Archive of Our Own

20XX, DENMARK

Rocky turns the corner, one of many—because humans were so very much insistent on their hallways and their ninety degree sharp angles, for some odd reason—when he comes to a sudden full body stop, catching sight of what he’d been looking for.

His shoes make a quiet squeak on the tile.

He takes a deep breath in. Lets it out.

Behind him, he can faintly hear yet another round of applause from a conference room across the hall. The one he’d somehow snagged an invite to, a miracle of all miracles. But that doesn’t matter. The people in there don’t matter.

The conference was just a… bridge.

A metaphorical one, an analogy.

A means to an end.

This hallway being the end, that is.

Bleh! Humans and their figurative language.

He shakes his head, focusing on what’s in front of him. On who’s in front of him, rather. “You can be brave,” he whispers under his breath. But then, correcting himself, “You are brave. Rocky is brave.”

He nods his head. There.

That is much better.

Statement.

There’s a man sitting all by his lonesome on a bench, head in his hands and shoulders up to his ears. He’s in a wrinkled suit, tie loose at his neck and lanyard sticking out of his trousers’ pocket. Rocky can just barely make out the name from where he’s standing.

Doctor Ryland G.

In one hand, Rocky holds a water bottle, the cap still sealed. Personal boundaries, he remembers the ‘special needs’ teacher telling him. So he pauses a careful distance away, not too close but not too far, a proper measure of space for the beginning of a casual conversation between two strangers.

It’s nothing like meeting each other for the first time through a transparent Xenonite barrier.

But, well.

As far as introductions go, this isn’t so bad!

Rocky holds out the water bottle. “Here, because you are leaky,” he starts, nervously picking at the label. He swallows back the sudden lump in his throat. “Hydration is very important. And you are very, very sweaty. Hence, replenishment.” And then he waits.

And waits.

No response.

Rocky blinks. Okay. Different tactic then?

“About your surname…” he tries, letting the sentence hang, and hopes that Grace will take the bait. Because he has a good pun planned! But also because Rocky has imagined this scenario so very, very much, their ‘first’ meeting. Dialogue bouncing back-and-forth between them like uninterrupted code.

But that, of course, required two willing participants.

One of which, right now, wasn’t very willing.

He clears his throat pointedly.

Grace groans into his palms, muffled. “Leave me alone.”

Rocky huffs through his nose.

“About your surname—” he tries again.

“Look. I’ve already had a long enough day, yeah?” A hand flaps at him, dismissive. Rocky is offended. “If you’re ‘nother one of those journalists asking for a sound bite or something, just leave me alone. Yeah, so I called that idiot a waste of carbon. Sue me.”

“No,” Rocky shakes his head, copying Grace’s disrespectful hand flap. “I mean, yes! That man is an idiot. And also a waste of carbon. I agree! Very eloquent. But that is not what I am here to talk about—”

“Now you’re just pulling my tail…” Grace grumbles, cutting Rocky off again, the man’s face still hidden in his hands. “Buttering me up just to slander me, oh, I bet—”

“Ugh! There is no tail to be pulled! Unless that is an idiom. Which, if it is, still does not apply.” He sniffs. “Also! It is customary to hold eye contact when speaking to someone. Very rude if you don’t.”

His fingers drum impatiently on the water bottle, musical beats he’d tap into the ground with his foot if it weren’t for his rather impressive—if he does say so himself—self-control.

“Especially for meet-cutes!” he tacks on as an afterthought.

“Meet-whuh?”

This time, Grace finally lifts his head.

Blue eyes blink up at him, confused and bewildered all at once. Red from exhaustion, wrinkles carved deeply in the corners. Crow’s feet, Rocky remembers them being called, in a novel the middle school curriculum had made them to read. He’d never understood the term before.

Rocky thinks he does, now.

Delicate little indentions spreading out. A sign of old age. Of working too hard and long nights, of rubbing one’s eyes too much when they’re tired.

There’s laugh lines, too, Rocky notices, around the man’s mouth. Stubble growing on his cheeks, around the upper length of his neck. Glasses askew on his nose, hair plastered to his forehead despite the AC blasting through the vents all throughout the building.

He looks a mess.

He looks sweaty.

He looks human.

James “Rocky” Rockett has been alive for approximately forty something Earth years. Forty-six, if he wanted to be exact. The same amount of time he was left all by his lonesome back up in space.

And yet, he’s never met another human so beautiful before.

Or maybe that’s just because it’s Grace.

(Yes, maybe that’s it. Maybe it really is as simple as that.)

“Meet-cute,” Rocky repeats after what he’s sure has constituted a long enough pause in conversation to become awkward. “It is an interaction in which two individuals have their first official meeting while in a situation that can be considered cute, humorous, embarrassing—”

“What?” Grace cuts him off. “No, I mean—yes, ‘course I know what a meet-cute is. Jesus christ.” The man shakes his head. “Who are you?”

