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The groan of pain escapes me before I can stifle it. I curl into a tighter ball and wince, wrapping my arms around my aching middle.
The cramping eases off slowly, settling back into just a sore, dull sensation mixed with mild nausea. My dramatic groan morphs into a pathetic little whimper. I bury my face in my pillow.
“Ouchhh.” I moan, still holding my belly, “Whyyyy?”
The familiar clunky sound of Rocky’s footsteps in his xenonite suit grow steadily nearer as he scuttles over. I must’ve alerted him with my griping and groaning. So much for not being a bother.
He stops near the foot of my bed.
“Rocky heard Grace make noise.”
“Sorry about that,” I say, voice muffled.
“No apology, Grace.” He scolds, “Am worried, not bothered. What is wrong, question?”
“My tummy hurts.” I say matter-of-factly into my pillow, “And I’m being a big baby about it.”
“You have eating pain again, question?” he asks,
“Mm-hmm.” I nod, feeling sick,
He clambers up onto the bed with me, causing it to wobble uncomfortably. I move my face out of my pillow to look at him.
“Ughh,” I groan, nausea burbling up in my belly, “Whoa, whoa. Hey. Take it easy.”
I’m not sure if I’m talking to him or to my sour stomach. At the moment, I’m just focused on trying not to hurl.
“No understand.”
“You’re making me sick with all that shaking.” I say, this time definitely addressing him.
“Oh. Apology.”
“‘S’okay.” I say, stifling a burp,
“Pain is in same place, question?” Rocky asks, making an effort to stay still.
“Mm-hmm.” I pat my distended stomach gingerly. “Right here. And like I said last time, ‘s probably something I ate.”
“Is normal to sometimes have pain and sickness after eat, question?”
“Um…” I consider, suppressing another burp, “Not…really? Not if there’s nothing bad in the food. It’s all shelf stable, so I don’t know how that would’ve happened. The other option is just…that there’s something wrong with me specifically, but Armando can’t find anything. And, yeah, I did eat a little too fast for my own good, but not —“
It hits me suddenly. Years of this exact pain. Years of chewing chalky tablets just to have ice cream without said pain…and deciding if it was worth the misery if I didn’t happen to have one of those tablets on hand. Years of turning down delicious things because I knew they would do me more harm than good.
It makes sense now. Stupid amnesia. I sigh in annoyance
“Dangit.” I mutter,
“What, question?”
“I just figured it out; I remember now. I’m freakin’ lactose intolerant.”
“What words mean, question?”
“It means I can’t digest a type of sugar that’s in dairy. Some humans can digest it okay, but…not me. Which is why I’m feeling sick.”
“Bad sugar was in evening food, question?”
“Mm-hmm. Lots of things are made with milk, including my dinner tonight. Come to think of it, I think that’s one of the most dairy-heavy things I’ve had since the coma.”
“Bad, bad, bad.” He says, “Okay, make plan to help. What things happen when eat bad sugar, question? Rocky want to know. Can maybe fix.”
A stomach cramp causes me to double over. It feels like a hellish fusion of knife and vice, squeezing and crushing and stabbing my organs. I groan and clutch at my abdomen, fingers digging into my quilt as I writhe.
Rocky flinches back in horror.
“Ow, ow, ow, ow.” I mutter to myself, wincing and groaning.
The pain eases for a moment. I grit my teeth and brace for the next round of cramps.
“That happens, for one thing.” I say, “Called a cramp.”
More cramping, right on cue, causes me to squirm uncomfortably in my bed. I burp a couple times and don’t even bother trying to stifle them. They taste like cheesy garlic pasta and regret.
“How Rocky help, question?!” he asks, frozen in alarm,
“I…dunno right now.” I say, clenching my jaw, “Just…gotta wait for it to pass, I guess. It’s…sorta subsiding now.”
“Good, good. Hate to see pain in Grace.”
I breathe a soft chuckle as the pain eases further.
“In pain, you mean. Not “pain in”.”
“Whatever.”
Sometimes I regret teaching him that word. I wiggle into a comfier position and the pain subsides back into a run-of-the-mill aching.
“Okay, I think it’s gone for now.” I say,
Rocky approaches gingerly, careful not to cause me any problems. He settles down into the perfect little Rocky-shaped nook created by the way I’m laying, curled up on my side.
“Tell symptoms.” He says, “Want to know what happen to Grace. Want to help fix.”
