It’s Valentine’s Day. Here’s to you, Lylla.

Somebody shoves me anywhere, they’re losin’ their head.

Why the flark are you letting people pin you to a wall? Just shoot ‘em?

Ugh, another day on this rock.

Can somebody shut their shark up?

Stolen, like most of Rocket’s goodies.

The bar. Lead the way.

Alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. And maybe a few drugs.

See? Being a downer.

Tell that to Deadpool.

Is he always this big of a downer?

“Correct. He’s stupid because he doesn’t listen.” The kid was sorta getting it. “Plus, I’m pretty sure cosmic rays microwaved his brain.”

Then you better unsneeze it cause I’m not gonna sit in the snow.

It’s so flarkin’ cold out my tail has frost.

What the flark is Bitcoin?

“Oh? And how does a human learn? Cause I got a terran like you on my ship and I’m pretty sure he’s never learned a thing in his flarkin’ life.”

Pass the bottle then.

Hell, Rocket was wrong. They do got something in common!

“Who the flark are all these people?”

“HE,” Rocket corrected, hands held behind his back. “He learns by experience and by listening to what I say.”

Jeez, kids were hard to please. “‘Cause, kid, the tree is the most reliable one outta all of them. Big, tough, and doesn’t ask me a buncha stupid questions.”

“Hey now, I might not have parents but I got a family. Family is who you choose. In my case, it’s a giant tree and a buncha flarkin’ humanoid morons.”

He’s awake. His fur is matted on his cheek.

Some of us are tryin’ to sleep. STOP MAKIN’ SO MUCH NOISE.

The question caught him off guard, eyebrows raising slightly. “No. Are you sad?” Another half-lie but one he refused to linger on.

He’s asleep with his head on his workbench, a little puddle of drool forming by his cheek.

“They make meds for that?”

Someone mentioning taxes.

And he’s here to not give his money to a buncha flark knobs.

“HA. I ain’t gonna pay taxes.”

“You don’t say.” God, if he was in a room with Quill and this guy, he’d probably end up throwing himself out a window… or airlock. Whatever the closest path to death was.

“Do you just say words or does your brain—. Y’ know what, nevermind.”

“You sure yer mouth doesn’t outweigh all of that?”

“…why do the Avengers put up with you?”

“This ain’t a flarkin’ vocabulary problem. This is a ‘your words don’t mean anything, you’re just sayin’ them’ problem!”

“That’s what Quill says too. And you know what, I don’t believe it from him either.”

“…the flark does that sentence even mean?”

Thought you didn’t use guns?

Blink. Blink. “I’m happy for ya, kid. Where I come from, we don’t have parents either.” It was a half-lie that Rocket hadn’t truly taken the time to think about. He did have parents… in a sense. Whatever had been torn apart and stitched back together to make him, they had had parents.

“… your horn?” Was this kid talkin’ about a trumpet or a horn made of bone?

“…how many flarkin’ parents do you have????????”

“How about you do us both a favor and go back there?”

What the hell shat you out?

He’s just gonna smell like grease and blood after a few hours anyways.

Hey, the chemical compound he uses cleans him. What more does he need?

I DO BATHE, YA FLARKIN’ IDIOTS.