Rocket's eyes briefly flick to Nebula, still a little more familiar with her than he is with the humans, but she doesn't look bothered to be left behind on this particular run. "Great. You ladies don't have too much fun without us," he says lightly, as if he doesn't know the kind of fulfilling distraction they're likely to seek.
Delivery's a good idea, now that Steve's brought it up. Rocket's got no clue what they've got for supplies out in Thor's neck of the woods, but more can't hurt, and they've got basics to spare. It still isn't exactly second nature to help without expecting to get paid, but there ain't much else he can do with himself right now, and keeping busy is keeping busy.
The next day, the overcast skies above the little fishing village of Henningsvær are split with the roar of engines as the Benatar zeroes in on the little chain of islands, and Rocket cranes his neck to look for a good landing zone. The football pitch is still covered in ships that look like they're being stripped for parts, so he picks a clear - but smaller - spot a little further north, right next to a row of houses. There are people out and about, mostly adults dressed in a mix of Asgardian robes and more local clothing, and some of them stop to look at the alien craft as the ramp lowers, letting in a chilly breeze that ruffles Rocket's fur.
There's no sign of Thor, but it doesn't take long for an Asgardian woman to approach, striding up like she owns the place. Her sharp, dark gaze flashes over them both, sizing them up like a warrior would. "Welcome to Asvera," she says, her tone carefully neutral. "We didn't know we'd be having visitors today. Or deliveries."
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Delivery's a good idea, now that Steve's brought it up. Rocket's got no clue what they've got for supplies out in Thor's neck of the woods, but more can't hurt, and they've got basics to spare. It still isn't exactly second nature to help without expecting to get paid, but there ain't much else he can do with himself right now, and keeping busy is keeping busy.
The next day, the overcast skies above the little fishing village of Henningsvær are split with the roar of engines as the Benatar zeroes in on the little chain of islands, and Rocket cranes his neck to look for a good landing zone. The football pitch is still covered in ships that look like they're being stripped for parts, so he picks a clear - but smaller - spot a little further north, right next to a row of houses. There are people out and about, mostly adults dressed in a mix of Asgardian robes and more local clothing, and some of them stop to look at the alien craft as the ramp lowers, letting in a chilly breeze that ruffles Rocket's fur.
There's no sign of Thor, but it doesn't take long for an Asgardian woman to approach, striding up like she owns the place. Her sharp, dark gaze flashes over them both, sizing them up like a warrior would. "Welcome to Asvera," she says, her tone carefully neutral. "We didn't know we'd be having visitors today. Or deliveries."