“Okay. Sure.” The information filters into my mind slowly as I begin to relay it, “So I get cramps, obviously. That’s mostly because I’m all bloated like this.“
I pull back my quilt and tug up my shirt a little to show him my belly.
“This area here where my digestive organs are is usually flatter, right? Now it’s all pushed-out because of gasses building up in my system. See?”
“Yes, yes. Do not need to show; could see through blanket and clothes. Can even see you organs.” He says, pausing before adding affectionately: “Stupid.”
I roll my eyes and scoff, “God forbid a guy forget you don’t see like I do.”
“Rocky have better than eyes.” He says proudly,
I can feel the warmth radiating from his suit even with the six inches or so of space between its surface and my skin. As I pull my shirt back down and readjust my blanket, an idea occurs to me — a memory, rather. My mom gently pressing a hot water bottle to my achy stomach after I overindulged in mac n’ cheese at school. Thanks, Mom.
“Hey, weird question: d’you…mind getting a little closer?” I ask, “Like, pressed up against me?”
“…Sure. Why, question?”
“I think the heat will help relax my stomach a little.” I say, then sheepishly add, “And…it’d kinda be comforting to have you close.”
“Oh, understand. Yes, of course.” He says,
Rocky shifts himself a little, putting as much of his suit up against my belly as he can.
“Okay, that’s good. That’s — ow!” I say, dull pain pressing into me with one of Rocky’s limbs.
He backs off a little, “Apology, apology! Rocky hurt Grace, question?”
“It’s okay, you just pressed a little hard. I know you didn’t mean to.”
“Humans so fragile.“ he says, almost reverently,
“Yeah, we are. Especially when we’re sick.” I say, “Lemme meet you halfway.”
He loafs back down and I scoot closer. The warmth is instantly comforting and I feel myself relax. I cuddle up next to him, sighing contentedly.
“Grace comfortable, question?” He asks,
“Oh, yeah. That’s nice.” I say,
“Good, good. Continue with symptoms.”
“Oh, right. Almost forgot.”
“So forgetful all of the time.” Rocky laments,
“Hey. Gimme a break, dude, alright? I had amnesia.”
“Continue.” He presses.
“Right. So, cramps and bloating — which, are kind of related —“
“How, question? Want to know for science.”
“Well,” A twinge of embarrassment causes me to hesitate, “I’m bloated partially because gasses are building up in my digestive system, like I said earlier. The cramping is what happens when that gas moves around…or builds up to the point that…I have to release it…”
More embarrassment.
Get over it, Ryland, these are natural bodily functions. And right now, you’re giving a lesson on lactose intolerance to an alien who thinks all of your bodily functions are gross. This will be no different.
Luckily for me, he knows this one.
“Yes, flatulence. Is gross. Gross, gross, gross.” Rocky says, predictably,
I snort and scoff.
“Yeah, yeah.” I say, rolling my eyes, “Mostly burps in my case, which is still gross, but a little less embarrassing. Really loud, big ones. They’re….kind of…impressive, actually. But I digress. Um…that’s about it, other than the nausea, which happens because my stomach sort of “knows” I’ve eaten something that isn’t sitting well. Sometimes I throw up, but not 100% of the time.”
“Good, good, good. Do not want that.”
“Yeah,” I say, “You and me both, bud. Luckily, as far as lactose intolerance goes, I’m on the milder end of things. I’ll probably be feeling better within the next…oh, five to six hours? Give or take.”
My stomach gurgles loudly and Rocky flinches.
“Noise is disgust.” He says,
“Mm-hmm. Yeah, that’ll happen. Just my stomach trying and failing to break down the lactose.”
“…Why is bad sugar in Grace food if you cannot eat food with bad sugar, question?” Rocky asks,
“Good question.” I say, “Probably because I was a last-minute replacement. DuBois wasn’t lactose intolerant as far as I’m aware. None of the original crew were. And again, my lactose intolerance is on the mild-to-moderate side anyway. If Stratt knew I had it, maybe she was betting that I’d just deal with being occasionally sick. Still, kinda rude to shoot a guy into space without any Lactaid. Unless…she did pack some and I just haven’t found it yet. Which is… whatever. Admittedly, I’m one of those people who usually just deals with the pain instead of steering clear of the stuff I can’t have or taking meds for it.”
