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Rocky needs his own 3D printer. He's very insistent about it. Grace can’t blame him – he's old enough to remember when 3D printers first hit the masses. One of the structures labs at his university got one and it was a Big Deal. They're a dime a dozen now. Well, dime a three? The Hail Mary has three. And there's going to be a fourth if Rocky has anything to say about it.
Grace unbolts one from the workbench and sets it in one of the xenonite alcoves. It has enough plastic components – not to mention the filament itself – that it wouldn't last a minute past the airlock. So Rocky taps and hums to himself, occasionally asking Grace to open a panel or hold something up so he can see it better.
He moves easily between the barrier and his workbench, fiddling with different components. There's a nice rhythm to it.
“Need new extruded polymer for high temperature,” Rocky says. He has two of his hands against the barrier, tapping them to inspect the spool of filament Grace is holding.
“Yeah. We have some high temperature filament, but high temperature for us is like. You know. A nice 200 degrees.”
“So cold,” Rocky mutters. He for a moment and then he's moving again, and Grace—
Wait.
“Rocky.”
“Yes?”
“Put your hand up again.”
Rocky shifts on his arms. “Which one?”
“Uh.” Shoot. Grace points. “That one.”
“This one?”
“No, the— the other one? That one.”
“...This one.”
“I think so?” Grace gestures for him to come closer. “Put your hand on the—” he mimics with his palm against the xenonite. “Actually, put two of them up?”
He does, with a confused note. Like they're back to their mimicking days.
“Rock, one of your hands looks different.”
“Different how?”
“It's a different color.”
The claws on his left are paler. Where most of Rocky is a sandy shade of brown, this is a brownish gray, like someone pulled down the saturation. It's familiar, but Grace can't put his finger on why.
“Cannot see color.”
“I know. But, does it feel different?”
Rocky opens and closes his hands. “What is color?”
Was it always like that and Grace never noticed? They've been living within fifty feet of each other for weeks. Months?
Oh, god. Is this a side effect of radiation exposure? He wouldn't know. Rocky said the first symptom for his crew was disturbed sleep cycles. How long was Rocky's last sleep? How—
“Grace?”
Right.
“It’s still kind of brown, but it's a lighter shade than the rest of you. It's like…”
It looks like how he did when Grace shoved him back into the airlock, after he exposed himself to an incompatible atmosphere. The healing was gradual. Rocky was, more or less, the same color he was when they'd first met. Except the inside of his hand. Where it held onto something too cold for too long.
When Grace was a kid, his family visited...somewhere. He hasn't gotten that part of the memory. But he does remember, with sharp clarity, slipping on a sidewalk and his bare palms falling flat on ice covered in a thin layer of powdery snow. it hurt when it happened and it kept hurting, because 'ice burns' are a thing. He was a lot better about keeping his mittens on after that.
Oh. The gears turn in Grace’s brain, but it’s hard to get a thought out.
“Like what?”
“Does it hurt?”
“No. You say it is like what, question? Finish sentence.” Rocky stamps one of his back legs. “Demand.”
“It’s like… I think it's a scar. From when you,” Grace clears his throat. He holds out his arm, pointing to his own three-pointed scar. “Where you grabbed me. To—”
To save my life.
Rocky whistles, leaning back on his legs. “Yes.”
“Yes, what? Wait, did you know?”
“Yes,” Rocky says again, in that “are you stupid?” tone. “But did not know about color. Is interesting.”
“Right…” It’s Rocky’s body, of course he would know. It’s shocking, maybe, because Grace should have known before now. “You said it doesn’t hurt.”
“No,” Rocky says, suspiciously quick.
“Rocky.”
“Grace.”
Grace crosses his arms in classic teacher fashion. Rocky is as stubborn as a — well. Rock. Is that a saying? It is now.
Rocky huffs. “Does not hurt. But is…clumsy. Does not move as well. Grip strength not as good.”
“But is getting better!” He adds, with jazz hands. Maybe because he saw the weird thing Grace’s face did just now.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Was not necessary.”
“Of course it is!”
Grace feels cold. He rubs at his own scar, the one in the perfect shape of Rocky’s hand. How many times had they talked about it?
Don’t be ridiculous, Grace told him. More than once. For the claw marks, and the ammonia burns. Those were Grace’s choice. You saved my life. Our lives. Do not feel bad about this, okay? Apology not accepted, by the way, because you have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What?” Rocky asks. Grace’s eridian is getting better, and the genuine confusion in Rocky’s voice almost makes him laugh.
“I’m sorry you— you’re hurt.”
“Was hurt.”
“Because of me.”
Rocky does his equivalent of a stare. “Grace stupid.”
“Hey—”
“Grace BIG stupid.” Rocky taps hard on the xenonite. “Would do it again, if had to.”
“Please don’t say that,” Grace says. He chokes on it a little.
“Oh, want Rocky to lie?” He huffs. “Grace always say ‘no apology.’ Now apology? 🎶🎵.”
“I don’t know that last word.”
“Someone who say one thing. Say thing is important. And then they do not do that thing.”
Grace puzzles for a second. Then he laughs. “Hypocrite. You’re calling me a hypocrite.”
“Big BIG 🎶🎵. Hypocrite.” Grace translates in his head while Rocky continues, “Would do anything to save Grace. Hurt is worth it.”
“And,” he adds softly. “Grace did same thing.”
Grace resists the urge to pull the sleeve down over his other arm. Rocky would still be able to see it, anyway. “You’re right. I’m s—”
Rocky “glares” at him.
“I’m…” Grace stretches the word out while he thinks. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Rocky hums. “Thank. Am also glad Grace is okay.”
“And you…you said it doesn’t hurt?”
“Does not hurt. And is still healing. May get better.”
“It might? Is there like, treatment that can help? Humans have this thing called 'frostbite' when our skin gets too cold. It causes skin and nerve damage, but I'd have to look up what the treatment is like..."
“Hm. Do not know. Do not know eridian who touch freezing oxygen. Would be very rare accident on Erid. Something to happen in science lab, maybe."
“Okay, fair. But moving in general is good for healing, you said. Promotes blood flow?”
“Yes.”
“Alright,” Grace claps his hands. “Then you’re joining me for physical therapy.”
Rocky makes a pfff noise that Grace interprets as a scoff. “Is not necessary.”
“Oh come on, it’ll be fun!” Grace lies through his teeth.
“Yes. Very fun. So fun that Grace complain complain complain every day when alarm go off for it."
“Then we can complain together.”
(Maybe he wasn't lying. Maybe it would be more fun with Rocky. The bar was very low. The stretches he has to do for his burnt arm were devised in a circle of hell to torture him.)
Grace knows Rocky wants to argue. he can see it all over his carapace. Rocky decides it isn’t worth the trouble, or his agreeing is an olive branch for assuaging Grace’s guilt. Either way, Grace will take it. They fist bump with the xenonite between them.
“Hey Rock?”
“Hm?”
“How do you tell your arms apart?”
“Don’t understand question.”
“Like, if someone needs to talk about a specific arm. To doctor or something. Do they have different names?”
“Names? Why? They are arms, Grace.”
“I know!”
“Do your arms have names?”
“I mean, kind of? Left and right. Our fingers have names, too. Thumb, index, pinky…”
“Grace is ‘bullshitting.’”
(Eridian limbs don't have 'names,' but they can be referenced by others based on their locations relative to the observer. Like a relative coordinate system that changes whenever someone moves. That's the only way Grace can conceptualize it. It takes almost an hour and seven new vocab words to get to this conclusion. The conversation ends with Grace explaining what a middle finger is and why it matters.)