“Oh. Well, Rockett is my government issued surname. But I prefer the name Rocky. Has charm to it, yes? I also respond to Rock on occasion.”

He holds out a hand.

“It is nice to meet you!”

Grace, despite his obvious confusion, still reaches for it. Aha! Rocky uses the opportunity to sneak in the forgotten water bottle, clasping Grace’s one hand with both of his. The other man looks down, brows furrowed. “Um?”

“Hydration is important!”

“Hydration is… yup. Okay. We’re just holding hands now.”

A pause.

“So, uh. What was that about my surname?”

Rocky lights up. “Oh! Yes. Well. I had a joke planned. Something-something about your name being Grace but you, the namesake, having none of it. Exhibit A being your rather impressive outburst back there.” He wrinkles his nose, thinking. “Funnier in my head. But still a little funny out loud.”

Another pause.

“Now, it is your turn to laugh?”

Grace lets out a nervous chuckle. “Haha?”

“This is a successful first meeting, then!” Rocky announces to the empty hallway. The corner of Grace’s mouth turns up, a begrudging little thing that Rocky immediately spots. “You agree?” he asks, enthusiastic.

“Well, I guess I kinda have to?” Grace sits up, letting go of his hands—Rocky misses the warmth of it already—placing the water bottle down on the bench. “You did pull me outta the funk I was in just now, so…”

He stands up, patting down his white dress shirt, brushing off his trousers. Trying to straighten up. It doesn’t really… do much to help neaten his appearance. Not to mention the coffee stain on his collar.

Rocky commits all of this to memory.

It’s just so… him, is the thing.

So very, very Grace.

“Let’s do this properly then.”

This time, the other man holds out his hand. Rocky doesn’t hesitate for a second before reaching out to take a hold of it again.

“Hello, uh. Rocky, right?” he smiles. “My name is Grace.”

.

.

.

i.

THE BEGINNING THE PAST

“It is the closest that we have,” Adrian trills, stopping at Rocky’s side.

Together they face the ocean, the waves licking at their Xenonite suits. Adrian puts a leg on one of Rocky’s, the closest they can get to touching each other in Grace’s biodome. Rocky leans back against his mate, a disappointed, warbling sound coming out of him.

“Not more north? Grace said San Francisco.”

Adrian shakes their headpiece. “No. Nothing that matches. All other options are too far away, whether location or—more importantly—time. Anyway, with this, he will only be few, maybe several Earth hours away.”

They tap their claws together, excited.

“This is our chance!”

But Rocky’s carapace shrinks in on itself.

“My chance, you mean,” he corrects.

“Our chance,” Adrian repeats. They nudge at Rocky, musical beats taking on a scolding tone. “I understand your sadness. It is my sadness, too. I think of him just as much. This? It is for the both of us.”

“But you will be alone!”

Adrian huffs, a whistle of sharp air. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

“I am not stupid!”

It is times like these when Rocky wishes Grace were still here. An audience to their banter. The missing third piece of their little group. Grace would have said something funny—maybe an icebreaker, or whatever other silly little phrase he had in his vernacular. Something, anything, to dispel the tension.

Maybe a dumb human joke?

“You are thinking about him,” Adrian points out. They sound amused. “We are in middle of argument and you are thinking about him. Again.”

Rocky grumbles. “It is called missing. That is the word. Feeling. When you are thinking of something, someone, and are sad. Want them here with you.”

Carefully, he settles into the sand.

“I am missing him,” he trills, despondent. “That is the correct way of saying.”

Adrian is quiet.

“Then I miss him, too,” they say after a moment.

They both turn toward the house on the side of the cliffs—Grace’s home, or what’s left of it, anyway—and the small mound of dirt resting next to it, a thin Xenonite slab on top. An Eridian prayer for safe travels in the next life is etched on its surface.

“Please. Do not downsize the depth of my emotion. It runs as deep as yours.”

Rocky sighs. He thinks about it a little more.

And then,

“… fine. Tell me more about plan?” he asks, giving in.

Adrian chuffs, a satisfied.

“Finally! Well, to start, we searched for a parental figure with no child.”

“No child?”

Rocky sits up, intrigued.

“Yes. See, human birth rates fluctuate!” Adrian holds a limb up. “Many factors, as we learned, however death is still a big risk depending on situation and circumstance. Easier to fit—or, in human terms—squeeze you in where there is something already missing…”

.

.

.

ii.

THE BEGINNING THE PAST

Humans are so very fragile when it comes to memories. Which makes sense, when he remembers what exactly happened to Grace back when he first woke up on the Hail Mary. Still, it’s one thing to hear about it second-hand, but to experience it himself?

Horrible. Disgusting!

The brain develops so slow, it’s frankly offensive.

Despite having what many humans might call eidetic memory, it still didn’t kick in until his consciousness did. And by then, well.

