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“[…][I]f two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone?
And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.”
Ecclesiastes 4:11-12, KJV
• ☆⊹ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ★ ⋆.˚ ⊹ •
“Grace, question?”
A silence fell over the lab, save the soft, barely-noticeable buzzing of the light fixtures above and the ever-present thrum of the engines far below. It was hypnotic, in a way, like a constant white noise—easily forgotten if you didn’t pay attention, and especially after so long of getting used to its presence. It was moments like this where they seemed louder, though, and Grace could really focus in on them without other distractions.
“Grace heart rate fast, breathing fast,” Rocky chittered. The sound of his tapping and clicking as he shifted in his tunnel was distant, a little muffled to Grace’s ears.
Grace hummed wordlessly in response, noncommittal. He didn’t look up from where he lay slumped with his face and chest to the lab table.
Rocky shuffled again, unsatisfied. “Grace, question?”
Grace didn’t answer.
“Abnormal vitals detected,” Mary reported overhead. Her calm, even voice was just a little too shrill, all of a sudden, and it drilled into the side of his skull, ramping up his headache. Grace groaned, turning his face further into the darkness and safety of the tabletop. “Please report to the medical bay for assessment.”
Grace shifted his head a little. The throbbing behind his temples flared up. “Mmm…”
“Yes yes,” Rocky chimed in, tapping the xenonite wall between them. His movements were rapid, expectant, nervous. “Grace go to Armando. Grace get help.”
Grace huffed a heavy breath through his nose, unable to do anything but wallow. His eyes caught on the contour of his wrist where it lay tossed out beside his face on the table, the hollow between bones accentuated by the overhead lighting. The flesh was too pale, skin a bit too pliable as the muscle and fat beneath it degraded.
There was a moment or two of silence before the footsteps skittered away, moving quickly, and the loss of Rocky’s presence only added to the ache he felt. He kept lying there, only half-seeing, quiet and miserable.
There was a rustling and clunking somewhere off in the distance, below his feet and down the hall—in the dormitory of the Mary, chances were. Then it was growing in volume again, a bit less muffled than before, and Grace caught movement out of the corner of his eye as Rocky emerged back up from the hatch leading down to the corridor—on Grace’s side of the xenonite, in his oxygen-rich environment.
Grace’s lagging brain nearly gave him a moment of panic, his confusion spiking, before he could process the glittering of body-tight xenonite panels that layered Rocky’s carapace. He’d donned his new suit, then—they were still getting used to it. At least, Grace was. Rocky had worked through the kinks and difficulties of the new model quickly—he was operating in it with an almost startling ease.
Grace sat there and watched as Rocky approached, the edges of the table digging into his biceps as he lay still and sprawled against it. He couldn’t really remember what he’d been working on…double-checking the taumoeba breeder tanks, maybe, or taking stock of the food they had left. He wasn’t sure. It could’ve been anything, really. Time had been passing in a blur for the last few days.
Cheese and crackers, he was hungry. It was a hunger that was less a solid, direct physical sensation than a full-body ache—it sapped the strength of his limbs and clouded his mind, narrowing down his awareness to the misery and the pain and the incapacity that he was struggling with more and more as time went on. He didn’t have the energy to play ball games with Rocky, or to narrate excitedly about the sights and movies they watched in the Don’t Go Crazy Room. He didn’t have the energy to work on projects or studies beyond what was most important, like rationing and taumoeba modification and planning communication means and messages to send to Erid. Even walking between rooms was proving to be more and more of a task as of late—he was just tired. Achy and miserable and tired.
He was fighting not to let it bleed into his interactions with Rocky, as much as he could. He didn’t want to lash out, to snap, to push him away when it wasn’t his fault. He was doing his best to stay positive, to keep a lighthearted spin on things, to avoid snipping out complaints and whining about his fears and pains all the time. He wouldn’t want to live with someone like that, anyway.
He was doing it for Rocky more than anyone else, he’d conceded. It was hard not to focus on the discomfort, though—so he found he just kept quiet, if he didn’t have that many happy things to say. That in and of itself was probably concerning Rocky far more than he let on, but Grace couldn’t find the energy to try to change it.
