Chapter Text
So Rocky has a new suit.
It's great. Really.
It's form-fitting, so he can interact better with my environment. Operate the centrifugal function without nearly killing himself. That's a plus.
He can also move my stuff. My things are arranged the way I like them. It may seem dirty, but it's organized chaos. One of the few things I still have control over in my new life aboard a spaceship with my alien roommate headed for an alien planet. Or I did. Until Rocky the engineer decided we needed some sort of space LEAN system.
“No, this into here,” he says. His - fingers? claws? - protrude through flexible xenonite and grab my toothbrush from where I'd tossed it on the bed, where it's convenient. Then he scuttles to the drawer he's labeled “disgust human body supplies” with the same tape I used to label the clock when we first met. He opens it and plops the toothbrush in, right on top of my hairbrush and shaving equipment.
“Rock!” I rush over to rescue my only mouth cleaning device, but it's too late. “Now it's got little hairs on it!”
Rocky waves an arm, already walking away. “All human body excess, is fine.”
“Is not- It's not fine!” I yell, wagging the hairy toothbrush at his back. He can still see me even though what I've interpreted as his front is facing away. Echolocation is nifty like that, but I think I prefer colors.
“Remember when we talked about boundaries? You can rearrange the lab and the workshop, the tools, but leave my personal stuff alone.”
He turns back to me on all five limbs, his carapace tilting up. “Rocky never forget, is good good good, not like tiny human brain.” The computer translator is good at intonation, but it never raises its voice in anger, which I'm pretty sure it should be doing now.
My natural intonation box has no such limitation. “I don't forget where to put things, that's just not where I want it!”
“It sounds like you're having an argument-”
“Thank you, Mary!” We both shout up to the disembodied feminine voice of the Hail Mary ship.
Rocky warbles some off-key notes that I've come to understand as Eridian curse words. I refuse to add them to the computer vocabulary.
“If Grace no forget, then make room messy on purpose. Grace dumb, question?” His back foot stamps twice. The translator fails to pick up on the sarcasm. Good thing that's practically my love language.
“Look-” I run my fingers through my hair. One of us has to be the grown up. “I will do better about following your organizational system in the lab-”
“No more leave slides all over table-”
“Right. If you-”
“Or soldering iron hot hot hot-”
“Yeah, that was-” not good, he's got me on that one.
“Put all tools back on wall when done-”
“Yes! I will do better, all right? But you can't touch my personal things,” I wave at the measly space that is now my bedroom. Something about sleeping in the coma dormitory where my crewmates died didn't sit right with me. “No touch-y anything in here-y. Ok?”
He gives me a thumbs down. “Deal.”
“Good.”
“Good good good.”
Well. OK then.
I go to the wall and push a button. A small basin folds open and I use the tiniest amount of water from a water bag to wash most of the hairs out of my toothbrush. The water goes down the drain to the ECLSS filtration thanks to the artificial gravity and I push the panel back up. Rocky's still standing there. I suppose with no immediate problem to solve, watching me clean a toothbrush is the most interesting thing happening right now.
I almost toss it back on the bed to make a point, but I'd rather extend an olive branch. And as annoying as he can be, he's not wrong. With a dramatic sigh, I find a wet wipe to wrap my toothbrush in and put it in the designated drawer.
“Happy?”
He trills and does jazz hands. “Thank thank thank.” He points to the next room over. “Now clean lab.”
“Aargh!” I did add 'bossy' to the word list.
“Don't be angry stupid, how long since last sleep, question?”
“I'm not-” I'm not going to indulge him. He's irritating me on purpose. Not much else to do really.
There hasn't been much else to do since we solved all the foreseeable issues of hurtling through space at near-light speed on a ship past its expiration date. The trajectory is self-correcting. Taumeba leakage is contained. I've got enough coma slurry and potable water to last a couple years, maybe a couple more if I stretch it out. Rocky brought over everything he'll need from the Blip-A, including food from his 22 deceased crew. According to the calculations we should have enough astrophage to get to Erid.
“What problem, question?" His leg taps the ground. "Grace promise clean lab. Go clean lab.”
“I didn't mean right-” Not that I've got a busy schedule, I just don't like being told what to do. But again, he's not wrong. I throw up my hands. “Fine.”
Rocky makes a series of beeping chirps. The Eridian version of a snicker.
“You don't have to be smug about it,” I pout, meandering past him.
He follows me, still chirping. “Grace good good good when listen Rocky. Rocky give Grace reward when done.”
I'm not a dog, but my ears perk up.
“Reward?”
“Yes. Teach more Eridian. Grace like.”