There came a certain stigma, he’d come to realize, with being what many human adults referred to as ‘precocious.’

Very often, children were praised.

And also very often, and less praised by default, children were put into so-called individualized classes.

For special children, they’d told him.

Rocky doesn’t remember the last time he’d been infantilized, talked at more than talked to, and had very much suspected that foul play had been involved—because why else did his fellow children classmates now avoid him like the plague?—before being reassured by his human mother.

“You’re just different, is all,” she’d said, carding fingers through his hair. He remembers leaning into it, not used to the display of casual affection (Eridians functioned on a more communal basis when it came to parenting the young, after all) but finding himself warming up to it all the same. “And sometimes, people are just afraid of that. Being different.”

For not being his biological mother, Rocky still very much liked her.

She reminded him of Grace, the way she was so very understanding, and so very patient with him.

Didn’t hesitate to call him Rocky when he gathered up the courage to suggest a nickname for himself, never called him out on his picky eating habits. Even excused his ‘weird’ grammar tics that the human teachers tried so hard to talk him out of.

Adrian had done good in choosing when and where to drop him back in time.

(Rocky misses them so much.)

“How about this?” Rocky’s mother—an aging human woman with more gray streaks in her hair than brown—asks, gently pushing a pair of glasses onto his nose.

Rocky does his best to stay still, but he can’t help the whoop he lets out when the world finally, finally comes into focus. “Amaze!” he whisper-shouts in disbelief.

Color had already taken by surprise—no matter how many times Grace had tried explaining it to him, Rocky still was not prepared for the onslaught of sensory reception from mere light!—but to see the individual… well.

Individual-ness of everything?

The speckles of dark brown in his mother’s eyes, the subtle gold in her eyelashes from the light outside the window. From the setting sun.

The sun!

Rocky leaps off the examination table, small human feet meeting the floor. He leans into the windowsill, hands leaving fingerprints on the glass. The buildings, all the cars—humans were so very loud, but then again, so very inventive!

But he’s getting distracted.

He looks up, excited, only to yelp in shock… in pain?

The sun is—

“Blinding!” he screeches, hands fumbling about in surprise. He stumbles back from the window, squeezing his eyes shut and seeing—colors again?—patterns of random shapes and sizes in the darkness of his eyelids.

Ugh! What the heck!

“So I can see better now, but why not that!”

His mother laughs, tears in the corners of her eyes. “Oh, my sweet boy.” She pulls him to her chest, a hand coming down to shield his face. Rocky whines. “Maybe don’t look directly at the sun, okay?”

“Why is it so… um.” He searches for the right word. “Bright?”

“Some things just are,” she hums, still with that amused tone in her voice.

Rocky stomps his feet.

“I want the scientific explanation for it!” he demands, pulling her hand away from his eyes. The room slowly comes back into focus, still a little blurry at the edges, maybe from the sun, but better now with his glasses. “I was so excited, too. Humans have the ability to see but are also so sensitive…” he grumbles, frustrated. “Visible light is too complicated!”

“Bossy, isn’t he?” the optometrist pipes up. “And so well-spoken for a five-year old?”

His mom laughs again. “He’s a special little thing, right? Sometimes, I wonder where he gets it from.”

She squeezes his cheek, and Rocky lets it happen because—well.

He’s technically her child, so it should stand within reason that he acts the part.

But also because he’s grown fond of her. This aging, human woman. With moles on her face that Rocky can now point out and map, like constellations on a star map. And a face so kind, eyes full of motherly pride, for a child she doesn’t know isn’t really hers.

Who is also still crying?

For some reason!

“Why are you leaky? You shouldn’t be sad! I can see better, I said.” He frowns, trying to think of a solution. “I won’t look at anything bright?”

He stands on his toes, reaching for his mother’s face, feeling distraught all over again.

“I’m just happy for you, Rocky,” his mother says. “These are happy tears.”

“Those are a thing?”

“Yes. Just like how looking at something as bright as the sun can make you tear up. It can be both a physical and emotional reaction.” She bends at the knee. “Is that a good scientific enough explanation for you?”

Rocky pretends to think it over for a moment before nodding.

“Yes, good enough. For time being.” He hums. “Can go home now?”

His mom kisses his forehead.

“Yes, can go home now,” she repeats.

.

.

.

iii.

Rocky has lived many years. Centuries, to be exact, though the mere concept of it may be hard to comprehend. So, he should be patient.

In theory, that is.

Still. Having to wait so long should be a crime!

He’d searched Grace Ryland up on the school computers. Rocky knows for sure the other man—a boy now, that is—exists maybe an eight, nine hour drive from where he currently resides. Had even read up on an old high school website of his favorite human winning a science competition a couple of years ago!

No pictures, but still!

And Rocky is so, so very proud.

Of course Grace was smart!

From a young age, too.

