Chapter Text
Rocky returns to consciousness gradually, not because he chooses to, but because that's simply how dormancy works. An Eridian can no more wake himself than he can decide to stop digesting food or cease circulating blood. Dormancy is something that happens to him, not something he controls. When enough damage accumulates, his body shuts itself down and begins repairs. Eventually, if everything goes correctly, it starts again. The entire process is normally much less disorienting than this.
For several martrons, Rocky remains exactly where he is, wrapped around the warm floor of his tunnel and allowing sensation to return one limb at a time. His environmental systems are functioning. That much is immediately obvious. The pressure is correct. The temperature is correct. The oxygen-poor atmosphere of the Hail Mary has been pushed back out of his tunnels and replaced with something much more tolerable. Someone has even adjusted one of the heaters. Rocky notices that first. The calibration is terrible—functional, but terrible.
The second thing he notices is that he feels awful. Every limb aches. His joints protest the very idea of movement. There is a deep heaviness settled into his thorax that reminds him unpleasantly of the first few cycles after the death of his crew, when he'd stopped moving for entire malton units at a time because there had been no reason to. Dormancy always leaves him feeling sluggish, but not usually this sluggish. Not usually this damaged. The thought dredges the memories back immediately.
The Star Eaters are gone.
The jump went south.
The drive failed.
Grace.
Rocky unfolds so quickly that pain immediately shoots through multiple limbs at once, forcing an irritated chirp out of him. He ignores it. His discomfort is secondary. The last thing he remembers clearly is Grace collapsing to the deck, blood on his arm, heartbeat pounding so hard Rocky could hear it through the hull itself.
After that, everything is scattered fragments.
He remembers dragging Grace. He remembers opening his shell. He remembers Armando. He remembers crawling back into his tunnel and just barely being able to close it. After that, nothing.
Eridians are not meant to wake up alone. It's one of the oldest cultural rules on Erid. Dormancy is dangerous. A dormant Eridian is helpless. They do not dream. They do not wake intermittently. They cease entirely until their body decides otherwise. Every Eridian enters dormancy expecting that someone else will be there when they return. They keep watch over each other the entire time. The entire concept of waking up without another creature nearby is deeply disturbing.
Rocky knows this because he spent ninety-two cycles doing exactly that.
Instinct takes over before his conscious thoughts can spiral any further. He focuses through his initial panic and just tries to listen.
The Hail Mary reveals itself slowly through sound. Life support systems. Air circulation. Temperature control. Cooling pumps. A handful of damaged systems working around temporary repairs. Nothing sounds actively dangerous. Nothing sounds like an emergency. The ship itself appears stable, which is honestly more than Rocky expected after the last thing he remembers.
That realization calms him for approximately one ribec.
One of his pressure regulators has been recalibrated. Half a dozen monitoring systems have been adjusted while he was dormant. Whoever performed the work clearly had absolutely no formal Eridian engineering training whatsoever and was making educated guesses throughout the entire process. Rocky is simultaneously touched and offended. The repairs are terrible, but the effort behind them is nice. A faint vibration travels through the hull beneath him—human footsteps.
Relief crashes into him so suddenly that his whole body sags.
Grace.
The rhythm is unmistakable, but unfortunately, very wrong. Rocky knows Grace's gait. He memorized it within the first few nargons of living together. These footsteps belong to him beyond any reasonable doubt, but they're slower than he remembers, uneven. One side of his body is carrying noticeably more weight than the other. There is a hesitation every few steps, a subtle compensation Rocky has never heard before.
The conclusion arrives several ribecs before Grace rounds the corner into the open doorway. He's injured, quite heavily from what Rocky can tell.
"Rocky?" Grace's voice cracks halfway through the word. Rocky's claws tap against the floor, and he turns his carapace towards Grace. Grace's heartbeat accelerates, but it's not fear—it's relief. Rocky recognizes the distinction now. There is a sudden clatter outside his tunnel entrance, followed by several muttered words and a hurried attempt to regain balance. The footsteps speed up despite the obvious difficulty they're causing him, and then Grace appears, right in front of him.