He was drawn out of his thoughts as something solid and warm brushed up against his back, bracing there gently as though just to offer physical support. Grace sighed, closing his eyes. Even with the slightly uncomfortable heat emanating from the xenonite atop Rocky’s claws, it was soothing.
“Grace, question?” Rocky called again. The automated voice of the computer was the same volume and distance away from him that it had been before, but the gentle thrumming of his notes was closer, clearer. They’d turned the translation program back on in recent weeks, as Grace’s energy and comprehension levels had begun to decline.
“M’okay,” Grace managed, trying to assuage. His voice was low and raspy, thin with disuse. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d spoken, at least something other than a knee-jerk response to one of Rocky’s inquiries, like this one.
“No,” Rocky rebutted, the tone of his song a little firmer, but still forgiving. “Grace not okay. Grace not feeling well, Grace sick. Need medbay. Need Armando.”
“Mm-hmm…” Grace agreed, idly, still unable to draw up the energy to respond in any other way. Rocky seemed to interpret this, though, and all of a sudden another arm was pressing up against his back, slipping over his shoulders, as a third found its way beneath his knees under the stool.
For all their impressive strength and speed, Eridians could be very gentle when they wanted to. Or maybe it was just Rocky in particular—Grace wouldn’t know, after all. Perhaps it had something to do with his role as an engineer, a job that needed a careful touch and precision when crafting and using intricate tools. Regardless, Grace felt himself shifted up carefully away from the table, his legs lifted from around the stool and repositioned at a tilt against one of Rocky’s frontal planes. Rocky tucked him up into a bridal carry, pulling his limbs and shoulder close to his carapace, shifting a little to secure his neck at a more comfortable angle.
Grace huffed another deep breath, his head spinning a little from the change in position, enveloped in the warmth of the xenonite suit and his friend beneath. The heat was a little too thick, a little oppressive, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t like he had it in him to complain, anyway. And besides, it was a comfort knowing Rocky was there. Knowing that Rocky wouldn’t leave him alone, even like this. Even after everything.
“Friend Grace,” Rocky crooned, then, his notes soft. There was another faint shifting around him, and all of a sudden a pair of claws was brushing his hair back from his face, where it had been slicked to his temple with sweat. “Friend Grace safe. Rocky fix, Rocky make sure Grace okay.”
“Mmm,” Grace hummed, feeling a wave of emotion swelling dully in his chest. A familiar stir of heartache festered there, kicked up afresh, never fully satiated no matter how much Rocky soothed him—perhaps because of the comfort, really. He didn’t deserve this. There was nothing he had done to warrant this level of care and compassion from anyone, much less from the wonderful creature against him—this amazing, intelligent form of life, whom it was by utter chance he had stumbled across. He shouldn’t even be here, on the Hail Mary, on the mission—he shouldn’t even be alive, it had been his fate to die—
“No, no, shh—” Rocky trilled, the xenonite panels against Grace buzzing lightly with vibrations as Rocky hummed a soothing warble, stroking his claws across Grace’s cheek. “No cry, Friend Grace, no cry. Is safe. Rocky here; Rocky fix.”
Oh. He hadn’t even realized that tears had begun to bead up in his eyes, squeezed out by the ache in his body and mind. He’d been crying more often, lately, which was saying a lot to begin with. He had no strength to regulate his emotions, no strength to make it stop.
Rocky still stayed with him, though. Rocky didn’t recoil, didn’t lean back in disgust, even though Grace knew it was revolting to him—even though their proximity, here, like this, pressed up and listening to the soft, squishy fleshiness of his organs and internal works, made Rocky squeamish. Rocky didn’t seem to mind, somehow, for all the repulsion he voiced on other days. He stayed. He chose to stay with Grace.
Grace drew in a shuddering breath, feeling it hitch and flutter weakly in his chest. The pain left him feeling like an open wound, naked in his exposure to the elements around him, his ribs pulled back and stinging with a helpless ache.