(Okay. Maybe thinking in terms of age gaps was not the move to make. Rescinding all thoughts related to this line of thinking. Gone! Erased!)

But Adrian had warned him about changing the timestream. About making changes too big to take back. And Rocky has already changed so, so much. Not only for himself, but for his human mother, too.

Like how a butterfly can flap its wings.

Or whatever, however that phrase goes.

Besides that, well… Rocky has already taken so much from Grace already. Time. Friendship. His laugh and his dumb human pop culture references and the sound of his happy little sighs when it’s just the two of them sitting on the sand. The rest of his long, long human life, which wasn’t really all that long to being with.

So Rocky can be patient.

He can give Grace this. Space away from him. From the whole alien aspect.

And from the sun dying.

Because that was, also, still very much a thing.

But Rocky is not worried. Because if Grace has time, then so does Rocky. Time to think up a plan. Time to put himself in the right position, at the right time. Like that fake science! Astrology, he thinks it was called. When all the planets line up just right, and everything either goes spectacularly wrong, or spectacularly right.

“How’re you doing on your project, Mr. Rockett?”

He looks up, glasses hanging from one ear, to see the computer professor standing beside him.

The older man—which is funny, because Rocky is by far the oldest specimen in the classroom despite the other college-aged students lingering about—points down at the desk, where a crude puppet sits on the wood.

Crude because Earth was severely lacking in solid Xenonite.

Bleugh!

“I am thinking of an arm,” Rocky explains, holding it up. He mimes the claw opening and closing, making whooshing sounds for effect. “For building. For engineering. It’d be helpful having more than two limbs when, example, soldering two plates together.”

Rocky had been inspired by the nanny-bot on Mary, the one Grace had so affectionately called Armando (which, now that he thinks about it, was probably some cheesy human pun on anatomy—oh, Grace). He remembers how automated it was, able to handle small tasks and provide assistance when the need arose.

And wondered if, maybe, he could expand on it.

“Impressive idea!” The professor whistles. “So you have a—well, sort of schematic? A three-dimensional one, at least, down. How’s the code looking so far?”

Rocky points to his laptop next to him, a software framework taking up half the screen while another tab, full of coding, takes up the other half.

His professor leans in.

“Adaptive Digital Robotic Intelligence for Assembly and Navigation?”

Rocky nods, smiling, a gesture he isn’t all that used to despite growing up human these last two, nearing three decades. “A.D.R.I.A.N.,” he says, feeling proud. “Named after my…” and he pauses on mate, trying to find a more socially fitting term, “partner. Yes, partner. This is just the—how to word?—‘bare bones’ of what I am planning. Just need proper material. Maybe a lab.”

Gently, he fiddles with the puppet in his hand.

“Adrian has helped—I mean, is going to help me,” he says, and then, with more determination, “together we are going to fix the sun. It’s very blinding, but it won’t be. Not forever. But I’m going to keep it like that.”

His professor blinks. “That’s, um, a pretty big job, don’t you think?”

Rocky looks up again.

He hands his professor the puppet.

“Pretty big job, yes. Just an idea for now, but… not impossible. What do you think?”

The old man turns it back-and-forth in his hand.

And then he huffs, indulgent. “I believe that a smart young man like you can do anything.” He gives the puppet back. “If you say it’s not impossible, well, I’ll take it. Hope’s a rare thing nowadays.”

He taps at his chin, deep in thought.

“Well. Have you tried reaching out to the robotics department? Bright mind like yours, I bet they’d be willing to take a look at what you’ve got so far. Might just bring this ADRIAN of yours to life.”

Rocky sits up. “Robotics department?” he demands.

“They’re, well, how would you kids say it… on the downlow? Since they might be closing down soon. Not enough funds, so the school’s not willing to invest it in anymore than they already have. But they do have a lab from what I recall.” He shrugs. “Wouldn’t hurt to try, right?”

Rocky lets out a breath of disbelief, laughing.

“Yes!” he crows, scaring the professor and the students sitting nearby. He grabs his laptop, shoves it into his backpack along with the rest of his notebooks and papers. “Wouldn’t hurt to try! Wouldn’t hurt to try!”

He almost trips over his feet getting up from the desk.

“Be careful, Mr. Rockett—!”

“School is very, very dumb for keeping this secret!” Rocky yells, hopping on one foot as he ties his shoelaces together and just barely keeping himself from falling flat on his face. Stupid things keep untying themselves. “Anyway, thank you, thank you, professor! Will update on progress if they accept!”

“Um, of course, but maybe don’t go announcing that first part within earshot of admin—”

“Nope!” Rocky shakes his head, glasses almost falling off his nose. “Stupid, stupid, stupid! Must let them know about how dumb a decision that is!”

He ignores the looks, the raised eyebrows and curious gazes from his fellow classmates turning around in their seats at his sudden outburst, and gestures in front of himself with both hands.

