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One Grace-sleep is not so long.
It is not “night,” but Grace calls it night, and so Rocky does too. One human night. One third of one human day. One three-hundred-thousandth of Rocky’s life so far.
This is what Rocky tells himself. He folds up on his xenonite shelf above Grace’s sleeping area, and he listens, and he fiddles with his clock, and he tells himself that it is not so long.
Humans do not sleep like Eridians do. They are loud. Rocky is grateful for this. He is grateful for Grace’s steady heartbeat, thu-thunk, thu-thunk, thu-thunk, and for his constant need to inhale and expel the air around him. Rocky is grateful, too, for Grace’s little rustlings—his turning over onto his side, his pulling the quilt up higher to his chin, his resting his arm vaguely over his face. These are very strange characteristics of humans. It is as if they do not quite sleep, even when they do.
So, it is loud, and it is not so long. Rocky reminds himself of this every time he must fold up on the xenonite shelf (and it is often—far too often).
It is loud, and it is not so long.
But it is too quiet, and it is not short enough.
~~~
Each night (Grace-sleep), Rocky folds himself up on the xenonite shelf and listens to Grace’s breathing even out. It gets slower; Rocky hates that. Slow, slow, slow, and then asleep. His heart, too: too slow, too steady, like the organ itself could fall asleep in his chest.
Slow, slow, slow, and then asleep, and then more than asleep, and then there will be no Grace left at all. These are the thoughts that run through Rocky’s mind while he sits on the xenonite shelf. Grace is meant to ramble on about smart and stupid things. He is not meant to be quiet. To be quiet is to be halfway gone.
Sometimes, on the nights when Grace becomes too quiet, Rocky taps his claws against the xenonite shelf. Just gentle, so that the vibrations reverberate through the ground, and so that he can get a better picture of Grace curled up and squishy and still breathing.
Sometimes he is not so gentle. This is on the nights when Grace is far too quiet for far too long. The nights when Rocky’s legs draw up tense against his body, and when terrible thoughts roll over each other in his head. The nights when Rocky sees his crew.
Sometimes he taps his claws just a little too hard, so that it makes Grace shift, or even startle, or sometimes blink awake and look up at him.
Grace does not like when Rocky does this. C’mon, buddy, just let me sleep, he mumbles. I need it. It’s not so long.
Rocky should feel bad, because Grace does need his sleep, and he is irritable and stupid when he does not get it. But in the moment, Rocky can never manage such a feeling. He is too busy being relieved.
~~~
Today is one of those too-quiet nights. They have been happening more, lately. Grace has been tapering down his food so that he can make his stores last for the rest of the long trip to Erid. My body is acclimating, he promises, but he is foggy and tired and stupid, and his face scrunches up often. He is a bit nauseous, he says, but don’t worry. He just has a headache, he says. He is just tired.
His face is scrunched up even now, huddled under his quilt with his knees pulled up to his chest. Earlier, he was twisting and thrashing, and that was okay, because even if he is hurting, Rocky knows he is alive. But now he is still. So still. And so quiet.
Rocky shifts a little, finding the thread of Grace’s breathing. He is breathing, at least. In, slow, slow, slow, out, and over and over again. Human breathing draws oxygen into the lungs. Humans need oxygen. What if Grace breathes too slow, and he doesn’t get enough?
Rocky finds Grace’s heartbeat. Is it fainter than usual? He cannot tell. Humans only have one heart. When it stops, they die. Is Grace’s heart going to stop? Is it too hungry to keep its rhythm in his chest?
Eridians’ hearts stop when they sleep. This is normal. Their muscles still to nothing, and this is normal, too. No dreams, like Grace’s strange visions that make him wake up sweating and scared. Just still. Just quiet. Just like dying.
Rocky did not watch his crew sleep. Not all of them, and not properly. He spent too much time messing around with the ship, finding little things to fix and useless things to improve, coming up with grand ideas of saving the world.
He slept in the engine room. His crew watched him from the deck, which is enough. But Rocky did not watch them. Not really.
Even after he knew something was wrong, he didn’t watch them. He didn’t know what was going on. No one did. He was scared to watch a corpse.
Instead, he messed around, and his crew fell asleep, one by one by one.
Asleep. No heartbeats. No twitching. And then nothing ever again. Nothing at all.
~~~
Bad. This is bad. Rocky draws up his legs, vibrating slightly against the xenonite. Grace might be dying, right now, right under Rocky. Rocky can’t let Grace die. Grace has a whole life to live on Erid. A whole long, happy, human life.
