Chapter Text
I sit in front of a laptop, my head in my hands, and listen to Rocky tinkering away in one of his tunnels right above me.
He’s been so happy lately. Can’t blame him, not after he was stuck on his ship again and then rescued by the Hail Mary; the guy lost all hope and then was suddenly presented with a ticket home and a buddy to keep him company. Of course he's happy.
I told him I used to watch his ship with my Petrovascope while we were separated, and he was ecstatic about it. Admitting the existence of my sad little ritual was embarrassing, but also worth it: Rocky immediately interpreted it as me watching him sleep, even from afar, and was quite literally bouncing off the walls about it. I felt a little bad for not thinking about it like that, but of course he’d interpret it this way; this is hard-wired into his culture, after all.
He was so happy to be able to sleep under someone’s watch again. I feel bad just thinking about leaving him alone. He’s been… clingy? Can you say clingy when physical contact is very much off the table? I’d say you can; Rocky has been clingy ever since I picked him up from the taumoeba-infected Blip-A. Always in the same room as me, always as close as possible; even though he can “see” me from anywhere on the ship, he prefers to be close.
Spending forty-six years alone in space (and then facing a very real chance to spend forty-six more) will do that to a guy.
No, I can’t leave him alone again. Even if four years is probably not that frightening for Eridians with their incredibly long lifespan. I’ll find another way, I—
“You overthinking.”
I do not jump, thank you very much.
…Well, maybe I do jump. Teeny tiny little bit. Can you blame me? You’d jump too if you lifted your head towards a sudden noise and found that a giant rock spider has skittered closer to you and is now casually hanging out in the translucent tunnel inches away from your face. Even if this spider is your best and only friend in the whole world.
“Not overthinking. Just… thinking.”
“I know you thinking face. This not it. Overthinking. Not question.”
“I’m starting to regret that I taught you this word. Do you think we can somehow delete it from our shared vocabulary? Like, if you could maybe forget it and let me do my overthinking in peace? I quite enjoy it, actually.”
“Eridians no forget. You avoid question.”
“You just said it wasn’t a question.”
He taps the floor of his tunnel, noticeably annoyed. It’s funny: I’ve always had trouble reading human body language, but Rocky’s? I’m tuned in to him — probably only a little less than he is tuned in to me. Being the only two living beings for light years around would do that to you, I guess.
I sigh.
“Just trying to figure out my food situation. Nothing new.”
He taps again. “Lie. You found new thing, question? Solution, question? Tell new thing.”
“Since when did you become a human lie detector,” I grumble.
I know it’s unfair. I know I’m snapping at him for no reason and I know I shouldn’t.
I am stressed out about the very real possibility that this mission will end up being my demise even after all of my attempts to un-suicide it. Sue me.
Still. “Sorry. I’m a little bit on edge.”
“Is okay. Tell new thing.”
I sigh again.
I will have to talk to him about this eventually. Sooner rather than later. Why not now?
I brace myself.
“It’s not exactly a ‘new thing’, it’s just… Well, you know I can technically eat taumoeba, but it’s not exactly a balanced diet.”
He skitters across his tunnel. Pacing; he tends to do it when stressed or thinking.
“Yes. Not new thing. But you have human food to reach Erid and live few months, correct, question? Science Eridians find food for you, you are friend.”
I can’t help but smile a little. It’s — nice, I guess, to have someone caring about your survival like that. And believing in their species, too: both the ability and the willingness to make sure that I’ll be okay; I hate to admit it, but I wouldn’t be that certain about Earth. Oh, they’d be thrilled to study Rocky, of course — I just doubt they’d care about his happiness and general well-being that much.
Who knows, maybe Rocky is too optimistic and I’ll end up locked in some Eridian lab after all. Maybe starving to death will turn out to be a better option.
I try not to think about it. There’s no point: whatever the case, I'm not turning back.
“Kind of, yeah. Coma slurry.” I wince, remembering its taste.
Rocky clatters closer to me in his tunnel, making a little annoyed tap on the wall — something way too close to accusatory pointing. “Taste experience not important. Healthy is important.”
“First of all, you are wrong,” I point back at him. We’ve had this discussion quite a lot, and he just doesn’t get it; I’m half-certain that he is messing with me at this point. “But it’s not just about that. Coma slurry wasn't designed for sustaining someone who is active. It is balanced, yes, but it won’t give me enough energy if I’m awake. I did the math. I will make it to Erid alive. I will probably last a couple of months after that, too. But I’ll be pretty malnourished. It’s not good for the human body.”
Rocky is quiet; I can tell I have his full attention.
I can tell he is very worried, too. I hate seeing him like this.
Still, this is a needed conversation.
“No good for Eridian body too,” he offers. “Many cells die.”
“Yeah, human body just starts to kind of consume itself. Good thing they gave me all these muscles,” I try to joke. He doesn’t laugh. “Anyway, the point is, I’ll be pretty weak. Your scientists won’t have much time to figure out what to do with me. I will also probably have trouble thinking, so I might not be much help to them, you’ll have to rely on your thinking machine.”
He lowers his carapace. Thrills something, his voice low; I think I recognize one of the words he refuses to explain the meaning of. Then he perks up, clearly trying to make his pitch higher: “But not worry! Science Eridians smart, they help!”
