Archive of Our Own

“Grace, question?” Rocky asks hesitantly. I look over to him tapping his claws against each other. Oh boy, he’s really nervous about whatever this is about. 

“Yeah, bud?” I put down the things I was fiddling with (it feels wrong to call it working when I barely got anything done in the last half-hour), turning to give him my full attention. I know that’s a human impulse, he can see me entirely anyway, but it feels right. 

He lets out a noise that I’ve started to mentally interpret as him saying ‘um’, or some other kind of word filler. 

“When Grace hug me,” Rocky starts, and I raise an eyebrow. Not where I expected this conversation to be going. “Does that… feel nice?” 

I tilt my head. A flicker of worry that this is Rocky’s way of saying ‘I don’t like it, stop doing it’ surfaces, but- that doesn’t make much sense. He was rather unsure about it the first time I did it, but now he leans up into it every time I do, and even initiates on his own. 

So is this some kind of scientific thing? Since Eridians aren’t a touch-based culture? Why would he be nervous about asking about that? He was less wary of even me eating. Disgusted, but not nervous. 

“Yes?” I say, and it sounds like a question, but I do mean it. “I wouldn’t do it if it didn’t. What’s this about?” 

I like hugging Rocky, he’s warm even through the xenonite and while I know it’s not the way he usually understands it, he still gets it’s a way for me to express I care about him. It’s also a bit of a novelty for me to actually show someone affection in that way. Win-win-win. 

Rocky taps his claws a bit faster. “Read something on human thinking machine,” he says, and I should really mentally work on replacing words with the proper ones. The pidgin we have works, but I’m going to Erid now. Gotta be fluent in Eridian. “About humans and touch.” 

My brow furrows, and I wonder for a moment if Rocky somehow got into some more adult content. Oh god, I really do not want to have a birds and the bees talk with him. Already the very cursory discussion we had for scientific reasons was bad enough, if interesting. 

“‘Humans and touch’?” I bounce my fingers against my leg twice, something I’ve definitely picked up from him. “Care to elaborate?” 

“Mmm,” he mutters, and then climbs his way closer. He sits down in the little area above where my work desk is, doing what I can only call a ‘loaf’ with one claw out. “Thinking machine said humans are very tactile.” 

He’s avoiding the question. What, is he hoping I’ll figure it out and answer on my own? Sorry bud, but if no one on Earth could get me to pick up a cue properly during my thirty-something years there, you’re not gonna be able to either. 

“We usually are, yes. As you’ve noticed,” I say, perhaps a little snarkily but he did just comment on the fact that I hug him a lot. He doesn’t seem to relax though, or prepare to snark back. 

Okay, I have a lot of patience from being a teacher, but not for fully grown people (or rocks) avoiding the topic they brought up. 

“Rocky,” I say, slightly stern. “What’s going on?” 

He twitches, hesitating, and then he seems to acquiesce. 

“It said touch is necessary for human survival,” Rocky trills, that nervous note still there. “Bad bad bad things happen if humans are unable to get it. Mental, physical.” 

Oh. Ohhhh. Oh boy. 

“Touch-starvation,” I fold my arms on the table. “You read about touch-starvation.” 

Rocky nods, his carapace jutting up and down once. Something I know he’s picked up from me. 

Well. This’ll be a fun conversation. 

I sigh, and massage the bridge of my nose. It pushes my glasses up, but pressing against my eyes feels nice right then. I can tell Rocky must really want this conversation, because he doesn’t even yell at me about it. 

“Okay. Okay, yeah, I guess I should’ve guessed this would come up,” I say, and then sit up properly, shaking my head. “How much did you read?” 

“Lot,” he says, and it sounds vaguely like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “Mary?” 

“Wait, you don’t need-” I try to interrupt him bringing the ship into this (she gets involved in our spars enough as is) but I’m too late. 

“Touch-starvation. Also referred to as touch-hunger. Side-effects include aggressive behaviours, impairment in speech or communication, lowered self-esteem, increasing anxiety, depression, and self-injurious activities-”

“Okay!” I clap my hands, cutting her off. “Thank you, Mary, but that’s enough!” 

