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Grace has always been cold natured.
His kids used to tease him about it all the time. Called him an old lady when he came to school with a suit jacket or a heavy knit sweater, even when the stubborn California summer lingered well into the fall. He joked back that his body evolved to fit his sophisticated fashion sense, which always got a round of howling laughter, but he never minded the teasing. He liked his sweaters. He liked the added weight, the fun designs, and the comforting feel of soft fabric. Liked being cozy. And he always felt a prickle of superiority when other teachers stumbled into school already coated in a layer of sweat. After all, who wouldn’t choose being a little cold over being hot and sweaty?
The cold has gotten much worse since he’s lost so much weight.
A year into a steady diet of coma slurry and taumoeba has whittled him down to barely more than skin and bones, and that slight, persistent chill has turned vicious, sinking deep to make a permanent home in his marrow. It sticks around no matter what he does. He bundles up under so many clothes he can’t put his arms down, waddling around the ship like the State Puff Marshmallow man, and his teeth still chatter. He burrows under his blanket and Yao’s blanket and Ilyukhina’s blanket, curled into a tight ball to squeeze out as much body heat as possible, and the cold still manages to slip in, trailing goosebumps across his skin.
The only thing that helps even a little is sleeping against the barrier between his atmosphere and Rocky’s, especially if he can “accidentally” fall asleep close to where Rocky tinkers with his gadgets. The warmth from both Rocky and his environment seeps through just enough to take the bite out of the cold, enough for Grace to catch a few hours of fitful sleep.
But it’s not the most comfortable napping spot in the world. It wasn’t even back when Grace had a healthy layer of fat between him and the hard surface. He wakes up feeling more like the old lady his kids accused him of being, his body one giant, throbbing bruise, every joint stiff to the point of immovability. It takes him a painfully long time to unstick himself from the wall, trying, and failing, to stifle any groans and grunts, all the now-sharp edges of himself bright with pain, and all the while he’s hyper-aware of Rocky’s focus on him, of the worried clicks of his claws.
It’s been days since he’s slept that way. He doesn’t want Rocky to worry any more than he already has.
Rocky has approached Grace’s food problem with the same singular focus he gave their dying stars. Which is to say, he’s extremely bossy about it. What Grace eats, when Grace eats, how much Grace eats, peppering him with questions about human nutrients and digestion, sometimes from the moment Grace cracks open his eyes until he pretends to fall asleep. It’s a little off-putting having that much attention directed at him. He’s never had someone that intent on his well-being, and Rocky isn’t one to accept half answers or hand-wavy responses like “eh, I’ll be fine”. But even with all his questions and research, Grace can tell Rocky didn’t fully understand how bad things were going to get.
There’s no outward change to an Eridian when they stop eating. All the damage happens underneath their hard exterior, and it takes a long time for that damage to happen. So Rocky was a little bewildered and distressed when Grace’s body started cannibalizing itself, and it doesn’t help that Grace might have downplayed the side effects a little. Or as safely as possible. In a way, it reminds him of trying to explain difficult concepts to his kids, like with the astrophage. Trying to thread the needle between keeping them informed and not scaring the beejeezus out of them.
On the one hand, he wants Rocky and the other Eridians to be informed enough to give them the best chance at keeping him alive. He’s very invested in that. But on the other hand . . .
On the other hand, he knows Rocky feels guilty about the whole “risking death by slow and painful starvation to save Erid” thing, and Grace feels guilty that Rocky feels guilty and, well, someone has to stop the guilt spiral.
Which is why Grace is currently being very brave and very selfless (suck it, Stratt) curled up on his cot under a mountain of blankets and shivering so hard his bones might shatter. Turning into a human-sized popsicle isn’t too bad if it means Rocky isn’t so stressed anymore.
And not to toot his own horn, but he thinks it’s working. Rocky hasn’t asked a single question about food in the last few days. Oddly enough, all his attention has turned to Grace’s spacesuit. He’s been asking about a million questions a day about it, and his worried clicking has shifted into that excited shimmy he does. Grace might be freezing and starving and probably dying (most definitely dying) but that excited curiosity makes him feel like he’s at least doing one thing right.
So he curls up into a tighter ball and tries to ignore the way his hip bone digs straight through the thin mattress on the bed and into the hard metal beneath. There’s no use in shifting around. No position is comfortable, new aches and new pains flare up with each movement, so he simply squeezes his eyes shut and hopes for the best.
