Chapter Text
It’s been about a week, and the stranger–confirmed to be a man, beneath all the blood and gore–still hasn’t woken up.
Reasons why this makes sense: Armando’s medical assessment of his body. This guy is messed up.
According to the list of treatments administered and/or currently being monitored, he’s suffered from injuries including but not limited to a traumatic amputation, broken ribs, multiple concussions, radiation poisoning, regular poisoning, internal chemical burns from ingesting rubbing alcohol for some reason, and external chemical burns, boils, and blisters from exposure to whatever was in that blood. Armando hasn’t done anything about the protrusions on his cheek yet, which have turned out to be razor sharp teeth, but it’s anyone’s guess at this point how that could have happened. Aside from all of that nonsense, every other inch of the man is practically covered head to toe in various other cuts, scrapes, and bruises. It’s like he’s been used as a human punching bag. If it were me, I’d want to still be unconscious after a week, too.
Or worse. Probably worse. I'm a pretty big wimp.
Oh, also, the sedatives Armando is keeping him doped up with to stop him from feeling any of the absolute agony he should be in right now. That’s probably playing a part in the whole still-unconscious thing, too. Likely story.
Reasons why this doesn’t make sense: also Armando’s medical assessment of his body. Because after all of that, he should absolutely be dead.
No one person could survive most of that injury list even if they received the best, most timely and state-of-the-art medical care in the world. This guy has all of them at once, untreated for who even knows how long. Assuming it was as fresh as it seemed, the amputation alone should have killed him in minutes. The radiation poisoning nearly did.
Rocky and I should be holding a third space-funeral right now. All of this should have been for nothing.
And yet, his heart beats. He rests. He heals, faster than he should honestly. Every day his blisters and burns are better, smoothing over under his bandages. He breathes easier. His color comes back. Soon, he might not even need Armando’s support like he does now.
He lives. I can barely wrap my brain around it. I’m not the only human on the Hail Mary anymore.
For the majority of this week, I haven’t been able to get close to him. Maybe allowed is a better word. Mary’s shut the entire medical wing off, after Armando was able to spare some limbs to check me out as well that very first day. Thankfully, my self-assessment had been correct: a bump on my head, a bit of a sore neck, bruising on my torso, and miraculously nothing more. I basically got a bandaid and a kick in the shorts on my way out, and the doors practically locked behind me.
And for good reason. The stranger’s radiation poisoning was especially alarming when his levels came back– radiation comes with space, it’s bound to happen in small cumulative doses, but not the levels that the stranger was exposed to. Something had to have happened to him on that ship. He was at risk of posing a danger to us, too, if Armando didn’t get started on treating him right away. We only just got the report today that whatever the treatment was had apparently worked enough that his chances of harming anyone else via passive exposure were almost nonexistent. The medical bay is officially accepting visitors.
The logical part of my brain, even though not a doctor’s, is positive that this isn’t how any part of this is supposed to work. That it should take months, not days, to see any sort of improvement. Then I think about the story so far of this stranger: an impossible man in an impossible ship in an impossible place, impossibly alive for an impossible amount of time, both before and after rescue.
Yeah, I’m ignoring logic for the foreseeable future wherever this man is concerned. The alternative might scramble my brain like an egg.
Rocky and I still haven’t talked, really talked, about what happened in the airlock. It’s not that there hasn’t been time– we have nothing but time together up here after all, even though I’ve been busy cleaning up the fallout of our encounter with the Blip-D. Mary’s dock was a little damaged from the collision course, but ultimately is still going to be functional. I’ve thoroughly catalogued, sampled, washed, and disinfected the airlock, the hallways, and my EVA suit to try and get rid of any lingering patches of the blood that made it aboard– Mary seems to be mostly unharmed besides some superficial bubbling in the airlock floor panels, but the EVA suit hasn’t worked right since and might need to be fully scrapped, which sucks. And Rocky absolutely destroyed the kitchen when he was tracking down those water baggies, which has been a full-time project to put back together. Even with all of this, there’s times we could have talked. Should have talked.
I still just don’t even know what to say. I don’t know how to articulate my decision to go back into the SM-13 to him. I don’t have any good answers, and he’s not asking any more questions.