She does go quiet, but I feel an air of judgement about it. Whether that’s her, or me taking my humanizing tendencies to another level, I don’t know. 

Rocky seems pretty judgey right now too. 

“You’ve made your point, Rock,” I sigh again, and lean closer to him. “You’re worried about me being touch-starved.” 

He nods again, humming. It sounds a little crunchy, concern making it closer to Stitch than a piano. I file away a mental note to make him watch Lilo and Stitch with me later. 

“Is Grace touch-starved?” He asks, and at least he’s getting to the point now. 

I want to rebuff him immediately, to tell him he’s being silly, but I take a minute to actually think about it. I can’t exactly blame him for thinking I wouldn’t tell him if that was something I was dealing with, because I wouldn’t. It wouldn’t exactly be something fixable. But also- 

“No,” I say earnestly. “I’m not.” 

It still doesn’t make him relax. “Not now,” he says, “But maybe later.” 

“Maybe,” I allow, because I really can’t know one way or the other. He taps three times, quick succession. “But it’s not likely.” 

“Why?” He challenges, just as quick as his taps. “How Grace know?” 

I put my hand up to the xenonite, near where his claw is. “Take a breath, Rocky. The world isn’t ending anymore.” 

We don’t know that for sure, we won’t see Sol returning to brightness for years yet and we still need to get to Erid, but it’s something we’ve taken to saying to each other. When it still feels like fight-or-flight (or death), and like we need to be doing something or else we let down everyone counting on us, it’s a good reminder. 

He listens, a strange bagpipes sound I know is overexaggerated for my benefit, but he settles. He puts his claw against mine, through the xenonite. Stupid, wasting one of few hands, he usually called it, and yet he always does it anyway. 

“Is that why you asked about when I hug you?” I inquire, once it’s been a few seconds. “You wanted to know if that helped with a human's touch quota?” 

“Yes,” he confirms, and then pauses for a long moment. “Worried, Grace.” 

“I know you’re worried,” I say, because I can’t just dismiss him outright. Look at me, progress. “That… was a pretty extensive list,” Thank you, Mary. 

“Worried not enough.” 

I purse my lips, chest panging. I was never good at dealing with people being worried about me, a very solid wall up in all my relationships, but it’s somehow worse when it’s Rocky. Maybe because I know I have to let him. 

Not about this though. 

“Hey, no,” I say, and tap my fingers against his. Making sure he’s really listening, and not just hearing me. “First of all, you’re always enough for me. I don’t want anything more, or anything less.” 

Saying mushy stuff has always been a bit of a struggle for me, despite my emotional nature, something in me making me cringe when I try to. But it’s easier (though not easy) when it’s Rocky. I get just a singular note from him, acknowledgment, but at least he’s not arguing back.  

“And second of all, I’m not just… saying this to appease you,” I say, and wave my free hand around. “I know, I know, I do that a lot-” Another note, more accusatory this time, yeah I deserve that, “But I’m serious. Not all humans need or want touch like that. You don’t need to be worried about this, at least not for a long time.” 

Rocky seems to take a second to process this. We both pull away from the barrier as he does, more and more in-sync these days, and I just wait. 

“Okay,” he hums, and I could just about slump in relief. I was a few minutes away from doing a puppet show if that would be the thing to convince him. “Okay, believe Grace. Other things to worry about.” 

I know he’s only half-joking, but I laugh anyway. “Yeah, plenty of other things to worry about. And maybe take a break from the doomscrolling on Wikipedia, huh?” 

“What doomscrolling, question?” 

Now that is a much easier question to answer.  

—

I have never claimed to not be oblivious. 

Granted, I probably wasn’t as oblivious as people thought considering the amount of times I would pretend not to know what someone was doing or talking about, to avoid a situation- but that number was still far less than the amount of times I genuinely had no idea what someone was doing. 

So it maybe takes me a few days to realize that Rocky isn’t acting normally. 

Or, correction, I notice on day one he’s off, but I put it up to a bad day. We have plenty of those between us after all. And sometimes those bad days are bad weeks. I adjust to be gentler around him for a bit, and figure that he’ll talk to me about it eventually if he needs to. He’s better about that than me. 

