Peter can't lie; when Nebula showed up at his door, he had feared the worst, and that feeling had only gotten worse when he saw the state Rocket was in. He had practically turned into a giant bruise, looking like he went five rounds against Muhammad Ali and lost every single one of them.
It was only the fact that Nebula was so nonchalant about Rocket's recovery that Peter didn't have a panic attack here and there. He knew how much she cared for their friend; they had gone together through things Peter could only imagine in those five years he was gone. If she had had any real suspicion that Rocket was still in danger, she wouldn't have left after helping Rocket get settled in Peter's ridiculously modest apartment. At least he managed not to freak out when she and Rocket were in earshot; good bless thick bathroom doors.
It's painful to look at Rocket even after a couple of days, to imagine what he had to go through again. It's also a stark reminder of how easily Peter could lose someone who means so much to him, again. And the thing is, all that untreated CPTSD and thanatophobia have done Peter no favors in life, which means his response to this sort of situation once the immediate threat causing them is gone is inevitable.
He hovers near Rocket without immediately being in his space, insisting every day on checking the man's temperature to make sure he's not developing a fever, to see his injuries to make sure they're not infected, and to see if the bones are settling right. All in all, it's a miracle Rocket hasn't yet tried one of the bedside lamps at his heat.
He tries to hide the anxiety with jokes or slight complaints about Rocket's worse habits, but Peter isn't sure he's fooling anyone. They both need distractions, but listening to music is out of the question with the headache he's had the past few hours. This means Peter is also not listening to music, and that's usually what calms him down when he's close to having a nervous breakdown. Which is fine; he's doing fine; he's using his restless energy in the kitchen and making all sorts of dishes instead. He's not a half-bad cook. Once Rocket's headache improves, Peter will try to introduce him to movies and see if that manages to entertain him for long enough.
Now it seems Rocket has found his own way to pass the time.
I can get you another fucking comlink. I can give you mine if you want. Peter thinks to himself and says none of those things because, despite his overbearing tendencies, when someone he loves is hurt, he can tell that Rocket will lose it completely if he has nothing to do with his hands.
...hand.
"I can buy you components for that, new ones that work better than my lousy excuse of a radio alarm." Walking into the room proper, Peter sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the bits and bolts strewn over the mattress and only briefly mourning his radio alarm.
"So...quick question. When was the last time you showered? Took a bath? Someone sprinkled some water on you? Hmmm....? And Cosmo licking your face doesn't count."
"Where's the fun in that?" he replies, looking at Peter like he's crazy. What, he's supposed to just go out and buy components all neat and pre-packaged like some kind of amateur? Sure, working one-handed is its own kind of challenge, but the whole thing would be over in a matter of a few hours if he resorted to pre-built stuff, and then he'd be back to having nothing to do but stare at the fucking ceiling. "You wanna flash all that Earth cash you don't got, go scrounge me up a crutch or something." He's aware that he's being kind of a dick. It's still about the maximum amount of not-being-a-dick he can manage right now.
The first couple of days weren't so bad. Mostly he slept a lot, his body shutting down all non-essential systems to focus on healing; every so often he'd be roused and food and water set down in front of him; he eats mechanically, gets into a couple of semi-coherent arguments about which of the meds he's willing to take, and pretty much just passes right back out again. He only jerks awake from nightmares a couple of times, which is honestly better than any random fucking day of the week back before they'd finally dealt with the scumbags who made him once and for all. Gradually, the swelling starts to go down a little, some of the shallower bruises beginning to fade to greens and yellows around the edges. The headache goes from incapacitating to merely excruciating.
The problem, of course, comes when he hits the point of being awake enough to really be aware of his surroundings. It's not even the boredom, really, although he's barely managing not to crawl out of his own skin. The problem is— well, with love, it's Peter. It makes something tense and uneasy crawl over the back of his neck, the way Peter's been looking at him since he got here. Like he's a crack spidering across the viewport of a ship, an incautious breath away from shattering and sucking them all out into fucking space.
He gets that Peter has a thing about losing people. He fucking gets it. But being the focus of it is, bluntly, really fucking annoying. The last thing he needs when he's already sore and pissy and struggling to think straight past the blinding headache is someone hovering over him like he's in danger of spontaneously expiring any minute. He's starting to wish he'd pissed Nebs off less. If he'd managed to deal long enough to make it back to Knowhere, he could at least have curled up in his bunk and licked his wounds in peace. Bullied Kraglin into bringing him parts to work on or something. Right now he has to count himself lucky he's been allowed to stagger the few steps to the bathroom to piss unassisted.
At that oh so casual question though, he sets down the circuit board in his hand and gives Peter a look of cautious interest. "You sayin' I smell?" he half-jokes. Like it's not fucking true. There's still concrete dust sitting unpleasant and gritty in his hair, and every so often under the layer of days-old sweat he catches the faint, lingering scent of his own blood. It's setting his teeth on edge. And this sounds promisingly like it might be headed in a 'getting out of bed without having sad puppy eyes pointed at him' kind of direction.
"Could use a shower," he concedes, non-committal, looking at Peter like part of him's still waiting for the catch.
He isn't trying to stress out Rocket more on purpose. It's Peter's anxiety flaring, and even when he's made aware that he's being too much, he can't help himself. He doesn't need to have Rocket's level of intellect to tell his friend is very close to trying to strangle him with the lamp's cord, so he will attempt to tone down the overbearing tendencies.Â
The comment about Peter being tight on money makes his eyebrows furrow for a moment, his expression pinched before he scolds his face into one of nonchalance. Yeah, he's not exactly living in luxury, but he's trying. Not a lot of jobs out there for someone whose entry career had A] happened out of the planet and B] mainly consisted of being an ex-thief and then a guardian of the galaxy. No matter how often they have saved people or stopped the world from ending, that doesn't seem to be good enough for most companies.
"Something tells me that none of us would benefit from you having a large stick in your hands." Peter says in the end, trying to keep his tone light.Â
It's not that he doesn't want to give him a crutch —he already has one ready that belonged to Jason hidden in the closet— it's only that he doesn't think Rocket should be going on and about. Not when his right side still looks black and blue. And Peter also likes to live a concussion-free life.
There's the chance Rocket might eventually find the crutch if he snoops around the apartment during the morning hours when Peter's out working, of course. That will be a problem for later.
At the question of the smell, all Peter does is pointedly stare at Rocket's hair, where yes, there are still some small pieces of debris buried in it, and then back at the man, Rocket raising his eyebrows so much they almost reach his curls.
"All I'm saying is that teenage Groot, when he was exuding tree sap from every branch, was a pleasure in comparison." Peter grins after that to soften his words, and he's relieved to see Rocket seems willing to get clean.
"I'll draw you a bath. You're less likely to get dizzy and fall if you are not standing. We're going to need to be careful with your injured arm to make sure it doesn't get jostled too much."Â
If it sounds as if Peter's got experience with all this, it's because he does. Squishy Terrans, it's so easy to get their fragile bones crushed. There had been some painful trial and error with the Ravagers after they kidnapped Peter in which they had to figure out the limits to the manhandling they did to him before a limb eventually broke.Â
"I will help you wash your hair. I even got you that shampoo with the smell you like." See? Don't say he never does anything for you, man.
Maybe he should be some kind of glad that Peter's giving him a pass and letting his shit-talking slide, but right in this moment it only puts his hackles up more. Any other time Peter would be giving him shit right back: that crack should have earned him a big talk from the guy taking up space and eating all my food, or at least a leering quip about what he can do to pay his rent once he's healed up some. It sure as hell shouldn't have been met with meek acceptance, stepping around it like he can't fucking take Peter giving as good as he gets. He hates being treated like he needs to be handled gently. It makes his brain itch.
"Get dizzy and fall?" he repeats incredulously. "You've been hangin' out with your grandpa too much, Quill, I'm not a fuckin' invalid—" With an effort of will he cuts himself off, pushing all the rest down into a tight, heavy knot in the center of his chest. "Whatever," he mutters instead, swallowing down an irrational stab of hurt. He's intimately fucking familiar with how much his body can take; sure he's fucked up, he hurts, but he knows how to work around it. Maybe it's stupid, but it stings that after everything they've been through, somehow Peter doesn't trust him to handle his shit. It stings that even here it still isn't safe to let it show when he's hurting.
There's an aborted twitch of movement as he automatically goes to fold his arms, only to remember just in time why that's not gonna work. He settles instead for gripping the blankets under his good hand tightly, knuckles white and the line of his shoulders tight and unhappy as he stares down at his lap, unwilling to meet Peter's eyes. "Fine," he says flatly. "Do what you gotta do."
Oh, Rocket doesn't have to worry; Peter will get there eventually and complain about him hogging the bed while he moved to the couch and his missing food. But that will be once he gets over the scare. So, give or take, 2 or 3 years. Okay, probably not that long, but his brain can be really dramatic at times.
"You were out two days because someone smashed your thick head against a wall! Did you ever stop to think how much that freaked us out?" Peter barks right back, throwing his hands up in frustration. If Rocket wanted a reaction, he got it. "Excuse me for wanting to help and make sure you're not in unnecessary pain, asshole. As if that's not what b... teammates do."
His anger loses some steam at the end, both because he almost also said something he shouldn't and because Peter is now seeing where Rocket's ire is coming from.Â
He crosses his arms over his chest, some loose curls falling over his forehead as he narrows his eyes at the other man. This is so not how any of them expected the evening to go, but here they are. He doesn't like the way Rocket seems to have suddenly shut down; he would rather have him screaming again.Â
"Is that what all that is about?" Peter sounds much calmer when he speaks again, though, but also a little cautious. "Do you believe that I see you as some sort of chore, someone that needs to be coddled all of a sudden? Weak? Because that's not it. I mean...I might be a bit too overprotective these days, but it's not because of you; that's on me. I've got my own set of issues, you know that."Â
Peter pauses, looking away for a moment after the admission, embarrassment written all over his face. it's not and emotion that suits him. He's pretty much expecting Rocket to scoff at it or something worse. Yeah, 'issues', that word doesn't really do it justice.