It’s been a while since he’s gotten a good night’s sleep and it’s been even longer since he’s eaten enough to keep him full, so his thoughts are nothing more than buzzing, white static these days, which is why he doesn’t think much of it when he feels a light tap against the small of his back.
With a grumbled complaint, Grace rolls over, a feat that feels similar to pushing himself through rapid water, and freezes.
“You’re . . .” His thoughts muddle as he blinks, the rusty gears in his brain churning smoke. “You’re . . .not in a ball.”
Rocky stands in front of him encased in what looks like a suit of xenonite. What looks almost like a spacesuit of xenonite. He stands taller, obviously proud, but all Grace can see is Rocky on fire. Rocky with black smoke billowing out of his vents. Rocky slumped and unmoving and quiet.
Grace props himself up on shaky arms and immediately collapses back onto the bed. “Is that safe?”
Rocky makes an annoyed noise. “Of course is safe. You very stupid now.”
“Yeah, well, you kinda interrupted my nap.”
Grace blinks, and then blinks again, harder, when the vision of Rocky doesn’t disappear. He’s having a hard time deciding if this is real or some half-baked hallucination his starving mind came up with. ‘Cause that would be what his mind would create. Not a vivid dream of chowing down on a burger or sitting out on a nice warm beach for so long his skin fries. But this. A free-range Rocky.
A free range Rocky. Horror settles over him, smothering the shock. Rocky inside a ball was chaotic enough. Rocky outside a ball . . .
His mind flashes with visions of there being no safe place on the ship when Rocky announces, “I come up.”
Grace only has time for a startled “wah” before Rocky starts clambering onto the bed, forcing Grace to shift backwards to make room, almost falling off the edge himself. Rocky, of course, ignores all the flustered noises of protest, intent on squeezing himself right in the middle of Grace’s bed.
“What are you-” Grace splutters as Rocky tries to find a comfortable position. They both freeze as the bed groans under Rocky’s weight, but nothing breaks (yet) and Rocky continues his quest to find the best spot, trampling over Grace’s blankets.
“Grace cold. Rocky warm. Rocky fix.” Rocky juts his carapace out as much as he can. “Grace sleep now.”
Grace freezes. And, okay, yeah that was. . .yeah. He blames the lack of sleep and food on the way his eyes start to sting, his throat tightening. Stuff like this still catches him off guard. Maybe it shouldn’t. Rocky almost died saving him after all, but Grace still doesn’t expect him to do . . .anything like this.
Rocky continues to try to find a comfortable spot before settling down and tucking his legs under him, either unaware that Grace has to balance practically on the edge of the bed to make room for him or uncaring, and Grace gets hit with the image of those pictures people post on social media, of being relegated to the very edge of their own beds while their cats claim more than half.
“Look, Rock, that’s nice, really, but you don’t have to-it’s going to be a while,” he’s rambling and he’s teetering on the edge, and Rocky places a leg over Grace. Just one, but it’s still heavy enough to pin him in place before he can tumble onto the floor. Not heavy enough to be uncomfortable, though, just slightly more heft than a weighted blanket. “And-oh my gosh.”
The warmth hits him in one, full body shivering wave. It unspools aches he didn’t even know he had and all thoughts and worries dissolve. He’s not sure how Rocky managed to do it, except that he’s a genius, but his warmth slips through the xenonite, a steady and comfortable wave, like Grace’s own personal heater. He curls instinctively around Rocky, going limp with a sigh.
“You don’t need to-” Grace mumbles, but it’s a losing battle. That blissful warmth picks apart his thoughts, and every single one of his sleepless nights surges forward. He was in the middle of a sentence. He vaguely remembers that. There was some point he wanted to make, some excuse, but he can’t remember whatever it was. He’s having a hard time even remembering his own name. Sleep pulls him down and the last thing he hears is a satisfied and pleased chord from Rocky.
“Rocky fix.”
He drifts.
Space opens up around him. Stars bright pinpricks in the distance, surrounded by so much empty black, breathtaking and terrifying. A tether tugs at his waist, keeping him in place, but there’s still a little niggle of fear that he might drift off into that wide expanse. He glances down to tell someone to pull him back in, but there’s no one and nothing below him, just more empty black, more distant bits of light.
He’s alone.