Rocky pressed him a little closer, wiping away his tears. He shifted over on his free claws, turning them back in the direction of the corridor hatch. He grabbed the laptop on his way, wedging it close to Grace’s side and shifting back onto his free legs to keep his balance. He kept humming little things, soft things to Grace as they moved, things that Grace processed less and less as he floated in a haze against his friend’s solid warmth, the voice from the computer a tinny buzz against him. Grace closed his eyes and turned his face into Rocky’s suit, trying to drown himself in the embrace. They descended the ladder toward the dormitory, toward Grace’s bed and quilt, toward where Armando hovered over the mattress, waiting expectantly.
“Rocky here,” Rocky reasserted, his movements just as careful and measured as before, lowering Grace gently down to the bed. Grace whined at the loss of contact, even though the cooler touch of the open air was a bit more comfortable. He felt his arms trembling, but whether it was from weakness or emotion he didn’t know.
Rocky shushed him again, placing the computer on the floor a pace away before reaching back up to Grace. He situated his limbs in a more comfortable position, after a pause, when he recognized that Grace had no strength to move them himself. “Rocky will not leave.”
Above them, Armando whirred to life, leaning in over Grace’s chest and initiating a physical scan. A remote thermometer passed over his forehead; a pulse oximeter was slipped deftly onto his hand, a blood pressure cuff on his opposite arm. Grace quailed a little at the sounds and the touches and the closeness, humming in displeasure, apprehension squirming in his gut.
“Grace safe,” Rocky repeated. A set of claws brushed over his closest arm, tracing the burn scar that sat pink and raised against his skin, the collagen bonds holding it together starting to break apart.
“Elevated temperature detected,” Mary’s voice supplied overhead after a few moments. “Patient temperature is 37.9 degrees Celsius | 100.2 degrees Fahrenheit. Blood oxygen saturation: 96% on standard room air. Tachycardia detected; heart rate: 110bpm. Low blood pressure detected: 84/58 mmHg. Triage result: IV insertion, administration of acetaminophen and saline. Enforcement of bed rest and fluid intake recommended.”
“N-no!” Grace yelped, with what little strength he could muster, kicking out as Armando started to prepare a needle. “No—please—”
“Mary, stop!” Rocky demanded, his notes spiking in pitch, defensive. He lowered them quickly, still agitated at Grace’s distress. “No IV. Give Grace pill medicine instead.”
Grace forced himself to relax a little, exhaling a tight breath through his teeth, his head pounding from the adrenaline and effort. They’d been through this song and dance before—it was a relief that Rocky understood, even if he didn’t know the whole story. Only needles bad, oral meds okay, and especially when Grace was in moments of heightened stress or vulnerability. He’d explained it to him some months ago, now, and had been gracious enough not to pry for a more in-depth explanation.
Mary and Armando relented, for their part, tucking the needle back away. There was a humming and clicking overhead, and then a pair of new materials was lowered from the ceiling—a packet of medicine capsules and a pouch of potable water. Rocky helped Grace shift a bit to sit up on the bed, propping him against a little arrangement of pillows, and accept the offerings. He took the meds and sipped carefully at the water, grateful for the cool relief against his throat.
Grace sighed, at length, pulling the pouch away. Rocky took it carefully from his hands and set it within arm’s reach at the corner of the bed. “Grace sleep,” Rocky directed, warbling gently, as Mary repeated her recommendation of fluids and rest. “Rocky watch, Mary Armando watch. Grace is safe.”
Grace exhaled again, exhaustion dragging his mind and his body down. Okay. “Okay,” he mumbled, sinking back into the pillows and closing his eyes. “Th’nks, Rock…”
Rocky hummed again, low and lilting downward in a soothing timbre. There was a gentle shifting around him, and Grace could feel the quilt being pulled up to his shoulders. “Grace is welcome. Now sleep.”
• ☆⊹ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ★ ⋆.˚ ⊹ •
“—okay, Grace okay, Grace breathe—”
Something was trilling incessantly, off to his left and somewhere above his face. Sights and sounds drifted around him, blurry and indistinct, dancing tantalizingly in and out of his awareness like flecks of sleet in the wind. Grace gritted out a low noise in his chest, trying to squirm—the soft cushioning beneath him was damp, soaked through with sweat and sticking uncomfortably to his back.
