two fics in one day!! decided to play with the prompt a little and write a short scene in which Grace is trying to learn to stomach the taumoeba on the way to Erid. enjoy :)
"Grace said humans are persistence predator. Wearing down taumoeba until it's exhausted, question?" Rocky asks as Grace contemplates the taumoeba shake in the cup before him. He's been staring at it for fifteen minutes, trying to find the courage to actually take a sip.
"New rule, you can't make fun of me while I'm eating. It's rude."
"No problem. I will stop making fun when you start eating."
"I'm working on it. It's not exactly pleasant, you know. Imagine if it made you sick to... do whatever with your gelatinous mush?"
"Never would happen. Eridians more efficient, not eject nutrition for no reason."
"Usually there is a reason. Just... sometimes it's stupid."
"And this is stupid."
"I'm aware," he snaps a little hotter than he wants to, "but I can't help it. It's not like I want to be throwing up after every meal. I'm just not used to it."
"I know. Sorry. Not mean to make Grace mad."
Grace sighs, swirls the drink in the mug. "You didn't. I just... really don't want to do this again."
He hates that the taumoeba shake has made him feel like a petulant toddler who doesn't want to eat their vegetables, but learning to stomach it isn't going well. Now, he has to deal with Rocky serving as the strict parent who won't let him up from the table until he finishes his plate. It's not Rocky's fault any more than it is Grace's--he just wants to take care of him, and this is part of that. Neither of them like it, but joking about it sometimes makes it easier.
Not the case right now. Grace's stomach is already turning in anticipation of the shake hitting his tongue, much like the six months after his 21st birthday when he couldn't smell fireball without gagging.
"If Grace insides are one long tube, why can't you just open throat and pour whole taumoeba shake inside, question?"
"This is like 350 mils, bud; I can't just toss it back like a shot. I'd choke to death. It has to go in my mouth, first, which is the problem."
"Tube is stupid. Long and complicated and picky."
"Pretty much." He takes a deep breath. "Okay. I'm gonna do it. Here I go. I'm gonna do it."
"How Grace drink shake if mouth too busy talking?"
"You're not even pretending to give me words of encouragement."
"Encourage Grace to not throw up," Rocky cheers. With one more steadying breath, Grace holds the cup to his lips and knocks back as much as he possibly can in one go, chases it with a sip of water, then clamps his hand over his mouth and doubles forward, like that's going to help anything. To Rocky's credit, he's quiet and patient while Grace breathes heavily through the intense nausea and restrained gagging. With as repulsive as he finds eating, he's sure that vomiting is infinitely worse. Rather, he knows it is, because Rocky told him multiple times. Still, he's stuck by him, never making him do it alone even though whether or not it stays down is a real grab bag.
When he's sure that his first mouthful is good and swallowed, he opens his eyes. Rocky is there doing jazz hands, and the cup is there, too, containing almost as much taumoeba as he'd just barely managed to drink in his first gulp. This is one scenario in which calling the glass half full is not a sign of optimism.
"Grace drink shake!" Rocky celebrates. He grimaces.
"Grace drink half of shake. There's still more."
"Is good! Just do same one more time, easy!"
"Ugh. The second half is harder. My stomach is angry, now."
"Sip water. Remind tube who's boss." Grace chuckles as Rocky throws a few air punches his way.
"I've been showing you too many boxing movies." He pushes his glasses up as he scrubs his hands over his face in exhaustion. "There's got to be something we can do to this that we haven't thought of." They tried diluting it with water, but that just created more disgusting liquid to drink. Chasing it with anything sweet made it worse, like orange juice and toothpaste.
"When we get to Erid, scientists will find a way to make calories taste pleasant for picky picky picky friend."
"Looking forward to it. This still sucks."
"Drink rest of shake. Then we can watch movie."
"Bargaining, huh?" he asks, amused. "Okay. The longer I draw this out, the worse it's gonna be. Here goes."
The second half is, indeed, harder. He only manages to choke it down for a few seconds before he's leaning over the trash can and coughing it right back up.
"Bad bad bad," Rocky laments. Despite his revulsion, he scoots his ball closer and taps the xenonite in a way that Grace knows means is meant to be comforting, like patting him on the back. "Is okay. Grace breathe."
Grace groans.
"Is okay. Be calm."
"It's not okay," he replies after he's finally able to wash his mouth out with water and spit it into the trash can. "If this won't stay down--"
"Taumoeba shake new to Grace. Still have time to learn to drink. We will find way to make it work. Promise."
Grace sighs. "Okay. If you promise."
"I do!" he chirps. "Rocky is sure sure sure. Grace Rocky get to Erid. Make food Grace like." They have no ideas, but Grace has done harder things than this. They saved the stars. He can learn to drink a shake.
"Yeah. Okay."
"Grace want more shake, question? Try to drink again?"
"Later," he says. "Let's just watch a movie." Though neither of them love to leave a problem unsolved, Rocky specifically finding it frustrating when there's something he can't fix, they settle for trying again later. They still have time, for now.
day 3 - misunderstanding / "give me another chance"
Adrian realizes they judged Grace too quickly. Minor injury. Mostly fluff. <3
Adrian doesn't expect to feel nervous when they arrive outside Grace's door, but their claw hesitates before they can knock. The last time they saw Grace, he was unconscious. For a long time, Adrian was patient. Rocky explained just how sick Grace was, just how close he was to dying, and they had dropped everything to help save him. They'd worked hard with the science team to make his food, his vitamins, his biodome. More than anything, they'd been patient with Rocky needing to spend all his time with him until he woke up.
But now, he's been awake for two weeks, and Rocky still never wants to leave his side. If he's not in Grace's biodome, he's checking with the science teams to check their progress on his environment and nutrition and health. Even when he is home, his mind is on Grace. Adrian can't blame him--it's not Rocky's fault. He watched brutal suffering and death, then tolerated an unthinkable amount of time alone in space. It's no wonder that he'd form a strong bond with the first thing that showed him kindness. The gravity of that kindness is not lost on them. Grace had saved their mate's life. He'd sacrificed his chances to go back home for Rocky. He'd almost died for him. That's why they worked so tirelessly right alongside Rocky when Grace had been dying.
However, that's not the case anymore, and they're starting to think that Grace is asking for a lot. Not only does his food have to contain hundreds of complicated nutrients while filtering out... literally everything else, because it could kill him, but it has to taste good. His biodome atmosphere meeting his needs isn't enough: it has to be cool and sandy and smell like an ocean, which, what even is that? Also, what does he need a door for? It's just hard to watch anyone take advantage of their Rocky, especially someone Rocky will never, ever say no to.
That fire fuels them to tap on Grace's door.
"Rocky?" he calls, shuffling to the door as fast as he can, which isn't terribly impressive. "I wasn't expecting--oh, Adrian? What are you doing here?" His posture stiffens a bit when he sees them standing there, which reminds them that Grace has never properly met them.
"Hello, Grace. Can we talk?"
"Of course," he replies. "Let's go for a walk."
One thing they notice about Grace right off the bat is that he feels a need to fill silences. He's chattering away awkwardly, clearly nervous. He's unsteady on his legs as they walk down the beach, his cane digging little holes into the sand.
"I'm really glad you dropped by," he says, "and you're always welcome, but, uh, it's a little out of the blue. Is something wrong? Is Rocky okay?"
His immediate concern for Rocky is, at least, nice. Rocky does enough for him, after all. It's good that he cares.
"Rocky is fine," they reply, and Grace exhales.
"That's a relief. I worry about him, you know. It seems like he's always busy with something these days."
"Then we agree."
"What does that mean?"
"You know you are welcome on Erid," Adrian beings, "and I believe you want the best for Rocky."
"Of course I do. Rocky saved my life; he's my best friend. Adrian, you're scaring me a little. What's going on?"
"Rocky needs space."
Grace stops in his tracks. "Rocky said that?" he asks, sounding hurt.
"No. He would never. I, as his mate, am requesting it."
"Why? I mean, of course I--he's your mate, and you can--you two should--but I feel like I'm missing something. Like something is wrong and you're not telling me."
"When you came to Erid, you were ill. Rocky has been desperately trying to keep you alive, so much so that I feel as though he hasn't been addressing his own needs. He's finally back home. He needs to be allowed to process that."
"I totally agree," he says. "I'm sorry, I had no idea. I--argh!" he trails off, scrawny little leg twisting on a rock in the sand, sending him sprawling to the ground. Rocky told them he's clumsy. The fall isn't hard, so it's likely more embarrassing than anything else. Probably best to politely ignore it. They wait patiently as he shifts into a seated position, breathing hard. "Sorry."
"It's fine. I know humans are uncoordinated."
"Uh-huh." Though Adrian expects them to continue their stroll, Grace seems done, for now.
"Rocky cares deeply for you. If you feel the same, you'll let him have this time."
"Adrian, I'm--ah--I'm so sorry. I didn't know. Of course, he should take all the time he needs. I've been--" he hisses through his teeth, "telling him he's working too hard. I've been so worried. He doesn't take no for an answer."
Adrian can't help a fond chuckle. If there's one thing that can be said for Rocky, it's that. "You're right about that." They expect Grace to get to his feet, but he doesn't. He's sitting on the ground, holding the ankle that tripped him. "Is something wrong, Grace?"
"No, I'm--fine. Just feel guilty. I didn't mean to hurt him."
"You didn't," Adrian says. For as frustrated as they've been, it sounds like Grace has been telling Rocky some of the same things. It's not fair to keep that on his conscience. "This is Rocky's choices."
"Please don't blame him," he argues. That's a little surprising. They're offering Grace an out, and he's fighting it? "I was really, really sick on the Hail Mary. Can't imagine how hard that was for him." The thumping and swooshing sounds from his chest are both rapid. He groans.
"Grace, you seem distressed," they point out. "Are you injured?"
"I'm--a little," he admits. "Sorry. My body's still really weak. Muscles aren't what they used to be. Twisted my ankle." Adrian shifts.
"I thought you were fully recovered."
"Nah," he dismisses. "Still got a long way to go, and some of the damage is gonna be permanent."
Adrian curses. He's been walking and talking. They wouldn't have initiated this conversation just yet if they'd known he was still sick.
"Like... what?"
"I don't know yet," he admits. "Bones are going to be weak, maybe some damage to my heart; too early to tell. Definitely some chronic pain."
"You're still hurting?"
He looks down. "Again, it's nothing you should even be thinking about. Just--tell Rocky I asked for some breathing room, okay?"
Before Adrian can ask further questions, before they can even fully process the fact that they've just asked Grace, who is apparently still very sick, to stop seeing the only person he knows on this entire planet, he's clambering to his feet. His chest is thumping fast fast fast.
"Grace, perhaps you should sit down. You're hurt. I can get Rocky."
"No," he reassures tightly, "no. Not necessary. Just, uh, I might need someone to help me get back home. Don't think I can walk on this."
Adrian offers their arm, gesturing a little more impatiently when Grace just stares at it. "Well, are you going to hop on, or force me to pick you up?"
"You don't have to do that."
"How else are you going to get home?"
"Just--I don't know, you can send one of the doctors down or something. You don't even like me."
"On," they command, "now." Grace obeys. "When did I say I don't like you?"
"I--I mean, why would you? I'm taking up all Rocky's time."
"I... may have been a little prematurely hostile. I thought you'd been telling him that his efforts in caring for you are not good enough."
"What?" he actually laughs a little. "God, no. He's been--you've all been so kind to me. More than I could have ever asked for. Rocky is just... I mean, he can be a bit..."
"You may say it."
"Bossy."
Adrian chuckles again. "Only when he loves you."
As gently as they can, Adrian moves Grace back to his home, settling him on his bed. He removes his shoe and sock, then hisses in pain as he presses on the affected joint.
"Are you badly injured?"
"Nah, probably just a sprain. Hurts, though. I'll get Armando to wrap it up and just use my wheelchair until it heals. It's okay."
"I'll send Rocky up to check on you before you sleep."
"No, please. He needs to be spending his time with you."
"This is true," they admit, "but I suppose there is also time for Grace. We will both come visit later."
Though Grace tries to argue, what he's about to learn, as Adrian scuttles out the door and ignores him, is that they're pretty bossy, too.
title: I’ve been afraid of this so long, it’s a relief when it goes wrong
word count: 4,644
summary: Faced with post-Adrian trauma and survivor's guilt, Rocky is not doing well. He becomes reliant on Grace to manage his panic and depression. Grace starts to worry about him constantly, and as a result, they become a little codependent. Grace stops sleeping in favor of being up with Rocky, who has become afraid to be alone. Eventually, the exhaustion catches up with him, and he collapses. They have to figure out a healthier way to move forward.
Rocky has not been doing well.
Since Adrian, he's been spiraling. Between Grace almost dying, almost dying himself, and the reality that, now that they've found the predator, he's facing another long journey alone, where he will be greeted by 22 families that have been waiting for their loved ones only to step off the ship alone, he's barely coping. Anything and everything seems to set him off.
It had started small. He seemed off at breakfast. Quiet. That wasn't like him. Rocky was always chatting about something. It worried him, especially given how recent his injury was, and knowing that Eridian illnesses could enter through damaged exteriors and open wounds. Could something be wrong with him?
"You're quiet today. Feeling okay?" he asked. Rocky perked up, confirming just how lost in thought he'd been.
"Yes," he replied. "Feel good." Weird, again, that he appeared to want to leave it at that.
"Whatcha thinking about? You seem kind of far away."
"Thinking about home," he replied honestly. Grace grinned.
"Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do when you see Adrian for the first time? I bet they'll be waiting for you the second you get off the ship." That didn't go over the way he thought it would. Instead of excitedly jabbering about Eridian greetings, his carapace hit the bottom of the ball in despair. "Hey, you okay? Did I say something wrong?"
"Many... many Eridians will be waiting at bottom of ship for loved ones."
Grace didn't respond immediately, unsure what to say. "Oh."
"Rocky will have to say whole crew died. Will have to say 22 times. Is going to hurt everyone." His vents opened audibly, rapidly, three times. "Worse. Rocky will have to say whole crew died but Rocky survive."
"Woah, Rock. That's not worse. That's so much better. You have to see that you living is better than everyone dying, right?"
"Why Rocky? Rocky only?"
"We talked about that. It was just luck. Your workshop was the closest to the fuel. Just how the ship was built."
"Ship was built stupid." He was mad.
"I know how you feel. On Earth, we call it survivor's guilt. The feeling that it's not fair that you lived when other people died."
"Is not fair."
"No. It's not." Grace inched closer. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're alive. And Erid will be, too. Yeah, they're gonna be sad. What happened is a tragedy. But they're gonna be happy that you lived." He placed a hand on Rocky's ball, feeling the cool xenonite beneath his palm. After a few seconds of holding it there, Rocky leaned into the pseudo-touch. He stroked his thumb over the smooth surface as if that would do anything to comfort him. They sat like that until Rocky pulled away, asking Grace to finish his breakfast so they could get to checking the taumoeba farms for the day, and Grace didn't know what to do other than agree.
-----
Things got worse from there. Soon, general bouts of depression turned into rampant, uncontrolled anxiety that he didn't seem to know how to calm on his own. Sometimes, when Grace would ask him if he wanted to watch a movie, he'd decline, saying he had something else to do, only for Grace to find him pacing back and forth in his tunnels. He started saying self-deprecating things, implying that he wasn't working hard enough or fast enough. For whom, Grace wasn't sure, and he never wanted to explain it. He stopped seeming happy about going home and more like he was dreading it.
Grace knows the signs. He worked with kids, after all, and kids are just tiny adults with big feelings they don't know how to regulate, yet. What a lot of teachers might treat as misbehavior and disobedience, Grace recognizes as distress. Behavior is a roundabout and often misguided way of fulfilling needs, and he's gotten pretty perceptive.
So when Rocky's behavior changes so drastically, he's on top of it in real time.
They were in the lab when he looked over to see that Rocky had lost focus, something he never used to do. In fact, he found it annoying that Grace did it so often, even when it was just because he was tired or hungry. But here he was, fussing with the same breeder tank so fervently that the xenonite barrier was too thick to possibly use, going over and over the same spot with his tools.
"Rock?" he called. "I think that one's finished, bud."
Rocky snapped back to the moment and hummed in annoyance.
"This one no good," he said, tossing it aside more aggressively than needed. "Rocky make wrong. Start over."
"We have a lot of tanks. It's okay if you want to take a break for a little while."
"Rocky can make more tanks. More is better."
"Let me rephrase that: I think we should take a break for a little while. I need another cup of coffee, anyway. Want to come with me?"
Rocky hadn't left his side in days. Normally, he encouraged Grace's breaks--they're the only thing standing between him and being too stupid to function--but this time, he shook his carapace.
"We should check tanks again."
Grace frowned. "Again? We checked this morning; they're fine."
"Taumoeba need tank transfer soon."
"We agreed to do that tomorrow."
"What if tomorrow is too late? Should check now. Just to be safe."
Grace sat on the floor to be at his level. He wasn't sure if that meant anything to Eridians, but it made him feel better.
"What are you afraid is gonna happen if we let them sit until tomorrow?"
"Taumoeba could die. Could eat astrophage too fast and starve."
"And then what?"
"Not enough to send back to Erid and Earth. Stars die, planets die. Fail fail fail." His legs began to scuttle around, causing his ball to rock quickly back and forth. "Crew die for nothing. Rocky Grace die for nothing. Fail fail fail."
"Hey, hey. That's not gonna happen."
"Grace just making excuse to be lazy. You don't know future." Strange little dig aside, Grace had been on both ends of this conversation many times, worrying about distant hypotheticals.
"No, but neither do you, and working yourself into a panic attack about it isn't going to make anything better. So let's just take a second. You're safe, alright? Everything's okay. The taumoeba are alive, the stars are alive, and we're alive. Focus on that."
"Panic attack, question?"
Grace had used the word before--he'd had enough of them, after all--but this was the first time he'd used it in relation to Rocky. It was the first time he'd needed to.
"I think so, pal. You're stuck in a situation that hasn't happened and probably won't. You've got to get yourself out of it, and the best way is to focus on what's happening right now. What can you see around you?"
"Grace," he replied.
"Good. What else?"
"Microscope. Benchtop. Lots of trash on floor."
"Is that an insult?"
"Rocky also see trash can. Empty." Grace chuckles.
"Yeah, yeah. I get the hint. I'll clean it up today." The grounding seemed to have worked, or at least Rocky was now calm enough that he wasn't running in place anymore. "You okay?"
"Yes. Feel better. Thank."
"I'm glad. And hey, I know this is a stressful time. I don't need to remind you all the times I've broken down in front of you, so if you ever feel like that again, talk to me. I'm here."
To his surprise, Rocky takes him up on that. As his panic attacks continue, he remains open about them with Grace. Part of it is because of their severity. Grace suspects that if they were on Earth, he'd probably be managing them with some combination of medication and therapy, but they aren't, and he can't. They don't have medicine--Grace doesn't even know how something like that would work--and, though he's a good teacher and knows how to deal with these kinds of things as individual episodes, he's no therapist. The best he can do is mange them as they come.
They work out several different techniques from focusing on surroundings to a call and respond tapping game on the xenonite. Soon, Grace finds himself talking Rocky through some emotional issue, whether it's a panic spiral or a particularly strong spell of grief and dread, nearly daily, sometimes more. Of course, he doesn't mind. There's nothing he wants more than to be there for his best friend. It's hard to see the guy struggle so badly. But that doesn't mean that helping isn't hard, too.
Caretaker burnout. He'd gotten it as a teacher, from time to time, especially when he had a kid in his class with especially difficult home circumstances. Those were his kids. He loved them. He couldn't just stand by and watch them struggle, so he ended up opening his classroom early and giving out granola bars to the kids who didn't get breakfast, staying late to give a quiet space to the kids whose parents fought too loudly every night for them to focus on homework. On his lunch break, he dimmed the lights and let in anyone who couldn't deal with the loud, bright cafeteria. Never once had he regretted those things, but he went home every night exhausted, and spent his holiday breaks too tired to really enjoy them.
Now, Rocky needs the same support, but it's even more difficult. The kids went home at the end of the day, plus they usually have family and peers to lean on to fill the gaps that Grace couldn't. He lives with Rocky, meaning that he's on call 24/7, and he's all he's got. Not to mention how guilty he feels for feeling that way about it, even if it's just a little bit in the back of his mind.
Their dynamic starts to become a little... codependent. Rocky needs to be around Grace to feel safe. Grace needs to be around Rocky to feel that Rocky is safe. Because of this, they rarely spend any time apart anymore. The personal space that Grace had craved so badly when Rocky had moved in now becomes an impossible thought for both of them.
The only time they can't be together is when Grace is sleeping. This becomes a problem, because Grace needs about three times the amount of sleep that Rocky does. Every 16 hours, Grace lies down in bed, Rocky above him in his bulb, and they mutually feel as though they're leaving behind a lover when they go off to war.
The solution?
They do not find one. But they have to do something.
So, Grace stops sleeping.
Well, not stops. Not entirely; he can't. But he starts pushing himself to stay awake until his eyes are so heavy he can no longer keep them open, then waking up a few hours later and forcing himself out of bed to start the day rather than rolling back over and finishing his sleep cycle. When he starts to sleep longer and longer as he becomes progressively more exhausted, he begins setting four and five hour timers so Rocky knows exactly when he's going to wake up and can feel more in control. It's not healthy, not for either of them, but it's comforting, and without pressure to do the good hard thing, people usually settle for the maladaptive easy one.
They've been doing this for about three weeks. Really, both of them had expected to be on their respective ways back home by now, but after Planet Adrian, they both needed time to recover. Grace's burn still hurts all the time, and Rocky is not well. They agreed not to part until they both healed, and, while they've been running hard, it appears to have just led them in circles.
The sleep deprivation has been brutal. Lately, Grace is always, like, an hour or two away from straight up hallucinating. He can no longer deny that he's hiding so much from Rocky that at this point, it's bordering lying. When he stumbles from a dizzy spell, he blames his shoelaces. Despite a general lack of appetite, he forces himself to eat just enough to keep Rocky from worrying. He's drinking so much coffee to stay awake that the taste is starting to nauseate him a little. Rocky knows something is up, but since he'll only feel guilty if Grace tells him he's staying awake to keep him company, Grace doesn't tell him much, which makes his anxiety worse, resulting in Grace needing to stay up even more. It's a sort of martyr Olympics in which they're competing to come in last place.
It all comes to a head one night. Well, Grace is calling it night, because he hasn't slept in almost 48 hours. Rocky is working in his bulb on--something. Grace isn't really sure. Rocky probably told him, but he either forgot, or he wasn't focusing hard enough to retain it. He's sitting at the benchtop, eyes shut because Rocky can't tell. Everything aches, bone deep and nagging, and the fact that he's shivering from exhausted chills is exacerbating the pain.
"Rock," he rasps, voice dry and hoarse from being awake so long, "I'm getting really tired. Think it might be time for bed."
Somehow. Grace has no idea how. Without eyes nor any reference point for puppydogs. Rocky gives him puppydog eyes.
"Or not," he quickly corrects. "Only if you're okay."
"Few more hours, question?" Rocky asks. It's only been three hours since his most recent anxiety attack, and Grace doesn't blame him for still feeling iffy. It's just... Grace does, too. And it's starting to feel kind of urgent.
"Sure. Of course." He's not sure what he's even going to do for all that time. There's nothing to work on, really. He supposes he can just pre-label tanks as Rocky makes them. That's easy enough. Faced with the thought of another several hours of work, he pinches the bridge of his nose to try to relieve the headache that's been bothering him almost constantly for the past week. It's spiking, now, begging for unconsciousness.
"Grace is hurting, question?"
Tread carefully, Grace. Don't lie to him, but don't make him worry. "Nah. Just a little headache. Nothing I can't handle."
"Need medicine, question? Food? Water?"
Everything but sleep, he notices. Rocky wants so badly to take care of him, he really does. That's part of why he can't leave him alone.
"I'll be alright. Might just rest my eyes for a minute. Won't fall asleep, I promise." He stands from his chair with the intention of sitting on the floor leaning against the tunnels, and everything goes black for a moment. It's not enough to knock him out, thankfully, but it's disorienting and a little scary nonetheless. He grips the benchtop as an anchor, leaning into it for the few seconds that his knees feel weak.
"Grace?"
"Fine," he dismisses. "Maybe--gonna get some water."
He trusts that his vision will clear as he takes a blind step toward the dormitory, and it does. Rocky scuttles through the tunnels, keeping pace.
Grabbing a water pouch from the drawer, he sticks the straw in and plops down on the floor a little harder than he intends to, which hurts his aching joints. Rocky is right behind him. As much as he wants to just lie down here and sleep, Rocky's anxiety is thrumming through his body, making his carapace tremble.
"M'good, Rock. Dehydrated, probably. You know I'm bad at drinking water." All of that is true, even if it's not the whole picture.
"Sit and drink until feeling better. Grace work hard."
At least he acknowledges it.
"Thanks. I'll be back at it in a minute."
"Not rushing. Work can wait." Sure, it can. Because the work isn't the problem, just the outlet, and, even if he's too wrapped up to admit it, Rocky is too smart not to know that.
"You doing okay?"
"Why, question?"
"I don't know. Just like knowing if you're okay."
"Grace is worried, question?" '
Grace hesitates. "Well, yeah. Of course I am. Always."
"Hm. Explains why heart is beating fast fast fast." Oh. Maybe that's why his chest feels tight and his head is still spinning even though he's sitting. "Been many hours since Grace last eat. Not hungry, question?"
"Not really. My stomach feels a little weird. Kind of nauseous. The water is fine for now."
He changes the subject as nonchalantly as he can, not wanting to answer further questions, and Rocky seems eager to talk. It's nice. Like he's being his usual, chatterbox self. The only problem is that paying attention to the conversation at all is taking a lot of effort from Grace, and he doesn't really have the energy to spare. Lucky for him, Rocky can't see whether his eyes are open or shut, so he's closing them and not moving beyond feverish chills, conserving energy like a lizard in the desert. It serves the secondary function of shielding his sensitive eyes from the harsh light that's making his head pound. It's been a while since he's let himself get so tired he feels like he has the flu, but that's certainly where he's at, now.
He'd be content to sit here like this for another two hours until Rocky feels safe enough for him to sleep, but Rocky needs a way to channel his energy. When he finishes his water and sets the pouch down, Rocky leans toward him.
"How head feel, question? Water helping?"
"Uh, a little. Still hurts." Really, the water didn't change much of anything.
"If Grace need sleep now..." That's a nice offer. He'd be happy to take him up on it, but he seems so sad.
"As soon as we check the breeder tanks again. Deal?"
Rocky holds his fist against the glass to bump. "Deal."
The faster they get through this, the sooner he can get to bed.
This time, when Grace stands, he does so slowly. That doesn't mean he doesn't still need to keep his hand against Rocky's tunnel to stay upright.
"Grace drink more water, question? Still wobbly. Shaking."
"Tired wobbly, cold shaking." He pulls his cardigan tighter around himself, but it doesn't help. The call is coming from inside the house. It's so bad he's starting to wonder if he really does have a fever. Can you get so tired your body interprets it as a foreign threat? "Hop in your ball, Rocks.Breeding tank room time."
Excitedly, Rocky complies, then leads the way to the tank room. The further Grace walks, the more it becomes apparent that he's Really Not Feeling Well. If he were to be given a sobriety test right now, he's pretty sure he'd fail, because walking in a straight line is almost impossible. His feet are clumsy and heavy, head spinning. Rocky either doesn't notice or thinks that ignoring it is the polite thing to do. Still, the only thing that's going to soothe him is knowing that everything is secure and stable before Grace goes to bed, so he's fine with pushing. Surely, he can hang on for the half hour or so it's going to take to inspect the tanks to Rocky's satisfaction.
By the time they reach the tank room, Grace is nauseated. Whether it's the vertigo, the lack of eating, or just sheer stress, he's not sure, but it's bad. Bad enough that he really needs to sit, to focus on breathing through it. Two things he can't do without Rocky noticing. Mind over matter, he says to himself. Just a little while longer. He shivers again.
"God, I'm freezing."
"Mary broken, question? Temperature broken?"
"No, I think it's me."
"Ah. Grace is broken."
"I'm not broken. Can't I just whine for a second?"
"Oh! Grace need whine! Whine as much as you want. Rocky listen."
"Thank you, but that was it. Just cold."
"Need sweater."
"Wearing it."
"Stay here. Rocky return soon."
Without explanation, Rocky rolls away, only to return a few minutes later, one corner of his quilt sticking out of the mesh airlock as Rocky holds it. He's awkwardly making his way toward him, rolling over the fabric over and over as he goes. It's a little slow, and a little sad, but Grace waits patiently until he drops the blanket at his feet.
"No need whine. Rocky fix."
He laughs. "Thank you. That was very nice. You looked insane rolling like that, by the way. It was kind of threatening."
"I am scary space monster."
"You are silly cat toy."
Nevertheless, he gratefully accepts the blanket and drapes it over his shoulders. He has to admit, it does help. He feels a lot warmer. With that squared away, he begins inspecting the tanks.
He thinks he can survive half an hour, but fifteen minutes go by, and he's flagging. His hands are trembling so badly that he can barely read his own handwriting, and the strong smell of the permanent marker is so overwhelming that he has to put it away. His stomach is churning. He fumbles with the next tank he picks up, and it hits the floor.
"Careful with tanks," Rocky scolds. "If crack, taumoeba escape."
The nausea is blinding, now, and so is the lightheaded feeling. He heard what Rocky just said, but replying is out of the question. All he can do is shut his eyes and take deep breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth. However, the lack of response is uncharacteristic. When Rocky doesn't get the sarcastic quip he expects, he stops working and turns.
"Grace hear me, question?"
He can barely manage a nod. With sweat now budding up everywhere on his body, Grace sheds his cardigan and blanket, letting them fall to the floor below him.
"Something is wrong," Rocky says. It's not a question.
His heart is pounding. It's making his ears ring. Okay, he can handle this, and he can do it without making Rocky panic. He just has to get to bed and sleep.
"I need'a lie down," he manages. "Not feeling so well."
"Grace need medicine?" Rocky asks. Actually, Rocky has a point. The med bay is closer.
"Yeah," he forces.
"Rocky lead the way." He sets off down the hall, but he doesn't understand how really not well Grace is feeling, and he doesn't wait for him. He blindly follows Rocky by sound alone, one hand trailing down the wall to keep him on a straight path.
"Rock, slow down," he calls.
His vision is not coming back online like it had the first time. He wipes sweat from his forehead and staggers forward two uncontrolled, unbalanced steps.
"Wait, please. I can't keep up."
"Grace need medicine now now now."
Each step threatens to be the last one he can take. No one can say he doesn't make an honest effort, but his exhausted body has nothing left, and he stumbles to a stop against the wall. At that, Rocky finally stops and turns around.
"Grace?"
Rocky's voice is muffled, like Grace is at the bottom of a lake and Rocky is peering down from above. He isn't sure if he makes a sound as his eyes flutter shut and he collapses.
----
The faint is quick, or, at least he thinks it is. Not enough time for Rocky to go get Armando, anyway. Instead, he's panicking beside him in his ball, tapping on the xenonite ball trying to wake him. Grace groans. Everything hurts, now both from exhaustion and impact bruises.
"Ugh."
"Grace? Grace can hear me, question?"
"Yuh," he tries, missing the syllables he wanted to hit by a mile. "S'rry. I c'n. Hear."
