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"You're going to wash your party shirt."
"Wash? Like you splash your face?" Rocky kept being amused by Grace's sink baths. No, Rocky explained, he would prepare his party shirt for storage, so he could wear it in full glory at the next occasion.
Leaning against the xenonite wall, Grace relaxed into the guilty pleasure of not helping with a chore. He would if that were possible! He did lots of tasks in the Hail Mary, which was designed for his human hands.
Rocky inspected every seam and cord of the shirt, bracing himself on three legs while he turned the shirt in two. Had he done all this before, without Grace watching, when they believed they had said goodbye forever?
Rocky balanced impressively, keeping two limbs to angle his shirt while he picked up a small device. That looked makeshift but of course functioned perfectly, so far as Grace could tell, refreshed the shirt with puffs of atmosphere.
Finally, Rocky folded the shirt with fast, five-armed efficiency that looked like a dance, not a chore.
"Done." He scurried deeper into his side of the ship, out of Grace's line of sight, to secret the party shirt in a drawer or hang it up or whatever.
They could think up an excuse or two to throw a two-invitee party, sometime in the years of journey ahead.
A measured tap of one arm announced Rocky's return. "Inspired?" Rocky asked. "Observed tidying, task properly done. Inspired now to do gross leaky laundry?"