We just watch each other like shadows and wait for the other to make a move.
I can’t let this go on much longer. I desperately want to see the stranger again–our new crewmate–now that it’s finally safe to, but I don’t want to do that until I make amends with Rocky. So, it looks like I need to be the one to make the first move.
Wonderful. One of my many weaknesses. Is it too late to succumb to the void of space?
~~~
Rocky is in one of his human-eye-level tunnels in the lab when I find him. It’s one of the only times today that we’ve been apart, as he’s taken to finding excuses to work silently in whatever room I end up in ever since the airlock. I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “Hey Rock, can we talk for a sec?”
He doesn’t move. “Rocky busy. No time for talk. Later.”
Alright, yeah, I should have expected this. I fight the urge to take the out and bolt. This is important. He’s worth some discomfort. “That’s okay, you can just listen. And before you tell me that you’re too busy for that too I know that’s a lie, Eridians can multitask much better than humans can which I only know because you boast about it all the time, so you can keep working but just listen to what I have to say.” I didn’t mean for that last bit to come out so rushed or forceful, and I wince a little. Surprisingly, though, it has the intended effect.
“Okay. Rocky listen.”
Oh boy. I didn’t actually plan this out much, did I? I take another deep breath anyway. “That day we made contact with Blip-D, I saw something in the ship while I was coming out. You…you know how our new human is hurt, right? Badly hurt. I mean, he’s missing his arm type of hurt. Well, his arm was still on the ship.” Rocky, though not moving much before, goes very still. “I don’t know why, but when I got him inside the airlock, all I could think about was that arm. It was stuck to a metal pipe, it…it almost looked like he had to rip it off himself, and it’s dumb looking back but I thought back to doctors on Earth. They always say to try and save the limb, or at least they do on the TV shows I’ve seen, and Armando isn’t a miracle worker but I just had to try, I had to know that I tried. I didn’t have time to tell you that, and I’m sorry for scaring you so badly. I promise, it wasn’t on purpose. I’m never going to do something like that ever again, I swear.”
The silence between us stretches so long that I go from feeling tentatively okay about my coherence to wondering if I somehow insulted his entire bloodline with my explanation. I finally start to mumble something and turn to slink away when he speaks.
“Apology not real unless Grace understand what apology is for.”
Huh? “Uh, bud, that’s not really how apologies on Earth tend to go–”
“Earth apology not correct, then.”
Now I’m fully confused, and frankly a little offended. “Rocky, what–”
“No,” he interrupts again. “Apology is for this. Rocky say not want Grace in danger. Grace know this. Grace Rocky hug about this. And Grace still go back to Blip-D after heartbeat safe in Mary. Rocky no know reason. What reason for danger? What reason for risk? Nothing. Can only watch best friend try to die in space for nothing. Risk heartbeat, risk Mary, risk Grace for nothing. Rocky cannot help. Rocky cannot fix. Rocky helpless watch crew die, again. Grace leave Rocky alone.”
My stomach bottoms out. Oooooooh this is so much worse than I thought. I can’t even fathom how horribly I messed up. “Oh Rock, I didn’t even think about that. Honest, I wasn’t thinking much of anything–”
“Never think!” Rocky bursts out in a terrible hiss, suddenly braced on all five limbs. “Grace have big big brain, but never use. Never! Human brain worthless organ!” There’s a tense pause, and then Rocky visibly droops. “Not true. Rocky love Grace brain. Rocky love all of Grace. But Rocky also angry. Rocky upset at Grace, but only because Rocky scared. Rocky so so scared…”
I approach his tunnel and before I know it, I’m touching my still-sore forehead to the xenonite. “Rocky, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry, I–” I stop as he scrambles away, and for a moment I’m deeply hurt at the thought of him being so upset with me that he doesn’t even want to be near me, but then he’s scuttling into his ball and bowling me to the ground and I’m so relieved that I go down willingly. I don’t care that my ribs are on fire and that I’m gasping for breath, we're hugging again and he’s reaching for me through his stretchy panel and I reach back. My fingers intertwine with his claw as much as they can between the shards of xenonite, and he’s so warm.