"You need say word better. Cannot understand." He clenches and unclenches his fist to reorient himself with his body, then moves to sit up. "No sit up yet!"
"S'fine, Rocky." Grace pushes himself up onto his arms, fighting shaking elbows, and balances upright. He's pretty sure he's swaying a little, given that his equilibrium is telling him the ship is rocking like Stratt's Vat, so he scoots to the wall and rests his back against it.
"Rocky could not wake you up. Unconscious." That's a word Rocky learned pre-fishing, as a warning about what might happen to Grace in 6G, but this is not one of the intended applications of it.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to do that."
"Why happen, question? Gravity is same."
Grace sighs. This isn't a conversation he wants to have. He looks up, wishing he'd seen this coming (he should have) and prepared a way to phrase it where Rocky won't blame himself. Maybe there isn't one.
"It's, uh, not a huge deal. I'm fine, now. I think I'm just exhausted."
Rocky is silent for a second. "Grace is tired, question? Fall asleep walking?"
"No, no. It's, um. Called fainting. Exhaustion is a little different than tired. It's more like... really tired for a long time. Working too much for your body to keep up."
"Oh." He really, really wishes he could read Rocky's expressions better, but when he's too emotional, he kind of goes still, and it's hard to figure out. "Is because you stay up for Rocky."
"It's not your fault," he argues. "It's not the first time I've--well, I've never fainted before, but it's not the first time I've been exhausted. I used to do it, like, all the time on Earth."
"You told me you needed sleep. Rocky say no. Ask for more hours. For you stay awake longer. Make Grace sick."
"Rocky, stop. I'm not blaming you, and I don't want you to blame yourself. At the end of the day, I'm responsible for knowing my limits, and I pushed them too far. It's my fault, really."
"Not Grace fault!" Rocky snaps, then recoils. "Apology apology apology. Not mean yell."
"You can yell if you want. You've been having a hard time. I want to be there for you."
"Not like this. This won't work. Be there for Rocky can't mean not take care of Grace needs."
He chuckles. "Yeah, you're right, I guess. We have to figure something out."
Rocky trills an affirmative. "First step is Grace sleep many hours now now now."
"Uh-huh. Love that idea. But what are you gonna do while I sleep?"
"Watch."
"What if you get upset again?"
"Will... think about what I see. Grace. Grace heartbeat. Grace breathing. Grace talking."
"I talk in my sleep?"
"Talk all the time. Awake, asleep. Always talk."
"Coming from you," he teases. "I'm ready to stand, I think."
"Careful. Slow." Low-grade dizziness lingers, but it doesn't knock him off his feet, this time. Rocky clings to his side, following him to the med bay. If he could climb onto his chest as he lays on the bed, he would. It feels so good to close his eyes. "Comfortable, question?"
"Reasonably. Enough to sleep, at least."
"Oh! Forgot! Rocky be right back."
"Wait, where are you going?" he calls after him, but Rocky doesn't stop until he returns once more with the quilt, dragging it stupidly through the airlock mesh.
"Warm. Better."
Perhaps it's the exhaustion messing with his emotions, but... it's been a long, long time since someone wanted to cover him with a blanket while he slept. It's enough to make him tear up a little.
"Thanks." He reaches for the quilt and drapes it over himself. "Better."
"Good. Sleep long long time if need."
"Sounds good. You're gonna be okay?"
"Yes. Sleep now."
"Alright, alright. I will. Just... wake me up if it's an emergency, okay?"
"Rocky protect Grace, now. Grace sleep. No more talking, talk so much."
I love your writing so much omg!! I especially love your stuff with grace and stratt - there’s like no sickfics with stratt and grace and yours are so so good aaaa
awww that's so sweet, thank you!! i really love how different the dynamic is between Stratt and Grace versus Grace and Rocky. polar opposites in terms of tenderness. Rocky wears it right out on his sleeve (or whatever), but for Stratt, you've got to work it in between the lines. i like writing both a lot! :)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Let's try this new way of posting my fics!! :)
Title: I've got this broken habit I keep gluing back together
Word count: 6,569
Genre: hurt/comfort
Summary: Grace wakes up with a stomachache that he thinks is anxiety. All day, he brushes off Rocky's concerns, reassuring him that he's fine. And when he's not, Rocky is left alone, unable to fix it. Everything is good in the end!! :)
Summary: Grace cuts his hand really bad on one of those xenonite panels he's putting up when Rocky moves in. He gets woozy at the sight of his own blood, so getting him to Armando for help is a struggle. Rocky deals with fear and guilt as he tries to basically get a limp toddler into a minivan without being able to touch him. It's cute and fluffy and angsty.
"Panel doesn't go there," Rocky scolds, and Grace huffs in annoyance.
"I know that. See how I'm still moving and not setting it down?"
Rocky hums irritably. Grace always gets grumpy when they're building, far more than when they're working late hours in the lab. It's almost like he doesn't want Rocky to move in with him.
"Over there."
"Can you see which way my feet are pointing? I know where I'm going. These are heavy, you know."
"Rocky not know."
"Right, you wouldn't, because you're not the one lifting them."
"Grace just not strong."
"Not just that," Grace objects. "My arms are only so long. You made these panels so wide, it's hard to grip them."
"Fine. Grace take forever if need. Stars just dying."
"Thank you, Rocky," he snaps. "I know that. I'm going as fast as I--ah!" he curtails as the panel he's holding slips from his grip, clattering to the floor when he jerks his hands away from it.
"Careful with panel." Rocky worked hard to make those, and Grace should give him the courtesy of not breaking them, if he can help it. It's a little bit concerned warning, little bit irked jab, all instrumentation designed to get a rise out of Grace.
But it doesn't. Instead, he's making a hissing sound, which Rocky knows means pain.
"Grace hurt, question?" he asks. Worryingly, Grace doesn't respond, just continues breathing hard in that way that means he's fighting to control his breath. "Grace hurt," he cuts himself off from repeating the question as he watches a drop of liquid hit the ground from his hand, then another, then another. Grace hurt, statement.
"Agh," he replies. "Yeah, I--ow--I cut my hand open on the panel. Why's it so sharp?"
Rocky doesn't have an answer to that, but he hopes Grace knows it wasn't with the intention of putting him at risk for hurting himself.
"How bad Grace hurt?"
"Just a cut, but it's deep and wide." Liquid continues to pour from the wound onto the ground. Blood, Rocky knows. Grace has explained it before. It just kind of... pumps around inside humans, wishing and washing back and forth to carry oxygen around and keep the body alive. It's not as if he's never bled before, and he knows that losing a little isn't too harmful. Sometimes, when he hurts himself with a tool, a little bit escapes. It even rarely comes out of his nose, which he claims is because of dry air and very normal. None of that compares with how much he's losing now.
"Grace bleed a lot," he frets. Grace nods, a little whimper accompanying it, so soft that no one but Rocky would have even picked up on it. He's starting to sway on his feet a little, unsteady like he gets sometimes when he stands up too fast from sitting in one position for hours. That always passes in a few seconds. This isn't. "Grace is wobbly."
"I get a little queasy when I see my own blood," he admits, his voice sounding strained in either pain or barely-restrained fear.
"Grace need bandage," Rocky implores.
"Think I need stitches," he mutters, making no move to get to Armando.
"What is Grace waiting for, question?"
Suddenly, Grace sways hard, hard enough to stagger to the side and have to catch himself on the wall of the ship with his injured hand, which makes him cry out in pain. Without the ability to hold pressure on the wound, the bleeding rate increases.
"Grace?" Rocky calls, anxiety building as he begins to understand how serious this might be, how badly he might have hurt his friend. Sure, losing a little blood won't kill him, but Grace is so, so light. How much volume constitutes a little? Did he kill him? Did Rocky recklessly make that panel too sharp and now Grace is going to bleed until he dies? "Grace is safe, question?"
"Fine," he mumbles. "Li'l lightheaded." That's concerning. Lightheaded is the sensation Grace gets when he goes too long without eating and his brain eats up too much of the sugar in his blood, which is bad bad bad and needs immediate fixing. It's the feeling he describes when he chooses coffee over water all day and his body gets too dehydrated, and again, he has to do something about it, fast. This must be bad. Really bad.
"Get stitches now. Now now now."
"I will. Just need'a sid'down for a sec." Against his better judgment, rather than going to the med bay, Grace slumps so his back is against the wall, then slides down it. The only consolation is that at least he now has a free hand to apply pressure to the wound, but at this point, it's barely making a difference. His grip is weak.
Another drop of liquid drips onto the floor, this time from his forehead. He's sweating now, too, in clear distress.
"Grace get up. Grace get stitches."
"Problem," he says. Oh, no. What could be more of a problem than his heart pumping blood right out of his hand? "Think m'gonna throw up if I stand."
"Grace losing too much blood," Rocky frets frantically. "Need blood to live."
"Not dying," he corrects. Rocky would relax if he believed him, but he's lied before about when he isn't going to die. "S'a phobia. Means bad fear. Makes me feel woozy."
"Why be scared if not dying?"
Grace chuckles.
"Wish I knew." He tries to readjust his grip on the cut and grunts in pain again, drawing a sharp intake of air in through his teeth. "There's blood e'rywhere. I'm gonna faint." His head bobs forward listlessly, but he catches himself.
That's the final straw. If Grace loses consciousness, then Rocky has no way of getting him help, and he'll just continue to lay here and bleed until... what, the wound closes by itself like all the others do? Do bad cuts do that? Is that why he needs it stitched closed, because otherwise it will just bleed until he dies?
Grace has called it "tough love." It means "doing something mean because it will ultimately be good for someone." Grace himself never took that approach--he's far too gentle, even on his worst behaved students--but he's talked about the concept before.
Tough love is Rocky ramming his ball into Grace's side as he leans up against the wall with his eyes closed.
"Hey! Ow!" he exclaims, recoiling. "What was that for?"
"Grace get up," Rocky orders.
"Or you hit me?!"
"Grace get up or I hit you," he confirms. "If Grace no want to see blood, Grace should stop bleeding. Grace get stitches."
"Alright, alright," he mumbles irritably. "M'going."
"Slow. Don't faint." It's advice Grace almost looks like he's not going to take as he gets to his feet and wavers, once again having to catch himself against the wall. More sweat drips down his chin. It can't be good for him to be leaking two liquids at once, can it? "Careful."
"Awgh, I'm gonna faint," he repeats.
"Start walking before Rocky hit."
Grace has to hug the wall and his knees quake the whole way, but eventually, under duress, he makes it to the med bay, where he sits heavily on the bed. He's still swaying, still bleeding, still whining.
"I feel sick."
He holds out his hand for Armando to scan, and he whirs around it dutifully. Rocky chirps and does a little anxious bouncy bounce while he watches, relief thrumming through him alongside the worry. At least he's getting help.
"Injury detected," Mary announces. "Recommended course of treatment: stitches. Administering lidocaine."
A needle, much smaller and thinner than Rocky was picturing, jabs him in the hand several times in different places, and he flinches at each one. He's in pain. And it's his fault.
Just when he thinks the worst is over, several minutes later, Armando busts out the most terrifying needle Rocky has ever seen. It's curved like a hook, and there's a thin thread attached. His spirit drops when he realizes what's about to happen.
"Stitches mean sew Grace up like cloth?" he demands. It seems so brutal, so primitive.
"S'no other way, bud," Grace replies. He seems a little calmer, now that he's been jabbed by the first needle, but he still sounds drunk, and he's still bleeding. "Gotta close the cut."
It's almost physically painful to watch what comes next. The needle does, indeed, stitch him up, in one side of the cut and out the other over and over. Grace is tense and quiet the whole time, but as the process goes on, the bleeding does diminish until it finally stops. After what feels like forever, Armando ties the knot, cutting the string and freeing Grace's hand.
He allows Grace a long moment to lay there on the bed in silence with his eyes closed. Sometimes, he needs that. It's usually hard for Rocky to give, but now, he needs a pensive moment of his own. What he'd just observed was... brutal. If that's not the word, he doesn't know what is. Grace had handled it with a rare display of stoicism, since he couldn't squirm around like he normally does when something hurts. This was a big hurt. Biggest hurt he's seen Grace get thus far.
And it's his fault. He'd made the panel with sharp, jagged edges without thinking about Grace's delicate little leaky hands. He'd made them too wide for Grace to comfortably pick up with no regard for the length of his arms. Then, even while he watched Grace struggle with them, he'd rushed him to move faster, which resulted in him being less careful in his haste and dropping the panel. If he'd changed any one of those things, this could have been avoided.
Finally, the guilt builds up until he can't take the silence any longer.
"Big apology," he says. "Sincere big apology. Biggest apology." Grace opens his eyes and sits up. Great, now he's ruining his peace, too. "No, Grace lie down and rest."
"Why are you apologizing?" he asks, ignoring him.
"This is Rocky fault. Panels too sharp and too big, and I rush you."
"Woah," he says. "That's not--well, I mean, those things are true, but you couldn't have known this was gonna happen. I should have been more careful, too. I don't blame you."
That makes him feel... overwhelmed. It's difficult to process the chemical makeup of what he's feeling. Relief steals energy from guilt and worry while the reaction between gratitude and shame emanates heat and light. Apparently, he's quiet for too long, because Grace leans forward like he's going to get up.
"Rock? You okay?"
"Grace is hurt. Shouldn't worry about me."
"I do, though. You're really beating yourself up about an accident. It's a lab, buddy. There are going to be accidents. And I'm fine now, see?" He wiggles his fingers with a little wince that he tries to hide behind a smile.
"Rocky make panels smaller for Grace."
"Sounds like a good plan," he says, "but it's gonna be a few days before I'm ready to start building again."
"No rushing, no rushing at all. Slow. Heal first." Now, Grace does get up, but he's much steadier on his feet. "Where Grace going?" he asks worriedly. He chuckles.
"I'm kind of covered in blood and sweat. I want to clean up a little bit."
"Grace feel okay, question?"
"Yeah. I'm fine now. I'm just... not good with blood. All the more reason to bathe."
"Okay. Grace bathe. Rocky watch."
"Nope."
"Grace almost fainted!"
"And now I'm fine. I'll let you know if I need you, deal?"
Rocky allows himself one little pout. He's earned it, after this ordeal. "Deal."
"Great. And I should say thank you. For pushing me. It was annoying, but it helped."
"Tough love," Rocky says, and Grace laughs.
"Good word." With that, he exits to go clean himself up, and Rocky sets off to start making the smallest, most rounded off panels possible.
Summary: from a prompt!! Grace pushes himself too far with the flu and collapses after a Q&A. Eva tries to pretend she doesn't care.
It's been a long time since Grace has felt this awful. Years, probably. As he sits through the meeting waiting to present his Q&A, it's all he can do just to tune in and listen to Eva brief everyone on the operational side of things. All he wants to do is sleep, but he does think that, given how exhausted he is, he's really nailing this whole "consciousness" thing.
The slight headache he'd written off as stress this morning throbs behind his eyes and in a band around his head. The lights in here are far too bright, and he's shivering. That's not a new development, but probably one he wouldn't have written off so easily if it had started before the meeting prep. If he'd known he was actually getting sick and not just stressed, he could have taken something for it, but he figured that the fatigue and headache would go away once he got moving.
It was 45 minutes into the meeting prep, or about an hour ago, that he realized that he's not merely stressed, but probably experiencing the onset of some flu bug. By that time, he figured it was probably too late to say something to Eva about not feeling well enough to present. After all, they'd just spent almost an hour going over how this was going to go, and a lot of it hinges on his presentation. He couldn't exactly let her do all that work and then tell her with ten minutes left to regroup that hey, he's actually not feeling so well and maybe he should just go rest this off instead. To even mention it now would sound like whining. Not to mention, she's so focused. Telling her he's sick would only distract her from the important task at hand.
That's assuming she'd even want to know.
After the chills started, everything else began to deteriorate. His body began to ache badly, then his throat, and his headache intensified from "annoying" to "nearly debilitating." He's been fighting hard to keep his lungs under control despite the developing cough he can feel taking root in his chest. And, boy, the fatigue. Killer.
He shifts in his chair again, ignoring the way it pulls at his angry back an hip joints to put his left leg down from its position on his knee and cross his right leg over it instead. If he doesn't move, he's going to fall asleep in the middle of this meeting. Fever or no fever, that would be unacceptable. While he's aware that the fidgeting makes him look nervous and can feel someone glance in his direction (is it Eva?) every time he does it, it's worth it, if it keeps him awake.
"Without further ado," he hears Eva say, and oh, no, he needs more ado, please, can he have a little more ado, "I present to you, Doctor Ryland Grace to present his findings on astrophage breeding."
It's nothing novel. In fact, it's just a recap of everything he'd talked about in the rough presentation he'd given when she first introduced him, just with fewer Tag Team lyrics. Still, it requires thinking and speaking and being upright, and he's not up for any of those things right now.
"Uh, hi," he says, leaning in toward the microphone and clearing his throat when his voice sounds like someone took sandpaper to his vocal cords, "good morning. You all, uh--Eva told you who I am. So, floor's open to questions." People begin speaking over one another so rapid fire that it makes his head spin. "One at a time, maybe?"
In the end, he works it like his classroom. Heck, he's a minute away from busting out the ol' lava ball, but Eva had already rejected that idea, so he settles for calling on people one at a time, if they raise their hands. At one point, he gets so wrapped up that he forgets where he is and says,"I didn't see a hand," to one of the leading astrophysicists in France after she shouts out a question over top someone else, which earns him an elbow in the ribs. Despite his wordless scolding from Eva, the woman looks down at the table in front of her and puts up a meek, embarrassed hand.
The Q&A seems like it's never going to end. By the time it does, Eva has passed him one of her coffees because his voice is so shot that people are having to lean forward to hear him, even with the microphone. He apologizes for that, but can't explain it without admitting he's sick, so he just has to laugh it off as an inconvenient frog in his throat rather than painful inflammation that's only being made worse by continuing to talk.
Eventually, there are no more hands in the air. None too soon, either, because he's starting to feel so muddled and lightheaded that he can feel himself rambling when he answers questions and has to stop himself from sounding like an idiot, if he doesn't already. After everything he's been through, he doesn't think he can handle another room full of people staring at him like he's a raving lunatic.
"If there are no more questions," Eva begins after the silence, and the relief he feels at the knowledge that this is over washes over him is so strong that it makes his head spin even faster than it has been--
"Actually, one more," a man's voice comes from the back. Oh, no. He's got to check back in, got to refocus, but he's already let it go. He's so dizzy, and--
"Well, Doctor Grace?"
He'd already asked his question? How had he missed it entirely?
"Sorry, um, could you repeat that?"
He feels Eva stiffen beside him, knows that pissed her off. He tunes that concern out in favor of pouring all his focus into hearing this man over the ringing in his ears.
"I asked if you have any theory at all about why Tau Ceti may be immune. Even if it's speculative, knowing all you know about their proliferation, are there any directions at all you're leaning toward?"
That's his question? Isn't that why they're sending three people into space on a suicide mission? What do they want from him?
"I--no," he replies. Genuine grief and guilt, heightened by the emotional lability that accompanies a high fever, combine inside him to disastrous effect. Unexpectedly, frustrated tears prickle behind his eyes, which triggers immediate panic. This is too much. They're expecting so much from him, and they're all going to be disappointed no matter what he does. He's the guy on this, and it's too much. "No, I don't. I'm sorry." He hears his voice break on the last word, and apparently, so does Eva.
"That will conclude today's briefing," she says. Everyone begins to stand to file out, but Grace can't move. He can't tell what Eva must be thinking about that final answer, or lack thereof. Maybe she didn't notice how close to tears he was, he hopes, knowing that's not possible. The way she'd instantly ushered everyone out of the room, there's no way she wasn't trying to save herself the embarrassment of letting everyone watch her lead scientist cry. It's enough to bring the tears back, but once again, he manages to keep them at bay.
Before he knows it, the room is empty, save for him, Eva, and Carl. Like he blinks, and everyone is gone. He should probably be concerned about having lost time like that, but he has bigger fish to fry.
"Doctor Grace," Eva calls. Her tone is... indecipherable, at least in his barely-there state. God, he needs to go home. He needs to take something for the fever and pain and go sleep this off for a week. Forcing himself to look at her is difficult, but he does it, and when he does, her expression isn't angry. It's sort of blank, really. She's just standing in the doorway, staring.
"Yeah?"
Maybe she understands. Maybe she can see how pale and shaky and flushed and miserable he is and is going to take pity on him. He'd give anything for her to simply send him home, but he has a sneaking suspicion that's not possible. Instead, she's up to close the door so no one will hear her shout at him for what a terrible job he's doing. Just like his PI had after he became so persistent about his rejected dissertation. Just like the parents of his most difficult children sometimes do. Just like his own dad had when he was a kid. The question itself had already reminded him how much of his research is just filling drip-wise a leaky bucket, and now she's going to pile on. He's not sure if he can take that right now.
"Someone else needs this conference room."
He blinks.
That's it? All she wants from him is to... get out of his chair?
"Oh, right," he replies, gathering his things as hastily as possible and cramming them into his tote. "Leaving." She rolls her eyes.
"I said it's occupied, not on fire. You can have a few minutes to collect yourself."
"No," he says, feeling his heart begin to flutter dangerously in his chest as his heart rate and breathing start to pick up from the exertion, "I'm--well, don't wait up, but I can..." He trails off, abandoning the indecisive half-sentences as soon as he stands and everything tilts. His hand reaches out to grip whatever happens to be in front of him, but unfortunately, that's a chair, and it's on wheels. When he puts his weight into it for balance, it swivels, and he has to catch himself once again on the table.
"Doctor Grace?" she calls, her tone more pressing this time. "Is something wrong?"
"Yeah," he says, then, "er--no, I'm--I'm fine, just, gimme a second."
This time, when she speaks, she's closer. "Sit down. Are you feeling alright?''
He wants to comply, but he doesn't know where the chair is, because his vision has gone grainy and black. Desperately, he feels around for it, then registers something surprising: a hand on his back. He looks up in disbelief only to see that it really is Eva, blurry and doubling before the darkness creeps back in.
"Just a li'l dizzy," he admits. That's an understatement: he's sweaty and nauseous and hot and freezing and weak and shaky and confused.
"Carl," she summons sternly, her other hand now reaching out to grab his arm to try to lead him to sit, "I need help."
Another set of hands grab him from the other side, but it's too late to guide him down, because before they can even pull a chair away from the table, his knees give out under him and everything goes dark and silent.
------
"--Grace," Eva's voice, tight but steady, "can you hear me?"
"Mhm," he mutters, which is supposed to be, "Yes, I can hear you loud and clear." He struggles to open his eyes, but when he does, he can see Eva hovering over him and Carl is--wait, no. More than that. Eva isn't just standing above him, but kneeling beside him, tapping his cheek with some force. "Stop."
"...burning up," her voice.
"...ambulance on the way--"
"No," he argues deliriously with Carl, who ignores him.
"Look at me," she says. He tries to control his rolling eyes and focus blurry vision, but he can't, and the world goes dark once more.
-----
He's being manhandled. He's trying to fight it, but he's being strapped down to something, and something is being placed over his face. He resists it, squirming and swatting until someone pins his hands down in deep frustration and Eva snaps, "Stop fighting."
Now, he's moving, moving backwards, and he wants to thrash but doesn't have the energy.
"You're okay, sir," a voice soothes. "We're gonna help you. Can you tell me your name?"
"Tell her," Eva orders.
"Grace," he manages with a clumsy tongue.
"Good, Mr. Grace." He's being taken out of the conference room, then out of the building into the blinding light of the cloudy day that makes him groan and recoil, then into the back of a vehicle. He's in an ambulance.
The thrashing and fighting he's been doing was clearly a mistake, because he's starting to feel the same shaky, faraway nausea and oppressive heat that had overtaken him earlier.
"M'not feelin' so good," he complains.
"What hospital?" Eva asks outside.
"Try to stay awake, Mr. Grace," the paramedic implores, but the blackness in his vision is already encroaching, and it takes over just after he mutters a slurred apology.
-------
When he wakes for good, he's in an unfamiliar, white room. There's a curtain divider to both the left and the right of him, and beeping coming from behind. He strains to look at it, but he doesn't have to see the medical equipment to know where he is: a hospital.
"You awake this time?"
He looks over: Carl is sitting in the single chair beside him. He sits up, then realizes that that sucks and leans back against the hard, uncomfortable bed.
"Think so," he replies. "What happened?"
"What do you remember?"
"Uh," he fumbles, searching through his mind for it, "well, there was the meeting."
"What about it?"
"I had to speak."
"You did."
"And I answered a bunch of questions."
"What else?" He thinks hard. "You're leaving out the part where you felt like hell the whole time ignored it until you passed out after the briefing."
"Oh."
"Yeah, 'oh.' You're lucky Stratt noticed."
Grace blinks. "She did?"
"Yes. She made a backup plan in case you needed to back out, but since you didn't say anything, she figured you felt good enough to roll. She didn't take her eyes off you the whole meeting, and ended it when you started to unravel."
"I... she wasn't doing that because she was mad at me?"
Carl looks confused. "What? No. She did it because you were white and shaking and barely coherent. You didn't even move when she told you to go, and then you passed out. Freaked her out. She was expecting to have someone drive you home, not cart you out."
"Wow," he says. It's all he can think of. Suddenly, the curtain slides back to reveal Eva entering the room, looking at Carl.
"Has the doctor been in yet?"
"Not yet," he replies, "but look who's up."
She glances over to Grace, who gives a little wave with the hand that doesn't have an IV in it.
"Hi," he greets. "I'm fine, now. Don't worry."
"I wasn't," she snaps, terse but nonchalant. He doesn't challenge her on why else she would be standing in his hospital room. If a space between two curtains can be called a room.
"Okay. I'm sorry, then. I should have said something."
"Yes, you should. This could have been a pivot in my briefing plan. Now, it's paperwork."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to be paperwork."
"Hello hello," a cheerful doctor greets from behind Eva. She steps to the side to allow her in, where she immediately greets Grace. "I'm Dr. McCleod. Heard you took a bit of a tumble today, Mr. Grace?"
"Doctor," Eva corrects, earning a glare from Grace. Always showing him off.
"Sorry," she says. "Anyway, are you alright that I talk about you with these... friends? With you, or do you want some privacy?"
"No, no. They're fine."
"Alright. Well, good news, EKG came back clean, blood work looks fabulous, other than a high white cell count and some pretty serious dehydration. The bad news is your temperature and heart rate were both a lot higher than I'd like when you came in. Looks like you've got the flu. Fainting can happen, sometimes, if you're pushing your body."
"Yeah, I... That's on me." She smiles kindly.
"Things happen. I'd like you to finish that bag of fluids, but I'm not too worried. Fever's down, tests look good. We're not going to admit you, so as soon as we--"
"Stop," Eva interjects, and the doctor patiently turns to her. "You don't think he should be monitored?"
"Well, I didn't say that. I just don't think it needs to be by medical staff. We brought his temperature down, so after we give him fluids, the only thing we can do is let this run its course, so I don't see a lot of benefit in holding him hostage overnight."
"Thank you," says Grace, who definitely does not want to be admitted overnight. "Eva, I'm okay. I'm sorry if I freaked you out. I feel a lot better now." She continues frowning.
"I do think someone should be with you for at least the next 24 hours, though, just to make sure your temperature stays down. Plus, I don't want you up and around so much for a little while. Do you have someone who could stay with you?"
Grace hesitates. He really, really doesn't.
"I'm sure I'll be fine."
"I'll do it," Carl volunteers. Grace starts shaking his head.
"Really, I'm gonna be okay on my--"
"Doctor's orders. I'll just crash on your couch for the night. I don't mind."
Great. Grace's place really, really isn't ready for company.
"Okay. Thanks."
Dr. McCleod checks his IV bag. "I'd say another 20 minutes should do you. I'll find someone to start working on your discharge paperwork, unless you've got any more questions for me?"
Eva looks like she might start, but Grace cuts her off with a, "We're good. Thank you, doctor," and she walks away. Eva straightens, ironing out the little crease between her eyebrows when she remembers others can see it.
"If this is sorted out, I do have things to do today."
"Of course. Sorry again."
"Hm. I will see you next week, Doctor Grace, and no earlier."
"Understood. Thanks, Eva."
She leaves without replying, and Carl leans forward in his chair, making a gesture like, "See? I told you so."
"What do you mean? She was totally angry."
"Because she cares about you. She's gonna be a monster for the rest of the week." Grace lets his head lean back to rest against the bed with his eyes closed, too tired to try to decipher Eva right now. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just exhausted. I want to go home." He opens his eyes. "Speaking of, you don't have to stay with me, seriously. It's not like they check."
"But Eva's gonna," Carl replies. "Plus, I don't mind. You'd do it for me, right?"
Grace doesn't even have to think about that. "Of course."
"There you go."
Grace sighs in resignation. "Okay. Thank you."
He relaxes with his eyes closed again until a nurse brings in his paperwork and unhooks him from his IV, which makes him feel a little dizzy again. Blood and needles. Ugh.
He's steady enough on his feet now to not need a wheelchair, so when the ER releases him, he simply follows Carl out to the car and rests in the front seat while he drives.
When Rocky wakes up after Adrian, he's relieved they're both alive, but immediately knows that something is off with Grace. He's having trouble breathing, sleeping a lot, and spiking fevers. As much as Grace wants to blame it on lung irritation from the ammonia in Rocky's atmosphere, Rocky knows he's downplaying it, and it's not going to work.
However, before he can actually do anything about it, the ship's power goes out. Taumoeba have gotten into the fuel and eaten all the astrophage, leaving them with no choice but to steal from the beetles.
Which are on the outside of the ship.
Which means two EVAs and a lot of lab work for Grace, all while his condition declines from what's quickly turning into a serious health problem. All Rocky can do is make sure he has what he needs and try to take care of him as best he can from afar, hoping they can get to safety before Grace's health is too fragile to recover.
Rocky knows Grace's respiration rate as well as he knows the rhythm of a ticking clock. It's constant background noise, just like his heartbeat. The expansion and contraction of his lungs, once a foreign, windy sound that made him feel like he was always in a storm. Now, it's a sort of white noise that he intentionally listens for when Grace is quiet for too long, focused or sleeping. It's a convenient little reminder that Grace is alive.
For the past 46 hours, the noises of Grace's biological functions have been overshadowed by the sounds of machines.
Rocky hates it. Every heartbeat is eclipsed by a mechanical beeping where the medical robot is tracking its too rapid, too weak rhythm. His breaths are being controlled by a tube that's pumping air in and out while his body is too weak to do it. Instead of the rapid tapping of fingernails on the benchtop as Grace thinks, he's left to fixate on the drip of fluids in a bag being injected through a cannula into his far too hot bloodstream. He hasn't made a sound of his own since the horrifying thump of his head hitting the floor when he collapsed.
The worst part is that he should have seen this coming sooner. No, worse than that: he did, but they didn't have a choice. Grace was sick, getting worse fast, and though both of them knew it, there wasn't a moment to spare to treat it, not without ensuring both their deaths. It was better, in Grace's opinion, to give them a fighting chance and deal with the illness later. Rocky hadn't known how bad it was going to get, and foolishly agreed.
And now he's here, in the medical bay, barely clinging to life, and Rocky has no idea what's going to happen. Not for the first time today, he drops down impatiently, his carapace clunking against the bottom of the ball in despair. Then, he regrets that, too.
