Archive of Our Own

Listen. It wasn't that I forgot. I just had more important things to worry about at the time. Like alien amoeba, and my alien friend who might have been dead.

He wasn't. He wasn't, thank god.

I don't like thinking about that first day. Or night, whatever it was. The meds in my system muffled the pain, but they didn’t do anything for the panicky dread that came back when I woke up.

If Rocky hadn't been awake right then, long enough to make a few sad noises at me, I don't know how I would have managed. I mean, as it was, I really didn't. Impressively little management was afoot. I sat slumped next to his airlock and everything hurt. I'm not sure how long I spent with my hand against the xenonite, willing Rocky to wake up again, or to twitch or to do something that would mean he hadn’t died two feet in front of me. But again, I don't like to think about it.

I didn't realize until later that I had a concussion. It certainly wasn't a surprise when Mary read it off my medical report. “Yeah, that tracks,” I think I said. Out loud to her, because I needed to talk to someone.

It sucked, but I had samples to analyze, an orbit to stabilize, a heat lamp to make, a friend to not-mourn. I took the painkillers and tried not to stand up or turn my head too fast. Which was surprisingly difficult in half-gravity. My body was moving with less effort; great for sore muscles and joints, but sudden movement sent shocks of pain down my burned arm and through my head.  The first time I looked through the microscope, I almost threw up on the spot. I dimmed Mary’s lights by thirty percent. I took a lot of naps, some of them intentional. I made it work because I had to.

I’m currently making it work. And then Rocky wakes up.

I do what anyone would do in my situation and cry about it. Rocky really must feel poorly, because he doesn't even mention the leaking. We press ourselves on either side of the xenonite. The shifting of his vent plates sends small impacts into my skull, aggravating my ever-present headache. I don't care.

I do care, like, thirty minutes later, when we have work to do. And maybe Rocky is feeling better, because he does mention my clumsiness.

“Still a bit banged up, you know.” I say this leaning against one of the lab tables. Very rude of it to keep tilting under my palm.

“Yes. Must give grace.”

“Give Grace what?”

“Not Grace. Grace.”

I stare at him. “Huh?”

“Still injured. Need to heal. Give grace.”

“Oh.”

Rocky does comment on my leakiness this time. I guess I only get one freebee. How rude, to make fun of a guy with a concussion and one working arm. I tell him this and we laugh. I missed the sound so, so much.

I miss my freaking pain meds.

The burns make themselves known immediately. It's all I can do to not moan in pain every second of the day. It's bad. My head still hurts, but it's a footnote compared to the constant flare of my fried nerve endings.

But, god. I could have ruined everything by leaving those samples out. I can't afford to be so careless.

Rocky might still be mad at me. Read: he should still be mad at me. I’m mad at me. But he's nice enough to stay close by that first day while I do a whole lot of nothing. He asks if I'm sure I can stop taking the pain meds. I’m not, but I don't have time to do anything about it. We're still on the clock here.

On the clock. Wouldn't it be funny if I had a time card? Astronauts really don't get paid that much. Do they get overtime? Hazard pay? Who do I ask about worker’s comp?

You know, there's all kinds of paperwork government employees fill out when they travel. When the Apollo astronauts flew, they had to go through it just like anyone else. Apparently, the crew just wrote “The Moon” under the “Destination” line. An old NASA scientist on the project told me that. I wonder if that's true. What did they write on mine? Tau Ceti. Return date, never. No per diem, because dead people don’t need money.

I was doing something. Something in the lab, because that's where I am. Free from my self-inflected uselessness as of this morning.

“Uh. Sorry, what did you say?”

Rocky tilts to the side. “Discuss Beetle thrust calculations. Grace was speaking, not Rocky.”

“Oh. Right. What, uh… what was I saying?”

Rocky steps closer on his side of the tunnel. “Second time this happen. Not usually so 🎶🎶.”

I don't want to know what that word means.

“Grace sure Grace not taking stupid medicine, question?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” I snap. My ears burn. Good thing Rocky can't see colors. “I just got lost in thought. I was saying that…”

My scribbles cover the white board in front of me. Where's my marker? There’s blue dry erase ink smudged across my fingers.

“Grace find self in thoughts. Request.” 

Now my eyes burn, too. Oh my god. No. This is so, so stupid. I cannot be upset over this. I am upset over this. Why?

I force my way through some explanation – my notes vaguely remind me what we were talking about. I realize at some point that my force-moment diagrams are all wrong, and I erase them with my hand. More ink pills up on my skin.

Rocky has more questions. Some of them are about me, like why my heart is beating so fast. I tell him to stop listening to it if it bothers him so much. Then I storm to another part of the ship, kick a box, and bite the fleshy part of my thumb until I’m not burning white-hot with rage. The indents my teeth leave behind don't make me happy, but they do make me feel better.

Rocky gets the hint and leaves me alone, and that makes me feel worse. I’m not mad at him. Well, I’m maybe twenty percent mad at him, but that quickly drops to zero. Now I’m just mad at myself, and I’m mad that I’m mad, and I’m mad that I feel so…I don't know. Fragile.

This is the first time since he woke up that we haven't been in the same room. My nervous system realizes this before I do. After a few minutes of futzing and deep breathing, I swallow my shame and walk back to the lab. We don't even have time for this.

“Grace is—?”

“Please,” I do not beg. I ask very nicely while I press my fingernails into my palms. My burns remind me they aren’t finished healing. It’s grounding. “I just— I’m sorry. It’s fine, okay?”