He was too hot.
“Elevated temperature detected.” There was a weight, a sudden chill, something draped across his chest and stomach. His shirt was missing. “Initiating manual cooling procedure…”
Grace wheezed, shuddering at the unpleasant sensation. The pressure culminated into a weak cough, then another, then another, forced painfully up from his chest with a rattle that burned. There was a distant trilling of fear nearby, as consequence, or maybe it was coincidence. He didn’t know. “Grace—”
“Mmf—” he whined, miserable. A warm presence met his arm, something small and gentle brushing against his side, slicking along the tackiness there.
“Grace, Grace relax, breathe—”
He twisted, coughing again, just trying to get away. He didn’t want this—the dizziness, the heat, the pain, the confusion, the misery, everything—he didn’t—
Hands pinning him down, forcing his face into the dirt. A weight he couldn’t hope to push away, to shove out from underneath. The sharp scent of tears and grass and Earth, that last Earth he would ever feel. Flashes of color, sights and sounds and fear—begging and pleading, fighting desperately for freedom, to live—fighting to fill his lungs as his body shut down and the air just wouldn’t come—
Grace sobbed, the sound dry and wet at once. It was an ugly noise, something that wrenched itself out of him like the keen of a dying animal. His words were bleeding through the vision, the nightmare, the memory—he was begging again, gasping out agonized cries, praying that anyone would listen, that anyone would help him.
Something was different this time, though. Someone was there. Hands…claws met his face, warm and solid and gentle, swiping off sweat and tears. He wasn’t pressed into the dirt—he was on his back, staring up at a twisting set of mechanical arms, at a distant pale ceiling beyond. Blinking lights, the diligent watch of monitoring equipment.
He wasn’t being sent off to die. It had already happened.
The realization should’ve sent a stab of crushing despair through his chest, as it had so many times before. But it didn’t, somehow, because something was still different. Someone was there to give him hope, give him astrophage, give him a chance. Someone was there to make sure he lived.
The claws were back, then, pressing softly to the side of his face, carding through his hair. Grace slumped back against the mattress, spent, no fight left in his body. He cried, and the claws let him—they were patient, they were gentle, they stayed and kept watch and made sure he was safe. They held him steady as a calm, quiet resonance filled the air—a song, low and mournful, but a promise of protection all the same.
Grace sobbed and tried his best to sink into it, to latch on to that fragment of comfort in the midst of the pain. He was drifting away again before he had a chance to try to speak—to plead some more, to apologize, to thank. He prayed they would understand.
• ☆⊹ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ★ ⋆.˚ ⊹ •
Time drifted by in a haze. Grace twisted and whimpered, caught in the throes of agonized visions and waves of heat and cold, of crippling aches and a hunger and a hopeless confusion. He saw shadows flicker in the corners of the room, people walking and standing and staring at him, sometimes.
He saw the nameless security guards at the slapdash research facility they’d set up close to his apartment, standing at attention in trained, professional silence. He saw Rivka and Marvin, two unbelievably bright, straight-A students competing for the top spot in his class, staring eagerly up at him, waiting for the next set of instructions. Waiting for direction.
He saw Carl, eyeing him with the slightest hint of a frown. He looked disappointed.
He saw Yáo and Ilyukhina, their lifeless bodies drifting out into an infinite void. Their mouths were open, dark as the eternal night stretching out to swallow them up, watching him with empty eyes.
He saw his own body, thin and pale, well on its way to being emaciated like theirs. He saw a needle attached to his arm, pumping clear liquid into his bloodstream. He couldn’t find the energy to panic, to be afraid.
He saw Eva Stratt, sitting close to his side. She looked so tired, her eyes strained with sleeplessness and screen overuse and the weight of the future of life on their planet, the weight of the sins of the Petrova Task Force for the sake of maintaining that life.
“The world is counting on you,” she told him, her voice a distant echo in the space between them. “Don’t let go.”
I know, he wanted to sob. I know. I tried. I swear I did.
He faded back away before he could see if her expression changed, before he could see if his answer ever got through to her. To anyone.