"Grace sleep," he calls again. He does that after every time he loses his composure and makes some sort of sound of anguish, whether that's his body or his claws or just plain saying it aloud. He hopes Grace can hear him, and if he can, he doesn't want him to feel rushed to wake before he's ready just because Rocky is desperate for him to move again. "Rocky still watching. Rocky no go anywhere."
-------
LAST WEEK
Echolocation kicks in before anything else. Before pain, before olfactory sensation, before rational thought: it's a general sense of awareness of his surroundings.
That means that the first thing Rocky is aware of when he wakes up after saving Grace is that Grace saved him, too.
"Grace," he calls, but Grace is sleeping. Just before he reaches out to tap tap tap the xenonite and wake him, he realizes that he can do one better and hops in his ball. Though he's wobbly and it's a bit tiring, he's strong enough, finally, to roll right up next to him. "Grace?"
"Rock," he mumbles, stretching. Grace always wakes up stupid. "Would you give me a chance, please, to sleep a little--?" He trails off, looks at the xenonite behind him, and looks back to Rocky. He trills musically. The computer doesn’t translate. Whatever feeling this is, they've never had occasion to define it between their languages.
Grace throws his arms around the ball, but immediately draws away, hissing in pain. It startles him.
“Grace okay, question?”
“Me?” He laughs. “Yeah, just a little burn. Are YOU okay? You’ve been out for days.”
“Rocky still tired, still weak, but healing. Okay.”
“It’s so good to hear your voice, bud. I’m so relieved.”
Another happy little trill. Grace wipes away a tear. He’s pretty sure they’re the same emotion.
“Did we… find predator?”
Grace grins, then motions for Rocky to follow him into the lab.
When he sees it, he’s speechless. It’s incredible what Grace has managed to do in so little time. Dozens of containers of budding taumoeba colonies line the storage wall, enough to study for a long, long time, plus have enough left over to save both their stars. Rocky has all kinds of questions, and the teacher in him is thrilled to answer.
Grace coughs, a sound that’s been getting increasingly familiar throughout their little tour. Rocky has heard him cough before, obviously: dry air, and all the times he’s choked on coffee, but this is different. Persistent and painful-sounding.
“Grace is okay, question? Cough a lot.” He waits for Grace to stop, and when he finally replies, he’s a little breathless.
“Just a little irritation in my lungs from the ammonia. It’ll go away in a few days.”
“Hurts, question?”
“Don’t worry about that. What do you think of my taumoeba farm? I was kind of expecting more of a reaction, to be honest.”
“Is great!” he chirps. “Amaze amaze amaze!”
“Thank you. Now, let’s get you something to eat, huh? You’ve got to be hungry.”
“Yes. Grace eat, too.”
Rocky follows Grace to the dormitory, where he prepares a hot burrito as Rocky gets his own meal ready. Weird that precooked human food needs to be heated up when it doesn’t actually change the nutritional value. Grace has explained to him over and over that it’s just about the experience of eating, but it still seems like unnecessary work.
He’s so relieved to see Grace again that he isn’t even bothered by his chewing and digestion sounds. Neither of them speak it aloud, but he’s sure Grace felt the same fear when he found Rocky collapsed and burning that Rocky did when Grace passed out in the command room.
The relief is undercut by something, though, and Rocky can’t quite pinpoint it. There’s a vague but ominous wrongness afoot. He scans his surroundings to see if he can find it. Nothing on the ship is beeping or making otherwise concerning noises, so that’s good. Nothing shaking or falling apart. Nothing obvious at all, really.
“Whatcha thinking about?” Rocky refocuses. Grace is looking at him. “Feeling okay?”
“Yes,” he replies. “Feel good.” Grace coughs again, and that’s when it hits him. “Grace heartbeat is fast.”
“Is it?” he asks lightly, unconcerned. “Hm. I’m still healing, too. We both need some rest, I think.”
“Agree. Grace sleep?”
“Only if you will.” Rocky hesitates, nervous. “Want me to watch you? I don’t mind.”
“No. Grace need sleep. Is okay.”
“You sure?”
“Maybe just… stay awake until Rocky sleep?”
Grace nods. After a week of helplessness, he seems relieved to have a task.
“Of course. Get some rest. I’ll be here.”
Rocky settles down and falls into a much needed sleep.
——
When he wakes, Rocky is stronger, but Grace isn’t feeling well.
He sleeps for 10 hours before Rocky is concerned enough to wake him.
“Grace,” he calls, tapping on the panel. “Grace wake up.” It takes a little effort, but eventually, he rouses, rubbing his face tiredly.
“Mmph,” he groans as he stretches. “Hey, Rock. How do you feel? Did sleep help?”
“Yes. Feel good.” Grace seems content, humming happily before rolling over and bundling the blanket tighter around him. “Grace wake up. Sleep long time already.”
“In a minute.”
Grace says that sometimes, so Rocky waits patiently for him to muster up the will power to get up. He sleeps another hour.
When he finally does get up, he agrees to a cup of coffee, but doesn’t want breakfast. He claims he isn’t hungry.
“Been too many hours since Grace last eat. How not hungry?”
“I don’t know. Just feeling a little nauseous. I’ll eat something when I’m a little more awake.” He coughs into his elbow and it makes Rocky nervous, but Grace seems okay otherwise, so maybe he’s being sensitive. “I have some work to get done, if you’re up to sitting with me.”
“Yes! Rocky watch. Want know what Grace been working on.”
Grace grins. “I have so much to tell you.”
Despite Grace’s concerns, Rocky ends up feeling bored just sitting and wants to work on making some new taumoeba farm containers. He insists they have enough, but that’s never enough. They need backups. They need backup backups. Rocky will make sure they have all they need and more.
For a while, they work in silence. It's so, so nice to be back to this, Grace at the benchtop and Rocky in his bulb, big science. However, Rocky can't tune out the noises Grace is making, and not because they're bothersome. Chewing annoys him. Tapping annoys him. This--this is something else.
The cough is bad. Grace writes it off as just a little irritation, and sometimes it seems like maybe that's acceptable, but others, he's not so convinced. Sometimes, it sounds like he's struggling to get it under control, or like he's laboring to catch his breath when he finally does so. It's frequent, even more frequent when he tries to stifle it behind closed lips. Whether that's to keep Rocky from worrying or because his chest clearly aches, as evidenced by the absent rubbing of his knuckles against the middle of it, he's not sure, but it makes things worse.
"Grace should not do that," he finally says when he can't take it anymore. Grace looks up, pen balanced between his thumb and his forefinger, confused.
"Do what?"
"If Grace need clear lungs, just cough. Stop trying make sound quieter. Makes it worse."
He frowns. "Oh. I didn't realize I was." Turning his attention back to the computer. "I'll be more careful."
He isn't.
Grace would think it's beyond nitpicking if he told him this, but the sound of Grace's cardigan rubbing against his skin is also upsetting him. It's been doing so for the better part of two hours, rapid and rhythmic. He's shaking, something that has been explained to him as a reaction to the cold. It normally doesn't worry him, but then again, there's usually a clear cause, and it stops after he puts on his cardigan. Now, however, he's wearing that and sitting under his quilt, plus gripping his mug of hot coffee in both hands, and he's still cold. Rocky doesn't know what that means, but he silently notes it as odd.
The final thing is his posture. Every once in a while, he puts down his coffee to massage one shoulder or to pinch the bridge of his nose. It means tension, which means pain. It's not abnormal for him to do that absently, like he's doing now--Grace isn't always the best at receiving signals from his body when he focuses--but he's doing it a lot, and they haven't been working that long. Again, nothing so strange as to bring it up and risk another argument, but something to log away. He's becoming a detective, piecing together pieces of a puzzle. Problem is, he's got no idea what the picture is supposed to look like.
They sit like that, Grace silently working, oblivious to the fact that Rocky is scrutinizing him, and Rocky, secretly scrutinizing him, for another two hours before Grace groans, tossing his pen down and leaning forward to put his forehead to the benchtop. Rocky turns toward him, questioning, but his eyes are shut.
"Grace okay, question?"
"Yeah, fine," he replies. "Just a headache."
Maybe that's why he's been acting so weird. He's in pain and exhausted. Perhaps it's time to pause.
"Grace take break."
"Yeah. I think I might go see if Armando can give me something for it."
That, too, is what Grace would call a red flag: something that sticks out as a warning that something isn't right and that if something doesn't change, disaster could strike. As Grace stands, Rocky, obviously, trails closely behind. He's coughing pretty badly by the time they get to the med bay, any exertion seemingly enough to set that off, and, hearing that, Armando is leaping into action before they're even through the doorway.
"Down, boy," Grace says, swatting at his probing arm. Armando may be stupid, but if there's one thing that can be said for him, it's that he doesn't give up. If Grace wants medicine, he's going to have to be good and allow the quick scan he's trying to give. He looks annoyed as he tolerates a quick pinch to his finger with a little plastic bit and a probe swiped across his forehead from temple to temple.
"Huh," Grace say. He's not nervous, just surprised.
"Grace have fever, question?"
Fever has been explained to him as the most comparable human equivalent they have to Eridians' method of fighting off sickness: the body heats up to create an environment in which viruses and bacteria struggle to multiply and survive. For Eridians, that means boiling them off, but for humans, it just gives their immune system (something that is so complicated that Grace only knows the basics and Rocky barely even understood that) to fight off the infection.
"A little bit," he replies. "Guess that explains why I feel so rough."
"Grace sick, question?"
"Nah. Sometimes it just means your body is working hard to heal. It can be a good thing."
"Could also be bad thing," he points out. "Could mean Grace is sick."
"I'm not sick, bud. Promise." He accepts the offered pills and a pouch of water. "I'll take these and get a little rest; I'll be fine." Rocky isn't convinced, and Grace can sense that, so he places a reassuring hand on top of his ball. It means nothing to him, but Grace seems to use it as a comforting gesture. It's the thought that counts. "It's okay. You're a little on edge after everything that happened. I am, too. I say we call it a day and get out of the lab. Maybe watch something in the viewing room?"
Well, Rocky will never say no to the viewing room, now that he's improved it with his little device that allows him to see the screen. It always relaxes Grace, too, which is apparently the correct course of treatment for whatever is going on with him, anyway. At least he feels better knowing that he's seen medical. If anything were seriously wrong, they'd know.
"Yes!" Rocky chirps excitedly. Grace laughs and pats his ball.
-----
Grace keeps falling asleep during the movie.
That's not typical, either. Rocky always has a lot of questions, and Grace is always keen to answer them. Instead, He's dozing on and off, head resting on the arm he's thrown over Rocky's ball. It doesn't appear as though he realizes he's doing it, either.
"It's just the fever," he explains when Rocky points it out. "It can make you sleepy."
This is a new kind of tired. He's not grumpy angry stupid, but slow, unfocused, and quiet.
When the movie ends, Rocky isn't sure Grace watched even half of it, but that's okay. It's more important that he rests. As is typical for him when they finish a movie, Rocky expects him to be restless to get back in the lab, antsy from sitting still for so long. Instead, he yawns, stretching.
"I think I might go take a nap for a little while."
"Grace sleep again, question? Sleep so much today."
"Rich, coming from you," he teases. "You were asleep for like a week. It's part of the healing process." He coughs again, rubs his chest. That, Rocky believes, is not a normal part of the healing process, no matter what Grace says. "It's just a nap. I'll wake up in like half an hour. You don't have to watch me, if you've got work to do."
"Nothing Rocky can't do while watch Grace sleep."
"Figured. Alright. Well, let's go, then."
Once again, Grace is wrong. Sure, he wakes up after half an hour, but it's not for long. He says his head still hurts and wants to get a little more sleep, so he takes another dose of medicine from the med bay and goes back to bed.
For five more hours.
Sometimes he doesn't even sleep that long through the night, let alone a nap. Not to mention, it doesn't look restful. He tosses and turns, frequently waking to cough or because his blanket brushes the burn on his arm the wrong way and it hurts so badly he jumps. If he's been sleeping this poorly, perhaps that explains why he's sleeping more often.
Making more taumoeba farm containers passes the time for a little while, but eventually, he becomes too focused on Grace's elevated heart and respiration rate to think about anything else, even idly. It's just so weird. He's barely moving.
He frets that way until Grace stirs, then sits up and stretches.
"Grace feel better, question?" he asks before he's even exhaled all the way.
"Yeah, I do. But I feel like I slept for more than half an hour."
"Grace sleep five hours. Long time. Rocky worry."
"Five?" he echoes, then whistles. "Man, I was more tired than I thought. Sorry I worried you. I really do feel better. Head doesn't hurt as much, and I have some energy."
"Good good good," Rocky replies, noting the qualifiers "as much," and "some." "Grace hungry?"
"I could eat a little something." Rocky trills excitedly. This is good. He really is feeling better.
Then, he coughs again, and Rocky slackens in dismay at how it has changed over the course of the day and while he slept. No longer is it an airy, tight sound, but a deep rumble that lasts longer and makes him wince. It's almost like there's fluid in there.
"Grace chest make weird sound."
"Yeah, huh. It's fine. I'll take more meds. Clear it right up."
Well, it's not like he's going to get any more information out of him than that, so he'll take what he can get and get Grace a meal. That should help.
Grace eats half a bowl of oatmeal, saying he'll just have a bigger lunch today to make up for his pathetic breakfast. Because he doesn't have any solid evidence to utilize to keep him from working, he follows Grace to the lab, warning him to be careful and not to overwork himself.
Of course, that advice goes unheeded.
Four hours later, Grace is shivering, struggling to stay awake, and coughing badly again. He's been perfectly still for 15 minutes, no longer pretending to read or taking notes, save for the occasional bobbing down and then back up of his head as he fights sleep.
"Grace..." Rocky says after he gets so close to unconsciousness that his head almost hits the benchtop.
"Yeah," he replies. His voice is lower, rougher than it should be. "You don't have to say it."
"Grace should say. So I understand."
He sighs. "I don't feel right." That clears up nothing. He digs his thumbs firmly into his temple and rubs it in tiny circles, eyes shut. His head hurts.
"Grace needs more medicine. Grace take now."
"Okay, okay. I'm going."
Rocky leads the way to the med bay, so anxious that he doesn't realize he left Grace behind until he drags himself in several second later. He gently sits on the bed, this time not fighting Armando off as he checks his vitals.
"Temperature moderately elevated," he reports. "38.8 degrees Celsius. Recommended treatment: 400 mg ibuprofen and bed rest. Blood oxygen content: 92%. Recommended treatment: oxygen therapy."
After he swallows the pills, Armando places a mask over Grace's nose and mouth, which Rocky immediately recognizes. It's the same treatment he'd been given when he'd dragged him to the med bay. When he was dying.
"Bad bad bad," he says, an anxious feeling he hasn't had in 40 years digging its fingers into him. When Grace was dying, instinct had taken over, and he hadn’t felt much about it at the time in favor of acting fast. This is worse. "Grace sick sick sick."
"No, Rock," Grace says, taking the mask off, and oh, no, Grace is taking the mask off just to comfort him, when he needs to keep it on.
"Keep mask on," he demands. He won't let his panic be responsible for Grace's death. “Breathe.”
"Hey. I know this looks scary, but it's just the inflammation. Fever's spiking a little. It's okay."
"Diagnosis: pneumonitis secondary to chemical exposure. Recommended treatment: high doseprednisone."
Just as Grace is given the pills, whatever they are, the ship goes silent. No humming machines, no beeping systems, no chattering Armando. Most devastatingly, that includes the machine that's supposed to be pumping oxygen into the mask to help Grace breathe.
"What just happened?" Grace asks. "It's pitch black."
"Ship lose power," Rocky supplies the obvious answer to the question Grace is only asking conversationally.
"Okay," he says in that tone that means he's forcing calm, "why?"
But, fever and low-grade suffocation forgotten, he's already off to figure that out.
---
"Where's the door to the control room?"
"Left."
"Ow!"
"Watch wall."
"I can't watch anything, that's why I asked--wait."
"Grace see something?"
"Yeah, actually. There's a red button in here."
There's a clicking sound as he presses it without any deliberation, and then a low hum.
"Lights working, question?"
"A little, but they're dim. I can barely see anything. Found a screen, though." He shuffles around a little more until he reads something that makes his posture stiffen. "Oh, no," he breathes.
"What, question?"
"No, no, no, no!" Rocky trails behind him as he rushes down the hall and down a ladder, where he can't follow. He's still muttering to himself in a high-pitched, panicked voice. He fumbles around for a while down there, emerging only to once again ignore Rocky in favor of rushing straight to the lab. He smears--something--from his hand onto a microscope slide and looks at it, then grunts loudly in frustration so deep it sounds like pain.
"What, question? What is wrong, question?"
"There's taumoeba in the generator," he replies, devastated and numb. "They're in the ship's fuel supply. That's why we have no power. Taumoeba ate all the astrophage." Rocky's mind starts working faster while Grace's halts completely, devolving into panic so deep that his already abnormal breath sounds start coming faster and faster. "Oh, god. We're stuck out here forever. We're going to die out here."
"There is astrophage on Rocky ship," Rocky suggests.
"Yeah, but we have no way to get to your ship. And even if we did, the engine's full of taumoeba. Anything we put in there is just going to get eaten."
"Hm," Rocky hums. Grace coughs, breaths still coming shallow and fast from either illness or fear. He's shaking again, probably for a lot of reasons, and leans heavily against Rocky's ball. "Rocky think. You sleep."
"What? I can't--"
"Grace sick. Rest help, question?"
"Well, yeah, but--"
"Sleep. Rocky watch. Think of solution after."
Grace sighs. He sounds exhausted.
"Okay." He follows Rocky to the dormitory and lays down in bed where Rocky can see him. Sometimes, worry keeps Grace awake. Often, in fact. It speaks volumes about just how sick he really is that within just a few minutes, he's already drifting.
Suddenly, he shoots upright with a gasp, startling Rocky so badly he jumps.
"Problem, question?"
"No, solution! The little," Rocky can barely understand what he's saying because he's coughing, but continuing to talk, anyway, "little ships on my ship--the beetles; I've told you--for sending--they didn't expect us to come home, so they sent us with--and their fuel supply isn't connected to the ship's. We have plenty of astrophage!"
"Good good good!" Rocky cheers with a little dancey dance. "Knew Grace would think of something."
"Your confidence means so much to me." He begins to push the blankets off himself and sit up, but Rocky taps on the xenonite panel to stop him. "What? They're in the nose of the ship, I have to--"
"Later. Grace sleep now. Fever bad. Lungs bad. Beetles will still be there after sleep." Though he pouts a little, he doesn't argue.
"Fine." Rocky is glad Grace gave him the word "impatient," because that's what he calls him, and Grace can't fight him on it. He needs to save the energy for tomorrow.
Though Armando seems to be doing an adequate job at meeting Grace's physical needs--he's breathing, he's receiving steroids through his IV, and he's sedated enough to keep him from being in utter panic and agony--Rocky wishes he could do more.
Grace isn't cold. He's far too hot, actually, and that's part of the problem. That doesn't mean that Rocky can't wish he could drape his quilt over top of him after having spent the better part of a week watching him shiver from fever chills. He's receiving nutrients through a tube that's been inserted through his nose, but he's expressed so many times that enjoyment is an important part of the human eating experience, so all he wants to do is make him one of his strange, unnecessarily hot meals. Grace can't talk, but there's still nothing he wants more than to be able to entertain him with some stupid conversation about nothing. Warm, fed, happy. All Grace's favorite things. They'll do them, soon; he has to believe that.
Things are looking as good as they possibly can, given the circumstances, or at least they're not getting worse anymore. His oxygen is holding steady; his temperature, though high, is stable, and lower than it was when he collapsed and Rocky couldn't wake him. However, that gives him little comfort, not after watching his fever spike and fall relentlessly while he was getting sicker and sicker.
The worst part is the not knowing. Not knowing when Grace will once again breathe on his own, because Mary doesn't announce these things, if she even knows. Not knowing if there will be permanent damage when Grace wakes up. Not knowing when he'll wake up. Relying on pure relentless hope to not use the word "if."
For the first time in days, Grace moves. It's ever so slight, just a twitch of his fingers. If he saw like Grace does, he would have missed it. However, Rocky is too deep in abysmal despair to take it as a good sign. It could be nothing. It could be involuntary. It could even be a nightmare. Grace twitches a lot during those.
He's almost leaning into the helplessness, now. Knowing he can't do anything relieves some of the anxiety that there's something he could or should be doing.
He's been alone for 46 years, he tells himself. How is this so much worse?
LAST WEEK
"I was a lot more confident when I was half delirious," Grace says, standing in the doorway to the airlock in his EVA suit. "Maybe we should wait to do this until my fever spikes again."
"Can't wait for that," Rocky admonishes. "Need Grace brain to work best it can. Otherwise--"
"We don't need to get into otherwise," he curtails. "I'm very familiar with otherwise."
"Grace will do great. Just climb ship and get beetles. Tie with tether. Come back inside. Easy."
"He says, from his bulb," Grace teases. He takes a deliberately slow deep, steadying breath. "This isn't going to be fun."
"Grace feel okay, question?"
The medicine managed to bring his fever down a little, which has decreased the chills and headache, but his cough is still awful. When he was getting into his EVA suit, he'd gotten so lightheaded he had to sit down and take deep breaths (well, as deep as he can, which is not impressive). Apparently, the medicine that's going to treat the actual swelling in his lungs is going to take a few days to start working, and they don't have that kind of time. As Grace pointed out, at least the suit is pumping in oxygen just like the mask in the med bay would have, so it might be good for him to wear it for a little while. He doesn't acknowledge that he'll be concurrently performing a demanding physical task.
"As good as I'm going to," he replies. Not reassuring. Not reassuring at all. "Let's do this."
"Words of encouragement."
Grace sighs. "Yeah. Thanks."
The airlock closes between him and Rocky, depressurizes, then opens on the other side, allowing Grace to crawl out onto the outside of the ship. As long as he stays close, Rocky can still see him, plus the communication they have on the radio. It's still not enough, because all he can do is watch and talk. If something goes wrong, Rocky has no way of intervening.
No, he decides. Like Grace said, there's no sense in getting into "otherwise."
"Can you still hear me?" Grace calls. It's not like they didn't trust the ship's microphone communication with the suit, but it's nice to be sure it's working in practice.
"Yes," Rocky replies as he watches him crawl out of the airlock and on to the hull. "Grace get out of ship okay?"
"Yeah, but that's not the part I was worried about."
"Rock worried about every part."
Grace chuckles, then coughs. "Don't say that. I'm terrified out here. I need you to keep me calm."
"Rocky terrified, too. Be terrified together. Comforting, question?"
"In its own way," he replies. "Okay. I tied my tethers. Problem is, there's no hooks on the top of the ship, so they're really far down. I'm afraid that if I fall, the force is gonna be too much for the tether to hold."
"Then don't fall."
"Great, thank you. I don't know why I didn't think of that."
"Sarcasm."
"I've earned it."
It's slow going, and Grace is struggling by the time he's made it halfway to to the compartment where the beetles are stored. He's breathing hard, which makes him cough, which makes him breathe harder.
The fear of falling isn't exactly helping, either. The worst part is that, since he really has no business on the nose of the ship, it was not designed to be climbed. There are no places to stop and rest along the way. He's going to have to push until he can tether himself at the very top.
"Status update," Rocky requests.
"Making progress," he says tightly. "M'so out of breath." He sounds it. "Getting dizzy."
"Focus on top of ship. Use as guide. Getting close, Rocky promise." In reality, he's closer to the top of the ship than he is to the air lock, but not by much. There's still a lot to climb. It would be difficult for Grace on a normal day. Today, they've both been performing their own superstitions: a word Grace taught Rocky to mean "a ritual one does to desperately try to prevent bad things from happening or when begging for something impossible."
By the time he reaches the top, he's exhausted. Almost completely spent, in fact.
"I gotta stop, Rock. I can't do this. I can't breathe."
"Grace is talking, Grace is breathing. Doing very very very good job. Almost done."
"I'm not almost done. I have to open this stupid hatch before I can even get to the beetles, and it wasn't exactly built for dismantling. These bolts are tight; I don't even know if I can get 'em off."
"Grace have to. Use tool."
He clamps the wrench around the first bolt and tightens the jaw around it, then begins pushing at the handle as hard as he can. He's making straining noises, a lot of them, loudly. Hopefully, that means he's succeeding.
It takes about ten minutes, but finally, the first bolt comes loose.
"I got it!" he exclaims.
"Amaze amaze amaze!" Rocky cheers. He lets him celebrate and chooses not to remind him that there are three more.
Each bolt takes longer than the last, and it's taking its toll. The burn on his arm is throbbing. His head is pounding and spinning. His arms are so weak that he's less "pushing on the wrench" and more "shoving his body into it."
But it works. After about an hour of painful effort, Grace unscrews the last bolt and the hatch pops open.
"Rocky!" he laughs. "I see--the beetles!" It's probably not a good sign that he's having to stop to breathe mid-sentence.
"Rocky big proud," he encourages. "Grace do good. Take break, now. Don't want to faint on top of ship."
"Okay." The fluid sound is so deep in his lungs that coughing doesn't clear it, just moves it around. "God, I feel like I'm drowning."
"No understand word."
"Never mind. It's gonna sound morbid if I explain it. Just. I'm really feeling the--low blood oxygen."
"Not good. Hurts, question?
Grace hesitates. "My head does. Mostly just feel like I can't--catch my breath."
Rocky really doesn't have a frame of reference for that, but it sounds miserable. Grace sounds miserable. He's sick and tired and in pain and has fever, not to mention, now stuck performing an exhausting, dangerous task that both their lives depend on. He can't even imagine how much he's suffering.
"Rocky wish we could switch places," is the closest he can get to expressing his guilt about forcing Grace to do this. Grace laughs breathlessly.
"Yeah, you'd be--a lot better at this."
"No," he insists. "Just--wish Grace didn't hurt. Wasn't sick. Wish Grace could be safe inside ship doing Rocky job instead." Grace hums.
"That's sweet. It's gonna," he chokes, gasps, recovers, "be okay." Somehow, that wasn't super reassuring. Still, the longer Grace is out there, the less time they have to work on a solution. They're already scraping Adrian's atmosphere every 90 minutes, and they're only dipping as time passes. If they don't work fast, they're going to crash land.
And die.
"Grace feel okay, question? Good rest, question?"
"Yeah. Rested long enough. M'gonna start tying these suckers to the tether so we can pull 'em in."
For a long time, Grace is quiet again. At first, he tries to keep up a little banter, to let Rocky know what he's doing as he's doing it, but he quickly stops. He has to save his air for remaining conscious as he works.
He successfully ties the first beetle to the tether and lets it down, where it bounces off the hull of the ship and remains tied down. Perfect, Rocky thinks. Grace's plan worked. He knew it would. One by one, he tosses down three of the beetles, then sags against the hull of the ship for support. His breathing is ragged and uneven, unlike anything Rocky has ever heard from him. Way beyond just heavy breathing. This is desperate.
"I'm done," he groans.
"Great! Good good good! Grace come back now. Grace rest. Take medicine drink water sleep."
"Sounds good, Rock. Here I come."
The return trip is easier, but not easy. He's no longer fighting against the ship's rotation, but he's still outside, still risking falling, especially given how weak he's feeling.
"I can't do this," he pants when he gets to the tether point about halfway up the ship. "S'too hard."
"Grace do hard things all the time," Rocky says. "Grace brave. Brave brave brave. Keep moving."
"M'so hot," he whines, earnestly whines. "Hard to move."
"So close. So so close. One more step." Grace obeys. "One more. One at time. Don't think about ship. Think about foot." Grace groans again.
Slowly, far too slowly for Rocky's liking, he makes his way back to the airlock and comes inside. He presses the button and the entrance shuts, the cabin pressurizes, and the door to the inside of the ship slides open. Rocky wouldn't be Rocky if he were standing anywhere but as close to it as he possibly can.
"Grace Grace Grace," he frets. "Grace is okay, question?"
"Mph," he hums indecipherably. He stumbles forward in the EVA suit and catches himself on the wall with his bad arm, then cries out in pain, recoiling and pulling it close to his chest.
"Grace!" Arm still cradled, he staggers to the side, looking terrifyingly like he's going to fall. "Grace careful!"
"Ugh," he groans. He overcorrects his balance by shifting it heavily to the opposite side, which, instead of sending him careening into the floor, has him hitting the wall, hard. At least he's steady, now that he has something to brace against.
"Grace is okay, question?" he repeats. "Grace can hear me, question?"
"Yeah, I hear ya," he slurs. He's desperately tugging at the helmet of the suit, trying and failing to pull it up over his head or to push it up past his chin. "Can't breathe. Need'a get this off."
"Grace can breathe. Suit pump oxygen, remember, question?"
Logic isn't reaching him. He just keeps shoving at the helmet in a frantic attempt to remove it. When he finally gets it off, he lets it clatter to the ground.
Obviously, he's not breathing any better without it, because the helmet isn't the problem. It wasn't stopping him from breathing, just making him feel entrapped and panicked. The deep, heaving breaths he tries to take when he frees himself, however, are a big problem.
"Grace breathe slow," Rocky tries to remind him as he chokes, his chest cavity rumbling with agitated fluid. Grace sways, steadying himself on Rocky's ball to keep from hitting the ground entirely as his knees give out and he sinks down against the wall to the floor. "Grace?"
He doesn't pass out entirely. Rocky knows this because when he finally manages to get the cough under control, he just sits there on the floor, back against the wall and head tipped back, breathing. It's shallow, because when he takes a breath too deep, it triggers more coughing. It's rapid because it's so shallow. Its no wonder he's not taking in enough oxygen.
"Rock," he whispers roughly.
"No need to talk yet." As much as he wants Grace to talk to him, to give him some modicum of understanding about the situation at hand or to promise him it's going to be okay, he knows he has to be the rational one right now. To put Grace's needs first, where he can. "Breathe now. Talk later." Grace nods.
He ends up dozing off after a few minutes of sitting there, and Rocky is happy to let him. Rest is good. And, if nothing else, at least he's not in pain. He's been in so, so much pain. He's been careful not to complain about it often, but Rocky can tell in the way that he protects and favors his burned arm, and in the way that he holds his chest when he coughs. He's hurting, but they can't give him pain medicine. It makes him too stupid. One wrong move, and they both die a painful, slow death.
Not that there's any pressure on him or anything.
While Grace sleeps curled up in the EVA suit on the floor--it's simply not worth the effort to change, since he's going to have to go back out as soon as Rocky finishes with the beetles--Rocky works.
First, he has to dismantle the beetle to get a feel for its parts. That... takes a while. It's complicated. There are a LOT of parts, all of them tiny. He doesn't understand it at all, but as long as he can see what wires connect to what, that's all he needs. He has to be careful, here. Not only do they have to be able to thrust them forward when Grace attaches them to the outside of the ship, they also have to correspond with the audio-driven remote Rocky made so he can steer the ship. Grace won't be able to do it--both due to illness and because he'll likely be unconscious from the centrifugal force required to escape Adrian's orbit--so it's up to Rocky, this time. Good. He's glad to be helpful. Grace is doing all this amazing work, and here he is, unable to do anything but sit in the ship and watch his best friend risk his life. It sucks. Grace taught him that word. If Grace hadn't refused to teach him the qualifiers that make the word stronger, he'd use those, but he said they're rude and ignored Rocky when he said that's why he wanted them.
All in all, it takes about three hours, a disproportionate amount of which is spent on the first beetle. After he figures it out, they go pretty quickly. The faster he works, the more time he gives Grace to do the EVA, but it's--is there an Earth word for both bad and good? Eridians have one--since Grace only has until he finishes rigging the beetles to sleep. They're getting too close to Adrian, now. Grace is going to have to go back out and place the modified beetles on the hull.
