Chapter Text
Ryland has only just learned his name when he discovers the bodies of his crew mates.
Two dead. One still in a coma. He shudders at the mummified bodies, his stomach going ice cold when he discovers their ill fated demise. It’s hard to look at them, these poor strangers trapped in perfectly-sized caskets. Ryland’s only respite is the sight of the coma patient; he tries to wake them up, poking and prodding at their shoulder through the thick plastic body bag containing them in their comatose state. He frantically calls out the name written on their suit to no avail. When nothing works, Ryland leaves them be.
He spends several hours pouring through the belongings of his crewmates — trying to make sense of who these people were, what his relationship to them was — before sending the deceased ones off with their things. Ryland finds his own haphazard pack of belongings next: funky T-shirts with science puns on them, a singular Polaroid photo of himself (with no others), and — buried beneath it all and wrapped in a napkin — a silver ring.
Ryland stares at it for a long time. He can’t recall for certain where the ring came from; the memories are distant. Given his lack of photos with a significant other, though, Ryland doesn’t initially think he has a spouse. Maybe he just likes to wear rings? No, he doesn’t seem like a jewelry guy. A memento from a loved one, then? Well, that doesn’t make much sense. He gets a weird ache in his heart when he looks at the band, though; a tautness in his chest that won’t go away.
Ryland lifts the ring, sliding the pad of his thumb over it. He lifts it to the light, admiring the shine against the sleek, smooth surface. In doing so, he notes an inscription on the inside of the band: “To the moon and back.”
That seems awfully romantic, doesn’t it?
Ryland deduces that — given the photos (or lack thereof), the ring, the ache — he must be a widow. The revelation is somewhat of a good sign — he’s making progress on his sense of self, after all — but it also makes him want to cry again. So he does exactly that: he sits on the floor and hunches over, letting the grief take over him. He holds the ring to his chest and lets it all out, even though the act of crying (again) elicits a headache.
At least he knows he isn’t heartless.
. . .
Ryland likes to talk to his crew mate.
Obviously, they can’t respond, and he probably looks like an idiot for talking to someone in a coma, but he would feel bad to leave them all alone. Ryland doesn’t have anyone else, anyway. He spends his days sitting by their side, sifting through their belongings: a photo of them at the beach. Another of them posing with their NASA badge with the crew behind them. More photos of them, this time with friends and family. At the bottom of the stack, a photo of them at a dimly lit restaurant. They’re smiling with a look of pure adoration, arm stretched across the table as they hold the hand of their lover behind the camera. Ryland stares at that one the longest — he’s not trying to be a creep or anything, but they’re beautiful. Radiant. Stunning. (The adjectives go on.) He imagines it must be nice that they’ll have someone to go back to once this whole mission is over. Ryland isn’t so lucky.
He asks them questions aloud, wondering what their life must have been like back on Earth. Were they scared? Surely they must have been if they had to leave their partner behind. Did they have full support? Were they taken care of? Did they know they would be stranded with an amnesiac schoolteacher who took three hours just to figure out his own name?
When he tires of his own rambling and picking through his comatose comrade’s belongings, Ryland sighs heavily, watching them rest upon the table. The annoying little robot that rudely woke him up from his own coma — which he has aptly named “Armando” for its General Grievous-esque sets of arms — has tended to them nonstop since Ryland found them. There’s a feeding tube down their throat at the moment, keeping nutrients in their body. Ryland doesn’t like to look at it; it makes his stomach feel queasy. He’s always been on the squeamish side. He suddenly remembers seeing one of his students trip in the hallway, and when her knee bled profusely, he nearly fainted.
Thankfully, there’s no blood leaking from his crew mate’s body, only the somewhat horrifying sight of the tube protruding from their mouth. He averts his eyes out of self preservation for his twisting stomach.
By now, Ryland is sure that if they ever wake, he’s made a fool of himself. He has shared every embarrassing story about his life on Earth that he can recall — mostly for his own sanity. It feels good to share his thoughts aloud to someone, even though he’s terrified that they can hear him through their coma. Would they think he’s weird? Funny? Charming? A huge loser? It’s impossible to know.
At the very least, they’re a good listener.
. . .
“Human sleep, question?”
Rocky is nosy. When Ryland comes to check on his comatose friend, the alien just has to come along.
“They’re in a coma,” Ryland explains. “I was in one, too, before you and I met.”
“Coma,” Rocky echoes. His body turns towards Ryland's inquisitively. “Why human still coma, question?”
The scientist shrugs, his shoulders sinking. For a moment, he can’t look at his sleeping crew mate. “I don’t know. Something’s wrong, I guess. I’m not sure if they’ll wake up anytime soon.”
Rocky’s body similarly sinks, drooping within the confines of his ball. His body turns back to that of the unmoving human. “Long time sleep.”
“Uh-huh. Long time sleep,” Ryland confirms with a nod.
His throat feels tight at the thought. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore. Rocky’s company is wonderful, but being the only walking, talking human for light years is lonely. Once they save their planets and Rocky returns to Erid, Ryland will be on his own all over again. He still hasn’t told Rocky that the Hail Mary doesn’t have enough fuel to return home. He hasn’t told Rocky that he’s scared to take away his crew mate’s life support because he’s clinging to the hope that they’ll wake up soon enough. He’d sooner starve to death than risk pulling the plug on them before they’re ready to wake. He can’t be alone. He can’t.
Beside him, Rocky sits, his little rock body thudding against the ground. “Grace Rocky watch human sleep,” Rocky decides. It is notably not a question.
Ryland smiles, giving his friend’s ball an affectionate pat.
“Yeah. We’ll watch them sleep.”