• ☆⊹ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ★ ⋆.˚ ⊹ •
“Rocky,” Grace gasped, sudden and desperate. He needed him there—he needed to tell him. He deserved it. He deserved the truth.
“Yes, Grace?” Rocky was there, then, right there at his side—or maybe he had been, maybe he always had been. Grace didn’t know. A familiar set of claws slipped into his hand, clasping it reassuringly. Grace squeezed back, or he tried to, mustering up all the strength his body would allow.
“Rocky—” Grace whined, breathless and sorrowful. He was there—it was a relief. He was there—it was a source of agony, of heartbreak. He was going to let him go. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Rocky—”
“Shh, shhh,” Rocky soothed, soft and comforting. He squeezed his hand a little firmer. “Grace no need to be sorry. Grace sick. Is okay.”
“No—no, I need—I need to tell you,” he choked out, his chest heaving. “I can’t—I can’t. I can’t keep lying.”
“Grace—”
“You des—you deserve to know. I didn’t want to. I d-didn’t want to go,” he wheezed, the words pulling themselves like molten fishhooks from his mouth. It was agony—sharp pieces of metal rending through his skin, but at the same time it was a grim relief to get out. “I didn’t. I was going to let Earth die.”
There’s a low, chittering, clicking sound beside him. “What…what Grace mean, question?”
“I’m a coward. I didn’t w-want to go on the mission. They made me—” He sucked in a breath, something that rattled in his chest, heightening the tremors already wracking his frame. The sound was wet—thick and crackling as it escaped. “They made me. I didn’t want to go. Th-the astronauts—they were going to die. They knew—they wanted, they wanted it.”
His voice broke, cut through with a high, feeble whine in his throat. “I didn’t want to die. I didn’t. They made me go.”
Beside him, there was silence. It was more painful, more agonizing than any sound he could’ve heard.
“I’m a coward,” he sobbed. “I was g-g’nna let Earth die. Let you die—I wouldn’t be there to save you—”
The words were flowing unrestrained, now, tumbling loosely from his lips, beyond his own awareness. He didn’t know what he was saying, anymore, pleas and confessions pouring out between the sobs. He shuddered; he could barely breathe.
“Calm,” Rocky demanded of him, softly, after some time. “Grace calm. Slow breaths. Is okay.”
He shivered. “I didn’t—I d-didn’t, I didn’t—”
“Shh,” Rocky soothed. “Grace breathe. Is okay. Rocky here.”
Grace sobbed again, confused, struggling to understand. Rocky shouldn’t be there—he shouldn’t be there for him. He didn’t deserve it—didn’t Rocky realize?
“No—no—you don’t—it isn’t, you shouldn’t—”
“Is okay. Is okay, Grace. Rest.”
Grace sucked in a shuddering gasp, his heart pounding. The monitors were beeping above him, a little louder than before…or maybe just clearer to him, all of a sudden. A female voice sounded out overhead, words he didn’t catch.
Stratt…?
“Okay, Mary,” Rocky called back, the timbre of his notes mournful.
Grace kept crying, lost, staring up at the haze of the ceiling above him. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to lose his best friend. He didn’t want to be alone, but that’s what he deserved, because of what he’d done.
An odd, numbing, fuzzy sensation flooded through his veins, all of a sudden. Grace saw the world blur and start to drift away around him. He couldn’t feel Rocky’s hand in his anymore. His chest burned; the fear and confusion that rose to clutch it from the haziness was quickly smothered by the dark sweeping up in its wake.
• ☆⊹ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ★ ⋆.˚ ⊹ •
There was a sound echoing out somewhere distantly around him, something like laughter, something like a song. He wondered if he was dreaming.
He was filled with the sensation of sliding over and over on a wet, slippery surface—always falling, always turning, never able to get his bearings.
He drifted dizzily away again before he could find solid ground, before he could tell which direction was up.
• ☆⊹ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ★ ⋆.˚ ⊹ •
The monitors were beeping overhead, quiet and steady.
“Eye movement detected,” someone called. “Good morning, Doctor Grace.”