“Very good idea! Double thumbs up!”

“That, uh, isn’t a thumbs up—?”

Rocky laughs, delighted. “Don’t care! See you later!”

.

.

.

iv.

“So, you’re headed up in the world, huh?” His mother pinches his cheek. “I’m so proud of you, Rocky.”

“Eugh.” Rocky sticks out his tongue. “You always do that.”

He gently pries her hand away from his face, cradling it in his. He notes the difference between them, her cool, pale skin against his slight tan, the white scars on his fingers left behind from soldering incidents through the years. The simple but no less intricate markings on his forearms he’d gotten after graduating, an ode to his mate and previous life.

With their skin pressed together like this, it’s so easy to see the difference between them.

“It is just a Master’s…”

“But you did it all on your own,” she interrupts him. “My hard working boy. You know, I really was quite worried for a bit when you took those years off right after undergrad. Always so studious, it scared me.”

Rocky clicks his tongue, an action he’s seen in enough TV shows and movies to know that it can mean denial, even irritation. It comes to him now, almost second-nature at this point.

He wonders when that happened.

When little human things had started creeping their way, even subconsciously, deep into his bones. Burrowing deep into the marrow and making their home there. Maybe it was back when he first got his glasses. Maybe as far back when he was first ‘born’ into this body.

Or maybe even before that.

Back when he first met Grace, that is.

(Probably also helps that if he clicks his tongue fast enough, he can make trilling noises. The closest approximation to Eridian he can get with vocal chords like these.

Wonders if he’d even still remember how to speak again, if thrust back into that hardshell carapace.)

“I just needed some time. Finding myself, is what I think most people call it, yes? Thought I’d explore. Check out other robotics departments first.” He gently nudges at the IV in her hand, fixing the tape. “Adrian deserves the best material. The best team. I needed to find that first.”

“Hm. Your project, right? You always were so tight-lipped about it,” she laughs, a wheezy little thing. Her other hand comes up to pound at her chest.

Rocky sits up in concern.

“No no no, no,” he says, tugging at her wrist. “Don’t do that. The doctors, they said not to strain your diaphragm. Keep hands here, at your sides. Okay?”

“Always so demanding,” she huffs, but settles down.

Rocky watches her for a moment, and then looks around.

The hospital room is gray and sterile, machines beeping faintly in the background along with the muted murmur of passing nurses. The fluorescent light above them is too cutting, casting an unnatural sheen on her face. Rocky doesn’t remember the last time he’d seen her with a healthy glow to her features, the last time he’d spotted a twinkle in her eyes.

He doesn’t like it.

He doesn’t like it one bit.

“I’m not your son,” he blurts without really meaning to.

The room is silent.

His mother doesn’t say anything, waiting him out.

Always so patient. Always so understanding. He huffs, annoyed at her. At himself. For caring too much. For being too human, maybe.

He doesn’t know.

“I’m not… James,” he manages to spit out, the name sounding foreign on his tongue. Leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “I don’t know if this will make sense to you. Please don’t think too hard about it. But your real son—your real, human son—I am not him. Because I was never, ever really… him.”

He rests his head on the cotton sheets, white just like the rest of the room.

“I am just Rocky,” he whispers. “Apology.”

Nothing, and then,

“I’ve always known you were a little more special than the rest.” She pets at his hair, hand cupping the crown of his head. Rocky chances a glance up, sees the way her eyes are crinkled at the edges, the uptick of her mouth. “I don’t think you need to be sorry for that.”

“What—?”

“To be honest, I think I’ve always known.” She chuckles. “Your eyes are a different color than mine. Your hair’s turning gray much too soon. You sleep like the dead. And you wear glasses, for goodness sake! Heaven knows you didn’t get any of that from me!”

She pauses, huffing fondly at him.

“And, well. You never did want to be called James.”

A hand comes up to cradle his face, a thumb rubbing back-and-forth at the delicate skin under one eye.

“It was the name given to your original child,” Rocky whispers. He can feel himself getting leaky, moisture building up in the corner of his eyes. He blinks the water—tears, he reminds himself—back. “I couldn’t take something not mine. I have taken enough.”

He breathes out.

“You have given me enough.”

“And so have you.”

She squeezes his hand.

“After all, you’ve given me a son. That’s a pretty good trade, if you ask me.”

“You are… not going to ask how?” He sniffs, making a face at how gross and runny his nose—his whole face, really—is. “I can try my best to give a good enough scientific explanation by human standards. Er. In layman’s terms, I think is how they call it.”

She shakes her head.

“I don’t need all the details.” A moment, and then she continues, “But I’ve always wondered… where did the nickname Rocky come from? Grant a dying old woman this one last wish, why don’t you?”

“Hey! Stop it!” He sits up, scowling. “Is joke? Not funny!”

She laughs, waving him off. “Go on, tell me the story behind it.”