For several ribecs, neither of them says anything. The human smells like antiseptics and recycled air. Every movement is accompanied by the faint shifting of fabric and the occasional creak of something rigid secured against one side of his body. Grace's breathing is slightly uneven. His heartbeat is healthy but elevated. Not dangerous, and definitely not dying.
"Grace alive," Rocky says finally.
The human immediately makes one of those strange noises Rocky still struggles to categorize properly. "Yeah, buddy," Grace says quietly. "Yeah. I'm alive. So are you, it seems."
Only then does Rocky notice something else—Grace's heartbeat hasn't slowed. If anything, it's gotten faster. Grace had been worried. Not about the ship, not about himself, but about Rocky. The thought settles strangely somewhere inside his chest cavity. He isn't entirely sure what to do with it, so instead, he asks the most important question available, "How long Rocky sleep, question?"
Grace lets out a long breath, "A little over three weeks."
Three weeks. Nearly a nargon. That explains the stiffness, the exhaustion, and the lingering haze clouding his thoughts. It also raises approximately seventy new questions, all of which begin competing for attention immediately. He realizes suddenly that Grace was alone, with no one to speak to, for nearly a nargon.
Grace laughs softly, "You're here, Rocky. You're okay.”
Rocky can tell there's moisture gathering in Grace's eyes, and the last thing he wants Grace to do is cry, so he aims to change the subject off of him, “Yes, Rocky okay. Grace okay too. Mission Grace Rocky save stars and escape great success. Erid Earth will build statues in honor.”
Grace laughs, the sound watery but more earnest than Rocky has heard recently, “Yeah, dude. We did it, and I've got great news for you. The FTL drive spat us out not too far from Erid. It'll take us about a year—or um, two cycles? I think that math works out? Anyway, we'll get there pretty soon and you can go home!”
There's something odd about that statement, but Rocky is tired, and he's still injured, so he's going to let Grace get away with it for now. There is one thing he can't let Grace get away with, however.
Since the immediate relief of finding Grace alive has faded, Rocky can finally dedicate proper attention to examining him. The human looks awful. He is thinner than Rocky remembers from before dormancy. The skin is thinner beneath his sight organs. His movements contain a stiffness that had not been there before. Most concerningly, his right arm appears to have ceased functioning correctly. The limb is secured tightly against his torso, wrapped in some absurd quantity of white material and held in place by a sling crossing his chest. Every time Grace shifts, Rocky hears tiny noises coming from inside the structure. The sounds remind him unpleasantly of damaged support beams.
"Grace broken."
The human blinks. For a moment, he looks genuinely confused by the statement, then his gaze drops toward his own body and understanding crosses his face, "Ah, I guess you would be able to tell, huh?"
Rocky has no idea humans insist on responding to alarming information with general flippancy, but it irritates him to no end, "Yes, can tell."
Grace huffs out a laugh, "I'm okay, buddy."
Rocky immediately decides this is a lie. Grace doesn't appear to be intentionally deceiving him. Grace is a terrible liar, so Rocky would know if Grace thought he was lying. No, the problem is that Grace appears to have convinced himself this is true. The evidence against this hypothesis is hanging directly from his shoulder. Rocky says dryly, "Arm broken.”
Grace glances downward again, "Uh, yeah? It is."
The response is far too casual. Rocky waits for concern or sadness to appear in Grace's voice, and when it doesn't, he tries again, "Arm broken."
"I agree,” Grace says, a smile playing on his face, though Rocky can't imagine what is possibly funny about this. Rocky's claws tap against the floor as he considers the reality of the situation: The arm is broken. Grace knows the arm is broken. Grace does not appear alarmed that the arm is broken, but Rocky is beginning to feel alarmed enough for both of them. The silence stretches long enough that Grace eventually rubs the back of his neck with his good hand, "It's really not that bad. Just, y’know, if you were worried about that."