“But is bad for you.” He protests,
“I know. But it’s a temporary bad. And I know my limits when it comes to dairy. …Well…now I do. I probably should have only eaten about half of my dinner and then I would’ve been fine. Maybe a little gassy, but otherwise unscathed.”
I adjust a bunched-up portion of my blanket a little. There; perfect. I’m comfy and warm. My stomach isn’t bothering me all that much at the moment. I could probably sleep if I let myself. At the moment, I’m feeling chatty. Good thing Rocky’s a good listener.
“One time, in undergrad,” I begin, “I ate, like…a full pint-sized thing of ice cream. Not a good idea, but I did it anyway. And in my defense, it was the really good stuff. And I deserved it. Anyway, I realized my mistake about five spoonfuls from the bottom of the tub. I felt so, so sick that night. I barfed like five times and it was not as good on the way up as it was on the way down. But ever since then, I’ve known what I can and can’t get away with. The key is definitely moderation.”
“Stupid. Is poison to you. There is no good amount for poison!” Rocky protests,
“No, no, it’s not a poison. I just can’t digest it. I mean, lots of the stuff humans do eat or drink contains mild toxins.” I say, “Like alcohol —“
“Alcohol is bad,” he says,
I shrug, “I beg to differ. Sometimes a guy just has to have a beer. Or…like four bags of Russian vodka strong enough to take the rust off a tin roof.”
“No.” He says, simply.
I chuckle, feeling sleepier.
“Now what I can’t have,” I say, “is walnuts. I thought I was gonna die the last time I had walnuts.”
“Why, question? Is poison, question?”
“No, it’s a type of…seed, I guess? We get them from plants. Kinda like peanuts. Perfectly safe for most people, but I’m allergic. I ate a brownie with walnuts in it at a party once and it did not turn out well for me.”
“Is dangerous, question?”
“Yeah, could’ve been, if I didn’t get medical help. My lips and tongue got all swollen and then I started to break out in hives. When that happened, a friend of mine drove me to the hospital to get checked out. Otherwise, with the amount I ate, I could’ve gone into anaphylactic shock and died.”
“Is…this in you food, question?”
“No, no, don’t worry. And peanuts won’t hurt me, to be clear. Just walnuts. Thank God.” I say, “I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t have peanut butter. …I love peanut butter.”
“I know. Is very obvious.” Rocky says in annoyance, clearly remembering when I found a jar of the stuff packed away and started noisily eating it by the spoonful. And on dry ramen. And on crackers. And tortillas. And…occasionally just scooping it out with my fingers and stuffing them into my mouth like a toddler.
I breathe a laugh, but a dull throbbing in my stomach causes me to wince.
“Ow. Mmgh.” I grunt, wiggling in discomfort,
“Are okay, question?”
“Mm-hmm.” I say, voice strained, “Just…typical tummy ache stuff.”
A wave of nausea overtakes me.
“Ughh.” I moan, “Or not. …Yeah, I…might’ve spoken too soon.”
“Why Grace say that, question?”
“I…don’t feel good.” I say, swallowing thickly as the nausea increases, “I feel like I’m gonna be sick.”
“Do not do that.” Rocky says, “Stop feeling that.”
“I can’t help it.” I say grumpily, “You think I like this any more than you do?”
I swallow again. Nausea radiates over me in response. I groan and twist a little so I’m laying more comfortably.
That doesn’t help at all. I gag and clamp my hand over my mouth reflexively, swallowing to avoid losing my dinner.
“No, no, no, no, nope! Keep it down,” I say, willing myself not to barf,
“Yes, keep down!” Rocky chirps encouragingly,
The nausea is rapidly worsening. I’m losing the battle and I know it. I swallow again. My stomach churns and pitches and gurgles.
“Oh, God,” I say, another gag sealing my fate, “I’m gonna puke. Move. Move, move, move!”
Rocky stands and scuttles out of my way as quickly as he can. I prop myself up on my elbow and reach over the side of my bed to grab my just-in-case emesis bag.
My body takes over and luckily, I get the bag in position just in time. I retch multiple times and when my body decides that’s enough, I cough, spitting the bitter taste of my own stomach acid out of my mouth.
I tremble, cold sweat chilling me to the bone. The nausea slowly subsides, having done its job of getting me to expel a portion of the offending stomach contents.
Rocky sits worriedly by my feet, clearly staring at me as intently as he dares.
“Eughhh.” I moan, “Sorry.”
“No apology, Grace.” He stomps, mildly frustrated with me, “You are okay, question?”
