Work Text:
With a definitely-not-FDA-approved suppressant implant buried at the base of his spine, Ryland Grace hasn't really had to deal with the messy parts of being an Omega while onboard the Hail Mary.
Facing a heat in the depths of space with only Armando and Mary for company? No thank you.
All things considered, this trapped in space thing could have been a lot worse. And, honestly, there are a lot of benefits to not having to worry about a heat, or a false heat, or pheromone buildup over the course of four years in a coma, or scent-deprivation, or —
Being an Omega is a bit of a rough deal, Ryland concedes. He’s always known that, though, which is why he tended to go overboard on scent patches and minimized his heats though any means necessary.
Where was this when I was in grad school? Would’ve made writing my thesis a hell of a lot easier.
He very carefully does not think about the impacts of an untested, long-term suppressant on his body. That’s a problem for after they save the world.
(In fact, he doesn’t think about it so hard that he puts it in a box in his mind with the word No! written on it, circled three times in the fattest sharpie imaginable. It’s nestled right next to other things he doesn’t want to think about, like: Did someone adopt Elvis — the stray cat who knew he’d feed him if he tapped on his window three times — and do they know he hates chicken?; Did Rekha’s team win the Science Olympiad?; and Does anybody miss me?
Ryland didn’t get to leave Earth on his own terms. Didn’t get to pack his own bag and pick what to take or leave behind. So if there are non-mission — or Rocky — critical things he can put in this box, he’ll do it.)
He’s already had a heck of a time trying to explain human dynamics to Rocky, who, true to form, had nothing but questions until he realized that humans really don’t lay eggs.
“Boring,” he says. “Messy. Inefficient.”
Ryland has his own opinions on the matter, but – “You can’t say stuff like that, Rocky.”
“Why not? Is true. Eridian superior here.”
He snorts, crossing his arms. He’s got calculations running, he’s got time to play around. “Oh? And what exactly is superior about Eridian mating, huh? You and Adrian lay some eggs before you left?”
By the end of Rocky’s impromptu lecture about private matters and egg maturity, Ryland can’t stop laughing over how flustered the alien is, and how far they’ve come from the original point.
“So you’re saying you and Adrian weren’t ready? You really were a kid when you left Erid, huh, Rock?”
Rocky stills. “Rocky old enough to decide to leave, save star!” he says, chirping indignantly. “But not old like Grace!”
“Hey!”
There is one thing that humans get right, according to Rocky. They’re sitting in the Don’t Go Crazy Room, immersed in a dawn view of the Bay of Fundy. On Earth, it’s the place with the deepest tides; the closest thing humans have to walking on the ocean floor. Ryland’s never gone, but part of him always wanted to and walk on ground that people shouldn’t be able to.
Talking about Adrian reminded Ryland of one of those things he keeps locked up tight, too, because of how impossible it is.
For him, at least. Not for anyone else.
“You know,” he says, as the tide starts lapping at his feet, “Just like you and Adrian, Humans mate for life. At least, Alphas and Omegas do.”
“Really?” Rocky perks up a bit at that, Eridian superiority winning again. “But Grace have no mate. Grace not Omega question?”
The smallest part of him feels wounded. “I am an Omega! But it just hasn’t happened for me.”
“Yet.”
He turns to Rocky. “You’re full of hope, aren’t you?” The shadow of the water — a muddy brown, not pretty — has started to rise overhead, and they’re starting to lose the sky, too. That’s fine; it was too bright for Ryland’s sake.
Rocky’s taken on one of Ryland’s habits — of staring at him when he seems to not be getting the point — despite his lack of a face the effect is still the same. “Grace return home. Save star. Find mate. Grace will be famous, will be easy.”
“Wish it were, Rocky,” he says, and — before Rocky can latch onto the hope of it all — changes the screens to a volcanic eruption.
He always likes those.
For the most part, it’s been freeing.
Humans are so used to analyzing pheromones and making assumptions based on it. Alphas and Omegas did their little mating dances while Betas acted curiously above it all, and all the while Ryland sat on the sidelines, perennial wallflower, feeling too naked and exposed to want to participate.
