Author's Note: This is the sequel for my other Rocket-centric fanfic, "How to Buy Happiness". I know I said it was going into the slow-cooker, but I was bombarded with ideas this weekend, so here's what I have so far...

"That's five! One of yours, G'mora?" Rocket Raccoon asked as he landed out of his graceful blaster-kickback-turned-backflip to stand back to back with the green-skinned assassin, the only other person in the area who was on his side.

"Honestly, Rocket?" she huffed, backhanding an approaching thug almost casually. "Why would I have a bounty on my head? I am on seven!"

"Wh—seven!? Well, the last gaboon – what was his name? I forget – anyway, he was after you!" the raccoon retorted, strategically picking off the more dangerous-looking enemies using his latest weapons of choice – two unfeasibly large blasters he'd lovingly dubbed "the twins" – because the only thing better than having a great big gun was having two great big guns, right? "There we go, nine!"

"That was different, we all know who put him up to it," Gamora muttered, swinging her sword in a wide arc, cutting down enemies. "Eleven! You, on the other hand, have a reputation and a mountain of unpaid debts!"

"A mountain?" Rocket repeated innocently. "C'mon, G'mora, ya know it's more like a... small asteroid... of debt... I mean, nothin' that coulda caused... this!" He blasted a few more mercenaries. "Hahahaha, eleven!"

And suddenly it was down to one last thug, who looked thoroughly intimidated by the angry little raccoon and the cold-eyed green warrior woman. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as a blast of electricity dropped him to the ground.

"Hey guys," said Peter Quill, also known as Star-Lord, lowering his blaster with a grin, "what'd I miss?"

"That one counts as mine!" Gamora and Rocket shouted at the same time. Both of them looked a little startled, then glared at one another.

"Everyone I owe money wants me dead," the talking raccoon bragged, gesturing with his glass. He was in a state of drunken talkativeness and Gamora secretly thought this was her favourite version of Rocket. "An' I clearly heard the one flarknard say to take us alive, so nope! Definitely not one'a mine!"

When he wasn't trying to blame ambushes on her, that is...

"Are you sure there isn't something you're not telling us?" Peter pressed, studying Gamora's face. His gentle eyes held some concern, to be sure, but right that moment, he was clearly intent on teasing her.

"Excuse me," she said quietly and went to sit by herself.

From her seat at the bar, she could see everyone in the establishment. The team was out celebrating getting their first big money contract that wasn't somehow directly or indirectly involved with the Nova Corps. And by big money, she meant six digits.

But Gamora wasn't in the mood for celebrations tonight. The last time a bounty hunter came looking for her, it had been a political thing, and that had died down a while ago. They hadn't had a bounty hunter problem for months... until recently. Tonight's ambush had not been the first or even the second. It seemed that everywhere they went, local bounty hunters were practically lining up to ambush the Guardians of the Galaxy and perhaps they were after her. She bit her lip. Perhaps, but it wasn't Thanos' style... and this bothered her. She couldn't simply ignore something like this, though. She did not want to place her fellow Guardians in danger if this was indeed her fight...

"Why so distraught, beautiful?" a voice said out of nowhere.

Gamora started, then frowned at how she'd let the stranger sneak up on her like that. She darted a look at her team before giving the man the eye.

"Well, that depends on who's asking," she replied, lowering her long lashes in a perfectly demure display. If this was another bounty hunter, she was looking forward to kicking his too straight teeth in for him.

"Cruz Mornington, at your service," he smiled much too soppily, "I happen to be—"

Right on cue, a rude little voice interrupted from the Guardians' booth.

"Yo, G'mora, this clown botherin' you?" Rocket asked, swaggering on over like only he could on that pair of short raccoon legs. He hoisted himself up onto the bar stool between her and the stranger like it was totally his business who Gamora shared her drinks with. Of course, with Gamora having given the reject signal, it actually was Rocket's business.

Gamora stifled a laugh at the man's appalled expression.

"And you are...?" the man prompted, raising one eyebrow.

"Name's Rocket!" the raccoon slurred. "Want sumthin' blown up, I'm yer guy!"