"You don't have to do everything by your fucking self all the time, is what I'm saying. We're a team; we're friends. This is what friends do; they look out for one another."
It's not like he doesn't know he got hurt pretty bad. It's hard to forget when there's still fresh waves of pain throbbing nauseatingly through him with every movement. It'll be a couple weeks til the ribs are healed; longer for the arm. Fuck knows how the head injury's gonna pan out, but he'd be the first to joke that his brains came kinda pre-scrambled. It's not great, but there have been times in the past where he's been hurt just as bad and had no option but to keep moving. Holed up somewhere safe with someone he trusts to cover his back is a better spot than he's used to being able to count on for lying low and letting himself heal.
Except that when he looks up and sees the fear under the frustration in Peter's eyes...he has to admit to himself that's not strictly true. Hasn't been for a while. When they'd all first started running together — fuck, even before that, back when he'd first met Groot — it'd taken him a long time to accept the idea that it was okay to get used to having other people around. Even after he'd come to trust that he could count on them to have his back, there had always been the thought, burning in the back of his brain, that he had to be ready for it to end. That he couldn't let himself rely on it, because that could only come back to bite him whenever it all got snatched away again. He had to be ready to go back to having nothing but his own wits and stubborn determination.
Funny to think back on that now. He'd be dead if it wasn't for them; that's just a fact. If he lets himself think too hard about it, fuck, it's terrifying how far they were willing to go for him. Something in him still shies away from contemplating the enormity of it; everything they did, the shit they'd pulled off just to save his fucking skin. When he dwells on it for too long it makes him want to demand what the fuck they thought they were doing, how they'd looked at that plan and not written it off as completely insane. What the fuck they would have done if anyone else had died trying to pull it off.
"Ever since I got here you been lookin' at me like you think I'm gonna break if you cough wrong," he says. The line of his shoulders has relaxed somewhat, even if he still doesn't look entirely happy."I'm not just fuckin'...makin' it worse for shits and giggles. I know what I can handle." And he knows what he can't handle. The admission feels like glass in his throat, but he forces it out anyway through gritted teeth; the least he owes Peter in all this is a little fucking honesty. "I can't just lie here with nothin' to do but hurt, man. It's too much like—" He can't make himself finish the sentence. He pauses, throat working. All those old demons are so fucking close to the surface now; he might have faced down some, but there's always more to it than that.
What he eventually says instead, quiet and serious, is: "If we're doin' this, I gotta know you trust me." He doesn't feel the need to specify what this is. Even if they haven't talked about it, even if they haven't put a name to it, they've taken a couple steps out of the realm of just teammates lately.
Between any of them possibly dying or Rocket dying for sure if they didn't do something, the choice was clear for all the Guardians. Every single time, they would make the same decision for every single one of them.
They're family; there's a bond between them that goes beyond simple friendship and camaraderie. It took them a lot of pain and terrible experiences to get there, and that's why all of them refuse to let go of one another. It's why Peter clings so hard to those he loves, and why the idea of losing anybody else would probably shatter his head for good.
Despite his own claims to the contrary, Peter can also learn from his experiences. He's still emotional and impulsive most of the time, but he's also always been pretty good at understanding others and seeing their point of view, where the other person is coming from. It took longer with Rocket, the cagey bastard that he was, but nowadays, they're both less likely to raise their walls in front of one another, or they're at least easier to tear down, like now.
"I'm sorry." It's what Peter goes for in the end, even if there's a million thoughts running through his head. Because he is. He can see now why Rocket has been acting so...well, like a dick. It wasn't unwarranted, so he's probably apologizing for once.
"I trust you with my life; of course, I trust you with everything else, too. You know better than anyone what your body can withstand; it's just... it got me all freaked out when Nebula dropped you here; it's all. I'll get over it; I promise I'll stop being so..." Peter makes a vague gesture at Rocket, at himself, and at the bed covered in little metal pieces..."Myself. Overbearing."
Hearing Rocket talk about this unsaid thing between them also makes Peter feel all mushy inside. Maybe it's not as one-sided as he first believed; it's an exciting and comforting thought. He wants to reach out and touch Rocket, more so after hearing him finally spill his guts, or the closest that their emotionally constipated selves can do, but he's also just promised not to be all over the guy's space. Peter goes for the next best thing, a peace offering, smiling slightly.
"I've got a lot of things around the apartment that could use an improvement. Not my alarm clock, but I have a toaster that burns half of any bread I put in there, no matter the setting and for no reason at all. I haven't had a decent grilled cheese in ages. I think it might be possessed."
It's not that he'd been expecting a fight, exactly, but he still doesn't really know what to do with an apology. He shifts uncomfortably, rubbing his good hand over the back of his neck. "C'mon man, it's not—" He doesn't know how to fit words around how it feels to be confronted with such stark proof of just how much he matters to Peter. Being the focus of that kind of attention is something he's ever had cause to learn how to deal with before. It's overwhelming, it's bordering on too much, but looking at that sudden awkward edge of reticence, he realizes he doesn't want it to stop. He doesn't like seeing Peter uncertain and withdrawn; he doesn't want Peter to have to feel like he needs to censor himself, here like this. After everything they've fucking been through, they should be able to just...be themselves with each other.
His instinct is to move to close the gap, but he's got a feeling like trying to stand up unassisted is probably going to break the truce. So instead he settles for a murmured c'mere, gesturing with an insistent, beckoning hand until Peter's moved in close enough for Rocket to hook two fingers into the collar of his shirt and pull him in for a lingering kiss. It's slow and soft, careful of his injuries, and so fucking not enough it makes his chest ache.
Fuck, it wasn't supposed to be like this. When he'd thought about coming back, spending some actual time on Earth, it'd been all about seeing some filthy promises fulfilled; carving out some more time for themselves where they could really enjoy each other. He hadn't exactly pictured himself so fucked up it's a struggle to sit up without going light-headed, never mind anything more vigorous. He's never done great with holding still at the best of times, but there's something in this that's making him antsy in a whole other way. It feels like...wasted time.
He laughs softly at the litany of the toaster's faults. He can recognize it for what it is; he'll take the implied blessing to find something to tinker usefully with. Maybe if he starts actually pulling his weight some it'll make Peter stop looking at him like he's about to fall apart.
"I'll still take that bath," he says, a peace offering of sorts in its own way. And hey, if nothing else, getting wet and naked seems like a solid incentive for Peter to actually touch him.
Rocket should treasure this moment because Peter is not a person who likes admitting his mistakes, but he's matured enough that he can actually do it when it's deserved. And Rocket deserves that and so much more. Peter wants to be a good partner for him, so the least he can do is admit when he's making things harder than they should be for both of them, even if the motivation isn't selfish, only caused by his fears.
They're both feeling a little uncomfortable. Peter doesn't want to make Rocket like this either, awkward and trading through uncharted territory, walking on eggshells, because, frankly, it is weird for him too. He's so used to seeing the man always confident and assertive. But maybe they needed this, to get it over with, and if Peter is honest, he does feel a little better after talking. After making Rocket realize that, yes, he is going to worry not because he thinks less of Rocket but because Peter doesn't ever want to contemplate a life without Rocket in it calling him out of his bullshit and complaining about his jokes.
He's a tad surprised when Rocket calls for him, blinking quickly a couple of times. Peter soon acquiesces, leaning in close with a soft smile and pressing his lips to Rocket's in a much-needed kiss of reassurance after his collar is grabbed. The gentleness surprises him again, despite knowing that it's better this way, for the sake of not jostling Rocket's injuries further.
It leaves the blond with a thrill that has nothing to do with the kind he got when they were working each other up and fucking; it's just as strong but of a more affectionate nature. He loves the sex, but he also loves these moments where they're more inclined to pull down their defenses and admit how they feel towards each other, even if it happens without words. He nips at Rocket's bottom lip before they part ways, lest too much sweetness gives the guy diabetes.
Hearing Rocket laugh and accept the excuse of the toaster and the many woes it causes Peter, he finally makes the tight knot in his stomach dissolve. He leans back and then stands up from the bed, basket now in hands, smiling and then huffing.
"You DO need the bath. I'll go fill the tub; you can join me in the bathroom once you've cleaned all this mess."
Peter gestures once again to the array of little metal pieces all over the bed. See? He's trusting Rocket to get things in order and get himself into the bath all by himself. Peter will make sure the water's nice and warm in the meantime.
If Rocket does as suggested without much arguing, he will find Peter in the bathroom, shirtless but still wearing a pair of comfortable pants, adding to the bathtub an unreasonable amount of bubble soap for funsies.
They've both done their share of dumb shit for the sake of pride over the years; he can admit to himself that he's every bit as bad for it as Peter is. But they've learned how to trust each other and get by without too much ego bruising when the stakes were much higher than this. It might be a different setting — and in some ways almost a more vulnerable one — but they'll figure this out too. They always do in the end.
The door swings shut, leaving him with that playful bite still tingling on his lips as the distant sounds of running water start up from the bathroom. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the pillow, taking a moment to just...let himself be as exhausted as he fucking feels. Maybe things get better from here now they've actually fucking talked about it, but the instinct to hide how bad he's hurting is older and dug in deeper than just about any other. How to breathe through pain was one of the first things he ever learned.Â
He sweeps the component parts of the alarm back into its casing — he'll deal with putting it back together later — with his one good hand, and sets it aside on the nightstand before turning his attention to the more complicated task of getting himself vertical. The key is keeping his movements slow and easy. He leans forward until he's fully sitting up, wincing faintly as the motion pulls muscle tight over his cracked ribs, and tugs the blankets out of the way with his good hand. Step one achieved. He takes a steadying breath, swings his legs off of the bed, and with one hand braced against the headboard, moves to stand.