A sharp pang sears through his chest, a rising sense of alarm. Someone is supposed to be here. He knows someone is supposed to be out here with him. Someone is supposed to be keeping him grounded. He turns and twists, floating weightless, searching, when he hears it. Musical notes, rising and falling, meaning slipping sideways just out of reach. He strains to hear and the notes shift into a voice. A woman’s voice. Long hair, a serious expression, flashes of smiles. A song he knows but can’t place, and that pang of loneliness in his chest shifts into something heavier. Weighter.
Panic.
The tether tugs once, twice, a firm pressure around his waist, and it’s no longer a tether but an arm yanking him down hard.
He crashes onto earth.
The pressure shifts into a knee digging into his spine, a throbbing spark of pain, but he barely feels it over the rising panic. That’s all there is. Wild and thrashing, all consuming and choking. There’s dirt in his nose and on his tongue, blades of grass pushed against his cheeks. The pressure is there, holding him down no matter how hard he struggles. Stopping him from moving. Hands wrap around his wrists, shove them into earth, hard enough to bruise.
The song loses all meaning. Lyrics dissolving into nothing but chords, high strung and panicked.
His lips move but he can’t hear the words over the sound in his head. The swell of it, a thousand seagulls screeching. He bucks, but the weight on him doesn’t budge an inch, and his lungs stop sucking in air as a white cloaked figure draws closer. He has to get up, they have to let him up, get off get off get off-
The pressure disappears.
Grace jerks upward but the movement is too fast. The world spins around him with a sickening lurch and his scramble turns into a frantic tumble onto the floor. He heaves in dirt free air but the panic is still there. A live-wire skitter across his skin, vibrant enough he barely feels the spark of pain as his knee hits the floor, followed by his elbow. A primal instinct to get away still has a stranglehold on him, and he crawls backwards, palms slapping hard floor and not dirt, heart in his throat and chest heaving in ragged breaths before his back hits the wall.
Reality filters in slowly. There’s no earth. No sky. No faint stench of smoke still lingering from the explosions. No white clad figures running towards him. He’s on a spaceship. The Hail Mary. The mission. The trip to Erid. Rocky.
Rocky.
Rocky stands farther away, almost pressed up against the far side of the room, still safely encased in his suit. His carapace hovers lower to the ground and for one split, nauseating second, Grace worries that he’s scared Rocky or hurt him in his panicked flailing.
“Hurt Grace, question?” Rocky asks with a slight quiver at the end and it’s that wobble of a note, that shiver of uncertainty, more than anything that snaps Grace out of the pressure and the panic and the hands gripped like cuffs around his wrists.
“No!” He says quickly. “No, you didn’t. I’m . . .you didn’t. It was just a dream.”
He looks down at his hands, trembling slightly still, from fear and adrenaline both. The skin around his wrists is smooth, unblemished. Of course it is. Any bruises would have healed years ago while he was comatose. He can still feel it though. Ghost hands wrapped around him, tight enough to make his bonds grind together. He can vividly remember grabbing fistfuls of dry grass, fingernails clawing up dirt, like he could stay if only he could cling to the planet hard enough. His hands are clean now, of course. Were clean the moment he woke up from his coma. Probably even long before they put him on the Hail Mary. Every last particle of earth scrubbed away while he was unconscious.
Grace slumps back against the wall and closes his eyes with a ragged exhale. Funny. The last thing he remembers of earth is the hardpacked dirt against his face and the prickle of grass against his skin. He can’t even remember if the sun was shining or if it was cloudy or cold, but he remembers the smell of dirt. Remembers what it was like to have someone holding him down, to feel the prick of a needle against his neck, to feel the cold move through his veins and-
“You have . .. bad sleep, question?”
Grace opens his eyes, heartbeat thudding hard against his ribs. Rocky’s carapace is still low to the ground, such a drastic difference from that proud jut from earlier, and Grace feels a sharp pang of guilt. He has to pull himself together. He takes another deep breath, it doesn’t shudder quite as much this time, and plasters on a too-wide smile.
“Yeah, pal, just a nightmare.” They’ve already talked about this before. Rocky was amaze amaze amaze at how strange human brains are. “Just a nightmare. Totally normal. Nothing you could have done or did.”
Rocky makes a low, disbelieving sound. “Grace want to get up. Grace say let him up.” He shifts. “Grace heart beat fast fast fast.”