Rocky cannot believe the creature stood before him. No concern for his life! Whatever, Rocky has enough concern for the both of them, "Grace arm broken. Rocky worried worried worried."
"It's just fractured, Rocky. It's gonna be fine."
"Grace bone detached."
Grace sighs, like he can't believe he's explaining this, which Rocky finds ridiculous, "The bone fractured."
"Important inside part detached," Rocky can hear his voice rising in pitch. Why does the human not care?
Grace closes his eyes briefly, and something about his expression suggests that he is trying to compose a response and rejecting several versions of it in rapid succession. Finally, he settles on, "Yeah, you're right, bud. It got detached, if that's how you wanna phrase it."
Rocky takes this as confirmation that he is correct, so he asks, "How much damage, question?"
Grace shrugs carefully, apparently unwilling to risk moving the injured side, "The break wasn't too bad. Armando handled it."
Rocky pauses all motion. He takes a moment before he speaks, and all he can do is say, "Break?"
"Yeah, that's what I said.”
“Break, question?"
"Rocky," Grace's expression shifts into something halfway between amusement and concern, like Rocky is being the unreasonable one here.
"What."
"What do you have against broken arms?”
Rocky gestures toward the arm, "Broken."
"Yes, I am aware. What's the problem with it?"
"Break mean permanent damage."
The amusement vanishes from Grace's expression, and for several ribecs, he just looks at Rocky. When understanding arrives, the human straightens slightly before all tension drops from his posture, "Ohhhh. Oh no."
"What."
Grace lets out a short breath through his nose, the half-laughter again, “Buddy, have I never explained this to you?”
Rocky waits instead of verbally answering. He's getting rather frustrated with the dumb human in front of him.
“Humans heal,” Grace says, like that explains anything. The environmental systems hum softly in the background. Several damaged pumps somewhere deeper in the ship continue operating at a rate Rocky finds personally offensive. Neither of them speak for a long moment. A smile pulls at one corner of Grace's mouth.
Finally, Rocky says, "Question. What mean humans heal? Humans heal small wounds, yes, question?"
The smile grows, because apparently Grace still thinks this situation is amusing, "The bone grows back together."
Rocky waits for the rest of the statement, but there is no rest, "Grace bone can do what, question?”
"Heal. Just like everything else in my body, my bones heal."
"No."
"It's the truth!"
"No."
"Rocky, I think I would know."
"Bone broken."
"Yes, we've established this."
"Broken bones stay broken."
Grace opens his mouth, but stops before he can say anything. He takes a moment to process what Rocky is trying to say, and then speaks again, "Okay. Human bones don't, though. Human bones heal."
The statement hits Rocky with all the force of a hull breach. For several ribecs, he stops processing language entirely.
Humans heal broken bones naturally. Without surgery, without replacement components, without engineered supports permanently attached to the body. The bones simply...repair themselves, which is absurd, and impossible, and horrifying. No species in the Federation can do that. Damage accumulates, bodies wear down, structural failures remain structural failures. That is simply the reality of being alive. Entire medical industries exist because of this reality, and apparently, humans looked at this universal truth and decided not to participate. Grace continues speaking, explaining the process in far more detail than Rocky is really capable of hearing. Something about cells and calcium and “it'll be fine in six weeks.” Rocky catches only fragments, most because he is too busy realizing something far more disturbing.
This should scare him.
Humans are already stronger than most species in the galaxy. They endure injuries that would incapacitate others. They continue functioning while terrified. They willingly throw themselves into danger to help people they care about, and now they can regenerate skeletal damage? This should be the final piece of evidence, the definitive proof that humans are every bit as frightening as the Federation claimed, but instead Rocky finds himself staring at Grace's arm and feeling only one thing—relief.