Rocky is still. Without a face, I’m grasping at straws here. Well, even with faces, I have to grasp at straws; just a little easier to grab than flat stone.

We get back to work. It feels normal, I think.

Sometimes when I wake up, I forget I'm on a spaceship. 

How long it takes to remember depends on a few things; how much sleep I got, how vivid my dreams were, whether or not Rocky was making noise. Also what gravity level I fell asleep in.

When I wake up this morning, we're at a moderate one-point-something Gs, and I'm on the furthest end of the “where the heck am I?” scale. I’m on my stomach with my face smushed against the pillow. It's not comfortable, but I can't bring myself to move. I don't recognize the smell of the pillowcase. I usually buy whatever detergent is on sale, and they all smell the same after a while. But that smell is supposed to be vaguely floral, not whatever this is. Kind of like sweat and hand sanitizer.

I hear the clink of tools on metal. Rocky. Spaceship. Right. It’s been a couple weeks now, but I still treasure waking up to the sound of him doing things. He could be ripping out the life support system wiring and I would probably let him, as long as it meant he was alive.

Tears bead on my eyelashes. I know I’m a crier, but this is ridiculous. Not to mention dehydrating. It’s been hitting me out of nowhere; this kind of grieving terror that feels like drowning. Even with verifiable proof that Rocky is awake and alive – has been for a while, will be for much longer, I hope – it doesn’t really stop. I was hoping it would. Crying makes my head hurt, and crying makes me dehydrated, and being dehydrated also makes my head hurt. I’m a snake eating my own tail, or whatever.

We still have some bruises between us, but we’re okay. We’re breeding the microorganism that can save two species, and we’re making good time. Relatively speaking.

I can go home.

And I can never see Rocky again. 

Okay! Time to get up, Grace.

My whole body protests. Especially my neck and shoulders. That's what I get for stomach sleeping, I guess. I roll over slowly, trying to bribe the tendons to chill out. They aren't really interested, even when I ask really nicely.

My tears pass quickly, but I don't really feel better. Now I’m just sad and annoyed. Nice.

“Grace is awake, question?”

“Alive, alert, awake, enthusiastic.”

I’m kind of some of those things. I wait for the room to stop spinning when I sit up, then head to the lab.

I've taken some spare breeder tanks to push the definition of “trace” in “trace gases.” Did I think less than fifty parts per million of carbon monoxide in Venusian atmosphere was going to kill the Taumoeba? No, but I don't really want to take a chance on this. Maybe decades of science has been wrong, and Venus is more carbon monoxide than we thought. Maybe someone discovered that while I was hurtling through space and if I don’t do anything, the Taumoeba would die the second they hit the planet. Dooming billions of people because I rounded down my percentages.

I stand in the middle of the lab, existing and trying to do something more productive than that. A couple tears break free that I swipe away with my fingers. While I’m at it, I rub my eyes until I see stars. The pressure leaves swirls behind that take several seconds to fade.

“Grace.”

I clear my throat. Swallow. Swallow again. “Yeah. Yep. All good.”

“Grace very leaky.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“More leaky than normal.”

“You know, ‘normal’ is more a concept than a hard rule.”

Rocky’s claws tap tap tap on the floor. He’s listening to me again. He always is, but sometimes he makes it so obvious. I feel like a bug in a jar. I don’t want him to leave, but he needs to stop looking – listening at me like that.

We work in silence. I take samples from the breeder tanks to analyze under the microscope. Which my neck is not happy about. When I turn my head, electric shocks line my shoulders and the base of my skull. I try to massage the tension out with my hands, which either does nothing or makes it worse. Hard to tell.

When I ask, Armando dutifully hands me two pills and water. Halfway to swallowing, Rocky says something and I almost choke. I didn’t realize he’d moved closer to me. I don't hear his words, but I infer the question.

“Just pain reliever. Not the kind that makes me stupid, don't worry.” 

It was embarrassing how long it took me to remember we had pain meds that weren't also narcotics.

Rocky hums a discordant note. “But Grace have pain, question?”

“Kind of, but it’s fine. Just a headache."

"Pain in head."

“Yeah. Human thing.”

"Why? Injury, question?"

"No. Not a new one, anyway. Heads just… hurt, you know?”

“Do not know.” Rocky sounds unimpressed. “For no reason, question?”

"Well, there are reasons, but it could be a million things. Being dehydrated, being tired—”

"Grace is dehydrated, question?"

"No.” Maybe.

“Grace is tired, question?”

“No — I mean,” I pinch the bridge of my nose. I’ve been tired since I woke up in space, that doesn't count. “Look, it's fine. Nothing’s wrong. The meds will kick in and I’ll be good as new.”

Rock sounds skeptical, but lets me be.

The next slide I look at is a little blurry. A few more, and my eyes start to water. I dim the light in the viewfinder. It does help, but then I have to dim it again, and again, until I need it so dim my eyes might as well be closed. I do close them for a minute, because it feels nice.

Enough of the samples. I need to catch up on my notes. Actually writing complete sentences instead of chicken scratch in my margins.

You aren't supposed to take ibuprofen on an empty stomach. Maybe that's why I end up hunched over the bench, feeling nauseous in a vague kind of way. Should I eat? Is that what this is? I haven’t had breakfast yet.