I drag my hand across my mouth. A burp forces its way out and I nearly gag again.
“Ugh, gross.” I say, swallowing sickly,
Two more big burps bubble up and out. Yuck. I spit into the emesis bag again.
“Okay. I…think I’m good now.” I say shakily, “Hey, Armando, you wanna deal with this, please? Very carefully.”
On cue, the robot takes the bag from me to dispose of it. My stomach gurgles. The pressure and pain is still present, but not nearly as bad as it was before. It’s a lesser degree of misery, at least; I’ll take what I can get.
I pull a sipper of water from a makeshift cupholder nearby and gingerly take a couple sips.
“Grace. You are okay, question?” Rocky repeats,
“Mm-hmm. Yeah. Actually, I…feel a little bit better now.” I say, putting the sipper back,
“Good, good. …Want Rocky closer or away, question?”
I motion for him to approach. “C’mere.”
I lay down on my left side, curled up almost in the fetal position, leaving enough room for Rocky to curl up next to me. One arm supports my head under my pillow and the other drapes over my side, resting on my thigh. Rocky settles in where he originally was. Once he’s comfy, I cuddle up close so that the heat of his suit bleeds into my core through my quilt. It feels warm and soothing on my achy stomach. I let my heavy eyelids fall closed. Throwing up is exhausting.
“Grace comfortable, question?”
“Mm-hmm. Nice and warm.” I say, curling up even closer. My forehead and the bumpy bridge of my nose are now pressed against the xenonite.
“Good, good. Glad.”
“Yeah. Reminds me of home.”
He’s silent for a moment, before saying softly: “Tell about home.”
The memory draws nearer. It’s hazy and warm and smells like a cozy floral perfume. It feels like my favorite blanket, fresh from the dryer, and gentle touches on my skin. I can hear paintbrush bristles on canvas.
It comes trickling out of me like a lazy stream, half-muttered in a soft voice that barely sounds like mine.
“My mom… She used to give me hot water bottles when I was sick. I’ve always had stomach problems, even as a kid. When I got especially anxious, I’d get a stomach ache. Still do, sometimes, but they were really bad when I was a kid. When my anxiety was making me sick like that, my mom would let me stay home from school. She’d have me curl up on the couch and watch Bob Ross reruns with her. And she’d give me something warm for my belly and sit on the couch next to me with my head in her lap. And she’d play with my hair and massage my scalp to calm me down.”
If Rocky had trouble understanding any of that, he doesn’t say so. I make a mental note to show him some Bob Ross later. Maybe one with a mountain painting. My mom liked the mountains best.
We sit in silence for a moment, before the thought drifts out of my mouth of its own accord.
“I miss my mom.”
I’m only aware of the tears when one of them slides down the side of my nose and flattens against the xenonite.
“Grace sad leaking, question?” Rocky asks,
I nod, wiping the tears away.
“Yeah. It’s not a new sadness, though. My mom died like…fifteen years ago. God, has it been that long? …I guess so. I was in my early 20’s and…she had cancer. It’s a sickness that’s very hard to cure.”
Rocky coos in sympathy.
“Sad, sad, sad.” he says,
I nod. “Yeah. I…haven’t cried over it in a while. But I guess…you never really get over something like that. The grief never really leaves, does it?”
He doesn’t respond for a moment. I sniffle and exhale a shaky breath, shifting to get even closer to him, pulling my blanket up so that it covers me entirely from the neck down.
Shh, you’re okay. It’s okay. Calm down. You’re safe.
“Play with hair.” Rocky repeats, “Like…this, question?”
He ruffles the ends of my hair slightly with a claw.
“Mmm, not really? More…scratchy. Gentle-scratchy. Slow. And closer to my head.” I absently mime the movement with my hand on my thigh, bunching up my quilt and then releasing it, like a cat kneading with its paws.
Rocky buries his claw in my hair and repeats the movement, slowly brushing through my hair and rubbing my scalp soothingly.
“Like this, question?” He asks,
His xenonite-encased fingers aren’t soft, but they’re warm and gentle. The motion on my scalp is repetitive and soothing, sending warm tingles across my scalp. Muscles I didn’t even know were tense begin to relax of their own accord as Rocky continues to scratch.
“Mm. Yeah.” I say sleepily, “Yeah, somethin’ like that.”
He continues and I have to bite back a little hum of contentment.