Huffing, he settles back into the chair at her bedside.

“Well,” he starts, “my partner Adrian—”

“Oh. Your code?”

“No, who my code was named after,” Rocky explains. “A wonderful, beautiful partner. I will tell you more about them later. But, see, they put me here, and you having the surname Rockett? Why, an amazing, amazing coincidence! Since my other wonderful, beautiful—well, I have not seen him yet! Or, um. Met him. Yet, I mean. But he must be beautiful, too!”

He pauses, awkward.

Nervously wrings his wrists as if he were a human child all over again.

“So anyway, he, um… my almost-partner… he gave me this name. And so I treasure it. Because I treasure him. Grace. That is him. His name.”

“Rocky…” His mother says, breathing out the two syllables as if saying them for the very first time. “So, this Grace named you Rocky…” she says his name again, slowly this time, still processing.

“And Adrian! He named Adrian as well.”

“Oh!”

Her eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Like in the film?”

He sighs, nodding his head. Remembers as if it were just yesterday the other man sheepishly explaining the pop culture reference once Rocky had connected the dots after one of their movie marathons.

“Like the film,” he repeats, deadpan.

“Oh, that—! That’s funny, right there!” She laughs. Rocky doesn’t stop her this time when she goes to pound at her sternum, clearing her throat. “That one—this ‘almost-partner’ of yours? Sounds like a keeper. Tell me more about him.”

His mom smiles.

“And about the other one, too. Both of them.”

Rocky smiles back, and this time, he doesn’t even have to think about it. The planes of his cheeks stretch just that little bit wider, instinctive. Natural.

Human.

“I would love to,” he says.

.

.

.

“You haven’t met him yet? Tell me if I got that part right.”

“That is correct. Haven’t met Grace yet. Hoping soon!”

“It’ll be the meet-cute of a lifetime, I bet.”

“… what is meet-cute?”

.

.

.

(She dies three days later.)

.

.

.

v.

The lobby is crowded, people in lines ready to head through metal detectors stationed all throughout the entrance. The ceiling is high, the old castle smelling of wood and the faint bitter scent of faded varnish.

It’s a combination of new and old, the outdated architecture of the museum where the conference is being held paired with the lively, impassioned speech of high-profile individuals, experts in their field, of young professionals looking to make a change.

Of people ready to save the world.

And he just so happens to be one of them.

(Ready to save two worlds, in fact!)

“You are an… engineer?”

Rocky beams at the security guard, holding his lanyard up like a prized trophy.

And it is! To him, at the very least. It’d taken a lot of hard work and ‘networking’—which mostly consisted of leveling up in the virtual world of ‘LinkedIn’ and mastering the art of small talk—to get the right connections.

Of course, with A.D.R.I.A.N. still in beta, it was harder than he’d expected. People tended to be very, very stingy when it came to investing in new technology. Bleh! Humans and their small-mindedness. However they got anything done, Rocky would never know.

Too much talking. Too much politics!

But, well.

Politics was one of the reasons he’d been able to get in.

See, when the sun is dying and people run out of options, right before the brink of collapse before people start throwing rocks—haha, like his name!—at each other (metaphorical rocks, of course), there came a period of world peace where everyone would come to realize that, yes, they are all fudged.

And so, it is in this fragile inbetween that Rocky found himself an opening.

No societal collapse just yet!

“Oh! Rockett? You’re the guy building that space, uh, robot-thing, right?”

Rocky scrunches his nose.

“Yes, perhaps, is one way to call it.”

He didn’t expect it to be so popular already, but then again, maybe flaunting a solution to the whole sending-people-up-in-space thing to figure out why the sun was dying was a little bit controversial. Especially since the whole thing was supposedly some big government secret.

Curse you, Grace, for never going into detail about that part!

But, at the very least, he’s now on their radar.

Hence the invite!

“A.D.R.I.A.N. is much more than a simple robot,” he sniffs. “Will be completely autonomous soon enough. Make own decisions, investigate and find solutions.” He puts his hands together, fingers wiggling. “And many arms for more movement, more flexibility.”

“That just looks like a spider?”

He purses his mouth. “Yeeesss,” he says, drawing the word out.

Rocky would describe a three-dimensional, self-thinking robot version of his partner that he’s been working on for more than half his lived human experience as more beautiful and complex than a mere arachnid, but sure. The anatomy was similar enough, he supposes?

Still!

“But much, much more elegant! No gross squishy insides.”

“O… k?” The security guard shakes his head, confused but deciding to just let the subject matter go. He scans Rocky’s lanyard. “Well, anyway, you’ve got clearance to the rest of the building. Big conference room in the West Wing, smaller ones in the East. Though I’d say you’re a little late to…”

He’s interrupted as a group of suited men walk past them, whispering loudly to each other.

“What kind of hypothesis—?”

“Completely disregarding the evolutionary importance of—!”