It was hard enough when people caught the too-sweet peach of his scent — even when he buried it under layers of scent patches and clothes — and softened to him, attributing things like his profession to some Omegan nurturing instinct and asking if, when things went so wrong in Denmark, he was in pre-heat. As if that was the only reason an Omega could have an outburst.
Rocky doesn’t do any of that. He lacks the pheromone receptors that make people react the way they do and has no interest in mimicking them. Any lingering scent clinging to a tool Ryland passes him is written off as human, because Rocky doesn’t know any better.
Or he knows, and doesn’t care.
Ryland likes that. (Statement.) It makes him feel like a person, for once; not just a human — not an Omega and not his biology — but like an entity all his own.
Maybe it’s strange that he can only feel this way in relation to Rocky. Like they’re orbiting each other, twin stars, pulled into a shared gravity. But who cares about what’ts normal when it feels so right?
All of this means that the first time he purrs takes them both by surprise.
It's after Rocky wakes up.
The whole ship stinks of Grace’s stale, worried pheromones. He’d been fretting. Fretting! Hell, he’d even made a nest — “Grace messy statement,” before he explained it — to watch over Rocky while he healed.
Like a… proper nest. Made up of shattered shards of Rocky’s habitat and pieces of xenonite and his quilt and all his shirts, all of the things that made them an us. He hasn’t made one since his break-up, when he clung to the remnants of her scent until it all faded and he realized that, even though he was unmoored, he didn’t feel un-safe.
When had he last felt safe though? It’s been years, a whole lifetime, a dozen galaxies and emergencies and nightmares, first-contact and a nearly inevitable apocalypse; he’s worn helmets and kneepads and always felt like he’d end up a splattered mess on concrete; he’s unlatched the seal of his suit because he trusted a stranger who’s become like home to him; his last memory of Earth is the salt of his tears and stale fear-sweat and dirt on his cheek. But safe is Rocky’s familiar, musical chitter lulling him out of sleep.
They’re hugging after the party, after Ryland steps foot in Rocky’s ship and finds himself sending out little tendrils of his scent, hoping that it clings long enough to the xenonite that it makes it to Erid. He’d like that; a little part of him finding its way to Rocky’s home and lingering there, even though no one on Erid would know.
He’d know, and that would be enough.
He squeezes tighter, wishing he could wrap his arms around Rocky’s carapace, feel the real heat of him, rub his fingers against the smooth embeds of Adrian to see how the texture changes. He wishes for a moment too long that his scent could cling to Rocky just like that, and that’s when the purr erupts from low in his belly, constant and unwavering, the universally acknowledged sign that an Omega is perfectly content and safe.
The sensation is unfamiliar enough to make Ryland gasp; his purrs, in the past, were skittish and tentative, an Omega trying to pretend that he was fine, worried that his exes would find him lacking if he couldn’t. But there’s no fear around Rocky, so his purr fills him from the inside out, strong and sure, and he feels —
He feels Rocky hug back, one of his limbs molding through the glass to wrap around him and try to pull him close.
Rocky is so, so quiet. No delighted chirps or vibrations; the only sound filling the ship besides her background noises are coming from Ryland. It worries him enough — bad sign, bad sign — that the purring stops, and Rocky pulls away.
“You alright, Rocky?” he asks, sitting back on his haunches. “You’re quieter than usual.” Ryland’s own heart is pounding with euphoria, and his sweet scent breaks into spiced contentment for the first time in a long time.
Whatever’s going on, Rocky shakes it off. “Rocky go,” he says, scuttling away as Ryland stands to follow him through the ship.
“Wait, wait, question or statement, Rock, you don’t have to leave —”
The thought of Rocky leaving him, now, just when things felt so right, cracks open his heart. Old instincts flood him; has he been a bad Omega? Why’s his al — his Rocky — upset? And he tries to grab at him even though it’s impossible, a worried trill escaping his throat that makes Rocky stop in his tracks.
“Other side of lab,” Rocky promises. “Need space to think. Not far.”
Ryland stills, fiddling with the hem of his cardigan. “...Alright,” he says, feeling drained. “But don’t go too far.”
“Not far. Just…” He scuttles further. “Here.”
“...It’s pretty far,” Ryland says, quietly, knowing Rocky can hear him, but he settles into his nest and lets Rocky think.