I swallow. I do like. I like very much, but not for the intellectual stimulation.
“Well why didn't you just say that?!”
Motivation is a hell of a drug. The lab gets cleaned in record time. I know because Rocky's timing me with his Eridian clock. Testing the alien's reaction to external stimuli. I may not be a dog, but he's definitely Pavlov.
“Done!” I announce, panting from all the running around.
Rocky spins a little victory dance then plants himself in front of the xenonite wall where a makeshift ergonomic pillow made from Yao's mattress now resides. He pats a spot just in front of him.
“Good good good. Grace come.”
I swear I'm not a dog.
I lie back on the polyester cushion, my head mere inches from his carapace, and close my eyes.
When Rocky first unveiled his new suit, I didn't know how to feel about it. I've never been good with change. But when he went in for a hug, a real hug, I broke down. I'd held him and held him and held him and he let me, even though he didn't understand what was happening. The realization that I truly was never going to see or touch another human had hit me full force.
He raised two arms and gently carded his - chelae, sure, why not - across my scalp. Front to back. Along the sides. In circles. My sigh came out choppy. I refused to cry every time he did this.
I had been forcibly thrust into deep, dark abandon, the fate of all life as we knew it on my shoulders, and now lived where any singular malfunction could kill me and the only other being I cared for. Stress relief was a must. This was even better than the vodka.
He started a melodious dictation in his language. I could pick out a few words here and there, but I gotta be honest, I'm not sure I'm getting most of it. Between the warm, tender touches and the steady rhythm of his sounds, my tiny human brain melted like putty.
Until he poked me in the cheek.
“No sleep, Grace must learn Eridian.”
“Ngh,” I say as eloquently as when I first woke from the coma.
He pokes me in the chest. “Wake wake wake!”
“Shhhh,” I prod his arm which has stopped petting me. Maybe I am a dog. “Five more minutes…”
An onslaught of poking commences - shoulders, both arms, chest, stomach - all while the computer repeats wakewakewake, wakewakewake.
I'm too slow to defend my squishy middle before he gets to my sides. A giggle like a little girl erupts out of me. I am definitely awake now.
We've both gone still. I'm wary of the two appendages hovering dangerously close, tip-tapping in time with his thinking.
“Please don't poke me there.” Maybe he'll listen to me and go back to the petting?
“Oh, okay, poke over here.” He pokes me in the sides again. I shriek again, scooting out of reach.
"Oi!"
He scuttles back in reach. “How about here-” And pokes me in my penis.
“Whoa, nOOoo!” I flail to stand, tripping a few feet away. He comes at me again, trilling in mirth like he's just discovered the greatest joke ever.
I raise my hands between us. “Rocky, stay!”
That worked. Who's the dog now?
I try to keep in mind that this is innocent on his part. All he knows is he touched another squishy human body part and his alien friend made a fun noise.
“We can't just go around poking people for fun.”
“Grace hurt, question?”
“Well, no…”
“Good good good.” Then he leans back on three limbs, the other two above and below his carapace in a stance I've only seen one other time: after I scared him in the tunnel and he was preparing to attack.
Oh no.
I bolt.
He chases.
Thing about a spaceship though - not a lot of places to run.
Before I can even make it out of the lab, he's got me pinned face down, writhing and squealing.
“Here? Here? Here?” He's not testing anymore. The little rascal has my body figured out and he goes for all my tender spots.
Rocky is beside himself. All the new playful sounds I'm making must be a hilarious discovery. Eridians probably aren't ticklish due to their hard casing. This is the most unfair tickle fight ever.
Despite his strength, he's being careful not to hurt me. Doesn't prevent the stitch in my side though.
“Get-” I wheeze through bubbling laughter, “Get off!”
I try to push up, but he puts a limb on my back, pushing me down harder. I can't get up.
The laughter dies.
I can't get up.
There's pressure all along my body and I can't get up.
Sheer, unadulterated terror courses through me, remnants of my worst moment. I've been through a lot, but this memory is the only one I'd classify as traumatic.
My fingertips tingle, going numb, as I grip desperately at grass, scraping nails against the metal tiles.
“No! Don't do it!” I cry out.
Rocky whistles in glee. “Don't do this? Or this?” He's shifting his weight from limb to limb, twirling over me.
I'm fighting for my life against people I thought I could trust.
A knee in my back holds me down. My legs kick out at nothing.
There's a poke on my thigh, where a needle went.
I taste bile. Tears are streaming down my face. Rocky doesn't see them.
Rocky.
Not Carl.
“R-Rocky,” it comes out a croaky whisper as my throat closes up.
