My nose twinges and crinches as I involuntarily sniff the air, barely waking up from the deepest, softest slumber I've fallen into in a long time. Instantly, a foul smell shoots into my nostrils and suckerpunches me awake. I go to shift in the bed and feel a sticky, slimy wetness around my ass and thighs.
"Shit! Flarg!" I shout at myself, realizing I am in Blackjack's bed. Realizing that I shit his bed. For good measure, I shout "Shit!" one more time. My voice echoes in the room, but I don't hear a response. I open my eyes to darkness. They adjust slowly as I confirm that Blackjack isn't in the room. He must still be cooking or something. Thank Flarg! I've got to clean this up and hide what I've done before he-
The doorknob rustles, and the door creaks open quickly, letting in the dimmed light of the hallway as Blackjack's silhouette appears in the doorway.
He whispers into the room, "Are you awake? Was that you I heard?"
I groan, feeling gross and pissy again, "yeah… unfortunately…"
"And… that smell?" He whispers.
I pause in the darkness. Why did I have to shit myself now of all times!? And now twice in one day I've wrecked my time with Blackjack!
The lights flick on, still dimmed. I see a concerned Blackjack holding a hamper in his arms. He's wearing only his undies from before. He carries the hamper in and sets it down next to the bed, looking at me with concern.
I sit silently, kicking myself for having nothing to say and no excuse readily at hand. I fumble out, "The… the beer and… I must have been too drunk… flarg…"
I look away. Obviously he knows what's happened. Now it's just a matter of moments before he kicks my disgusting ass out. I wince and turn back to face him.
To my immediate surprise, he is right in my face. He quickly plants a small kiss on my nose, and I feel myself blush with confusion. I feel awake now, and part of me worries most of our escapades were a dream. But I'm naked in his bed, clearly that wasn't a dream.
Blackjack runs a hand through my head fur softly and says, "Didn't think you were that drunk. Sorry for not getting you to the bathroom before tucking you in."
"Wha… ?" I hear myself say. He's apologizing for my mess again. He's being nice for no damn reason! It's like he's gone into cleaning maid mode all of the sudden! Why does it feel so infuriating and yet so good to hear him say that!?
"Don't worry," he continues, "I smelled something bad when I came to check on you a few minutes ago and figured I'd get my laundry basket ready." He nonchalantly pulls the covers off me, making me cover myself with my arms and cringe at the shit and piss stains around my crotch. He throws the covers in the hamper.
"Here," he says, pulling me off the bed mechanically before continuing, "I'll get all this thrown in the washer. You go grab a shower. When you're done, throw on whatever you feel like and meet me in the canteen for some food. Okay?"
I look him in the eyes, feeling gross and still dripping filth onto the floor. There must be something in my scowl that snaps him out of robot mode again. He blinks a few times and then leans in and pecks my cheek. He grabs my paw in his and whispers, "It's okay, Rocky. We can clean up, and everything will be fine. And then we'll have some food and go- go right back to wasting time."
He pushes his nose against mine as my mind whirs. He's so fucking nice! What's happened to the old scoundrel that would come hunting me every few years!? This is one hell of a long con if he's faking!
He must see my confusion and distrust, because he backs away half a step. He doesn't release my hand, though, and our arms hang between us still connected.
In a moment of bravery, Blackjack thrusts forward again and kisses me right on the lips. A weak smile forms on his face as he looks me right in the eyes. He glances down in a similar fashion that I've seen before, reminding me just how sexually frustrated I feel on top of all of this. My dick fails to stir again, and I realise that I'm in for a second impeded shower today with no means of getting off.
Blackjack goes for one final hail merry at pulling me back into my earlier friendly mood. He kisses my nose again like he's kissing a butterfly and squeaks, "Y-your laundry's clean and folded on your bed, b-by the way…"
I've got to admit. I didn't expect him to say that. Nor to have done that. And I have no idea if he's put together that my laundry needed to be cleaned for similar reasons to his. But damn. He hasn't shown a single lick of malice or meanness to me since he asked me out this morning. This can't be an act. Does he really like me like that? Is he really ignoring me shitting his bed and still asking to make out and fondle each other later?
I feel a surprise smile spread over my face. I try and fail to contain the stirring like for Blackjack that has budded in me these last several hours. I could absolutely kiss him right now. And I do. I lean in to him and try to smooch. He returns and kisses into my mouth for a moment, but quickly pulls away. He moves his free hand to my chest and says, "You go get clean, okay? Maybe some cold water will help clear your head."
"-yeah…" I respond. We separate, and I drip down the hallway to the showers.
