Still just own my imagination and Guardians of the Galaxy loving heart.

He waits for the lightning.

It cracks across the sky so savagely and swift that anyone not looking for it might recoil from the passion burning in the bolts, but that's exactly why he doesn't, because he's been looking for it his entire life.

It was in a story his mother read one night before she became ill. At the time, when she sat perched on the side of his bed, book held between her slim, gentle fingers, he thought it was only a story of a boy scared of a storm. A story of a boy just like him, because he hated the rain, the thunder, and most undoubtedly, the lightening. He never believed her when she said the storm couldn't hurt him, so maybe, he'd believe a boy like him drawn in bright colors and general features on a piece of paper.

It wasn't long after she read the book that she got sick and thunderstorms consisted of more than just loud noises, bright flashes, and wet grass, and they definitely hurt. She'd start a coughing fit in the middle of Saturday morning cartoons and while he was carried out of the room, he'd watch over his grandfather's shoulder as his grandmother tried to comfort her. He'd be placed on the porch in front his grandpa's jean clad legs, look up, and ask, "Another storm?," because calling it anything else would be admitting that there were things in this world more terrifying than the one thing that had always scared him, but the only response he got was his grandfather reading the book about the boy overcoming his fear of the storm.

Peter Quill, he's not a little boy anymore. He's not even afraid of the storms, meteorological or not. That's why he sits on one of the bench seats underneath a large window, his favorite area on Milano besides the cockpit, and watches the storm play out before him. He's in his own world, mesmerized by the one thing he never wanted to see as a child and the only thing he looks for as an adult.

There's a rough, weary voice behind him muttering, "I'll never understand why you like watching those things," and if it weren't for catching Rocket's reflection in the glass as he ducked behind one of the legs on a table nearby as another bolt of lightning scurried across part of the atmosphere, he wouldn't of turned away from the window.

Rocket was standing out from behind the foundation of the piece of furniture he'd shied away to by the time Quill had managed to get a good look at him, but a part of him wished that he hadn't. Patches of fur torn out, gashes trying to mend, and a leg attempting to support the small amount of weight made up the image before him, and for a split second, he felt like that little boy trying to determine how long it would take him to reach his mother's bed before another bolt of lighting struck.

They were the Guardians of the Galaxy. Of course, they'd manage to look as bad as Rocket did at some point, but no matter how much Quill anticipated it, like how he knew that a loud crack of thunder would follow the lightning, it never made it any easier to handle.

He gathers the explanation for Rocket on his tongue, but it feels like it's going to come out like a guess, as if Quill isn't so sure of his bravery anymore, so he swallows it and asks, "What do you mean?"

"They're...annoying. Loud. And...harsh," Rocket replies, opting to lean into the leg of the table when it thunders rather than do what he wants.

"Well," Peter runs his tongue along his bottom row of teeth, finding the truth in his courage again when he recognizes the expression hiding behind the mask Rocket's still trying desperately to maintain, "you're just not looking at them the right way."

"Ha," Rocket chokes out, and for a fraction of a second Peter thinks he's coughing, but then the sound continues in a forced, fraudulent way. "Ha. Ha. Ha. Where'd you hear that? In those sickening songs of love on that music thing you listen to?"

Quill would've shifted uncomfortably if Rocket had stood up straight, eyes wide and bright with a shit-eating grin, but Rocket didn't look like that, and Quill had too much confidence to feel embarrassed by a raccoon letting insults run off his tongue before he even knew what they were. It's a classic defensive tactic both knew all too well.

"First off, I know I don't have to mention that laugh was fake, but I'm going to. It was fake. Second, they're not all about love. Okay? And third,-"

"God, there's more?," and Rocket's self-believed, patented eye roll was back.

"-I thought we agreed that I'd let you drive Milano if you stayed off your leg."

"I'm on my leg, therefore, I'm not driving Milano."

"That's not what we agreed to," Peter shook his head and turned on the seat to completely face Rocket.

The raccoon twitched his ear, "Isn't it?"

"Wait a minute. If you're not driving, who is?"

"Drax."

Quill immediately stood, "I know I didn't agree to that."

"Oh, come on. Leave the guy alone. He's leaving me alone!," Rocket said, inching towards Peter as if he was going to sit down beside him on the bench seat, until he heard the thunder.

Quill watched him for a moment as he tried his best to appear as if the loud sounds and bright flares were the result of bombs and gunfire, and when it quieted down and Rocket's muscles weren't painfully tense, he motioned towards the window. "You know, I used to be terrified of storms."

"That's because you're a wuss."

"And what's that make you?"

"Someone that had to live in them sometimes, not a human who had shelter against them."

Quill let his face fall in guilt before scrunching it back up. "So you're telling me that you, Rocket, a delinquent raccoon, couldn't find shelter during a thunderstorm?"

"Not if your cage is kept outside," Rocket muttered, and made to walk away but suddenly a large bolt of lightning ran past the window with an ear-shaking sound of thunder and when Quill could finally see again, he couldn't find Rocket anywhere. That is, until he looked down.

Rocket has heard Peter mention his mother, understands that look in his eye and roughness in his voice whenever he talks about her. He never says anything though, never asks questions. Not because he doesn't care, but because he knows you never ask questions you don't want to know the answer to.