Objectively, this isn't the hardest part, but to Rocky, it sure feels like it: when he puts the final touches on the last of the three beetles (Grace said they had to leave one in tact to send their findings back to Earth), he has to wake Grace and make him go back outside. He wishes he could put it off a little longer. They don't have the time to spare.
"Grace," he calls, rolling his ball close and tapping on the xenonite lightly. "Grace wake up now."
"Ngh," he grumbles, requiring worryingly little effort to wake. "Later."
"Big apology. Big apology but Grace must wake up now. No time for later."
He blinks awake, shifting to scrub at his face before realizing that his hands are still in the thick gloves of the EVA suit.
"Ugh, hey, Rock. How long was I asleep?"
"Three hours. How Grace feel, question?"
"A little better. The sleep helped. Head doesn't hurt so bad anymore." Rocky knows that means far from "good," but he trills happily, anyway. At this point, they have to take what they can get.
"Feel ready go back out on ship?"
"Wouldn't go that far," he mutters, "but I feel like I might survive it. You finished with the beetles?"
"Yes, finish. Good connection with remote. Everything is ready."
"Great," he says. Sarcasm again. Slowly, he gets to his feet, where he remains steady enough that Rocky feels okay about it.
"Water and medicine," he reminds him. They'd brought his fever reducers, prednisone, and a pouch of water into the room with them so he could access them without having to make the trip all the way to the med bay for them, but Grace hadn't even been well enough to cross the room when he'd gotten back inside. Now is better than never, he supposes. Grace complies, drinking as much of the water as he can stomach. Not enough, but again, deal with the worst case scenario for long enough and the second worst starts to look a little brighter. When he gets back, they can get him on the fluids that go from the bag straight into his blood. He just has to get through this.
Grace examines the beetles in awe for a moment.
"I just realized, if I slept for three hours, that means you did all this that fast?"
"Yes," Rocky replies. "Apology. Would have given Grace more time to sleep, but--"
"No," he curtails, actually smiling, "it's amazing. You should be proud."
Rocky shrinks away from the compliment modestly, but trills in appreciation. His momentary joy is undercut by Grace attempting to take a deep breath to focus himself and ending up coughing again. He might be feeling better, but he doesn't sound any healthier.
"I'm nervous," Grace admits. Rocky thinks that's an understatement.
"Nervous together. Comforting, statement."
"In its own way," he repeats. "Thanks. I think I'm ready."
Well, that's a lie, but Rocky has to lie back when he says, "Rocky ready, too," so they're even. "Grace put on helmet. Time for space walk."
CHAPTER THREE!! ANOTHER EVA, PLUS SEVERAL ROCKY CRASHOUTS!!
Despite it having been stable for about 36 hours, Grace's fever starts to climb again. Armando has gone from checking it every 2 hours to every 30 minutes, and each time, the number Mary announces is higher than the last. Grace is shivering, constantly and hard. Is he awake enough to feel the discomfort, or is it just something his body is doing? When Grace is cold in the lab, he complains about it. In fact, he might complain about that more than anything else: more than headaches, more than when he accidentally hits his elbow on the corner of the benchtop, more than being sleepy or hungry or thirsty. It's one of his least favorite sensations. Maybe unconsciousness is at least giving him the small mercy of relief.
When Mary announces that his temperature has surpassed his emergency threshold of 40 and climbed to an astounding, terrifying 40.3 degrees, Rocky makes the mistake of thinking it can't get any worse than this.
He's wrong.
Suddenly, Grace's heart rate begins to skip up. Rocky senses it before the machine starts to alarm, launching Armando into immediate action. He skitters back and forth behind the xenonite, unable to sit still for panic.
"Grace?" he calls, desperate for a reply he knows isn't going to come. "Grace?!"
Then, something happens that he doesn't understand. Grace has never mentioned it and there is no Eridian equivalent. His muscles begin to tense and release, tense and release, tense and release so rapidly that his whole body is trembling. It's different than shivering. Wild, uncontrolled, and just plain wrong. His breaths come out choked, like he's being squeezed, and he's making small vocalizations unlike anything he's heard before. This is it. This is Grace dying.
Rocky squeals words of anguish that the computer can't translate. Sometimes they're not even words, just deep, crushing cries as he beats against the xenonite as if it's going to do anything. There's nothing he can do. Rocky can't fix it this time. He can't even be there next to him to offer any kind of solace as he slips away.
After the scariest minute of his life, Grace's shaking begins to calm down. Mary announces to no one that he's had what she calls a "febrile seizure" and says that the treatment is to bring down the fever, as if that hasn't been the goal since the moment Grace got sick.
"Grace is--Grace not okay," he curtails a stupid question that would go unanswered, anyway.
As his breathing and heart rate return to their new normal, which is elevated and strained, Armando leaves the med bay and returns with towels and water, a lot of water. He wets the towels and places them over Grace with the intention of cooling him down mechanically, since medicine isn't helping. Rocky can't imagine how uncomfortable this must be for Grace, already feeling as though he's freezing. Torture. It's torture. And Rocky is becoming more sure every hour that it's going to be the last thing Grace ever feels.
LAST WEEK:
Each time Grace's cough gets so bad that his breath arrests and he has to gasp for air to kick start it once more, Rocky vividly pictures him dragging Rocky's unconscious body into the airlock and letting in the hot ammonia. That same pain that Rocky had felt all over his own body when he'd broken free from the xenonite to rescue Grace, but possibly worse, because it wasn't just the atmosphere itself, but the temperature that burned. Grace has trillions of microscopic sensors all over. In his skin, his eyes, his throat, his lungs. All of them must have been overwhelmed. It should have been debilitating, impossible to push through for incapacitating pain.
But he'd done just that. Pushed through to save Rocky, because he hadn't been able to make it just a little further to get to the airlock himself. If he'd moved faster, Grace might be okay. Tried harder, been stronger, had an actual plan before he'd broken the xenonite so he wasn't just acting on fear alone--
"Rocky?" Grace calls through the speaker. Rocky realizes that in the time he's been in his guilt spiral, he's managed to move a significant distance toward the bottom of the ship. "Been a minute since I've heard your voice. Could use some words of encouragement, here."
Grace needed him then, and he'd messed it up. Grace needs him now, and he's so close to messing it up again. No matter what, he can't do that to him.
"Grace is killing," Rocky says, and Grace laughs.
"I'm what?"
"Grace has said before. Killing. Means do good."
"Killing it?" he clarifies, a grin clear in his voice. "That's--that's really funny. Thanks."
"Grace is close to where first beetle should go. Feel okay, question?"
"Could be worse," he replies, "theoretically. How's the engine comin' along?"
The conversation is making him audibly out of breath. He's terrified up there.
"Good good good, almost done." Because the Hail Mary's engine is full of taumoeba, Rocky is making a new one. Grace had been absolutely blown away at the idea that he could do that, but Rocky feels as though that's the easy job. At least he's inside. "Grace need breathe, not talk."
"Talk to me, then," he says. "Need something to--focus on."
"What Grace want Rocky to talk about, question?"
"I don't know. Anything."
Personal, he'd wanted when they'd named Adrian, planet. Something personal. So, Rocky tells him about Adrian, mate.
Grace places the first beetle, then praises Rocky about his xenonite adhesive, which sticks to the side of the ship securely and easily. At least he could make something easy.
"Grace do great. Brave brave brave. Next beetle."
"Next beetle." Grace is breathing hard, and has been for a while, and he can only walk for so long before his climbing starts to slow. Rocky doesn't say anything until he comes to a complete halt.
"Grace stop moving," he says.
"Yeah..." he replies. Rocky waits for more, and doesn't get it.
"Grace is hurting, question?" Grace flails for a second, like the ship has moved under him and he's trying to keep his balance. He's lucky that when he hits his knee, he doesn't fall off the hull. "Grace! Grace is dizzy, question?" He's been feeling that way so often, it's impressive that he's managed to keep his balance this long.
"Yeah," he says. "Ugh. Everything's, like... tilting."
"Grace is not safe," he warns. All he wants to do is tell him to sit and rest, but that can't happen up there. The faster he gets this done, the faster he can come back. If he stops walking, he risks slipping off the side. "Grace get up. Next beetle. Now."
"Rocky," he whines. "Gimme a sec."
"No. Next beetle now demand."
He coughs pitifully, deep and low and long, which isn't meant to hurt Rocky, even though it does. But the important thing is that he gets up.
When he places the second beetle, he's so dizzy that he has to lean up against it for a minute and focus on not vomiting. As the glue sets on the third beetle, Grace laughs, which ends in a soupy cough.
"We did it," he celebrates.
"Grace did it," Rocky corrects.
"You set 'em up; I knock 'em down." Rocky doesn't want him to waste the air it would take him to explain what he just said. "'M comin' back in. Finally."
"Careful. Grace stay safe."
Rocky watches him make his way up the ship. His steps are uneven and slightly meandering. He wavers from side to side because he can't tell what way's what, anymore.
"Tether lead back to door. If Grace feel dizzy, follow where tether is pulling."
"Mhm," he mumbles. "M'tryin. Vision's a little blurry."
"No need to see, only feel." He's tentatively allowing himself more hope that they might actually pull this off with each step closer Grace gets to the door. It's looking like he's going to make it until suddenly, Grace trips over his own feet and stumbles. This time, his hands are too busy trying to feel out the path of the tether for him to reach out and catch himself in time, so instead of landing on the hull, he slips off it with a guttural yell.
Rocky scans the surface of the ship to see where he might have landed and only confirms the worst: he hadn't. He's in freefall.
"Grace!" he shouts, not bothering to try to mask the terror in his voice. Grace probably can't hear it, anyway, over his own screaming. "Grace, status update!"
Silence.
“Gra--"
His desperate call is interrupted by a sound as relieving as it is deeply concerning: his scream is cut off by a choked, strangled grunt as the tether catches Grace and knocks the air out of him. Rocky waits several seconds for him to inhale, but he doesn't, not immediately. It takes another forceful bounce on the tether to get his breathing moving again. He gasps vocally. That air is released as another coughing fit, the worst he's heard yet. By the time he realizes that it's not going to pass on its own, Grace is... well, whatever the word Grace had deemed too morbid to explain yesterday, "drowning," means, it's probably pretty close to what this must feel like.
"Grace," Rocky calls, not expecting an answer. There's no way he could give one in this state. "Grace, breathe." He can't even get enough air to reply. "Lungs are bad. Breathe shallow. In as much as you can."
Grace takes a hitching double breath, which quickly turns into more coughing.
"In again. Hold for one second." Yeah, that doesn't happen. "Did not hold. Try again. In. Hold one second. Only one. Grace can do one. Not that hard." He's hoping that if he can get a rise out of him, that the urge to bicker might motivate him to get his breath back even more than, say, not passing out on the side of the ship and dying.
Grace's inhale sounds so, so painful, and strained, and it's not deep enough. However, he manages to hold it. Rocky isn't sure if it's even a whole second, but it's something.
"Amaze amaze amaze!" he cheers. "Do again. Then breathe out and hold for second."
Slowly, that seems to help. He's not breathing so deep as to agitate the fluid in his chest and cause him to choke, but now, there's a new problem. He's breathing so shallowly that his breaths are coming in uneven, rapid, wild puffs. Great. He's replaced one problem with another and swapped coughing for hyperventilating.
"Now hold two seconds," he commands.
"Can't," he manages to choke out between gasps.
"Grace is panicking, but can breathe. Breathe careful."
It takes him a while and a lot of fight, but eventually, he manages to do that, too. Now, he's actually breathing enough that Rocky isn't so afraid he's going to actually suffocate, which takes away one problem. Now, to tackle the next.
"Grace get back on ship."
"How?" he demands, voice shredded from his ordeal.
"Find something to grab." He's not completely underneath the ship, and if he gets lucky, he might be able to reach one of the handholds on the bottom. "Handles on side. Use those."
"Can't--reach that!"
"Then get closer. Swing to hull."
"If I miss, I--hit the side; I--bounce off again--can't breathe." It seems so impossible that Grace doesn't even want to try. Rocky is going to need to give him one last push.
"Grace trust Rocky question?"
"I--yeah," he says. "It's me I--don't trust."
"Well, Rocky trust Grace. And Grace trust Rocky. So do what I say. Swing tether."
"We're gonna--talk about that logic."
"Swing now."
Because he's his incredible, brave, so strong best friend and Rocky knew, just knew he could because Grace always manages the impossible when he has to, Grace swings his legs once, then twice, then more, until he's built enough momentum to reach for the ship. One more swing is going to put him at a critical point where he either successfully grabs one of the handholds, or misses, swings back with even more force, and hits the hull with no control over which way he's facing. If that happens and he hits it with his back, that's it. There's no way his lungs can withstand recovering that kind of air again.
"Grab now!" Rocky shouts, and Grace reaches out, thankfully, miraculously managing to grab the handhold and grip it tight enough to pull himself toward the side of the Hail Mary, where he's able to get a foothold, as well. That places him firmly on the ship's hull once more, where he can climb, with great effort, back up to the top. There, he's able to finally walk again. All the way to the door.
By the time the airlock pressurizes to let him into the ship, he's fallen on his hands and knees, coughing from the impact. Rocky and Grace can't both fit in the airlock at the same time, so he has no choice but to wait right outside the door. Grace rocks back into a kneeling position and reaches out to place a hand onto Rocky's ball, but doesn't look up at him. Rocky isn't sure what that means, but to be safe, he presses his claw to it from the inside.
"Grace is amaze," Rocky practically whispers. Strangely, Grace still hasn't looked up. It's not until a small drop of liquid drips down from his chin that Rocky realizes why. He's crying. That could mean so many things, and Rocky suspects that it does. No matter what,it means Grace needs him. "Grace want... hug? Question?"
He laughs soggily. He nods. Now, with motivation to do so, he gets to his feet and stumbles into the ship, dropping to his knees once more upon entrance and wrapping his arms around Rocky, who leans into it with a little tap of the xenonite as his carapace hits the panel. This had seemed like a strange human activity at first, but it's starting to grow on him. Being this close to Grace, he can hear his heart beating. He can also hear the fluid in his lungs, a low crackling noise that has to hurt.
"Grace need oxygen machine," he says softly after he's pretty sure this is starting to turn from "hug" to "falling asleep against the xenonite."
"Mhm," he murmurs. "'Kay."
He uses Rocky's ball to get to his feet and touches the wall for balance until they make it to the med bay, where Armando is practically flailing.
Grace nearly falls into the bed, completely exhausted. He's not acting like himself. He's quiet, which he never is, and still. Armando scans the probe over his forehead again while he breathes in the mask and the result makes Grace wince. 39.7 degrees Celsius. Far, far away from the normal human body temperature Rocky has been taught.
"How bad is fever?" he asks, squirming a little as Armando places the needle in Grace's arm for fluids. He knows that if a fever gets too high, things start shutting down. How close is Grace to that point?
"Uh, 40 is usually the like, uh, emergency threshold."
That's far too close for comfort.
"Bad bad bad."
"Maybe just 'bad bad.' Save that last one for later, because we're not done yet."
Right. They still have to actually get out of Adrian's orbit.
"Sleep now. Worry later."
"There is no later, Rock, we've go to move. I have so much math to do to figure out the angles for the beetle thrusters--"
"No. One hour. One hour sleep, breathe, fluids. Grace not allowed in lab until then."
Grace chuckles, which makes him cough, and now, Rocky notices something. His arm comes up to protect his abdomen, holding his torso tightly.
"Ow," he whines.
"Hurt, question?"
"I think I bruised my ribs from coughing so much. The fall from the ship really didn't help. Hurts a ton."
So, not only had his fall been terrifying and suffocating, it had been excruciatingly painful, too. And he can't take anything for it because he still has to think clearly to get them out of here.
And all of this because Grace saved him.
"Sleep. One hour better than no hours."
Grace nods. "Yeah, okay. That sounds nice. I'm... so tired."
"Rocky watch."
----
Rocky thought he could handle one hour alone.
He'd handled 46 years alone, after all, but it turns out, that's a big part of the problem. While Grace sleeps, all Rocky can think about is losing him.
His crew had gotten sick slowly. At the beginning, things had been okay. Things ran smoothly, as they were supposed to. He spent his days in his workshop, so happy. Friends popped in and out all day to request things they needed him to make, and when he made them, they were thrilled. Impressed, even. Just like Grace is, every time.
But slowly, things went wrong. The hustle and bustle of the ship calmed, and it was rarer and rarer to see his friends wandering around. No one came into his workshop to ask for favors anymore because no one was working.
The ship was set to run in shifts so everyone got to sleep and everyone had someone to watch. If it had happened one by one, he could have handled it. The loss, the pain, the confusion, the helplessness--those were his to deal with. What he wanted to do was watch them sleep, but it happened all at once, so fast. One day, everyone is okay. A week later, they're all too sick to leave their rooms.
Rocky couldn't keep up. They were sleeping longer and longer, and he couldn't watch everyone at once. His best wasn't good enough. He watched a few die. Mostly, though, what hurts is those he didn't. So, so many of them died when Rocky was watching over someone else. Rather than with a comforting presence on their chest, most died alone, afraid. He would have experienced the hostile, gnashing pain of comforting the dying 22 times over if it meant sparing them that end.
But he couldn't.
Instead, he would enter the rooms of the dead, scrape at his arm until it hurt to give them a proper goodbye, one that still wasn't enough, and try to move on to the next one. And, just to keep the ship running, because no one else was well enough to do it, he had to spend most of his time in his workshop, just keeping up with daily maintenance.
Eventually, there were no more crew to watch sleep. Because they weren't sleeping.
Rocky holed up in his workshop many days, far too depressed to move. He, too, slept longer hours, none of them restful. For a while, he thought he might be getting sick. Maybe it hurt more when he realized he wasn't.
He doesn't realize he's pacing frantically back and forth until Grace calls his name.
"Grace!" he replies quickly. "Grace is feeling better, question? How bad is fever? How bad is pain? If you need--"
"Woah," he cuts him off, pulling the mask away from his face so he can speak. "Are you okay? What's all," he gestures, because apparently, though he forced himself to stop pacing, he's still vibrating, "this about?"
"Was waiting for you to wake up."
"You do that every day, and it's never looked like this before." Rocky can't lay this burden onto him, but he also can't stop shaking. There is enough to worry about without adding his own meltdown to the list, and even if he does have to have one (which he feels he does not), the last thing he wants to do is make it Grace's burden.
The problem is that the only thing that might make it feel better is to talk about it with Grace.
"Come on, buddy. I know something's wrong."
"Everything is wrong," Rocky snaps, immediately regretting the sharpness in his tone. He hadn't intended to put it there. "Apology, I don't know--Grace has enough to--and I should be--"
"Hey." His tone is soothing and soft as he gets up from the bed to sit on the floor beside Rocky's ball. "Talk to me."
"Grace is so sick, and Rocky make worse, asking Grace to do more and more."
Grace's eyebrows crease in confusion. "You didn't ask me to do anything. We're making a plan. Together."
"Plan is bad. Plan make Grace sickness worse and worse."
"Not a whole lot we can do about that. We'll fix it when we get to safety."
Rocky almost asks the dark question that's been on his mind for the past few days, ever since Grace's fever spiked and the power went out. What if it's too late by then? He manages to stifle it, but it makes him shake anew, even worse than before.
"Rocky?" Grace asks, sounding frightened. "What did I say wrong?"
He's going to shake apart if he doesn't move, so he rocks back and forth in his ball, hoping that something, anything might distract from how overwhelming and horrifying and hopeless this is. An anxious little trill escapes his vents.
"Rock, you gotta calm down for me. I think you're having a panic attack." That's a human thing, he wants to argue. Eridians don't get those, don't have nervous systems that dump a bunch of fear chemicals into their blood for no good reason. Grace's, "You're okay," doesn't help because he's not worried about himself. "Listen. Repeat after me."
Just like when they met, before they could communicate, when Grace thought Rocky was playing a game rather than trying to show him the oxygen molecule he'd made to let him know he could breathe in the tunnel, he taps rhythmically on the xenonite in a little pattern. It's five beats long, each accompanied by a little hummed note. Rocky angles his body to one side to show Grace his confusion.
"Come on, you can do it. Repeat it."
Well, he's not exactly in a position where he wants to deny Grace anything, so if this is what he's asking him to do, this is what he'll do, though it seems like a stupid time to play a stupid game. Maybe he's building to something less stupid. Rocky taps the panel back, claw right where Grace's fingers are, in the same pattern repeating the same notes.
"You got it. Now do this one." He taps in another little pattern, this one a little longer. It really doesn't feel like they have time for this, but he complies.
By the time Grace is tapping more complex songs into the ball, Rocky finds that his thoughts have slowed down. The tapping gave him something to cut through the noise, something to focus on for long enough to snap himself back into reality. This isn't the same as what happened with his crew. They were sick, and no one knew why. Grace knows what's wrong with him, and has medicine to help. They didn't wake up. Grace is awake and tapping.
"Okay, now?" Grace asks.
"Yes," he replies honestly. "Calmer."
"Good. We're gonna get through this, okay? Together."
Rocky trusts Grace.
"Okay. Together." Grace smiles, then wrestles the IV pole out of the med bay and to the lab.
Though things are looking better, Rocky is not allowing himself to hope that they're going to stay that way.
The towels appear to have brought down the fever significantly, and it's been stable for a good while, now. Which means nothing. He's seen this before. It gets better only to get worse than it was before, and he's pretty sure that Grace can't survive worse than the seizure. Rocky feels like he can't, either. He's been occupied with those despairing thoughts for who knows how long until Mary's voice startles him back to the present.
"Blood oxygen content has been stable for 24 hours. Patient is hemodynamically stable. Fluid sounds in lungs have diminished, and breath capacity appears adequate. Requesting permission to perform spontaneous breathing trial to assess possibility of weaning patient Doctor Grace off the ventilator. Assessment will require pausing of sedative medications."
Rocky doesn't know what that means, but he hates the sound of "off the ventilator." What he's understanding is this: Grace's condition has not changed in a day. There is nothing left to do. He's past the point of hope for recovery, and Mary has giving up.
Meanwhile, it's been... so many hours since Rocky last slept. He can feel it creeping up. He's bought himself some time by not moving, which has kept his body temperature lower for longer, but it can't last forever. The timing couldn't be worse. Grace is going to die, but he can't move his legs. Unconsciousness is imminent, and there's nothing he can do to control it. What if Grace dies while Rocky is asleep? Worse, what if he's in pain the entire time Rocky is out?
He should have thought of this earlier. Before his limbs were paralyzed by sleep. Now, his best friend is going to be gone before he wakes, and he can't even rub his claw over the ridges in his arm to give a proper goodbye.
"Permission to begin spontaneous breathing trial," Mary repeats. Rocky has to give him the one small mercy of not prolonging his suffering while Rocky can't watch. If this is what Mary is deeming is best, then he has to trust her, because he has nothing else to trust.
"Permission is granted," he slurs drowsily. He can barely hear the beeping of the monitors.
"Proceeding with treatment plan. Sedative medications will be paused in order to begin spontaneous breathing trial."
Rocky keens until he can't anymore.
LAST WEEK:
Grace's temperature perception is becoming inconsistent, and whichever way it swings, it's wrong. Two hours ago, he was shivering, curled into himself in his cardigan and under his quilts, unable to get warm as his fever climbed.
Now, his fever is a bit more stable, but he's sprawled on the floor of the lab, limbs positioned as far away from one another as possible in a position he called "starfish," complaining about the heat. Rocky isn't sure which he hates more. At least when he'd been cold, he was able to apply clothes and blankets for comfort. Now, however, he's stripped down to the strange clothes that go underneath his normal clothes and is still suffering. Not to mention, he's sweating, losing water and salts that he doesn't have to spare.
Things have not been going well. He thought that they would get easier now that Grace is safe inside, but turns out that doing a bunch of rushed math is almost as bad as an EVA, with as much pain as he's in and as high as his fever has climbed. Rocky feels so guilty for it, but he'd been asked to time Grace's break to ensure that it lasted no more than ten minutes, and that has passed. He's pretty sure that in those minutes, Grace has managed to fully fall asleep.
"Grace," he calls. "Grace is awake, question?"
"Mhm," Grace mumbles. Rocky waits patiently for him to move.
"If awake, then Grace open eyes."
"You can't tell that my eyes are closed."
"Grace just admit."
"Hm. Well played." He groans as he forces himself to sit up.
"Feel less hot, question? Lie on floor help?"
"Not really," he admits, turning back to the laptop, "but I can see straight again. The numbers aren't as... wavy." Rocky trills anxiously, and Grace reaches out, tapping his ball with his whole hand like he does sometimes when Rocky is feeling upset or nervous. He frowns at his math. "Don't let me take another break. It's hard to remember where I left off."
"Grace need breaks or get grumpy."
"I'm already pretty grumpy."
"No, not grumpy. Tired and sick and hurting." Grace hums in indifference. "Grace should eat. Been many many hours since last eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Grace is hungry. Stomach make weird sounds."
"Yeah, that happens when humans get nauseous. Sometimes means you need to eat, sometimes means you're gonna throw up."
"Same noise means opposite things, question? Inefficient. Stupid." Grace huffs a puff of air through his nose in amusement. "Grace drink water. Voice sound bad. Rocky can barely understand."
"Bossy," Grace teases. That's a good sign. His demeanor has been shifting around a lot ever since the second EVA. At times, he's smiling and joking, if still weak, but others, he can barely speak through the pain and discomfort. Still, he takes the pouch and sips. Not much, but something. The attempt is reassuring, in any case. When he shifts his attention back to the screen, his mood drops. "Ugh, am I the dumbest person alive?"
"Grace is smartest person Rocky has ever met," he replies honestly. "Except for Adrian. Adrian is smarter."
"Think we could give them a call?" he jokes. He knows that's not possible. Then, he sighs. "Sorry. I'm just frustrated. Nothing is making sense."
"Impatient. Fever is bad, pain is bad, math is hard. Stupid to be angry at self."
"Yeah, okay. I'll ease up." He coughs, gripping his ribs, then groans in pain. Helplessness grips Rocky in an icy vice, able to do nothing other than watch Grace writhe in pain trying to simply breathe. Just like Grace does when Rocky is uncomfortable, he rolls beside Grace as he's doubled over trying to catch his breath and taps against the front panel of the ball. At first, he doesn't realize what Rocky is attempting to do, and thinks he wants something from him.
"Gimme a sec."
"No," he argues. "Rocky tap ball like Grace. Provide comfort."
"Oh," he realizes, uncurling slightly. "You're... patting me."
"Helping, question?"
"Yeah. I can't really feel it, but the support is nice."
"Rocky is cheerleader."
Grace laughs. "I don't remember teaching you that word."
"You did."
"I believe you." After a moment, he sits up straight and hones his attention in on the computer. Not long after that, he coughs until he brings up the water, plus a thick sludge from his lungs that he spits into the (wildly underutilized) trash basin. It's followed by pain sounds.
"Grace is leaking," Rocky accuses worriedly. Grace nods.
"Happens," he pants, barely able to catch his breath. "Body's fighting the infection."
"Good good good," Rocky celebrates, feeling more hopeful than he has in hours. "Grace fight infection. Lungs get better."
"Not... quite that simple. Makes it really," he inhales heavily, "hard to breathe."
Wait, so there's no winning? "Confusing," he's used as a descriptor for the human body before. When Grace gets nauseous from not eating, which makes eating less appealing. When he cuts his finger in the lab and faints at the sight of his blood, preventing him from being able to get up and treat the wound. This, though, this is worse than that. "Confusing" doesn't encompass how maddening it is.
Rocky has a thousand questions, but the most important one, and the one he asks, is, "Hurts, question?"
Grace nods, wiping sweat from his forehead. Rocky pats the ball again, and Grace leans back against it, completely exhausted.
"This's good," he murmurs. "Nice and cool."
"Rocky atmosphere hot to Grace."
"Xenonite's a good insulator." He does seem a little more relaxed and comfortable than he has in a while. "Do you mind?"
"Grace lean against Rocky ball," he can't say quickly enough. Finally, something he can do that can provide a little comfort. "As long as need."
"Hm."
Leaning against the xenonite does seem to help. The next time Armando checks his temperature half an hour later, it's a little cooler. Not by much, but Grace says he will "take a win where he can get it," so Rocky doesn't move. Not even as the proximity makes the sound of his rapid heart and crackling lungs overbearingly loud, nor as his coughing reverberates inside the ball so badly that he can practically feel the vibration in his carapace. That's a small price to pay for Grace's comfort. So what if it's all he can hear? It's all he'd be thinking about, anyway.
-----
The small reduction of his body temperature appears significant, because Grace perks up for a few hours. He's actively working, not erasing so many numbers, not pounding on the sides of his head with the palms of his hands anymore.
"I actually think I'm getting somewhere," he says happily.
"Is great!" Rocky forces. The sounds coming from his chest are uncomfortable, but he hasn't seen Grace this optimistic in days. He settles down in his ball to ride out the noise.
"You okay?" he asks. "Seem a little quiet. When was the last time you slept?"
Hm. Maybe that's it. It's been a while. Everything is starting to feel overwhelming because he's exhausted. Eridians can't really control when they sleep. He's not sure how he's managed to stave it off this long, but yes, Grace is right. He needs sleep.
But how could he possibly sleep at a time like this?
Apparently, he ponders the question for too long, because Grace scoots away from the ball.
No. That's not right. The ball was helping Grace's fever, so there is absolutely no circumstance under which he should be scooting away from the ball.
"Grace no move!"
He startles a little, because it comes out more intensely than he intends.
"Sorry?"
"Fever will go back up. Bad bad bad. Stay with Rocky."
"You need to sleep. I know you're worried, but I'll be okay. Now's a good time, really. I'm feeling a little better. I can watch you while I work."
"Grace should not be alone."
"Ah, come on. I'm not alone. I've got Armando."
"Robot arm is useless."
"Sounds like someone is grumpy angry stupid," he teases. "You're not fooling me, Rock. Just go get on your bed. I can see you from here."
"Rocky sleep in ball, then."
Grace blinks.
"Why?"
He... doesn't know. Because he'll be by Grace's side faster if something goes wrong? To do what, pat him? He's just as helpless in his ball as he is in his bulb, but he can't bear to separate himself from Grace's side right now. Before he can try to find a way to vocalize these thoughts through the grumpy angry stupid filter, Grace is scooting back toward him.
"Okay."
"Okay what, question?"
"Okay, you can sleep in your ball, if you want. I don't get it, but I don't have to. If it makes you feel better, that's good enough for me."
"And Grace will stay? Not move?"
"I mean, I can't promise I won't move at all, since I have, like, a bladder. But I'll stay."
"Relief," he replies. "Stay next to Rocky, get better."
"Thanks. Get some rest, buddy. I'll watch."
Rocky settles in, telling himself he'll wake as fast as possible to get back to Grace.
-----
Waking is always a little unsettling for Eridians. His senses cut in before his control over his limbs, which leads to one vulnerable minute in which he is conscious, but paralyzed. That's why it's best to have someone sit on your chest. Immediate reassurance that you're safe.
It's been 46 years since someone has sat on his chest while he slept, and he hasn't had a single wake cycle that hasn't begun with terrified immobility since. He never gets used to it and won't until he can get back home. Adrain is four times his size. No one makes him feel safer than they do.