The shower goes exactly as I expected. I let the cold water wake me up and then I sit in it for as long as I can, trying to force myself to not touch my cock. If I touch it, I know I'll have to try to wank. But I have no choice, I have to clean this shit off me. I start with my back and butt, scrubbing at myself furiously. But I finally come to my little, shitty dicklet. I soap up my paws and start to work cleaning it. Instantly, it starts fighting at it's confines. It pushes and batters at its prison, and I once again get no avail to my horniness. I scrub it thoroughly and then continue stroking, hoping that this will be the rare day that I get a little release. But none ever comes as I feebly wank the metal cage around my permanently soft member. Minutes, maybe even a few quarter hours, go by, and I get nowhere. I feel almost light headed again and completely disheveled. At least I'm fucking clean!
I turn off the water and shake myself out a bit. It occurs to me - I don't have a towel. Flarg! I'm going to be dripping all the way back to my room as well! I pull back the curtain, thoroughly defeated by this shower, only to see a baby blue towel neatly folded on the seat right outside the stall. I feel a grin form on my face. Wow! Every chance he gets there's another layer of thoughtfulness. I almost cringe at myself as I realize I have butterflies rising in my stomach. Maybe I'll get another try at getting off today! Maybe we can rekindle the fire I didn't know we could spark in his bed!
I dry off quickly and unthoroughly, and then I high tail it to my room. The clean, neatly folded bedding on the edge of my mattress makes me smile, until I see the obvious and multitudinous stains on the mattress itself. If that's not damning, then I don't know what is.
How long was I asleep? I check my clock to see that it is 3:32 PM. I was asleep for almost 4 hours. That's more than a nap at that point, and that's definitely more than enough time for Blackjack to have seen the stains on my mattress and figure me for the limp-dicked bedwetter that I've become. Why didn't he say anything?
I throw on another pair of shorts and find my way to the kitchen. It's empty when I arrive, but the door slides open to fill my nostrils with an unexpectedly lovely smell. So much bacon and eggs and hashbrowns and pancakes all gleaming from the counter with too big glasses of orange juice. Heat still radiates off the food, and small beads of water condense on the glasses. This was clearly hand made, not just spat out by the ship. There's even a set of cleaned cooking utensils next to the sink. I feel my mouth water as I stand in the doorway eyeing the food. I guess skipping breakfast is making everything sound better, but I never knew Blackjack could cook. Not this immaculately, at least.
I enter the kitchen, my mouth watering at all of the food, and I pad over to the stools at the counter. I'm entranced by the food as I sniff it from closer up. It smells great! Blackjack must have found the ship's storage protocols to keep everything this fresh. I clamber onto a stool and pull one of the empty plates sitting in a stack to me with a clang. I pile a few of the pancakes onto my plate and go to grab the syrup.
From behind me, Blackjack's voice chirps into the room, "You feeling better?"
I jump slightly, and my utensils clang on the table. I look back to see Blackjack in the door frame. He's grinning happily back at me, still wearing only his undies. I was so engrossed in the food that I didn't even notice him running up the hall. 
I respond half-heartedly, "I guess so."
I can feel my heart beating fast in my chest as he hops up to the counter and spins into the chair next to me. He looks at me again with a big, genuine smile before grabbing his own plate.
"You already seem a bit more energetic at least," He comments.
"Yeah, this food looks great!" I respond. I  pour more syrup on my pancakes than they could ever need and put the bottle next to Blackjack's plate. Then, I comment back, "You know- I didn't take you for the cooking and cleaning sort."
Blackjack hops up onto his chair and leans over to reach the bacon and eggs. As he leans, he gives me a clear view of his blue bunny butt that's covered only by the thin, tight fabric of his underwear. He rather flamboyantly and excitedly scoops himself several helpings. While doing so, he explains, "It's in my circuits, you know. Yours too. Though- it seems like your programming has become pretty fried."
I get what he means. The people that made us put a lot of work into us having built in muscle memories and capabilities that could help us help other people in whatever ways they needed. And I think back to the many different times I've been through something that might have messed with the wires and bionics in me. Too many to count, honestly. 
Blackjack continues to explain, "It's not something I normally do, but seeing you in need these last few times has definitely switched that part of me back on. Seeing you sad has really made me think about what I want and what I can do to help."
I almost feel awkward at him saying that. Here I've been thinking that he's been tricking me or planning something, but he's been genuine and kind and thoughtful this whole time. Really makes me feel like an ass. I feel myself smirk a little as I think that, and I try to brush it off and start eating.
Blackjack has also started munching down much of what's on his plate as well. He gets a pancake and covers it with syrup before sliding a bunch of bacon and eggs onto it. He wraps it all loosely into a sort of taco shape and shoves as much of it as he can into his mouth, his cheeks flaring out with all of the food he's suddenly shoveled in. I chuckle to myself slightly, feeling a little less awkward as I see him being comfortable and happy. He chews and swallows what he can then chews some more. He grabs a huge swig of orange juice to wash it all down, and I almost envious grab the second glass and get myself a big gulp. It's cold and refreshing, and just slightly tart. It starts to feel like he wants to talk as we just exchange frequent glances while eating, but we can't distract ourselves from the food for a few minutes as we both eat voraciously. Skipping breakfast for the most part has really made us both hungry by this point.