“Only a moron would argue for something so ridiculous—”

“And calling out fellow experts in your field in your paper, what a presumptuous piece of…”

“Well,” the guard mumbles, waving Rocky in. “I was just going to say you were a little bit late if you wanted to catch the morning sessions, but it turns out you’re just in time for the drama.” He scratches his head. “Wonder what that was all about…”

“Wonder, wonder, wonder…” Rocky repeats, eyes lighting up. He points at the suited men. “Which room did they come from?”

“Uh, from the left. So from the East Wing, I think. Where the smaller rooms are. They’re usually reserved for special events and Q and A’s.”

Rocky thanks him, jogging past the rest of the crowd still mingling about in the foyer. He weaves in between groups of people, slipping into tight spaces, throwing out quick, distracted apologies when accidentally stepping on someone’s—or multiple someones, that is—shoes.

Why! Do! Humans! Like! To! Loiter!

He finally reaches his destination after what feels like a lifetime, sweat at his collar and panting as if he’d just run a marathon. The East Wing is one big long hallway, doors on either side branching off into their own individual ongoing sessions. Each one looking already very much packed, people lining the entrances and trying to lean over each other just to get a glimpse.

But… which one?

And if it really was him, then…

Grace had mentioned Denmark once, hadn’t he?

But… has it been enough time? Rocky looks down at his feet, wringing his wrists nervously. Because that’s what this all boils down to, right?

Whether or not Rocky should keep waiting.

Whether or not he should take this chance.

Because he’d imagined this scenario millions and millions of times. A blurry visage of what Grace might look like in Rocky’s very own human eyes, because even after all this waiting, he never could bring himself to look up a picture of the other man. Sure, Rocky read about his achievements, kept up to date with his papers, his flourishing career, but everything else…

He’d tried his best to steer clear until he was absolutely positive he’d given the other man enough time. To be himself.

Without Rocky in the equation, that is.

But.

Well, he has an amazing memory.

Of course he’d never forget all the details Grace had given him about his fall from the world of academia. So he can’t justify to himself and say that Grace being here, at this very, very conference, had just so happened to slip Rocky’s mind. He can’t lie to himself and say that he didn’t expect to run into the other man like this. There were too many variables.

And he, like a good engineer, had accounted for each and every single one.

Betted on it, even.

But then again, wouldn’t that be… selfish of him?

He furrows his brow, head still bowed.

(Because at what point does being selfless just become self-denial?)

And then that’s when he hears it.

“—staggering waste of carbon—!”

Rocky blinks.

He looks up.

There, in a room not too far away, doors hanging open as people flood the hallway in escape, whispered remarks and side-eyes cast behind them, is what looks like the beginning of a very, very spirited argument.

And right there, smack dab in the middle of it, is a scruffy looking man in a wrinkled suit. Glasses askew on his face, hands splayed flat on a table, cheeks blotched red following his outburst.

He’s saying something but Rocky can’t hear, too absorbed by the way his mouth is moving, the bobbing of his throat. Absorbed by the way a ray of early afternoon light is cutting in sharp from the window right behind him, outlining the delicate contours of his face, the length of his shoulders.

So bright.

Blinding, maybe.

(Like the sun, Rocky thinks, eyes a little leaky.)

He steps forward, not really thinking about it, and pauses at the threshold of the room, one hand on the frame. Mesmerized.

Only to almost squeak in surprise when the other man all of a sudden turns to him. He freezes, pushing up against the door as if to make himself smaller.

Rocky holds his breath.

And Grace just—

“‘Scuse me, sorry.”

He stomps past him.

Rocky watches, stunned, as the other man continues off down the hallway, hands thrown up in the air in exasperation. Watches as the human he’d traveled back in time for almost trips on himself courtesy of an untied shoelace while in the middle of his dramatic exit, arms cartwheeling in the air for a moment so he doesn’t fall flat on his face.

Rocky watches as the first ever human he’d met and the only one he’s come to love gets further and further away from him.

And that’s when Rocky decides that—ok.

Yeah.

Maybe screw the waiting.

(He swears he can hear a faint echo of Adrian’s amused trilling in the back of his head.)

.

.

.

vi.

PRESENT

“Ryland Grace, if we’re both doing the full government name shtick. But, um, most people just call me Grace.” He rubs at the back of his head, a shy smile on his face.

“No nickname?” Rocky asks, teasing.

Grace laughs, reaching back for the water bottle. “Nah. The name’s simple enough as it is.”

A pause. He licks his lips, eyes flicking about. The hallway is still empty around them, the sound of conversation faint this far back in the building, away from everything.

“You’re not gonna grill me about, uh, what just happened, are you?” Grace’s mouth thins, shoulders pulling back just that slightest bit before setting into a stubborn line. “‘Cause I’m not gonna take any of it back.”

And then he shrinks back in on himself.