However, there's a difference between them, a difference Rocket thinks he'll never come to understand. He just knows they are different, more different than anyone he's ever compared himself to, but he can't seem to fathom why. Maybe that's the reason he guards himself more closely, gets more angry, or a bit more testy around him sometimes. He came up with that conclusion soon after they broke out of the Kyln, but it's times like telling Peter he hates being called names that he doesn't understand, but hates the way they sound and knows he should, or times like this exact moment when he plants himself into the man's leg because there's a storm outside that he wishes was bombs and gunfire instead, that make him think he's never been more wrong. He's angry alright, guarded and testy, but there are moments when he's not any of those things that his past has made him become and he can't understand why.

He growls at it, because it's just too damn unfair to fight off an army without flinching, but hide behind someone's leg at a loud, natural disturbance in the atmosphere, but soon Quill's hand is on his head, resting between his ears and unlike he assumed, he doesn't push him away. He doesn't even pet him like Drax after Groot's sacrifice. Instead, with a little bit pressure he pushes Rocket's head up against its hiding place, before lowering himself down to the ground and leaning up against the base of the bench with legs still drawn up so that Rocket doesn't have to move.

"I told you that I used to be terrified of storms," Quill says, hand resting lightly on Rocket's head, but doesn't look down. "Doesn't mean I'm still not afraid of them."

Quill feels Rocket attempt to right himself and pull away, but there's another bright bolt and loud crash and Rocket stays where he is, so he keeps going.

"But when I was kid, man, I couldn't take them. They were just...like you said, loud and harsh. Some of my friends, they were terrified of real things like drowning in the lake, or...or car accidents, but me? No, just storms, because...I guess, because I felt like I couldn't control it, you know? I was a good swimmer, didn't think I'd ever drown. My mom...she was a good driver, never thought we'd be in an accident. But storms, I knew I couldn't do anything to stop them. I was at their mercy," Quill explains, and finally Rocket unburies his head from Peter's pant leg and looks up at him, expecting him to go on. "I guess, that's how you felt? When they kept you in that cage. Then, they stuck you out in the storm...so..I get it...well, I can see why...you know."

Rocket doesn't say anything, but falls gingerly to sit down beside Quill, close enough that the ends of his fur brush Peter's jacket. "Then, why do you like them now? You still can't control them," he asks, because he suddenly feels like if he reaches out he'll be able to catch whatever reason it is that he and Peter can share brutal truths.

"I don't like them, Rocket, but just because you don't like something doesn't mean you can ignore it," Quill says, and this time he actually turns to look down at the animal beside him with that look in his eye and roughness in his voice that Rocket understands, knows that Peter learned the lesson he's trying to teach him the hard way, but he doesn't ask, because he still wants to ignore the things he doesn't like.

Instead, Rocket sighs and looks down at his legs and prods his injured one for something to do to fill the awkward silence, but he's looking back up at Quill before he can realize what he's doing because the man continues with, "So you find the worst possible thing, the one thing that scares you the most - for me...it was the lightning-...and you find a reason to like it."

Rocket gives a soft disbelieving sound, but holds off on the eye roll. "What's to like about lightning? It's natural electricity that's gonna fry every organ in your body if it gets ya?"

"That's the thing, 'If it gets you'. Think of how many times it misses. It's like...the best worst enemy to have."

"I guess," Rocket says after a silent moment, "but it's still a pain in the ass."

"Yeah, it is," Quill agrees with a laugh, " kinda like one of you guys getting hurt."

Rocket returns a light chuckle, "And where's the bright ray of sunshine in that, Mr. Positivity?"

Quill waits so long to reply, that Rocket assumes he never will. But as they sit there, side by side, Peter finally says, "This," like he's found something better than whatever he's searched for in the lightning for all those years.

Rocket swallows, unsure of what to say, but there's another sound of thunder and he finds himself leaning slightly towards Quill's arm like he's too exhausted to sit upright, and the man pretends like that's the reason. "You never answered my question."

"No. You can't use parts of my walkman for a new gun," Peter counters, nudging the raccoon ever so slightly.

"Not that one, not that that matters now-"

"Wait. What?"

"Where'd you come up with that...the lighting thing?"

"Oh. A book...my mom used to read to me."

"How come you never talk about her?," the question rolls out of Rocket's mouth so quick his ears fall back on his head in a bit of guilt, and Quill turns to look at him with a stunned expression before softening it.

"It's a pain in the ass," he smirks, using Rocket's earlier words.

It hits Rocket more harshly than a bolt of lightning ever could, because he now understands the difference between Quill and himself, and it's not even a difference at all. It's that they are the same, both hurt by things in the past and trying to save and bury them all at the same time.

He blinks up at Peter, "Do you...remember the story?"

"By heart."

There's thunder in the distance, but Rocket gets up regardless and gingerly climbs onto the bench seat by the window, tugging at Peter's fingers to get him to follow. Quill raises an eyebrow, and stands ever so slowly, but doesn't sit down.

"Tell it."

It takes a few seconds of courage, a few seconds for Peter to find the silver lining in reading a childhood story he's cherished for so long and memorized by heart to a scientifically enhanced, injured raccoon that's willing to die for him, but scared of a thunderstorm.

It's a storm in itself, but Quill isn't afraid of thunderstorms, meteorological or not, because he knows how to find the miracle in them. So, he sits down next to Rocket, feels the raccoon scoot closer to him, and begins telling the story.

And that's when it happens.

Peter finds his miracle in all of it, the miracle of family, because he's sitting down next to a raccoon that he would not only die for, but a raccoon that would die for him, and as the days pass by, he can't help but grin when he realizes what Rocket does when a storm takes place.

He waits for the lightning.

AN: Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it! Let me know what you think!