Rocky stands up, stepping back to get into his xenonite suit and close it up around him. He thinks he should be ready, though he does not know what for—there is nothing he can do if Grace stops breathing.
The clink of the xenonite against xenonite should be enough to make Grace shift, but it doesn’t. Rocky’s claws are unsteady as he seals the suit shut.
When he has managed it, Rocky turns back along the shelf above Grace’s head. This time he taps the xenonite purposefully, and it rings out even higher and clearer than usual. Grace does not shift under his quilt.
Bad, bad, bad, bad.
Rocky is going to lose Grace. Stupid, smart, brave Grace, who was sent to die but is not supposed to.
Rocky lets himself out of his space on the shelf, stumbling a bit on his front legs as he scrambles over to Grace’s mattress on the ground.
His xenonite-encased claw hovers for a moment over Grace’s shoulder.
Rocky was not there the first time one of his crew did not wake up. Or the second. Or the third.
He was there the last time. He is not sure that he is not there again right now.
Rocky pushes down on Grace’s shoulder, hard but not enough to break his fragile human body. It will not matter, anyway, if Grace dies. But Rocky still does not want to break him.
Grace shifts, and Rocky pulls his claw back, trembling.
“Wh—lights on?” Grace mutters, voice still slow and thick with sleep. Humans cannot see without light.
“Lights,” the ship confirms. The quiet buzz of the LEDs joins the regular electric buzz of the ship.
Then there is a moment—Grace blinking blearily, probably, like he always does when he wakes up. Rocky can only stay frozen in place, legs folded up to his body.
There is Grace, and he is here, and he speaks and blinks and breathes, which means he is alive. But he is also dead, or soon to be, quiet on the floor, and so are Rocky’s crew, lost forever in space with no one there to watch them. They are all dead. Everyone. Rocky is alone.
When Grace speaks, his voice is tense and high, which are human indicators for fear. “Woah, hey, hey, buddy. What’s goin’ on?”
Rocky’s legs shake, unsteady under him, xenonite tapping against the ground. It is hard to keep track of Grace in the wobbly world of confused vibrations.
Then Grace is in front of him, fingers skating hesitantly over the xenonite covering his carapace. “What’s wrong? Rocky? C’mon, buddy, you gotta talk to me.”
All Rocky can manage is a low, whirring whine, a wordless sound that the translator could not possibly understand.
Grace can’t die. He can’t die, because he hasn’t made peace with it, not really, because that’s just a thing humans say, not a thing they really mean.
He can’t die, because he has a whole life left to live, because he hasn’t been to Erid, because he hasn’t met Adrian.
He can’t die, because his corpse will be left here on the ship, soft and rotting, and Rocky will not be able to move it, because it is not something he has ever been able to do.
Because then Rocky will be alone here. Rocky can’t be alone again.
Grace drops to the ground in front of him, facing Rocky’s carapace. Rocky can tell that tears rise in Grace’s eyes, and it only makes his whine lower and deeper.
“Can you—is it the atmosphere?” Grace asks, stumbling over his words. “Something wrong with the suit? C’mon, it’ll be better in the other room.”
Rocky taps his fists no—he can’t move, can’t possibly enter his xenonite area, where he will be separated from Grace by a thick wall instead of a flexible suit.
Grace nods quickly. “Okay. Okay, Rocky, is there something I need to do right now? Are you—are you in danger? Something bad happening to you?”
Grace is scared. Rocky can hear it in his breathy voice; in his tense shoulders; in the tears in his eyes; in the way his palms hover, like he is not sure whether to touch the xenonite, even though usually he just does.
But Rocky is not in danger. Rocky is never the one in danger. Only his crew. Only Grace.
Rocky taps his fists no.
Grace exhales. His shoulders sink down, and some of the wet human tears begin to roll freely down his face.
“Okay,” he says. “That’s good.”
Rocky can only stay in place, paralyzed but for the constant trembling of his carapace. Grace does not understand. Grace cannot understand.
Grace wipes his face with his sleeves, then leans forward, resting a palm on Rocky’s carapace to steady him.
“Whatever’s going on, I’m right here, okay?” Grace whispers, bumping his forehead up against the xenonite. “I’ve got you. We’ll figure this out.”
Rocky lets himself tilt forward, so that he is so close to Grace’s face and can hear every one of his shaky breaths. Breathing means that Grace is alive.
“I’ve got you,” Grace repeats, more firmly this time. He adjusts his grip, so that he is almost giving Rocky a human hug, though he does not put his head on top of Rocky’s carapace like he sometimes does—maybe so that he can keep watching him. “You know that, buddy. Forever and ever.”