I get a head rush when I stand up. The table is, once again, not staying as still as it’s supposed to. The stars in my vision hang around for a while. I probably need food. I do not want food. I pretty aggressively do not want food, but I do need it. I warn Rocky that I'm going to do disgusting human activities. I don’t wait for his reply, in case I lose my nerve.

In the galley, Armando hands me a water pouch. I don't realize how thirsty I am until that first drop touches my lips; then, I'm sucking it down like a Capri Sun after a soccer game. Armando understands my vague hand grabbing, because he gives me a second one, along with a warmed breakfast burrito. I appreciate for the whatever-time that we have gravity, so I can lean over the table on my elbows while I enjoy my one man breakfast.

Well, I don't enjoy it. The pressure in my skull has collated to a spot above, behind, and slightly next to my left eye. And it just kind of sits there. I am also just kind of sitting here. I’m still dizzy. When I rub my eyes again, some of the stars stick around. Blinking them away doesn't work. Maybe this is a blood sugar thing.

I get three and a half bites into my breakfast. That's enough for the meds, surely. It normally wouldn't be enough in general, but the appetite I already didn't have was taken out back and shot. I set the burrito down in its wrapping, picking at the tortilla. I shouldn't have drank that water so fast.

My head hurts. Like, capital-H Hurts. It hurts enough that it’s getting hard to think about anything else. My neck is protesting the effort of holding it up. I don't waste the energy asking Mary for more painkillers. She won't give me any until the next dose window. Whenever that was. I can do my little clock changing trick, but that's a lot of words that have to be in a comprehensible order.

What can I do without talking or standing? Eat more of my breakfast? Hard pass. Take a nap at the table? Tempting, I'll save that for last. Drink more water? Maybe. My mouth feels thick and sticky. I manage a few sips before my stomach starts flipping over itself. Okay. Let's all just calm down.

I’m pressing my forehead into my crossed arms, but I don’t remember when I did that. Nap. I need to lay down. Horizontal.

I don’t think I set Mary’s lights back after I dimmed them weeks ago. How is it still so bright? A fist grabs the left side of my brain and squeezes, and squeezes, and squeezes some more. I can’t help the sound I make, trying to block the light as much as I can. I wait for the overwhelming pain to pass, and it doesn't. It just plateaus and stays there. I feel sick. In an urgent sort of way that fills me with dread. My heart creeps up into my throat.

Distantly, I hear Rocky's clattering through the tunnel. God. Do Eridians do carpet? Or something? Anything to dampen the sound, getting closer and louder and closer and

"Grace?"

I don't look at him. I kind of wave a hand so he knows I'm listening.

"Grace is making stress sounds.”

We’ve learned a lot about each other's "stress sounds” recently. For better or worse, he can hear me more clearly than I can hear myself. Though right now, I do have the distinct pleasure of hearing and feeling every one of my heart beats in my head, throbbing in the space between my skin and my skull. Thinking about it makes my heart beat faster. I’m quickly increasing my pain-per-second numbers.

Did Rocky ask me something? My face flushes with pinpricks of heat while a cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. I have to get up. I trip over something. Probably myself. I don't think I can – mm, nope, I definitely can't make it to the bathroom.

There's a round storage bin I'd been haphazardly using as an extra trash can while the gravity was cooperating. My knees slam hard on the floor and every inch of my body feels it. Then I’m gagging.

Oh, it sucks so bad. Throwing up is already miserable, but right now, it’s miserable and it hurts. Like, capital H-U-R-T-S. I'm shaking.

I brace my forehead against the rim of the container. Rocky had been bugging me for ages to move it, because he kept running into it with his ball. Good thing I'm a terrible roommate, or I might have had to vomit directly onto the floor. More terrible roommate behavior.

"Grace?!"

Speaking of, he's in his ball. My eyes are mostly closed and swimming with tears, but I feel the uneven thunks of the xenonite through my legs. And I sure do hear him! The high pitched tritone is the backbone of Rocky’s “stress sounds," which he is definitely making right now.

"What? 🎶? Grace! What is happening, question?"

Poor guy, learning that leaky humans can do this extra leaky thing called “throwing up.” Zero out of five stars, do not recommend. If eating is gross for him, I’m sure this is a nightmare. At least he’s not the one doing it.

"H-human thing.”

My throat burns. It’s a lot of water, but not enough to dilute the intoxicating flavor of eggs and stomach acid. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it. I think about it and heave again. Ow.

"What? Bad bad bad. Dangerous?”

"Not dangerous." My skull throbs. Two words at a time might be my limit. "Normal, but…" Breathe. "Not good."

Did the meds have time to work? They should have. But if it still feels this awful—

Rocky has follow up questions. I can't answer them because now I’m dry heaving. Negative five out of five stars.

He moves closer, tapping furiously. I almost fall when I reach my hand out. My feet are going numb. Lucky them.

“Stop,” I rasp.

Rocky taps directly on my palm, practically banging. "Stop what? Grace is—"

It takes everything I have not to sob. "Please."

Need quiet. The most important part of the sentence and I can't get it out. I press my other hand against my face. I try to shush him, but it comes out as a trembling hiss. My mouth tastes awful. I really, really don't want to throw up again.

It's quiet. As quiet as Mary can be, with the buzz of light bulbs and the life support system. It isn't a relief as much as an absence of overbearing agony.

Three small taps, so gentle I might have missed them. I tap back with shaking fingers.

"Need quiet, question?" Rocky’s voice is low. The translator volume doesn't change, but the computer is far enough away that it’s only a little bit awful.