The next couple of minutes are unpleasant, knuckles white and eyes screwed tightly shut against the grey static swirling in front of his vision as the headache spikes to nauseous, throbbing new heights. He breathes in harsh bursts, all of his willpower focused on staying upright and conscious. It's fine. He can do this. He can fucking do this.
The few days of being mostly passed out in bed at least seem to have done his knee some good. It's not twinging quite so threateningly under his weight any more, and he finds that as long as he keeps his steps short, walking on it is less of a challenge than he might have expected. He still keeps his good hand braced against the wall, but that's more to help keep his balance than anything else. From there, it's just walking wounded. He knows how to do that. He's done it a thousand times.
The tub's half full by the time he makes it to the bathroom. He leans up against the doorway, catching his breath, and something achingly fond unfurls in his chest for the sight of Peter messing around with the bubbles like a fucking kid. "Havin' fun?" he asks, grinning. The motion pulls at the bruising on his cheek and around his eye, but he couldn't have held it back if he'd been paid to. "Might need a hand gettin' this off," he adds, indicating the sling with a vague wave of his good hand.
If they didn't do dumb shit on occasion, they wouldn't be the guardians. They get results in the end, and they understand each other, so if anybody asked Peter, he would argue that it was more than good enough.Â
The bathroom isn't huge by any stretch of the imagination but is comfortable enough to fit a bathtub, a shower, and two men of their size. As the hot water runs, Peter keeps an ear out for unusual noises or signs that Rocket is in too much pain to walk. He honest-to-God hopes the guy doesn't fall on his face; that wouldn't make anyone happy, and Rocket's pride might take longer to heal.Â
When there are no crashing or loud curses, Peter relaxes and starts getting a bit carried away with the soap. Showers were common in spaceships, bathtubs not so much due to their impracticality, and now that he is back on earth, sometimes he likes to indulge and relax in the bathtub. He knows how much it can help sore muscles, so that's another of the goals here for Rocket, not only getting clean.
The soap is almost dropped into the bathtub when Rocket makes himself known, and Peter has the decency to give him a sheepish look and then a smile. He likes seeing Rocket in a better mood.
"You've caught me doing worse in the past. I still have my clothes on. You're lucky I haven't thrown a rubber duckie in there"
Walking over, Peter nods and says nothing else as a way of encouraging Rocket to ask for things and realize he won't get shit for it. He moves around Rocket and helps him slip the sling off his body, carefully lifting his injured arm only a little and then placing a kiss on the curve of his uninjured shoulder. Then Peter rests his chin there, and even if Rocket can see it fully, he can probably hear the leer in his voice.Â
"Want me to take off your pants too?"
Rocket is in no state to be doing any strenuous activity, but that doesn't mean Peter can't still flirt with him to his heart content and use it as an excuse to actually take care of what needs to be done. Plus, Peter has to perfectly working hands that could still offer some more comfort if Rocket wanted to.
"Since when do you want me to be glad you got clothes on?" he counters, grin widening, and if he wasn't relying on the support of the doorframe a little harder than he'd like to keep himself upright, things could almost be normal.
Part of him is still braced for an argument about the sling, and something he hadn't even realized was tensed relaxes when he doesn't get one. Instead there's nothing but Peter's hands warm and familiar on his skin. Even that small movement sends a fresh spike of pain lancing through his injured arm, but he grits his teeth and otherwise doesn't let himself react, keeping his breathing steady with an effort of will. He keeps the arm cradled in close against his chest, tucking his good hand under the elbow to support it.
It's easy enough to keep his attention elsewhere when he has the radiant warmth of Peter's body close behind him, the soft brush of Peter's lips over his skin. That soft, aching warmth in his chest only settles in deeper at the feel of Peter's chin coming to rest on his shoulder; he closes his eyes and leans back, away from the doorframe, settling in against Peter's chest. A shiver runs through him, the simple pleasure of bare skin on skin almost alien after passing so much of the past week in a haze of pain.
"You know I do," he replies, matching that leering tone. Even if he's in no fit state to really try to put his money where his mouth is right now, it's been far too long since he last got to have Peter's hands on him.
Peter cocks his head and raises an eyebrow for a moment as if to say, 'That's fair'. It doesn't go unnoticed that Rocket isn't walking into the bathroom properly, suddenly a very good friend with that doorframe, but he won't call him out on it.
It's worth it when he can press his chest against Rocket's back and feel him leaning on him for support and warmth. Peter nuzzles his ear, Rocket's hair tickling his face and one hand now resting on his left hip. It's a way to give Rocket a break from keeping himself upright; he can use him as support without Peter explicitly saying so.
"The day you don't, I'll know that you've been replaced by an evil doppelganger. Who could resist my charms?....don't answer that."
The words are murmured right into Rocket's ear, the heat of his breath caressing the shell of his ear. The hand on Rocket's hips slides forward, careful not to add much pressure to his stomach just in case there are bruises there too. Peter's index finger draws a playful circle around Rocket's belly button, and then his hand finds the front of the pants, unfastening the buttons and pulling down the zipper in a practiced movement.
If Rocket shifts his posture a little, he can let the pants drop to the floor, and he only has to step out of them while still resting most of his weight on Peter. No need to bend down or lift his legs to get rid of the clothes.
There's still a distant kind of surprise somewhere in the back of his mind at just how easy it is to let himself lean into the support of Peter's arms around him, even when he's vulnerable and hurting. The thought of needing help, of someone looking at him and seeing enough weakness to even think to offer it in the first place...normally it makes something in his brain itch. He doesn't entirely know what to make of the way that instinct is just...absent.
Maybe it's just lost under want. Even if the circumstances are different, there's a thrill of heat that washes over him for the feel of Peter's hands sliding over his skin to deftly take care of the fastenings of his clothes. He shifts his hips just enough to let his pants fall to the floor before leaning back in closer against Peter, entirely naked now and completely unselfconscious with it. He's fully aware that with all his injuries still livid he probably does not make the most appealing picture, except maybe to someone with some very specific fetishes, but it's still far too tempting to tease as best he can.
He takes a few more moments to enjoy it before straightening up and taking a few careful steps forward, leaving his clothes in a pool on the floor as he approaches the bathtub. His eyes are narrowed, every bit as focused as he's ever been on any delicate repair or battlefield tactical decision, as he considers how best to approach getting in without damaging himself further.
[ After how tense things have been, Peter appreciates even more the calm and quiet moments between them. They're still full of teasing and snark, but he would get worried if that didn't happen. There's a degree of protectiveness he can shake off even if he knows his friend, and especially Rocket, are more than capable; in the moments when they simply accept that Peter is going to be annoying Like That and don't complain too much is when he is reminded of how lucky he is to have them all in his life.
He will play and tease Rocket to help make the situation less openly emotional than they both can handle while still very much enjoying the closeness too. Since this unexpected partnership started, they have been taking small but steady steps despite the occasional heavy argument, which amazes Peter greatly.
He's careful not to step on Rocket's discarded pants; he will throw them into the laundry basket later and makes a murmured sound of approval close to the other man's ear once again. Poor Rocket really is in no state for the type of exercise they do together, and Peter doesn't enjoy seeing him this bruised, but he doesn't want him to feel self-conscious.
Once they approach it, he notices the way Rocket studies the bathtub like it's a bomb that needs disabling, and yeah, Peter can see the issues here when it comes to moving inside on his own. He also knows that lifting Rocket bridal and placing him inside the bathtub himself is not an option unless he's aiming for another argument. So he's going to move to Rocket's side, offer him an arm for support, and not acknowledge the silent help by talking about something else nonstop. ]
And talking about the other Guardians. [ They were so not talking about that, but whatever. ] Has Adam calmed down a little, or is he still driving Nebula up the wall with his enthusiasm? I know she enjoys sparring with him despite of what she claim, but she hasn't shared much more than that.
[ He mentally crosses his fingers and hopes Rocket will simply accept the help without fussing much about it. ]
There's no way around it: he's going to have to let the broken arm take its own weight. The only other options are soaking the one sling they've got, or trying to climb in without holding onto anything, and both of those would definitely only make things worse in the long run. He's just gonna have to take this one on the chin.
It's not as bad as it could be. For much the same reason there's no cast or splint to contend with, he can get away with having it unsupported for short periods; the bone can still crack, as he's had made inescapably clear, but the metal grafted onto them stops the broken ends from shifting. It'll heal clean just fine, and the grafts bear enough of the weight to make the pain of moving it...bearable. He grits his teeth and with his other hand, carefully lowers it to hang limply by his side. He focuses on keeping his breathing even, ignoring the grey flecks swirling in front of his eyes and the waves of dizziness that come with the fresh lance of pain.
That taken care of, he reaches out for the support of Peter's arm with his good hand, gripping solidly just below the elbow. He snorts softly, seeing the distraction for what it is, but doesn't call Peter on it. "He's still drivin' her nuts, but hey, ain't we all." He takes the first step into the tub, sucks in a steadying breath, and leans a little more heavily into the support of Peter's arm as he shifts his weight and steps over with the other. "Groot's taken him under his wing some. I think he's gettin' a kick outta gettin' to kinda, y'know, do the whole big brother thing."
The hard part's over at least. He releases his grip on Peter's arm and leans down to grab the edge of the tub as he cautiously lowers himself down into the bath.
The moan he gives as he sinks into the water is full-throated and bordering on obscene, tension flowing out of him as the heat soaks into his battered, aching muscles. "Fuck," he breathes. He slides his good hand under the elbow of his broken arm and settles it back into place resting against his chest; there's a small grimace of discomfort at the movement, but nothing dramatic. The dizziness is less of a concern after all when he's already fairly horizontal. "Fuck that's good."
