Well, he didn't have to. But he damn well felt like it.

If that didn't sum up most of Rocket's life up to this point, he didn't know what did. Steal Anulax batteries? Impulse. Build a bomb from Peter's broken blaster? Why the fuck not? Strip down his shock rifle to the bare bones, until it was nothing but hundreds of gears and wires on the table? Didn't have to.

Eh. Technically. He had to do something to distract himself, so he wouldn't claw his damn eyes out from… boredom.

Call it boredom.

Yeah.

Rocket picked up part of the barrel and held it to his eye, squinting at the room and its empty seats through it. "Lookin' good," he muttered. He gave it a quick buff on his fur and slotted it into place, twisting it back and forth. "C'mon, get in there, you little ingrate," he said, bashing it in with the end of a screwdriver. Not exactly the best idea, but it would work. Wasn't planning on selling it anytime soon; he didn't have to put more work into it than was absolutely necessary for him to kick ass.

He's good at fixing shit. That's just what he does. Even if he wrecks it himself -especially when he does - he does his damndest to fix it. Unless Quill starts on it before he can, then it's definitely off his hands. 'Cause he can't fix everything. Rocket snarled and whacked the stubborn piece with the screwdriver, and it clicked in.

Can't fix everything, huh. They could've. They had their chances. What if - what if, instead of handin' that Orb over to the Nova Corps, they swiped it? Pried that stone out, found a place to hide it. Used it, even. Would that've kept it outta Thanos's hands?

Rocket shook his head furiously, ears flopping. No use thinking on the past. Not when it was still too fresh.

"Dad?"

He gritted his teeth. Twisted his neck. Set to work.

The last few pieces lay stark against the light wood of the table. Rocket picked up the sight and rolled it between his fingers. It was cracked along one side. He huffed and clamped it onto the top of the gun. The cybernetics whirred along his spine, and he winced slightly. The ones down at the bottom were seizin' up a little. The ones that force him to stand. He felt like an old man - well, that's a lie, ain't it? He's no man. He's a made thing, not a man. But Rocket decided the sentiment still stood.

Two pieces left. Almost done. Just a few more. He was itching to break it down again, and build it up again, just to keep his hands moving, moving, moving -

"Pardon me."

The voice wasn't a total surprise. He'd heard the door opening, felt the softwhoosh of displaced air ruffling his fur. "Consider yourself pardoned," he drawled, not looking back. "Whaddya want?"

"I merely wish to escort you to your room," the voice said calmly. Female. Accent. The faint click of armor plates. Probably one of them bald chicks with the freaky spears.

Rocket turned around and saw he was right. "You one of them bald chicks with the freaky spears?" he asked, just to be sure.

She raised one eyebrow and said coolly, "I go by Okoye."

...Okay, then. That tone was familiar. Hopefully she wouldn't stab him with her freaky spear. Friendly fire and all that. Technically he was an ally of theirs, now. Rocket merely hummed and turned back to his gun, slotting the last pieces of the rifle into their places.

"Everyone else has left to find their rooms."

"Believe it or not, I noticed," Rocket shot back.

He heard her sigh. "Unless you have a better place to be," Okoye said, "you should get some rest."

"Do I look like I need rest?"

A pause. "They call dark circles 'raccoon-eyes' for a reason," the woman said dryly.

Oh, for crying out loud. Rocket finished reassembling the shock rifle and holstered it on his back, slipping out of the chair. He gave the woman an unimpressed look. She gave him one right back. He could appreciate that. No gawking, no frowning, no holy balls, that's a fucking talking raccoon, goddamn. Just a bit of weariness, exhaustion, and overall done-ness.

Now he knew who she reminded him of. Give her green skin and long curly hair, and you'd have a dead ringer for Gamora. Goddamn, the galaxy was full of scary women.

"So," he said, shifting the gun on his back. "Lead the way." Okoye gave him a faint smile and tilted her head towards the open doors.