The sensation is not exactly like I remember, but it’s close enough. And it’s the first time I’ve felt something like this in forever. I let my eyes sink closed.
This is nice. I’m warm and safe and comfortable. Someone who loves me is giving me slow, gentle head scratches. Aside from the mild stomach ache, this is perfect.
I missed this feeling, I realize. I’d missed it for a long time. Dazedly, I ponder how sad that is. How long has it been since I’ve been treated to a massage or some scratches? I recall distantly that my ex-girlfriend Linda used to give me massages.
I miss her sometimes. I miss her company and her laugh and the feeling of her hand in mine. She probably doesn’t believe it, but I loved her in my own way. Not the way she needed to be loved, but it was all I had to give. Turns out there’s more to romance than being very devoted friends who like to make out. Who knew?
Even if our relationship didn’t work out, it was nice not being alone for a bit.
It was even nicer not living alone for a bit. I only offered for her to move in with me because the roommate she had lined up flaked on her. She couldn’t afford their place by herself, so…boyfriend to the rescue. Because I’m cool like that and I was determined to be good at being a boyfriend. Not that that panned out well.
Moving in together had a lot of perks, one of them being lots of cuddle time. I liked snuggling up next to her on the couch or in our bed. I liked holding her hand and gently sweeping my thumb along the back of it. I liked the way she’d curl into my side and hug my bicep when she was cold. I liked when she’d wake me up in the morning by playfully tickling my sides.
I especially liked our extra long cuddles on lazy Sunday mornings. I’d pepper her face with sleepy kisses, trailing across her forehead, winding down the side of her face, tracing her jaw. Then I’d give her a tiny peck on the very corner of her mouth, and pull away teasingly. In response, she’d throw her arms around my shoulders, pull me in close, and press her soft, warm lips to mine — tender and slow, like she wanted to savor me. And I’d laugh into her kisses and kiss her back as deeply as I dared.
It felt nice, but I think it did something for her that it didn’t do for me, because she was always a little disappointed when kissing and cuddles didn’t lead to anything more.
Not for a lack of trying on her part, of course. She slipped her fingertips slowly under the waistband of my sweats once, right over my hip, and I yelped like I’d been stabbed. I felt bad about it and apologized profusely; she said it was alright, but it clearly wasn’t. She didn’t try it again and my reaction to her touch came up a lot in various fights later on.
My turning her down wasn’t always so dramatic. Ordinarily I’d just come up with a lame excuse. I had lots of them. “I’m tired”, “I don’t feel ready”, “I’d rather not”, “I’m really hungry so can we just get pizza and call the rest of that stuff off?”, etc.
I made it a point not to lie to her. All of my excuses were true. My most used one was “I’m not in the mood”, which despite being true, felt negative somehow.
Probably because what I meant by that was: “It’s rare that I’m in the mood at all, and when I am, it’s because my body is yelling at me to do something for pleasure that makes me feel overwhelmed and vulnerable and also kinda squicks me out if I’m 100% honest, which means that doing that thing for very little enjoyment is not really worth all the hassle in the long run, so if it’s all the same to you, let’s just lay here fully clothed and cuddle and smooch until we get bored or hungry and then we can switch to eating takeout in our pajamas while watching Star Trek. Cool? Cool.”.
What she heard was: “I’m a totally average man with totally average sexual urges but you’re not attractive enough for me to want to act on them. The problem is that you are not desirable enough and has absolutely nothing to do with me being fundamentally different from other humans in several key ways that I won’t figure out until I’m like thirty. Sorry not sorry.”.
Or…something to that effect. I kinda lost it at the end there.
All the while, what I really wanted to say to her was: “this is enough.”. It was enough to just hold and be held. It was enough to cuddle up together under the covers, warm and safe and secretive — our foreheads pressed together, limbs intertwined in a messy embrace.
It was enough to tenderly kiss each of the thin white scars on her arms and feel goosebumps rise on them in response. It was enough to enjoy goosebumps of my own when her hands would wander up under my shirt and she’d massage my achy shoulders until I forgot what tension felt like.
Then she’d plant a trail of tantalizing, lingering kisses — slow and soft and methodical — on the sensitive skin of my neck. Just as I was relaxing into the feeling, she’d blow a raspberry on my neck or give me a wet Willy and I’d laugh and shove her away playfully.
It was an ideal morning for me. I didn’t need or want anything more than a quick, indulgent nap or maybe a cup of coffee and some waffles — ideally all of those things — after that.