He groaned. He slipped back into unawareness in a matter of moments.
• ☆⊹ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ★ ⋆.˚ ⊹ •
“’m I gonna die?” Grace croaked, low and exhausted, to no one. His breath puffed out into the quiet air, feeling like it took something out of him as it went, breaking through a film of dried spit on his chapped, broken lips.
“No,” a voice said. It shook, just a little. “Grace will not die, statement.”
• ☆⊹ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ★ ⋆.˚ ⊹ •
“Eye movement detected,” Mary announced.
The world swam into focus, one fragment at a time. Grace screwed his face up a little, blinking blearily at the bunk above his head. The lights flickered on a moment or so later, making him wince and try to lift an arm to shield his eyes. He was only half-successful; the limb in question twitched and raised a few inches from the bed, before falling back down with a pathetic little thump.
“Good morning, Doctor Grace.”
This time, he was alive enough to stay awake in the following moments. The exhaustion that permeated his existence still sat thick in his bones, ever-present and nearly all-consuming. His body felt like lead, bogged down with impossibly heavy weights—his limbs twinged and protested at even the slightest movements. He felt sick and sore and wrung out, soaked in sweat, as though he’d been running nonstop for the past week and a half.
Grace groaned, trying to turn his head. “Rocky…?”
There was an IV attached to his arm. His shirt was still missing. A motionless pile of xenonite and stone-like carapace peeked just over the side of the bed, and Grace started a little, awful memories flaring up at once—Rocky lying beside him, still, unmoving, charred and covered in silvery, mercury blood. He groaned as the flinch ignited flares of pain all over his body, but he didn’t let it stop him, he kept leaning forward—
It was okay. This Rocky was okay. His carapace was clear of blood and grime, unbroken, curled up in a neat, tucked sprawl on the floor. He was just sleeping.
Grace huffed out a breath, sagging back against his arms as much as he could. He was already exhausted, just by the slight movements and actions and spike of fear now ebbing away, a little.
If Rocky were sleeping before Grace had woken up, though, it meant nothing good. He’d never do it willingly—it was against deeply-ingrained Eridian instincts and norms. Had something gone wrong? Could he be sick, hurt somehow?
Had he given up on Grace?
Armando whirred overhead, all of a sudden, drawing his attention upwards. A new pouch of water was deposited into his lap.
“Th-thanks,” Grace managed, feeling raw. Geez, his throat hurt. He was so thirsty.
It took some effort and finagling with his weak, shaky fingers, but he finally managed to pry the pouch open. He leaned back against the rumpled pillows behind his head, trying to push himself into a somewhat-sitting position as he sipped at the water.
Swallowing hurt, but it still felt good on his throat. He glanced out hazily at the bed—the quilt was shoved into a corner, sheets rumpled, damp with spots of sweat. It looked ghastly, like a crime scene. He himself didn’t look much better, he imagined, nor did he feel it.
Grace set the pack aside, and Armando swiped it dutifully up. His vision was starting to blur at the edges, swimming in hazy circles that vanished when he tried to focus on the distortion. He wanted so badly to close his eyes again.
• ☆⊹ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ★ ⋆.˚ ⊹ •
“Grace?”
Grace stirred, humming a low noise in his throat. He was still tired. There was a heavy warmth at his left, pressing up against his hip and ribs.
“Grace?”
“Mmm,” he mumbled. “…Rock?”
“Grace awake!” A voice buzzed excitedly at his side, jolting him a bit out of his sleepy haze. He squinted his eyes open to see Rocky tucked close to his arm, nestled into the mattress, causing a significant dip in the cushioning that forced Grace to tip over a little into him. He was still adorning his form-fitting xenonite suit, his vents huffing rapidly as he fidgeted at his side. His posture and voice exuded relief, tangible even across language and physical barriers.
“Eye movement detected,” the automated female voice called from the ceiling again. He was getting pretty tired of that. “Good morning, Doctor Grace.”
“H-hey, Rock,” Grace rasped, his voice breaking off into a cough. The lights flickered on as he fought to recover.
Rocky lifted a half-empty water pouch, helping him bite down on the cap and drink. “Slow, careful,” he chided. “How Grace feeling, question?”