While Grace can't sit on his chest, Rocky has learned to identify different cues to remind himself that he's not alone. First of all, Grace is always making some kind of sound. Whether he's working (and talking to himself) or sleeping (and somehow still talking to himself), humans are noisy. He likes that, now.
The first noise he has learned to hone in on is the beating of Grace's heart, steady and omnipresent. When he listens for that, he's quickly reminded that he cannot soothe himself until he can move again by telling himself that everything is okay and everyone is safe, because that's not true. Grace's heartbeat is very fast again, faster than earlier.
Rocky's claw twitches, and he clenches and unclenches his fist.
Thankfully, he's still leaning against his ball, just as he'd promised, but he's not as okay as he'd said he would be when Rocky woke up. He's working on his computer, but his breathing is loud and rumbling and fast. He doesn't need to know much about human biology to know that isn't healthy.
Rocky kicks one leg, then another, then another, all with a clicky clacky sound that gets Grace's attention. At least it means he's awake.
"Rocky," he greets, voice low and wrecked. "You awake, now?"
It takes another few seconds of shaking out his limbs, but he replies in the affirmative, which makes Grace smile.
"Good. Missed you." Something, whether it's the fever or the stress or the exhaustion or the fear, has been making Grace a little emotional, lately.
"Rocky miss Grace, too," he says. "Grace voice sound worse. Feel worse, question?"
"Not so bad," he promises, but that's a lie if he's ever heard one. "Fever's up a little."
Yeah, that's obvious in the way he's barely sitting up of his own accord. And, great. He's shivering again.
"Grace is cold, question? Because of fever?"
"Yeah. Freezing."
"Then why Grace not use blankets? Why Grace still lean against ball, question?"
"Fever needs to go down." His teeth are clicking together fast fast fast.
"Uncomfortable."
"Doesn't matter. I need to think."
Once again, Grace is putting his own needs last.
"How is math going, question?"
"I was onto something for a while, I thought. Now it all just kind of looks like alphabet soup." He knows both those words individually.
"No understand word combination."
"Mixed together. Nonsense."
"Hm. Soup is wrong. Grace has some sense."
He laughs. "On a good day, I guess."
"Keep working. Doing great. Grace is so smart. Rocky believe in Grace."
"Hey," he chuckles with a tired smile. "Now those are some words of encouragement."
With that, he turns his attention back to the task at hand.
------
The math is going well. Grace is getting worse.
As time goes on, soreness from the fall sets in, making him too stiff to move, but also making it hard to sit in one position for long for the pain. He's exhausted and wants to lie down, but he can't breathe when he's anything but upright. Cold and hot flashes wash over him in a torturous cycle, but he's damp with sweat no matter what. The fever makes it difficult to focus, and when he is focusing, it hurts his head and eyes.
"This is the worst," Grace more or less whines, voicing exactly what Rocky is thinking. He's been rationing his complaints, trying to remain as positive as he can when he can. The fact that he's complaining means that the discomfort is peaking again.
"Agree agree agree," Rocky says. "Grace take break if need."
"Need, but can't. I'll fall asleep."
Frustration. Anger. Fear. Rocky taps the ball and sings to self soothe just like Grace taught him, and Grace taps back with a matching melody. Oxygen deprived, Grace tries to allow himself a deep breath, either forgetting or ignoring the fact that he can't. It ends as Rocky anticipates it will: the fluid in his lungs shifts around, choking him. It appears as though that's gotten worse in the time that Rocky was asleep. He tries not to think about how scary that must have been for Grace, to be getting less and less air, feeling dizzier and achier and more exhausted, all alone.
He leans over the trash bin and coughs until he brings up more of the sludge from his chest with a horrible, pained gag. The sound bounces around Rocky's ball, a devastating cacophony of agony and despair.
"Ugh," he groans. "Sorry, Rock. This must sound disgusting. I can move, if it's grossing you out." So long as the ball is helping his fever, Grace will not be going anywhere.
"If Grace move, Rocky chase."
His laugh is so wheezy it's barely recognizable as mirth.
"For somebody that says he doesn't get humor, you're funny." He shifts his posture upward a little.
"Keep Grace happy, question?"
"Yeah. Keeping me happy."
-----
For the most part, Grace asks for quiet. He's having enough trouble staying focused already, and his fevered mind can't filter out distractions like he usually can. Every once in a while, he'll say something--a reassurance that he's doing okay, a complaint that he's not, a plea for encouragement--but mostly, it's silence. The only thing keeping Rocky from losing it entirely is the clacking of his keyboard and the squeaking of his dry erase marker on the board.
So, when that stops, he notices. Immediately.
"Grace," he prompts after it becomes clear that this lack of movement is more than just Grace thinking. "Grace is awake, question?"
Silence.
"Grace."
He's slumped bonelessly against the ball, chin to his chest.
"Grace fall asleep, question?"
"Hm?" he intones, head bobbing forward. "No. M'awake."
"Ignore Rocky, question?"
"I... What?"
"I call your name three times. No answer."
"Huh. Maybe I did fall asleep for a second. I didn't notice." He forces stiff muscles to cooperate so he can sit up. "Think I need to take a lap."
Rocky knows what that means. It's something Grace does when he's been awake too long but doesn't want to sleep yet. A stupid walk around the perimeter of the lab. This... seems like a bad time for that. He's barely tolerating half lying, half sitting on the floor, motionless. Is this really worth the energy?
"Idea is bad. Grace is too tired."
"That's why I need to move. Wake myself back up."
Just getting to his feet makes him dizzy enough that he has to steady himself on a benchtop for balance. That should be enough exertion for him in his condition, but he's stubborn. He pushes himself to walk, clumsy and slow. By the time he returns to his pillow nest on the floor, he's making an effort to cover up how hard he's breathing. That's pointless. Rocky can hear his racing heart and crackling lungs. He can't hide anything from him.
"There," he breathes, trying to sound casual. "Awake." He coughs, lips clamped tight as he attempts to control it. He always tries to hide things from Rocky when he's made a stupid decision.
"Grace drink water."
"Can't keep it down," he says breathlessly. "I really don't want to throw up again."
"Have to do something. Body distressed."
"Just... gimme a second." He leans forward, pressing his forehead to the xenonite ball, breathing slowly.
He should have just drank the water, because he coughs until he throws up stomach acid, anyway.
Through sheer power of will, he manages to refocus. It comes in spurts--between coughing and wallowing--but, because Grace is brilliant, it's enough.
"Think I'm gettin' close to the end," he finally announces, slurring his words at the edges. "Stuff's addin' up."
He's squinting at the board, like he's trying to make sense of it. And he does it for a long time.
"Grace see okay, question?"
"Yeah... Just. Having trouble. Remembering."
"Math is on computer and on board. Can't remember, question?"
He nods slowly. "Need'a... sec... b'cs... j's a 'lil...d'zzy..."
"Grace need say word better. Rocky can't understand."
"Mmphng," is the reply, even less coherent than the garbled attempt at a sentence. Then, he goes limp, slumping down the side of the ball and hitting the floor on his burned arm. He doesn't react at all, but Rocky sure does.
"Grace! Grace hurt arm! Grace wake up!" Usually, pain is enough to wake him from even the deepest sleep. When he bumps his burn wrong in his bed, he always jerks upright, gasping. Something is wrong.
His sleep is short. Just a minute later, he slowly wakes up, hissing in pain and clutching his arm.
"That hurt," he manages through gritted teeth. "What happened?"
"Grace fall asleep in middle of speaking. Scary." He scrubs his face with his hands.
"Oh. I... don't think that was sleeping. I think I'm passing out. Little different."
"Not good," he guesses.
"No. It might keep happening until my fever comes down."
"Bad bad bad?"
"I think so, bud." He leans his head back against Rocky's ball. The fever isn't going anywhere, at this point. This is just for comfort, so Rocky presses against the same spot. "I'm awake now. I should explain the math while I'm still lucid."
"Grace take five minutes."
"Mhm."
The ship dips a little closer to Adrian's surface.
------
Grace spends the next two hours slipping in and out of consciousness.
When he's up, he's teaching. When he's not, he lies on the floor, sweaty and unresponsive.
But it's the in-between states that are the worst.
Sometimes, he's mostly awake, but just out of it enough to be frustrated and impatient with his slow, muddled thoughts. Others, he's mostly unconscious, just aware enough to know he's supposed to be doing something important that he's failing to do. His emotions are everywhere, rolling between happy to be conscious and angry or very, very sad that they're here at all.
Rocky pats his ball as Grace coughs up another glob of sludge. When he's caught his breath as much as he can, he presses the palms of his hands to his eyes, shoving his glasses up and out of the way. His breathing is ragged.
"Can't keep doing this," he rasps for the--Rocky has stopped counting how many times he's said it. "Head's killing me."
Rocky hasn't heard that expression before.
"Means bad pain?"
"Really bad." He coughs again.
"Lungs bad pain, too."
"It's all bad. Feel really bad. Really sick." Rocky's carapace hits the bottom of the ball in dismay. "How are you holding up?"
Rocky hesitates. "Why ask if Rocky is okay, question? Grace is in very much bad pain. Focus on Grace."
"You're healing, too. Plus, I'm sure this stuff is hard on you. I want to know."
"Good," he says, referring only to his physical healing to keep himself from feeling like he's lying to him. "Feel good."
"Would you tell me if you didn't?" Rocky hesitates. Lazily and clumsily, Grace mimics the motion Rocky had showed him when they first found one another. "Only us, remember? Gotta take care of each other."
It's enough to break him. "Scared. Feel very scared."
It is, he thinks, in its own way. Grace sits up, but looks down. He might be crying.
"What if I got everything wrong?" he asks. "If I can't do this, we die. I'll be the reason Earth dies, Erid dies, everyone dies."
"No. Sickness is reason, not Grace. If math is wrong, then sickness is reason." That doesn't do much. "But math is not wrong."
"How do you know?"
"I trust Grace." He sniffles. So he is crying. "And Grace trust Rocky." Crying makes Grace breathe weird, and it's not good for the cough. "Rocky understand beetles math. Grace explain well."
"I was incoherent," he replies. "There's no way you got all that."
"Rocky is smart," he brags. "And good good good pilot. Not like Grace."
He huffs out a laugh. "Did we die?"
"No."
"Then I was good enough."
"Yes. Rocky is teasing."
"I know, buddy."
It's time. They have to get to the control room so Rocky can get them out of here. Maybe the math isn't 100% clear, but he's pretty sure it's good enough, and Grace intentionally left a little fuel so they have some wiggle room to correct any mistakes. He simply can't bear to push him any further than he already has. Every time he passes out and wakes up again, he's a little less present. He's got a feeling that even if he were to keep explaining, he wouldn't get much more useful information out of it, so it's better to just let him rest. In fact, he doesn't have a choice, because Grace's hand falls from the panel where he'd been resting it and he blinks back out of awareness.
They have to go. But what's ten minutes?
------
Turns out, ten minutes is a mistake.
Grace sleeps hard. It's not like the other faints he's been experiencing, which only last a few seconds to minutes at a time. This is worse. For a horrifying moment, Rocky is left alone to wonder whether he's going to wake up at all, but as if to swoop in once again and save him from his anxious thoughts, Grace shifts, groaning. He's awake once more.
Sort of.
He's fighting to sit up, lying on the floor in his blanket nest nearly curled up in a ball, shaking. He doesn't speak, just stares, looking around the room like he's never seen it before. Grace can only see what his eyes are pointing at, so he's moving his head frantically, fearfully. As he does so, his heart rate begins to increase at an alarming speed.
"Grace?" Rocky calls. "Something is wrong, question?"
"Stratt," he replies, voice tight and fearful. A new word for Rocky. "She gave me--something, and--I don't--where--and I can't--remember--"
This is something new. He's desperately worked up and terrified out of his mind, scrambling to sit up. His breathing is so fast that he immediately starts coughing again, but this time, he's not lucid enough to understand what's happening.
"Grace had nightmare," he tries to reassure. "Awake, now. Not real."
"No!" he snaps. Rocky flinches. He's seen Grace have nightmares before, some of them pretty intense. It's not uncommon for him to toss and turn, or even to shoot up in bed, sweating and breathing hard for several seconds until he recognizes where he is and calms down, but this time, he's not coming to his senses. The fever probably has something to do with that. He's disoriented and can't think straight.
"Grace is safe." The truth won't do him any favors right now. "Rocky keep Grace safe."
"Where--I don't know--where are we?"
Rocky freezes. Even the worst of his nightmares haven't done that. He always comes back when he hears Rocky's voice.
"We are on Hail Mary."
That... has the opposite of his intended effect. Rather than soothing him, it devolves his mental state deeper into panic. His heart is beating faster than it does even when he's exercising hard, and he's coughing more than he's getting a full breath.
"Calm down! Will hurt self!"
"No! No, I can't do it!"
As much as he wants to help, he can't speak for fear of making this worse, since it seems like that's the only thing he's been doing. He watches as Grace notices the thin tube from the IV in his arm and his panic grows, immediately clawing at it.
"Grace no remove!" Rocky shouts. "Medicine is helping! Helping!"
That doesn't stop him from ripping it out of his arm. Blood spurts out of the hole in his skin where the cannula had been, then begins rolling down his arm with every rapid heartbeat. Rocky screams. He's hurting himself in his wild terror, and now, clambering desperately to his feet.
"Grace lie down! Will fall and get hurt!"
"I won't go," he chokes. "I can't!"
Far too late, by Rocky's standards, Armando rolls in at the sound of the commotion.
"Sounds like you're having an argument," Mary's voice announces, and Rocky could scream again.
"No argument! Grace need help!"
"What is that?!" he demands, backing away from the robot until his back hits the wall and his strength gives out, head bobbing forward as he sinks down against it.
"Physical distress detected. Doctor Grace, please remain calm." As the arm attempts to touch him, he continues to thrash, shoving the hand out of the way like it's trying to kill him. He probably thinks it is. "Doctor Grace, if you cannot calm down, a sedative will be administered."
A syringe is raised. He jumps to his feet, where his balance is so off-kilter that he stumbles forward, knocking hard into the benchtop with his hip. It has to hurt, but he's so scared that he doesn't react. His eyes remain trained on the syringe.
"Don't do it!" he cries. He's fighting for his life, throwing things, hiding behind benches, shoving chairs to create distance between him and Armando.
"Grace, robot is helping! Do not fight robot!"
The lack of air is beginning to get to him. He can't take in enough oxygen to support his pounding heart, and he begins choking again, gagging on fluid. It's too much. Too much strain on his so, so sick body, and he collapses forward, head hitting the floor with a sickening thump. All he can do is sob and squirm as Armando holds him down, pinning his chest to the floor to keep him still while the sedative is injected through the side of his neck. Watching him fight until he goes still is the worst thing Rocky has ever seen.
Armando rearranges Grace's limbs so he's lying flat, so he doesn't wake up in more pain. That's nice. It's what Rocky would do if he could touch him, but it's not enough. He doesn't put his pillow under his head, and Grace loves that. Rocky would. He doesn't cover him with his quilt, and Grace is shivering without it. Rocky would.
Instead, once he's good and unconscious, Armando drags Grace's limp body to the med bay and places him onto the bed, strapping him down to immobilize him. He replaces his IV to administer more medicine and cold fluids. Rocky chitters anxiously, torn between desires. All he wants to do is watch Grace sleep. He needs someone to keep him safe, and he doesn't trust the stupid robot arm to do that. Eridians would never, ever leave someone to sleep alone while they're so critically sick and confused and upset.
On the other hand, he knows what he should do. Now is the perfect time. Grace is strapped down, more secure in the bed than he would be in his chair in the command room. He's unconscious, unable to experience the fear of gradually passing out from the centrifugal force, the pain of his bruised ribs being shoved against the restraints of his seat, the panic of the what little breath he has being forced out of his lungs as the gravity crushes them. Armando can monitor his vitals and treat him as fit. By all means, it's the best case scenario.
But he's alone.
And so is Rocky.
It's not really a debate. It's a sacrifice. And there's no sacrifice he wouldn't make for Grace, nor Grace for him. He refuses to say goodbye as he turns and runs from the med bay toward the control room by himself.
When Rocky wakes up after Adrian, he's relieved they're both alive, but immediately knows that something is off with Grace. He's having trouble breathing, sleeping a lot, and spiking fevers. As much as Grace wants to blame it on lung irritation from the ammonia in Rocky's atmosphere, Rocky knows he's downplaying it, and it's not going to work.
However, before he can actually do anything about it, the ship's power goes out. Taumoeba have gotten into the fuel and eaten all the astrophage, leaving them with no choice but to steal from the beetles.
Which are on the outside of the ship.
Which means two EVAs and a lot of lab work for Grace, all while his condition declines from what's quickly turning into a serious health problem. All Rocky can do is make sure he has what he needs and try to take care of him as best he can from afar, hoping they can get to safety before Grace's health is too fragile to recover.
Rocky knows Grace's respiration rate as well as he knows the rhythm of a ticking clock. It's constant background noise, just like his heartbeat. The expansion and contraction of his lungs, once a foreign, windy sound that made him feel like he was always in a storm. Now, it's a sort of white noise that he intentionally listens for when Grace is quiet for too long, focused or sleeping. It's a convenient little reminder that Grace is alive.
For the past 46 hours, the noises of Grace's biological functions have been overshadowed by the sounds of machines.
Rocky hates it. Every heartbeat is eclipsed by a mechanical beeping where the medical robot is tracking its too rapid, too weak rhythm. His breaths are being controlled by a tube that's pumping air in and out while his body is too weak to do it. Instead of the rapid tapping of fingernails on the benchtop as Grace thinks, he's left to fixate on the drip of fluids in a bag being injected through a cannula into his far too hot bloodstream. He hasn't made a sound of his own since the horrifying thump of his head hitting the floor when he collapsed.
The worst part is that he should have seen this coming sooner. No, worse than that: he did, but they didn't have a choice. Grace was sick, getting worse fast, and though both of them knew it, there wasn't a moment to spare to treat it, not without ensuring both their deaths. It was better, in Grace's opinion, to give them a fighting chance and deal with the illness later. Rocky hadn't known how bad it was going to get, and foolishly agreed.
And now he's here, in the medical bay, barely clinging to life, and Rocky has no idea what's going to happen. Not for the first time today, he drops down impatiently, his carapace clunking against the bottom of the ball in despair. Then, he regrets that, too.
"Grace sleep," he calls again. He does that after every time he loses his composure and makes some sort of sound of anguish, whether that's his body or his claws or just plain saying it aloud. He hopes Grace can hear him, and if he can, he doesn't want him to feel rushed to wake before he's ready just because Rocky is desperate for him to move again. "Rocky still watching. Rocky no go anywhere."
-------
LAST WEEK
Echolocation kicks in before anything else. Before pain, before olfactory sensation, before rational thought: it's a general sense of awareness of his surroundings.
That means that the first thing Rocky is aware of when he wakes up after saving Grace is that Grace saved him, too.
"Grace," he calls, but Grace is sleeping. Just before he reaches out to tap tap tap the xenonite and wake him, he realizes that he can do one better and hops in his ball. Though he's wobbly and it's a bit tiring, he's strong enough, finally, to roll right up next to him. "Grace?"
"Rock," he mumbles, stretching. Grace always wakes up stupid. "Would you give me a chance, please, to sleep a little--?" He trails off, looks at the xenonite behind him, and looks back to Rocky. He trills musically. The computer doesn’t translate. Whatever feeling this is, they've never had occasion to define it between their languages.
Grace throws his arms around the ball, but immediately draws away, hissing in pain. It startles him.
“Grace okay, question?”
“Me?” He laughs. “Yeah, just a little burn. Are YOU okay? You’ve been out for days.”
“Rocky still tired, still weak, but healing. Okay.”
“It’s so good to hear your voice, bud. I’m so relieved.”
Another happy little trill. Grace wipes away a tear. He’s pretty sure they’re the same emotion.
“Did we… find predator?”
Grace grins, then motions for Rocky to follow him into the lab.
When he sees it, he’s speechless. It’s incredible what Grace has managed to do in so little time. Dozens of containers of budding taumoeba colonies line the storage wall, enough to study for a long, long time, plus have enough left over to save both their stars. Rocky has all kinds of questions, and the teacher in him is thrilled to answer.
Grace coughs, a sound that’s been getting increasingly familiar throughout their little tour. Rocky has heard him cough before, obviously: dry air, and all the times he’s choked on coffee, but this is different. Persistent and painful-sounding.
“Grace is okay, question? Cough a lot.” He waits for Grace to stop, and when he finally replies, he’s a little breathless.
“Just a little irritation in my lungs from the ammonia. It’ll go away in a few days.”
“Hurts, question?”
“Don’t worry about that. What do you think of my taumoeba farm? I was kind of expecting more of a reaction, to be honest.”
“Is great!” he chirps. “Amaze amaze amaze!”
“Thank you. Now, let’s get you something to eat, huh? You’ve got to be hungry.”
“Yes. Grace eat, too.”
Rocky follows Grace to the dormitory, where he prepares a hot burrito as Rocky gets his own meal ready. Weird that precooked human food needs to be heated up when it doesn’t actually change the nutritional value. Grace has explained to him over and over that it’s just about the experience of eating, but it still seems like unnecessary work.
He’s so relieved to see Grace again that he isn’t even bothered by his chewing and digestion sounds. Neither of them speak it aloud, but he’s sure Grace felt the same fear when he found Rocky collapsed and burning that Rocky did when Grace passed out in the command room.
The relief is undercut by something, though, and Rocky can’t quite pinpoint it. There’s a vague but ominous wrongness afoot. He scans his surroundings to see if he can find it. Nothing on the ship is beeping or making otherwise concerning noises, so that’s good. Nothing shaking or falling apart. Nothing obvious at all, really.
“Whatcha thinking about?” Rocky refocuses. Grace is looking at him. “Feeling okay?”
“Yes,” he replies. “Feel good.” Grace coughs again, and that’s when it hits him. “Grace heartbeat is fast.”
“Is it?” he asks lightly, unconcerned. “Hm. I’m still healing, too. We both need some rest, I think.”
“Agree. Grace sleep?”
“Only if you will.” Rocky hesitates, nervous. “Want me to watch you? I don’t mind.”
“No. Grace need sleep. Is okay.”
“You sure?”
“Maybe just… stay awake until Rocky sleep?”
Grace nods. After a week of helplessness, he seems relieved to have a task.
“Of course. Get some rest. I’ll be here.”
Rocky settles down and falls into a much needed sleep.
——
When he wakes, Rocky is stronger, but Grace isn’t feeling well.
He sleeps for 10 hours before Rocky is concerned enough to wake him.
“Grace,” he calls, tapping on the panel. “Grace wake up.” It takes a little effort, but eventually, he rouses, rubbing his face tiredly.
“Mmph,” he groans as he stretches. “Hey, Rock. How do you feel? Did sleep help?”
“Yes. Feel good.” Grace seems content, humming happily before rolling over and bundling the blanket tighter around him. “Grace wake up. Sleep long time already.”
“In a minute.”
Grace says that sometimes, so Rocky waits patiently for him to muster up the will power to get up. He sleeps another hour.
When he finally does get up, he agrees to a cup of coffee, but doesn’t want breakfast. He claims he isn’t hungry.
“Been too many hours since Grace last eat. How not hungry?”
“I don’t know. Just feeling a little nauseous. I’ll eat something when I’m a little more awake.” He coughs into his elbow and it makes Rocky nervous, but Grace seems okay otherwise, so maybe he’s being sensitive. “I have some work to get done, if you’re up to sitting with me.”
“Yes! Rocky watch. Want know what Grace been working on.”
Grace grins. “I have so much to tell you.”
Despite Grace’s concerns, Rocky ends up feeling bored just sitting and wants to work on making some new taumoeba farm containers. He insists they have enough, but that’s never enough. They need backups. They need backup backups. Rocky will make sure they have all they need and more.
For a while, they work in silence. It's so, so nice to be back to this, Grace at the benchtop and Rocky in his bulb, big science. However, Rocky can't tune out the noises Grace is making, and not because they're bothersome. Chewing annoys him. Tapping annoys him. This--this is something else.
The cough is bad. Grace writes it off as just a little irritation, and sometimes it seems like maybe that's acceptable, but others, he's not so convinced. Sometimes, it sounds like he's struggling to get it under control, or like he's laboring to catch his breath when he finally does so. It's frequent, even more frequent when he tries to stifle it behind closed lips. Whether that's to keep Rocky from worrying or because his chest clearly aches, as evidenced by the absent rubbing of his knuckles against the middle of it, he's not sure, but it makes things worse.
"Grace should not do that," he finally says when he can't take it anymore. Grace looks up, pen balanced between his thumb and his forefinger, confused.
"Do what?"
"If Grace need clear lungs, just cough. Stop trying make sound quieter. Makes it worse."
He frowns. "Oh. I didn't realize I was." Turning his attention back to the computer. "I'll be more careful."
He isn't.
Grace would think it's beyond nitpicking if he told him this, but the sound of Grace's cardigan rubbing against his skin is also upsetting him. It's been doing so for the better part of two hours, rapid and rhythmic. He's shaking, something that has been explained to him as a reaction to the cold. It normally doesn't worry him, but then again, there's usually a clear cause, and it stops after he puts on his cardigan. Now, however, he's wearing that and sitting under his quilt, plus gripping his mug of hot coffee in both hands, and he's still cold. Rocky doesn't know what that means, but he silently notes it as odd.
The final thing is his posture. Every once in a while, he puts down his coffee to massage one shoulder or to pinch the bridge of his nose. It means tension, which means pain. It's not abnormal for him to do that absently, like he's doing now--Grace isn't always the best at receiving signals from his body when he focuses--but he's doing it a lot, and they haven't been working that long. Again, nothing so strange as to bring it up and risk another argument, but something to log away. He's becoming a detective, piecing together pieces of a puzzle. Problem is, he's got no idea what the picture is supposed to look like.
They sit like that, Grace silently working, oblivious to the fact that Rocky is scrutinizing him, and Rocky, secretly scrutinizing him, for another two hours before Grace groans, tossing his pen down and leaning forward to put his forehead to the benchtop. Rocky turns toward him, questioning, but his eyes are shut.
"Grace okay, question?"
"Yeah, fine," he replies. "Just a headache."
Maybe that's why he's been acting so weird. He's in pain and exhausted. Perhaps it's time to pause.
"Grace take break."
"Yeah. I think I might go see if Armando can give me something for it."
That, too, is what Grace would call a red flag: something that sticks out as a warning that something isn't right and that if something doesn't change, disaster could strike. As Grace stands, Rocky, obviously, trails closely behind. He's coughing pretty badly by the time they get to the med bay, any exertion seemingly enough to set that off, and, hearing that, Armando is leaping into action before they're even through the doorway.
"Down, boy," Grace says, swatting at his probing arm. Armando may be stupid, but if there's one thing that can be said for him, it's that he doesn't give up. If Grace wants medicine, he's going to have to be good and allow the quick scan he's trying to give. He looks annoyed as he tolerates a quick pinch to his finger with a little plastic bit and a probe swiped across his forehead from temple to temple.
"Huh," Grace say. He's not nervous, just surprised.
"Grace have fever, question?"
Fever has been explained to him as the most comparable human equivalent they have to Eridians' method of fighting off sickness: the body heats up to create an environment in which viruses and bacteria struggle to multiply and survive. For Eridians, that means boiling them off, but for humans, it just gives their immune system (something that is so complicated that Grace only knows the basics and Rocky barely even understood that) to fight off the infection.
"A little bit," he replies. "Guess that explains why I feel so rough."
"Grace sick, question?"
"Nah. Sometimes it just means your body is working hard to heal. It can be a good thing."
"Could also be bad thing," he points out. "Could mean Grace is sick."
"I'm not sick, bud. Promise." He accepts the offered pills and a pouch of water. "I'll take these and get a little rest; I'll be fine." Rocky isn't convinced, and Grace can sense that, so he places a reassuring hand on top of his ball. It means nothing to him, but Grace seems to use it as a comforting gesture. It's the thought that counts. "It's okay. You're a little on edge after everything that happened. I am, too. I say we call it a day and get out of the lab. Maybe watch something in the viewing room?"
Well, Rocky will never say no to the viewing room, now that he's improved it with his little device that allows him to see the screen. It always relaxes Grace, too, which is apparently the correct course of treatment for whatever is going on with him, anyway. At least he feels better knowing that he's seen medical. If anything were seriously wrong, they'd know.
"Yes!" Rocky chirps excitedly. Grace laughs and pats his ball.
-----
Grace keeps falling asleep during the movie.
That's not typical, either. Rocky always has a lot of questions, and Grace is always keen to answer them. Instead, He's dozing on and off, head resting on the arm he's thrown over Rocky's ball. It doesn't appear as though he realizes he's doing it, either.
"It's just the fever," he explains when Rocky points it out. "It can make you sleepy."
This is a new kind of tired. He's not grumpy angry stupid, but slow, unfocused, and quiet.
When the movie ends, Rocky isn't sure Grace watched even half of it, but that's okay. It's more important that he rests. As is typical for him when they finish a movie, Rocky expects him to be restless to get back in the lab, antsy from sitting still for so long. Instead, he yawns, stretching.
"I think I might go take a nap for a little while."
"Grace sleep again, question? Sleep so much today."
"Rich, coming from you," he teases. "You were asleep for like a week. It's part of the healing process." He coughs again, rubs his chest. That, Rocky believes, is not a normal part of the healing process, no matter what Grace says. "It's just a nap. I'll wake up in like half an hour. You don't have to watch me, if you've got work to do."
"Nothing Rocky can't do while watch Grace sleep."
"Figured. Alright. Well, let's go, then."
Once again, Grace is wrong. Sure, he wakes up after half an hour, but it's not for long. He says his head still hurts and wants to get a little more sleep, so he takes another dose of medicine from the med bay and goes back to bed.
For five more hours.
Sometimes he doesn't even sleep that long through the night, let alone a nap. Not to mention, it doesn't look restful. He tosses and turns, frequently waking to cough or because his blanket brushes the burn on his arm the wrong way and it hurts so badly he jumps. If he's been sleeping this poorly, perhaps that explains why he's sleeping more often.
Making more taumoeba farm containers passes the time for a little while, but eventually, he becomes too focused on Grace's elevated heart and respiration rate to think about anything else, even idly. It's just so weird. He's barely moving.
He frets that way until Grace stirs, then sits up and stretches.
"Grace feel better, question?" he asks before he's even exhaled all the way.
"Yeah, I do. But I feel like I slept for more than half an hour."
"Grace sleep five hours. Long time. Rocky worry."
"Five?" he echoes, then whistles. "Man, I was more tired than I thought. Sorry I worried you. I really do feel better. Head doesn't hurt as much, and I have some energy."
"Good good good," Rocky replies, noting the qualifiers "as much," and "some." "Grace hungry?"
"I could eat a little something." Rocky trills excitedly. This is good. He really is feeling better.
Then, he coughs again, and Rocky slackens in dismay at how it has changed over the course of the day and while he slept. No longer is it an airy, tight sound, but a deep rumble that lasts longer and makes him wince. It's almost like there's fluid in there.
"Grace chest make weird sound."
"Yeah, huh. It's fine. I'll take more meds. Clear it right up."
Well, it's not like he's going to get any more information out of him than that, so he'll take what he can get and get Grace a meal. That should help.
Grace eats half a bowl of oatmeal, saying he'll just have a bigger lunch today to make up for his pathetic breakfast. Because he doesn't have any solid evidence to utilize to keep him from working, he follows Grace to the lab, warning him to be careful and not to overwork himself.