"Rocket?" the man parroted.

"'s whad I said, ain't it?" Rocket replied bluntly.

"And you're a r—"

"Ah-ah-ah, don't use the 'r'-word!" the intoxicated raccoon admonished with an exaggerated waggle of his index finger. He lowered his voice and went on in a confiding tone: "...'cause then I'd hafta kill ya."

"Er... well... I've never seen anything like you before, sir," the man who had introduced himself as Cruz Mornington remarked, suddenly jovial, "let me buy you all a round of drinks!"

Rocket couldn't be happier at the offer, but Gamora was instantly suspicious. Something in the man's face and manner had changed and she didn't like it. She watched the man closely as he ordered drinks for everyone. He made no move to touch her drink, but she noticed the way he handled Rocket's glass. For a split second before passing it on, the man had it out of their line of sight. Just long enough to, say, spike the drink... Rocket reached for the glass eagerly, but Gamora placed her hand over the top of the glass.

"I think you've had quite enough, Rocket..." she warned with a strained smile.

"What are ya, my mom all of a sudd'n!?" the loud-mouthed raccoon complained.

"Oh, let the fellow drink!" the overbearing stranger enthused. "He looks like he can hold his liquor like a real man!"

She felt a stab of irritation as Rocket agreed quite vocally.

"You're such a generous man," Gamora said through gritted teeth, "I'll let you have the first sip."

"O-Oh," the man spluttered, "I simply couldn't...!"

Cruz Mornington, if that was even his name, was turning a little pale. He wet his lips nervously as his eyes darted this way and that, hunting for an excuse. Despite his alcohol-induced haze, Rocket was finally beginning to see the big picture. He turned a murderous frown on the stranger sitting next to him.

"Yeah, tough guy," Rocket growled, pushing the glass forward menacingly, "go on, drink it!"

An ugly expression crossed the man's face before he swiped the drink off the table. The glass shattered on the floor and the contaminated drink splattered everywhere. The man jumped off the bar stool and fled the scene. From the corner of her eye, Gamora could see Drax and Groot following. Peter came up to stand next to Gamora and Rocket, eyeing the pair with concern.

"Uh... What just happened...?" Peter asked carefully.

"That lowlife was trying to drug Rocket," Gamora replied. She turned to the stunned raccoon and whispered: "I guess they were after you all along."

"Krutacking son of a— Now I'm sober!" Rocket groaned, vigorously rubbing his face.

It didn't take Groot and Drax long to return from their excursion. They'd caught the man, threatened to "put their fingers to his throat" as Drax so eloquently described, and the man had sworn by his rather extensive ancestry that he did not know the name of his employer, only that he had to "get the raccoon called Rocket" and would be contacted about delivery and payment.

"Sneaky bastards," Peter grunted. "Rocket, buddy, we're gonna have to be more careful. At least until we find out who put up that bounty on you."

"Oh, please don't go into babysitter mode on me now, Pete!" Rocket practically wailed, pulling at the fur of his cheeks in frustration. "We've got a big job comin' up! Yer not cutting me out! Ain't no way I'm sitting on the ship twiddling my frickin' thumbs while you guys have all the fun!"

"Okay, okay," Peter said after being subjected to a full minute of fierce raccoon frown therapy, "but we'll work in teams – nobody goes it alone!"

"Tch, fine by me!" Rocket huffed, arms crossed dramatically.

The celebrations were cut short that night, much to Rocket's disappointment, but even he had to admit that they shouldn't be taking any chances. At least not until they were back in orbit.

That night, Gamora had trouble sleeping. Whenever she closed her eyes, she found herself reliving Rocket's abduction at the hands of Septimus Brandt. She tasted again that helpless feeling of not knowing where to search or whether her small, furry friend was even alive. Her mind kept replaying that moment when they finally found him, the sight of the bruised and beat up little raccoon stumbling towards them with such unguarded relief in his eyes making her heart twist painfully again and again. It had taken everyone a while to get over what had happened. After hours of tossing and turning, she decided to head to the cockpit and look at the stars. There was an odd sort of comfort in realizing just how small you were in the vast reaches of space.