But it’s a few days later that I realize that he’s being cautious around me. Bumping into my legs less hard but also somehow more often, praising things I do just a little more overzealously (even for him), not bantering back with me as hard, and most noticeable of all- hugging me a lot more. 

It’s the last one that finally tips me off that maybe our previous conversation wasn’t as resolved as I thought. 

I’m not complaining, exactly, I definitely don’t mind not almost eating metal every time he crashes into me, and the hugs are nice, but I’d much rather just have my best friend back to normal than whatever weird limbo we’re in now. 

So I do what I almost never do, and prepare to have a proper adult conversation about it. Communication and talking about your feelings and all of that. Ugh. It occurs to me that Rocky is definitely the most healthy relationship I’ve ever had, and also that that fact means I’m not allowed to avoid my problems. 

“Hey, Rock? You busy?” I ask, and am definitely hoping more than I should that that answer is ‘yes’. He trills something back, just a moment, before wandering into the room in his ball. 

“No,” he hums, “Not busy. Bored. Why, question?” 

Damnit. Okay, buck up Ryland, it’s conversation time. 

“Can we talk?” I ask, and wince internally because that’s the worst way ever to start a conversation. I sit down on the ground anyway (I moved the mattress to the floor ages ago, and never bothered to move it back) and pat the space in front of me. 

Rocky tilts his carapace, but rolls closer anyway. I tap the side of the xenonite, more of a hello than anything else, and he taps back. 

“You’ve been acting a bit… off, for the last few days,” I say, trying to get to the point so I’m not a hypocrite for getting annoyed when he didn’t. But also I don’t think it would go well if I just went ‘Are you still worried about me being touch starved? Well, don’t be!’ 

He shifts, slightly guilty, and I know I haven’t been imagining it. 

“Maybe,” he says, even though it wasn’t a question. I click my tongue. He does his equivalent of an eyeroll. How he managed to figure out a way to communicate that, I will never know, but it comes across quite clear. “Okay, yes. Off.” 

“Off off off,” I amend, and am rewarded with a grumble. I half smile, which I’m sure just makes him want to grumble more. 

“Maybe,” he huffs, but there’s also an air of laughter to it. Like he’s also aware he’s being a little ridiculous. Petulant, even, a word he’s definitely heard me use before to describe my students. 

“Going to say anything else on it?” I ask, and I do actually laugh when he shakes his head stubbornly. 

“Grace brought it up. Grace talk,” he says, slipping a bit further into our pidgin as he does. I shake my head back, and somehow the interaction makes me feel better about it all. 

“Are you still worried about touch?” I ask, and I guess we are just jumping right into it. He pauses, the lighthearted air subsiding a bit. But then he just chirps an affirmative. 

Huh. Easy. Still not used to that. 

I don’t sigh, because then I’d be the one behaving a bit childishly, but the impulse is there. 

“Okay. Why?” 

“No understand,” he replies, and crosses his legs the same way I have mine. Criss-cross applesauce, a vague memory whispers at the back of my brain, but I ignore it. 

“What, you don’t understand why I’m asking why?” Is this more banter? If it is, I’m down for it, anything to delay this conversation, but gotta give me something to work with here.

“No,” he clicks back at me, “No understand why Grace say I shouldn’t be worried.” 

Ah. Yep. Not banter, genuine good point. A point I was hoping to avoid. 

“Ah,” I say out loud, and cross my arms. I lean against the ship's wall (the only upside of having a limited amount of space means I always have things to lean against) and he waits. 

I know I should explain this to him, but also for once my lack of want doesn’t come from a place of not wanting to be vulnerable. It’s because I genuinely don’t know how to. I know he isn’t going to judge me- he comes from an entire species that doesn’t rely on touch, I can’t be an outsider there- but I still get an odd squirmy feeling about it. 

“Touch… isn’t really my thing?” I somehow land on. Wow. I mean, okay, sure, that’s a start but- really? “Never has been.” 

“Grace touch all the time,” Rocky points out, and I know he thinks I’m lying (or, maybe not lying, but stretching the truth), which. Fair. 

“I mean,” I start, and then stop, rubbing my face. “Humans. Human touch has never been my thing.” 