Not forever, Rocky wants to argue. Not forever, not even if you do make it to Erid. Not even if you live a whole human life. Not forever by a long shot.
Still, Grace’s death does not feel so near, when his cool, human hands are pressed up against the xenonite covering Rocky’s carapace, and when Rocky can hear his breathing and the vibrations of his voice so loud and close.
“I would tell you to breathe,” Grace says with a shaky laugh, “but that’s not how you work.”
That is true, but Rocky likes that he says it, anyway.
“Grace cannot die,” Rocky manages to say. “Statement.” The translator cannot capture the tones of his voice, but he hopes Grace can hear them anyway. He is serious. There is nothing more serious.
Grace blinks. “I’m not going to die.”
He is not sure, though. Rocky knows that he is not sure.
“You get quiet,” Rocky counters. Now that he is speaking, he has so many things to say, and it is difficult to keep his sentences simple and clear enough for the translator to process. “You get slow. Your heart, your breathing, your movement. Slow and quiet.”
Grace pulls back, looking at him. His voice is clearer, now, though the thickness of tears still lingers around the edges. “My body is conserving energy. You don’t have to worry. It’s normal.”
“Is normal for humans to starve, question?” (It is not really a question. Rocky knows the answer.)
Grace pauses. “Okay. It’s not normal. But it’s expected. I’ve done the math. I’ll make it to Erid.”
Rocky knows this. He knows Grace’s math—watched him work it out, and worked it out, too, in case Grace’s slow human brain made a mistake. But sometimes math is wrong, even when it is right. Sometimes there’s something else there that you can’t see or account for. And so sometimes you die anyway. Die slowly. Rocky knows this well by now.
“Grace too quiet,” Rocky says eventually, letting his own voice drop so it is more like a hum. “Rocky never sure Grace will wake up.”
Grace makes a low sound in his throat. He does that sometimes—like the closest thing he has to Eridian language. It means he’s sad. Usually it means Rocky said something sad.
“M’ sorry, buddy,” he murmurs. “I don’t mean to scare you.”
Rocky knows this. And he knows that Grace has no choice, anyway, in rationing his food, and he knows that Grace has no choice in dying. There is nothing for Grace to apologize for.
Grace is watching him, still, without ever looking away for a moment. He pushes his messy hair out of his face. His eyelids are still heavy with sleep.
“You know I can’t promise,” Grace says quietly. “And it’s—it’s gonna get worse. But right now, I’m okay. Really. And I’m gonna try not to die on you, alright?”
“Grace can’t decide if Grace dies.”
Grace sighs. “I know.”
They are silent, for a little while. Rocky is less shaky, now, and so Grace is clearer in front of him. He focuses on Grace’s breathing—still a little unsteady, like he is not quite back to calm after Rocky woke him up. At least unsteady is better than quiet.
Suddenly, Grace slams his hand down on the floor—not that hard, not enough to make a loud sound, but enough to make Rocky startle.
“Actually, no,” Grace announces, pointing at Rocky. “I’m deciding this time. Okay? I’ve decided. You’re stuck with me.”
Rocky shifts. “Rocky confused.”
“Yeah, yeah, I don’t get to decide if I die,” Grace says, waving his hand dismissively. “But I don’t care. I’m deciding anyway. I’m not leaving you alone.”
Rocky perks up a bit. Grace seems very sure. Grace is rarely so sure about things, except for when he is right.
“I mean, we’ve saved two planets,” Grace points out. “What’s a little starvation?”
Rocky rumbles, excited by Grace’s confidence. “Easy, easy, easy.”
Then Grace’s voice softens, almost to a whisper, as if he doesn’t even want the ship computer to overhear—a sort of voice he reserves for very gentle moments, like his promise when Rocky was dying.
“I’m not leaving you alone,” he repeats. “Alright?”
He extends his hand, holding his fingers stretched out and his palm facing sideways. Rocky is not sure what to do with it.
“It’s a human thing,” Grace explains, making a grabbing motion. “A handshake. You put your—your claw in my hand. Here.”
He reaches forward, guiding Rocky’s arm so that his xenonite-encased claw rests in Grace’s hand. Grace holds it tight in front of him.
“Okay, now we shake, up and down like this,” Grace says, moving his hand up and down only a bit in the air. Rocky lets his claw follow.
“What is the purpose, question?”
“We’re agreeing,” Grace says. “I’m—I’m making a commitment. Like a business decision. You’re stuck with me.”
