Chapter Text
Grace guesses he’s around 38 when his best friend rams his hamster ball against his shin. On purpose.
“Ow!” Grace exclaims. “What was that for?”
He looks down and notes that Rocky keeps rolling back and forth, tapping his claws in rapid succession.
“Grace body make weird shake again!”
He blinks.
Huh.
It’s the third or twelfth time in… maybe an hour? (or two? or something?) that a shiver runs down his spine. His forearms are covered in goosebumps, despite the fact that he started out his day a little on the warm side. Hence the “I had potential” t-shirt and missing cardigan. He had it on earlier, but then his back began to sweat, and he absolutely cannot cope with sweating. It’s gross and hurts his skin and makes him want to jump out a proverbial window with how -
“Grace distracted.” Rocky’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “Grace no listen to Rocky.”
He blinks again, shaking his head.
“Sorry, Rock. I’m just…”
His thought trails off.
He’s just what?
There’s been something weird about this day since he woke up, literally, on the wrong side of the bed. Not that there’s a right or wrong side to a mattress on the floor of the dorm room, but still. Figure of speech. Again. He hates figures of speech because they don’t make much sense, and his head hurts when he tries to decipher what they mean, even if he’s the one who thinks them. Which also doesn’t make sense in this scenario because he’s the only human here, and Rocky doesn’t understand the English language enough to comprehend -
“Grace.”
He jumps.
Rocky’s ball nudges his shin.
“Distract distract distract. Grace need sleep, question?”
That’s where he was going with this! Sleep. He slept okay. He thinks, at least. But he woke up on the left-hand side of the mattress, and he always sleeps on the right. He isn’t a drifter. Sure, he tosses and turns, but he’s usually pretty stationary once his REM cycle takes over. At some point during the night (or day… or who cares because it’s space, and space is an endless time vacuum, and time is a construct, and he’s never been the biggest fan of concepts that can be labeled as ‘constructs’), Rocky had rolled up against his hip and watched him from there, even though he knows that Grace only sleeps on the right side of the mattress. It’s a familiar, yet odd habit they’ve both discussed, but that’s how Grace slept at home in his former San Francisco bed, and that’s how he prefers to sleep now, even in space.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” he finds himself asking out loud. The words feel weird on his tongue.
If Rocky had eyes, he’d be balking at him right about now.
“What Grace mean, question? Rocky there when Grace wake up on large fluffy rectangle. Rocky watch. Grace safe for entire sleep cycle.”
“I woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Grace says.
He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. They feel swollen.
“Grace woke up on left side. Yes, Rocky aware. But Rocky not wake. Grace need undisturbed sleep.”
At one time, this would be a blessing to hear from Rocky. Rocky is the king of waking Grace up for literally anything. Once, Grace's stomach gurgled when he was asleep, and Rocky banged on the xenonite above him until Grace woke up with a start and knocked his head against the tunnel. Said knock on his head resulted in a mild concussion. Any noise, from heartbeats to air entering and exiting the lungs all the way to good, old fashioned gas needed an explanation before Grace could go back to sleep.
“I… I don’t l-like that, though.” Grace’s voice is tight and quick. He runs a hand through his hair. It feels… sweaty. Fudging sweat. “It’s just that… I have this system, and that system involves me a-always waking up on the right-hand side of the bed. Otherwise… Otherwise m-my day feels wrong, and I feel wrong now, and I…”
He sucks in a deep breath.
Stratt was kind enough (question?) to pack a twenty-four month supply of his good brain cocktail of buspirone, sertraline, and clonazepam to keep him functional, and he is nowhere near out of that supply yet. They’re still a week away from arriving at tau ceti. Vaguely, he thinks about what he's going to do when the drugs run out, but that's a different thought for a different time. Anyway, the good brain drugs… Yeah, the clonazepam. There to ward off panic attacks. He's had panic attacks all his life. Is this a panic attack? Has he explained to Rocky what a panic attack is yet? Because he should. Because Grace is known to have them a lot when he’s stressed or exhausted or…
“Grace sick, question?”
Or sick.
Grace wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. Then wipes the sweat from said hand on his navy sweatpants.
He sucks in a deep breath. “I dunno… Maybe…”
The shiveriest shiver ever zaps through him like a bolt of lightning. Grace immediately wraps himself up in a hug, hunching on the stool. His teeth chatter harshly.
“Weird shake!” Rocky exclaims. “Same as before.”
Grace sniffles. “I’m cold,” he says.
Rocky skitters away. Grace is almost offended, but his friend doesn’t go far.
And Rocky returns with Grace’s fox cardigan clutched carefully in one claw, using the flexible part of his ball to hand it to him.