“Mmm…m’tired,” he admitted, honestly, once he pulled back from the water. “Sore. Feel sick.”
“Yes, yes, Grace sick sick sick,” Rocky confirmed, taking the pouch away again. He fidgeted his claws, tapping them together in an anxious gesture. “Temperature too high, leak much, lose fluids. Grace hurting and confused for long time.”
“Ugh,” Grace groaned, half in discomfort and half in regret that Rocky had to see all that. “H-how—how long…?”
“Rocky bring Grace to Armando 71 hours ago,” Rocky explained. “Grace sleep much, cry much, talk some but make little sense. Grace very very weak. Still weak. Grace must focus on healing.”
“O-okay,” Grace agreed. “I will.”
“Good good.” Rocky paused, still tapping his claws to each other. He shifted his weight between three legs, uneasy, as though he wasn’t sure what to say.
Rocky crouched down against the bed, after a few beats, dropping his carapace in shame. “Grace…Grace sleep so long that Rocky had to sleep, before Grace wake up. Big big big apology. Rocky could not watch Grace, make sure Grace safe. Rocky—”
“Hey—hey.” Grace lifted a hand weakly to Rocky’s side, offering him a smile. He felt a thin wave of relief, in all honesty, that Rocky chose to address it at all. “It’s okay. You couldn’t help it—you needed to sleep. ‘n besides…”
He gestured upward vaguely toward the mechanical arms above them. “I had Armando to watch me. And Mary. We both did.”
Rocky slumped down a little further. “Is not same.”
“I know.” Grace tried for a smile again, patting weakly against the xenonite panels on Rocky’s nearest arm. “But it’s okay, bud, I promise. I forgive you.”
Rocky hummed, the sound low and melancholy. He didn’t seem fully satisfied, but he did relax a little, uncurling slightly from his balled-up position of remorse at Grace’s side.
The two of them sat in the quiet for a little while. The Mary’s systems thrummed and chimed; Armando sat still above them, waiting.
“Grace,” Rocky started again, trailing off after a moment. He shifted slowly against the mattress, repositioning his limbs against his body.
Even through the muddled confusion and haze of sickness Grace felt a sinking feeling in his chest—the nervousness yet solemnity of Rocky’s voice sent prickles of discomfort through his gut.
“When sleeping, when sick—Grace say many things. Some Rocky not understand, some Rocky think Grace talking to someone else. Grace also tell Rocky things, sad things. Said he is a coward. Said he not want to save Earth.”
Grace closed his eyes. His stomach turned, the sensation filled with a sickening finality. “Yeah.”
Rocky’s notes were unreadable, the translation program an eternal, near-emotionless monotone. “Grace say Earth send Grace to die.”
“Y-yeah. Yeah. They did. They had to.”
“Grace.”
Grace opened his eyes again, forcing himself to look at Rocky. The Eridian was holding himself very still, sitting intently in a way that Grace knew meant his whole focus was on him.
“Grace is not coward. Grace is brave.”
The air dropped out of Grace’s lungs for a moment. He stared at Rocky, uncomprehending, his voice dying in his throat. What…?
“Grace is brave brave brave,” Rocky continued, leaning forward with adamant emphasis. “Grace did not want to die. Grace scared, Grace sent against his will. But Grace complete mission anyway. Grace scared, but Grace save Rocky anyway. Grace Rocky save stars because of Grace—brave, brave, wonderful Grace.”
Grace swallowed, feeling dizzy. “N-no, no, you don’t understand. I’m not, I’m not, I didn’t—”
“Rocky understand.” Rocky’s words were firm, unwavering, leaving no room for argument. “Rocky understand all things Grace did. Grace wanted to live. If Grace went on Hail Mary, Grace thought he would not live. Grace was right to be afraid.”
Grace drew in a shuddering breath, feeling the familiar sting of tears burning against his eyes. “I—”
“Is okay.” Rocky’s claws brushed the length of his arm, firm and warm and grounding. He didn’t move away, he didn’t turn and abandon him now that he knew the truth. “Is okay.”