The realization catches him completely off guard. Relief. Not fear, or alarm, or a healthy uncomfortability. Relief. He's relieved that Grace is a freaky human and that he can heal from broken bones, that the damage isn't permanent. Somehow, that matters far more than the fact that Rocky has just learned humans possess one of the most absurd biological adaptations he has ever encountered. Grace is still talking, and Rocky finds he doesn't really care what he's saying. Grace is going to recover. The arm is going to recover. He's going to be fine. Rocky doesn’t need to spend the next two cycles feeling guilty about permanently damaging the only other intelligent creature aboard the Hail Mary, and that thought alone makes him feel substantially better.
Eventually, Grace notices his lack of focus, "You're not listening anymore."
"Rocky listening," he says, like a liar.
The human snorts, "No, you're not."
"Rocky hear all Grace words."
"What did I just say?"
Rocky pauses, and he knows he's been caught, so he gives up the game, "...Bone."
Grace immediately breaks into laughter, and the sound bounces pleasantly through the tunnel. Rocky's claws tap quietly against the floor while he listens. He’s missed hearing that sound.
Three weeks. Almost a nargon, Grace had been alone for three whole weeks. For him, there were no conversations, no fake arguments, no opportunities to force Rocky to listen to his opinions about baseball—which he still doesn't understand. Rocky finds himself wondering how many video logs Grace recorded during that time before firmly deciding he doesn’t want to know. The silence settles comfortably between them before Grace eventually shifts his weight against the doorway. The movement produces another faint creak from the structure around his arm.
"You know," Grace starts, "it would've been nice if you'd let me know you were alive. It's hard to tell when you're like that."
Rocky clicks his claws together, "Dormancy not Rocky choice."
"I know,” the reassurance comes easily enough from Grace, but there is something tired underneath it. Rocky finds himself listening a little more carefully as Grace lets out a long breath before speaking again, the admission quiet enough that it almost disappears beneath the ship's ambient noise, "I just wish I could've known that you were gonna be okay."
Rocky doesn't know how to respond to that. Fortunately, Grace continues talking before he has to, "And honestly, I kinda wish I could hug you."
Rocky feels his limbs twitching in poorly contained excitement. He feigns ignorance, "What mean?"
The human shrugs carefully, "I don't really know how to explain. Humans just do it."
"Grace hug ball before,” Rocky gently points out. Grace had done it several times, even though Rocky had never quite understood it and had complained the whole time.
Grace laughs, "Yeah, but I can't actually hug you, buddy. It's not really the same thing."
The statement catches Rocky unexpectedly off-balance. He can't make sense of it. Grace has hugged the shell before. Human arms are not large enough to wrap around it completely, but he has certainly attempted it. Rocky had mostly assumed the activity was symbolic, but apparently not. He asks, "What difference?"
Another shrug, and the human shifts again. He says, "It's not a big deal. It's just..." Grace trails off for a moment, seemingly searching for the right words, "y’know. You spend enough time around somebody, your brain starts wanting stuff."
Rocky has absolutely no idea what that means. Humans continue to be deeply strange. Thankfully, he already has a theory about this one thing, and he remembers the project waiting in the back of his tunnel is nearly complete. Rocky's claws tap once against the floor in excitement before he says, "Grace leave, statement."
The human blinks before saying, "...What?"
"Grace leave."
"I just got here! You just woke up!"
"Yes, Rocky aware."
Grace laughs, "Guess you feeling better means you're back to being bossy, huh?"
"Not bossy. Rocky perfect and polite always. Grace must leave. Grace is rude, overstay welcome," Even though he knows Rocky is joking, the human narrows his eyes, and Rocky can feel the suspicion trying to form. Before it has a chance, Rocky says, "Rocky have surprise."
The suspicion vanishes instantly, and Rocky adds it to his ongoing research on how easy humans are to manipulate. "You have a surprise?"
"Yes."
"What kind of surprise?"
"Surprise kind."
"Rocky..."
"Leave."
"Rocky, can't you just tell me? There's not a lot of places to go."
"Leave! Grace rest and Rocky get surprise ready."
The human laughs hard enough to make himself cough, and one hand comes up to rub at his face, "This better be worth it."