“Thanks, Rock.”
Grace shrugs the cardigan on.
The movement hurts.
The fabric settling against his skin initially stings, but then morphs into a steady supply of warmth.
Okay, he feels strange.
Off.
Disconnected.
“What Grace need, question?”
Grace continues hugging himself.
Looks around the Hail Mary with bleary eyes.
“What do you mean?”
Rocky bumps against his shin again. It’s gentle this time. “What Grace need to feel better, question?”
Grace blinks.
Inhales.
Exhales.
There’s a ball of pain centered on his forehead.
And it’s when that ball makes itself known that Grace comes to a conclusion.
No one’s ever asked him that before.
No one’s ever asked what he needs to feel better. In any situation.
(Doctors don’t count; they’re paid to shovel pills that only sometimes feel like they’re working down his throat. Only he’ll never have to talk to a doctor again because this is a one way trip, baby, and he’s just along for the ride with his alien buddy.)
Tears, hot like acid, swell in his eyes.
He lets them fall.
“Grace leak. Bad bad bad.”
He rubs his aching forehead.
“Grace tell Rocky.”
His eyebrows furrow. “Grace tell Rocky what, question?” he asks.
Rocky warbles. “What Rocky do to help Grace. Grace sick. Grace distressed. Grace distracted. Grace no act like himself.”
Right.
Rocky did ask that.
And, again, Grace is completely thrown by it.
“No… No one’s…”
His voice gives out.
He finds himself sinking to the floor like melted ice cream, back leaning against a cold metal counter. He tugs his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his shins.
Better.
The chair hurt his back.
The floor is nice.
“Grace, please.”
Rocky’s voice sounds off. Pleading.
No.
No no no no -
“I’m sorry, pal,” Grace blurts out instantly. “I’m not trying to upset you. I’ll… I’ll be quiet. I’m fine.”
Rocky shoves his ball against Grace’s legs hard this time.
“What Grace talking about, question?” Rocky asks. He sounds mad.
“Are you mad?” Grace asks. He hides his face in the fabric of his sweatpants.
“Rocky not mad. Rocky confused. Trying to figure out what’s wrong with Grace.”
Grace scoffs. “A lot of things.”
Another hamster ball ram against his leg.
“Why Grace leaking, question?”
A different approach.
Grace rubs his cheeks. His fingers come back wet with salty tears.
“No one’s ever asked me what they can do to help me feel better,” he says.
He sounds like a child.
An idiot.
“I can handle it,” Grace finds himself saying. “I can handle being sick, pal. I’m sorry for bothering you.”
He shrinks in on himself.
“Grace no bother Rocky.” A pause. “No one asked Grace how to help before, question?”
He nods. “Statement.”
“I hate Earth.”
Grace blinks rapidly this time.
“Hate Earth?” he manages to ask.
Grace looks up long enough to see Rocky march back and forth, carapace fluttering with agitation. “Hate Earth for not taking care of Grace. Grace important. Grace important when sick. Grace important when healthy. Grace always important.”
His mouth gets really dry.
Another shiver. This one makes him dizzy.
“Rocky help Grace to bed. Grace need rest.”
And it’s when Rocky moves again that the tears really start to fall.
“Pl-Please don’t be mad at me, R-Rock…”
“Grace quiet. Rocky not mad. Grace leak a lot. Make Grace feel worse.”
He sniffles.
“Up feet,” Rocky commands.
Grace hauls himself to his feet. His shoes are untied. They’re always untied.
“Use Rocky if need. We go to med bay. Check human vitals.”
Grace nods.
He staggers side by side with Rocky’s hamster ball, using it often to hold himself up for balance.
The med bay is bright. Alarmingly so. Grace shields his eyes with his hands as he sits down on the metal slab.
“Armando check Grace human vitals,” Rocky commands.
“No needles,” Grace squeaks out.
“No needles, statement,” Rocky says.
Armando is there in a jiffy, whirling around and… Grace can’t keep track of it. Something feels wrong inside of him. And outside. Like he’s boiling in lava but also freezing in Antarctica.
“Patient Dr. Ryland Grace assessment conclusion. Temperature 39.55 degrees Celsius. Oxygen saturation 95% on standard room air. Pulse 120 bpm. Blood pressure 140/90 mmHg. Recommendation: Extra strength dose ibuprofen and rest. Repeat vitals every four hours.”
Armando dispenses two pills in a cup. He drops a pouch of water on Grace’s lap.
The cup swirls in front of Grace.
“C-Can… Can you give m-me something for anxiety too?” Grace asks.
“Patient Dr. Ryland Grace is allowed 0.5mg of clonazepam. Would you like me to dispense the dose?”