They took a left and immediately strolled across a bridge, hanging high over an eerily silent atrium. Their footsteps echoed. Okoye kept a pace that Rocket's much shorter legs could easily match. Didn't seem to be doing it on purpose, though. Maybe she was just tired. Rocket gave the atrium an appraising look and said offhandedly, "Guess Wakanda's pretty snazzy, for a Terran dump."

Okoye's steps faltered briefly, though she walked on. "Indeed."

Okay, cold voice, red alert, time to backtrack. "Not too shabby, though," he allowed. "Holograms, them snazzy shields, nanobot suits. Just a bit behind some of the galaxy."

"Hm."

"Some, not all. Rest of 'em? Their personal motto: if it ain't broke, break it, then sell it at double the price. Galaxy's a fucking junk heap. Eons of dirt and rust over everything."

"I'll have to take your word for it."

"Yeah," Rocket said, as they walked off the bridge and into a hallway lined with doors. A few were open, soft voices filtering through them. "But, uh… where's Kevin Bacon?"

"Uh, what?"

He looked up at her. Both of Okoye's eyebrows were raised. "Kevin Bacon," he said flatly. "Supreme Overlord. Please tell me Quill was lying about that."

Okoye's mouth twitched. "Absolutely," she said.

"Oh, thank fuck."

She chuckled and opened a door. Inside was a person-sized room, with all sorts of person-sized things. Fucking wonderful. Though he could tell a snazzy room when he saw one. "Wakanda is not like the rest of the world," Okoye said. "In fact, the world outside is rather behind. We have only just joined the outside world, after being closed for decades."

Rocket lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Tough luck, huh," he said, walking into the room. "Moment you open borders, you get fuckin' trashed. Ya got giant lizards?"

Okoye blinked. "Pardon?"

"Giant lizards. Heard from a Kronan that Terra was overrun with giant lizards once. Got any of those?"

"Not anymore." Okoye leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and added, "Not unless you count Jurassic Park."

"My ass is what?"

The woman shook her head. If he didn't know better, Rocket would think she was annoyed, but if she was anything like Gamora she was just amused. "While you're here," Rocket said, hopping onto the bed and crossing his legs, "I got a few questions."

"Sure, fire away."

"What's a raccoon?"

She gave him a look. "You are one," she said slowly.

"Nah, I'm not," Rocket said. "I'm me. Ain't no thing like me, except me. Though apparently I look a hell of a lot like a d'ast raccoon. Just want to know what it is I'm supposed to look like."

Okoye's look deepened. Rocket didn't know what he saw on her face. It sure wasn't pity, which he was damn grateful for, but it wasn't compassion either. Understanding? Hell, no way that people here would be able to understand. Terrans didn't have anything like Halfworld here. Didn't treat their humies like experiments.

Didn't they?

A metal arm. Cold, unforgiving eyes, behind wild long hair. That ain't normal, not for humies. For Nebula, maybe, but not for a Terran.

Maybe they did know.

Okoye suddenly moved towards him, and Rocket jerked. "It's alright," she said, holding up her hands. Her freaky spear leaned in the corner. She picked up a slim tablet and handed it to him. "I assume you're familiar with the concept of databases," she said, raising an eyebrow.

Seen 'em. Hacked 'em. Been there, done that. "Yeah, sure," Rocket said out loud. He tapped the screen and blinked as a word appeared, each letter a different color. "The fuck's a google?"

"A search engine for the Internet: a massive international database, interactive and completely user-friendly."

"How massive you talking?"

Okoye gently seized the tablet and tapped a bar beneath the word Google. She typed a few words, skimmed a page, and hummed thoughtfully. "Apparently, the internet has 4.5 billion pages," she said. Holy hell, Rocket thought. Not the biggest digital library he'd heard of, but still… Sheesh. Okoye passed the tablet back to him. "Just type in whatever you want to search, and it'll give you results to look over."