Of course, that advice goes unheeded.
Four hours later, Grace is shivering, struggling to stay awake, and coughing badly again. He's been perfectly still for 15 minutes, no longer pretending to read or taking notes, save for the occasional bobbing down and then back up of his head as he fights sleep.
"Grace..." Rocky says after he gets so close to unconsciousness that his head almost hits the benchtop.
"Yeah," he replies. His voice is lower, rougher than it should be. "You don't have to say it."
"Grace should say. So I understand."
He sighs. "I don't feel right." That clears up nothing. He digs his thumbs firmly into his temple and rubs it in tiny circles, eyes shut. His head hurts.
"Grace needs more medicine. Grace take now."
"Okay, okay. I'm going."
Rocky leads the way to the med bay, so anxious that he doesn't realize he left Grace behind until he drags himself in several second later. He gently sits on the bed, this time not fighting Armando off as he checks his vitals.
"Temperature moderately elevated," he reports. "38.8 degrees Celsius. Recommended treatment: 400 mg ibuprofen and bed rest. Blood oxygen content: 92%. Recommended treatment: oxygen therapy."
After he swallows the pills, Armando places a mask over Grace's nose and mouth, which Rocky immediately recognizes. It's the same treatment he'd been given when he'd dragged him to the med bay. When he was dying.
"Bad bad bad," he says, an anxious feeling he hasn't had in 40 years digging its fingers into him. When Grace was dying, instinct had taken over, and he hadn’t felt much about it at the time in favor of acting fast. This is worse. "Grace sick sick sick."
"No, Rock," Grace says, taking the mask off, and oh, no, Grace is taking the mask off just to comfort him, when he needs to keep it on.
"Keep mask on," he demands. He won't let his panic be responsible for Grace's death. “Breathe.”
"Hey. I know this looks scary, but it's just the inflammation. Fever's spiking a little. It's okay."
"Diagnosis: pneumonitis secondary to chemical exposure. Recommended treatment: high doseprednisone."
Just as Grace is given the pills, whatever they are, the ship goes silent. No humming machines, no beeping systems, no chattering Armando. Most devastatingly, that includes the machine that's supposed to be pumping oxygen into the mask to help Grace breathe.
"What just happened?" Grace asks. "It's pitch black."
"Ship lose power," Rocky supplies the obvious answer to the question Grace is only asking conversationally.
"Okay," he says in that tone that means he's forcing calm, "why?"
But, fever and low-grade suffocation forgotten, he's already off to figure that out.
---
"Where's the door to the control room?"
"Left."
"Ow!"
"Watch wall."
"I can't watch anything, that's why I asked--wait."
"Grace see something?"
"Yeah, actually. There's a red button in here."
There's a clicking sound as he presses it without any deliberation, and then a low hum.
"Lights working, question?"
"A little, but they're dim. I can barely see anything. Found a screen, though." He shuffles around a little more until he reads something that makes his posture stiffen. "Oh, no," he breathes.
"What, question?"
"No, no, no, no!" Rocky trails behind him as he rushes down the hall and down a ladder, where he can't follow. He's still muttering to himself in a high-pitched, panicked voice. He fumbles around for a while down there, emerging only to once again ignore Rocky in favor of rushing straight to the lab. He smears--something--from his hand onto a microscope slide and looks at it, then grunts loudly in frustration so deep it sounds like pain.
"What, question? What is wrong, question?"
"There's taumoeba in the generator," he replies, devastated and numb. "They're in the ship's fuel supply. That's why we have no power. Taumoeba ate all the astrophage." Rocky's mind starts working faster while Grace's halts completely, devolving into panic so deep that his already abnormal breath sounds start coming faster and faster. "Oh, god. We're stuck out here forever. We're going to die out here."
"There is astrophage on Rocky ship," Rocky suggests.
"Yeah, but we have no way to get to your ship. And even if we did, the engine's full of taumoeba. Anything we put in there is just going to get eaten."
"Hm," Rocky hums. Grace coughs, breaths still coming shallow and fast from either illness or fear. He's shaking again, probably for a lot of reasons, and leans heavily against Rocky's ball. "Rocky think. You sleep."
"What? I can't--"
"Grace sick. Rest help, question?"
"Well, yeah, but--"
"Sleep. Rocky watch. Think of solution after."
Grace sighs. He sounds exhausted.
"Okay." He follows Rocky to the dormitory and lays down in bed where Rocky can see him. Sometimes, worry keeps Grace awake. Often, in fact. It speaks volumes about just how sick he really is that within just a few minutes, he's already drifting.
Suddenly, he shoots upright with a gasp, startling Rocky so badly he jumps.
"Problem, question?"
"No, solution! The little," Rocky can barely understand what he's saying because he's coughing, but continuing to talk, anyway, "little ships on my ship--the beetles; I've told you--for sending--they didn't expect us to come home, so they sent us with--and their fuel supply isn't connected to the ship's. We have plenty of astrophage!"
"Good good good!" Rocky cheers with a little dancey dance. "Knew Grace would think of something."
"Your confidence means so much to me." He begins to push the blankets off himself and sit up, but Rocky taps on the xenonite panel to stop him. "What? They're in the nose of the ship, I have to--"
"Later. Grace sleep now. Fever bad. Lungs bad. Beetles will still be there after sleep." Though he pouts a little, he doesn't argue.
"Fine." Rocky is glad Grace gave him the word "impatient," because that's what he calls him, and Grace can't fight him on it. He needs to save the energy for tomorrow.
So this is a tiny detail but later on in the PHM book as he gets more familiar with Rocky's sleep patterns, Grace starts leaving him to sleep alone to take care of stuff and do random research while Rocky sleeps (but, of course, makes sure to come back before Rocky wakes).
That said.
Imagine Grace goes to take care of something like a ship malfunction and somehow gets horribly injured and/or incapacitated.
Rocky wakes up alone and confused about it before hearing Grace's breathing on the other side of the ship and it sounds WRONG. Andjsbdjdj the layers of angst
FRIEND. i cannot tell you how much i loved this prompt. i loved that bit in the book i was like aw come on man what the hell. he watches YOU sleep, mean. anyway I changed around a few details, but the spirit is here, and the end is SO SO ANGSTY AND I THINK VERY SWEET. I really hope you like it!!
Title: Anger is just love, left out, gone to vinegar
Word count: 3816
Summary: Once Grace learns Rocky's sleep patterns, he starts sneaking out and back in before he wakes up. When he gets really hurt in the lab while Rocky is asleep, however, he has to wait for rescue, then fight to get to the med bay, and THEN worry about making up with Rocky. Fun banter and a little extra angsty fight at the end as a treat. (title is, as always, a dessa lyric)
Grace is getting better at predicting how long Rocky is going to sleep. A lot of factors go into it: how long he's been awake, how big his meal is, and, most importantly, how much physical movement he's been doing since his last sleep cycle. He told Grace that Eridians sleep anywhere from about 3-12 hours, which is a very wide range, but Rocky's usually out for about five or six, depending on what they've been doing lately. At the very least, he can expect him to sleep for a good four and a half.
That means he has four liquid hours for himself every three and a half days or so.
It's not that he doesn't feel bad about leaving him when he thinks he's being watched, but it's his only alone time, and privacy is something he gets very little of around here, now that they're building the xenonite tunnels through more or less every room on the Hail Mary. He's got to savor what little he has.
"Grace chew bad," Rocky complains as Grace munches on a dry but seasoned piece of chicken breast. Grace rolls his eyes.
"Guess I'll just choke to death instead," he replies sarcastically. Rocky is very vocal about his misophonia, but it's not like he can do anything about it.
"Soup is better. Except when Grace slurp."
"I'm not gonna eat soup for every meal just because it annoys you less."
"Mashed potatoes fine, too. Grace could mash food before eating. No chewing."
"Wish I could bring you to Earth, Rock. You'd love snakes."
Rocky finishes the last horrifying "bite" of his meal, then folds his front legs up in that way he does when he's preparing for sleep. Grace knew this would happen--it's always not long after he eats. It appears to just be how his biology works.
"Grace watch Rocky sleep, question?"
"I always do, don't I?" he asks. To feel better about his half truth, he adds, "You want your story?"
He chirps happily. In the ten ish minutes it takes Rocky to fall completely to sleep, Grace has been telling him the plots to his favorite movies. It had started after Rocky had just happened to fall asleep while he was talking, but when he'd woken up, he requested that Grace talk to him as he drifts off every time. It was nicer, he said, than falling asleep to silence. A reminder that someone was there.
"Alright. Where'd I leave off?"
Three approximately remembered scenes from the Princess Bride later, Grace trails off, then tests his luck.
"Rocky? You still awake?"
No response. Excellent. He stands as slowly and quietly as he can, then sneaks away to the lab to work in private.
Honestly, he does miss the chatter, just a little bit. He's gotten used to it, and, although it can get overstimulating at times, he misses it when it's gone. Still, there's something liminal and nostalgic about working in a silent lab. It's been a while. He likes working alongside Rocky, even though he's pushy and demanding, but they spend all their time together. With their current project, he's been ordering Grace around a lot. It's nice to have a moment of peace to just do stuff to cells and take notes.
As usual, he doesn't realize how much time has passed until he notices that both his feet are asleep from the way he's sitting crisscross in his chair, and his shoulders are aching from leaning hunched over like a goblin. When he forces himself to look up from his microscope, it actually hurts his eyes to adjust back to reality. Eye breaks, he reminds himself, and taking little laps around his bench top every once in a while. He always gets too wrapped up to remember those things in the moment.
His back pops as he stands to stretch, which initiates a domino effect of unfortunate events.
First, the backs of his knees knock his rolling chair backward into the xenonite panel, which makes a pretty loud sound.
Actually, a louder sound than he expects. Much louder, and different in nature. Instead of a hollow thunk, what results is a strange, long crack, like someone stepping on a frozen lake and splitting the ice.
Wait. Cracking ice.
The panel.
In a split second display of poor self preservation instincts, he glances up instead of moving out of the way. In his defense, how is he supposed to know that of all the panels in the lab, the one that would break is the one directly above him? By the time he realizes he's about to be hit, there's no time to move out of the way.
It comes down on his head hard, and it's large and heavy. Heavy enough to knock him off balance, which sends him crashing into the bench top in front of him with force enough that when his ribs clip the side of it, the pain is so intense and immediate that he cries out. The surprise dims his reflexes, and instead of reaching out to catch himself from hitting the floor, both arms instinctively guard his abdomen in agony. That means that he has no free hands to catch himself when he hits the floor with force, his temple colliding hard with the metal floor of the ship. A sharp strike of pain is the last thing he registers before his senses go black and is body is blissfully numb.
-----
A high-pitched ringing sound is the first thing that lands in his awareness. For a moment, he panics, thinking that some alarm on the ship is going off, but as it fades, he realizes it's coming from his own ears. Soon after it clears up, the pain fades in, intolerable within seconds. His instinct is to jerk forward to clutch his temple, but when he tries to sit up, he bonks his forehead on the xenonite that's still pinning him to the floor.
It's not that it's immovable--it's heavy, but not so bad that he can't pick the panels up. Thanks to Rocky, some of them are small enough to lift, while others, he more or less had to raise from the ground and shimmy into place. The one on top of him is, unfortunately, the latter. They mustn't have secured it well enough. He pushes against it, but has to stop as soon as he starts because the pain in his ribs becomes unbearable with the strain. He groans again.
Normally, he would be able to mind over matter this situation and hype himself up. A moment of agony is just the price he has to pay for freedom, but his mind is running too slow and his thoughts are too fuzzy to do a proper risk vs reward assessment. It's like he's thinking underwater.
"Rocky," he shouts weakly, hoping against hope that his friend might hear him. Even in his muddled brain, he knows that's not likely. When Eridians sleep, nothing in the world can wake them, especially not a sound being made in a different room entirely. If he wants help, he's either going to have to go get it himself, or wait for Rocky to wake up, which could be hours from now. How is he going to last that long?
Getting up is the only way to go, he thinks. He tries to roll out from under the panel, but his exit is blocked by the bench, and besides, his ribs can't bear that much weight. As it stands, at least the xenonite panel doesn't have 100% of its weight on him. It caught on something and is a little crooked, leaving him just enough space for his chest to move up and down, or at least enough to accommodate the shallow breaths his probably broken ribs are allowing him to take.
Distantly, he knows that this is his fault. Not only that, but Rocky is going to be mad.
No, not mad--betrayed. Well, probably both, but the sting of knowing he's been lying is going to hurt worse. In a way, he's kind of getting what he deserves. He's not there to keep Rocky from danger, so he runs into it, himself. The universe has a way of working these things out, he supposes, but it's not going to make Rocky feel any better. In fact, it will only make his anger more complicated, as it will be tempered with concern and, if he's lucky, a little pity.
He's not sure how long he lays there for. Because of his swimming head, time is a blur. It could be three hours, could be 45 minutes. It feels like forever. Periodically, he shouts Rocky's name again, but to no avail. Help is going to arrive when it arrives, and he just has to suck it up until then.
His ribs are on fire. Every breath he takes feels like someone has stabbed him in the side. He hasn't broken a bone since he was a child and fell off the monkey bars straight onto his wrist, and he'd blocked out how painful that had been. Not to mention, it probably wasn't as bad as this is. At least he hadn't needed to use his arm to breathe. At least his school had gotten him straight to the hospital for pain meds.
Suddenly, he hears something. Or, at least he thinks he does. A rattling sound from down the hall, and it's getting closer.
"Grace," Rocky's voice, tone indecipherable through the computer program.
"Rocky!" he shouts. The rattling stops, then starts moving toward him. Rocky had heard him, thank god, and he's coming to help. That, or he's coming to yell at him. Probably both.
"Grace," Rocky snaps. "Why Rocky wake up alone?"
"I'm sorry," he replies, but fortunately, before he has to say anything more, Rocky finds him and zeroes in. He's still a little ways down the hall.
"What happened?" he asks. "Grace trapped. Injured, question?"
"Yeah. Wanted'a get some work done while y'slept." Woah, his speech is coming out weird. Did he actually give himself a concussion?
"Why Grace sound drunk, question?"
"Hit my head," he replies. When he looks to the side, he can see Rocky's feet inside his ball. Rescue? How will
he manage to do that without being able to touch him?
"Why did Grace not just move panel, question?" So many questions. They're making his head pound worse than it already is.
"Hurt my ribs, too. S'too heavy. Hurts too much."
Rocky doesn't say anything for a moment, but suddenly, he feels the panel begin to shift, then lift off of his body. When his blurry vision focuses, he sees that Rocky has managed to get under the elevated part of the panel with his ball and rolled forward, serving as a wedge and bringing the point of contact closer to the other side of it to increase the angle.
"Grace crawl out now," he prompts when Grace doesn't move. Oh, right. He should probably stop staring and do that.
Noisily, and with a lot of difficulty, he manages to prop himself up on his elbows, then draws his knees closer to his chest.
"Ahh," he moans. "This hurts."
"Rocky not feel sorry for Grace," he warns.
"Sorry. I'll be quieter."
"Did not say that. Grace focus on crawling. Make pain noise if need."
And make pain noise he does. By the time he's fully out from under the panel, he's sitting back on his feet, hunched forward in agony. The pain is so bad that he's sweating, panting in shallow puffs of air that are beginning to make him feel lightheaded.
"Thank you," he says, reaching out to touch Rocky's ball. He rolls backward in a recoil, reminding Grace that he's not forgiven yet. "Rocky, m'so sorry. I didn't mean to--"
"Grace need medical attention," Rocky curtails coldly. He blinks, the subject having changed too fast to keep up with. "Breathing and heart rate fast. Stupid."
"Oh. Uh, yeah. Okay."
He has to use the wall to do it, but he gets to his feet. There, he still can't stand up straight, still can't breathe right. His face is damp with sweat, and he's dizzy. Really, really dizzy.
"Grace careful!" Rocky exclaims. It's only because of his warning that he realizes he's swaying so far forward, he's on a collision course with the floor. He takes a clumsy step forward to compensate, the jarring movement eliciting a hiss of pain from his ribs.
"Ow," he moans, "ow. M'okay."
"Pain looks bad."
"S'really bad. Think I broke some ribs." Rocky trills anxiously.
"Grace is clumsy. Wobbly."
"Really dizzy. Hit my head."
"Grace said that already. Remember, question?" He doesn't. He shakes his head. "Is okay. Grace get to medical room, will fix."
"'Kay." His next step forward makes him even dizzier, resulting in him needing to back up against the wall and slide down to sit on the floor. His stomach is churning urgently with vertigo and intense pain. "No, no. Need'a lie down."
"Can rest after Grace receive medical attention."
"Noo," he whines. God, did he really just do that? He's so nauseous. His mouth fills with insidious, warm water, which only increases his distress, because he knows what's going to come next. "M'gonna be sick."
He bolts to his feet, now disoriented enough that he doesn't know which way is up, and leans against the wall, bent double as he loses the coffee in his stomach. Great, now he's putting Rocky through this. If he's annoyed by Grace's chewing, this has to be unbearable.
"Grace okay, question?" he asks, words coming out quick and anxious. "Grace safe, question?"
"Fine," he replies, wiping his mouth and coughing. He staggers several steps away in what he hopes is the direction of the medical bay. This sucks. He needs painkillers and a dark place to sleep until he feels better.
"Grace is not fine," Rocky bites. "Stop lying. Can see Grace is not fine, so stop lying. Insulting."
Grace winces.
"Sorry. Jus'don't want you to worry."
"Rocky worry no matter what Grace says. Feel better if Rocky know Grace is telling truth."
Telling the truth. Of course. He owes Rocky that much, after what he did.
"I need help," he admits.
"Rocky help. Grace follow Rocky. Lean on ball for balance. Get to medical room together."
"Okay," he replies. That's the only way. He's going to have to rely on his best friend, whom he just betrayed, to get himself treatment for an injury he acquired in the process of said betrayal. Rocky is a bigger person than most people he knows.
He begins to roll in the direction of the med bay, and Grace follows, hugging the wall of the ship the whole time. When he stumbles, he always reaches out for balance, and Rocky's space ball is always right there to steady him. Slowly, painfully, they make their way across the lab and to the door.
"Watch step," Rocky commands. He does, or tries, but his injured brain miscalculates how far he needs to pick his foot up and he falls forward, hitting Rocky's ball at an angle that doesn't allow him to catch himself. He hits the ground on his injured side with a horrible, strangled cry. "Grace, Grace, Grace," Rocky frets, so anxious that he's rocking his ball back and forth in small circles.
All he can do is try to breathe through the pain, but that's the problem; he can't breathe, can't fill his chest with a proper breath and it's making him lightheaded, so lightheaded that he's going to pass out, and oh god the pain--
"Grace," Rocky's voice comes from beside him, this time steadier and less frantic. He's forced himself to still inside his ball.
"Can't breathe," he strains through gritted teeth.
"Grace can breathe. If Grace can talk, can breathe." His tone isn't dismissive, but slow, sure. Like he's trying to soothe him.
"It hurts," he manages. All he can feel is pain and air hunger.
"Pain medicine soon. Grace is close. Catch breath. Then, Grace get up."
He shakes his head. "I can't."
"Do for Rocky. Trust Rocky. In slow, out slow."
Sweat drips from his forehead onto the floor. He takes another gasping breath, but this time, he holds it at the top for as long as he can before releasing, visualizing all the little O2 rings from his alveoli crossing through his capillaries into his bloodstream like they're tourists unboarding a cruise ship. He releases it, holds, and takes another, holding that one, too. The O2 rings have little hats and suitcases and Hawaiian shirts. He has to hold his breath for long enough to give them time to get off the boat, or they'll end up in the water. Release, hold. Breathe in, hold. He can't be responsible for the biggest maritime tragedy his lungs have ever known just because his brain thinks he's dying.
"Good," Rocky encourages. "Grace breathing slower. Need more time, question?"
"No," he replies. The sooner he gets up, the sooner he gets pain meds. Eyes on the prize, and doesn't double vision mean twice the prize? "Think m'okay."
"Lean on ball. Rocky is here."
Even after he abandoned him in his sleep, Rocky is here for him, and he's not leaving. Grace doesn't deserve him.
"M'so sorry for leaving," he grunts as he uses the ball to climb back to his feet.
"No worry about that now. Rocky Grace argue later."
He chuckles.
"Sure."
It takes so, so much effort and a lot of time, but slowly, they make it to the med bay, where he lies down on the bed, closes his eyes, and waits for Armando to whir around him, pressing here and there on his ribs and head seeking out tender spots. It feels unnecessary and gives him little more data than Grace just explaining his symptoms, but Armando is so stubborn. It's not worth the argument.
"Diagnosis: bruised or broken ribs. Diagnosis: head injury, likely a concussion. Treatment course: pain control and observation."
Rocky bobs up and down, recoiling indignantly. "Can't do more for Grace than pain medicine and watch him sleep?"
"Not much t'be done," Grace replies. "Stuff's just gotta heal on its own." Rocky seems to pout a little. "S'okay."
"Fine."
Grace braves the light to look at him, even though he knows it's not necessary. Rocky can barely tell the difference and doesn't exactly care about eye contact.
"Rock, I'm so sorry."
"Not now," he scolds. "Grace need rest, now. Can fight after sleep."
"Not trying to fight. Trying to apologize."
"Well, Rocky want fight. Wait until after sleep. Rocky need time to rehearse." He fights a smile, because he's absolutely serious. "Grace sleep now." It's not a question.
"Okay. Fight tomorrow."
He shuts his eyes and just hopes Rocky will be okay until they can hash this out tomorrow.
-------
The next time he opens his eyes, it stings, but it's not unbearable. More importantly, the thoughts in his aching head are clearer, like he can actually think straight. The pull of just closing his eyes once more is strong, but he resists.
"Mary, how long was I asleep?"
"Approximately 13 hours, Doctor Grace," she returns. That's terrible. No wonder he's so groggy.
"Grace is awake," Rocky chirps. He sounds so relieved that for a moment, Grace forgets he's in trouble. "How Grace feel?"
"I'm okay," he replies. "Sore, but that'll stick around for a while. Thanks, uh. Thanks for staying. I know I'm probably the last person you want to be around right now."
Rocky almost flinches. "Grace is only person Rocky want to be around. Very hurt. Rocky big worry. So scary."
"Right. Sorry. I just meant I know you're mad at me."
He taps the inside of his ball angrily. "Does not mean Rocky no want to be around. Grace know that." Grace nods. "Grace apologize now."
"I'm so, so sorry, Rock. I left you alone while you were sleeping. I shouldn't have done that."
"And, question?"
He thinks about it, scared of answering incorrectly.
"And I lied to you. I told you I'd watch you sleep, and I didn't. I should have. You do it for me."
He seems satisfied with that.
"Rocky know Grace does not care if Rocky watch sleep. Rocky watch because it make Rocky feel better. But Grace supposed to want to keep Rocky safe, too."
He feels tears, remorseful and just outright sad, prickle in his eyes.
"Of course I want to keep you safe. I just figure, we're on the ship. I know nothing can hurt you here." Rocky hesitates. There's more to this than he's seeing on the surface.
"Rocky have... bad dreams."
A beat of confused silence.
"What?"
"Started having many Earth week ago. Rocky think I need feel someone near. Haven't had bad dreams since Rocky met Grace. Grace leave is reason."
"Oh, bud. I'm so sorry. Why didn't you say something? I wouldn't have left if I'd known that."
He's pretty sure he's never felt so guilty and ashamed in all his life. He sniffles.
"I can't tell you how sorry I am. I'll never, ever leave you alone again. I promise. I shouldn't have done it at all."
"Then why?"
"Why what? Why did I leave?" Rocky trills an affirmative. "I... don't know. I guess I get anxious if I sit alone with my thoughts for too long. I start thinking about things. Remembering things. A lot of it isn't nice. I guess I do things to keep my mind off everything."
Rocky creeps toward him in his ball. Grace places his hand on the faceplate.
"Rocky doesn't want Grace to feel bad, either. Make Grace think bad thoughts is not good solution." Grace thinks for a moment.
"Maybe I just start bringing in things to do. I can read, do word puzzles, play games. Stuff like that."
Rocky perks up.
"Would be okay?"
"Of course, buddy. That would be good."
"Good for Rocky, too."
Despite the pain in his ribs, he sits up. "Can I give you a hug?"
"A... why?"
"Something humans do after they fight and make up. You don't have to, though. Only if you want to."
"Grace Rocky hug," he replies. Grace winces as he gets down from the bed, hoping Rocky doesn't see it. "Careful. Hurt." Darn it.
"I'm being careful." Delicately, without pressing himself too tightly against it, he wraps his arms around Rocky's ball, and hears the little tap against the glass as Rocky leans in to accept it. His version of hugging back. He can even feel a little warm spot where he touches the xenonite, right in the middle of his chest. "Forgive me?"
"Yes. Rocky forgive."
He smiles. It's a long moment before either of them feel that the hug is done.
Summary: from a prompt!! Grace pushes himself too far with the flu and collapses after a Q&A. Eva tries to pretend she doesn't care.
It's been a long time since Grace has felt this awful. Years, probably. As he sits through the meeting waiting to present his Q&A, it's all he can do just to tune in and listen to Eva brief everyone on the operational side of things. All he wants to do is sleep, but he does think that, given how exhausted he is, he's really nailing this whole "consciousness" thing.
The slight headache he'd written off as stress this morning throbs behind his eyes and in a band around his head. The lights in here are far too bright, and he's shivering. That's not a new development, but probably one he wouldn't have written off so easily if it had started before the meeting prep. If he'd known he was actually getting sick and not just stressed, he could have taken something for it, but he figured that the fatigue and headache would go away once he got moving.
It was 45 minutes into the meeting prep, or about an hour ago, that he realized that he's not merely stressed, but probably experiencing the onset of some flu bug. By that time, he figured it was probably too late to say something to Eva about not feeling well enough to present. After all, they'd just spent almost an hour going over how this was going to go, and a lot of it hinges on his presentation. He couldn't exactly let her do all that work and then tell her with ten minutes left to regroup that hey, he's actually not feeling so well and maybe he should just go rest this off instead. To even mention it now would sound like whining. Not to mention, she's so focused. Telling her he's sick would only distract her from the important task at hand.
That's assuming she'd even want to know.
After the chills started, everything else began to deteriorate. His body began to ache badly, then his throat, and his headache intensified from "annoying" to "nearly debilitating." He's been fighting hard to keep his lungs under control despite the developing cough he can feel taking root in his chest. And, boy, the fatigue. Killer.
He shifts in his chair again, ignoring the way it pulls at his angry back an hip joints to put his left leg down from its position on his knee and cross his right leg over it instead. If he doesn't move, he's going to fall asleep in the middle of this meeting. Fever or no fever, that would be unacceptable. While he's aware that the fidgeting makes him look nervous and can feel someone glance in his direction (is it Eva?) every time he does it, it's worth it, if it keeps him awake.
"Without further ado," he hears Eva say, and oh, no, he needs more ado, please, can he have a little more ado, "I present to you, Doctor Ryland Grace to present his findings on astrophage breeding."
It's nothing novel. In fact, it's just a recap of everything he'd talked about in the rough presentation he'd given when she first introduced him, just with fewer Tag Team lyrics. Still, it requires thinking and speaking and being upright, and he's not up for any of those things right now.
"Uh, hi," he says, leaning in toward the microphone and clearing his throat when his voice sounds like someone took sandpaper to his vocal cords, "good morning. You all, uh--Eva told you who I am. So, floor's open to questions." People begin speaking over one another so rapid fire that it makes his head spin. "One at a time, maybe?"
In the end, he works it like his classroom. Heck, he's a minute away from busting out the ol' lava ball, but Eva had already rejected that idea, so he settles for calling on people one at a time, if they raise their hands. At one point, he gets so wrapped up that he forgets where he is and says,"I didn't see a hand," to one of the leading astrophysicists in France after she shouts out a question over top someone else, which earns him an elbow in the ribs. Despite his wordless scolding from Eva, the woman looks down at the table in front of her and puts up a meek, embarrassed hand.
The Q&A seems like it's never going to end. By the time it does, Eva has passed him one of her coffees because his voice is so shot that people are having to lean forward to hear him, even with the microphone. He apologizes for that, but can't explain it without admitting he's sick, so he just has to laugh it off as an inconvenient frog in his throat rather than painful inflammation that's only being made worse by continuing to talk.
Eventually, there are no more hands in the air. None too soon, either, because he's starting to feel so muddled and lightheaded that he can feel himself rambling when he answers questions and has to stop himself from sounding like an idiot, if he doesn't already. After everything he's been through, he doesn't think he can handle another room full of people staring at him like he's a raving lunatic.
"If there are no more questions," Eva begins after the silence, and the relief he feels at the knowledge that this is over washes over him is so strong that it makes his head spin even faster than it has been--
"Actually, one more," a man's voice comes from the back. Oh, no. He's got to check back in, got to refocus, but he's already let it go. He's so dizzy, and--
"Well, Doctor Grace?"
He'd already asked his question? How had he missed it entirely?
"Sorry, um, could you repeat that?"
He feels Eva stiffen beside him, knows that pissed her off. He tunes that concern out in favor of pouring all his focus into hearing this man over the ringing in his ears.
"I asked if you have any theory at all about why Tau Ceti may be immune. Even if it's speculative, knowing all you know about their proliferation, are there any directions at all you're leaning toward?"
That's his question? Isn't that why they're sending three people into space on a suicide mission? What do they want from him?
"I--no," he replies. Genuine grief and guilt, heightened by the emotional lability that accompanies a high fever, combine inside him to disastrous effect. Unexpectedly, frustrated tears prickle behind his eyes, which triggers immediate panic. This is too much. They're expecting so much from him, and they're all going to be disappointed no matter what he does. He's the guy on this, and it's too much. "No, I don't. I'm sorry." He hears his voice break on the last word, and apparently, so does Eva.
"That will conclude today's briefing," she says. Everyone begins to stand to file out, but Grace can't move. He can't tell what Eva must be thinking about that final answer, or lack thereof. Maybe she didn't notice how close to tears he was, he hopes, knowing that's not possible. The way she'd instantly ushered everyone out of the room, there's no way she wasn't trying to save herself the embarrassment of letting everyone watch her lead scientist cry. It's enough to bring the tears back, but once again, he manages to keep them at bay.
Before he knows it, the room is empty, save for him, Eva, and Carl. Like he blinks, and everyone is gone. He should probably be concerned about having lost time like that, but he has bigger fish to fry.
"Doctor Grace," Eva calls. Her tone is... indecipherable, at least in his barely-there state. God, he needs to go home. He needs to take something for the fever and pain and go sleep this off for a week. Forcing himself to look at her is difficult, but he does it, and when he does, her expression isn't angry. It's sort of blank, really. She's just standing in the doorway, staring.
"Yeah?"
Maybe she understands. Maybe she can see how pale and shaky and flushed and miserable he is and is going to take pity on him. He'd give anything for her to simply send him home, but he has a sneaking suspicion that's not possible. Instead, she's up to close the door so no one will hear her shout at him for what a terrible job he's doing. Just like his PI had after he became so persistent about his rejected dissertation. Just like the parents of his most difficult children sometimes do. Just like his own dad had when he was a kid. The question itself had already reminded him how much of his research is just filling drip-wise a leaky bucket, and now she's going to pile on. He's not sure if he can take that right now.
"Someone else needs this conference room."
He blinks.
That's it? All she wants from him is to... get out of his chair?