Grace nods. “Yes.”
Another cup with a pill drops in front of him.
Grace swallows all three pills with a swig of water.
And then he goes to curl up on the exam table.
“Grace need sleep, statement,” Rocky says.
“Mmmm… Fine here.”
“No. Grace get cold. Grace whine whine whine when cold.”
Grace sighs.
The 103 degree temperature is really kicking his butt.
“Need help,” he tells Rocky.
The room sways violently as he sits back up.
“Rocky help.”
And Rocky does.
Grace uses his ball for support on the way back to the dormitory.
He drops (un)gracefully onto the mattress on the floor, glasses digging into his face as the pillow presses against his head.
“Grace take off feet protection and vision device, statement.”
“Ugh,” the only response he can muster.
Rocky’s voice is so so far away.
But clearly Rocky isn’t very far away.
Grace’s shoes, untied laces and all, are removed with near surgical precision and placed off to the side.
His glasses go next, taken off with even more care than his shoes.
“Need those,” he slurs. “Important.”
“Rocky know. Rocky keep vision device safe safe safe.”
“I trus’ you…”
Clonazepam always hits him hard. It’s an energy zapper combined with the fever. Grace can feel himself drifting into a far away space, worry and panic dulling around the edges.
The Earth quilt is tucked around his shoulders. Grace snuggles his chin into the softness.
“Rocky…”
“Rocky here.”
And he is, plastered right up against his side.
Grace wastes no time and presses his forehead against the xenonite, marveling in its warmth.
“Tired…”
A soft nudge. “Grace sleep. Rocky watch.”
Grace wakes up wrapped around Rocky.
Well, ‘wake’ is a strong word.
It’s more like ‘dabbling with consciousness’ because his eyes are so not ready to cooperate right now.
He’s blissfully comfortable, despite the hard edges of the xenonite poking his sensitive skin. He thinks, honestly, he could stay like this for the rest of his life, not giving a flying crud about the sun dying. It's easy to think that with Rocky this close.
“Grace awake, question?”
He breathes. “Kinda.”
“Grace body feel marginally cooler. Is good.”
He nods against the hamster ball.
“Grace feel better, question?”
He shrugs.
“Grace need quiet, question?”
He sniffles.
Tears find their way on his cheeks again.
Without opening his eyes, he wipes at the xenonite with his cardigan sleeve.
All of him feels so heavy and gross and painfully close to falling apart.
Rocky doesn’t need this. Rocky doesn’t want this. Rocky doesn’t want him sniveling all over his super cool ball invention thing.
“Rocky quiet now. Grace need quiet. Rest. Bedding. Warmth. Rocky will watch and wait for medicine time.”
The tears pour.
Hiccups take control.
He holds onto Rocky tighter.
How… How does Rocky know what he needs?
Grace doesn’t even know what he needs. On Earth, no one asked. If he was sick, then he was sick alone. He doesn't remember a lot of his childhood, but he has a feeling it was hollow and void of emotions. He thinks he bottled a lot up. If he was hurt, he was hurt alone. Or he was alone alone, studying and panicking and trying to fit in and failing to fit in and rambling on about things that don’t make sense -
Rocky just knows.
Rocky just does.
“Thanks, bud…” Grace whispers.
A tight headache wraps itself around his temples, and the hamster ball is really starting to dig into parts of his body, but he doesn’t let go.
He can’t let go.
“Please stay…” Grace finds himself whimpering moments later. A blanket of exhaustion envelops him whole, leaving behind a shell of a human that is wildly unfamiliar with asking for anything.
But today? Today he's asking.
Rocky makes him feel safe.
“Rocky stay.”
He holds on with all his strength, bracing for an invisible blow.
“Please… P-Please don’t go…”
A hum. “Rocky stay. Rocky never go. Rocky stay with Grace always.”
“Always?”
Another hum. “Yes. Even if apart, Rocky always with Grace, statement.”
“‘m sorry…” he slurs.
It hits him, briefly, that he doesn’t know what he’s sorry for.
Sorry for being sick? Sorry for being in space? Sorry for crying all over his best friend?
Take your pick. They’re all applicable to this situation.
“Grace stop. Stupid human emotions. No bother. No sorry.”
It’s quiet for a few moments, so quiet that the only noises are of Grace’s sniffly breathing, Rocky’s purring hums, and the whir of the Hail Mary.
“Love you, Rock,” Grace whispers.
The words feel right.
It might be the most correct thing he’s ever said in his entire life.
“Rocky love Friend Grace.”
Grace snuggles in closer, holding on to this - his best friend, his pal, his lifeline - with all his might.