Title: The Milano
Paring: Peter Quill (Star Lord) and Rocket
It was a day off where Peter Quill and the crew docked his ship on another planet when all but he and Rocket the sarcastic raccoon with homicidal tendencies were left aboard for less reasons than usual.
Leaving Rocket to his tinkering on the main deck, Quill lounged on his bed, listening to his newly acquired tape, Awesome Mix Volume Two. As the soothing earth music managed to get to him, he heard an explosion and a dark frown came across his face.
No explosions. Not on his ship.
"Hey!" he yelled out, jumping up. "Hey, fuzz ball, no kabooms! on my ship!"
Peter made it to the main deck and closed his eyes. The raccoon had been tinkering again and bits of machinery were over the floor like rubble after a tragic car accident. As he opened his eyes, he realised why Rocket hadn't made one of his retorts yet.
One of the guns he had been working on lay smoking beside the racoon's legs and his face was curled into a mix of anger and agony.
"Don't just stare!" Rocket growled. "Isn't there bandages or something in this piece of junk?"
Quill set his jaw, holding back the urge to snap back about insulting his ship. "Don't you think we'll need a vet?" he joked, rummaging around the compartments for the first aid kit.
Rocket rolled his eyes. "Very funny, Quill."
He nodded. "And what did I tell you about fiddling with stuff? Leaving guns and bombs out?"
"What did I say?" he repeated.
"Don't," Rocket repeated.
Quill laughed darkly, and paused as his hands brushed over the empty first aid kit. Everything else was in there - bruise cream and painkillers but no bandages at all. Not even band aids.
"And where would be bandages be?" he asked Rocket, giving him a serious glance unlike himself. "They're not anywhere."
Peter waited for a reply from Rocket, and got a choked laugh as a reply, and he turned sharply to the raccoon. His fluffy face was screwed up in pain and the expression of remembering a happy moment.
"No," Peter repeated. "No! She did not!"
His mind back pedalled to the groggy morning where as a joke Gamora had wrapped Rocket in the first aid kit's worth of bandages over the racoon's body to resemble a mummy and covered him with 'embalming fluid' - cooking oil.
"She did," Rocket growled. "And I was sticky for days after."
Peter Quill felt a smile take over his face. "I'm surrounded by idiots," he grinned, leaving the racoon to his devices.
"What, you're not going to help me?" he heard Rocket cry out.
Quill laughed. "Oh, I'm helping," he grinned. "If Groot and Gamora and Drax were here they'd all laugh, but me - I'm filming it. Then I'm giving you a bed sheet to bind it with."
"Thanks, Star Lord," Rocket drawled.
Quill grinned. "Are you sure you don't need a vet to look you over?"
There was a snarl that sounded oddly like something that rhymed - almost too perfectly - with trucking fell, sill! and at that, Peter left the room with a smirk on his face, tossing a bed sheet the way he came.
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