She dumped me for her own good and for mine, in the long run. What we had was nice while it lasted, but it never would’ve worked out. She wanted romance and I couldn’t provide it.
A half-hearted back rub from her (a week before she dumped me) was the last time anybody bothered to give me some form of affection, outside of a hug. That was at least eight years ago from my perspective, minus the coma time.
I wanted affection, of course — who doesn’t? — but most of the time, it felt inappropriate to request it. What was I supposed to do, ask my friends to play with my hair? Request a back massage from a college buddy? Admit that I’m a touch starved loser who just wants to be loved?
It felt dirty and vulnerable somehow. Even if I knew it was totally innocent and platonic, requesting to be touched lovingly by another adult who I had no intention of dating felt wrong. It felt intrinsically linked with having to turn down sex or maybe a date. Maybe that was because of Linda, not that she meant to leave me with that impression. For whatever reason, wanting to be touched now equalled having to dodge requests — or worse, offers — for sexual touch in return.
Hard pass. I’d learned to go without any touch at all, lest the answer to my requests be something like “buy me a drink first”.
But this? This feeling of Rocky’s fingers gliding across my scalp? This is nice. Rocky doesn’t care about human social conventions. He doesn’t care that it’s considered a little weird for a grown man to want to be given gentle scalp scratches by a friend.
All he knows is that I’m feeling sick and that, for whatever reason, this makes me feel better. He gets to help and I get scratches for the first time in years. Win-win.
“Grace is very quiet.” He observes, pulling me gently out of my thoughts, “Grace like, question?”
“Oh, yeah.” I mutter dazedly, enjoying the sensation, “Grace like. Grace like a lot.”
I feel lazy and stupid. I’m half drunk on all the feel-good chemicals my lizard brain is rewarding me with. Oxytocin, serotonin, dopamine — all rushing to cheer me on for receiving a gentle touch from another living creature. “Go you!” they say.
I think back to when my body kicked into reward mode during my first post-coma meal aboard the Hail Mary. This feels similar. I finally understand why touch starvation is also called “skin hunger”. My skin must’ve been ravenous, even for non-human touch.
Rocky’s wandering claw scratches at a particularly good spot on my scalp, just above and behind my ear.
“Ooh. Right there; that’s the spot.” I mutter,
Noting my preference, he continues scratching there. Warm tingles trace across my scalp and I melt at the pleasant sensation.
I release a contented sigh. I had intended it to be noiseless, but a sound drifts out with the exhale. It’s a soft, resonant sound of pure bliss, somewhere between an especially low hum and a moan that sits in my throat.
I definitely didn’t mean to do that, but at this point, I’m too lost in savoring the sensory delight to care.
Rocky adds a little more pressure, scratching an itch that I didn’t know was there.
“Mmm, that feels good.” I purr sleepily,
“Grace enjoying this lots.” He notes,
“Mm-hmm.” I say, letting another small, pleasured hum drift from my chest.
“You make sound on purpose, question?”
“Uh…not…really?” I admit, trying to concentrate on forming a coherent sentence, “I mean, I can make that sound on my own, but…it also just kinda happens when I’m enjoying something.”
“Yes. Rocky remember. Is peanut butter eating sound.”
I snort and chuckle, “Yeah. Same sound.”
“Grace sound like Erid animal.”
“Yeah?” I mutter,
I’m almost too distracted by the pleasant sensation to focus on conversation.
“Yes.” Rocky says, “Animal likes scratches, too. Makes happy noise when scratches are given. Is good for bonding between Eridian and animal. Humans same as animal, question?”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy getting lost in the velvety, sleepy haze of the scratches I’m being treated to.
I forgot how nice this is.
Liiittle bit to the left aaaand — oh yeah. Bingo. That’s it. Riiight there.
God, that feels good.
…Hey, why’s it always itchy there? …Eh, whatever. Don’t care right now. All I know is that I’m enjoying this.
…I wonder if I could get Rocky to loosen up that knot in my back while he’s at it. Orrrr maybe later.
I’m sleepy right now and I don’t wanna move.
…So, so sleepy.
“Grace.”
“Hmm?” I ask, making some measure of effort to open my eyes,
I heard him speak but didn’t process it. My eyelids are so heavy that they sink closed again instantly. I don’t even bother trying to open them again.
He stops scratching.
“Nooo.” I protest sleepily, opening my eyes slightly for the sole purpose of glaring at him, “Why’d you stop?”
