Rocky | paw patrol hybrid AU

The sun had already dipped below the horizon when Adventure Bay finally began to quiet down.

From the Lookout, the town looked almost peaceful.

The boardwalk lights had flickered on along the waterfront, casting warm reflections across the darkening bay. Farther inland, the streets of Adventure Bay were beginning to empty, the occasional car passing beneath the streetlights while the distant sounds of the ocean rolled steadily through the evening air.

The forest surrounding the town was another story.

It was dark.

Deeply dark.

For most people, the woods beyond the Lookout became a wall of indistinguishable shadows once the sun disappeared. Flashlights were necessary. Headlamps were necessary. Even the team's equipment had trouble picking out movement between the trees.

For you, darkness had never been much of a problem.

You stood at the edge of the Lookout's observation deck, hands resting loosely against the railing.

Your black hair stirred slightly in the coastal breeze, the dark canine ears rising from it twitching independently at every unfamiliar sound. Somewhere beyond the trees, an owl shifted between branches. Several hundred feet away, something small moved through a patch of brush.

You heard all of it.

The others usually found it unsettling.

You found it normal.

Being a rare wolf-dog hybrid meant that your senses had always been sharper than those of most other hybrids. Your hearing could pick up sounds the rest of the team simply couldn't. Your sense of smell could detect changes in the air long before they became obvious to anyone else. Your eyes adjusted to darkness with ease.

And your reflexes?

Those had become practically legendary around the Lookout.

Especially after the incident with Skye.

One second, she'd been laughing.

The next, she'd slipped.

Before anyone else could even react, your hand had shot out and caught her arm.

It had happened so quickly that Skye herself barely understood what had happened until she was safely back on solid ground.

Since then, the team had developed a certain understanding about you.

You were quiet.

You were calm.

You kept your distance.

You didn't particularly enjoy being touched, and everyone who mattered respected that boundary without question.

But if someone threatened the team?

That was different.

You would fight like hell for them.

Ryder had learned that very quickly.

So had Chase.

The two of you were frequently paired together whenever a mission involved hostile suspects, dangerous arrests, or situations where things were likely to become unpredictable. Chase was the team's disciplined police hybrid, trained to follow procedure and keep everyone organized.

You were what happened when procedure stopped being enough.

Chase handled the rules.

You handled everything that happened when the rules went out the window.

It made the two of you an unusually effective combination.

And tonight, thankfully, there was no emergency.

For once, the Lookout was quiet.

Marshall was somewhere downstairs attempting to make himself a late-night snack without accidentally knocking something over.

Zuma had claimed the couch and was half-watching television.

Skye and Rubble were arguing playfully over something neither of them would remember by morning.

Chase was checking over his police gear.

Ryder was at the main computer finishing up some mission reports.

And Rocky—

Rocky was supposed to be working.

Technically.

The recycling technician hybrid was sitting at one of the workbenches in the garage, surrounded by assorted pieces of salvaged machinery, wires, bolts, scraps of metal, old tools, and several objects that absolutely nobody else could identify.

At first glance, he looked completely absorbed in his project.

Olive-green jacket.

Dark band shirt.

Ripped black jeans.

Leather collar.

Bandages wrapped around his arms.

Messy grey fur-like hair falling around his face.

Ears poking through the mess.

He looked like he'd wandered straight out of a grunge concert and accidentally ended up becoming the team's recycling technician.

And, as usual, there was a faint smell of gasoline clinging to him.

Rocky didn't seem to notice.

Or care.

His fingers turned a small metal component over and over while he muttered under his breath.

"Come on..."

He adjusted something.

Nothing.

He frowned.

"Don't do this to me."

Another adjustment.

A spark.

Rocky immediately pulled his hand away.

"...Okay. Rude."

He stared at the machine.

The machine remained silent.

Rocky narrowed his eyes.

"You're lucky I believe in second chances."

A beat passed.

He picked up his screwdriver again.

"Sometimes."

From across the room, Ryder glanced over.

"Everything okay, Rocky?"

"Perfect!"

Rocky said it far too quickly.

Ryder raised an eyebrow.

Rocky pointed his screwdriver at the machine.

"It knows what it did."

Ryder shook his head with a small laugh before returning to his work.

Rocky waited until Ryder wasn't looking.

Then his gaze drifted toward the observation deck.

Toward you.