“No more danger for Grace. Rocky not allow.” He’s firm, insistent, and a tearful, hiccupy laugh bubbles out of me.
“That’s fine by me, bud. I’ve had enough danger for a lifetime.”
“Grace will use brain more often. Grace will let Rocky help, let Rocky protect.”
“Always. You’ve got me, Rock.”
“Good. Then accept Grace correct apology. And…Rocky still angry, but also understand. Think about for long time, if Blip-D were Eridian ship. If need save Eridian and not human, Rocky do same as Grace. Not think clear. Just…think about fix. Think about help.”
Of course he would. We’re birds of a feather. Kindred spirits. Space survivors. I hold his claw tighter. “I know, bud. It’s how we got this far.”
~~~
When was the last time I saw another human who wasn’t an image on a screen, betraying me, or holding me to the ground?
Staring down at the man in the medical bed, bandaged and breathing, a whole swathe of emotions are threatening to sweep me off my feet. Joy. Fear. Curiosity. Excitement. Apprehension. Longing. Loneliness. It’s all so overwhelming, I don’t know what to do with myself.
I pull up a chair and sit by his bedside.
Logic dictates that I should be in full personal protective equipment from head to toe. The man was noticeably radioactive only a day ago, and exposed to a potentially insanely dangerous bloodborne contaminant for who knows how long before we found him, but logic has no place on this ship anymore, apparently, so the best I can force myself into is a medical gown over my clothes, a mask, and disposable gloves. Armando isn’t yelling at me, nor is Mary, so I’ll call it good enough.
For the first time, listening to the steady beep, beep, beep of his vitals holding steady and the gentle whoosh of his breathing, I have the chance to really see the man we’ve rescued. Not the blood-covered body from the airlock, not the mass I had almost mistaken for a pile of coagulated detritus on that horrible ship. The man beneath it all the whole time.
The first thing I notice is his hair. Cleaned and dry, it’s pooling in gentle black waves against his pillow. Half of his face is still covered in various bandages, but the portions that I can see are doing much better. A thick eyebrow, a prominent nose, a trail of facial hair, and the curve of his neck down into more bandages take up the rest of what I can distinguish clearly about him. There are strange horizontal markings on his neck I’ve never seen before, maybe some type of scarring? His eyes, closed, are almond-shaped, and his eyelashes look so delicate for someone so otherwise imposing. Even though he’s unconscious, it’s hard to ignore the power that his muscle mass alone communicates. He’s probably about as tall as I am when he stands, maybe just a hair shorter, but he’d have the weight advantage on me no problem.
I…don’t think I’ve ever looked at someone else’s body so intently before. It’s strange, but not in a bad way. Not like I’d expected it would feel. Maybe it’s because he isn’t awake to reciprocate?
Oh, no, that thought feels gross. It almost propels me away from the bed, disgusted in myself for even thinking it. What is wrong with me? Space isolation must have knocked more of my screws loose than I thought, wow. Wow.
It had come back to me slowly, over the course of the astrophage mission to Tau Ceti with Rocky. My disastrous attempts at a love life back on Earth. At most forms of human connection, really, not even just romantic. It’s been hard not to dwell on it up here, given that it was a major selling point in Stratt’s decision to choose me to send after the explosion took out DuBois and Shapiro. You have no immediate family. You don’t even have a dog. Or maybe she had always made up her mind about me being the number-three for the mission, and this was just some line she could use to rationalize the decision.
I don't blame her anymore, for the choice she made. Part of me understands. Cost-benefit analysis. Wants of one versus the needs of the many. It doesn’t make it hurt any less, or be any less true.
It wasn’t for lack of trying but…I just don’t think relationships were supposed to hurt as much as they hurt me. Good ones, even a great one once. Platonic ones too, sometimes. I don’t think belonging to someone should have been as painful as I found it, like ants were under my skin even on the best days. I don’t think it was supposed to take up so much energy, or drain me so much.
I don’t think I was wired the way everyone else was, and I had made my peace with that. I’d made a life with that. And then it got used against me.
Surely this space-death-mission sidequest I've been on since waking up hasn’t helped with this either. I’m going to blame all of this on that and move on.