Maybe Peter can eventually find another sling for Rocket to use, so the next time he can keep it on while taking a bath and replace it with a dry one once they're finished. He should have thought about it sooner, but frankly, it hadn't occurred to him that they would have this problem. He waits and grimaces in sympathy when Rocket gets into the bath as best he can, and it still obviously hurts him.
"Aww, isn't that adorable? I think Groot always wanted siblings, so maybe it will also help him act more mature."
He lets Rocket handle getting into the bath all by himself but is ready to grab him if Rocket gets too dizzy and slips. It never comes to that, thankfully, and Peter sighs in relief and then grins at Rocket's reaction once he's fully submerged. He almost asks Rocket if he wants to have a private moment, only him and the bathtub. But he doesn't want to hear a 'yes' for an answer, so he won't risk it and instead, he says;
"I told you, baths are magical, dude. One day I'll have a bathtub big enough for both of us to fit."Peter crouches down, arms resting on the edge of the tub and chin on the arm, looking at Rocket like the cat who ate the cream. "Now, will you let me wash your hair? It will feel even better, promise."
Floating in a haze of warmth, any other concerns he'd had suddenly feel very far away and unimportant. He can already feel the heat starting to do the job that the few painkillers he'd grudgingly agreed to take hadn't, easing the tension from muscles that had stiffened up and getting the blood flowing. Fuck, it feels good. It feels like the first time since he woke up back on the ship that he's actually relaxed.
The thought of getting to make some time in a tub big enough for both of them after he's healed up some is a very appealing one. Somewhere like the hot springs on Fierago maybe, set the ship down in a quiet spot and really make the most of having no other eyes for miles in any direction. Of course, that would involve convincing Peter to leave Earth, which doesn't seem like it's going to be on the cards for a while yet. But he's not thinking too hard about that one. Who knows, maybe they've got something like it a bit more local. He can talk Peter into a little bit of a vacation if they don't even leave the system.
He gives Peter a mildly suspicious sideways glance at the offer and bites back whatever his instinctive response would have been. He doesn't want to start another stupid argument right now, even if part of him is still a little wary that this is some more I don't think you can handle this yourself bullshit coming back from a different angle. But fuck, it's not like it wouldn't be awkward as hell trying to do it one-handed right now, and he really wants to actually feel clean. Even without the dried blood and concrete dust, his hair's a greasy mess by now, and he fucking hates how it feels against his skin.
"Fine," he replies. "Better bring your A-game though, I got standards."
It's not a miracle worker, but hot baths do help a lot when one feels like shit; Peter knows it well from many past experiences. He's glad he got to help Rocket have a little reprieve from his many pains.
He also understands that some of his acts of service may be read as overbearing, but one of these days he will use their relationship as an argument. In the sense that he knows Rocket can have a good time alone with his hand, but Peter still likes to take the man to bed regardless (or the couch, or the kitchen table...whatever flat surface they find first). Just because you are capable of doing something doesn't mean that it doesn't feel nicer when others do it for and with you. Let him pamper you a bit and stop being so stubborn, jackass.
"No, you don't. You're sleeping with me."
Peter scoffs at the 'standard's comment, already reaching out to grab one of the nearby bottles of shampoo. There are like, 4 or 5 different ones. Peter's fabulous hair doesn't just happen; you see, he likes taking care of his looks. "Tilt your head back a little to wet your hair."
Peter will cup some more water and gently get the top of Rocket's head wet too, but if the other man helps, that would be easier. Before he starts with the shampoo, Peter eyes the messy brown hair critically and pulls out of it a few small rocks that were tangled in it. They're smaller than the nail in his pinkie finger, but Peter still stares at them in bewilderment.
"Is this concrete? Actually, I don't want to know..."
He squeezes some shampoo into his palm, then runs his fingers through the hair, working it into a lather before gently scrubbing it soothingly. Peter starts to hum, carding his fingers up Rocket's scalp before smoothing the hair down once more. It doesn't take him long to start rubbing Rocket's shoulders, getting some of the tension out.
It'd be easy enough to just agree. It's not like they don't spend plenty of time talking trash, not least about each other. But...something about leaning into it here like this feels weird. The thing is, it's true, in its own sideways kind of way. Maybe it wouldn't make much sense to a hypothetical outside observer, but the fact is, there's just about no-one else in the universe he'd let in this close when he's hurting. He trusts Peter, and that's a standard precious few people have ever met. Acting like that's not how it is feels cheap.
He's not going to say any of that of course. What he does instead is reach back without looking with his good hand to lazily swat whichever part of Peter falls most easily within reach. Feels like a shoulder maybe. "Quit talkin' shit about my crew," he says; matter of fact, eyes still closed. "Talkin' shit about you assholes is my job."
If he really wanted to make a point of it, he could probably say a thing or two about the hypocrisy of Peter talking down his own merits as a bedmate while going out of his way to wash his fucking hair, touch impossibly gentle over the cuts and bruises along his hairline. Stringing a sentence together is starting to feel like a little too much effort to be worth it though, not when the warmth of the bath and the fingers carding through his hair are making it far too tempting just to let his brain shut off and drift.
"Don't worry about it." It sure is concrete, but given the argument they only just got done having, volunteering more information about what actually happened doesn't seem like it's going to lead to anything good. He's alive and he'll heal. The rest is all just...details.
A soft breath of a sigh falls from his lips as those fingers work over his skin, drawing out the last few threads of tension the hot water hadn't quite managed. It feels good to be warm and clean again, but more than that, it stirs something soft behind his breastbone that he doesn't really know what to do with to be able to just relax and put himself in Peter's hands. Even weak and hurting, he's safe here. It's not as alien a thought as it would once have been, but it still feels new. Something rare enough that it can't be taken for granted. "S'nice," he mumbles, turning his face to nuzzle unselfconsciously into Peter's touch.
It catches Peter off guard whenever Rocket does this, unexpectedly sweet while still being his sarcastic self. It knocks the wind right out of his sails when his casual self-deprecation is met with opposition. As if Rocket really thinks he's worth more than that. It doesn't happen often, which is probably why it means so much and why Peter has learned to tell it apart from the rest of Rocket's other casual demands.
He slows himself to smile, touched, since he's behind Rocket, and the man can't see it. Rocket reaching out and pressing a wet hand to the curve of his neck and shoulder, effectively getting Peter's collar all wet and soapy, making the moment a little bit less rom-com worthy. It's still good; Peter can't even be mad.
"And you're a star employee after so many years of practice." Peter's voice holds no grudge; in fact, he sounds amused still and runs his hands through Rocket's hair again. Fingers move lightly in his hair and stretch over Rocket's scalp. This had turned less into 'Gonna get you cleaned up finally' and more 'Let's see if I can make you melt with a sneaky massage' kind of deal.
He does his best to actually do that and not worry about the concrete, but he can't help but imagine it. One could already tell by looking at Rocket's black and blue body, but this only reminds him that it really must have been a nasty fight. Instead of letting both of their minds wander there again, Peter's fingers slide down, focusing on massaging the particular point of pressure where the nape meets the back. It's always so easy to get stiff and sore there; Peter has gotten back pains like those simply by being too tense when flying a spaceship.
"Yeah?" Only a word, but Peter's tone says so much. He's clearly proud and back to grinning and smiling after hearing that soft sigh leaving Rocket's lips. "Magic hands, yo. You should know by now."
Playful teasing aside, Peter wanted to do something to make Rocket feel more at ease, to take some of his pain away if possible. Bath can't cure everything, but it's a step forward, and maybe it will help him to get a better sleep as well. Peter misses curling up in bed with him, not necessarily naked or doing anything that leaves them dirty again; he just misses waking up with Rocket by his side. He didn't want to risk rolling on top of Rocket or clinging to him in his sleep and accidentally making the injuries worse. Peter can be like a needy octopus when he wants to cuddle, and he's always warm.
"There's no rush, so we can stay here until you get all wrinkly like my grandpa."
"Damn right." They're both masters of the fine art of shit-talking, and no-one on the crew's ever been the type to pull their punches when it comes to taking the piss. It's all done with love, mostly.
There's probably some smart-ass comment he could shoot back about those magic fingers, but damned if he has the spare brainpower to come up with something right now. The sigh trails off into a moan as they dig into the tight muscle across his shoulders, hunting down the knots and aches. It hurts a little — fuck, what else is new, breathing hurts — but it feels so fucking good. He hadn't fully realized just how much everything had stiffened up until suddenly he had strong hands working the tension back out again.
Makes him think a little about having those hands elsewhere. He's in absolutely no shape to do anything about the thought, but it's still a pleasant stirring of warmth, feeding a slow-burning anticipation of the fun they're gonna have once he's healed up some. They both made some threats and promises, back when it was dirty comm calls or nothing, and he's looking forward to when the bruises have faded enough for him to convince Peter to follow through.
...that comparison's certainly a splash of ice water across the whole thing though. His nose wrinkles. "If that's your kink, I'm out," he replies, mostly joking. The sex has been good enough that he'd probably put up with a lot of weird, but that's definitely too much weird.
It speaks to a significant level of camaraderie, as well as having gone through a lot of personal experiences together to be able to trash talk each other this way and know it's not actually a serious thing. Drax can do it to a degree, too, even if in his case it's mostly because he's brutally honest and has terrible timing. Peter misses him as well.
It was all going so well; Rocket truly looked like he was actually relaxing and letting go of his worries for a moment there. Of course, it doesn't last.
"What...?" Peter's hands still, and he sounds baffled for a long second. "Dude, ew, no! I was only saying you can stay in the bathtub as long as you want. The massage starts again, with Peter shaking his head as if physically trying to get rid of the mental image. They can both agree on not involving his family in their sex life in any capacity. God lord."How did your mind even go there?"
Maybe being naked and having Peter's hand on him has something to do with that; on second thought, he can't blame Rocket too much. He would love nothing more than to mess around with the other man, literally, kiss his bruises better, but the truth is that he's worried he would make the injuries worse if they tried anything too athletic. He will have to be more creative.