After we get through a hefty amount of the food, Blackjack clears his throat and looks at me for a few seconds, clearly thinking over something. I continue to chew my food while he mulls over his thoughts. Finally, with a big gulp and a small smile of gathered confidence, he whispers, "I- I know it's hard to t-talk about what's wrong. I'm s-sorry you're not sleeping well. I'm sorry you… think so negatively about yourself. The years of fighting and- surviving have made it so difficult to talk to you. B-but I want you to know that I w-will talk… and listen… if you want to…"
The care and seriousness of his words stops me mid-swallow. I'm of two minds as I hear it. The part of me that has atrophied these past years, the part that would care about him, wants me to accept his offer. But the part of me that can 'fight and survive' still can't trust him. Why is a part of my brain convinced that the nicer he is, the deeper his cover must be in order to ambush me?
I finish swallowing and he whispers even quieter, "If that's not what you- want… just know that I'll be here if you ever need it."
My emotions can help but battle with themselves, and I stammer and almost choke on my food. I grab the orange juice and drink the rest of it down quickly, feeling my chest beating and growing heavy. Flarg! Why does him being nice hurt so much!? I feel myself gasp, exasperated by my own infighting, and little tears well in my eyes despite myself.
"Oh-" Blackjack says, clearly taken aback by my reaction, "I'm sorry if I… upset you…"
He looks at me with equally teary eyes, and my armor cracks as I see the worry in them. I gasp, "No- no- I'm not upset…" I can't think of a way to covertly figure out if he's genuine, and that's never really been my style anyway. I burst out, "Is this all for real? You're not planning anything, are you?"
"Wh-what?" He says, a frown forming on his face. He looks confused and almost sad for a moment. He stares at the ground before a very small smile grows on his pursed lips. He whispers, "Of course this is for real… I- I like you, Rocky… Why can't you believe that?"
I don't know exactly why I can't believe it. I'm sure there is plenty in my past to account for how little trust I can give. And his asking that hurts a lot. Not like a punch, but like he's pulled off a bandaid I didn't know was there, exposing a cut that hasn't healed. I feel myself cry. Tears form in my eyes and soak into my cheek fur. I don't even know if I'm feeling sad. There's too much confusion and fight blocking my emotions. What can I say to him? What can I say with him looking me in the eyes?
I hack out, "I- I've never had someone- make me feel like this-"
"What do you mean?" He whispers back.
I try to think outloud, "Everything's always been a fight. I've always had to be the one in charge- the one on top- or I'd be dead."
"You're safe here, Rocky. You're safe with me. I promise."
"And if I let my guard down…"
"What? I'll kill you in your sleep?" He looks up at me, an ironic recognition in his face. He's got a point. My guard has already been down. Flarg, I've been exposed and compromised around him in all kinds of ways today. We're trained mercenaries. If he wanted to do something, he'd have done it by now. The cold, calculating part of both our brains - the part we both grew to guard the soft, caretaking underbelly that I've all but lost - finally puts together that Blackjack isn't my enemy. I don't have to fight him. At least not right now. My wiring almost short circuits as if my thoughts have reentered a loop. I at least feel my trust for Blackjack building, however long that will take: I don't know.
I look back at him, tears now streaming down both of our faces despite the calm facades we both have put on. We make eye contact from both of our stools, still sitting next to one another, now with a heaping of mostly eaten food and empty dishes in front of us.
"I'm sorry," I say, and I rub the tears out of my eyes. I continue, "I was so worried you were going to attack me that I didn't realise you were doing the opposite."
Blackjack puts a hand on my shoulder and uses the other to further clear my eyes. He says back, "Thanks… a-and I'm really sorry you could never let your guard down…"
I feel a massive amount of tension in my body as he says that. Not a new tension. Just like with the bandaid before, he's made me realize just how long I've been completely bound up. I haven't slept well in years- it's just been worse since I started wetting. I've formed one bond that I've been able to keep for any lengthy amount of time- and that was with Groot- and he's gone. Little Groot is here, but I was parenting him poorly, not being his friend. I haven't had a friend who didn't die five seconds later in years!
More tears roll down my cheeks as Blackjack continues to rub them away. He whispers carefully, "I don't know exactly what's going through your head right- right now… but we can move this somewhere darker and warmer if you like. N-no expectations either, obviously."
I look around the room briefly. The faintly buzzing lights above us are suddenly brighter as he mentions it. And my eyes ache with the water in them refracting light and sparkling in my peripheral vision. I nod my head at Blackjack and begin to climb off my stool. Blackjack hops down as well and, though his own tears, smiles at me.