And there it is, the entire crux of the issue in one simple statement. At that, Rocky stills entirely. Processing things seems to be the only time Rocky goes still. Even when he’s working, or thinking through things, he’s always moving. But when there’s new information to digest, he goes still. 

“What mean?” He says finally. No judgement or accusation in this one, but I actually can’t tell what tone he’s using. Haven’t had that happen in awhile. “What mean, touch is not Grace thing?” 

“It just never has been,” I explain, and it’s like once I start I can’t stop. “Even when I was a kid, I didn’t really like people touching me. My mom was sometimes an exception, but I definitely got in trouble more than once for acting out when someone else did,” I ramble, waving a hand around. 

I still do solidly think that the whole ‘hug your family member, come on they came all this way’ guilt tripping type stuff is wrong to do with kids, teaching consent and all that. Especially as a teacher. But also… maybe a bit overdramatic to bolt away or start crying because someone touched me in the grocery store when I wasn’t expecting it. 

“It wasn’t as big of a deal when I became an adult, but I still don’t really like it all that much,” I add on, and it’s more true than I can say. 

I could handle it from specific people, and in certain amounts, but I still didn’t really like it. I could count on one hand the amount of times I got genuine enjoyment out of touching someone else before coming to space, and that wasn’t just the amnesia talking. 

Rocky is still very still, and I really don’t know what I’m going to do if this doesn’t convince him. It’s the best I got without a few months of therapy and soul-searching, both of which are impossible for more than a few reasons. 

“If anything it’s kind of a relief being in space where no one can touch me,” I blurt out, because seriously he’s been quiet for a full two minutes, and- I regret it instantly. 

That is what teachers would call an inside thought. Very much an inside, do not say out-loud because people will look at you all confused and off-put and concerned, thought. But now it’s apparently an outside one that I share during an intense conversation. 

“Hm,” is all Rocky says, and I have the idea that I would shake him if we were in zero-g. 

“So- yeah, no need to worry, everything’s fine, I’m going to go check on the taumoeba,” I say, moving to get up with a few jerky hand movements. Run away because I said something too vulnerable mode activated. 

“Grace, wait,” he calls, and I stop immediately. Curse him, I’m usually so good at ignoring what people tell me to do. “Sit down, question?” 

I make a face. I know I’m making a face. I know Rocky can see (hear, see, whatever) I’m making a face, and I don’t care. I sit down anyway, but I’m not happy about it. 

“Processing. Give minute,” he says, and I knew that, but fine. Fine, I will not run away. Yet. 

“Rocky, buddy, I love you, but say something else,” I exhale, and he buzzes at me. 

“Apology apology, Grace fine.” 

Well now I feel like a child being appeased. I grumble, and make the face harder. Baby steps on the adult communication, okay? Past Ryland would’ve been halfway across the ship by now. 

“Grace not like touch,” Rocky repeats, which- horse is dead, it’s beaten, we get it- but it sounds for the first time like he may actually believe it. Fine. 

“Human touch,” I correct, tone irritable. I don’t need him getting it into his head that he needs to interact with me less now, instead of more. 

“Yes yes yes, human touch,” he croons, and if I didn’t know any better I’d think he seems a little smug about the fact that he’s the exception here. But I do know better, so I can tell he’s absolutely smug about it. 

“Done processing? Can I go?” 

“Wait,” he says again, and I let out an exasperated sound. “Grace touch-🎶🎵🎶, question?” 

I haven’t needed the translator in forever, but it still catches me off-guard when he says something and I don’t automatically hear it in english. I know it isn’t starvation again (he already had that word from other very difficult conversations about this trip), so… what? 

“Don’t know that word, bud,” I say, snapped solidly out of my grumpy mood by my surprise. And also curiousity. 

“To avoid. Go away from. Oil and water,” he lists off, and yeah he’s probably just showing off him reading so much from the computer, which normally I’d make fun of him for, except-

It’s my turn to blue screen. 

Insert windows error noise, not expecting that. 

“I- what?” I say, and it’s at least an octave higher than I usually go. 