I’m still at the man’s bedside, and I decide not to leave yet despite my faux-pas. I guess what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I can take a secret to a grave like nobody’s business when there’s no one else to tell.
I look him over again and this time find myself trailing down his one remaining arm, laid out on the blanket between us. His hand is worn, calloused, the hand of someone who has known hard work. Strong. Human.
…people hold hands with people in hospitals all the time. It’s not weird. It’s not. It’s comforting. It’s important.
His hand is warm in mine beneath the glove, just like Rocky’s is through his xenonite barriers. But unlike Rocky’s claw, no matter how perfect it may be to me, our human hands lattice together flawlessly without even trying, fingers falling one after another in perfect, opposing symmetry. It takes my breath away, and I squeeze him a little tighter. Even though I can’t get a squeeze back, I’m starting to tremble.
Oh. I pull our intertwined hands towards my forehead and let out a shaky exhale. Oh my goodness.
I never thought I would feel this again. I barely felt it enough on Earth. It’s not even full skin-on-skin.
It’s too much. It’s not enough.
“Grace?”
I sniffle and carefully, reluctantly put the man’s hand back onto the bed. I shouldn’t have done this. Rocky doesn’t know that, though, and I don’t want him to know, so I just plaster on a smile and act like nothing is wrong. “Hi, Rock. Come to meet our new friend?”
“New human can hear us, question?”
“I don’t know, bud, probably not,” I say, and Rocky hums in understanding. “He’s been through a lot, and Armando’s got a lot of drugs in him right now to manage his pain. But we can still talk to him, even if he can’t hear us yet.”
Rocky creeps closer, clicking at the stranger on the bed. “Hello, heartbeat,” he peeps softly. “Hello new human. Am Rocky.”
Oh, my heart is going to melt. This is all too much. I need to change the subject before I shatter into a million pieces and start bawling my eyes out. “Rocky, do ah, do Eridians talk to each other when they’re sleeping or resting like this? Like, if you’re watching Adrian sleep, do you ever end up talking to them even if you know they won’t talk back?”
I’m a bad friend– I tune out everything that Rocky says in response to my question and focus entirely on putting my fracturing pieces back together. Thankfully my question seems to have gotten him on some long-winded tangent or personal anecdote that gives me just enough time to pull myself together just as he’s summarizing “–every Eridian different, but for Rocky Adrian is very common!”
I nod and hum thoughtfully. The mask is making my glasses fog up, so I decide it isn’t worth it and take it off. I’m already forsaking the PPE guidelines anyways. I doubt I’ll catch some kind of space-bug if I haven’t already by this point. I hear a small clink in my pocket with the movement of me slipping the mask inside, and I’m reminded of something. Something I’ve been wanting to do for a whole week.
But first, I owe Rocky another explanation.
“It wasn’t for nothing, Rock,” I start to say, slowly and against my better judgement. The wound might be too fresh, but I don’t want to wait anymore. “Me going back into Blip-D. This is the last time I’ll talk about it, I swear, but I need you to know it wasn’t entirely for nothing.”
I pull out the pendant, the one that had been wrapped around the arm on the SM-13. I’d found it while I was attempting to take another sample from a patch of blood in the airlock for future study. I hadn’t remembered its existence until that exact moment, and I’ve been carrying it in my pocket ever since. It looks like a tiny sprouted seedling encased in a glass dish, attached to a leather cord.
“This was wrapped around the human’s wrist, the one he lost in Blip-D. It came off in my hand while I was trying to retrieve the arm. It…belongs to him, I think. I couldn’t save the arm, and I wasn’t trying to save this pendant. But I did anyways. And now…” I slip it into his remaining palm, closing his own fingers around it and trying not to linger on the warmth of his hand under mine, or the way that I don’t immediately pull away. “Now I can give it back.”
The hand under me twitches. My eyes snap up to the man’s face. Two eyes stare back at me. Human eyes.
Two things happen before the man slips back into unconsciousness just as quickly as he roused. The first is I get a good look at his eyes, one half obscured with bandages and the other staring right into me. They’re two different colors– one a striking dark brown, the other a startling combination of milky white and blood red.
The second, I can’t be sure about. But right before he passes back out…
…I think he calls me an angel.