Thank the stars Eridians think fast, because Rocky’s back to himself in no time, and it keeps happening: the purrs and the hugs.
Ryland is slow to trust and slow to comfort, but a combination of the sheer relief of Rocky's aliveness and the implant nearing its end of life makes him feel freer.
He knows his pheromones are stinking up the place; he's even starting to imagine Rocky has a smell, something nicer than ammonia, which must mean he’s losing his mind.
Everyone else on the mission were Betas. It was one of the mission requirements, as they hadn't even entertained the possibility of sending an Omega or an Alpha into space. Too much potential for chaos. Too much entropy.
He remembers Stratt’s surprise when he mentioned it to her on the long list of reasons why he shouldn’t be one to replace the dead astronauts. For a split-second he’d felt righteous; like he’d completely hidden his scent, the shrinking violet of him, and that it would save his life.
See? You didn’t know. You don’t know everything, do you, Eva?
She’d blinked, then blinked again. Stratt was a Beta with an impressive aura and a stalwart nature that let her look at the world with clear eyes, and that kind of clarity read as cruelty when you were the target of it. Maybe, in another life, someone with patience and drive might have coaxed out of her the Alpha that her team often thought she’d be. But in this world, she was able to keep the kind of measured distance that allowed her to make decisions like sending Ryland to space the hard way.
We can work with that, she said, and Ryland should have known, his heart dropping. She always had contingencies.
In her own way, it was an apology; make Ryland as Beta-like as possible, as like her as possible, to ease the journey. A small condolence for an impossible request.
That’s another reason why he didn’t want to think about the inevitable consequences of his biology, why he locked it away. They simply hadn’t accounted for it up here, and didn’t have time in the scant few days before launch to fix it. There wasn’t space on the Hail Mary for it. No space in the mission for Ryland; yet another reminder that he was an afterthought.
Yet, in spite of it, Ryland has found a way to put down roots; to make the best out of places that weren’t fit for him, whether it’s a conference or a classroom or the depths of space. And so, he purrs.
Whatever got into Rocky that first time, he seems to have dealt with, because instead of running from him, Rocky just rolls towards him, curious, a low answering and untranslatable chirp coming from him, one of his arms reaching out to hold him tight, and when Rocky rests on his chest the weight and the sound are comforting enough that it’s almost like he’s got an al-
No.
Another one for the box.
“Is it warmer in here, Rocky, or is it just me?” Ryland asks, fanning himself while he frowns at the temperature gauge. It’s hovering at the same temperature it always is.
“Too cold for Rocky,” he replies, and Ryland snorts.
They’re fiddling around with the Taumoeba canisters, and the time for them to part ways is drawing near. He keeps finding something for them to work on together, drawing it out even though their respective planets are slowly dying.
It’s like they’re in some kind of stasis. Here, on the Hail Mary, where anything can happen.
The purring is constant, and he’s overwhelmed by a sense of fondness as he looks at Rocky, a sense of rightness and contentment as the alien scuttles past his nest without questioning it, and pets h
But this time, his hand sinks into the glass. It’s warm, just a bit more than his resting temperature is, like Rocky’s running hotter than he should be, too, and the enclosure can’t handle it. It flexes to conform to his shape, and he has a second to think So now I can touch him before he remembers to worry.
“Are you okay, Rocky?” he asks, concern clear in his voice and scent. “That’s it, I knew you should’ve been taking it easy. You only just recovered. Here, science is cancelled for today. Let’s go watch —”
“Grace.”
“---something dumb. There’s this video of a panda falling over that you might like. Have I ever told you about pandas? They’re these cute giant animals, but they’ve gotten so lazy that they can’t mate on their own —”
“Grace.”
“Haha, why’d I bring up mating all of a sudden? That’s crazy.”
“Grace”.”
It stops him. Rocky’s voice, both the electronic one and the deep, resonant humming coming from inside his thorax. It’s intent and strong. Too strong. Instead of the multiple levels and layered thoughts that the translator has a hell of a time dealing with, they're all ringing out in unison. Resonating with each other to make a complimentary sound instead of the cacophony of curiosity that Rocky normally exudes.