I guess putting on a brave face is a universal thing. No matter what planet you’re from, gotta cling to that optimism.
“Sure, pal,” I mutter. We fall silent.
I can’t. I can’t bring up the other option, okay?
I’ll figure something out. Something else. I have the best lab in the world (or, well, the best lab ever made on Earth), I have all the reference materials a guy could want, I am smart and I have a very smart friend who is very dedicated to keeping me alive. I’ll be alright. I’ll find a way. I’ll—
“If you awake,” Rocky says suddenly, startling me again. “You say ‘if you awake’. There is another option, question?”
…Have I mentioned that he is very smart?
Sometimes it’s not a good thing!
“Yeah,” I say reluctantly. “I could reprogram Armando to put me into a coma again. For the majority of the journey.”
He explodes with noise. He jumps in his tunnel, getting into my face again, and I’m pretty sure that some of his panicked thrills surpass my range of hearing: I don’t hear the sound, but I do feel the pressure.
“Bad,” he says finally something I can pick up. “Bad bad bad bad bad!”
Our shared vocabulary has grown significantly since those first few weeks, way past the point of being unable to properly express complex emotions, but sometimes we both find ourselves reverting to “good good good” and “bad bad bad”. Easier than trying to remember what big words we’ve discussed already, I guess. Easier for me, at least; he probably just takes into account that my small human brain can't function properly while I experience big emotions.
He is so upset. I feel horrible.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t want to leave you all alone again, without anyone to watch you sleep, I—”
His noises suddenly pivot to angry; I’m pretty sure I recognize a couple of expletives. I blink.
“This not about me alone! I am not 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯♫𝅘𝅥!”
New word. Selfish.
Huh. I guess we never needed that one before. Doesn’t come up often when you’re on a suicide mission to save your planet, I suppose. Rocky’s mission wasn’t technically suicide, but…
Anyway.
“I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry.”
“You crew die when they sleep! Why you want do the same, question? Stupid!”
I bristle. “It’s not like I’d do that for fun, you know.”
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
I take a deep breath. “Rocky.”
He makes a noise and falls silent. Now this was a curse word, I am sure of it.
“Rocky, they died because there were complications and they had no one to wake them up. They didn’t die because of the coma, they—”
“They had no one watch them sleep,” he finishes quietly.
I try to swallow the lump in my throat. “Yeah. Basically.”
“And you have me.”
His words, low-pitched and monotone, make something tighten in my chest. There is something defeated in the slow music of his speech — and something determined, too. I realize with almost horror that he is getting on board with this crazy idea — getting ready to watch me dutifully while I sleep for almost four years.
This is bad. Bad, bad, bad.
“I don’t want to leave you alone,” I say. My voice sounds small. “It’s a long way to Erid. We can figure out something else.”
“It is best solution. Correct, question?”
I sigh. “It might be.”
If I don’t die, that is.
God, I don’t want to die.
Rocky moves closer, almost pressing himself against the tunnel wall. “You scared. Heart beating fast.”
I guess you can’t really hide your fear from someone who can constantly hear your heartbeat. I cross my arms defensively, unable to ignore the cold pit in my stomach anymore. “Of course I am! It’s a coma, for cripes’ sake, humans are not supposed to sleep for four years! This might be my best shot, yes, but I don’t want to— I don’t want to be—”
He makes a little gesture — “Wait!” — and skitters away. I don’t pay much attention, too engrossed in my rapidly darkening thoughts.
I don’t want to die. Of course I don’t. But there is something else…
I don’t want to be sedated. The thought of being sedated, that’s what fills me with dread. The thought of being put to sleep with no guarantee of waking up, the thought of a needle being stuck into my neck, the hands holding me down, the grass in front of my eyes, the dirt under my fingernails, the—
You’re murdering me!
Rocky’s ball clatters somewhere down in the dormitory. He must have used the big airlock connecting our areas.
I don’t really pay attention until he bumps gently into my side. I didn’t even realize before now that I started to hyperventilate and sank down from my chair onto the floor, trying to cover my head with my hands and curl up into a trembling pathetic ball.
I am having a panic attack, a rational part of my brain supplies unhelpfully. I probably have some kind of PTSD about everything that happened to me. That wouldn't be too surprising.
Thanks for the information, brain. Could you maybe stop bombarding me with the memories?
You’re murdering me!..
You are failing me, brain. I want to laugh, but it comes out closer to a sob.
Rocky bumps into me again. “Hug,” I hear him chirp urgently, “hug, you feel better!”
I force myself to uncurl from my position a little bit; untangle my hands from my hair and press my face against the xenonite. The warmth of it is comforting; the soft thump of Rocky pressing against me startles me out of my haze enough to remember that I’m not alone.
Not in danger. I’m not in danger.
I try to breathe.
Rocky sings — babbles, really — something comforting. Something about me being safe; I don’t pay much attention to the words, the melody itself is soothing. I close my eyes.
Sometimes, in moments like this, I’m almost glad that he can’t hug me back: I’m not sure I’d be able to handle the sensation of being held right now.
Other times… I wish my last memory of being held wasn’t the memory of being pinned to the ground.
The panic abates slowly, chased away by the warmth and the singing.
The pit in my stomach stays.