"Oh, right," he replies, gathering his things as hastily as possible and cramming them into his tote. "Leaving." She rolls her eyes.
"I said it's occupied, not on fire. You can have a few minutes to collect yourself."
"No," he says, feeling his heart begin to flutter dangerously in his chest as his heart rate and breathing start to pick up from the exertion, "I'm--well, don't wait up, but I can..." He trails off, abandoning the indecisive half-sentences as soon as he stands and everything tilts. His hand reaches out to grip whatever happens to be in front of him, but unfortunately, that's a chair, and it's on wheels. When he puts his weight into it for balance, it swivels, and he has to catch himself once again on the table.
"Doctor Grace?" she calls, her tone more pressing this time. "Is something wrong?"
"Yeah," he says, then, "er--no, I'm--I'm fine, just, gimme a second."
This time, when she speaks, she's closer. "Sit down. Are you feeling alright?''
He wants to comply, but he doesn't know where the chair is, because his vision has gone grainy and black. Desperately, he feels around for it, then registers something surprising: a hand on his back. He looks up in disbelief only to see that it really is Eva, blurry and doubling before the darkness creeps back in.
"Just a li'l dizzy," he admits. That's an understatement: he's sweaty and nauseous and hot and freezing and weak and shaky and confused.
"Carl," she summons sternly, her other hand now reaching out to grab his arm to try to lead him to sit, "I need help."
Another set of hands grab him from the other side, but it's too late to guide him down, because before they can even pull a chair away from the table, his knees give out under him and everything goes dark and silent.
------
"--Grace," Eva's voice, tight but steady, "can you hear me?"
"Mhm," he mutters, which is supposed to be, "Yes, I can hear you loud and clear." He struggles to open his eyes, but when he does, he can see Eva hovering over him and Carl is--wait, no. More than that. Eva isn't just standing above him, but kneeling beside him, tapping his cheek with some force. "Stop."
"...burning up," her voice.
"...ambulance on the way--"
"No," he argues deliriously with Carl, who ignores him.
"Look at me," she says. He tries to control his rolling eyes and focus blurry vision, but he can't, and the world goes dark once more.
-----
He's being manhandled. He's trying to fight it, but he's being strapped down to something, and something is being placed over his face. He resists it, squirming and swatting until someone pins his hands down in deep frustration and Eva snaps, "Stop fighting."
Now, he's moving, moving backwards, and he wants to thrash but doesn't have the energy.
"You're okay, sir," a voice soothes. "We're gonna help you. Can you tell me your name?"
"Tell her," Eva orders.
"Grace," he manages with a clumsy tongue.
"Good, Mr. Grace." He's being taken out of the conference room, then out of the building into the blinding light of the cloudy day that makes him groan and recoil, then into the back of a vehicle. He's in an ambulance.
The thrashing and fighting he's been doing was clearly a mistake, because he's starting to feel the same shaky, faraway nausea and oppressive heat that had overtaken him earlier.
"M'not feelin' so good," he complains.
"What hospital?" Eva asks outside.
"Try to stay awake, Mr. Grace," the paramedic implores, but the blackness in his vision is already encroaching, and it takes over just after he mutters a slurred apology.
-------
When he wakes for good, he's in an unfamiliar, white room. There's a curtain divider to both the left and the right of him, and beeping coming from behind. He strains to look at it, but he doesn't have to see the medical equipment to know where he is: a hospital.
"You awake this time?"
He looks over: Carl is sitting in the single chair beside him. He sits up, then realizes that that sucks and leans back against the hard, uncomfortable bed.
"Think so," he replies. "What happened?"
"What do you remember?"
"Uh," he fumbles, searching through his mind for it, "well, there was the meeting."
"What about it?"
"I had to speak."
"You did."
"And I answered a bunch of questions."
"What else?" He thinks hard. "You're leaving out the part where you felt like hell the whole time ignored it until you passed out after the briefing."
"Oh."
"Yeah, 'oh.' You're lucky Stratt noticed."
Grace blinks. "She did?"
"Yes. She made a backup plan in case you needed to back out, but since you didn't say anything, she figured you felt good enough to roll. She didn't take her eyes off you the whole meeting, and ended it when you started to unravel."
"I... she wasn't doing that because she was mad at me?"
Carl looks confused. "What? No. She did it because you were white and shaking and barely coherent. You didn't even move when she told you to go, and then you passed out. Freaked her out. She was expecting to have someone drive you home, not cart you out."
"Wow," he says. It's all he can think of. Suddenly, the curtain slides back to reveal Eva entering the room, looking at Carl.
"Has the doctor been in yet?"
"Not yet," he replies, "but look who's up."
She glances over to Grace, who gives a little wave with the hand that doesn't have an IV in it.
"Hi," he greets. "I'm fine, now. Don't worry."
"I wasn't," she snaps, terse but nonchalant. He doesn't challenge her on why else she would be standing in his hospital room. If a space between two curtains can be called a room.
"Okay. I'm sorry, then. I should have said something."
"Yes, you should. This could have been a pivot in my briefing plan. Now, it's paperwork."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to be paperwork."
"Hello hello," a cheerful doctor greets from behind Eva. She steps to the side to allow her in, where she immediately greets Grace. "I'm Dr. McCleod. Heard you took a bit of a tumble today, Mr. Grace?"
"Doctor," Eva corrects, earning a glare from Grace. Always showing him off.
"Sorry," she says. "Anyway, are you alright that I talk about you with these... friends? With you, or do you want some privacy?"
"No, no. They're fine."
"Alright. Well, good news, EKG came back clean, blood work looks fabulous, other than a high white cell count and some pretty serious dehydration. The bad news is your temperature and heart rate were both a lot higher than I'd like when you came in. Looks like you've got the flu. Fainting can happen, sometimes, if you're pushing your body."
"Yeah, I... That's on me." She smiles kindly.
"Things happen. I'd like you to finish that bag of fluids, but I'm not too worried. Fever's down, tests look good. We're not going to admit you, so as soon as we--"
"Stop," Eva interjects, and the doctor patiently turns to her. "You don't think he should be monitored?"
"Well, I didn't say that. I just don't think it needs to be by medical staff. We brought his temperature down, so after we give him fluids, the only thing we can do is let this run its course, so I don't see a lot of benefit in holding him hostage overnight."
"Thank you," says Grace, who definitely does not want to be admitted overnight. "Eva, I'm okay. I'm sorry if I freaked you out. I feel a lot better now." She continues frowning.
"I do think someone should be with you for at least the next 24 hours, though, just to make sure your temperature stays down. Plus, I don't want you up and around so much for a little while. Do you have someone who could stay with you?"
Grace hesitates. He really, really doesn't.
"I'm sure I'll be fine."
"I'll do it," Carl volunteers. Grace starts shaking his head.
"Really, I'm gonna be okay on my--"
"Doctor's orders. I'll just crash on your couch for the night. I don't mind."
Great. Grace's place really, really isn't ready for company.
"Okay. Thanks."
Dr. McCleod checks his IV bag. "I'd say another 20 minutes should do you. I'll find someone to start working on your discharge paperwork, unless you've got any more questions for me?"
Eva looks like she might start, but Grace cuts her off with a, "We're good. Thank you, doctor," and she walks away. Eva straightens, ironing out the little crease between her eyebrows when she remembers others can see it.
"If this is sorted out, I do have things to do today."
"Of course. Sorry again."
"Hm. I will see you next week, Doctor Grace, and no earlier."
"Understood. Thanks, Eva."
She leaves without replying, and Carl leans forward in his chair, making a gesture like, "See? I told you so."
"What do you mean? She was totally angry."
"Because she cares about you. She's gonna be a monster for the rest of the week." Grace lets his head lean back to rest against the bed with his eyes closed, too tired to try to decipher Eva right now. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just exhausted. I want to go home." He opens his eyes. "Speaking of, you don't have to stay with me, seriously. It's not like they check."
"But Eva's gonna," Carl replies. "Plus, I don't mind. You'd do it for me, right?"
Grace doesn't even have to think about that. "Of course."
"There you go."
Grace sighs in resignation. "Okay. Thank you."
He relaxes with his eyes closed again until a nurse brings in his paperwork and unhooks him from his IV, which makes him feel a little dizzy again. Blood and needles. Ugh.
He's steady enough on his feet now to not need a wheelchair, so when the ER releases him, he simply follows Carl out to the car and rests in the front seat while he drives.
*extends my hands revealing the crumpled up The Characters of my new hyperfixation*
"Grace," Rocky prods, not for the first time since they started working today. Or was it last night? It feels like days, but it's hard to count up here, especially when Rocky scolds him every time his attention wanders for more than a second. "Grace, astrophage is down here."
"Thank you, Rocky," he replies tightly, sarcastically, "I know."
"Then why Grace keep looking away?"
"Because my eyes hurt. Humans are supposed to close them every once in a while."
"Grace close his eyes every few seconds," he argues.
"That's blinking. I was talking about sleep."
"I know."
Grace sighs. He's had rough bosses before, sure, but he didn't exactly apply for this job, and he's certainly not being paid. Rocky is bossier than any supervisor he's ever worked for, more demanding than any PI he'd ever had in grad school, and more overbearing than even the most difficult of his students' parents. Even if he does everything he's supposed to do exactly as he's supposed to do it, Rocky still isn't satisfied.
The long hours are starting to get to him. It's not Rocky's fault, not all of it. He doesn't understand human needs, and Grace has been a little lax at enforcing them, sometimes. He's less "insisting on meeting the demands of the human body" and more "complaining about Rocky's overbearing orders." He gets how Rocky could misconstrue one for the other, especially when Grace ultimately ends up caving every time he applies more pressure.
On top of all that, he's right. The stars are dying, and the pressure to save them is in their hands. Well, his hands. Rocky's... whatever. He sips at old coffee that hasn't been hot for hours and hasn't been good since the beans were picked from the plant. It's doing very little to make him feel less tired, but it's making his heart hammer and his hands clammy, so clearly it's having some effect, right? Maybe it will keep him awake for a few more hours, just so they can get through this paragraph of the sampler instruction manual. They've been fighting it for hours, but it's been fighting back. Grace takes off his glasses and cleans them on his shirt, hoping that it helps the blurriness and frowning when it doesn't. He rubs his dry, tired eyes. He probably needs to drink more water. When was the last time he drank water? His head is killing him.
"Where Grace going?"
"To get a drink, Rock. Can I do that, or do you need to come with me?"
"Grace crabby," Rocky says, and he can't tell if it's a tease or a jab. Either way, he shouldn't let it get to him, but it irritates him, makes him feel like all his needs have been reduced to just whining. The annoyance sends a spike of pain through his temples that stops for a chat on its way past his eyes before cutting straight through the other side.
"Grace exhausted," he replies. "I need five."
"Five what, question?"
Grace doesn't reply, just grabs his mug and brings it to the area what he's been generously been calling a kitchen, but is really more of a food storage area that also gives him water. Armando whirs to life from rest mode--even the robots are sleeping more often than he is--ready to be helpful.
"Doctor Grace, it's late. You should be sleeping."
"Hear that, Rock? Mary agrees with me." he calls. Armando is pouring a cup of water before he even asks, so she's probably been waiting for him to remember he needs one. He holds out his mug of coffee, which Armando begins cleaning after handing him the water.
"No, no," he says, "another cup, please, pal."
"I do not advise you intake more caffeine than you have already, Doctor Grace," Mary says, and her word is law. He's not about to try to talk his way into one more. If he falls asleep face first into the bench top they're working at, it will at least prove a point to Rocky.
He's got to put his foot down somewhere Rocky won't roll over it in his ball. He's got to march in there and tell him he's not reading another line of the sampler instructions until he's slept.
Another 45 minutes later, Grace's vision is swimming again, blurring the words of the sampler instructions so badly that he can't even read them. This time, it doesn't go away when he rubs his eyes. He lets his glasses hang from one ear and leans back in his chair, scrubbing his hands over his face, fingers making a second lap up to massage his temples.
"I need a break," he says. "My brain is leaking out my ears." He regrets it as soon as Rocky jumps in alarm.
"No," he curtails, "no, I shouldn't have said it like that. I just mean I'm exhausted. My eyes hurt. My head is pounding. I need to eat and sleep."
Rocky hesitates, now properly spooked enough to take the complaint seriously, though he appears to have calmed down a little at the explanation.
"How often Grace need sleep?"
"More than I have been. Eating, too. That's, like, every five hours or so, when I'm awake. Sleep, every 16 ish, and water throughout the day."
"Grace has done none of those things in many hours." Grace chuckles.
"That's what I'm saying. I know this is important. I'm trying. Just give me a few hours."
Rocky does an approximation of a nod, and Grace gives a sloppy, unenthusiastic thumbs down.
"Grace need food?"
"Later. After I sleep." He should probably eat something before he goes to bed, but his stomach feels choppy, and he doesn't want to put anything in it that might come up later. Sleep will take care of the headache, which should help the nausea.
He stands, and as soon as he does, he realizes he should have done so a little more slowly, given how long he's been sitting in the same position, when the ship spins around him. He reaches out blindly and steadies himself on the nearest surface. Based on how warm it is, it must be Rocky's ball.
"Grace?"Rocky calls. "Grace, what is happening?"
He doesn't even have time to respond before everything goes dark.
-----
His senses cut in one by one. First, he becomes aware that his headache has gotten considerably worse, and now his body feels bruised, too. His cheek is pressed against something cool.
Hearing comes second, which informs him that Rocky is beside him, panicking so hard that the computer is only occasionally spitting out words from the lexicon, meaning that he's using language they don't have and probably don't want common words for. The rest is just frantic squeaking and tapping on the inside of the ball, intermittently punctuated by his name. He tries to offer a thumbs down, but he can only make his fingers twitch. Rocky notices, anyway.
"Grace? Grace can hear me question? GraceGraceGrace."
Finally, he's able to pry his eyes open, slow and fluttery, which elicits excited squeaking from Rocky. The cool thing against his cheek, he learns, is the floor.
"Grace can hear me question?"
Grace nods.
"Yeah, I can hear you." He groans as the pain comes to him in waves. "That really hurt," he mutters under his breath to himself, even though Rocky can hear it.
"What just happened question? Grace fall and would not wake up."
He sits up, one hand flitting to his temple as he feels lightheaded again, but not enough to lose consciousness again.
"I think I fainted," he replies. He doesn't remember it, but that's the only explanation for what just happened, and it makes sense why he feels so bruised. Because he is bruised. Because he hit the ground.
"Don't understand."
"Yeah, sorry, new word. Not the best way to introduce it. It's... kind of like sleeping. But it's a surprise."
"Surprise," Rocky repeats. "Grace never fainted before. Grace always sleeps in bed."
"Well, I've never been this exhausted before. It's a biological thing. Anatomy and all that. I'm too tired to explain it all right now, but it's a fun little way for your body to tell you to rest."
"Not fun at all. Grace hurt. Rocky scared."
"I know. It was a joke. I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to do that."
"Then why sorry?"
"Because I scared you."
Rocky moves around in a contrary gesture that Grace knows means he's about to argue. He braces himself to be scolded, but it's not what happens.
"Rocky should apologize. Grace said he need rest and food and water, but I ignore."
It's a little surprising to hear him say it. He'd been expecting anger, but what he's getting is guilt. It's not much better, and makes him feel guilty in return.
"I could have stressed it a little more. This is just so important, and... it's interesting." He doesn't mention that he also doesn't want to disappoint Rocky. "I can get wrapped up, sometimes."
"Never do that again. Grace eat. Grace sleep. Now now now."
"Alright, alright. I'm going."
"Slow."
Rocky comes closer so he can use his ball to help him stand, where he wavers again. With Rocky there, however, he has a stable surface to steady himself on, and he makes his way to the makeshift bed, covering himself up as Rocky moves back to his side of the ship.
"Gonna watch me sleep?" Rocky trills an affirmative. "Yeah, I guess that's fair."
"Grace will be okay?"
"I'll be fine when I wake up. Just need to take it easy for a little while."
"Grace rest." That's big. It had taken a long time to explain rest, the concept of not moving but not sleeping, either. In fact, this might be the first time Rocky hasn't called it "lazy."
When Grace wakes just a couple hours later, his stomach is no calmer than it had been before he'd fainted. That's to be expected--he probably should have eaten something before sleeping--but it's still inconvenient. He grabs a rather tasteless shortbread cookie from his treat stash, and ignores Mary when she tries to push a nutritious meal on him.
"Later," he promises. He figures that if he primes his stomach a bit with something bland, it'll reactivate his appetite, and he'll feel ravenous later. In fact, he's counting on it. He nibbles at it slowly, but in the meantime, he nabs a glucose tablet out of the med kit and pops it in a cup of water. It can't hurt. He probably needs it, if the weakness in his knees is any indication.
"I need you to back up, Rock," he says. Rocky is mere inches from his legs, has been since he stood up from what was supposed to be a good night's sleep but ended up being a glorified nap.
"Grace say Grace sleep long time. Grace only sleep two hours."
"I know. I think I woke up because I feel nauseous. It's probably a sign I need to eat something."
"Don't like this," Rocky frets. "Worried."
"Yeah, it's not exactly my idea of a good time, either, but I'll pull through. You don't have to worry so much and you don't," he says, shoving Rocky's ball as hard as he can and only managing to move him a few inches because he's as heavy as a refrigerator but not nearly as likely to be running right now, "have to be so clingy."
"Rocky is helping."
'Rocky was helping. Now Rocky is annoying."
"Grace still crabby."
Grace sighs.
"Yeah, I guess I am. Sorry. You're just trying to take care of me. This isn't your fault."
"A little my fault." He furrows his eyebrows.
"No, I promise it's not." He reluctantly finishes the last bite of his cookie, though his plan to want to eat a meal after has backfired. His stomach feels overfull from just that, like it's sitting in his stomach and not moving. "Ugh. I still feel terrible. I think I'm going to try to sleep some more. Come on. It's time for the show."
Rocky sticks to his side until they get to his bed in the tunnel, where he only detaches himself from Grace's legs when he's nestled down and covered himself with the blanket.
"Grace sleep now question?"
"God willing," he replies. He rolls over onto his side, then turns to the other when gastric acid threatens to make its way back up his throat. The left side provides a bit of relief, enough to be some semblance of comfortable, so he closes his eyes and waits for sleep to come.
And waits for sleep to come.
And waits for sleep to come.
And sleep never shows. He grows frustrated with trying. He needs something to distract himself, something that will occupy his mind without being so interesting that it keeps him awake. What had he done back home when insomnia struck?
"I think I need something to read," he announces. "Something boring."
"Sampler instructions boring."
"Very correct." Though the process of figuring out the machine itself is... fun is the wrong word, but it's in the right family, the instructions themselves are dry as anything. If he starts at the beginning, reviewing what they've already worked through in his exhausted blur, it might just put him to sleep.
Neither he nor Rocky love that he has to stand again to retrieve them, but the glucose tab has had over an hour to work its magic, so he's not so afraid. He's mostly just bone-deep tired, so much so that he can't figure out for the life of him why he's still awake.
With manual in hand, he snuggles back down into his bed, as uncomfortable as it is, and opens it to the first page. As mentally and physically spent as he'd been while they were working on this, he finds that he recalls very little of it, and given how muddled his mind is now, it doesn't even make sense, so it seems to be the perfect choice of reading material to carry him off to dreamland.
However, flipping through the pages as he goes, he becomes aware of a small, bright dot in the middle of his vision, like a camera flash. He tries to blink it away, but it doesn't dissipate. Over the next few minutes, it becomes larger and larger, taking up more of his visual field until it's sizeable enough that he can no longer read the words in front of him. He shuts the manual, blinking and rubbing his eyes in a fruitless attempt to clear them.
"Grace sleep now, question?"
"Uh, yeah. Just a minute." Grace is growing a little concerned with the hole in his vision, and apparently it shows on his face, or in his posture, or maybe he's just silent for longer than he thinks, because Rocky begins to pace above him.
"Something is wrong, question?"
"Something is wrong, statement," he replies. Suddenly, even through his current cognitive haze, a memory strikes him.
"Did you sleep here?" Carl asks, two coffees in one hand. "Why are the lights off?" He flips them on, then back off when Grace holds his hand over his eyes like he's emerging from a movie theater on a sunny day. Has he really been in here so long that the light hurts?
"I assume you need both of those?" Grace replies, dodging the question. He really does want one of those coffees, though.
"You're confusing me with someone else." He hands one over, and Grace takes it with gratitude so fervent it's embarrassing. "You didn't answer my question."
Rats.
"Technically, the answer is no," he says, but that does nothing to prevent the eye roll he receives. "I couldn't sleep."
"Maybe if you tried leaving that chair."
Grace sighs. Carl is a no-nonsense kind of guy--well, he's managed to convince him to partake in a little nonsense--and a straight-shooter. There's no way he's going to wiggle out of this.
He has to admit, though, Carl is right. For the last half hour, he's had four different research papers open on his computer, and he's barely even been able to see straight to read them. His eyes are so dry that everything had blurred together into a bright little hole in the middle of his visual field for the better part of an hour, before it passed. Since then, his head has been pounding, like someone took an ice pick to his eye. That's why he's been sitting in the dark. He had to turn off the lights and dim his computer screen as low as it can go. Even that's a little much. Hard to look at.
"I just have one last question I need to answer. Then, I'll go home."
"What's the question?" He opens his mouth to reply, then falters. What is the question? His brain feels like cake batter, mostly mush with a few solid clumps of thought scattered throughout, most of which are negligible enough to ignore. Even just trying to bring up the thought sends another spike of pain through his head, and he winces. "See? This is why you need to sleep."
"Hm. Maybe you're right." He reaches for his coffee, taking a long sip, then pressing the warm cup to his temple and closing his eyes. It helps a little. "My head's killing me."
"Have you eaten recently?"
He has to admit that he's been a little sick to his stomach for the past hour.
"I'll do it after the coffee. Little queasy right now."
"That's why it's dark in here?" Carl asks. "You have a migraine?"
"Migraine?" he repeats. "No, just a headache."
"Does it feel like your brain is coming out of your eye?" How could he possibly know that? "If you're nauseous and the light hurts, it's a migraine. My brother gets them."
"Ah. Sorry to hear that." Well, back to it, he thinks, but when he tries to return his attention to the screen, it's so bright that he flinches. "Gah," he groans. "Okay. Maybe you're right."
"I'm taking you home. Drink that; it'll help." That was the plan, anyway. He'd argue, since he still hasn't completed everything he'd wanted to accomplish for the day, or the night, or whatever time it is, but if he's being honest, home sounds good. Bed sounds good. A dark, quiet room so far from this office that his laptop can no longer smell his fear sounds good.
"You don't have to do that. I can get home on my own."
"On what, your 12-speed? There's no way you're biking home."
"I can call an Uber."
"Just get in the damn car, Grace."
"Right. Okay."
The pain had only gotten worse from there. It had taken him several hours of lying in bed in the dark silence before he was able to get up again, and another several before he could look at a screen. In the end, he was lucky that it was Carl who'd found him, because he was pretty sure that another few hours in that office might have killed him, and nobody else would have taken him home like that.
"It's a migraine," he realizes aloud, feeling stupid for not having clocked it earlier.
"New word."
"It's like a headache, but worse. I've had one before. It got pretty bad."
"How do we fix, question?"
"Caffeine," he says, even though it sounds like he's just trying to worm his way into another cup of coffee, "and rest. Dark, quiet." He reaches up to turn the light off, wincing away from it as he realizes that the sensitivity has already begun. The pain won't be far behind. "I'm going to get more coffee. I'll be right back."
Really, saying he'll be right back is a waste of his breath, because of course Rocky is coming with him as he makes his way back to the Hail Mary. She approves another mug under the circumstances, which he starts drinking even though it's too hot. A burned tongue is less painful than the migraine is going to be.
"Medication recommended," she says, and he hears Armando whir to life insidiously. Though he's normally the type who's reluctant to even take Tylenol, if Mary's got something to stave this off, he's not going to say no. What's another mystery pill? He pops it in his mouth and swallows.
"Medication will fix?"
"We'll see, I guess."
------
Medication does not fix.
Just 15 minutes after he takes them, the pain starts. At first, it's annoying. A nagging headache behind his eye that has him happy that he'd turned out the light, but well enough to be bored. He sits up in the tunnel, bouncing a ball against Rocky's wall, knowing that he's screwed if he doesn't catch it when it bounces back, because there's no way he's retrieving that this time. Rocky has never liked this game, and he especially doesn't like it now. He keeps reminding Grace that he needs to be resting, and he always complies for a few minutes, but inevitably the boredom of lying down doing nothing wins out, and he ends up with the ball once more.
Then, the pain is significant. Finally, he lets the ball hit the wall and bounce away with no effort to catch it.
"Migraine worse, question?"
"Yeah, it's starting to get bad. I think I might just lie down for a little while."
"Good good good."
Half an hour later, Rocky checks in.
"Grace okay, question?"
"Yeah, I'm hanging in there." He's thrown an arm over his eyes to block out what very little light shines through the tunnel from his ship, as it had started to sting. "Just need a little time."
"More medication."
"You can only take so much at a time, or it makes you sick. I'll get more in a few hours." Rocky trills, and he can't think straight enough to interpret it.
"In meantime? More caffeine question?"
"It's a long shot, but it might not be a bad idea." It might not be a good idea, either, but it's the only one they've got. Rocky skitters off to retrieve coffee, having Armando pass it through air lock. Carefully, so as not to spill it, he returns, passes it through the other one near Grace's head.
"Thanks," he says, sitting up just long enough to take a sip. It's probably best to test a small amount, first. His stomach feels all swirly and churning.
"Rocky calls this drink Hail Mary," he says, and Grace laughs despite the increase in pain it causes as the movement jostles his head. "Get it? Is joke. Long shot."
"Yeah, Rock, I get it. Good joke. Now, I need you to be quiet."
Reluctantly, Rocky agrees.
------
Rocky POV
Eventually, Grace's pain is debilitating. He asks for silence, and no longer responds with more than a thumbs down when Rocky asks him if he's okay. Rocky can't interpret that, because Grace is NOT okay, as evidenced by the aforementioned lack of verbal response. Is he lying, or is he using sarcasm again? Rocky is still hazy on the difference. It worries him. How is he supposed to know how Grace is feeling if Grace won't tell him?
He asks for quiet, but he can only be quiet for so long, especially as Grace goes stiller than he's ever been and stops talking. Grace never stops moving, even in his deepest sleep. Grace never stops talking. It's concerning. No, more than that. It's terrifying.
Worst of all, this is his fault. Eridians sleep between three and twelve hours at a time, depending on circumstances, but humans are supposedly meant to sleep between seven and nine no matter what. Rocky doubted that, at first, given that he's watched Grace sleep for as few as two and as long as thirteen, but it's starting to make sense now that he knows they're only meant to be awake in 16 hour increments. The times that Grace has slept for more than eight hours have always come after bouts of sleeping only two over the course of several Earth days. Rocky hadn't thought that abnormal, hadn't known he was extending Grace's limits as far as he was.
He was wrong. Every time he'd ignored Grace's complaints of being tired and called him lazy for it, he'd been making him sick. That was never his intention. Of course, it wasn't. Forty-eight hours just seems like such a small amount of time to him. He hadn't taken into account how long it is to Grace.
Grace is still for hours. The only reason Rocky knows he's even alive is the occasional little noises he's never heard before, which he can only interpret as pain. They're infrequent, but maybe that's a good thing. At least, maybe it's better for Grace.
Without his chatter to fill the silence, Rocky is left to his own thoughts, and he hates it. He's been alone for so long. He hates when Grace sleeps, or, at least, he did before. It's too quiet. Often, he drags Grace out of bed early just because he can't stand it any longer. He'd done it this morning, in fact, and he regrets it. Now, he's sitting here, trapped behind a wall, unable to do anything but watch as his best friend falls victim to a worsening illness that he doesn't understand. Can Grace die of a migraine? He sure looks like he's dying. How can it hurt that much if he's not dying?
Oh, no. Grace is dying. Just like his crew, just like the stars, just like their worlds. Once again, Rocky can do nothing about it. He couldn't fix the radiation sickness, and now he can't fix Grace. Nothing he's tried has worked, and he doesn't know what else to do. All he can do is watch Grace sleep, if he's even sleeping. He makes that sound again, proving that he's unfortunately not.
It takes eight hours, but finally, Grace moves. He uncovers his eyes, something he'd said he was doing because the light hurt. He doesn't sit up, not yet, but that's okay. Rocky would tell him to lie down even if he tried. In an instant, he's bursting through the airlock in his ball, rushing to his side.
"Grace?" he calls. He wishes he could do it quietly, because Grace said sound hurt, too, but he has no control over the computer volume.
"Yeah, Rocky, I hear ya," he replies, and Rocky can't resist a little dance of relief at the sound of his voice. It sounds different, like a combination of speaking and his pain sounds, but it's there.
"Feel better, question?"
"Starting to. Are you okay?"
Rocky is silent for a moment, sure he's misunderstanding the question. Why would Grace be asking about him at a time like this?
"Grace is one who is sick."
"I know, but... after everything that happened with your crew, I can't imagine how scary this must have been for you. I'm really sorry."
"Not Grace fault. Grace shouldn't feel guilty."
"But I do. If I'd just--ugh," he cuts himself off with another pain sound.
"Stop talking," Rocky commands. "Always so much talking."
"You're one to talk," he whispers. Rocky doesn't understand the expression, but this isn't the time for a semantics lesson.
"What would make Grace better?"
"Water might help."
"Yes yes yes," he says excitedly, so eager to actually be able to do something after being helpless for so long. "I will bring. What else, question? I can bring medicine."
"Sure. That would be good."
"Stay there." Rocky hustles over to the Hail Mary to ask Mary for water and pills, then returns as quickly as he can. The faster he moves, the faster he can help Grace get better. Not to mention the fact that he doesn't want to leave him unattended while he's paralyzed with pain. Someone needs to watch over him.
He passes everything through the air lock, cheering when Grace sits up without wavering.
"Feel okay, question?"
"Yeah, I'm okay. A little dizzy, a little nauseous. Mostly, everything just feels bruised."
"Makes sense. Grace fall and bruise everything."
He laughs again.
"Just about." He swallows the pills with a much healthier sip of water than he's been allowing himself for the past few hours. Grace keeps glancing over, and though Rocky realizes he's staring at him, that does not deter him. He'd really thought Grace's brain was shutting down. That he might die. "Hey. Seriously, I'm okay. Migraines are painful, but pretty harmless. They pass, and you're fine. It's passing. I would have explained it better, but I wasn't really thinking straight."
"Good thing. Very good thing that Grace is okay. Relief relief relief."
"Yeah, definitely a relief." He lies back down, but this time, his face and posture are much different. Less stiff, less strained. More normal. "I think I could sleep, now. This was pretty exhausting. Assume the position." Rocky hops back into the tunnel and perches above him. "Goodnight, Rocky."
Title: I've got this broken habit I keep gluing back together
Word count: 6,569
Genre: hurt/comfort
Summary: Grace wakes up with a stomachache that he thinks is anxiety. All day, he brushes off Rocky's concerns, reassuring him that he's fine. And when he's not, Rocky is left alone, unable to fix it. Everything is good in the end!! :)
Whereas before, he'd been spending most of his free time doom-scrolling through academic papers on the laptop or taking depression naps, Grace now spends his days with Rocky, chatting to build a lexicon. It always starts out about science, but that limits them more than one would think. In order to explain scientific concepts to one another, they need enough common language to be able to put things in plain, simple terms, first, and that's hard without taking about simple things.