He leans forward and kisses my cheek, and I blush while remembering how much more physically intimate we've been in what still feels like recent dreams. He whispers, "I just remembered we gotta put the sheets back on m-my bed. I'll go grab them, and let's meet at my room, okay?"
I nod again, a little melancholy as he rushes down the hallway toward the laundry room. I stumble to his room, my mind still cloudy with only the silver lining of trust that he will return.
Before I even get through the door, Blackjack has already rounded the corner with hamper in hands. He hops up behind me and strides in with an energy I wish I could mimic.
The room is as I left it with the noticeable addition of a pale yellow ring and another pale brown ring on Blackjack's mattress that are vaguely me shaped. I grimace at them, but Blackjack takes no notice as he shakes his bed lining out and throws it onto the bed. He goes to one side and gestures to me and then to the opposite side. I take a few mopy steps toward the side.
A slight pang hits my bladder as I step. I can hold it. The thought instantly rushes through my head. I can help remake his bed, and then I can excuse myself for a few minutes. I can hold it.
"You take that side," Blackjack says obviously, "and I'll get this side."
We each grab our corners of the elastic-rimmed sheet and pull to opposite bed corners. Again my bladder winces. Just one more side. I can hold it.
I take a step toward the next corner, and my bladder roils angrily. My stomach almost aches as I force myself to take another step. I can hold it! I can hold it!
"Agh- Rocky!" Blackjack's voice rings from across the bed. I shake my head free of my focus- or lack thereof- and look over to see Blackjack's shocked face. He's looking down at my crotch, flabbergasted.
I look down to see a dark spot blooming on the front of my boxers. I'm already peeing!? How!? It still feels like I'm trying to hold it!
The pee quickly soaks the front of my underwear and begins to drip down my legs. I feel the warm dampness run through my fur, making me shiver and cringe. I squeeze my legs together and grunt, trying to stop the flow, but it just keeps coming. I tense harder, only solidifying my failure as my stream just gets stronger. Eventually, I have to stop holding my breath, and a wave of relief washes over me as I can't help but let go. I drench my underpants and my legs and a puddle starts to form under my toes.
I feel myself turn crimson with embarrassment and anger. I push my palms against my eyelids. Tears burst out and wet my paws. I whimper, "...fuck…"
Blackjack is immediately at my side, having jumped over the bed as he lets the sheet hang free only halfway on. He asks, "Rocky, what's going on? Are you okay?"
I look away, trying to hide my blushing face. I grumble and exhale through my nose sharply. I can't even fucking hold it anymore! What is happening to me!?
I feel my feet tense and scratch at the floor. I'm shaking with embarrassment. Blackjack puts his arms around my neck and hugs me. I half heartedly try to push him off, but he holds firm. I look back at him just in time for my lips to meet his as he was already going in for a kiss on my cheek. I shake my head away, feeling disgusting and broken. I look down at the ground like I'm trying to burn a hole where the puddle of piss is between my legs. I grunt under my breath, "dammit…"
"Rocket, please look at me…" Blackjack whispers to me with concern.
I exhale again with a fury of anguish. I don't turn my head, but I look back toward him with my eyes. He whispers paternally, "The alcohol isn't what did this, is it?"
I feel my heart break and more tears fall from my eyes as I nod my head excruciatingly slowly. 
"You really c-can't hold it, can you?" His voice comes through hushed but surprisingly happy, like he's figured out a mystery or something.
Defeated, I mumble, "Shut up."
He runs a paw through my head fur and then moves back. He looks my yet again piss-stained self over like there are gears turning in his head.
With a suddenness that I don't remotely expect, he exclaims, "I know exactly what you need!"
He rushes to his closet with his hands in eureka pose. He pulls aside the door and yanks out a rectangular, plastic pack. He wooshes around and tosses it onto the bed before closing the closet door. I feel an awkward confusion building in me as I watch him covertly, too embarrassed to ask what he's getting. He jolts back to the bed and sits on it with the bag in his hands. It gives off a squeaky plastic rustle as he manipulates it in his paws. With a single loud rip, he peels it open. A large number of smaller, cloth-plastic hybrid looking rectangles flop out onto the bed. It takes my brain a few seconds to realize that these are big, thick looking diapers.
I look at Blackjack with a scowl, unable to process anything. He looks back at me with a massive grin and says, "What'cha think? A perfect fix right?"
My face burning red, I hear my voice crack, "Don't you da-"
Without missing a beat, he continues over me, "You know I'v-ve got plenty of training with therapy stuffs. I could be your daddy. I could take care of you, k-keep you clean and happy and dry an-"
I feel my desperation and embarrassment grow to fever pitch as I look at him sitting cross-legged on the bed surrounded by diapers. My lips move without my brain telling them to, and I shout at him angrily, "I said shut up!"