God, I love him and his crystal brain. Is talking or nodding worse? Alright, nodding is worse. Don't do that.

"Yes.”  Breathe. Breathing makes me cough and coughing makes me gasp. “Sound bad. Hurts.”

"Bad," Rocky confirms. "Normal for head ache, question?"

Two taps for no; one of the building blocks of our communication, before we had words and definitions. Rocky taps back, again, to confirm.

"How to fix, question?"

I need more words. I need more space in my head to make words happen without feeling like I'm going to die. I just found out I don't have to die and I want to keep it that way. Oh my god, am I dying?

Not dying. Probably. But I don't know what this is. This has never happened before. Maybe it did, on Earth, and I just don’t remember. Clear as mud, I think about my concussion. Is this what an aneurysm feels like? Some traumatic brain injury?

Between stabs of pain, I do remember something. A student I had to take to the nurse’s office. They’d been quiet all day. Then, out of nowhere, they were in so much pain I thought they were dying. Not that I told them that. I was super calm and collected while being scared out of my wits, because that was my job. The nurse – what was her name? She was very sweet and asked me if I was familiar with migraines.

Hm. Okay. I hype myself up for several seconds. "Mary?"

"Yes," —ohmygodwhyissheyelling— "Doctor Grace?"

Perform a medical scan. Medical scan. Do something. I can't say it. Oh my god. I think I'm crying.

She does it without me asking. My vital signs must be out of whack to trigger one automatically. I'm grateful, but also, not ideal.

"You appear to be experiencing a migraine."

Great. Hypothesis proven. Still sucks.

“Probable cause is recently-diagnosed concussion,” Mary continues.  “The relative length of your recovery window may be indicative of post-concussion syndrome.”

...Huh. 

I’d haphazardly scrolled through the medical report, focusing on burn care given the risk of infection. Concussion treatment was straight forward. What did the section on complications say?

I’m useless, so Rocky tries to ask Mary to explain. But we don’t have ‘concussion’ in our dictionary. Probably not ‘syndrome,’ either. He twitches in frustration, tapping against the floor.

“How to fix Grace, question?”

“Moderate to severe migraine pain can be managed with Triptan-class medication.”

“Give Grace medication.”

“There are no Triptan-class medications aboard the Hail Mary.”

Rocky’s string of curses would be funny if I wasn’t so miserable.

“Other fix, question?”

I have to cover my ears to block Mary’s voice. It’s coming back to me, anyhow. Dark, quiet. Caffeine, I think? Ugh, if I have to drink coffee right now it might kill me. Maybe that’s a good thing. There are a lot of steps between here and going back to bed. Can I just lay down on the floor? Even that feels daunting.

I come back to myself when Rocky nudges my leg. I hadn’t noticed Armando holding another water pouch. Hardly any light comes through when I move my hands from my face. The lights must be off. I rinse my mouth out and take a single sip before I regret it.

“Grace need quiet. Rest.”

Can I quiet and rest here? I’m – I’m going to quiet and rest here. Rocky squeaks, waving his arms to stop me while I slump down against the galley cabinets. Again, maybe funny under different circumstances.

The floor isn’t comfortable. I curl up on my side, arms around my head. I used to sleep like this on the floor of the university library, more often than I should admit. I’d wake up with carpet indents in my arms. It's been four years since I touched a carpet. I don't even like carpet. Why is that devastating?

Rocky nudges me again. He’s – oh. He has a pillow. Or something else soft. Not carpet. I can’t say thank you but he’s smart, I’m sure he gets it.

It hurts too much to sleep. Heck, I’ve been awake for, what, two hours? But I kind of fade in and out. My awareness dwindles to nothing but the crushing vice grip around my head. I keep the heels of my palms pushed into my eyes. It makes my wrists ache after a while, but the alternative is not doing that and my eyes dripping right out of their sockets onto the floor.

I’m still nauseous and that thought does not help in the slightest. This sucks. This sucks so bad. I try to find a position that’s comfortable. The pillow helps, but I’m still on the floor. My neck and shoulders can tell, and they have very strong opinions about it. 

Some untraceable amount of time later, my patience runs out. I force myself to sit up. Rocky had been next to me the whole time, completely silent. He jumps up when I move.

“Grace?”

I have to stop with my head between my knees. I’m certain I’m going to throw up again, but thankfully I don’t.

“Bed,” I think I say. I can barely walk. With the main lights off, the ship is lit mostly by indicators and the ambient glow of screens. It still makes my eyes water, but it helps. Rocky’s ball pushes against my leg. It doesn’t do anything for my balance, but at least he keeps me mostly in a straight line.

Laying on a bed doesn’t stop the pain. I think it’s worse, actually, after the exertion. But it gives my muscles the suggestion of relaxation. It also feels safer in a way I don’t know how to explain and I’m not going to try.

I hear Rocky scuttle out of the room. I’m not prepared for the wave of panic that washes over me. I don’t want to be alone. The ship forces us within a couple dozen feet of each other at all times, but. Oh god. I don’t want to be alone.

He’s talking to Mary. In another room so he’s not speaking so close to me. It’s a small thing. It’s a small thing that immediately makes my eyes water.

He comes back. When he does, I’m straight up crying and trying really hard not no. He's seen me do it and it doesn’t bother me, but it feels particularly exposing right now. It also hurts.

“Mary say Grace will be okay.”

I can’t nod. My only response is a shuttering inhale.

Rocky makes a warm sound, like a purr. “Grace will be okay,” he says again.