"As for my kinks, pretty sure you're already acquainted with all of them." One of his hands slides down from Rocket's nape to the curve of his shoulder, the uninjured one, and then slides over his chest, fingers teasing. "Did you get any new ones while you were away that I should know about?"
He gives a short cackle before wincing, pressing his good hand to the livid bruising over his ribs. "Ah, fuck, don't make me laugh." Even with the lingering threat of pain, there's still a grin on his lips, something impish and wholly unrepentant in his eyes. The shit-talking, the teasing, even now the flirting...it all comes back to the same thing in the end: the joy of knowing what buttons to press, getting a reaction. It's even better now, knowing if he plays his cards right, there might even be an orgasm or two in it for him.
"All of 'em? Thought you had more up your sleeve than that." He stretches languidly, arching into the warm weight of Peter's hands on him; there's another faint stab of pain for it, as there is for just about everything at the moment, but not enough to dampen the answering flicker of heat low in his belly. With his injured side turned away from Peter and the bubbles hiding some of the damage, he's got a better chance of getting away with shooting for sexy. He hadn't seriously thought he had a chance at angling for more, but if it looks like there might be an opening, hell yeah he's gonna go for it.
He doesn't know if he has any new kinks so much as a weird shift of perspective where after ten fucking years of knowing each other, things he's never thought twice about before are suddenly hot. Out of nowhere it's far too easy to get distracted by Peter's hands, his mouth, the way the muscles shift under his skin when he moves. Something about it's hooked straight into instinct now; inextricably linked to warm, hazy memories of those hands on his skin, that mouth against his.
"Maybe I got a new appreciation for you talkin' dirty to me," he replies, giving Peter a lazy grin. Those comm calls hadn't been much — definitely no substitute for the real thing — but they'd had their upsides. And it's so much better now having Peter's voice low and rough in his ear when they're close enough to touch, close enough to feel the breath the words rode on stir his hair. Teasing's going to be much more rewarding now he gets to be here when it's finally too much to take. "There was a whole lotta big talk about what you were gonna do next time..."
"You started it; don't blame me." Peter is not at all sorry, and the amusement can be heard in his singsong tone of voice. He did nothing wrong ever, your honor. It's good to hear Rocket laugh, even if his bruised ribs disagree with him.
He cups some water in the palm of his free hand to gently rinse out the lingering soap on Rocket's hair, then skilled fingers keep massaging the now softer tresses. Any excuse to play with Rocket's hair is one Peter will take advantage of because they don't get enough of those kinds of simple pleasures in life, small moments of kindness when the universe isn't trying to fuck them over.
"All the kinks applicable to creatures with only four limbs; that's it." He admits. Peter has a long set of other ones that relate to definitely less human-looking partners, but that's neither here nor there because most of the time they don't apply.
Still, it's the back and forth, too, what he likes best about spending time with Rocket. Much like Rocket, over the years he's learned to recognize it for what it is, another evidence of their close bond. Because who else can know you better than someone capable of driving you crazy or comforting you after only a few words? That drives him crazy and extends to what they do in bed, or in this case, in the bathroom.
Peter's attuned enough to Rocket's body language, since he can't trust the man's mouth alone sometimes, to tell that his little touches are being very effective. He hadn't planned to do more than help clean up Rocket and tease him for a while, but now that he's going down that route, it seems like a shame not to aim for the finish line. He doesn't care much for his own pleasure now, but he can help give Rocket more good memories involving baths.
"Well, it's about time you finally appreciate me running my mouth." Just like Peter appreciates the looks Rocket is giving him very, very much. "I haven't forgotten about those promises. But given the current situation, I think we will have to improve a new plan of action..."
He presses his body closer to the other man, not minding how he's also getting wet in the process, and presses his cheek to Rocket's as his other hand moves to join the first one under the water. It keeps moving lower, though, palm sliding over Rocket's abs and further down until his fingertips brush over the base of Rocket's cock.
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It was only the fact that Nebula was so nonchalant about Rocket's recovery that Peter didn't have a panic attack here and there. He knew how much she cared for their friend; they had gone together through things Peter could only imagine in those five years he was gone. If she had had any real suspicion that Rocket was still in danger, she wouldn't have left after helping Rocket get settled in Peter's ridiculously modest apartment. At least he managed not to freak out when she and Rocket were in earshot; good bless thick bathroom doors.
It's painful to look at Rocket even after a couple of days, to imagine what he had to go through again. It's also a stark reminder of how easily Peter could lose someone who means so much to him, again. And the thing is, all that untreated CPTSD and thanatophobia have done Peter no favors in life, which means his response to this sort of situation once the immediate threat causing them is gone is inevitable.
He hovers near Rocket without immediately being in his space, insisting every day on checking the man's temperature to make sure he's not developing a fever, to see his injuries to make sure they're not infected, and to see if the bones are settling right. All in all, it's a miracle Rocket hasn't yet tried one of the bedside lamps at his heat.
He tries to hide the anxiety with jokes or slight complaints about Rocket's worse habits, but Peter isn't sure he's fooling anyone. They both need distractions, but listening to music is out of the question with the headache he's had the past few hours. This means Peter is also not listening to music, and that's usually what calms him down when he's close to having a nervous breakdown. Which is fine; he's doing fine; he's using his restless energy in the kitchen and making all sorts of dishes instead. He's not a half-bad cook. Once Rocket's headache improves, Peter will try to introduce him to movies and see if that manages to entertain him for long enough.
Now it seems Rocket has found his own way to pass the time.
I can get you another fucking comlink. I can give you mine if you want. Peter thinks to himself and says none of those things because, despite his overbearing tendencies, when someone he loves is hurt, he can tell that Rocket will lose it completely if he has nothing to do with his hands.
...hand.
"I can buy you components for that, new ones that work better than my lousy excuse of a radio alarm." Walking into the room proper, Peter sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the bits and bolts strewn over the mattress and only briefly mourning his radio alarm.
"So...quick question. When was the last time you showered? Took a bath? Someone sprinkled some water on you? Hmmm....? And Cosmo licking your face doesn't count."
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The first couple of days weren't so bad. Mostly he slept a lot, his body shutting down all non-essential systems to focus on healing; every so often he'd be roused and food and water set down in front of him; he eats mechanically, gets into a couple of semi-coherent arguments about which of the meds he's willing to take, and pretty much just passes right back out again. He only jerks awake from nightmares a couple of times, which is honestly better than any random fucking day of the week back before they'd finally dealt with the scumbags who made him once and for all. Gradually, the swelling starts to go down a little, some of the shallower bruises beginning to fade to greens and yellows around the edges. The headache goes from incapacitating to merely excruciating.
The problem, of course, comes when he hits the point of being awake enough to really be aware of his surroundings. It's not even the boredom, really, although he's barely managing not to crawl out of his own skin. The problem is— well, with love, it's Peter. It makes something tense and uneasy crawl over the back of his neck, the way Peter's been looking at him since he got here. Like he's a crack spidering across the viewport of a ship, an incautious breath away from shattering and sucking them all out into fucking space.
He gets that Peter has a thing about losing people. He fucking gets it. But being the focus of it is, bluntly, really fucking annoying. The last thing he needs when he's already sore and pissy and struggling to think straight past the blinding headache is someone hovering over him like he's in danger of spontaneously expiring any minute. He's starting to wish he'd pissed Nebs off less. If he'd managed to deal long enough to make it back to Knowhere, he could at least have curled up in his bunk and licked his wounds in peace. Bullied Kraglin into bringing him parts to work on or something. Right now he has to count himself lucky he's been allowed to stagger the few steps to the bathroom to piss unassisted.
At that oh so casual question though, he sets down the circuit board in his hand and gives Peter a look of cautious interest. "You sayin' I smell?" he half-jokes. Like it's not fucking true. There's still concrete dust sitting unpleasant and gritty in his hair, and every so often under the layer of days-old sweat he catches the faint, lingering scent of his own blood. It's setting his teeth on edge. And this sounds promisingly like it might be headed in a 'getting out of bed without having sad puppy eyes pointed at him' kind of direction.
"Could use a shower," he concedes, non-committal, looking at Peter like part of him's still waiting for the catch.
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The comment about Peter being tight on money makes his eyebrows furrow for a moment, his expression pinched before he scolds his face into one of nonchalance. Yeah, he's not exactly living in luxury, but he's trying. Not a lot of jobs out there for someone whose entry career had A] happened out of the planet and B] mainly consisted of being an ex-thief and then a guardian of the galaxy. No matter how often they have saved people or stopped the world from ending, that doesn't seem to be good enough for most companies.
"Something tells me that none of us would benefit from you having a large stick in your hands." Peter says in the end, trying to keep his tone light.Â
It's not that he doesn't want to give him a crutch —he already has one ready that belonged to Jason hidden in the closet— it's only that he doesn't think Rocket should be going on and about. Not when his right side still looks black and blue. And Peter also likes to live a concussion-free life.
There's the chance Rocket might eventually find the crutch if he snoops around the apartment during the morning hours when Peter's out working, of course. That will be a problem for later.
At the question of the smell, all Peter does is pointedly stare at Rocket's hair, where yes, there are still some small pieces of debris buried in it, and then back at the man, Rocket raising his eyebrows so much they almost reach his curls.
"All I'm saying is that teenage Groot, when he was exuding tree sap from every branch, was a pleasure in comparison." Peter grins after that to soften his words, and he's relieved to see Rocket seems willing to get clean.
"I'll draw you a bath. You're less likely to get dizzy and fall if you are not standing. We're going to need to be careful with your injured arm to make sure it doesn't get jostled too much."Â
If it sounds as if Peter's got experience with all this, it's because he does. Squishy Terrans, it's so easy to get their fragile bones crushed. There had been some painful trial and error with the Ravagers after they kidnapped Peter in which they had to figure out the limits to the manhandling they did to him before a limb eventually broke.Â
"I will help you wash your hair. I even got you that shampoo with the smell you like." See? Don't say he never does anything for you, man.