“Rocky read Wikipedia on human touch. Touch-starvation, touch-aversion,” he says, and I know the word now. I know that phrase, and have had that conversation before. 

“N-no, no, I mean,” I stutter, and put my arms up in a vague X motion. “I don’t like it, sure, but I’m not averse to it.” 

And maybe that’s getting into technical details, the semantics, but it feels important. I might’ve been a tad upset about it when I was a kid, but kids get upset over everything. 

“What difference?” He asks, and he very specifically doesn’t say ‘question’ after it (I can tell when he’s doing it to prove a point versus just a vernacular difference), making it rhetorical. 

“Touch-aversion is from like- trauma, Rock,” I sort of laugh. He doesn’t laugh along with me, just tilts his carapace again curiously. 

“Not always.” 

“Usually!” I exclaim. “Usually that’s the reason, and I think I’d know, being the actual human and all!” 

And maybe it’s frantic again, but- oh, there it is, more memories, great. But it almost always happens. Happened. Whatever. 

Someone would touch me, I’d jump a bit or back away, and they’d ask what was wrong. Sometimes kind of hurt, sometimes just confused. I’d say that I didn’t like being touched all that much, and no matter how light-heartedly I’d say it- there would be a moment where their expression would flit towards pitying. Worried, horrified, annoyed, whole range- but pitying. 

And I’d always, always have to explain that it wasn’t like that. That I just didn’t like it. No, nothing happened, I’m just like this. Sometimes they wouldn’t believe me, or just leave it be. But usually there would be that air of ‘then why are you like this? When there’s no good reason?’ 

I hate that conversation. Much easier to just practice not jumping so much. Or say I had a long day. Or whatever the most convenient excuse was in that moment. 

“Grace upset,” Rocky comments idly. It isn’t reproachful, or snide, just an observation. “Apology, question?” 

I blow out a breath. A long, noisy breath. He’s asking if he’s done something wrong, made me upset. 

And I want to say yes, that he has, that we should drop this because he knows he doesn’t need to worry anymore and then we will not bring it up again, ever- but… that’s not fair. I’m projecting. He’s not the one saying any of that, he’s just asking a question based on the data available to him.

World isn’t ending. Chill out. 

“No,” I say, and it’s a bit like pulling teeth, “No, you haven’t done anything wrong. I’m sorry.” 

“No,” he repeats right back, which- okay, but I’m the one who snapped at you for no reason. I think an apology is deserved in that situation. “Not like that word, hm.” 

“I… it’s a bit of a loaded one, usually,” I say slowly, and he makes a noise that is very clearly ‘no duh’. Thanks, yeah I deserve that one too. 

“Inaccurate,” he says, and he doesn’t say question again, but it’s also not a statement, or the cadence of either. Open-ended. I think that particular grammar is human influence, Eridians (or at least Rocky) don’t seem to do leading phrases often. I could treat it like anything. 

I flop down fully onto the mattress with a groan instead of picking one way or another. He doesn’t comment, just moving closer so he’s by my head again. 

“I’m sorry I was a jerk,” I repeat. 

He rumbles at me. “Need sleep, question?” 

I let out a startled laugh. Cheeky. For once I had actually slept just fine, a few hours ago, but the point is made. I say stupid things sometimes, and it’s okay. 

“Thanks, bud,” I say, perhaps a bit too softly for the situation, but whatever. 

I also know he’s letting me off the hook if I want to be. Not forever, but we can stop discussing for now. He seems to be pretty happy just laying here for a while. 

“Not inaccurate,” I offer up, and again it’s a strain on me. Too much of being emotionally responsible. “Not definition wise, anyway. But… culturally?”  

I’m not calling it a culture thing, but I’m also not not calling it a culture thing.  

“You’re… right, there are factors that can cause it other than trauma. Walking example, hello,” I wiggle my fingers at him, and he waves a claw. “But…” 

“Understand. Heavier word than just definition. Won’t use it, then.” 

Man. I love Rocky. Have I mentioned that recently? I definitely have, but I should again. On Earth that would be at least another forty-five minutes of discussion, usually involving an entire life story just to prove that yes, really, it’s just a thing- and he accepts it like that. 

“Thank you,” I say again instead. He chirps, which ebbs off into a softer, continuing sound. 