“Just part of the dream.” His smile feels flaky now. His fingers curl around one wrist, the slightest of pressure, but he still feels a shiver of panic echo down his spine. He forces a chuckle, small and strained even to his pathetic human ears. “Really, it’s nothing. Dreams don’t make any sense half the time anyway.”
Rocky moves an inch closer. His claws click together. Grace knows him well enough by now to know it’s more worry than curiosity. “What Grace dream?”
The words get stuck in Grace’s throat like a glob of taumoeba. He still hasn’t told Rocky about the whole not actually being willing to die for his planet debacle. There were plenty of chances to casually tell his best friend he’s actually a selfish coward but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Mentally, he knows Rocky isn’t the type to leave him high and dry. Rocky has already proven he’s a much better huma. . .life form? than Grace is. Emotionally though . . .
Based on previous experience, the more Grace opens up, the more he lets people in, the faster they tend to run away. And Rocky is about to be the only creature he knows on an entire planet. He’s not sure what he’ll do if he ends up alienating (ha) Rocky.
Rocky’s bossy and he’s nosey and he’s always paying attention to everything and it’s weird and something Grace isn’t used to, has never had before, and it can be annoying and offputting and sometimes Grace considers flinging himself out into space just for a little bit of a break. But underneath the annoyance and the frustration, it’s nice. It feels good and he likes it, he likes having a friend, and that terrifies him. Last time he did something no one liked, his friends dropped him. Well, technically, that last time he did something no one liked they drugged him, put him in a coma, and shot him off into space to die.
Turns out he’s perfectly willing to die for Rocky, but he’s not willing to lose Rocky.
Grace glances back down at his hands. Absently traces a finger down a line on his palm. Dirt free. Not even a scar. Wonders if the Eridians will just shoot him back into space. Thanks for saving the planet. Have some food. Best of luck. Hope to never see you again.
There are more clicking sounds and it’s strange that Grace can feel it when Rocky’s focusing on him. A little prickle at the back of his neck. Some leftover prey instinct. But it’s not bad. Definitely not nearly as bad as being in a room full of people with their eyes all on him.
“Really, it’s just weird human stuff,” Grace says to his hands as casually as possible, but he knows Rocky can hear the faint tremor in his voice, can hear the too-fast beat of his heart. It’s exceptionally difficult to have high walls when you’re around a creature who can hear everything no matter how far away you are. The cold has started to slip in again, but he hardly notices it. “Have I told you about the time I dreamt I was riding my bed across the ocean?”
He starts to ramble because that’s what he does best (and worst) and Rocky slowly edges forward, hesitantly, and Grace can tell it’s more for his benefit. He’s not sure Rocky fully believes that he hasn’t hurt him. But eventually, he sits beside Grace and that steady warmth leaks out and into Grace’s bones and he feels himself unwind, even as he spills out a veritable word vomit with a healthy dose of embellishment. Slowly and surely, his heart starts to settle, and slowly and surely, he tilts to the side just enough to lean against Rocky. It’s not long before Rocky leans back, not enough to knock Grace over, but just enough to provide a little bit of pressure.
Just enough for Grace to feel he isn’t alone.
Gradually, Grace stops seeing blurred figures hovering at the edges of his vision and his throat feels less tight with each swallow. He can tell Rocky still has questions (when doesn’t he?) but he doesn’t push. It helps that talking about the ocean opens up the conversation to a whole host of new and baffling earth creatures for Rocky to ask about, but Grace knows Rocky hasn’t forgotten or moved on. The little punk never forgets a thing. But he lets it go for now, and Grace adds that to the growing list of things to be grateful for.
Eventually, Rocky starts asking questions about whales, all excited and horrified, and Grace wonders who is trying to distract who, but his smile this time is genuine. As he tries to find the right words to explain just how large whales get, his fingers move from his wrist to absently trace the spot on his arm. His wrists are smooth and his hands are clean, but there’s a scar on his forearm now, a raised sunburst of red skin, one that isn’t ever going away.
He knows he’s eventually going to tell Rocky the truth. He owes him that much. But for now, he wants to live in a little bubble where he hasn’t colossally screwed everything up just yet. He wants to pretend he’s the type of person Rocky thinks he is. For now, he pays attention to Rocky’s excited chords, the way he can’t help but shimmy back and forth in excitement. He lets himself forget the past, forgets the possible future and the way he always screws things up, and focuses on the warmth.