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"Get dizzy and fall?" he repeats incredulously. "You've been hangin' out with your grandpa too much, Quill, I'm not a fuckin' invalid—" With an effort of will he cuts himself off, pushing all the rest down into a tight, heavy knot in the center of his chest. "Whatever," he mutters instead, swallowing down an irrational stab of hurt. He's intimately fucking familiar with how much his body can take; sure he's fucked up, he hurts, but he knows how to work around it. Maybe it's stupid, but it stings that after everything they've been through, somehow Peter doesn't trust him to handle his shit. It stings that even here it still isn't safe to let it show when he's hurting.
There's an aborted twitch of movement as he automatically goes to fold his arms, only to remember just in time why that's not gonna work. He settles instead for gripping the blankets under his good hand tightly, knuckles white and the line of his shoulders tight and unhappy as he stares down at his lap, unwilling to meet Peter's eyes. "Fine," he says flatly. "Do what you gotta do."
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"You were out two days because someone smashed your thick head against a wall! Did you ever stop to think how much that freaked us out?" Peter barks right back, throwing his hands up in frustration. If Rocket wanted a reaction, he got it. "Excuse me for wanting to help and make sure you're not in unnecessary pain, asshole. As if that's not what b... teammates do."
His anger loses some steam at the end, both because he almost also said something he shouldn't and because Peter is now seeing where Rocket's ire is coming from.Â
He crosses his arms over his chest, some loose curls falling over his forehead as he narrows his eyes at the other man. This is so not how any of them expected the evening to go, but here they are. He doesn't like the way Rocket seems to have suddenly shut down; he would rather have him screaming again.Â
"Is that what all that is about?" Peter sounds much calmer when he speaks again, though, but also a little cautious. "Do you believe that I see you as some sort of chore, someone that needs to be coddled all of a sudden? Weak? Because that's not it. I mean...I might be a bit too overprotective these days, but it's not because of you; that's on me. I've got my own set of issues, you know that."Â
Peter pauses, looking away for a moment after the admission, embarrassment written all over his face. it's not and emotion that suits him. He's pretty much expecting Rocket to scoff at it or something worse. Yeah, 'issues', that word doesn't really do it justice.
"You don't have to do everything by your fucking self all the time, is what I'm saying. We're a team; we're friends. This is what friends do; they look out for one another."
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Except that when he looks up and sees the fear under the frustration in Peter's eyes...he has to admit to himself that's not strictly true. Hasn't been for a while. When they'd all first started running together — fuck, even before that, back when he'd first met Groot — it'd taken him a long time to accept the idea that it was okay to get used to having other people around. Even after he'd come to trust that he could count on them to have his back, there had always been the thought, burning in the back of his brain, that he had to be ready for it to end. That he couldn't let himself rely on it, because that could only come back to bite him whenever it all got snatched away again. He had to be ready to go back to having nothing but his own wits and stubborn determination.
Funny to think back on that now. He'd be dead if it wasn't for them; that's just a fact. If he lets himself think too hard about it, fuck, it's terrifying how far they were willing to go for him. Something in him still shies away from contemplating the enormity of it; everything they did, the shit they'd pulled off just to save his fucking skin. When he dwells on it for too long it makes him want to demand what the fuck they thought they were doing, how they'd looked at that plan and not written it off as completely insane. What the fuck they would have done if anyone else had died trying to pull it off.
"Ever since I got here you been lookin' at me like you think I'm gonna break if you cough wrong," he says. The line of his shoulders has relaxed somewhat, even if he still doesn't look entirely happy."I'm not just fuckin'...makin' it worse for shits and giggles. I know what I can handle." And he knows what he can't handle. The admission feels like glass in his throat, but he forces it out anyway through gritted teeth; the least he owes Peter in all this is a little fucking honesty. "I can't just lie here with nothin' to do but hurt, man. It's too much like—" He can't make himself finish the sentence. He pauses, throat working. All those old demons are so fucking close to the surface now; he might have faced down some, but there's always more to it than that.
What he eventually says instead, quiet and serious, is: "If we're doin' this, I gotta know you trust me." He doesn't feel the need to specify what this is. Even if they haven't talked about it, even if they haven't put a name to it, they've taken a couple steps out of the realm of just teammates lately.
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They're family; there's a bond between them that goes beyond simple friendship and camaraderie. It took them a lot of pain and terrible experiences to get there, and that's why all of them refuse to let go of one another. It's why Peter clings so hard to those he loves, and why the idea of losing anybody else would probably shatter his head for good.
Despite his own claims to the contrary, Peter can also learn from his experiences. He's still emotional and impulsive most of the time, but he's also always been pretty good at understanding others and seeing their point of view, where the other person is coming from. It took longer with Rocket, the cagey bastard that he was, but nowadays, they're both less likely to raise their walls in front of one another, or they're at least easier to tear down, like now.
"I'm sorry." It's what Peter goes for in the end, even if there's a million thoughts running through his head. Because he is. He can see now why Rocket has been acting so...well, like a dick. It wasn't unwarranted, so he's probably apologizing for once.
"I trust you with my life; of course, I trust you with everything else, too. You know better than anyone what your body can withstand; it's just... it got me all freaked out when Nebula dropped you here; it's all. I'll get over it; I promise I'll stop being so..." Peter makes a vague gesture at Rocket, at himself, and at the bed covered in little metal pieces..."Myself. Overbearing."
Hearing Rocket talk about this unsaid thing between them also makes Peter feel all mushy inside. Maybe it's not as one-sided as he first believed; it's an exciting and comforting thought. He wants to reach out and touch Rocket, more so after hearing him finally spill his guts, or the closest that their emotionally constipated selves can do, but he's also just promised not to be all over the guy's space. Peter goes for the next best thing, a peace offering, smiling slightly.
"I've got a lot of things around the apartment that could use an improvement. Not my alarm clock, but I have a toaster that burns half of any bread I put in there, no matter the setting and for no reason at all. I haven't had a decent grilled cheese in ages. I think it might be possessed."
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His instinct is to move to close the gap, but he's got a feeling like trying to stand up unassisted is probably going to break the truce. So instead he settles for a murmured c'mere, gesturing with an insistent, beckoning hand until Peter's moved in close enough for Rocket to hook two fingers into the collar of his shirt and pull him in for a lingering kiss. It's slow and soft, careful of his injuries, and so fucking not enough it makes his chest ache.
Fuck, it wasn't supposed to be like this. When he'd thought about coming back, spending some actual time on Earth, it'd been all about seeing some filthy promises fulfilled; carving out some more time for themselves where they could really enjoy each other. He hadn't exactly pictured himself so fucked up it's a struggle to sit up without going light-headed, never mind anything more vigorous. He's never done great with holding still at the best of times, but there's something in this that's making him antsy in a whole other way. It feels like...wasted time.
He laughs softly at the litany of the toaster's faults. He can recognize it for what it is; he'll take the implied blessing to find something to tinker usefully with. Maybe if he starts actually pulling his weight some it'll make Peter stop looking at him like he's about to fall apart.
"I'll still take that bath," he says, a peace offering of sorts in its own way. And hey, if nothing else, getting wet and naked seems like a solid incentive for Peter to actually touch him.
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They're both feeling a little uncomfortable. Peter doesn't want to make Rocket like this either, awkward and trading through uncharted territory, walking on eggshells, because, frankly, it is weird for him too. He's so used to seeing the man always confident and assertive. But maybe they needed this, to get it over with, and if Peter is honest, he does feel a little better after talking. After making Rocket realize that, yes, he is going to worry not because he thinks less of Rocket but because Peter doesn't ever want to contemplate a life without Rocket in it calling him out of his bullshit and complaining about his jokes.
He's a tad surprised when Rocket calls for him, blinking quickly a couple of times. Peter soon acquiesces, leaning in close with a soft smile and pressing his lips to Rocket's in a much-needed kiss of reassurance after his collar is grabbed. The gentleness surprises him again, despite knowing that it's better this way, for the sake of not jostling Rocket's injuries further.
It leaves the blond with a thrill that has nothing to do with the kind he got when they were working each other up and fucking; it's just as strong but of a more affectionate nature. He loves the sex, but he also loves these moments where they're more inclined to pull down their defenses and admit how they feel towards each other, even if it happens without words. He nips at Rocket's bottom lip before they part ways, lest too much sweetness gives the guy diabetes.
Hearing Rocket laugh and accept the excuse of the toaster and the many woes it causes Peter, he finally makes the tight knot in his stomach dissolve. He leans back and then stands up from the bed, basket now in hands, smiling and then huffing.
"You DO need the bath. I'll go fill the tub; you can join me in the bathroom once you've cleaned all this mess."
Peter gestures once again to the array of little metal pieces all over the bed. See? He's trusting Rocket to get things in order and get himself into the bath all by himself. Peter will make sure the water's nice and warm in the meantime.
If Rocket does as suggested without much arguing, he will find Peter in the bathroom, shirtless but still wearing a pair of comfortable pants, adding to the bathtub an unreasonable amount of bubble soap for funsies.
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The door swings shut, leaving him with that playful bite still tingling on his lips as the distant sounds of running water start up from the bathroom. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the pillow, taking a moment to just...let himself be as exhausted as he fucking feels. Maybe things get better from here now they've actually fucking talked about it, but the instinct to hide how bad he's hurting is older and dug in deeper than just about any other. How to breathe through pain was one of the first things he ever learned.Â
He sweeps the component parts of the alarm back into its casing — he'll deal with putting it back together later — with his one good hand, and sets it aside on the nightstand before turning his attention to the more complicated task of getting himself vertical. The key is keeping his movements slow and easy. He leans forward until he's fully sitting up, wincing faintly as the motion pulls muscle tight over his cracked ribs, and tugs the blankets out of the way with his good hand. Step one achieved. He takes a steadying breath, swings his legs off of the bed, and with one hand braced against the headboard, moves to stand.