"Cool, cool," Rocket murmured, shuffling backwards to lean against the pillows. Damn. All the world's information at his fingertips. Wonder how long it would take him to hack it. As he perused the tablet, trying to figure out how to tap it without scratching the screen with his claws, Okoye quietly slipped out and closed the door.

Using the tablet wasn't as much of a shitshow as he thought it would be. Rocket already had a feel for the language - it was all in standard Terran English, though it was a little wordier than what he was used to. Quill taught him the basics of it once in a Guna prison, when… well, that's a longer story than he had time to remember. Still. When they got back on the ship, he was curious enough that he got Quill to teach him some more.

Quill had only been speakin' English for eight or nine years, though, so he couldn't teach him much. But it could work. Rocket wasn't an expert, but he could get by. Burrowing into the pillows, his gun tucked in next to him, he carefully typed in, what is -

A few suggested searches popped up. Rocket's whiskers twitched as he read them. "Hmph," he muttered, typing the rest of his search. Some of those looked interesting. He'd look at frappuccino next. And maybe he'd look up David Bowie.

Once he was done figuring out what the fuck a raccoon was.


After leaving the conference room, Bruce hastily retreated to the room where he'd dumped his stuff, when they first landed in Wakanda. There wasn't much in there - spare clothes, reading glasses, a beat-up Nalgene he'd swiped from Strange's sanctum. All dumped haphazardly on the bed. He slunk into the room - almost expecting to be kicked out, the last time he'd been in a Terran room this fancy was Stark Tower - and gave the bed a woeful look. God, he wanted nothing more than to fall into it and sleep for a decade. Maybe cry.

Definitely cry. After a day like today, he'd earned it.

Thor approached the door across from Bruce's and knocked. Bruce watched him, amused. The god of thunder listened sheepishly at the door. "Anyone in there?" Bruce heard him whisper. "No? Alright." Thor flung the door open - it bounced off the wall - and strode into his room, gently placing Stormbreaker on the bed like it was a child.

He then faceplanted onto the bed next to Stormbreaker. Bruce struggled not to smile. He picked up the tablet on the bedside table and crossed the hall to Thor's room. "You okay?" he said softly.

Thor grunted into the pillows. Bruce took that as a yes and perched on the end of Thor's bed. He took a deep breath, so deep he felt that strain in his abs twinge, and sighed. "I'm going to look up the Civil War. Wanna look?"

The mattress lurched as Thor reluctantly sat up - then creaked. He'd lain down again. "Yeah, alright. Just - tell me what you find."

"I see how it is."

"Hmm. Sorry."

"It was a joke," Bruce said. His fingers flew over the tablet. He understood if Thor didn't want to participate in his research. (If trawling Wikipedia could be called research.) It had been a hell of a day. He clicked the first Wikipedia link he could find. And he read.

And read.

And read.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he breathed, after what felt like an eternity. "Thor. Thor," he said urgently, shaking Thor's ankle.

"Mbrsgh - what?" the god said thickly, sitting up. He scooted to the edge of the bed and looked over Bruce's shoulder. "What did you find?"

Bruce pointed at the screen and explained. "Okay. So, after Sokovia -" Which still felt like yesterday to him, but apparently it had only been two years. He forced himself to keep going. "After Sokovia, the United Nations decided that we fucked up so much, superpowered beings needed to be kept in check. So they came up with a… oh, Jesus, a registration act to keep tabs on all the superheroes in the world," he said feverishly, squinting at the screen.

That - that freaked him the fuck out. The last thing he wanted was to be under the government's thumb. Like before. Even now, just thinking about it, his heart throbbed in his ears and he could sense tremors in his hands. He could never go back. Never. Not while Ross was still alive -

Ross. Bruce's eyes widened.

There was his name, right there, next to the link to the Sokovia Accords embedded in the first paragraph: The Sokovia Accords, drafted and backed by General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross...

He was glad the Hulk was sulking, because normally the Big Guy would be destroying this swanky room in the blink of an eye...

"A registration act?" Thor said softly.