Rocky stayed.
“I’m so sorry,” Grace wheezed, feeling the wetness start to streak his face anew. He couldn’t even find the strength, the presence of mind to be embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—”
“Shh, is okay, is okay.” Rocky tucked himself nearer to Grace’s chest, pulling him close. His solid arms wrapped around him, firm and warm and living, and it was the best thing in all the universe. “Grace okay. Grace brave.”
Grace buried his face into Rocky’s suit and cried, again. An awful, harrowing feeling unhinged and started to tumble from his chest in cascades—the shame, the fear, the guilt, the sorrow, the cowardice, the regret.
He wasn’t exactly sure when it happened, but all the other things started to plunge into the torrent, too, crumbling off of the walls he’d built up like blocks of weathered stone. They poured out until he was heaving with nearly-hysterical, agonized wails that juddered painfully through his weakened frame. He poured out everything—his pain, his hunger, his desperation, his sorrow, his weakness, his emptiness and longing. The loss of his precious Earth, his old life, the person he used to be—even if he had been a coward, even if he had been afraid. The fact that he was so tired of being weak, of being sick, of feeling helpless. The fact that he would never see his home or his people again.
“I’m not—who you thought—I was,” he choked out between gasps, his voice laced with a horrible, rib-crushing pain. It hurt so bad that Rocky knew, it hurt so bad that Grace wasn’t who he wanted to be.
“Shh, shh, shh,” Rocky soothed, squeezing his arms around him a little tighter, cradling him close as he fell apart. “Grace is. Grace is brave, Grace is strong, Grace is safe. Grace is okay. Rocky here.”
Grace curled into his suit and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, desperate and unfettered and uncontrolled. Rocky held him and sang, held him and hummed soft things, refusing to back away from his disgusting humanity. He just let him be.
The amazement and awe and shock of it all was a contributor to the tears, too, he found. With the dense, agonized knot of fear and worry unwinding, the openness and emptiness was such a relief that he couldn’t even begin to describe it, couldn’t start to wrap his head around it. All he could do was try to soak in the solace.
Rocky didn’t hate him. Rocky wasn’t going to leave.
“I’m so sorry,” he kept sobbing, but Rocky shut it down every time.
“No need,” he assured. “Is okay. Grace is safe. Rocky love love love Grace.”
That didn’t help the tears slow—in fact, quite the opposite. But the joy and sorrow pulled out of his body felt better, then—a balm to his aching, agonized heart. Grace wailed and sniffled and laughed a little, laughed in relief, laughed in wonder at this kind, forgiving rock alien he had the amazing privilege to know.
“I love you too, Rock,” he managed. Rocky purred, thrumming lowly and deeply through both of their cores.
Finally, finally, after what felt like hours, Grace exhausted himself again, his tears and his energy drained away. He lay slumped against the dorsal planes of Rocky’s carapace, breathing heavily, still sniffling and gasping as he reeled from it all.
Something tight had undone itself from his chest—it finally felt like he could breathe again.
Armando brought him tissues, which Grace accepted gratefully with trembling hands. “Disgust,” Rocky snipped affectionately as he blew his nose, swiping the mucus from his face.
It earned a choked, watery laugh from Grace. He couldn’t deny it. “Y-yeah…”
Rocky helped him get settled back down against the pillows, flipping them over to a relatively clean side and situating him away from the majority of the sweat-soiled sheets. “Will change,” Rocky promised, though Grace barely heard it.
“Thank you,” he found himself whispering, over and over again, high and breathless. He almost didn’t know what he was saying, anymore.
Gentle claws stroked his hair back, a familiar motion. “Grace is welcome. Grace rest; Grace focus on getting well again.”
Grace did his best to nod. He reached out across the blankets, fumbling blindly for Rocky’s hand. “Promise you’ll stay…?”
Warm claws slipped across his palm, squeezing firmly, a reassurance. “Rocky promise. Rocky stay with Grace always always always.”
Grace breathed out a sigh. He could get used to that, and he felt like he could really believe it, in a new way, now.
Always always always.
Rocky’s claws remained with him until he drifted back to sleep.