“Um. Just so you know.”

“Yes, I know,” he says, and then, because Rocky can’t help it, starts rocking back-and-forth on his feet. Energy is buzzing off of him in waves, his body feeling full to bursting. He wants to say so much but also finds that he doesn’t have the words, too focused on just… looking.

At Grace.

“You have very blue eyes,” he observes.

“What.”

And that finally gets the other man to stop his nervous fidgeting, staring back at Rocky with a flabbergasted expression. Rocky smiles. “I know about your theories. I know about your stance on water in evolution.” He tilts his head. “I just didn’t know your eyes are blue.”

Grace blinks at him.

“Um,” he starts. He’s holding the water bottle to his chest now. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Rocky nods.

“... you’ve got… uh, hazel, I think?” Grace squints, leaning in. “Yup. Hazel. Flecks of green, too. Kinda pretty—pretty cool. Pretty cool, that’s what I was going to say. Just now.” He flushes a bright red color, backing up only to bump against the bench. “If we’re talking about eye colors. Yeah. Just, uh, sharing our…”

He flaps his hand, gesturing between the two of them.

“Scientific observations.”

“Scientific observations,” Rocky repeats. This is good, right? Friendship is built on reciprocation and common interests, after all! But first… He points to the water bottle. “Hydrate. Your face is red. Overexertion? You were really,” he pauses, thinking of the right term, “riled up back there. So drink please.”

Miraculously, Grace obeys.

Rocky’s eyebrows lift in surprise.

“Oh. You actually followed.” He frowns. “I expected more stubbornness from you.” Actually, Rocky expected to have to mother-hen him more. But this is good! Grace was always—still is, it looks like—not that good at taking care of himself.

Rocky can fix that of course.

“I think I’m just at a loss for words right now,” the other man tells him after taking a couple sips, still looking just as confused. He holds the lip of the water bottle to his chin. “So I’m just going along with… whatever this is.”

“A meet-cute,” Rocky reminds him.

Grace turns red all over again.

“Anyway,” Grace says, voice cracking. He clears his throat, Rocky taking note of the pronounced bob of his adams apple. “You’ve, uh, read my papers, huh? So… what do you think then?”

“Hm. I think there is a very low probability of your thesis being correct.”

Grace wilts. “Oh,” he mumbles.

“But I do agree with you calling them out.” Rocky huffs, crossing his arms. “Treating you like an outcast just for having a different view. Academic circles might be super smart, yes. Genius even. But for having such big brains, they are also very,” he pinches his fingers together, “small-minded.”

The other man lets out a sudden bark of laughter, looking surprised at himself for the reaction.

Rocky beams.

“You like the pun?”

“Ten out of ten.” He purses his lips to keep from laughing again. It makes the laugh lines around his mouth stand out all the more. “Way better than the one on my name, that’s for sure.”

“Hey!”

Grace holds his hands up. “It’s the delivery that makes or breaks a joke. I don’t decide the rules—”

“My delivery was just fine—”

“—but besides that, uh…” He takes another sip of water. “I appreciate the, well, I wouldn’t call it a vote of confidence, since you basically just told me that you don’t believe jack squat in my totally correct thinking—”

“Eh. Your thesis has a couple of holes in it—”

Rocky cuts himself off, eyes narrowed.

“Wait. Who is Jack and why is he squatting—?”

Grace shakes his head, amused. “In my totally correct thinking,” he repeats, waiting for Rocky to quiet down before continuing, “of water-based assumptions.” And then he trails off, twisting the cap left and right. “You said so yourself. I’m kinda an outcast.”

He bows his head, staring at the floor.

“So why are you talking to me?”

“… being an outcast isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” Rocky pauses, remembering something. Someone. “You’re just different, is all.” He leans forward, bending at the knee and hoping to catch the other man’s eye. “Sometimes, people are just afraid of that.”

“Afraid of what?”

Rocky smiles, shrugging.

“Being different.” Grace stares at him, all blue eyes and speechless. Rocky hums. “Because I am, too. So I think we should get to know each other more. An offer of friendship.”

He steeples his fingers nervously. Maybe this might be too forward this soon, but it feels like just the right moment. First impressions were very, very important, after all. A core memory. The beginning of a relationship.

Of everything, really.

(“Our chance,” Adrian had trilled, all those decades ago on a lonely beach.)

“... maybe even a partnership. Yes?”

“I…”

The other man rubs the back of his head.

“I’m not sure.” Rocky deflates, shoulders dropping, but then—“I feel kinda outta my league here, what with you already having read so much about me and everything. Even had a pun on my name up your sleeve.”

Grace smiles, looking just as nervous as Rocky feels.

“Makes me feel like I gotta level up my game, ya know? Play catch-up, return the favor and maybe read up a little bit on you, too.”

Hope bubbles up in Rocky’s chest. He laughs.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “We have all the time in the world.”