"Rocky promise worth."
"You sure?"
"Rocky already promised," he says exasperatedly.
Grace lets out a dramatic sigh, the sort humans perform when they are being intentionally theatrical, and he groans out, "Fine!"
His footsteps begin retreating down the corridor, intentionally dragging as part of his dramatics. Before Grace turns the corner, he calls out, "Hey, Rocky?"
"Yes, Grace,” Rocky answers, already itching to get the materials out.
Grace is quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer than before, "I'm really glad you woke up."
Rocky's claws still, and the words settle somewhere warm beneath his carapace. After a moment, he answers, "Rocky happy happy happy Grace okay."
Grace smiles and his footsteps recede, on their way to the sleeping quarters. By the time they disappear entirely, Rocky is already turning toward the far end of the tunnel toward the carefully assembled collection of metal, fabric, environmental systems, and terrible ideas that have occupied most of his thoughts since waking up.
If everything goes according to plan, Grace will not have to hug the ball anymore.
The surprise takes substantially longer than Rocky planned, which is primarily because the suit is still terrible.
It's not "explodes on contact" terrible, Rocky has standards. It is, however, the sort of terrible that comes from designing an entirely new category of environmental protection system while recovering from dormancy and working with materials that were never intended for the purpose. The atmospheric regulators work, mostly. The thermal systems work almost entirely. The mobility systems work sort of when they feel like it. Rocky spends the better part of four marbecs making adjustments, replacing components, and arguing with several pieces of xenonite that have collectively decided to become difficult. By the time he's finally satisfied, he's exhausted again. Fortunately, exhaustion is temporary. Grace's happiness is forever.
Rocky waits until he can hear the human moving around the habitat. The uneven gait is already improving. Apparently human healing is every bit as alarming as Grace claimed.
Secured in his new suit, Rocky leaves the safety of the tunnel slowly. Very slowly. The suit wraps tightly around his body, a flexible mesh of xenonite woven between layers of insulating material and environmental controls. Thin support structures run along his limbs wherever additional reinforcement is necessary, and several small atmospheric processors sit across his thorax and back, constantly adjusting the conditions inside. It's not elegant, nor is it particularly efficient. It is, however, functional.
For the first time since boarding the Hail Mary, Rocky is walking through human space without the protection of his shell. The experience is…unsettling. The ship feels larger under his claws, everything just seems more exposed. Rocky ignores the uncomfortable sensation and continues onward. He has a mission. Eventually, he follows the sound of Grace's heartbeat into the main compartment.
The human is sitting at a table, and he appears to be eating. Rocky still can't get behind the idea of humans insisting on treating every meal like a recreational activity, but he still says, "Hello Grace."
The sound that follows is spectacular. Grace knocks his unharmed elbow into something, and a container hits the floor. Grace makes a noise that strongly implies Rocky has accidentally shortened his lifespan, and then silence. Several very long ribecs of silence. Rocky waits—very patiently, he might add—but Grace continues staring. His heartbeat is fascinating. For a few moments, it simply accelerates and continues accelerating, then skips before resuming a normal rhythm. Finally, Grace manages, "Rocky?"
"Grace."
"What is that?"
Rocky straightens slightly, pride swelling up in him, "Environmental exoskeleton."
Grace continues staring, and Rocky is beginning to understand why humans enjoy revealing surprises. It's extremely satisfying.
"Okay," Grace says slowly. "Okay, hold on."
The chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he stands. Grace approaches, circles around him once, twice. The human's heartbeat continues climbing. He practically whispers, "Rocky."
"Yes Grace?"
"You made a suit."
"Yes!"
"A suit suit."
"Yes? Grace repeat self. Grace feel okay, question?"
"You made a suit!” Grace exclaims, gesturing at Rocky with his free hand. Rocky taps his claws together happily. This reaction is exceeding expectations.
"Suit not finished yet. Atmospheric processor need improvement. Temperature regulation inefficient. Rocky can only wear for limited time."