The next couple of minutes are unpleasant, knuckles white and eyes screwed tightly shut against the grey static swirling in front of his vision as the headache spikes to nauseous, throbbing new heights. He breathes in harsh bursts, all of his willpower focused on staying upright and conscious. It's fine. He can do this. He can fucking do this.
The few days of being mostly passed out in bed at least seem to have done his knee some good. It's not twinging quite so threateningly under his weight any more, and he finds that as long as he keeps his steps short, walking on it is less of a challenge than he might have expected. He still keeps his good hand braced against the wall, but that's more to help keep his balance than anything else. From there, it's just walking wounded. He knows how to do that. He's done it a thousand times.
The tub's half full by the time he makes it to the bathroom. He leans up against the doorway, catching his breath, and something achingly fond unfurls in his chest for the sight of Peter messing around with the bubbles like a fucking kid. "Havin' fun?" he asks, grinning. The motion pulls at the bruising on his cheek and around his eye, but he couldn't have held it back if he'd been paid to. "Might need a hand gettin' this off," he adds, indicating the sling with a vague wave of his good hand.
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The bathroom isn't huge by any stretch of the imagination but is comfortable enough to fit a bathtub, a shower, and two men of their size. As the hot water runs, Peter keeps an ear out for unusual noises or signs that Rocket is in too much pain to walk. He honest-to-God hopes the guy doesn't fall on his face; that wouldn't make anyone happy, and Rocket's pride might take longer to heal.Â
When there are no crashing or loud curses, Peter relaxes and starts getting a bit carried away with the soap. Showers were common in spaceships, bathtubs not so much due to their impracticality, and now that he is back on earth, sometimes he likes to indulge and relax in the bathtub. He knows how much it can help sore muscles, so that's another of the goals here for Rocket, not only getting clean.
The soap is almost dropped into the bathtub when Rocket makes himself known, and Peter has the decency to give him a sheepish look and then a smile. He likes seeing Rocket in a better mood.
"You've caught me doing worse in the past. I still have my clothes on. You're lucky I haven't thrown a rubber duckie in there"
Walking over, Peter nods and says nothing else as a way of encouraging Rocket to ask for things and realize he won't get shit for it. He moves around Rocket and helps him slip the sling off his body, carefully lifting his injured arm only a little and then placing a kiss on the curve of his uninjured shoulder. Then Peter rests his chin there, and even if Rocket can see it fully, he can probably hear the leer in his voice.Â
"Want me to take off your pants too?"
Rocket is in no state to be doing any strenuous activity, but that doesn't mean Peter can't still flirt with him to his heart content and use it as an excuse to actually take care of what needs to be done. Plus, Peter has to perfectly working hands that could still offer some more comfort if Rocket wanted to.
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Part of him is still braced for an argument about the sling, and something he hadn't even realized was tensed relaxes when he doesn't get one. Instead there's nothing but Peter's hands warm and familiar on his skin. Even that small movement sends a fresh spike of pain lancing through his injured arm, but he grits his teeth and otherwise doesn't let himself react, keeping his breathing steady with an effort of will. He keeps the arm cradled in close against his chest, tucking his good hand under the elbow to support it.
It's easy enough to keep his attention elsewhere when he has the radiant warmth of Peter's body close behind him, the soft brush of Peter's lips over his skin. That soft, aching warmth in his chest only settles in deeper at the feel of Peter's chin coming to rest on his shoulder; he closes his eyes and leans back, away from the doorframe, settling in against Peter's chest. A shiver runs through him, the simple pleasure of bare skin on skin almost alien after passing so much of the past week in a haze of pain.
"You know I do," he replies, matching that leering tone. Even if he's in no fit state to really try to put his money where his mouth is right now, it's been far too long since he last got to have Peter's hands on him.
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It's worth it when he can press his chest against Rocket's back and feel him leaning on him for support and warmth. Peter nuzzles his ear, Rocket's hair tickling his face and one hand now resting on his left hip. It's a way to give Rocket a break from keeping himself upright; he can use him as support without Peter explicitly saying so.
"The day you don't, I'll know that you've been replaced by an evil doppelganger. Who could resist my charms?....don't answer that."
The words are murmured right into Rocket's ear, the heat of his breath caressing the shell of his ear. The hand on Rocket's hips slides forward, careful not to add much pressure to his stomach just in case there are bruises there too. Peter's index finger draws a playful circle around Rocket's belly button, and then his hand finds the front of the pants, unfastening the buttons and pulling down the zipper in a practiced movement.
If Rocket shifts his posture a little, he can let the pants drop to the floor, and he only has to step out of them while still resting most of his weight on Peter. No need to bend down or lift his legs to get rid of the clothes.
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Maybe it's just lost under want. Even if the circumstances are different, there's a thrill of heat that washes over him for the feel of Peter's hands sliding over his skin to deftly take care of the fastenings of his clothes. He shifts his hips just enough to let his pants fall to the floor before leaning back in closer against Peter, entirely naked now and completely unselfconscious with it. He's fully aware that with all his injuries still livid he probably does not make the most appealing picture, except maybe to someone with some very specific fetishes, but it's still far too tempting to tease as best he can.
He takes a few more moments to enjoy it before straightening up and taking a few careful steps forward, leaving his clothes in a pool on the floor as he approaches the bathtub. His eyes are narrowed, every bit as focused as he's ever been on any delicate repair or battlefield tactical decision, as he considers how best to approach getting in without damaging himself further.
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He will play and tease Rocket to help make the situation less openly emotional than they both can handle while still very much enjoying the closeness too. Since this unexpected partnership started, they have been taking small but steady steps despite the occasional heavy argument, which amazes Peter greatly.
He's careful not to step on Rocket's discarded pants; he will throw them into the laundry basket later and makes a murmured sound of approval close to the other man's ear once again. Poor Rocket really is in no state for the type of exercise they do together, and Peter doesn't enjoy seeing him this bruised, but he doesn't want him to feel self-conscious.
Once they approach it, he notices the way Rocket studies the bathtub like it's a bomb that needs disabling, and yeah, Peter can see the issues here when it comes to moving inside on his own. He also knows that lifting Rocket bridal and placing him inside the bathtub himself is not an option unless he's aiming for another argument. So he's going to move to Rocket's side, offer him an arm for support, and not acknowledge the silent help by talking about something else nonstop. ]
And talking about the other Guardians. [ They were so not talking about that, but whatever. ] Has Adam calmed down a little, or is he still driving Nebula up the wall with his enthusiasm? I know she enjoys sparring with him despite of what she claim, but she hasn't shared much more than that.
[ He mentally crosses his fingers and hopes Rocket will simply accept the help without fussing much about it. ]
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It's not as bad as it could be. For much the same reason there's no cast or splint to contend with, he can get away with having it unsupported for short periods; the bone can still crack, as he's had made inescapably clear, but the metal grafted onto them stops the broken ends from shifting. It'll heal clean just fine, and the grafts bear enough of the weight to make the pain of moving it...bearable. He grits his teeth and with his other hand, carefully lowers it to hang limply by his side. He focuses on keeping his breathing even, ignoring the grey flecks swirling in front of his eyes and the waves of dizziness that come with the fresh lance of pain.
That taken care of, he reaches out for the support of Peter's arm with his good hand, gripping solidly just below the elbow. He snorts softly, seeing the distraction for what it is, but doesn't call Peter on it. "He's still drivin' her nuts, but hey, ain't we all." He takes the first step into the tub, sucks in a steadying breath, and leans a little more heavily into the support of Peter's arm as he shifts his weight and steps over with the other. "Groot's taken him under his wing some. I think he's gettin' a kick outta gettin' to kinda, y'know, do the whole big brother thing."
The hard part's over at least. He releases his grip on Peter's arm and leans down to grab the edge of the tub as he cautiously lowers himself down into the bath.
The moan he gives as he sinks into the water is full-throated and bordering on obscene, tension flowing out of him as the heat soaks into his battered, aching muscles. "Fuck," he breathes. He slides his good hand under the elbow of his broken arm and settles it back into place resting against his chest; there's a small grimace of discomfort at the movement, but nothing dramatic. The dizziness is less of a concern after all when he's already fairly horizontal. "Fuck that's good."
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"Aww, isn't that adorable? I think Groot always wanted siblings, so maybe it will also help him act more mature."
He lets Rocket handle getting into the bath all by himself but is ready to grab him if Rocket gets too dizzy and slips. It never comes to that, thankfully, and Peter sighs in relief and then grins at Rocket's reaction once he's fully submerged. He almost asks Rocket if he wants to have a private moment, only him and the bathtub. But he doesn't want to hear a 'yes' for an answer, so he won't risk it and instead, he says;
"I told you, baths are magical, dude. One day I'll have a bathtub big enough for both of us to fit."Peter crouches down, arms resting on the edge of the tub and chin on the arm, looking at Rocket like the cat who ate the cream. "Now, will you let me wash your hair? It will feel even better, promise."
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The thought of getting to make some time in a tub big enough for both of them after he's healed up some is a very appealing one. Somewhere like the hot springs on Fierago maybe, set the ship down in a quiet spot and really make the most of having no other eyes for miles in any direction. Of course, that would involve convincing Peter to leave Earth, which doesn't seem like it's going to be on the cards for a while yet. But he's not thinking too hard about that one. Who knows, maybe they've got something like it a bit more local. He can talk Peter into a little bit of a vacation if they don't even leave the system.