You’re welcome, stupid. 

Yeah, fair. 

— 

Okay, I’m the problem this time. 

Rocky had gone pretty much back to normal after our conversation (never thought I’d be glad my knees are complaining at me), with only the added bonus that he still is a lot more affectionate physically. I’m honestly starting to think I’ve infected him, and he just likes doing it now. 

It should, by all states and standards, be a closed conversation. It is a closed conversation. 

So why can’t I stop thinking about it? Why am I the one now questioning my own… neutral-negative reaction to touch? Something I haven’t thought about in depth since grad school, basically? I’m the problem. I want to stop being the problem. Why can’t I stop being the problem.

Whatever the reason is, it’s now haunting me. I even opened that page Rocky had read, got through the touch-starvation section and about a third of the touch-aversion one before I realized what I was doing and slammed the laptop shut. 

I think Rocky can tell something’s up, but he’s doing what I failed at doing and waiting for me to come to him. I debate it. I don’t do it. I act even weirder. Cycle repeats. 

Today’s cycle includes a difference. There’s some sort of routine issue with Mary ongoing, which usually I actually quite like because it means stopping the ship briefly and going out in the EVA, a break from the monotony. Except right now it’s giving me far too much time to think. Something to do with my hands, the vast expanse of space, and nothing but my own thoughts and Rocky’s voice in my helmet. 

“Grace okay, question?” He asks for the third time in about twenty minutes, and I hum an affirmative back at him. 

I kind of want to ask him to talk to me, or even have Mary read something, but I know that would just distract me from what I’m doing and mean longer out here. I personally wouldn’t mind that, but Rocky still gets antsy these days about me being outside the ship. Can’t blame the guy. 

“Just two more bolts,” I say, which he knows (he can see it far better than I can, after all) but it’s about all I can do to reassure him. 

I tighten the one I’m on a bit further, and then move to the second-to-last one.  

If anything it’s kind of a relief being in space where no one can touch me.  

Ah, there it is again, the thing that's been pressing on my mind the last few days. Intruding thoughts, my old friend. 

Did I mean that? I said it to reassure Rocky, half-serious, and regretted it instantly. And I definitely don’t enjoy the idea I’ll never see another human again, as much as I’ve made peace with it. But did I actually, really feel relieved at the idea no one can touch me anymore? There’s something about it, not just a ‘no more touch’ idea, that’s one thing- 

But I specifically said so no one can touch me. 

I find the issue bolt, and start working on that. It’s not enough of a distraction. What does it say about my life these days that even being out in space, one mistake away from floating off or dying, doesn’t actually keep my mind occupied anymore? 

“Hey, Rock?” I say, losing the battle and not feeling even slightly bad about it. 

“Yes yes,” he says, and it sounds dismissive, but I know it’s just him being focused. 

“Do Eridians have a version of touch-starvation?” I find myself asking, which- what? What? I realize as I’m saying it I do genuinely want to know, but also why would I ask to talk about the thing I’m trying not to think about? Or the topic slightly to the left, I suppose. 

“Hm,” Rocky warbles, and it seems at least one of us has been distracted from our anxious thoughts. “Unsure. Not exact equivalent, I don’t think.” 

“But something similar?” I finish tightening this one, slightly worried as it seems to be stripped. I know Rocky can make screws, so it’ll be fine, but still. “I know you guys do some kind of cuddling when you watch each other sleep, at least.” 

“Yes yes yes, on chest. Grace too squishy,” he says, kind of grumpy. I laugh. 

“And you’re like 300 pounds, not my fault I’m not made out of rock.” 

“Should work on that,” I do a mock salute with the wrench to his words. I know he can see it from how intently he’s watching me right now anyway. 

“What does it feel like for Eridians? Does it have bad effects like for humans?” For some reason I decide to stay on this topic. I can probably blame the scientist in me for that one. 

“It like…” He trails off, which is unusual for him. “Ache. It aches. Usually more bad because it means no one around to watch you sleep. Unsure about difference.” 

I finish the last screw, grateful it didn’t cause any problems, so that’s what I’m choosing to blame for why I take a second to register what he said. 