When she made it to the top of the ladder, she found that someone else had had similar ideas. Rocket was sitting with his knees drawn up under his chin and his tail wrapped around his legs, staring out into space. She cleared her throat before approaching, but he still jumped a little at the sound.

"Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

Her question was met with silence. She was about to give up on getting any sort of reaction from her little raccoon friend when he let out a heavy sigh and turned to face her. His eyes were glistening just a bit, his whiskers quivering almost imperceptably. He looked so vulnerable and, somehow, smaller than ever.

"Dammit, G'mora, I thought I was done with this," he murmured.

"You know you can talk to me, Rocket," she said softly.

Months after recovering from the kidnapping, Rocket had spent many a long night sitting here in the cockpit with Gamora, just like this. Sometimes they sat in silence, sometimes talking, sometimes weeping. She had been taken aback by how quickly the stubborn, prideful little rascal had opened up to her during that time. Thinking back, she marvelled at how she could have thought she knew him before those nights, when, back then, she'd only known his facade. Even more surprising was how easy it became for Gamora to open up to him – a fellow lost soul that the rough side of life had seen fit to trample over.

She realized with a start that it would have been easier for her to deal with if it really had been her they were after instead of Rocket.

"Thanks, G'mora..." Rocket breathed.

They didn't talk much at all that night. Instead, by morning, or what passed for morning in space, Peter found Rocket and Gamora sitting slumped together, shoulder to shoulder, snoring peacefully.

Sitting in the darkened room, the girl's mouth tightened angrily. Daddy had returned empty-handed again. She ran her thumb over the enlarged photograph of the cute little talking raccoon absently. It was a better habit than biting her nails.

She knew Daddy loved her very much, but he was making excuses. She could tell by the way he pulled at his hair. She could tell by the way his voice wavered. That first day, after failing to get her the cute little talking raccoon, Daddy brought her a cat.

But she hadn't wanted the cat. Poor cat.

She reached for the headset. She would have to take matters into her own hands.

Before Daddy brought her another cat.

"Flark it, they've already started nesting up here, too," Rocket remarked, "Better blow it up, fast."

"Sure thing," Quill agreed as they neared the lump of oversized honeycomb, "You're the demolitions expert. You do your thing and I'll keep watch."

And with that, Quill parked himself on a nearby boulder and played watchdog.

"They're actually paying us to blow stuff up! Gotta love this job!" Rocket laughed, rubbing his hands together. "Whoa, that is some ugly glark right there..." He tentatively stepped up to the huge wax structure. The nest was riddled with hexagonal shapes the size of a man. Well, that made sense, considering the ugly buggers that lived there were about as tall as one. The raccoon poked a fingertip to the red honey contained in the comb in front of him. It felt warm to the touch. It wobbled like jelly. He snatched back his hand and made a face. "Gross... Can't believe people eat this on their toast!"

He pulled the charges from his pack and set to work, placing them all around the nest, as close to the combs as he could make himself go. The theory was that, if the nest was removed, the giant space-faring insects would stop considering the planet a safe haven and migrate to a new, hopefully uninhabited, world. Rocket was still in favour of just blowing the whole swarm up in a glorious blaze - infestation dealt with! But according to contract, they weren't technically allowed to kill the giant bees. Endangered species, or some such garbage.

"Quill, I'm gonna start arming 'em," he announced, dusting off his hands on his trademark orange jumpsuit, "so if ya don't wanna be covered in— Quill...?"

Rocket felt his ears fly back and his stomach drop as he turned around and was greeted with the most hideous sight. Towering over the small raccoon was a bee-like bug the size of a horse. Its multi-faceted eyes held no expression that Rocket could read, but its feelers quivered in agitation. Did it know he was planning on blowing its nest to smithereens? Could it even see him, or was it here to store honey and he was simply in the way? The worst of it was not the size difference between the raccoon and the giant insect – Rocket had taken down much bigger monsters – the worst was that his pack, holding the remainder of the charges and also his weapons, lay just out of arm's reach.