Grace doesn't appear to be listening. He crouches down, reaching toward the material covering one of Rocky's forelimbs before stopping halfway, "Can I touch it?"
Rocky pauses, considering explaining to Grace that he built it for Grace to touch, but decides that's a conversation for another malton unit and just says, "Yes."
Carefully, Grace places his hand against the suit, and the material shifts slightly beneath the contact. Rocky can feel him—not through the suit itself, but through the sensory layer beneath it, which had been the entire point of the project. Grace immediately notices, and his hand jerks back. "I can feel you."
"Yes. Means Rocky surprise great success!" Grace goes quiet at this, and Rocky finds himself inexplicably nervous. This part was harder to design than the environmental systems. Eridian sensory receptors aren't meant to operate this way, and he had no idea how human sensory receptors worked. He'd had to adapt most of the technology from scratch. The suit dampens harmful inputs while transmitting intentional contact. It was the whole point, but hearing it out loud makes him second guess everything.
Eventually, Grace asks softly, "Why?"
Rocky tilts his carapace in a gesture of confusion he picked up from nargons with Grace, "What mean why?"
"Why did you make the suit? The ball would've been just fine, it's only a year until we get to Erid."
For a moment, Rocky doesn't understand the question. Grace had said it himself, basically asked for it, You spend enough time around somebody, your brain starts wanting stuff. Humans remain impossible to please.
Several ribecs pass before he answers, "Grace say humans need touch." Grace doesn't say anything, but his heartbeat quickens, so Rocky continues before he loses confidence, "Grace hug shell before. Grace say not same. Rocky build way to make same."
A laugh escapes the human. Small and shaky around the edges.
"Not exact same," Rocky admits, nervous in Grace's prolonged silence. They've always bonded over science, and he can explain the science of it, so he continues, "Suit unfinished. Cannot use long time. Grace cannot touch long time. Need improvements. Rocky think maybe close enough, think Grace would want to see."
For several moments, Grace says absolutely nothing, and the silence seems to stretch. Rocky begins wondering if he has misunderstood humans again, but then Grace moves, entirely too fast for someone with a recently detached bone, "Grace—"
The human reaches him before he can finish. One arm wraps around the top of his carapace, the other loops around a front limb to connect with the other, and suddenly Rocky is surrounded. A human on all sides. He can feel the pressure through the suit—the warmth, the movement of Grace's clothing, the steady rhythm of Grace's heartbeat pressed against him. Every instinct he possesses insists this should be uncomfortable. This should be terrifying. The Federation spent centuries telling stories about humans—calling them predators, hunters, violent creatures from a distant, forgotten world. Everything Rocky has learned about them should be screaming at him to pull away, but he finds himself completely still. He isn't frozen with fear, he's comfortable here, in Grace's grasp.
Grace's grip tightens slightly, just enough to reassure himself that Rocky is actually there and he's allowed to touch him this way.
"Thank you," the human says quietly. This close, Rocky can feel the words vibrate through the suit. For a long moment, neither of them moves. Rocky listens to Grace—his heartbeat, his breathing, and the distant sounds of the Hail Mary surrounding them. There aren't any alarms, there are no emergencies, the Star Eaters are long dead. It's just them, sitting on the floor of the common area. His claws settle awkwardly against Grace's back, and the human immediately squeezes him tighter. Hugs are just another strange human thing, but when it's like this, Rocky decides he likes it.
Humans are strong. Humans are loud. Humans can heal broken bones and continue forward even when they're afraid. Every story Rocky had ever heard about them contained a grain of truth, he isn't denying that, but the Federation had misunderstood what that truth meant—because standing here, wrapped in the arms of one of the supposedly most dangerous creatures in the galaxy, Rocky has never felt safer in his life.
Maybe humans aren't as scary as he was taught. Maybe that's not it at all. Maybe humans are exactly as frightening as everyone says.
Maybe Rocky just got lucky.