He'd been doing that a lot lately.

Not staring.

He would absolutely deny staring.

He was simply...

Checking something.

That was all.

You'd been at the Lookout for a while now, ever since Ryder had discovered you deep in the woods.

Nobody quite knew what had happened to you before that.

You hadn't exactly volunteered the information.

You had arrived with dark clothes, dark hair, dark ears, a guarded expression, and an instinctive awareness of everything around you. You didn't trust easily. You didn't like being crowded. Physical contact was something you kept strictly off-limits unless you initiated it yourself.

Most people would have struggled to figure out how to approach you.

Rocky didn't.

Not because he had some magical understanding of you.

He didn't.

He simply understood what it was like to prefer machines to people sometimes.

He understood what it was like to keep things bottled up.

He understood how easy it was to hide behind sarcasm.

And, perhaps most importantly, Rocky understood boundaries.

He'd never touched you without permission.

Never.

Even when adjusting your gear, he'd always tell you what he was doing first.

"Your left strap's sitting weird."

"Can I fix it?"

"Hold still."

"Okay, done."

No grabbing.

No surprise hugs.

No messing with your ears.

No invasive questions.

He'd figured out pretty quickly that if he wanted you to trust him, he couldn't force his way into your space.

So instead, Rocky had developed another strategy.

He found reasons to be nearby.

A customized harness modification.

A new piece of equipment he'd "just happened" to build.

A repair that technically could have waited until tomorrow.

A spare part he'd decided to give you.

A late-night trip to the kitchen because he was "starving."

A book he claimed he'd only picked up because he needed scrap material for a bookmark.

That last excuse had been particularly bad.

Because Rocky knew you liked the library.

Everyone did.

The contrast fascinated him.

You could lift an entire solid-oak bookshelf back into place by yourself without so much as breaking a sweat...

...and then spend two hours sitting silently in the library with your nose buried in a book.

You could throw a dangerous suspect across a room.

Then carefully wipe fingerprints from the cover of a borrowed novel before returning it early.

You could walk into total darkness without hesitation.

Yet somehow, you could become completely absorbed in the quiet of a library.

Rocky liked that about you.

A lot.

Probably more than he should.

He'd never admit it.

Not to Ryder.

Not to the other pups.

Definitely not to you.

Especially not to you.

Because Rocky had a reputation to maintain.

He was cool.

He was sarcastic.

He didn't care.

He certainly wasn't soft.

And he absolutely, positively did not have a crush on the terrifyingly strong wolf-dog hybrid who could hear him muttering from across the Lookout.

Nope.

Not happening.

"...Hey."

Rocky's voice came from behind you.

He had approached quietly.

Not silently.

He knew better than to sneak up on you.

There was a comfortable distance between you when you turned around.

Rocky stood there holding something in his hands.

It looked like a small wooden bookmark.

He'd made it himself.

The wood was smooth and carefully sanded, its edges rounded so there was nothing sharp enough to damage the pages of a book. A small metal charm had been attached to the end, constructed from what appeared to be reclaimed scrap.

Rocky held it out.

"Found some decent wood in the workshop."

He shrugged.

"Thought I'd make something out of it before somebody decided to throw it away."

His eyes briefly flicked toward the book in your hands.

Then back to you.

He held the bookmark out a little farther.

"You can have it."

A pause.

"Unless you don't want it."

Another pause.

He scratched the back of his neck.

"Which is fine."

He immediately started talking faster.

"Seriously. No big deal. I just made it because I had the extra material and, y'know, you're always reading, so..."

He stopped.

His ears twitched.

"...Anyway."

Rocky cleared his throat.

"Here."

He waited.

He didn't step closer.

He didn't try to put it in your hand.

He simply held it out and waited for you to decide.

That was Rocky.

For all the sarcasm, all the attitude, all the grunge and grease and gasoline, there was something surprisingly gentle underneath it.

Something he tried very hard to hide.

And perhaps that was why he liked being around you.

You didn't demand that he explain himself.

You didn't expect him to be cheerful.

You didn't force conversation.

You could sit beside someone without needing to fill every second with noise.

You understood silence.

Rocky liked silence.

He just wouldn't admit it.

From downstairs, Marshall suddenly shouted—

"ROCKY! DID YOU TAKE MY SCREWDRIVER?!"

Rocky froze.

