That night, Rocket didn't have a single nightmare. Not the one where he's strung up and dissected... not the one where he finds himself suspended in a fluid-filled tank, with tubes stuffed down his throat... not even the one where Groot tries to say good-bye, and Rocket is too hurt and angry to even look at him. Not one, not that night, for the first time in as long as he could remember. He had been passed out drunk, but the nightmares had always found him, even through that haze. So it had to be Drax. It was something about sleeping beside a person- a grumbling, snoring, elbowing, warmth radiating person- that sat well with Rocket. Even when he'd slept curled up in Groot's arms, the nightmares had still wrung him into waking every night. But at least he'd had something safe to wake up to, then.

But on this particular night, Rocket slept through soundly. Of course he had freaked out in the morning, and rushed out of there before Drax could wake up. Neither of them mentioned it again. He wasn't sure if his friend even remembered. That had been two weeks ago, and the nightmares were back, and even worse. Now he was dreaming about that other shit too, the shit he couldn't even consider when he was conscious, and waking up with a rock-hard erection and his heart pounding.

"Dast," he moaned, gripping his forehead in his hands. "My head is killing me." It wasn't even that bad. 'My head hurts' was just his chorus, something that slipped out automatically in the mornings. He had been hungover so often that it was usually true.

"You've been imbibing too much alcohol," Drax informed him, as he sharpened his blades at the kitchen table, same as every day.

"Mind your own business," Rocket grumbled. "Hey. Do you want breakfast? I'm gonna cook breakfast."

Drax looked skeptical. "You have never cooked before."

Rocket shrugged. "I usually scavenge. Don't blame me, it's my genetic make-up. But I've cooked before. It's just been a long time."

"Women's work," Drax snorted, as he turned his attention back to his weapon, lovingly dragging the steel along it's bladed edge.

"So you don't want pancakes, then?" Rocket asked, feeling miffed.

Drax looked up quickly. "I do want pancakes." He said it with sincerity and such an expression of alarm that it made Rocket feel weird, kind of like laughing, kind of like something else. It was cute, he realized. Yep, that was it. The guy looked like a big dopey dog who had just been threatened with no more treats for a month, and Rocket found it adorable.

"Whatever," he said, blushing under his fur. "I guess I'll make you some, even though you're an ass. I get it, you're not from here, you don't know the lingo. We're all from somewhere else! But a guy offers to cook for you, you don't act like a dick about it. Yeesh! Learn what's socially appropriate!"

As he ranted, he dug around the cupboards for the instant pancake mix. The box had accumulated a layer of dust over the top. Rocket blew it off and ripped open the cardboard tabs, then used his teeth to puncture the inner plastic bag. He glared at Drax, expecting judgment from him, but he seemed unfazed by Rocket's less-than-sanitary cooking methods. Then he reluctantly retrieved the folded step-stool from the small pantry, laboriously hauled it out and locked it into position, then scrambled up to reach the stove. He forgot the box on the ground and had to go back to get it. By the time he dumped the entire box into a white plastic mixing bowl, he was exhausted.

"Holy shit. We're going to have a lot of pancakes," Rocket said, as he read the instructions on the back of the box.

"I will eat a lot of pancakes," Drax replied, sounding pleased. "If I must."

"Alright, well, good." He wound up having to get out all the rest of the mixing bowls too, three in all, and divide the water and mix between them. After the strenuous process of mixing the contents of the first bowl, Rocket demanded that Drax bring his lazy ass over here and help with the work.

Drax tucked the bowl into his arm, clenched the large stirring spoon tightly, glared down at it with all the intensity of a stone idol, and proceeded to fling water and powder mix all over the kitchen. Clumps of half-combined batter rained down on Rocket and he shouted, "Stop, you idiot, cut it out! Not so fast!"

He jerked the bowl away from Drax, who seemed surprised that he hadn't been doing a stellar job. Rocket showed him how to fold the water into the powder, keeping the spoon to the side of the bowl. "Got it?"

"Yes." Drax took back the bowl, and started to mix too fast again. Then he seemed to get the rhythm down. Rocket started on the third and final batch. "Did Groot help you with cooking before he left?" the larger man asked.

Pain crackled in Rocket's heart. Thinking about Groot always had that effect. "Nah. He used to, but he caught on fire once, and he wussed out after that." Actually, Groot had tried to assist him the very next time he cooked, but Rocket had vehemently dissuaded him.

"I can see why you do not cook often," Drax added as Rocket clambered up onto the counter to reach a high shelf, where he kept the skillets. He dragged the largest one down, but lost control, and nearly bonked himself on the head. He dropped it and jumped aside, and Drax caught the handle before it hit the floor.

"It's not that bad. Just takes longer." As if Rocket had anything to compare it too. Cooking didn't just take longer, it took downright forever, but he still liked it. It was one thing he could do besides murdering, thieving, and building explosives. Those were fine skills, not to be underestimated, but you could rarely use them to thank a lady for a night of passion before running out on her, or repay a teammate for saving your ass when the shit hit the fan. Or to butter someone up when you're going to ask them for a wildly inappropriate favor, Rocket thought.