Thor could fucking read it himself, if he kept repeating what Bruce had said, Bruce thought angrily. But when Thor gently nudged him with his elbow, Bruce realized that his friend had noticed his tension. He was distracting him. Okay, that was good. "Yeah," he huffed, returning to the tablet. "A sign or retire kind of deal. Either agree to the U.N.'s rules or be forced into retirement. Don't sign, you're considered a fugitive of the law."

His brow furrowed. "Does that make us fugitives?" he asked Thor.

The god shrugged. "Maybe." He grinned suddenly. "Fugitives, huh?" he said cheerfully. "That'd be cool. Having adventures, running from the law…"

Bruce scoffed. "We aren't Bonnie and Clyde, Thor," he said, though he felt the corners of his mouth twitching. "It's serious."

"I know. Sorry."

Though… Bruce scratched his chin and frowned at the tablet. They probably weren't fugitives - obviously, what was left of the Avengers was allowed to regroup, to go fight in Wakanda. Unless they all just went against the rules? What fucking good would the bullshit laws be when an alien was attacking?

He kept reading.

"Okay. So the Accords. Not a hot item," he mused. "Two main sides to this dumpster fire. Tony seemed to be going with the Accords out of… guilt, it looks like." Bruce winced. From what the footnotes said, Tony had gone and blamed the whole Sokovia mess on himself. It kept Bruce himself out of the line of fire, which he was grateful for, but… He saw the embedded pictures of Tony at press conferences, and he looked like absolute shit from stress. If only he hadn't done a runner and left Tony there to deal with this himself...

He cleared his throat. "And, uh… Steve went against them. For some reason." Thor shifted a bit; Bruce looked over and saw him frowning deeply. "It gets a bit murky. Apparently he was going to sign them, but then - shit, someone impersonating his friend Barnes killed T'Challa's dad, and the Avengers were called in to bring him in? And he went… rogue?"

Bruce shook his head and kept scrolling. There were a few paragraphs devoted to a fight in a Berlin airport. "Jesus Christ..." He ran a hand through his too-short hair and sputtered, "This wasn't a Civil War, this was a fucking fistfight in a 7-11 parking lot! Over - over…"

The words were lined up in his mind, but he was so damn exasperated with his old teammates that he couldn't speak them. Miscommunication, he thought. Mistrust and shitty bureaucracy. Because, judging from the speculation in the BBC documentary Nat was talking about (quoted at length in the Wikipedia article), that's what it boiled down to. Steve didn't share his experiences with HYDRA because he didn't trust Tony. And Tony didn't talk to Steve about his past and fears because he didn't trust Steve. Then it all fucked up and nobody could salvage it.

But there were holes.

Something else had happened - a big gray space in time, between what Wikipedia said was a strike against HYDRA's backup Winter Soldiers and Tony's return to New York. Something that sent the Avengers into a true death spiral; something that made Tony grit his teeth at the mere mention of Steve's name; something that made Steve…

Afraid.

That's what he'd been, sitting across from Thor. Afraid.

What had he done?

"I think the Accords were a good idea."

Bruce froze. He slowly turned to face Thor. "You what," he said flatly.

Thor looked back, completely serious. "They were a good idea, in theory," he said. "Look - Sokovia was a disaster. Something like that can't happen again -"

Even though it kind of just did, in Wakanda. "Yeah, yeah it was," Bruce interrupted. Somehow he couldn't stop frowning. "It killed hundreds of people, and - and apparently the crackpot who actually killed the old King of Wakanda lost someone to that. I get it, it's bad."

"I wouldn't necessarily be subject to those laws," Thor allowed, gesturing at himself. "Alien, and all that. But I'd sign on for their peace of mind. It's diplomacy, Bruce."

He glanced away for a brief moment; his one good eye seemed contemplative, even a little sad. "Maybe once," he said softly, "when I was less mature, quicker to anger… I would have sided with Steve. But I know the danger power poses to those who cannot safely wield it. I would see it contained, however possible."