Grace has not mentioned this human ritual before. Eridians do not have such a way to signify a promise. Rocky thinks it is nice.
“Rocky stuck with Grace,” Rocky confirms, shaking his claw a bit more and moving Grace’s hand around with it. In the moment, with Grace here and so sincere and so alive, with his hand holding Rocky’s claw, it is hard to believe anything else.
Stuck with Grace. Rocky thinks this is a very good business decision.
“Good,” Grace says, letting Rocky’s claw go and flexing his fingers a bit, pushing them against his other hand. “And I have an idea.”
~~~
Rocky is not sure he quite understands Grace’s idea.
“C’mon,” Grace insists, gesturing for Rocky to follow as he turns back towards his mattress. “Here. C’mon. Come under.”
There is no point arguing, really—a determined Grace is a powerful force. Rocky clambers after him, stepping up onto the mattress and under his own xenonite shelf. The mattress sinks down under Rocky’s weight. It is strange—soft and springy.
Grace lies down, like usual, on his side. He pulls the quilt over him, like he always does. Then he pats his hand on the fabric in front of him, looking at Rocky.
Rocky manages to get to where Grace indicates—it is a little difficult to move on the spongy material—and then folds up his legs. Grace, in turn, curls up around him, so that Grace’s chest almost presses against the xenonite, and his arm hangs loosely over Rocky’s carapace.
“This okay?” Grace asks, looking at Rocky. He is already lying in a curve, so that he does not really have to move his head. His breathing is steady and close. “Is my heart louder?”
It is louder. It is much louder, with Rocky almost touching the quilt over Grace’s chest. Rocky shifts closer, so that the xenonite does press against Grace, and his heartbeat is a steady thud that almost vibrates through the material itself.
“Grace smart,” Rocky whirs. He thinks there is more to say, more words to express his appreciation, but he is distracted by the comforting thu-thunk, thu-thunk, thu-thunk.
“M’ sorry I’m quiet,” Grace says. His voice is thick—he is tired, and probably made more so by the squishy mattress and the quilt pulled over him. “And I’m gonna get quieter. And m’ sorry I have to sleep so much, ‘cause I’m a dumb human.”
“This not Grace's fault,” Rocky chides. “No sorry.”
Grace yawns, resting his arm more solidly over Rocky’s carapace. (Yawning is an extremely weird characteristic of humans.) “M’ just saying, for now, if I’m gonna be so quiet, maybe you can watch me from here? Would that work?”
Rocky considers this. “Boundaries, question?”
Grace laughs. “Think we gave up on those a while ago.”
Rocky hums contentedly. He doesn’t get the point of boundaries.
“Yeah? Good plan?”
“Good, good, good,” Rocky echoes. Very good plan.
Grace smiles. “Alright then.”
Rocky should say more. He should say that he is not just scared to be alone, that he is scared to lose Grace, because Grace is very special. He should say that he wants Grace to see Erid, and to meet Adrian, and to get old and dry and wrinkly like humans apparently do.
He should say that saving Grace is the best thing he has ever done. That when he was lying alone on the deck, he did not think he would ever get to do anything good. That he was sure his last ever action in an eternity was to fail his friends.
“Rocky did not watch crew,” Rocky says, so quiet that the translator can only barely pick it up. “But Rocky will watch Grace.”
Grace does not reply. His heavy eyelids have fluttered shut, face still angled towards Rocky.
Rocky finds the thread of Grace’s breathing—it is easy, because he is so close. In, slow, slow, slow, out, and over and over again. He has already fallen asleep.
“Lights off,” Rocky says—humans do not like to sleep with lights on. The translator echoes him, and then the ship’s computer echoes that. The buzz of the lights fades away. Rocky focuses on Grace’s breathing instead.
Rocky did not watch his crew enough. Not before, and not when they got sick, and not even afterwards. He thinks he will regret this for the rest of his life. But it is like Grace said: Rocky’s crew would have died no matter what. Rocky could not have saved them.
Grace is different. Rocky has saved Grace before. He has saved Grace when Grace wasn’t even trying to live. He should be able to save him when he is.
Rocky will watch Grace. And Grace will not die. Rocky doesn’t get to decide this, of course—but he has decided it anyway.
The mattress is strangely comfortable, and Rocky’s suit does not make any noise at all as he taps idly against the fabric. Grace’s heart has slowed, but it is still steady, and Rocky can feel his chest moving as he breathes.
Rocky hums a little, burying closer. One Grace-sleep. That is not so long.