Work Text:
Rocky stares me down, in that eyeless way he figured out years ago.
“Grace is lying.”
I’m not sure what gave it away. The biggest warning is probably my heart, hammering at the base of my throat like it has somewhere else to be. I swallow blood around it.
I’m not the first person alive to lose an adult tooth. It’s not common, sure, but neither is an appendectomy, and that’s considered “medically routine.” They removed my appendix before they put me on the ship. They worked fast. Faster without medical consent. Maybe they should have gone and ripped my teeth out while they were at it.
“Grace,” Rocky tunes.
But they didn’t expect me to live long enough to see scurvy.
“Grace.”
He touches my leg. I’m winded because I was saying that out loud.
If I have to swallow coppery saliva again I’m going to be sick, so I spit into the toilet instead. It feels gross, but I’m already on the floor and I don’t need to move very far to make it happen. I’ve been here for a few minutes, I think. I only started keeping track when Rocky rounded the corner, asking what was wrong.
My tongue dances around the hole where my molar was. It doesn’t hurt at all, but it tastes sharp and it’s still bleeding. My blood isn’t clotting right. Or maybe a lost tooth bleeds this much. I wouldn’t know.
“If this happened on Earth, I’d be fucked.” The words come out high. The swear doesn’t feel right, but neither does the hole in my mouth. “Dental insurance is separate from health insurance, isn’t that stupid?”
“Can I see?” Rocky asks. He doesn't answer my question. He knows me too well.
He has two hands on my leg, the strained and thinning muscle of my thigh. He uses a third to hold my tooth.
He holds it so gently and I tell him what I know about teeth, which isn't much. Mostly what I learned when I realized losing one was a real possibility. I can zone out for a moment and live in a world where it’s someone else’s tooth and bits of someone else’s gums still clinging to it. I should have cleaned it or something, but I'm too tired to reach my hand out and ask for it back. Talking is exhausting. Breathing is exhausting. Thinking about being exhausted is exhausting.
“If I can keep, I can make mold,” Rocky says softly. “Xenonite or something else. Not metals bad for humans. Is okay?”
“Sure.” For a few reasons. Mainly that I don’t want to keep looking at it.
I let Rocky explain how he can recreate the shape, how it can best be held in place. Truthfully we should wait until I’m not actively scurvy’d and do them all at once. There’s a good chance this won’t be the last.
“We will fix that one, too. All of them. Promise.”
I’m a little woozy from – everything. So it takes me a minute to stand up, and Rocky is very patient about it. I grip either side of the sink and look in the mirror. I can’t take it all in at once. The eyes, the cheekbones, the hair. One thing at a time. Just the smile.
In passing, you might not know it was missing. My mouth does, of course, but without my glasses on it doesn’t look bad. I don’t need my glasses to see the blood though, following the spaces between my teeth. I spit into the sink and rinse my mouth out.
Which one will go next? Maybe another bottom right molar. Without its neighbor it feels more exposed. I push it with my tongue and watch it wiggle. I’m only making it worse. I check all of them, one at a time. It doesn't hurt. That's worse. I could just pop another one out if I really tried. I know I'm going to dream about it tonight.
I lean heavier on the sink and my arms start to shake.
“Grace is done watching mouth?”
He’s the one who really had to look at me. I hope the missing tooth doesn’t freak him out. Probably not any more than the general concept of teeth. But he literally has one in his hand, and he’s holding it like it matters a whole lot.
“Come. Watch me make mold instead.”
He says this pressed into the backs of my knees. His voice vibrates through my bones.
“Yeah.” My mouth still tastes like blood. It will until my next meal. “Yeah, okay.”
It’s harder to count the hours when Rocky is distracting me. It’s harder, too, to count the teeth in my mouth, like the number might change when I’m not looking. I swallowed one of my baby teeth in my sleep. I was five, and inconsolable that I couldn’t leave anything under my pillow. I don’t think the tooth fairy’s delivery route comes this far.
But I rest my head against the xenonite while Rocky asks for my thoughts. I'm exhausted, but I can’t count my teeth while I’m talking. He knows me too well.