His eyes landed on Bruce's. Bruce continued to stare, shaking his head. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. If Thor had been on Earth, he would have sided with the Accords. With Ross.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I know the 'danger power poses' - I am that danger," he hissed, jabbing himself in the chest with his finger. Thor frowned; it looked like was going to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but Bruce was just too tense to let him. "They tried to keep me down, but it just made the Hulk stronger -"

He sighed and turned away from Thor. "Look, I don't expect you to understand," he said, staring awkwardly at the floor. "Control is necessary. But this was never the way to go about it. There's a difference between what's right and what the government wants. Always is."

Thor was silent. "You're right, I don't understand," he said softly. And Bruce realized that he really didn't. Thor had never been on Earth long enough to learn about Bruce's past; he'd been gallivanting around the galaxy, or in Asgard, unless he was needed for a mission. He had never gotten to actually talk to Bruce about how the Hulk came to be - like Tony had, one memorable night after the Mandarin incident, when they swapped sob stories like trading cards and dozed off on Tony's penthouse couch.

Thor had never been close enough to know the truth. Of course he wouldn't be saying these things to him, if he knew Bruce's history with Ross. If he knew Bruce's past at all.

"Bruce."

He looked at Thor, resisting the urge to sulk. "Yeah."

Thor took a deep breath, hesitated. "I - I know you probably have your reasons for not liking the Accords," he said carefully, "but - I still think they're a good idea. I've dealt with Malekith, and Hela - hell, even Ultron - and to me, If something with powers can be controlled… then it should be, by any means necessary, to save lives."

Any means necessary.

He saw white lab coats, bright lights, blood -

"Keep the monster secure. For the next round, try 170 cc's -"

Bruce gritted his teeth and stood up. The tablet clattered to the ground; Thor made a half-hearted grab for it, but it slipped through his fingers. His mind blazed with paranoia-fueled nightmares, scenes from the lab at Culver interspersed with them. Any means necessary? Any? "Well, looks like dear old dad had that same philosophy, but fell a little short," he snapped. "I bet all your dead people probably wished that he'd kept a tighter lid on your sister."

Silence fell. And Thor just stared.

Oh, fuck. Some distant part of Bruce's brain warned him that he'd gone too far, that he'd hit way below the belt, that he'd really stepped in it now.

Before him, Thor gritted his teeth. "Yeah," he snarled. "Yeah, they probably did. Just like I wished that my sister didn't destroy my world, kill my father in front of me, and slaughter my childhood friends. And that Thanos didn't kill my brother and what was left of my people - and that Dark Elves didn't kill my mother - but -"

He broke off in a harsh, grating laugh that held no warmth. "What do you know about that?" Thor choked out. "Tell me, what do you know of loss?"

They weren't even talking about the Accords anymore. It didn't have to be a debate. But something in Bruce's chest, so often crushed down by the Hulk, blazed to life - a deeper, darker rage, a trigger -

And it stopped.

All the anger rushed out of him, leaving a void. Emptiness. Bruce nearly keeled over, the feeling was so unfamiliar. Normally that anger would have triggered the Hulk, would have filled him, fueled him. But this time, nothing.

And standing before Thor, a sea of tranquility opposing his towering grief and rage, Bruce spoke before he realized he did.

"Loss, huh," he whispered.

One last crackle of lightning, along Thor's eyebrow, before it all faded away. Something in Bruce's face must have given Thor pause. There was something in his eyes - well, his eye - that Bruce couldn't recognize. He couldn't recognize anything - just the words within him, spilling out, without any control over them.

He spoke slowly, softly. "What do I know of loss. Well," he said, clearing his throat. "I know loss. But of course, you have to know it better than I do. So tell me - tell me about the time your father was so drunk that he could barely see."

Bruce, shut up, shut up, stop TALKING -

"Just tell me," he continued, "about when your mother was so, so afraid for her life and tried to leave with you, but - but she wasn't fast enough -"

Before him, the color slowly bled from Thor's face.