I know that, objectively. A migraine never killed anyone. I hope. Hearing Rocky say it still makes me feel better.

Falling asleep wasn’t a choice. I didn’t think I could with how much pain I was in. But sure enough, I wake up and very quickly remember where I am.

The stabbing pain is replaced with a dull ache that, thankfully, isn’t stealing every one of my higher brain functions. But it’s like my body has reached some equilibrium – a little bit of pain everywhere instead of a lot of pain in one spot. I feel like I just lost a fight with something. Like a gorilla, or a steam roller.

Rocky hums next to me. Not a word, but a questioning sound. I can practically feel the nervous energy radiating off of him, but I think he’s waiting for me to say something.

“Hey,” I whisper. My voice still cracks in three different places, like I’m sixteen again. I wonder what it sounds like with Rocky’s superior hearing.

“Grace!” He’s keeping his voice quiet. “Awake! Okay, question?”

I make a so-so motion with my hand. “Better.”

“Good good good.”

I’m real tired for someone who’s barely been awake today. I don’t fall asleep, but I let my eyes close. I hear Rocky move down in one of his tunnels, and he comes back in his ball.

“Grace.”

“Hm?”

“Mary says words for what happen to Grace. Rocky does not know.”

Okay, we’re doing this now. I can’t blame him.

“A migraine. Like a headache, but way, way worse. They cause intense pain and make us feel sick. That’s, uh – that’s what happened earlier.”

I explain the basics of vomiting to Rocky, which means I also have to explain the human nervous system and all the different ways our bodies think we’re actually poisoned. I use the first time I encountered zero-gravity as an example. Rocky hates it.

“Human body is 🎵🎵.”

“What’s that last one?”

“Is like…hm. Fragile. Systems work together, but delicate. Pain affect digestion, sleep affect pain. Something wrong with one affects others.”

“Yeah. Maybe precarious. It’s great when everything works. But migraines mess up a bunch of stuff.”

“Don’t think Eridians have similar. Will call 🎵🎶.”

I recognize the words for ‘head,’ ‘pain,’ and a tonal modifier that usually means bad bad bad. I hope it’s not a word we need often, but I make a note to update the translator.

“What is cause?”

I sit up. This feels like a sitting up kind of conversation. It makes my head pound and my vision fuzzy, but it passes after a few seconds. I nudge Rocky’s ball with my foot.

“We don’t really know. Some people have chronic migraines – uh, chronic means something ongoing, or something that keeps coming back. We know what can trigger migraines in people who deal with them regularly, and we know they affect brain activity, but not exactly why.”

“Grace have migraine before, question?”

“Nope.” I make a peace sign. “First time.”

I don’t think Rocky likes that answer. “Grace migraine have cause. Mary called it translation we do not have.”

Ah. Right.

“We can start with concussion. When I—” I clear my throat. “When we lost the second fuel bay and my chair broke, I hit my head really hard. A concussion is a head injury. Technically a brain injury, I think.”

Rocky shoots up, legs almost straight. I can picture a set of “!!!” above his head.

“Injury to brain! Very bad!”

“Well, it’s not great, but—”

“Why Grace not say this?”

His pitch gets higher as he talks, making me wince.

“Rocky, it’s okay. Lots of humans get concussions and recover just fine.”

“Means there are some that do not.”

Well, he’s not wrong. Rocky lowers himself slightly.

“Eridians can have damage to brain. Usually is…sickness. Sometimes crystal structure develop wrong, or worker cell cannot maintain structure. Very serious.”

“Some concussions are serious, but not all of them. They heal like other types of injuries.” I gesture to my freshly-scarred arm.

“Brain is damaged, and brain can fix own damage?”

“Uh.” I hadn’t thought of it like that. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Rocky lets out a woah kind of sound. But he’s still fidgeting with his claws. A smaller, quieter iteration of his “stress sounds.” He didn’t need to explain that one to me, I figured it out on my own.

“Grace still have concussion, question?”

I almost say no, but I pause. I didn’t think so until today.

“Mary?”

“Yes, Doctor Grace?”

“Can you explain post-concussion syndrome?”

“Post-concussive syndrome describes an array of symptoms that commonly occur after mild traumatic brain injury.”

It doesn’t seem fair to use ‘mild’ and ‘traumatic’ together like that, but sure. Rocky still bristles at ‘brain injury.’

“Symptoms may be physical, cognitive, behavioral, and/or emotional in nature. Some common symptoms include headaches, fatigue, dizziness, nausea, difficulty sleeping, sensory disturbances such as sensitivity to light and sound, and emotional disturbances such as depression and anxiety.”

I’m not sure how many of those words we’ve defined, but Rocky seems to get the jist of it. And he does not like it.

“Grace many of these things! Clumsy, not sleeping, extra leaky for many days.”

“Okay, that’s barely any different than normal.”

“Is different.” Rocky says, stamping for emphasis. “Grace get 🎵🎵🎶.”

“Uh, what’s that last one?”

“🎵🎵🎶. Out of time. Not with others. Grace go out of time in middle of speaking. Not thinking right.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Thinking back, I wonder how much it was the meds making me stupid, and not my brain getting rattled around like a goldfish in a plastic bag.

“Okay, yeah. But—”

“Did not say Grace was still injured.”

“I didn’t know! I mean, not really. Concussions can last for a while, but I thought I recovered.”

We stare at each other. “Stare.” I keep going.

