Chapter Text
Grace fiddles with the tape on his cheek, digging at a corner until it peels.
The peel turns into a loopty loop; he wonders briefly if it looks like he has half a fancy, curly mustache, like the Pringles mascot.
He should ask Rocky.
The question is on the tip of his tongue when Rocky, clad in his thin xenonite suit, climbs on the mattress and gently moves Grace’s hand away.
“Hey…” Grace whines.
His hand immediately goes back to picking at the tape. It irritates his skin with its scratchy texture. Grace doesn’t like it if seams in clothing rub against him the wrong way, so of course medical tape on his cheek is going to drive him nuts. But if it weren’t for the NG tube currently feeding human-modified-by-Eridian vitamins into his broken system, he doesn’t think he’d be here right now. It was… touch and go for a while; he doesn’t really want to think about it. He still doesn’t have any strength, can’t even get out of bed to use the bathroom, but he’s here, spinning in Erid’s orbit as his biodome is under construction. He isn’t remotely well enough to leave the Hail Mary, even if the build were complete, so there’s still a long road ahead of him.
“Bad Grace,” Rocky scolds. He uses his claw to hold Grace’s hand, bruised purple even without an IV, in a soft, but firm grasp.
Grace lets his head fall back against the mountain of plushy pillows. “‘m not a dog…”
“Correct. Grace human. Very stubborn, sick human.”
Scurvy, as it turns out, is not fun.
It is decidedly not fun to bruise every time he dares to get out of bed, although that capability has been gone for many human months at this point. He would knock his knobbly knees together or shred his palms while catching himself from falling. Coordination has never been a strength of his. Ungraceful. Haha. But he tripped over thin air much more often than when he was healthy. As he got weaker, he found himself bedridden, unable to make his legs behave like legs, a deep, unforgiving pain radiating throughout his useless muscles.
It’s not fun having his gums still bleed. It’s a tidal wave of iron when Rocky helps him brush his teeth with a tiny glob of Eridian-made antibacterial toothpaste, dripping from his mouth down his neck and staining whatever he’s wearing. He’s taken to having Rocky drape a medical gown over him so he doesn’t ruin any clothes or blankets, even though Rocky insists they can make more. But, still, the bleeding isn’t as intense or as frequent as the vitamin C re-enters his body.
It’s also not fun having scars re-open at a moment’s notice. Rocky’s handprint on his right forearm is the worst. It’s by far the deepest scar tissue he has, seemingly extending down to the bone, and it makes itself known by oozing blood and puss. Armando dresses the wound and wraps it in gauze multiple times a day, along with the surgical scar on his abdomen from the time he was hit by a car while riding his bike on the way to school when he was 29. The doctors removed almost half his liver and a portion of his spleen. That scar tore open every time he moved, so he got used to lying on his back and taking short, shallow breaths, which made him wheeze and cough a lot. That, of course, made the tearing worse.
So, yeah, scurvy sucks, and it basically destroyed his life, and he’s fighting hard to get that life back.
He goes to mess with the tape again with his bad hand, the right one with all the IVs and wires, but he’s tired. Moving is a lot.
“I thought I was going to die,” he finds himself whispering. He isn’t sure if it’s to Rocky or to no one.
Rocky shakes his carapace. “Grace no die. Eridian doctors fix. Adrian fix. Rocky fix.”
Tears swell in his eyes. He sniffles, and the tears fall, streaming down his cheeks. Some get stuck on the NG tube tape.
He hates it.
He hates it so much.
But Rocky uses another claw to grab a tissue and wipe at his skin. His touch is always surprisingly tender for being a rock.
“Did you think…” his voice trails off. “Did you think I was gonna -”
“No,” Rocky says immediately, cutting him off. “Grace sick. Grace hurt. But Grace no die.”
Grace nods. “I wouldn’t have gotten through this without you.”
Rocky dabs the tears around his eyes away. “Rocky would not be here without Grace.”
“Yeah, but that’s different because -”
Rocky cuts him off again. “No ‘because.’ Grace save Rocky. Grace brave.”
Grace watches as Rocky loafs on the bed beside him, carefully tucking four of his five claws under his carapace. One claw still remains clasping Grace’s good hand. Rocky looks like an old, distinguished cat about to recount the story of his youth like this, but Grace doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to go through the whole ‘Grace brave’ conversation again. Honestly, by the look of his best friend, he doubts Rocky wants to have it again either.
“Maybe we can say that we saved each other,” Grace suggests.
Rocky hums beside him. The frequency shakes the bed. “Yes. We saved each other.”
“And, well, you’re still saving me now, and all I’ve done is be a burden and -”
“I will rock punch Grace if Grace finishes that thought,” Rocky says.
Grace chuckles at the new term ‘rock punch.’ It fits. “Okay okay okay. Geez. I’m sick, remember?”
“Rocky cannot forget.”
“Show off,” Grace murmurs.
His eyes are closed now. The irritation from the tape on his cheek filters into the background.
“Friend Grace, question?”
“Yeah?”
“Rocky love Grace.”
Grace hums, low and deep. “I love you too, pal.”
“Rest. Rocky watch.”
He drifts off with Rocky’s nestled claw in his hand, safe and sound.