" -and her hands were shaking too much to unlock the car -"

Thor breathed, "Bruce -"

"Tell me," he said over him, "about when your father grabbed her head and smashed it into the pavement, over and over, until there was blood running into the gutter and - and you had to watch, because you're too weak to protect her -"

"Bruce!"

Thor's voice hit Bruce like a punch to the chest, and he staggered back. A fog lifted from him, and he looked at Thor - really looked at him. "Oh, god," he whispered.

Thor looked like he was about to cry.

Only then did he realize what he'd done. "Jesus Christ, I wasn't - I didn't mean to say any of that," Bruce babbled, staring at Thor. "We were - We're both tired, we just watched half the universe die, and here I am being a tragic idiot instead of getting rest or something - we aren't even talking about the Accords anymore -"

There was an apology coming. It was in there somewhere, and Bruce desperately wanted to pull it out and give it to Thor, because he'd never seen him look like that, and knowing that it was his fault just…

Thor sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

That seemed to break the spell. "I'm sorry," Bruce breathed, and practically ran back to his room. He didn't look back once.


Behind a statue outside Thor's room, Steve, Natasha and Rhodey sat in stunned silence. "Jesus," Rhodey breathed.

"Yeah," Steve said. He was dizzy with lack of sleep and exertion, but what he'd heard still sent his mind spinning. "That was…"

"Not what we expected." Natasha slunk out from behind the statue, making sure to stay away from Thor's open door. They had been listening in to make sure the two were alright; Rhodey had predicted - correctly - that they might have different philosophies about the Accords, and they were prepared to intervene or call the Dora Milaje in case fists started flying.

But they'd never expected to hear Bruce's story.

"Never speak of this again," Natasha said to the two men. Her eyes promised murder if that ever came to pass. Steve would sooner kill himself than spill what he'd heard Bruce say. "We heard nothing."

Rhodey nodded sharply. "Agreed."

"This never happened."

"Definitely -"

Gunshots rang in the hallway. Without a moment's hesitation, the three of them ran towards the room they'd heard the noise coming from. Steve shouldered the door open, and they all piled in -


Fifteen minutes ago:

A couple of hours, two broken nails, an exploded blender, a rebuilt blender, and an accidental fire later, Rocket sat on the bed with his tablet and sipped cautiously from a homemade caramel frappuccino. His suite had a fuckin' fully-stocked kitchen, for crying out loud. He was bored. He liked caf - or coffee, as they called it here. Wakanda didn't have a Starbucks. One thing led to another.

It wasn't easy; Rocket had to make the caramel and whipped-cream himself with separate recipes, but hell, it was just followin' instructions. Like teaching himself to make a bomb. Rocket prodded the whipped cream with a straw and slurped it up. Not bad.

Though he was pretty sure, from the pictures, that caramel wasn't supposed to be crunchy. But he liked it anyway. Sugar and caffeine went a long way to soothe the sting of finding out exactly what a raccoon was. Fuckin' weirdos. Each one looked like they weighed twice as much as he did. They were pests. Vermin. Trash pandas, people called 'em. Those things were a damn sorry sight compared to him, but still. What right did he have to laugh at raccoons? He was a made thing, not blood-and-bone special humie right from the box. Just one step between him and them.

He stabbed the drink with his straw and kept scrolling.

He'd started his journey looking up all the things Quill was batshit crazy about - music, celebrities, more music. Then he went deeper. He now considered himself a veritable expert on Footloose, Earth tech, Stark tech, Jurassic Park, the reboots with the Quill lookalike, porn, Disney, Batman, and every single war in the past hundred years. (Pshh. Amateurs. Early-days Asgardians were a hell of a lot worse.)

And he finally found out who blew up the frickin' Chitauri, all those years back, thanks to YouTube. One of them Avengers people Thor was talkin' about. Flew a fucking nuke into a portal. Almost got stuck on the other side. Big deal, blow up one army through a space portal and suddenly everybody thinks you're special.