“I promise I wasn’t keeping it from you,” I sigh. “The worst of it was when you were asleep, anyhow.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Is chronic foot-in-mouth disease a concussion symptom? Rocky moves lower to the ground, legs curling tightly.

“Was not there. Grace injured. Grace sick.” He makes a warbling sound that rattles my teeth. Ow. “Was not there. Apology. Apology.”

“Hey, hey.” Very carefully, I slide to the floor so we’re level with each other. “Don’t think like that, okay? You were hurt, too. Saving me, I might add.” 

I swallow around the lump in my throat. Okay, yeah, emotional disturbances. Consider me emotionally disturbed.

“Brain injury bad bad bad. Grace could have died in Rocky’s sleep and Rocky not know! Not know why!”

Oh. My heart breaks a little bit.

“Rocky, listen. I’m not gonna die. Not from this.” Wait, don’t imply that other things are going to kill me! Mary, please surgically remove my foot from my mouth. “I’m okay. See? We’re okay.”

I think about Rocky, alone on his ship. He must have thought he was going to die without ever knowing why things happened the way they did. I scoot closer so I can press my hands and my forehead against one of the panels. I hope this is comforting for him like it is for me. 

“It’s not your fault. None of it.”

He trills softly in response. We sit like that for a while. My muscles ache, but the warmth of the xenonite makes up for it.

“Grace should rest.”

“How long was I asleep?”

“174 seconds.”

A decent nap. And yet I could fall asleep again right here.

“Grace sleep cycles have been short. More sleep is good for Grace. Good for brain.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a lot I need to do today. I start to think about it, but then I start thinking about what Rocky said. “Not thinking right.” Yeah. All the stupid mistakes I’ve made the last few weeks hit me all at once. Recognizing a brain injury should make me feel better about it, right?

“It’ll heal. Promise.”

“Yes yes yes.”

But my brain is literally what I was sent here for. What I know and how I use it. I’m a scientist; most of my job is thinking. I do a lot of things, but usually after I think about them first. Not thinking is usually when the stupid things happen. But if my head isn’t screwed on right, thinking won’t matter.

“Sorry.”

“Why?”

“I’m not really pulling my weight here.” I try to laugh and trip over it instead. “I don’t think I can trust anything I’ve done in the last few weeks.”

“What does Grace mean?”

Heck, man, don’t make me explain it. I rub a hand down my face.

“That word you used earlier. We have a term for that. Uh, a couple, probably. But ‘brain fog’ is what I’m thinking of. Fog is made up of low hanging clouds…”

“New word.”

“Clouds?” I don’t think we’ve talked much about Earth weather. I’m too tired for it. “I’ll explain later. Basically ‘brain fog’ means I’m not thinking right. Makes me forget things and makes it hard to focus. Those are like, the two most important things for us to do right now. I’m kind of blowing it.”

Rocky taps softly near my head. “Use thinking machines to remember. Rocky double check math. Help Grace. Is no problem.”

He makes it sound so easy.

“But you shouldn’t have to, that’s the point.”

“Point of what, question?” Rocky huffs sharply. “When limb is injured, need rest. Use other limbs to compensate. Same for Grace and Rocky. Help each other.”

I’ve sort of been on the verge of tears this whole time. My vision goes blurry. Rocky croons.

“Is okay. Many things to do. But Grace Rocky do together. Not alone.”

I turn my head so my temple rests on the xenonite. Rocky can still see me anyhow, but it’s too much for me to listen to him and look at him. He chitters. Like he does when he laughs, but softer.

“Even when Grace 🎵🎵🎶, Grace still smart. Smart science human.”

“Thanks, Rock.”

I just hope the migraine was a one-off thing.

It was not, in fact, a one-off thing.

The second and third ones happen while Rocky and I are separated. Stress is a migraine trigger, as Mary helpfully reminds me, while I attempt to suffocate myself with a pillow. Great. Stress also looks and feels a lot like the early signs of a migraine. Also great. Wonderful.

They don’t seem as bad as the first one. Maybe because I know what to expect. But they’re still awful and end with me in the fetal position in the dark. Mary doesn’t have any triptans, but I can take NSAID and non-NSAIDs together without destroying my liver, and Mary does have several of both. So I take them with a strong cup of coffee and hope for the best. The best isn’t good, but it’s what I got.

Mary’s totally-legal image of every webpage on the Internet is as helpful as it is not helpful. I learn a lot about how people treat migraines, and I learn that these treatments can vary wildly from person to person. If you can’t prevent them entirely – which I can’t, not with medication, at least – you kind of brute force it until you know how to make it as not-terrible as possible. I also learn there’s a complex relationship between head injuries and migraines. Or “migraine-like” headaches. I’m not that kind of doctor, but considering I never had a migraine before our fishing trip and now I’ve had three…this might just be something I deal with now.

So, I spend some time wallowing in self-pity. Then I crack my knuckles, crack the spine of a fresh lab journal, and start taking notes.

“Grace quiet today.”

I look up from my laptop.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“...Okay.”

“Moving slower. Muscles tense.”

“You— wait, you can hear my muscles?”

“Can hear shape they make,” Rocky gestures with his hands. “Sound waves travel differently. Only when we are close.”

Which we are right now – him on his side of the tunnel with me leaning against it.

“Woah.”

“Why Grace tense, question?”

“I dunno,” I cut myself off with a yawn. Rocky shivers; he still hates when I do that. “I’m always tense. And I think I slept weird last night.”