“Want more, question?”
I nod and close my eyes again.
“Mm-hmm. Want more.” I repeat foggily, pressing my face back against the xenonite, “More, please.”
“Humans definitely same as animal.” He decides in fond exasperation.
He resumes scratching my head gently, concentrating on that sweet spot behind my ear.
“That’s more like it.” I say sleepily, ignoring his statement.
We’re both silent for a long while. My stomach settles further and further until it barely hurts at all. Meanwhile, Rocky continues to scratch my head absently; I just lay there and let him. My breathing slows. My heart rate slows. Everything slows. Everything is warm and soft and hazy, like morning fog on a cloudy Saturday in June. It feels safe.
Rocky starts to make slow, smooth, deep noises — like a whale song. I have no chance at fighting sleep now. I drift off, wondering vaguely if this is how it feels to be a pampered housecat lounging in a sunbeam.
I’m not sure what I decide.
***
My eyelids wander open. I blink them groggily and heave a sleepy sigh.
I’m in the exact same position. Rocky’s right where he was, too, once again loafed with all his limbs beneath him.
I stretch lazily, enjoying the feeling of my muscles moving about after so long being still.
“Hi, Rock.” I yawn, “G’morning.”
“Good morning.” Rocky says, “Grace sleep good. Very, very good. Grace barely move. Breath was deep and heart was slow.”
“Mm-hmm.” I say, “Means I was relaxed.”
“Yes, yes. Rocky give scratches more often. Grace sleep better with scratches.”
“You’ll get no objections from me.” I say,
“Grace like scratches. Why didn’t you tell me humans like scratches, question?”
“I don’t know,” I say, curling up around him, “Just never came up.“
“But is good for Grace. Why not tell me about something good for Grace, question?”
I snuggle closer, still sleepy.
“Just…didn’t wanna have to ask, I guess. It’s embarrassing having to ask for something like that.”
“To ask for scratches is embarrassing, question?”
I shrug and a twinge in my shoulder causes me to wince, “Kinda, yeah. Scratches, a back rub, closeness in general. It’s all embarrassing.”
“No understand. Is human thing, question?”
“…Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a Grace thing.”
“Understand.” He says, “Rocky scratch. Rocky rub Grace back or stay close to Grace for warming. Humans need touch. Rocky take care of Grace.”
I don’t answer for a second. Something warm aches in my chest. It has nothing to do with Rocky’s body temperature.
“In that case,” I say slowly, “Could you…maybe rub my back a little? My shoulders are kinda tight.”
“Yes, yes.”
I roll over, now lying flat on my belly so that he can reach the area. Rocky presses on my back and shoulders with gentle pressure and I sigh peacefully. For once, I don’t feel any guilt at having requested this. Would anyone on earth have done this for me, I wonder? Does it even matter anymore?
I relish in the relaxing feeling of pressure and warmth on my muscles. He’s getting good at this. The xenonite plates of his suit remind me of the hot stone massages I’ve seen people on TV get.
I wonder if it feels the same.
He hits a sore spot and I wince, grunting in pain.
“Mmph. Ow.”
“Rocky hurt, question?”
“Mm-hmm. Just a little, but it’s a good hurt. Focus on that spot more.”
“Good hurt make no sense.” He says,
He complies anyway, pressing on the tight muscle. I screw up my face in pain at the sharp ache it causes. My shoulders are way more tense than I thought they’d be.
“Ow, ow, ow! Ooh. Yikes.”
“Continue, question?”
“Mm-hmm. Until it doesn’t hurt. That means the muscle isn’t tense anymore, which is kinda the point.”
“Understand.”
Rocky slowly works the tension out of my shoulder. It’s painstaking for both of us. Finally, I feel the last little bit of tightness release and the pain slowly melts into relief and finally into relaxation.
A moan of delight bubbles up in my throat and for once, I let it out intentionally.
”Mmm. Oh, yeah. Dude, that feels so much better,” I say, laughing a little in relief,
“I know! Made enjoying noise!” Rocky chirps,
Yeah, I did. And why not? It feels good. So what if I sound like the Eridian equivalent of a cat purring when pet?
Maybe I’d make a good Eridian cat. Or maybe I don’t have to be anything but what I am; maybe I can work with what I’ve got and still be good enough, abnormalities and all.
One thing’s for sure: if I’d known I’d have to get shot into space for a massage like this, I would’ve volunteered.