Rocket idly tapped the side of the tablet and sipped the last of his drink. His throat was startin' to hurt, either from the sugar or the cold. The tablet was pretty snazzy, that's for sure, but he could probably hack it. Maybe get a signal back to the Benatar on this thing. It might take some specialized filtering and amplification to get a signal to wherever the fuck they were, but he could strip all the shit in the kitchen for parts. Tell 'em to come back to Terra. Maybe tell 'em about the d'ast ring they found.

The last of the drink disappeared. Rocket glared at the cup as if he could will more of it into being. After a few seconds, he heaved a sigh and shuffled out of bed. There was probably enough in the blender for another drink. Too bad they didn't have alcohol in here; now that would make this a party.

Once he was safely ensconced in the blankets again, he started some more research. His fingers tapped out lord of the rings. He'd get a feel for it - maybe wave it around in their faces that he, Ye Lowly Raccoon, knew so much about the Terran legend. He cackled around the straw in his mouth. "That'd show 'em," he muttered, clicking on the first link he found.

Judging from the summaries he found on Wikipedia, the story was a hell of a lot like the Shi'ar legend of the Crown of Ages. Made sense, if Thor's story 'bout his dad was true: everybody had their own version of the tale. Though the Crown of Ages was probably bullshit, since he's pretty sure they'd stolen the Crown from the Bank of Shi'ar once to sell to Contraxia, then stolen it and sold it to the Badoon, who they'd stolen it from again and sold back to the Shi'ar. Good times.

Distracted by the memory, his hand slipped, and he accidentally hit a link. Another page popped up.

He dropped his drink.

Groot.

No. Ents, they were called. Ents. His lip trembled, and he grabbed the tablet with both hands, staring. Oh, god. They looked just like him. 'Cept he'd never seen a Flora Colossus with a beard like that. Maybe the old ones had 'em, but he'd never know.

He'd never -

Something deep within him snapped. He bared his teeth. Rocket stood up, the remains of his drink puddling on the blanket, and launched the tablet into a corner. It bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor, its screen somehow undamaged.

That wasn't enough.

Rocket picked up his gun and held down the trigger. Bullets flew.

There were thundering footsteps in the hallway, and the door swung open, bouncing off the wall. He didn't care who heard him, didn't care what would happen -


Steve, Natasha and Rhodey froze in the doorway.

The raccoon was standing on the edge of his bed, his back to them, firing bullet after bullet into a smoking tablet in the corner. The broken circuitry sparked. Steve moved forward to stop him, but Natasha seized his shoulder with an iron grip.

Rocket's shoulders were shaking.

At some point, the tablet began to smoke. The raccoon's whole body slumped; the massive gun slipped from his fingers and fell to the mattress. He turned to face them. Tears were streaming down his muzzle, but his eyes burned with barely-restrained anger. "What," he snarled, his voice cracking. "Whaddya want? Can't you humies just leave me in peace? "

Steve's eyes flickered to the tablet in the corner.

"Just leave me alone," Rocket whimpered. His tiny hands clenched into fists, and his eyes promised murder.

The tablet had nearly been blown to pieces, but there was still an image on the screen. An Ent, it looked like.

I am GROOT!

I am… Steve Rogers.

Oh. Now he understood. Something in his chest shriveled.

"We will," Natasha said firmly, seizing Steve's elbow. Steve reluctantly backed away, his eyes flickering between the tablet and Rocket's tear-soaked face. He wanted nothing more than to do something to help - but if the fury and embarrassment in Rocket's eyes was any indicator, he'd probably get his eyes clawed out if he tried. He softly closed the door. The faint smell of burning circuitry filled the hall.

After a brief, awkward silence, Rhodey turned to go back to his room. "I don't know about you guys," he said heavily, "but I've had enough of today. I'm calling it."

Steve nodded, something heavy clogging his throat. "Okay," he finally said. "...Okay."

As if it would ever be.