"Hey, big fella, I'll er... get outta yer way..." Rocket tried his best to seem non-threatening as he casually sidestepped in the direction of his pack.

He gasped as the thing's arms lurched forwards and latched onto his wrists. Two more arms wrapped around Rocket's torso and wrenched him into the air. Alarmed, Rocket opened his mouth to shout for help when the bee monster's ribbon-like tongue shot out and twisted securely about his muzzle. Eyes wide and mouth sealed shut, Rocket hung there at the mercy of the monstrous bug. His legs were still free, so he kicked with all his might, but the insect's mighty arms would not budge, no matter how the raccoon's toenails scrabbled against them.

The monster started moving on its two remaining legs, walking Rocket backwards in the direction of the nest. A warm, wet feeling crept upwards from his tail, and, straining to look in that direction, he saw that his tail was already halfway submerged in the thick, red honey that filled one of the wax hexagons behind him. Breath coming hard and fast through his nose, Rocket realized that the thing meant to push him into the honeycomb, into that thick, gooey substance. Fighting with everything he had, the raccoon managed to clamp his claws around the outer edges of the hard wax hexagon. The insect strained forward, trying to break his hold, but the feisty raccoon was now clinging stubbornly with hands and feet for dear life.

Heart hammering, he tried to open his mouth to call out, to alert Quill, but his jaws were locked down tight by the broad, flat tongue twined around his muzzle.

He settled for making as much noise in his throat as possible. A desperate "Mmmrph!" was all he managed to get out. Hopefully Quill would hear that something was wrong and get this thing off him. If that frickin' humie wasn't blasting away his eardrums with those d'ast headphones of his, Rocket despaired.

Just then, he heard it over the sound of his own laboured breathing – a soft groan. His eyes darted past the insect monster and found the crumpled form of Peter Quill. The thing must have knocked him down. But he was stirring. Abruptly, the tongue untangled itself from its tight grip on the struggling raccoon's snout. Rocket wasted no time.

"Quill, help— urgh?!"

Everything around him was wet and warm and sticky as the monster let go of Rocket's one wrist and used its free arm to shove the raccoon's head back, into the honey. Rocket felt panic as the thick jelly crawled into his still-open mouth and down his throat, encasing him from within as well as without. His legs were still free, and his one arm still clung tenuously to the edge of the honeycomb. But his body was tiring. His struggles grew weaker. The warm wetness suffused his clothing and soaked his fur until he was aware of nothing else but the slow crawl of the thick jelly, in through his nose, down, down his throat.

Was this what drowning felt like? He was warm all over. Maybe... I should just... go to sleep... No, no, no, that was not a good idea! His mind knew this, but his body protested. His wide eyes could see nothing but a haze of red. So tired... His eyelids gradually closed of their own accord. He felt his grip on the wax edge slipping. No, keep fighting! He kicked frantically as more and more honey seeped into him. It was filling up his nostrils. There was nowhere left for it to go, but the thick jelly kept pressing in on his rapidly tiring body like it was trying to crush him and it felt uncomfortably warm. Sleep... just... for a little while... His fingers slid off the honeycomb edge and he was plunged deeper into the thick wall of jelly. Yes, sleep... sounds good... so good... The exhausted raccoon kicked feebly and was still.

And then sunlight cracked the solid red darkness wide open.

"Rocket!"

Voices. Someone was calling his name...

"Oh, man, R-Rocket, please wake up!"

"Be still, Peter, you're hurt!"

"But—But Rocket!"

Lying on his side, Rocket hunched in on himself and began coughing up large chunks of thick red honey.

"Thank goodness..."

"...am Groot..."

"...hope he will be all right..."

Rolling over onto his stomach was a monumental effort. Propped up on trembling forearms, Rocket expelled the rest of the sticky liquid from his lungs in what was probably one of the longest coughing fits of his life. His head swam. He tried to turn around and sit up, to look his rescuers in the eye, to yell at them for taking so long, to thank them for just getting him out... but he was so tired. He was aware of the world tilting sideways before everything went black.