I grab the bar I’m using to avoid floating away with both hands, putting all my attention on the voice in my helmet instead. 

“Rocky,” I start slowly, “Do you..?” 

I’m kind of an idiot I think. He was alone for literal decades. No one to watch him sleep, and now that he does have someone, it’s a human he can’t do a lot of the normal Eridian things with. 

Is that part of why he was so worried about me potentially being touch-starved? Projection on some level? 

“Not much anymore,” he answers, and it’s that almost dismissive tone again, “Grace come inside now, question? Done with screws.” 

I realize I’m not going to get any actual answers out of him while I’m out here, as much as I want to grill him on what ‘not much anymore’ means. 

I make my way carefully to the airlock again, letting it do all the depressurization and filtration things it needs to. Completely impatient the entire way, but I manage not to rush it. 

Usually after doing an EVA I’ll go to the lab, or even record a video log, but this time I head right back to the cockpit where Rocky is. 

“What do you mean ‘not much anymore’?” I ask as I float in, holding onto the back of the chair he’s strapped into. 

“Still on this, question?” He asks, waving a claw in the air at me. “Need to check if ship functional.” 

“You’re avoiding the topic. Statement,” I argue back, and he chirps. 

“Not a statement. Not what a statement is. Grace bad at grammar.” 

I just stare at him. Staring works just as well on Eridians as it does humans, I’ve noticed. (Something about being aware something’s attention is on you entirely. Prey instinct?) I’m going to use it to my advantage. 

He makes a loud noise, something like a xylophone, a bunch of discordant notes I think is his version of an annoyed sigh. 

Hypocrite. 

“Grace help,” he says, “So not much anymore.” 

I blink at him. “That’s… nice, but how do I help?” Is it a little suspicious? Yes, more than a little. Wouldn’t put it past him to say something like that to make me mushy and stop thinking about it. 

“Watch sleep. Stay,” he says simply. That doesn’t feel like a full answer. I can lay on top of him, sure, and sometimes do- but not for the entire time he’s sleeping and it’s still through xenonite. 

“Rocky,” I say, and raise an eyebrow. He makes the discordant sound again. 

“Grace being annoying,” he grumbles, and I just poke the tip of one of the xenonite edges in response. My version of a boop, I’ve decided. 

“Takes one to know one. You grilled me I get to grill you,” I’m so glad both I, and the many movies we watch, have taught Rocky so many humanisms. Makes my life a thousand times easier. I’ve picked up a few Eridian ones too.

He’s silent for a long moment. 

“Need word,” he says. “Close together, in same space. Eridian word is 🎵🎶.” 

“Cramped?” I guess, even though he definitely has that one already. 

“No, not negative. Not positive, definition, but not negative,” he denies, and huh. What could that… 

“Proximity,” Mary decides to pipe up. She’s been doing that more and more, almost like chatting with us. Or I really am losing it. “The quality or state of being proximate. Closeness, very near.” 

“Not bad,” I say, because that does actually sound closer to what Rocky was saying. Kind of fancy, but what else is a computer gonna say. “Also where a star name comes from. Proxima Centauri, the closest star to Sol we’ve found.” 

“Good! Yes yes yes, proximity,” he does the same trill again, and I mentally add it. I could add it to the translator, if I really wanted, but I think I’ve got it now. 

“So because I’m just… near you, that helps?” I ask. This is all a lot if he’s just trying to derail me, it sounds more like he’s trying to explain something difficult. Like I was. But I have to make sure. 

“Means a lot right now,” he does a little shake. A shrug, I think. 

“Okay,” I accept, finally. He’s sure of this, and I’ve gotten pretty good at telling when he’s just trying to appease me. “Proximity.” 

—

Nightmares are something relatively common these days. 

Not every night, or even every other, but common. Possibly a side effect of actually sleeping more, possibly just processing things unconsciously for the first time. Whatever the reason, they’re annoying. 

Explaining dreams and nightmares to Rocky had been a bit of an ordeal, but once he got it he’s actually been pretty helpful with them. And luckily for us both I got over the embarrassment of him witnessing them. Mostly. 

