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So, there's an alien on my chest. I'm splayed out on the floor with as many blankets and quilts and whatever that I could find, with an alien on my chest. He's happy to be there. I'm happy to be here. In fact, I don't think I've ever been happier. This is probably the happiest I've ever been – ever. So unbelievably happy in fact that if happiness could be converted into physical matter (let's say gold, it's a pretty cheerful element), at a centimeter per whatever-emotions-are-measured-in, I'd probably be able to walk right back to Earth on a yellow brick road. Not that I would, I'm too happy right here.
With an alien on my chest. The alien is Rocky, and Rocky is purring, which is a new development. With a language so utterly comprised of trills, hums and tweets, I should have anticipated the ability to purr. It is, however, a beautiful surprise and I think for a moment that if Rocky took a Buzzfeed quiz, his spirit animal would be a cat. After all, he's overdramatic, purr-y and a big, self-heating lump. I love cats, I think, internally pumping my fist at the random me-trivia. I love Rocky, too, and Rocky loves me. The thought makes me somehow even happier, and my brain helpfully supplies me with an accompanying tune. What do I listen to when I'm happy? Sh-Boom, (Life Could Be a Dream). The only option, really, when there's a big rock creature on your chest and he's warmer than anything and you haven't decided if he looks more like crab or a spider yet despise having been in close quarters for upwards of two years. I'm cuddling Rocky. Rocky is cuddling me. I'm humming The Chords as I cuddle an alien, who chirps at me appreciatively as, I assume, he can feel the vibration of my vocal chords and enjoys it, even though he thinks my limited vocal range is abhorrent and primitive. What am I supposed to do about that? Grow more? I think that if I had the ability to spontaneously mutate, I'd look a lot cooler than I do now. Some spider-man type web shooters or something. Rocky has his priorities mixed up, clearly.
Or, maybe not. He spent all of yesterday skittering around right under my nose, sewing up a xenonite suit that would allow him to scuttle right up to me and take his rightful throne right on top of my ribcage, as he'd wanted to do since we got “sleep” on the translator. It was too sweet for me to think about without getting a little weepy. Thinking about Rocky, wondering what he was thinking about when he decided he'd be able to move freely around the Hail Mary even if it took temporarily becoming a tailor. He wanted to be able to protect me if I was incapacitated and couldn't control the ship, I knew that. But maybe he just wanted to cuddle too. Hugging the hamster ball is all well and good – the xenonite can't fully insulate Rocky's atmosphere, so the ball just stays warm – but it doesn't compare to having Rocky's limbs curled up and smushed right into my sides as my best friend squeezes me tight. I can't touch him passively, and I'll never be able to. That's fine, I've accepted it. I thought the hamster ball would be enough contact, but now I know what the possibilities are... and they're a heck of a lot better. I love being close to Rocky, even if it is just weird pack instinct stuff I probably should get on top of before I get reliant. Even if it is, Rocky'll be there to cuddle me, so why not?
“Grace not sleep. Why, question?”
I make some unintelligible noise. Probably something like, “Hgmgmgff.” I'm not really that articulate in general, but even less when I've been snuggled up for so long.
“New word?”
“Nooo, bud. Tired. 'M just so happy, you're right there.”
It's been long enough that I get the gist of what Rocky's saying before the translator picks it up, but the translator still chimes in anyway. I should really turn it off to save the battery, but I'm so comfortable I feel like I'm melting. I don't want to move, and Rocky's too freaking heavy for me to move anyway. Life goes on.
“Rocky there before. Grace stupid, need sleep. Imperative.”
“Rock, I mean, like. There. You're right on top of me, I love it. You're purring so you can't deny it. You love me so much that you're vibrating.”
There is a series of squeals that I recognise immediately as the Eridian equivalent of flustered protest. In the name of science, I have to poke him. It's for the greater good. The squeals increase in volume until I run my hands over the top of his carapace, over the xenonite. The suit is thin, but it's a brilliant insulator. I won't get burned, even if I do fall asleep like this. I'm assuming that Rocky recognises me smoothing out the material as affectionate, but it's not like its an uneducated guess. Rocky's purring is twice as loud and the translator kicks in again.
“Grace repeat, repeat, repeat. Pet Rocky, command. Good, good, good.”
“That good? I thought Eridians don't do contact like humans do. You called me squishy for it!”
“Rocky feel squishy. Repeat, repeat, repeat.”
Eventually, I quit responding and focus my energy on giving Rocky a good scratch. He's like a dog demanding a belly rub, insistently pushing his carapace against my hand and purring violently. He's still a rock, so the sensation is a bit like trying to pet a boulder, but Rocky's happy. He's trilling, high pitched and close together. It's a series of four high pitched chirps and ‘meep’ sounds that I recognise as “Love.” He's just repeating it, over and over, sometimes with his anticlimactic, little “Grace” beep interspersed here and there. The laptop doesn't pick it up, he's so fast, but I could never mistake it. It's one word, a dozen times. It never gets less meaningful. Eventually, Rocky slows it down a little and the laptop catches the tail end of that outburst, until Rocky stops speaking and resigns to the aggressive purring.
“Love, love, love, love, Grace-love, love, love,”
“I love you too, Rock. Love, love, love.”
I mumble, sleepy and struck by just how happy I could be. I hadn't known all this time. From where I'm flopped on the ground, I can't really lift myself to press my face against his suit, but that's what I want to do more than anything. I don't really understand how I've got to this point (or I do, in a linear sense, but it's all a blur), but I'm in outer space, stupid-trillion miles away from home, and there's an alien on my chest. I love him so much that my heart hurts with it, threatening at my lungs and pounding at my ribs. I love him so much that my eyes cloud and my throat stings, but when I go to wipe my face, there's no banter, or slight interspecies micro-aggression. Rocky doesn't call me leaky. In fact, he's almost completely still, carapace vibrating softly in that familiar way which lets me know that the big lump has drifted off.
He's fallen asleep. On me. Weighing a bajillion tons. I already know the resigned sigh that comes out of me before I think about releasing it, because I'll always watch Rocky sleep for him, whenever. Problem is, even if there is danger, we're both boned — because I'm well and truly stuck.