Rocket doesn't get the luxury of tuning the hell out like some of his passengers are, too busy with actual work, and blinking back furious tears as he aims the Benatar back to the jumpgate to Earth. He refuses to call it home. Not yet. Not now.
Maybe the only thing keeping him from losing it entirely is the promise of something useful to do. He's always found it easier to cope when he has something he can do with his hands, and right now, both are tightly clenched around the controls of the ship, leaving the stupid Garden behind to burn.
Good. Let it.
It'll be hard, starting all over again. But Rocket will throw himself into the work with a single-minded stubbornness, determined to keep himself busy enough that he doesn't have to think about what he's lost. The Benatar will come in handy for tasks that take their little team away from Terra, but he doesn't mind sticking around the planet either, lending a hand when they need a mechanic's touch. Fixing up weapons, vehicles, learning more about Earth tech and how it's supposed to work, and making it better. And slowly, as the days pass, he gets to know these humans a little better, finds a place where he fits well enough to be okay with it, even if a part of his heart feels like it was ripped right out of his chest.
It ain't home, not as it was. But it's something. And at least he's not alone.
Thor, though...
The Asgardian doesn't speak a word to anyone the entire way back. Even once they land, he doesn't go back into the compound, just standing out on the lawn with his blood-crusted axe in hand like he doesn't know how to take another step. And eventually, he disappears in a flare of rainbow light and comes back hours later, stumbling gracelessly back to his room, leaving a strong scent of liquor in his wake.
It won't be the last time.
But it doesn't last forever, either. Eventually, a call comes in from the Norwegian government for the god of thunder, and Thor listens to the message with a shadowed eye. And later that evening, his room is empty of everything but his unmade bed, a pile of empty bottles, and a note scribbled on the desk with a forwarding address for Henningsvær, Norway.
He doesn't bother to say goodbye, too ashamed to look anyone in the eye, too broken to face the blame he knows he deserves. The best thing he can do is leave them alone.
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Maybe the only thing keeping him from losing it entirely is the promise of something useful to do. He's always found it easier to cope when he has something he can do with his hands, and right now, both are tightly clenched around the controls of the ship, leaving the stupid Garden behind to burn.
Good. Let it.
It'll be hard, starting all over again. But Rocket will throw himself into the work with a single-minded stubbornness, determined to keep himself busy enough that he doesn't have to think about what he's lost. The Benatar will come in handy for tasks that take their little team away from Terra, but he doesn't mind sticking around the planet either, lending a hand when they need a mechanic's touch. Fixing up weapons, vehicles, learning more about Earth tech and how it's supposed to work, and making it better. And slowly, as the days pass, he gets to know these humans a little better, finds a place where he fits well enough to be okay with it, even if a part of his heart feels like it was ripped right out of his chest.
It ain't home, not as it was. But it's something. And at least he's not alone.
Thor, though...
The Asgardian doesn't speak a word to anyone the entire way back. Even once they land, he doesn't go back into the compound, just standing out on the lawn with his blood-crusted axe in hand like he doesn't know how to take another step. And eventually, he disappears in a flare of rainbow light and comes back hours later, stumbling gracelessly back to his room, leaving a strong scent of liquor in his wake.
It won't be the last time.
But it doesn't last forever, either. Eventually, a call comes in from the Norwegian government for the god of thunder, and Thor listens to the message with a shadowed eye. And later that evening, his room is empty of everything but his unmade bed, a pile of empty bottles, and a note scribbled on the desk with a forwarding address for Henningsvær, Norway.
He doesn't bother to say goodbye, too ashamed to look anyone in the eye, too broken to face the blame he knows he deserves. The best thing he can do is leave them alone.
He's done enough damage.