“Grace sleep always weird,” he grumbles.

I rub my eyes and go back to writing. It takes me a minute to remember the second half of the sentence I was typing. Taumoeba doubling time is influenced by—

“So, does not explain Grace acting different.”

I scowl at the screen. “It’s nothing, Rock.”

“Is something. Otherwise would not notice.”

“Alright. It’s barely anything.”

“Which is not nothing!”

We quibble over it. Rocky tells me to take a nap. I don't, but I tell him I’ll go to bed at a reasonable hour. Which is a tall order, coming from me. And Rocky knows that. I yawn again just to bug him.

The issue comes a bit later. I wake my laptop from its sleep, having abandoned it in favor of Rocky showing me an upgrade to his new xenonite suit. One more form fitting that will give him more freedom than just the ball. Xenonite never ceases to amaze me. I need to know more about it. I need to talk to a materials scientist when we get to Erid.

I need to — okay. I need to close my eyes when my screen comes to life. The white background of my word document is like a flashbang, making me flinch. Rocky flinches at my flinching.

“The 🎶 was that, question?”

I’m thinking while I turn the brightness down. The muscles around my eyes are sore. Had I really been squinting so much today? The text in front of me is smeared out of focus.

Dang it.

I slam the laptop shut, scrambling for my notebook. “Ryland Grace’s very scientific study of all the ways his body is falling apart.” An autobiography.

“Grace?”

Light sensitivity was a symptom. At least, it had been three out of three times. It's so stupid in hindsight, because I should have noticed. I did notice – enough to dim the lights when I woke up today. I just didn't register it as a problem. Stupid.

It's always been like this. This disconnect between my body and my brain. Missed meals and screwed up sleep schedules. Until now, I could brute force my way through being a functioning person. Maybe the note taking was helping, but I don't think it could undo thirty odd years of me being alive. It's hard to keep tabs on things when the tabs are usually yelling at me.

It's exhausting. I'm exhausted. Also a symptom. I flip through the pages with shaky hands. I'm exhausted most days, according to my own handwriting. But it's worse now than whatever my new baseline is.

Before I start spiraling, I ask Mary for coffee and pain reliever. It might already be too late, but worst case scenario, I throw up before they have the chance to do anything. And that might happen regardless.

“What is in book, question?”

“Field notes.” I swallow the pills with a swig of hot coffee. “About me. I’m, uh, pretty sure I’m having a migraine.”

Rocky squawks, pointing a claw at me. “Knew something was wrong! Grace said is nothing!”

“I know, I know,” I hiss. “Please, can you grill me later?”

“Grace sleep.” Rocky immediately drops his volume by several levels. “Bed. Now now now.”

I force myself to finish half the coffee. I can't stomach a whole cup that fast – I learned that the hard way. It still makes me nauseous, but a level that's bearable. They really couldn't have put some soda on the ship? Or some Red Bull? Heck, I’d take a Monster, even though I swore off of them after grad school.

I dim the lights to the level Mary uses for “early evening.” I think for a moment, then dim them completely to the same levels for sleeping. It's not like Rocky needs them, anyway.

“Treatment will work, question?” Rocky asks, once I’m laying down.

“Hope so. Still figuring that out.”

“Notes for tracking symptoms.”

“Yep.”

“Hm. Only second time. Small sample size.”

I take a steadying breath through my nose. “Fourth, actually.”

Rocky makes a warbling sound.

“‘S okay,” I wave a hand lamely. “Just gonna. Y’know. Hang out here for a bit.”

After a little while, I hear Rocky moving. Still no carpet, but he’s moving slower and quieter than usual. I let myself drift a little bit.

I don’t want to open my eyes, but they shoot open when my mattress dips on one side. Rocky pulls himself up with xenonite-covered claws. The hands are still bulky, but he has enough of a grip to join me on the bed.

Rocky has already done dozens of pressure tests on the suit. I know this. I saw them myself. But I can’t help the swoop of panic that makes my nausea spike. Seeing him without the ball still makes me—

“Grace is okay? Heart beat is fast.”

“Yeah,” I swallow. I shut my eyes again. Pain is starting to creep into my temples. “Never been better.”

“Lie lie lie.” Rocky sings softly. He takes one of my hands with two claws. I’m a little surprised, but I don’t stop him because it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt at all. He lightly squeezes the spot between my thumb and forefinger.

“What are you doing?”

“‘Pressure points.’” I can’t see the air quotes he makes, but I hear the inflection. “Can help with pain.”

“Wh— how do you know that?”

“Read on computer. After last time.”

Oh. “That’s…really nice of you.”

“Is nothing,” he says, but he sounds proud. “Is helping, question?”

“It feels nice. So, probably, yeah.”

“Good good good.” 

He trills quietly. And then keeps going. It’s a gentle, barely-there hum. I feel it more than I hear it, like the purring of a cat. I don’t think that’s something cited in migraine treatment. It doesn’t matter, because it feels nice. Not for the pain, really, but it makes my heart thrum with warmth that spreads to the rest of my body.

I wake up some time later, sore and fuzzy but otherwise comfortable. Really, really comfortable, actually. I’m holding something warm, and there’s a gentle scratching at the base of my neck. Between one second and the next, the haze of sleep clears, and I’m not sure what’s happening.

I scramble back. Sudden movement is a bad idea that sends my head throbbing. Whatever I was going to say – I hadn’t figured it out yet – is replaced with a groan.

