Work Text:
"Rocky…"
"Grace needs to sleep."
"Rocky, come on."
Grace is whining again. This isn't a tone that eridians are capable of, but it is one that I have learned to detect over these past years of travel. It is something that is supposed to evoke sympathy, from what I have read on my thinking-machine. Now, however, all I feel is resignation. I already know what Grace is going to ask, and I know that sympathy can't change my answer. Nothing can change my answer.
"Please," Grace says, and tacks on a whimper for good measure, as if I hadn't understood the tone the first time. I wish that I had just misunderstood its tone. "It hurts. Can't you ask Armando for more?"
It means more painkillers. "Rocky cannot," I whistle. Behind me, the laptop parrots my words back to Grace in English. These days, it's even odds that Grace will understand the eridian phrasing or not – it's easier to just preemptively take the stress off of it and its struggling brain. At least that's one thing that I am able to do.
Grace curls in on itself at my response. I shuffle closer, seeking to provide comfort. It flinches.
On the good days, it can understand why I can't say yes. It can recall the fact that its human medicine is a limited resource, and one that it itself requested be saved for only the most dire of occasions now that it was down to the final few boxes of rations – and, unfortunately, the daily aches of existence that Grace now faces are not considered dire enough to 'waste' such precious resources on.
On the bad days, like today, all it can focus on is the fact that it is in pain, and its only friend is denying it relief that it thinks they should be able to provide.
By now, I know better than to try and explain. All that does is make it more stressed, as it tries to comprehend its position, and becomes more and more aware of how precarious it is. No, to quote a human turn of phrase, in this case 'ignorance is bliss'.
"Sleep, Grace," I urge.
"I'm sorry," Grace says, and begins crying. This is also a common response. It seems to think that it must have done something wrong, to warrant such treatment. "I didn't mean… I didn't mean whatever it was that I did."
(The thought that this would be an expected response to him making any mistake, no matter how bad that mistake might have been, never fails to make me grind my claws into the ground in rage.)
"Grace has done nothing wrong," I say, ready to repeat myself as many times as necessary.
"Promise?"
"Rocky promise."
It settles down, at that. Sniffling, Grace turns onto its side so it can face me. Its bed is at floor-level these days, for easy access, and I scuttle closer, anticipating what it might ask next.
Sure enough, Grace holds out an arm. "Can– can you–"
This is something that I can provide. Before Grace can fully get the question out, I push my carapace under its open arm, in the closest mimicry of a human hug that I can manage.
I ignore the squelching of bodily fluids and the rush of warm blood, and focus on the heartbeat. Despite everything, it's still drumming on and on, and I let the sound sooth me just as the hug soothes Grace. Tonight, together, we can rest peacefully.