“Grace?” He stops moving.
“Pl-please…” I beg with my last breath. My vision’s going dark around the edges.
Then all at once the pressure’s gone.
I gasp like a fish, scrambling my back to the nearest wall, drawing my knees to my chest, arms wrapping tight around.
“Grace hurt, question?” Rocky clicks over to me, but I've got my face buried in my arms. My whole body is taut. I'm trembling. My lungs are on fire. Ghosts of strange hands still grip me.
“No, no, no...” I say to no one, rocking back and forth.
I hear Rocky's voice, but it's distant like I'm under water. Or in space. I'm in outer space.
“What wrong Grace, question?”
“It sounds like you're having a panic attack.” Mary offers.
That makes sense. The problem-solving part of my brain activates. I focus on remembering what I know about panic attacks. To stop hyperventilating, purse your lips as if blowing out a candle. Inhale deeply for a count of two. Exhale through a count of four. I'm starting to feel better. I peek up.
“Recommended treatment,” she continues, “is a mild sedative.”
Armando comes at me brandishing a syringe and my panic skyrockets.
“NO!” I jerk away, get my feet under me, crouch defensively. “NO! NO!”
“Grace!” Rocky follows, reaching for me, but I'm lashing out at anything that comes near. He dodges a swing that almost hit him.
“Grace...” The translator does pick up on the lower octave tone of anguish. It doesn't do anger, but it'll do sorrow.
His carapace lowers to the floor, arms folding against his body. He looks small. Depressed.
Armando and the syringe of death have halted at the end of his track.
Everything is still. The only sound is my ragged breathing.
I don't know how much time passes, but it's less than 29,000 seconds.
My muscles loosen enough to feel sore. I crumple to the floor. A whoosh of air leaves my lungs.
Rocky remains curled in on himself.
The panic dies down to a general buzz of anxiety. Blood is returning to my extremities, the prickling feeling (paresthesia, my brain provides) growing more pronounced before it dissipates.
Rocky still hasn't moved.
I crawl over to him - that's harder than it should be - and put my hand on his top. “Hey, Pal.” My voice is rough. I clear my throat. “Rock?”
He seems as legitimately paralyzed as when he sleeps. Except he talks. His vocalizations are barely audible.
“Something wrong Grace, statement. Rocky could not fix.”
Oh fudge.
I sigh. “Yeah. But I'm better now. See?” I gesture to myself. Look at me, not sobbing in the fetal position. Yay.
“Rocky bad bad bad bad bad.” His sounds are subdued, but the computer voice is the same as always. “Make Grace scared of Rocky.”
Double fudge.
“No, hey, it's not you-” It's me? God, I'm bad at this.
I drop on my butt. My hands grip my hair. How does one explain PTSD to an alien? I have no idea, but I can't let him think this is in anyway his fault.
I tuck my legs under me and drape my torso over his carapace, arms wrapping around the ball of him.
“I wasn't scared of you, Bud.” My nerves are frayed. He's warm. My eyelids droop.
“A bad memory got triggered, that's all. It happens sometimes. It's normal for humans that have been through something scary. Sometimes that fear comes back, even after the scary thing is over. It's not your fault.” I'm rambling. I always did talk too much.
There's movement under me. I'm about to draw away when two of his legs come around my back and pull me close.
Aaaand I'm crying again. At least it's the quiet kind, but I'm sure Rocky can tell this time because drops are falling on his suit. I nuzzle my tears on him, dog and leaky space blob that I am.
We sit there, wrapped in each other, trying to fix something that can never fully heal.
I'm almost asleep in his arms when he speaks.
“Rocky..." he's back to his normal octave, "Rocky need word.”
I wipe my nose on my sleeve. “What- What word do you need?”
“Someone important. Special.” He stands, outstretching two arms wide. “More than friend.”
My first guess is 'mate', but we already have that. Then I think 'lover' and am glad Rocky can't see colors.
“There isn't- We don't have a word for that in English.”
Rocky tilts to the side. “Grace need word, statement. I can give.” Then he makes a soothing harmony accompanied by a graceful arc with one arm.
This Eridian word is etched on my heart.
“It's beautiful,” I say, sitting back on my haunches.
“This is Grace to Rocky.” He rotates two appendages around each other.
I recognize this word.
“Yeah.” I copy his gesture. Us.
Exhaustion washes over me like a wave. I thunk flat on the floor. Every part of me aches from the adrenaline crash. I close my eyes and pat the space next to me. There's a trill followed by a warm weight snuggling up to my side.
It's not the most comfortable I've ever been, but it is the most loved and that's all I need.