Gamora narrowed her eyes as she watched the last of the alien bees pick up sections of their nest and fly off, first slowly, then faster and faster, accelerating until they could breach the planet's atmosphere. She had never seen anything like it. But something was off about this whole thing. Why would the giant insect sting Peter, who wasn't threatening its nest at all, but grab Rocket, unharmed, and try to stuff the raccoon into the honeycomb when he had been the one tampering with the nest? And where had that straggler come from? All the bees were supposed to be off gathering pollen. That was why they chose this time of day specifically! Where had this one come from? And all by itself?

"Why would that thing target Rocket in such a way?" she mused. The sticky, bedraggled raccoon was sleeping in Groot's arms, completely oblivious to the fact that he'd almost gone for a ride in a giant alien bug's honeycomb spaceship.

"Perhaps the creature mistook the small one for one of its offspring, fallen out of the nest," Drax offered.

"Wh-What!?" Peter gasped, sitting up and wincing as the movement pulled the bandages taut over the wound in his chest. They'd patched him up as best they could, but the medical team was en route to give him some proper care. Left untreated, those bee stings could be fatal. Already, the half-terran's complexion was unhealthily pale and Gamora did not miss the tracks of sweat creeping down his temples. "That's crazy! He's a raccoon, not an insect! There's, like, no family resemblance at all!"

"Drax might be right. Their young are covered in fur, after all," Gamora conceded. "And Rocket was standing very close to the nest when it found him..."

But something still bothered the green assassin. She went back to once more survey the area where she had come to Rocket's rescue just in time. The carcass of the bee she'd cut neatly in half was still lying right where she'd left it. The nest she'd carved open to free the unconscious little raccoon lay steaming in the sun. The honey, thick and paste-like, was hot to the touch. If she hadn't been so busy arguing with Peter over the comms about bounty hunters, he might have seen the insect coming and all of this could have been avoided. But Gamora was not the kind of woman who allowed herself to dwell on "what if"s and "could have"s. She knew all too well that the moment she lost herself to that kind of thinking would be the moment of her undoing.

She was, however, a cautious and suspicious woman by nature. She pulled out a small vial and scooped up a sample of the honey Rocket had been trapped in. She then screwed the lid back on and took out another vial. This one she filled with honey from one of the crushed honeycombs lower down, on the far side of the nest, one Drax and Groot had been in the process of destroying before answering her distress call. She pocketed both samples for later analysis.

Just in case, she told herself. A little caution never killed anyone.

By the time she rejoined the others, the medical team had arrived and were taking care of Peter's injury. Her silly human was theatrically exaggerating the foul taste of the anti-toxin syrup the medics were trying to give him.

Her eyes travelled to the far more serious examination that was happening in Groot's arms. Rocket's eyes were closed, his usually big mouth hanging open only ever so slightly, with just a hint of the pink tongue showing. His ears drooped and his wet fur was matted all over with the sticky, gel-like honey that covered his limp little body from head to tail. Something about the scene reminded her of a photograph of newborn kittens Peter had shown her once, back when he thought he could discover her "girl weakness", as he called it. Apparently Peter Quill believed that all women had a secret thing they were squeamish over, like frogs or snakes or horror movies. Gamora had humoured him in order to be sociable. She still couldn't make herself tell him that never in her life had she been able to afford being squeamish.

It worried her that the sleeping raccoon did not stir even as the doctor injected an anti-toxin shot into his bloodstream. Normally, he would fight an injection tooth and nail. When she asked them about it, their diagnosis was heat exhaustion. That made sense, Gamora thought, remembering how hot the honey inside the comb had been when she pulled Rocket out. Someone had already removed Rocket's clothes and given Groot an icepack to cool down the lethargic raccoon. The next step was getting Rocket out of the sun.

Deciding that she would give Peter time to rest, the green-skinned assassin turned away to fetch the Milano.

As she brought the ship closer, Gamora finally allowed herself a small shudder. It scared her how close she'd come to losing two of her family members. Had she been a few minutes slower... On instinct, she closed off that line of thought.

Peter was alive.

Rocket was going to be fine.

Her new family was still whole.