Usually the nightmares are about our time in space. The petrova lines, the fishing mission on Adrian, being crushed and burning, Rocky not waking up. The taumoeba escaping the first time, the second time breaking out of the breeders, my brain tormenting me with what-ifs about if I’d been too late. Fun stuff like that. 

But, more rarely, it’s of my time on Earth. Those are always more murky, even if a lot of my memories have come back now, and in some ways that’s more terrifying. The not knowing. The astrophage explosion, the sun slowly dying, my students growing up in a cold, barren world. 

And, of course, being sent to space against my will. Love that one. Really great reminder of things I’d rather not think about, thanks brain. 

Tonight is one such night. It isn’t even detailed, just… Running, running, running, being caught and hands pinning me down and begging for them not to do this, the feeling of the needle and knowing this was it, I was going to die- 

I wake up to Rocky pushing at my arm. 

I bolt up straight, heart rattling around my ribcage as I do. Rocky backs up, giving me space like he’s learned to do. He buzzes unsurely, tapping his claws together as I try to suck in a breath. At least I didn’t wake up screaming. Neither of us liked those nights. 

“Hey, Rocky,” I breathe out, shaky. “Thanks for waking me up.” 

“Not a problem,” Rocky shakes his carapace. “Grace okay, question?” 

How many times has he asked me that recently? I give him a thumbs up, a regular one not ours, and we can both tell it’s a lie. 

“Are we talking, question?” He asks, not pushing, and I rub a hand over my face. Sometimes I do want to talk about the nightmares, especially the more illogical ones. Rocky is so factual about things that it’s helpful. Other times though… I shake my head. 

“Come here?” I request instead, and he’s immediately pressing up against my side. I use the quilt to soften the edges of the xenonite ball, leaning my entire weight on it. Rocky leans up into it, at least for a moment, and I relax. 

I haven’t exactly told him in detail about what happened, mostly out of my own shame, but he does know that I wasn’t the original volunteer for this mission. And that I hadn’t agreed to go. It didn’t feel right to keep letting him think otherwise. 

I don’t know if he’s quite worked out the implications of that one, but he hasn’t pushed on it. Yet. And I don’t feel like a late-night nightmare chat is the time to introduce him to the lovely world of drugging people against their will. 

And chasing them when they run. And shoving them to the ground, holding them down so they can’t get away- 

“It might be a little bit of a trauma thing,” I whisper, and pull the blanket around me tighter. Late night confessions are happening anyway apparently. “The touch dislike. Just- the littlest bit.” 

Rocky taps against the glass three times. Acknowledgment. 

“I mean, I still- it really has been something since I was a kid,” I say, and I don’t even know why I feel the need to defend myself. I know Rocky won’t get upset with me for not saying it right the first time. Make fun of me, maybe, but not right now. Maybe it’s for myself. “It really is just a thing.”  

Except I never would’ve said I was relieved to be in a place where people couldn’t touch me before. 

The separation from before and after the amnesia is still prevalent, but I know that much. What’s the cause and effect? The whole situation was traumatizing on its own, no doubt, but was it worse because of my already existing touch thing, and then that in turn made the negative reaction worse? A feedback loop. 

“But- if I wasn’t averse before, I think I might have a little thing about touch now anyway,” I mutter. Why would I have any kind of good connotations for it when the last time I was ever touched by another person was that? Maybe relief is the right word. 

Rocky taps against the xenonite again, breaking me out of my thoughts. It’s right near my face, so it’s kind of hard not to pay attention. He presses his claw against it fully. 

“Human touch,” he corrects softly, and I can’t help but smile. I press my hand over where his claw is. 

“Yeah, human touch.” 

I don’t fall asleep again so much as just zone-out. It’s nice all the same, sitting there leaning against Rocky in the quiet. I don’t need to figure this out now, as much as my brain keeps scratching at it. 

Some memories I’ll never get back, some things I won’t get answers to for years, and there are some parts I’ll learn even when I don’t particularly want to. Maybe making peace with that should be my next goal. Made plenty peace with everything else already. Maybe I should take my own advice and focus on the many, many other things there are to worry about. 

But for now… 

“Hey, Rock, have I shown you Lilo and Stitch yet?”