, though, his priorities lay far away from his to-do list. According to Groot, Rocket had scratched his face in his sleep, and that was a whole different ball game. He didn’t even want to imagine how many times Rocket may have had to deal with something similar alone. But that didn’t matter. He wasn’t alone anymore.
Peter strode to Rocket’s room, where they found him, curled up under his blankets and trembling. Once he heard them come in, he tried to sit up straight.
“Groot!” His voice came out as a sort of snarl. “ Why did you tell them?”
“I am Groot,” said Groot.
Peter nodded. “He’s right. You need help.”
“I don’t need help,” Rocket growled. He started to retreat across the room, on all fours. “I can handle myself.”
“The thing is,” Gamora’s voice was soft, “You don’t have to.”
When Rocket looked up, Peter could see his false anger crumbling, leaving only terrified vulnerability in its wake. He moved slowly and sat beside Rocket on the floor. To his surprise, Rocket didn’t move away. Of course he didn’t. Even instinctively, even if he was ashamed, Rocket wanted someone to come take care of him.
Peter could also see the scratch on Rocket’s face, all the way across his left cheek, angry and inflamed. Peter had also scratched himself a couple of times, after his nastier nightmares, but at least he didn’t have the added agony of raccoon claws.
He took a step towards Rocket, who flinched away again. “Rocket,” he said, “That scratch could get infected.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Rocket shouted, “I can handle it on my own. ”
Peter sighed. “Can I tell you a story?”
“Oh yeah, sure. Everyone, meet Peter Quill, the king of perfect timing.”
Peter ignored Rocket’s snark and soldiered on. “When I was a little kid, I was afraid of the Hat Man.”
“Fuck’s a Hat Man?” Rocket grumbled.
“Nothing,” he said, “There is no Hat Man. It was silly. But when I was little, like five, there was this hat on the top shelf of my closet. And one night, I left the closet door open, and it looked like a man. And I was terrified of it. I kept being terrified of it, for years. When I went into second grade, I got the idea in my head that I couldn’t be scared of something like the Hat Man anymore, because I was too old to ask my mom for help. I spent weeks sleeping horribly, nodding off in class, because I tried to beat my fear of the Hat Man all by myself and I couldn’t.”
“No offense, Pete, but what I’ve been dreaming about is a bit more intense than the Hat Man,” said Rocket.
“Bear with me,” said Peter, “I didn’t ask my mom for help, because I was afraid that she would mention it to one of my friends, and they would make fun of me for still needing help and a blanket to fall asleep at night. But one night, exhaustion got the better of me. I fell asleep and had the most horrible nightmare about the Hat Man. I know that it’s ridiculous but I still remember it to this day. But when I woke up screaming, my mom was right there for me. I tried to push her away, but she wrapped me in a blanket, made hot chocolate for me, and told me nice stories until I fell asleep. She never made me feel like I was being stupid or doing something embarrassing. The next day, I went back to school afraid that somehow, everyone who I wanted to think that I was cool would somehow know that I was having these nightmares. But nobody did. Nobody ever called me on it, and my mom only ever brought it up when I wanted to talk to her about it.”
Rocket sniffed. “Quill, you do realize that you’re not my mom, right?”
“No.” Peter smiled. Rocket getting his sense of humor back was a great sign. “But I am someone who loves you a whole lot, and whatever it is that you’re going through, I’m never going to make you feel bad for struggling.”
“I can’t talk about it,” said Rocket urgently, “I can’t— Groot has asked, and I’ve tried. I can’t talk about my dreams.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to. But can I help you? Can I just… be here?”
Rocket sniffed and wiped his paw across his cheek. “If you want to be,” he said, “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”
Peter laughed, and Rocket laughed with him. Finally, the air felt thinner and easier to breathe. “No, you jackass,” he said, with all the affection in his heart, “It might even help.”
He grabbed the thickest blanket off of Rocket’s bed and wrapped it around his shoulders. He looked, quite frankly, adorable, but Peter wasn’t stupid enough to say that out loud. Gamora ran to the medbay to get alcohol swabs and bandages with which to clean Rocket’s scratch, but by the time she got back, Rocket was already fast asleep and snoring against Peter’s shoulder.