For the first time since Ryland has known him he feels like he has the full force of Rocky’s attention. That he’s not half-thinking of building something, or of making fun of him, or of something else.
If Rocky had eyes, he’d be staring. His expression would be dark. Ryland’s hindbrain should be begging for him to flee.
But this is Rocky, and the resonance is making the whole room clearer. It’s Rocky, and he just wants to get a good look at Ryland, at every inch and plane of his body, wants to see into him. He shuts his stu- silly hindbrain up and puts it in that box.
“What’s up, Rocky?”
“Ceiling.”
“Funny joke. You’re stalling, Rocky.”
The more they’ve lived in each other’s pockets, the more they’ve taken on from each other. Rocky jokes, now, when he wants more time to breathe. Ryland can put together a scale model in five minutes. Go figure.
“Grace have mate.” Rocky says, and Ryland frowns.
“Uh — ”
“Statement.” he clarifies.
Ryland blushes, suddenly flustered. He’s had one too many dreams of Rocky and his weight on his chest, holding him down like an Alpha about to lay a mating bite on him, and he’s grateful he got the echolocation and no sense of personal space kind of alien contact and not the uncannily telepathic ones.
“You know I don't, Rocky, I already told you.” His moods have been more up and down recently; erratic. The long ride back to Earth is going to be hell on his body. He can feel the need for a long suppressed heat growing inside of him, and he hates it. Even this small reminder of what he lacks is bringing him down, cold water down his back, as the memories of being not enough for people
“Grace enough for Rocky,” he says, and, “Grace say out loud.”
”Stop reading my mind!”
“Can’t read. Just know Grace well.”
“Then you know me well enough to know —”
He feels something squeeze on his wrist. One of Rocky’s claws, through the soft glass, bending the material to its absolute limits. The pressure grounds him, eases him, like an Alpha’s —
Ryland’s getting his wires crossed.
“Grace not have mate when on Earth. Rocky have mate on Erid. Grace have like mate on Hail Mary, understand?”
“No.”
He doesn’t, but —
“Grace smart. Figure it out.”
“You’re losing it, Rocky. Are you sure you’re not sick? You’ve been acting strange.” Cuddle, clingy, running hotter, eating more. They’ve talked about Eridians being sitting ducks while sleeping, talked through what happened to his crew, but if something on the Hail Mary was making Rocky sick, then Ryland couldn’t forgive himself.
“Rocky not sick, promise,” he says, starting to tug Ryland over to the nest, getting them both nestled into it, so careful to not hurt him or his wrist or his brittle human bones.
He’s trembling. Rocky. That’s just not right.
“Then what’s happening?”
It doesn’t even register to Ryland how inappropriate this is; an Omega’s supposed to protect their nest, be intentional about inviting anyone else inside. But he and Rocky, out here, it’s like a whole different world where it’s just the two of them. Where everything’s shared. Where Ryland is just Grace, not an Omega, and Rocky can be anything he ever dreamed.
There’s a chittering sound, loud and sudden, and Ryland’s purrs come to a crescendo that matches it, the same frequency and vibration, in unison, in time. The heat of Rocky’s body warms him from the outside in, unlike the heat that feels like it’s about to break inside him. Everything but the warmth and Rocky leave his mind, his ears ringing with their shared sounds, his spiced peach scent overwhelming the ammonia and any lingering remnants of his stale, aching worry, and —
Rocky releases his grip on him, but doesn’t move away; stays close. His sounds slowly return to normal, the translator picking them up again, and as Ryland’s hearing and senses return, his actual heat pulled back from the precipice, thank you, powerful and medically untested implant, he can tell something has changed.
Especially in Rocky’s chirps, which have a giddy sound to them, and especially in Rocky’s enclosure, which has a new compartment, running just the slightest bit colder than the rest of him. Inside, there are five perfect little orbs, with a crystalline structure so complex that they shine like rainbows despite lacking any facets or faces,.
“Rocky, are those —”
If Rocky had cheeks, he’d be blushing; because Ryland remembers his rants about superior Eridian biology.
Those are eggs.
“Congratuations, Rocky,” he says, reaching for one of Rocky’s arms in his suit. “It’s a clutch.”