He gives Peter a mildly suspicious sideways glance at the offer and bites back whatever his instinctive response would have been. He doesn't want to start another stupid argument right now, even if part of him is still a little wary that this is some more I don't think you can handle this yourself bullshit coming back from a different angle. But fuck, it's not like it wouldn't be awkward as hell trying to do it one-handed right now, and he really wants to actually feel clean. Even without the dried blood and concrete dust, his hair's a greasy mess by now, and he fucking hates how it feels against his skin.
"Fine," he replies. "Better bring your A-game though, I got standards."
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He also understands that some of his acts of service may be read as overbearing, but one of these days he will use their relationship as an argument. In the sense that he knows Rocket can have a good time alone with his hand, but Peter still likes to take the man to bed regardless (or the couch, or the kitchen table...whatever flat surface they find first). Just because you are capable of doing something doesn't mean that it doesn't feel nicer when others do it for and with you. Let him pamper you a bit and stop being so stubborn, jackass.
"No, you don't. You're sleeping with me."
Peter scoffs at the 'standard's comment, already reaching out to grab one of the nearby bottles of shampoo. There are like, 4 or 5 different ones. Peter's fabulous hair doesn't just happen; you see, he likes taking care of his looks. "Tilt your head back a little to wet your hair."
Peter will cup some more water and gently get the top of Rocket's head wet too, but if the other man helps, that would be easier. Before he starts with the shampoo, Peter eyes the messy brown hair critically and pulls out of it a few small rocks that were tangled in it. They're smaller than the nail in his pinkie finger, but Peter still stares at them in bewilderment.
"Is this concrete? Actually, I don't want to know..."
He squeezes some shampoo into his palm, then runs his fingers through the hair, working it into a lather before gently scrubbing it soothingly. Peter starts to hum, carding his fingers up Rocket's scalp before smoothing the hair down once more. It doesn't take him long to start rubbing Rocket's shoulders, getting some of the tension out.
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He's not going to say any of that of course. What he does instead is reach back without looking with his good hand to lazily swat whichever part of Peter falls most easily within reach. Feels like a shoulder maybe. "Quit talkin' shit about my crew," he says; matter of fact, eyes still closed. "Talkin' shit about you assholes is my job."
If he really wanted to make a point of it, he could probably say a thing or two about the hypocrisy of Peter talking down his own merits as a bedmate while going out of his way to wash his fucking hair, touch impossibly gentle over the cuts and bruises along his hairline. Stringing a sentence together is starting to feel like a little too much effort to be worth it though, not when the warmth of the bath and the fingers carding through his hair are making it far too tempting just to let his brain shut off and drift.
"Don't worry about it." It sure is concrete, but given the argument they only just got done having, volunteering more information about what actually happened doesn't seem like it's going to lead to anything good. He's alive and he'll heal. The rest is all just...details.
A soft breath of a sigh falls from his lips as those fingers work over his skin, drawing out the last few threads of tension the hot water hadn't quite managed. It feels good to be warm and clean again, but more than that, it stirs something soft behind his breastbone that he doesn't really know what to do with to be able to just relax and put himself in Peter's hands. Even weak and hurting, he's safe here. It's not as alien a thought as it would once have been, but it still feels new. Something rare enough that it can't be taken for granted. "S'nice," he mumbles, turning his face to nuzzle unselfconsciously into Peter's touch.
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He slows himself to smile, touched, since he's behind Rocket, and the man can't see it. Rocket reaching out and pressing a wet hand to the curve of his neck and shoulder, effectively getting Peter's collar all wet and soapy, making the moment a little bit less rom-com worthy. It's still good; Peter can't even be mad.
"And you're a star employee after so many years of practice." Peter's voice holds no grudge; in fact, he sounds amused still and runs his hands through Rocket's hair again. Fingers move lightly in his hair and stretch over Rocket's scalp. This had turned less into 'Gonna get you cleaned up finally' and more 'Let's see if I can make you melt with a sneaky massage' kind of deal.
He does his best to actually do that and not worry about the concrete, but he can't help but imagine it. One could already tell by looking at Rocket's black and blue body, but this only reminds him that it really must have been a nasty fight. Instead of letting both of their minds wander there again, Peter's fingers slide down, focusing on massaging the particular point of pressure where the nape meets the back. It's always so easy to get stiff and sore there; Peter has gotten back pains like those simply by being too tense when flying a spaceship.
"Yeah?" Only a word, but Peter's tone says so much. He's clearly proud and back to grinning and smiling after hearing that soft sigh leaving Rocket's lips. "Magic hands, yo. You should know by now."
Playful teasing aside, Peter wanted to do something to make Rocket feel more at ease, to take some of his pain away if possible. Bath can't cure everything, but it's a step forward, and maybe it will help him to get a better sleep as well. Peter misses curling up in bed with him, not necessarily naked or doing anything that leaves them dirty again; he just misses waking up with Rocket by his side. He didn't want to risk rolling on top of Rocket or clinging to him in his sleep and accidentally making the injuries worse. Peter can be like a needy octopus when he wants to cuddle, and he's always warm.
"There's no rush, so we can stay here until you get all wrinkly like my grandpa."
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There's probably some smart-ass comment he could shoot back about those magic fingers, but damned if he has the spare brainpower to come up with something right now. The sigh trails off into a moan as they dig into the tight muscle across his shoulders, hunting down the knots and aches. It hurts a little — fuck, what else is new, breathing hurts — but it feels so fucking good. He hadn't fully realized just how much everything had stiffened up until suddenly he had strong hands working the tension back out again.
Makes him think a little about having those hands elsewhere. He's in absolutely no shape to do anything about the thought, but it's still a pleasant stirring of warmth, feeding a slow-burning anticipation of the fun they're gonna have once he's healed up some. They both made some threats and promises, back when it was dirty comm calls or nothing, and he's looking forward to when the bruises have faded enough for him to convince Peter to follow through.
...that comparison's certainly a splash of ice water across the whole thing though. His nose wrinkles. "If that's your kink, I'm out," he replies, mostly joking. The sex has been good enough that he'd probably put up with a lot of weird, but that's definitely too much weird.
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It was all going so well; Rocket truly looked like he was actually relaxing and letting go of his worries for a moment there. Of course, it doesn't last.
"What...?" Peter's hands still, and he sounds baffled for a long second. "Dude, ew, no! I was only saying you can stay in the bathtub as long as you want. The massage starts again, with Peter shaking his head as if physically trying to get rid of the mental image. They can both agree on not involving his family in their sex life in any capacity. God lord."How did your mind even go there?"
Maybe being naked and having Peter's hand on him has something to do with that; on second thought, he can't blame Rocket too much. He would love nothing more than to mess around with the other man, literally, kiss his bruises better, but the truth is that he's worried he would make the injuries worse if they tried anything too athletic. He will have to be more creative.
"As for my kinks, pretty sure you're already acquainted with all of them." One of his hands slides down from Rocket's nape to the curve of his shoulder, the uninjured one, and then slides over his chest, fingers teasing. "Did you get any new ones while you were away that I should know about?"
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"All of 'em? Thought you had more up your sleeve than that." He stretches languidly, arching into the warm weight of Peter's hands on him; there's another faint stab of pain for it, as there is for just about everything at the moment, but not enough to dampen the answering flicker of heat low in his belly. With his injured side turned away from Peter and the bubbles hiding some of the damage, he's got a better chance of getting away with shooting for sexy. He hadn't seriously thought he had a chance at angling for more, but if it looks like there might be an opening, hell yeah he's gonna go for it.
He doesn't know if he has any new kinks so much as a weird shift of perspective where after ten fucking years of knowing each other, things he's never thought twice about before are suddenly hot. Out of nowhere it's far too easy to get distracted by Peter's hands, his mouth, the way the muscles shift under his skin when he moves. Something about it's hooked straight into instinct now; inextricably linked to warm, hazy memories of those hands on his skin, that mouth against his.
"Maybe I got a new appreciation for you talkin' dirty to me," he replies, giving Peter a lazy grin. Those comm calls hadn't been much — definitely no substitute for the real thing — but they'd had their upsides. And it's so much better now having Peter's voice low and rough in his ear when they're close enough to touch, close enough to feel the breath the words rode on stir his hair. Teasing's going to be much more rewarding now he gets to be here when it's finally too much to take. "There was a whole lotta big talk about what you were gonna do next time..."
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He cups some water in the palm of his free hand to gently rinse out the lingering soap on Rocket's hair, then skilled fingers keep massaging the now softer tresses. Any excuse to play with Rocket's hair is one Peter will take advantage of because they don't get enough of those kinds of simple pleasures in life, small moments of kindness when the universe isn't trying to fuck them over.
"All the kinks applicable to creatures with only four limbs; that's it." He admits. Peter has a long set of other ones that relate to definitely less human-looking partners, but that's neither here nor there because most of the time they don't apply.
Still, it's the back and forth, too, what he likes best about spending time with Rocket. Much like Rocket, over the years he's learned to recognize it for what it is, another evidence of their close bond. Because who else can know you better than someone capable of driving you crazy or comforting you after only a few words? That drives him crazy and extends to what they do in bed, or in this case, in the bathroom.
Peter's attuned enough to Rocket's body language, since he can't trust the man's mouth alone sometimes, to tell that his little touches are being very effective. He hadn't planned to do more than help clean up Rocket and tease him for a while, but now that he's going down that route, it seems like a shame not to aim for the finish line. He doesn't care much for his own pleasure now, but he can help give Rocket more good memories involving baths.
"Well, it's about time you finally appreciate me running my mouth." Just like Peter appreciates the looks Rocket is giving him very, very much. "I haven't forgotten about those promises. But given the current situation, I think we will have to improve a new plan of action..."
He presses his body closer to the other man, not minding how he's also getting wet in the process, and presses his cheek to Rocket's as his other hand moves to join the first one under the water. It keeps moving lower, though, palm sliding over Rocket's abs and further down until his fingertips brush over the base of Rocket's cock.
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