“Grace! Why moving, question?”

Rocky is there. In more or less the same spot I remember him being.

“Sorry. I, uh…” I shake my head and hiss in pain. “Sorry.”

I fall back down on the bed, pressing my palms into my eyes. My heart flutters in that weird “woke up too fast” way. Something touches my hair, then stops.

“Is okay, question?”

“Huh?” My brain catches up two seconds later. “Oh. Yeah. It – it feels nice.”

Rocky’s claws are gentle. They scratch my scalp in a way that sends little tingles down my spine. He uses a little bit of pressure when he gets to my neck.

“Sorry,” I say again. I realize I’d basically pinned him in place while I was sleeping. “I didn’t mean to trap you here.”

“No trap. Want to help. Computer says this can also help. Is helping?”

“Please don’t stop,” is not what I want to say, because it sounds too desperate. But unfortunately those words come out of my mouth in that order.

Rocky trills softly, and he does not stop. 

It doesn’t take long for me to wind up in the same position I was in before. On my side, arms wrapped loosely around one of Rocky’s limbs. The warmth is also nice. He really could break free like it was nothing. My bones would be like twigs if he wanted them to be.

The flair of pain I inflicted on myself fades away to a dull ache. Tension I didn’t know I was holding slowly melts away, thanks to the receding pain and Rocky’s gentle hand.

“You’re like…really, really great, you know that?”

Rocky makes that little shuffling sound he does when I compliment him directly. “Is nothing.”

“Not nothing,” I tease. “It’s a lot. Really.” 

When I handled these on my own, the pain would just leave a lonely, miserable dread behind. Now I feel, above everything else, safe. And very much not alone. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Make this part of treatment. Add to notes. Head scratches.”

“Yeah,” I laugh. I sit up so I can look at Rocky directly. “Hey. You knew something was wrong before I did. How could you tell?”

“Grace carry self differently. Since before last sleep cycle. More stiff. Slow. Different frequencies than normal.”

“Wow. You can really tell all that?”

“Eridians know how each other sound. Very very high detail. Important for identifying individuals.”

“And anything that changes means something is wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting! You know, humans have this thing called pareidolia. We’re really, really good at identifying human faces. Even in inanimate objects, we’re wired to find the shape of a face. It’s a survival instinct, so we can find other people quickly.”

Rocky sits up straighter. “Eridians are same! But with sound, not light sense. Important to hear other eridians clearly. Separate from background noise.”

I’m writing an abstract in my head. Rapid identification of individuals across social species. I’ll add it to my ever-growing folder of half-written papers.

“Now is same with Grace,” Rocky continues. He taps my forearm. “Took time to get used to squishy body. Cannot always hear well. But have gotten used to sound. Would recognize anywhere.”

“Wait,” Rocky taps me more frantically. “Wait, why Grace leaking?!”

“Jeez,” I choke, scrubbing at my eyes. “Sorry, it’s just— that’s really sweet?”

This is embarrassing. I’m crying over what is, essentially, the concept of pattern recognition. Rocky climbs a little closer, leaning against my side.

“Grace act different, too. Quiet. Not as happy. Not always strange, but strange when done with other strange things.”

“Yeah.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to predict them, but it sounds like you’ll have better luck than me.”

“Good! Can warn Grace next time.” He nudges me. “And Grace actually listen! Instead of being 🎶🎶.”

“Do not tell me what that means. In my defense—”

“No defense. Grace ignore Rocky. Sad. Tragic.” He slumps forward like a Victorian woman swooning in the heat. Two of his limbs lay across my lap. “Rocky throw self out of airlock.”

“Good god, what soap operas have you been watching?”

“New word, question?”

“Earth media. Lots of drama. New word: melodramatic. I’ll show you an example.”

“Can watch now.”

I consider it. “My head’s still a little fuzzy. Not sure I want to look at any screens.”

“Understand. Sound is okay?”

I consider that, too. Rocky’s voice is still quieter than usual. “Yeah. I mean, don’t start shouting or anything, but this is okay.”

“Good! Rocky can tell Grace about Eridian drama.”

“Ohh. Like the audio dramas you told me about?”

“No no. Live performance. Word is 🎶🎵🎵. Has been around for a long time. ‘Old fashioned.’ But still popular.”

I grin, imagining a group of Eridians dressed for a production of Shakespeare.

“Rocky enjoy 🎶🎵🎵, but not…right way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Supposed to be dramatic. Strong feelings. Rocky watch because they are very, very funny. But humor is not intentional.”

“Oh my god,” I laugh. “You’re irony poisoned.”

“What?”

“Nevermind.” Sitting up is more effort than it should be, so I lay back down. Easy, with Rocky still holding me in place. “Tell me all about it.”

Rocky settles next to me. A little bit on top of me, but he distributes his weight so my squishy organs don’t get, well, squished.

I take very scientific and scholarly notes in my mind while Rocky explains the intricacies of Eridian soap operas. Eridians don’t use soap, so we’ll have to think of a better name, but that’s fine. I feel a little bad for dozing off in the middle, but Rocky doesn’t seem to mind.

Then, Rocky says he got kicked out of a performance once for laughing too hard in the crowd. Which might be one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard. It feels wrong to show him American daytime television, but now I have to.

“Rocky?”

“Yes?”

The xenonite above his carapace is warm and smooth under my palm. “Thank you.”

“Welcome. Will help. Always.”

Rocky puts a hand in my hair. I am not immune to head scratches.