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Rocket thinks he’s changed. Well, he knows he's changed, but at the same time it's something he hadn't realized. Time passing him by, slowly chiseling away at him and his impossibly high walls.
Once, he was defensive, a small, snarling beast of a child with claws sharp, like they were made to tear flesh and spill blood, his teeth, made to rip skin apart and bite the hands that get too close.
His gear was designed for destruction, An orchestration of balanced chaos. Whether it be others or buildings he took down, nothing could stand in his way and come out intact. Not even himself.
And then the Inpherno sent him Zuka. Rocket doesn’t think he ever thanked Zuka enough for finding him and offering him shelter. He certainly hadn't when the man had first taken him in.
Rocket was brash, mean. He was everything a child shouldn’t be, and yet despite all that, Zuka was patient with him. He knew the man himself had issues, Zuka never talked about them but it was something about the way he’d zone out, like he was somewhere else, not entirely in the present.
Rocket did that sometimes too, sometimes finding himself believing he were back in playground. He’d get so terribly mean when that happened, he's not sure how Zuka tolerated the behaviour, he certainly wouldn't have.
Rocket can still find evidence of that child, deeply hidden in his bones or the way he moves, perhaps in the scars left behind from youth or maybe in the way he behaves sometimes just that bit too rough. He can trace his face with metal fingers and wonder where time went, how it managed to pass him by so fast.
Now he finds he's grown softer with that time, the old scars littering his body no longer tough and starchy, instead they're easier to run your fingers over, a reminder something bad once happened but that time still yet passes despite it.
He's fairly certain his eyes have become kinder now, too. He sees it when he glances in the mirror, tracing over his features in the early morning when the sun’s still gold. He can still find traces of that terrified kid, but they aren't as prominent as before.
Sometimes he wishes he could go back, travel through time and tell himself that it will be okay and everything will work itself out in the end, that all the wrinkles will be ironed out and that he will find good people with time.
Rocket also wishes that he could scoop himself up and give him an all consuming hug, hold himself tight and never let him go, not until he understands it will be okay and he doesn't need to be so afraid.
But time passes still and he will never get that opportunity, but the thought of it is warm and fuzzy. Perhaps a sense of hope from himself in the past, when he’d find himself alone on freezing nights, he never much believed in the deities but on those nights he would find himself praying.
Nowadays, instead of praying he mostly finds himself wondering, looking around himself in awe of the life he’s gotten. Sometimes it feels as if he doesn't deserve it, that it ought to have gone to somebody else. But other times he feels oh so selfish for not wanting to share these people with anybody.
And maybe he's entitled to that feeling, he would like to hold onto Zuka and Sword, his friends and family and he’d like to never let them go as if they suddenly would vanish if he let them slip away.
He knows what kindness is now, what mercy feels like. To be held and told it’ll be alright and to feel wanted and seen by eyes that don't hold disgust for just his sheer existence, he's seen by eyes that look at him fondly, with love he sometimes still doesn't entirely understand.
Rocket is aware of this difference, it's something he knew from day one, that things will never be the way they were before, he knows this like it's a commandment written deep in his blood. He thinks the change is nice, even if it's slowly changing him with time.
But still yet he looks out his window each morning, hair messy and clothes wrinkled. He's living on days he wouldn’t have had if not for Zuka, perhaps it is borrowed time and that death will catch up to him entirely too fast, but until then he thinks he's content to have slow mornings like these.
Rocket thinks how wonderful it is to know what love feels like and to eat warm food cooked each morning with people he knows wont hurt him, what a privilege it is to joke about himself almost falling asleep at the table and how simple of a pleasure it is to even have that table to eat at.
A smile rests on his face so easily nowadays like it was always meant to be there, teeth bared in a playful manner, fangs on display. He laughs just as easily, a loud noise that used to feel so foreign to his own ears. Now it's such a common noise.
Rocket knows he’s changed, time passed him by so quickly that he hadn’t realized it until now. But he doesn’t think he could ever find it in himself to argue with this fact, he knows he’s changed for the better and at the end of the day.
While golden light pools between the buildings, he laughs in the middle of the street with Sword and he almost wants to cry because he knows he's different now.
But it’s a good different, one he doesn’t find himself caring about.
Rockets changed, and he thinks he's okay with that.