"Is this mixed enough?" Drax asked, and tilted the bowl downward for Rocket to peer into. Some of it slopped out and landed on his muzzle. "I am sorry. That was... 'my bad'." He reached out and wiped it off Rocket's nose, then sucked the batter off his fingers.

"Gross! That's got my fur in it, you know."

"I do not care."

"I have fleas, too. Big ones. You probably just ate a giant, mutated flea." Rocket poured some of the batter into the hot skillet. On contact, it sizzled and popped, and smelled heavenly. Rocket poked it twice with the spoon, then dragged it across to make a smiling face. He had poured in way too much batter. When it set up, it would be nearly the size of Drax's head.

"You do not have fleas. Fleas spread readily from one being to another, and we live in close quarters, so I would already have contracted them if you did."

"Oh yeah? And where would they live, baldy?"

"I have hair," Drax said, mysteriously.

"Where? Don't answer that, I don't want to know." Rocket slid the first pancake out of the skillet and onto a plate. As soon as the plate touched the counter, Drax picked up the huge pancake, folded it like a taco, and crammed the whole thing into his mouth. "Yikes!" Rocket cried. He poured more batter into the skillet, smaller blobs this time, so the resulting pancakes would be more reasonable in size.

"I informed you that I would eat a lot of pancakes. Should I wait until we've finished making all of them?"

"Yeah! I want to eat too, you know."

Drax snorted. "Haha. As though I would eat all of the pancakes. Now that is a funny joke."

Rocket shook his head, bemused. He could never predict what his teammate was going to do, or say, or find amusing, which at least made things interesting. They made pancakes in silence for awhile, Rocket scraping batter into the pan, Drax holding out plates for him to slide them onto. The process took half an hour, and they filled three platters and two large dinner plates in all.

"Way too many. I forgot that you don't use the whole box."

"Too many?" Drax asked, between bites. He shoved one after another into his mouth, without butter or syrup or anything, and Rocket blinked.

"Dunno. Maybe it's not." He smothered his own plate in syrup and a big dollop of butter. The syrup wasn't real maple, not even the fake Terran variety that Peter Quill had gotten all of them hooked on, but it was still better than the tough, plain pancakes. Drax had over-mixed his batch. But with all the extra crap, they tasted okay, and Rocket finished nearly his whole plate before he got up the nerve to say what he wanted to.

"So... hey! You remember that one night? That time we both drank too much?" Rocket exclaimed, as though he just recalled the night in question himself.

"Yes. You fell asleep in my bed." Drax said, ever the subtle linguist.

"Oh yeah, that's right! I did do that. Ha, what a crazy night. Yeah." Rocket dragged his fingers self-consciously through the fur of his right temple. "So I was thinking. This isn't gay or nothing, but I slept really good that night. And..." He trailed off, hoping that Drax would catch his drift, but the man just stared at him, waiting for him to finish. Rocket gnawed his nails nervously. "I was thinking we should do it again. Nope, I'm joking. If you think it's weird. If you don't, then I'm serious. Dast it! Say something, you oaf!"

Drax chewed thoughtfully for what seemed like an eternity. "That is agreeable. But do we have to drink too much alcohol first? It is enjoyable to do so in the moment, but I find it not to be worth the experience in the morning."

"No, it's fine!" Rocket sighed with relief. "You can be stone cold sober, for all I care. If it's all the same to you, I'll keep up the bender, for awhile. For the adjustment." Drax looked at him blankly. "Cos' I'll be bunking with another guy! You know what I mean."

"Not really." Drax frowned. "To be truthful, my friend, I often don't understand things you say. I assume it is because you speak nonsense."

"It doesn't bother you that you're going to be sleeping next to a guy? I mean, what if you pop a boner? What if I pop a boner?" What the flark am I saying?! Somebody stop me, Rocket thought.

Draxx looked the way he often looked- Like he had no idea what Rocket was getting at. "In my culture, there is no stigma against two men sleeping together. Also, 'gay' is a construct that I am not familiar with. Any two people can be together, can they not?"

"Okay, this is NOT making me feel better about bunking with you."

Drax shook his head. "I have a preference for females, if that brings comfort to you. And I have not desired anyone since my wife. But if you change your mind about the arrangements, I will respect your wishes."

Rocket's mind flashed to the nightmares- specifically to the one in which a lab-coated person peers at him, only inches from his face, but distorted by a thick barrier of glass, and Rocket screams at the man, or screams in pain, because he is in so much pain, but the tubes and the sterile fluid all around him stifle the sound- and he practically yelled, "No! No. I want to keep the... arrangement."

"As you wish." Drax polished off the last pancake and belched.

Rocket rolled his eyes. He couldn't quite believe that he had agreed to sleep with his friend, who had just eaten three platters of pancakes, and who was exactly the sort of man he had those nightmares about- not the ones about scientists, but about convicts, which were so much more disturbing in many ways- and even worse, that he had been the one to suggest it.

He almost lost his nerve. But that night, Rocket stumbled drunk into the cot where Drax was already snoring, and fell directly into the most peaceful and dreamless sleep he could have hoped for.