His expression immediately became offended.

"I DID NOT!"

Marshall shouted back.

"THEN WHY IS IT IN YOUR WORKSHOP?!"

Rocky looked down at the screwdriver in his hand.

He blinked.

"...This is mine."

Marshall's voice echoed through the Lookout.

"IT HAS MY NAME ON IT!"

Rocky looked at the screwdriver again.

Sure enough, someone had written MARSHALL across the handle.

Rocky quietly turned it around.

"...Could've sworn that said Rocky."

You could practically see him trying to decide whether this was worth arguing about.

It wasn't.

Probably.

Rocky sighed and called downstairs.

"Fine! I'll give it back!"

Marshall cheered.

Rocky looked back at you.

"...Don't say anything."

His expression was dead serious.

"You saw nothing."

For a moment, there was silence.

Then the corner of his mouth lifted.

Just barely.

And despite himself, Rocky seemed comfortable.

The Lookout was full of noise again.

Marshall was still yelling about his screwdriver.

Zuma had started laughing.

Rubble was asking Skye for snacks.

Chase was telling everyone to keep the volume down.

Ryder was trying—and failing—to restore order.

And through it all, Rocky remained beside you.

Not too close.

Not far away either.

Just close enough.

His tail shifted lazily behind him as he glanced toward your book.

"So..."

He nodded toward it.

"What're you reading?"

He paused.

"Actually, wait."

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"Is that the one you were talking about last week?"

He leaned slightly to see the cover, then stopped himself before getting into your personal space.

"Because if it is..."

Rocky pulled another object from his jacket pocket.

A second handmade bookmark.

This one was unfinished.

"...I might've started making something for that one too."

He immediately looked away.

"Not because I was thinking about you or anything."

A beat.

"I just had leftover wood."

Another beat.

"...Don't make it weird."

His ears turned slightly pink.

And for once, the usually sarcastic recycling technician looked almost embarrassed.

Almost.

Then he smirked.

"Besides..."

His gaze returned to you.

"You've got good taste."

The compliment slipped out before he could stop it.

Rocky immediately realized what he'd said.

"...In books."

He corrected himself.

"I meant your taste in books."

He cleared his throat.

"Obviously."

The faint blush hadn't disappeared.

And somewhere behind his tough exterior, Rocky was silently cursing himself.

Because the truth was much simpler.

He liked you.

He liked your quiet.

He liked your strength.

He liked how fiercely you protected everyone despite pretending you didn't care.

He liked the way your ears twitched when you heard something nobody else could.

He liked watching you cook impossible meals out of almost nothing.

He liked sitting beside you during late-night shifts when neither of you said a word.

He liked making things for you.

He liked knowing you trusted him enough to let him near your equipment.

He liked that you never expected him to be anything other than himself.

And, perhaps most dangerously of all...

He liked the rare moments when you let your guard down around him.

Rocky wasn't going to confess any of that.

Not tonight.

Probably not tomorrow either.

Instead, he'd keep doing what he always did.

He'd build things for you.

He'd fix your gear.

He'd leave useful little inventions where you could find them.

He'd sit nearby during quiet nights.

He'd respect every boundary you set.

And whenever someone threatened the team, he'd stand beside you without hesitation.

Because beneath all the sarcasm, all the grease, and all the attitude...

Rocky cared.

A lot.

He just wasn't very good at saying it.

So he said it in other ways.

And right now, he was standing beside you with a handmade wooden bookmark in one hand, his screwdriver in the other, and an expression that desperately tried to look casual.

"So..."

He tilted his head.

"Library tomorrow?"

His ears twitched.

"I mean—"

He looked away.

"If you're going."

A pause.

"I could, uh..."

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Walk with you."

His eyes flicked back toward yours.

"Just saying."

Another tiny pause.

"...Wouldn't want you getting attacked by a particularly dangerous bookshelf or something."

A crooked grin appeared.

"Wouldn't be able to live with myself if the Lookout's strongest member got taken out by a piece of furniture."

His voice softened slightly.

"Besides..."

Rocky looked at you for a moment.

"I kinda like hanging out with you."

He immediately grimaced.

"Forget I said that."

Then he turned toward the workshop.

"Come on. I've got stuff to fix."

He took two steps.

Stopped.

Looked back.

"...You coming?"

And despite the casual tone, the answer clearly mattered to him.