More than just informative, he actually finds it fun. He's smart as a whip and, as he's coming to learn, actually pretty funny, for a guy who claims not to understand humor. He catches on to things quickly and it feels like they generally enjoy each other's company. Days that had once felt insurmountably long have turned into staying up late without even realizing it.
However, he's not tethered to an alarm clock anymore, so when Grace wakes up feeling like he wants to do nothing but roll over and go back to sleep, it's unusual. Immediately, he becomes aware of a nagging pain in his stomach and a headache, plus the feeling of being slightly chilled on a ship that's normally quite comfortable. As he does many mornings, he forgets where he is until he opens his eyes, so he groans and rolls over, tugging his blanket over his head.
"Grace is awake," Rocky celebrates with a little dancey dance. After a sleep cycle, Rocky is awake for around 86 hours--three and a half days--and the fact that Grace is supposed to spend 24 of those asleep is annoying to him. Often, that leads to Grace caving and staying up far too late and waking up after far too little sleep. Rocky gets bored, which makes him antsy, which makes him pace and move around until it wakes him. He's yet to determine whether it's being done on purpose, but he has his suspicions.
"I'm going back to sleep."
"Grace just wake up. Why would Grace sleep again, question?"
He almost says that he doesn't feel well, but he stops himself. Eridians don't feel ill often. Their hot temperatures boil any germs that might be out to get them, and their sleep cycles are strict, involuntary, and paralyzing. There isn't really any wiggle room for Rocky, which is why Grace hasn't been allowed to sleep in since they met. Introducing the concept that he feels sick enough to want to be unconscious might bring up some trauma for him. It's already a sore spot.
"I'm just comfortable," he half lies. Now that Rocky has his ball, he can sleep in his bed again instead of on the floor of the tunnel bridge. It's been nice.
"Breakfast time. Grace eat." His stomach is churning a little alongside the aching feeling, so breakfast doesn't sound appetizing, but maybe something light will help.
"Let me get dressed, first. I'll meet you there." It doesn't matter that Rocky is blind nor that he has no concept of human modesty: watching him change is a boundary he's set. As Rocky scurries away to wait, he dresses, noting the way it aggravates his stomach pain, and moving around does no favors for the headache. Stress and the food must be getting to him.
By the time he's dressed, he's already so tired and nauseous that resisting the urge to go back to bed is hard. For a moment, he considers whether it's worth putting up a fight for this one. Bed looks so nice. However, he decides against it. He'll feel more awake after coffee.
"Grace take long time," Rocky complains.
"Yeah, well, I put my pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of us."
"Don't understand expression. Maybe if Grace let Rocky observe 'get dressed'--"
"Absolutely not."
"For science!"
"You can't keep using that phrase to get whatever you want."
Even teaching human middle schoolers, Grace has never seen anyone pout as obviously or as often as Rocky does. Because they've got the privilege of gravity for now, he gets the luxury of drinking coffee out of a mug rather than a bag, which is nice. Maybe it's familiarity, but he swears it tastes better that way. Mary tries to push sausage and eggs on him, something he'd normally be excited about, but the thought of forcing down powdered eggs and dried out sausage makes his stomach churn.
"How about something else today," he suggests. "Maybe oatmeal?"
She gladly complies, and Armando hands over a steaming bowl of way more oatmeal than he's planning on stomaching. He lets it soak as he sips too-hot coffee.
"Alright, Rock," he says, settling into their morning routine, "tell me all about it."
"Grace move a lot in sleep! More than usual. One side, then other side, then back to other side. So much movement."
"That's interesting," he says absently, setting the bowl of oatmeal down beside him and hoping Rocky doesn't notice. "Maybe that's why I'm so tired".
Every morning, Rocky walks him through everything he did and said in his sleep. Given how Eridians are legitimately paralyzed in their sleep, Rocky finds it strange and exciting. He's learned more about his sleep habits from his weird little alien friend than he has from anyone he's ever shared a bed with. Apparently he talks in his sleep, which both surprises him and doesn't. He's always talking.
For the next few minutes, he pretends to pay attention to the detailed report of his every move, then gears up for Rocky's favorite part.
"Grace have dreams, question?"
That, in particular, fascinates Rocky, which he supposes isn't a bad thing. Something about being watched makes him feel... well, stalked, certainly, but there's a sense of security under that feeling that's starting to grow on him. When he'd first woken up from his coma, he'd had a lot of nightmares, snippets of memories he didn't understand mixed with usual dream logic. A lot of being chased. A lot of being caught.
With Rocky here, though, his dreams are a little lighter. He doesn't remember as many of them, but that's because he's waking up less often. It had taken time to adjust, but now that it's been a few weeks, he actually kind of finds it comforting.
Still weird though.
"Yeah," he says, "actually, a few. Want to hear about them?" Rocky trills in affirmative, so Grace delves into all the nonsense that went through his mind as he slept.
After he finishes explaining his dreams (and all necessary context), it's usually time for some exercise, but he's not sure how well that will go over with his stomach. Luckily, it's not the first time he's ever skipped it--he's never been much of a gym guy--so it doesn't raise much of a red flag beyond the light scolding he receives for being lazy. Oh, well. He'd have earned Rocky's criticism somehow or another today anyway, he's sure. He usually does.
"Time for computer?" Rocky asks, earning a laugh from Grace. He can't help it. His posture is just so universally, apologetically eager. It's sweet. "Time learn new words?"
"Sounds good, Rock. What do you feel like talking about first?"
"Grace explain Earth water cycle!"
Great. He'd been hoping to coast in this conversation until he wakes up a little more.
"You just want a puppet show."
"Show necessary for Rocky to understand. Yes yes yes."
"We can work on that one later. How about something a little easier to start the morning off? Something from the projection room?" Rocky perks up. Grace laughs. "Come on."
-------
Grace might like the projection room almost as much as Rocky does.
They're pretending to feel icy wind on their faces in the Arctic tundra when the nausea hits full force. Maybe it's because he forced himself to choke down half the bowl of oatmeal, maybe it's the projection making him motion sick, but regardless, his stomach flips insidiously. Panic follows on its heels, making him sweaty and shaky.
"I'll be right back," he manages, getting to his feet as fast as he can and scurrying down the tunnel back to his own ship. "Bathroom."
He barely manages to make it to the toilet before his stomach contents jump up his throat. It’s certainly not the first time he’s vomited since he woke up here. Adjusting to being in space was awful on his stomach, and nausea was a constant background sensation for almost two weeks. However, it’s been a long time since he’s actually been sick like this, so it’s unexpected and annoying.
"Ugh," he groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. When he's sure he's finished, he gets slowly to his feet, where he finds that, although it's done nothing for the abdominal pain, vomiting has actually taken away the nausea. "What was that all about?"
Though the projection room hasn't made him feel sick in the past, he guesses it's probably what threw him over the edge. His head aches, too, so maybe stress is the underlying factor. It's not like he can really catch a stomach bug up here in isolation, and his food is all precooked. Oh well, he decides. If it's anxiety, then ruminating on it isn't going to help, so he does his best to shove it from his mind as he rinses his mouth out with water and heads back to the tunnel.
Rocky is waiting for him, as always. Seems as though talking with Grace is the best part of his day--well, likewise. One of the first and most terrible things that Grace has learned about him is that, before the Hail Mary came along, Rocky had been floating alone up here for about 46 Earth years. Longer than Grace has even been alive. He can't imagine how lonely he must have been.
By the time Grace returns, he finds that Rocky has gotten bored of the projection room without Grace there to describe what's going on and to move around to deepen the simulations. He likes to be doing something with his hands at all times, and he gets antsy when he sits still for too long. Grace can't tell if that's an Eridian thing, or he's just an engineer.
"I see we're getting to work," he announces when he steps into the lab.
"Grace be lazy long enough."
"A guy has to go to the bathroom one time, and he never hears the end of it," he mutters. "Alright, what have we got?" Rocky gestures to the pile of transparent panels. "Oh, wow. Are there more of these than the last time I saw them?"
"Yes. Rocky build while Grace bathe and exercise and--"
"Okay, okay, I see. Jeez. This is..." daunting, crazy, exhausting, "impressive." That, more than anything. Rocky looks proud, as much as a sentient rock can. "Where do we start?"
---------
They work for over three and a half hours, Grace placing things where Rocky says they should go, then replacing them where Rocky says they should actually go, constantly tuning out the frustrated criticisms. The whole time, his stomachache is doing nothing but getting worse. At first, it's nothing he can't push through, but it becomes less bearable as time goes on. Eventually, he knows that if he doesn't go lie down soon, he's going to be sick again.
"I think I need a break."
"We just start working."
"Maybe to you, but it's been almost four hours. That's a long time to go without a rest, for a human. I'm exhausted." Rocky ponders this.
"Okay. Grace take break."
"Thank you."
Nausea washes over him, worse than the background noise that it's been while they worked. Hopefully, that's just because he's allowing himself to think about it. He's always been bad about being in touch with his body when he's wrapped up in something. A vague memory washes over him of his days in astrophage research, one of a man bringing him a spare sandwich from the deli only to have him get woozy from low blood sugar when he stood to retrieve it. The man hadn't seemed surprised, either.
"Grace need lunch, question?"
Ugh. He probably does, but that's the last thing he wants to do right now. Given how well breakfast went over, he has a hypothesis about the result of putting more food into his roiling stomach.
"I think I'm gonna skip lunch today. Stomach's feeling a little choppy." Before Rocky can ask, he finishes, "Means I'm a little nauseous."
He's a little afraid of how that's going to go over, given what happened to Rocky's crew, but he doesn't react much. Grace realizes that he's only known the word "nauseous" in relation to causes like zero gravity and going too long between meals after getting wrapped up in work. To him, there's no reason to associate nausea with illness.
Another wave hits him, hard and intense. He swallows thickly, hoping he can will it away and frowning when he realizes he can't. One hand clamps hard over his mouth and he bolts upright. He would excuse himself, but he's pretty sure that if he removes his hand from over his mouth, he'll lose his tentative grip on the contents of his stomach, so instead, he just hustles out of the room as quickly as he can.
Just in the nick of time, he slams the door behind him and once again vomits, though this time there's nothing in his stomach to lose but what little water he'd managed to force down. This time, despite coming away soaked in sweat, he realizes that the trembling he's doing isn't just shakiness from his ordeal, but cold shivers. This really takes him back to his grad school days. Is he having a panic attack? So out of nowhere? In school, he'd stretched himself so thin all the time that he'd be hit with waves of sheer anxiety out of the blue, ones that made him shiver and sweat and, occasionally, vomit. He supposes that it's not exactly unwarranted, given his circumstances, but it's still startling. This is the last thing he thought he'd still be dealing with, after all the healing he'd done once he left research and became a teacher. The job isn't easier, not by any means, but at least he can see the impact he's making. In research, he'd just been forming, voicing, and defending one wildly unpopular opinion over and over.
When he's sure his stomach is calm, he rinses his mouth out again, this time spitting the water out rather than swallowing it. Maybe he shouldn't try to eat anything else until the stress stomachache subsides.
This time, when he reenters the lab, Rocky has stopped working and appears to be waiting for him, staring at the door.
"Hey, Rock," he says slowly, wincing when his voice sounds torn up and shaky. "Taking a break?"
"Grace is hiding something."
"Ha--what?" he asks, aiming for nonchalance and hoping that Rocky isn't good enough at reading his tone yet to hear an obvious lie when he hears one. "What makes you say that?"
"Heartbeat too loud and too fast. Breathing too fast. Shaking. Weird all day. Grace is sick, question?"
Grace sighs. It figures that Rocky is too astute to pull off lying to him.
"Oof, okay. I wasn't trying to hide it, I just didn't want to stop working just yet. I should have said something." Rocky's tone shoots up an octave in panic.
"Grace is sick question?"
"No, I'm not--not exactly. It's just--it's called anxiety. Feeling anxious. Like fear, but there's nothing, like, dangerous going on to be afraid of. It's just your brain overreacting to stress and dumping the same chemicals that cause you to feel scared. Do you have anything like that?"
"Scared for no reason?" Rocky parrots. Grace nods, ready with the laptop in the hopes that his friend might understand the feeling. "Eridian word is," and a little musical trill that Grace enters as "anxiety" into the program. "Anxiety make Grace sick, question?"
"Yeah. It can't kill you or anything, but it can make you feel sick. I think I've been feeling anxious since I woke up."
"What does it... feel like?"
Hm. That's a good question. He's used to divorcing his mind from his body during times like these. It had started as a survival mechanism, then ended up being a habit, as most coping mechanisms do. This just happens to be a bad one that he can't seem to shake.
"It feels like fear, I guess. Your heart rate and breathing increase, you get all cold and sweaty, sometimes nauseous. It can feel like a whole lot of things, really."
"Oh." For a blissful moment, he thinks he's going to leave it at that. "Why Grace did not tell Rocky, question?"
"I didn't want you to worry. Like I said, it's nothing harmful, just a feeling. Uncomfortable."
"Cause pain question?"
"Sometimes. My stomach has been really sore since I woke up."
"Grace should have said something. Work done for today so Grace can rest." As much as his brain doesn't want to, his body has been begging for this all day.
"Sure. I think I might take a nap. It might help me chill out a little. 1,800 seconds or so, and I'll be good as new."
"Grace chill out. Rocky watch."
Rocky follows Grace to the dormitory and assumes his position beside his bed while Grace settles in and rolls over to face away, curling in on his aching stomach and drifting off almost immediately.
-----
When he wakes, it's because Rocky is tapping on his glass ball, calling his name.
"Rocky? What is it? What's wrong?"
He's fretting, Grace can see it in his stance. He's upset about something.
"Grace say Grace nap 1,800 seconds. Grace been napping 8,100 seconds."
It takes him a moment to do the mental math that should normally be easy. He's been asleep for over two hours? He never naps that long. Heck, sometimes he doesn't even sleep that long.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to. Must be more tired than I thought."
"How Grace feel, question?"
Honestly, he feels worse than before. The stomachache is no better--in fact, it's sharper, more like a knife in his gut than the earlier feeling of having taken a punch. He's shivering proper now, freezing and weak with chills. More than that, everything is starting to feel muddled, floaty, and dizzy, like he's waking up from being drugged. Overall, it's the worst he's felt since he woke up from his coma, even worse than that first day.
"Uh, not great," he admits.
"'Not great' is usually Grace way of saying 'very bad.'"
"No, it's--"
Actually, he can't argue with that.
He desperately wants more sleep, but Rocky is worried enough as it is, and really, now that he's awake, he's not sure if he could even fall back to sleep in this kind of pain. Stifling a groan now that the cat's out of the bag would be more effort than it's worth.
"Grace need medicine," Rocky insists.
"Nah. All it'll do is make me sleep more."
If he could only just relax, he's sure he'd feel better, but it's hard to do that when he can't even pinpoint what's making him feel so stressed in the first place. Is it the pressure finally getting to him? He doesn't feel particularly anxious, but there was a time right after the publication of his paper, when he was hearing nothing but arguments tearing him apart and calling him an idiot, when he was throwing up just about every other day, first thing in the morning, from pure dread. He'd tried medication then, but it hadn't done anything but take him from being nervous to being groggy and nervous. He's already groggy enough, now.
"Projection room help Grace chill out, question?"
Despite how awful he feels, he smiles. Rocky loves that room, now that he has his little tactile projector, and knows that the craggy, foggy beach is one of Grace's favorite simulations to go to. Sometimes, he'll queue it up after a particularly long day in the lab and stay there until he unwinds enough to fall asleep.
"That sounds like a great idea."
He follows Rocky there, then selects his favorite program, sitting down beside Rocky. This close, he can feel the slight heat radiating off his ball, and he leans into it until he's resting against it entirely, pressing himself to as much surface area as possible to soak up maximum warmth. It feels fantastic, almost enough to stop his shivering. As much as he calls Rocky clingy, and he is, it's Grace who needs the physical contact. Even when it's just a little fist bump here and there.
Pain or no pain, watching the soothing waves, combined with the exhaustion from feeling ill and the warmth coming from Rocky, soon lulls him again into a light, restless sleep.
Rocky’s POV
Grace is once again napping, this time without even giving Rocky the courtesy of a warning. He does that sometimes, falls asleep without realizing he’s doing it, so he doesn’t worry that he’s dead like he had the first time. Usually, it's after long nights and short sleeps and long hours in the lab. Today has been the opposite. Rocky feels like he’s been asleep more than he's been awake. Even then, he's acting strange. He insists it's anxiety, and that anxiety isn't dangerous, but can he really be this sick from something he swears is physically harmless?
He's worried, but Grace finally seems comfortable for the first time in hours. His shaking has reduced significantly, and he's not so tightly wound against his aching abdomen. He hates when Grace is hurting. He hates when he lies about it. Why does he feel the need to do that? Rocky is all Grace has, and vice versa. They need each other.
Grace tends to move around in his sleep, but this shifting is different. Restless, like he's trying to find a way to sleep that doesn't hurt. One hand keeps coming up to guard his abdomen, which is worrisome. Rocky is watching him sleep, so he shouldn't feel vulnerable to attacks. What does it say that even in his sleep, he's trying to protect his internal organs? What threat could he possibly be facing?
"Grace," he prods, wiggling the ball in an attempt to rouse him without startling him. "Wake up. Your heart."
"Hm?"
"Heart is beating so fast, like while exercise. Rocky never heard it beating like this while sleep."
"It's fine, Just lemme sleep a 'lil longer. You're warm." He's listless and speaking strangely, his words slurred and more difficult to understand, like when he gets very tired. Stupid tired. But this isn't Grace being stupid, it's Grace being ill. And Rocky doesn't know what to do. There's very little he can do, given that he can't survive in Grace's atmosphere to touch him or bring him medicine. If he wants Grace to get better, he's got to convince him to do the work himself, and it might be too late for that. It's getting harder to wake him every time he tries, and this time, he's barely awake even though he's talking. His eyes aren't even open.
"Don't like this. Something feels wrong."
"You're overreacting," Grace reassures. However, not a moment later, his eyes shoot open, and he smacks one hand over his mouth like he had earlier. In the same rushed flurry by which he'd departed a few hours ago, he forces himself to his feet, but this time, he seems unsteady. He wavers, only managing not to fall by steadying himself on the wall of the ship. Rocky cries out his name, but it doesn't make a difference, and he goes staggering out of the dormitory.
This time, Rocky isn't about to let him run off alone. He doesn't care whether Grace lets him follow: he's coming in. Luckily, he's got bigger concerns than making sure that the door is locked, and Rocky manages to trail closely enough behind him that when he tries to slam it shut, it instead just hits the ball and bounces off. He watches in horror as Grace makes terrible, pained coughing sounds he's never heard before, purging water from his stomach through his mouth.
"Grace!" he can't help but cry, even knowing that Grace doesn't want him in here. He knows he's lucky that the microphone on the computer is even sensitive enough to pick up on his trills this far away. Grace probably has to strain to hear it, but he hopes it's loud enough to get the gist. "Grace, how Rocky help?"
He can't reply as he begins coughing again, though this time, he must be out of water, because nothing comes up. That doesn't make it less horrible--in fact, it might make it worse. Grace moans in pain, burying his face in the crook of his elbow as he rests his arm on the toilet.
"Get outta here," he commands roughly without looking up, but there's no heat behind it. There never is.
"How Rocky help?" he repeats. He hates that he can't modulate his tone, because he knows that his panic comes through the computer speakers, and that makes Grace feel like he has to reassure him. He sits up straight, rubs at watery, red eyes, and sniffles.
"M'fine, Rock," he reassures. "Be out in a few."
"No." Rocky has to draw the line somewhere. "No more excuses. Tell Rocky what to do." When Grace sighs, still hesitant, Rocky adds a rare, "Please."
Slowly, gingerly, he turns, angling his body toward Rocky's ball and leaning against him once more. This time, though, rather than supporting him from the side as he's accustomed to, Rocky finds himself staring at Grace's torso as he presses himself up against the ball from the front. Rocky shifts around in discomfort. This can't be all he needs right now.
"This is helping?"
"Mhm," he murmurs. "Not as cold." It's not enough of an answer to assuage his fears, but it's enough to interpret as an affirmative. The physical contact is helping the shaking, but he's still barely coherent, barely responding to his questions, and his heart is still pounding hard and fast. Treatment has to be more complicated than just making him comfortable.
"Rocky want Grace to see medicine robot." Grace starts shaking his head before he even finishes his request.
"Told you, he'll just--"
"Grace is sick and tired and stupid. Judgment bad." Grace pulls away from the ball, winces, and looks at him.
"You're really worried, aren't you?"
"Yes yes yes. Never seen Grace act like this before. New and scary." Whether it's guilt or finally seeing reason, Rocky can't say, but finally, he nods with a deep, resigned breath.
"Okay."
"Okay what, question? Grace agree to see medicine robot?"
"Yeah. Just... gimme a second to stand up."
"Careful," he says, "go slow." The last thing he needs is for him to stand up too fast and get dizzy, which happens sometimes when he goes long hours in the lab without drinking water. Rocky knows he hasn't been drinking water. His hypothesis is proven correct when Grace wavers upright, leaning very heavily on his ball for support and balance. Why would he let things get so bad that he can barely stand before letting Armando look him over?
Even once he's on his feet, he's not standing upright, not all the way. He's hunched forward, hand still protecting his stomach.
"Grace go see robot, now," Rocky prompts when he doesn't move for a long moment.
"I think I need'a sid'down another sec," he slurs, easing himself into a seated position once more.
"No. Grace say he see robot. Grace is sick."
"A li'l too sick to stand yet," he says worryingly. "Just need'a minute." He sits like that for a moment, on the ground with his head between his knees. When he decides, possibly arbitrarily, that he can try again, he does so, once more using Rocky's ball for support. It doesn't seem to matter. He still sways on his feet.
"One more second," he implores, moving to sit again, but Rocky can't let that happen.
"No," he says sharply. Grace steadies himself, but doesn't sit. For all his complaining about it, he really does do most of what he's told. "Grace has had enough seconds. Grace go. Now now now."
"Ugh," is the only reply he receives. "Going. Jeez."
It's a rough trek. Rocky has never seen him so clumsy, and he's naturally pretty clumsy. After just a few steps, they reach the doorway.
"Watch step."
Then, something horrible happens. Without warning, Grace's foot catches on the little ledge, sending him careening forward with barely enough time to throw his arms out in front of him as he falls. Rocky shouts his name, but it's too late. He hits the ground hard on his hands and knees, crying out in so much palpable pain that Rocky flinches.
"Grace!"
There's nothing he can do from his stupid space ball. He should have built something different, should have insisted he get himself checked out earlier, should have learned more about human anatomy so he might have any idea of what's going on--
Grace pushes himself to his knees and leans to one side, catching himself on the wall. Then, that terrible sound again, the awful coughing that had earlier brought up mouthfuls of water. All Rocky can do is get as close to him as possible in the hopes that maybe he was right, maybe the heat could help him, and a few more minutes of clinging to the ball might give him the energy to stand up and get to somewhere Armando can examine him.
However, he has a sneaking suspicion it doesn't work like that.
"Grace get up," he demands. Grace's face is pinched in pain, his posture rigid with it. Even his words are pushed out through a clenched jaw.
"Can't."
"Grace get up." His tone is somewhere between frantic panic and irritable impatience, triggered by the aforementioned panic. Grace's heart is hammering so fast that he loses track of the beats, and breathing shallow and quick. "Have to. For Rocky."
For Rocky. It's a long shot: a Hail Mary, as Grace has explained it to him. Something that's said or done in a desperate plea for victory against insurmountable circumstances. Grace is too sick to walk. He knows this. But he also knows Grace has to walk to get help, if that's even possible, anymore. He can't even think about that. All he can do is hope that by some miracle, Grace can muster up what little strength he still has and do this for him. He needs it. Needs Grace.
And, by whatever means, Grace stands up. He's not steady, but he takes a shaky step forward, catches himself on Rocky's ball, and then takes another. Rocky keeps up the slow pace, always there to keep him from falling every time he looks like he might. Finally, excruciatingly, they make their way to the medbay, where Armando is able to step in and help him onto the bed.
"Grace very sick, bad bad bad sick." But the speaker is too far way to hear, and it just comes out as panicked trills that Mary can't decipher.
"Physical distress detected. Examination of Doctor Grace initiated," Mary announces, the best words Rocky has ever heard. He waits, sticky fear sensation oozing out of every crevice. He hasn't felt this scared since--well. That's not a thought he wants to relive right now.
"Core temperature highly elevated: 103.6 degrees Fahrenheit." Because Rocky holds onto every word Grace says, he recalls one of their earliest conversations about species biology. Human body temperature is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Not just that, but they have a very narrow range of survivable temperatures. Get too hot or too cold, and things begin shutting down, not the least of which being the brain. But how hot can he get before that happens? Has it started already? Grace seemed stupid, when he was conscious, which he barely is, now. Only enough to try to swat away the probes as they whirl around him in a flurry of motion, placing a cannula into his neck to administer medicine and fluids.
"Heart rate elevated: 136 beats per minute. Respiration rate elevated: 25 breaths per minute. Blood pressure elevated: 131/84. Blood oxygen saturation: normal. Likely diagnosis: infection and dehydration. Scanning for cause."
Rocky sits, being as patient as he can be when all he can think about is how quickly Grace's condition had deteriorated.
"Rocky?" Grace calls, his tone helplessly lost. "S'happening?"
He's squeaking furiously, trying to explain to him that he was wrong, that this is not harmless and that he's very, very sick, but he can't. The laptop is in the other room, and Grace can't understand him without it.
"Scan in progress," Mary informs him. "Please hold still."
Armando is trying his best to work around his flailing, but Grace is faster.
"Grace stop moving," Rocky implores. "Grace is safe. Rocky watch." The calm in his tone is 100% forced and possibly not even believable, but it doesn't matter. Sometimes, it's just nice to hear something familiar, he hopes, so he keeps chattering until Mary speaks again.
"Underlying cause of illness determined," Mary announces. Rocky moves closer in anticipation. "Doctor Grace is experiencing: infection of the appendix." Appendix? What's an appendix? "Treatment course: immediate removal of affected organ."
Three questions. It's an organ? It's infected? And, most terrifyingly, they have to remove it? As far as Rocky has understood so far, those are all pretty important. Worst of all, he can't ask any questions, not of Grace nor of Mary, before Armando is injecting something new through his cannula and beginning the process of surgery.
----
It's surprisingly short and simple. About half an hour later, Armando places a few incisions into the abdominal punctures, then bandages them, and just like that, he's replacing his gown and ending calling the procedure successful. And it does appear successful. Grace's heart rate and respiration both begin to return to normal, and he's no longer squirming around in agony (though whether that's the surgery or the medicine is anyone's guess.)
Rocky only leaves for a minute, just long enough to get the laptop and push it across the floor so he can talk to Grace when he wakes up. Other than that, he sits by his side, waiting. He talks to him. He tells him to rest, but secretly, he can't stop hoping he'll wake any second now. This is awful. It's just like how he'd felt when his crew were so sick, helpless and confused. Not only does he not really understand what was wrong, but he has no idea what happens next.
To his surprise, Grace actually only stays unconscious for about another hour and a half. It seems as though the meds only briefly sedated him, and the fever and exhaustion did the rest. Rocky is torn between worry that perhaps he should be healing for longer than this and relief that he's okay when his fingers twitch and his head rolls from one side to the other.
"Grace," he calls as softly as the computer program will allow without any real control over volume. "Grace can hear me, question?"
"Hmngh," is the response, so Rocky decides that okay, sure, maybe he's not all the way awake yet, and waits a little longer. A few minutes later, Grace's eyes flutter open. At first, they're not fixing on anything in particular, but when he sees Rocky on the ground in his ball, mere inches from him, he musters up a sloppy, loopy smile. He looks ridiculous.
"Hey, Rock," he greets deliriously.
"Hi," he replies. "How Grace feeling, question?"
He surveys himself, which is more thought than he's given to his body all day, so Rocky is hopeful that maybe he's getting a real answer this time.
"Better. What happened? My memory is a little... fuzzy."
"Fuzzy mean stupid?"
He barks out a laugh, which jars his abdomen. This time, the wince is subtle, not gut-wrenching.
"Probably that, too, but I just meant I'm having a little trouble remembering."
"Because Grace stupid. Appendix infected. Grace was bad bad bad sick. So scary."
"Oh, jeez. Guess I was way off, huh?"
Rocky realizes in this moment that, beneath the joy at seeing that Grace is going to be okay, he's angry. He doesn't respond, doesn't move. But Grace knows him too well, and he can't hide anything from him. He picks up on it immediately, even in his weakened, slightly inebriated state. His eyebrows furrow and he frowns.
"You mad at me?"
"No," Rocky lies, because he doesn't want Grace to have to deal with that right now, not mere moments after waking from surgery, not when his temperature is still far too high and he's still got to feel seriously ill. "Rocky was worried. Rocky is worried."
"But you're also mad," Grace says. He's sobering up quickly despite everything. Now that he's a little more with the program, Rocky decides that maybe, since he keeps pushing, he is clear headed enough for the truth.
"Yes."
"Because I scared you?"
"Because Grace lie," he snaps. "Rocky say Grace is sick. Rocky say Grace is sick over and over again, and you lie."
Grace is quiet for a long moment.
"I understand."
"Why Grace lie, question?"
It takes conscious effort, but he calms himself down enough to be ready to listen to Grace's answer and hear out his side of things.
"It wasn't a lie at first," he says defensively. "I used to get really bad stomachaches from anxiety, a long time ago. Felt sick just like I did this morning. That's all I thought it was, I promise."
"And then later, question?"
"Later, I..." he trails off for a moment, "yeah, I lied. In my defense, I didn't know it was this serious. I didn't want to worry you over nothing."
"Pain is something," he retorts sharply. Grace sighs.
"I guess you're right." He looks directly at him, now, which Rocky knows means he's being serious. Genuine. He perks up a little. "I shouldn't have done what I did. I should have just gone to the medbay when you asked me to. I was wrong."
If Eridians could cry like humans, Rocky is sure he'd be on the verge of it. How can he possibly explain how badly this had hurt him?
"Rocky was alone for long, long time. Rocky and Grace only have each other. It's only us. Rocky can't," the voice over the speaker breaks, "lose Grace."
"I'm sorry, Rock. You have every right to be mad at me."
"Rocky... accept Grace apology. Promise Rocky."
"Promise you what, buddy?"
"Promise next time Grace get help sooner."
He offers a tentative thumbs up, not sure how well it will go over.
"Deal."
Rocky offers a thumbs up in return. It's still not right.
*extends my hands revealing the crumpled up The Characters of my new hyperfixation*
"Grace," Rocky prods, not for the first time since they started working today. Or was it last night? It feels like days, but it's hard to count up here, especially when Rocky scolds him every time his attention wanders for more than a second. "Grace, astrophage is down here."
"Thank you, Rocky," he replies tightly, sarcastically, "I know."
"Then why Grace keep looking away?"
"Because my eyes hurt. Humans are supposed to close them every once in a while."
"Grace close his eyes every few seconds," he argues.
"That's blinking. I was talking about sleep."
"I know."
Grace sighs. He's had rough bosses before, sure, but he didn't exactly apply for this job, and he's certainly not being paid. Rocky is bossier than any supervisor he's ever worked for, more demanding than any PI he'd ever had in grad school, and more overbearing than even the most difficult of his students' parents. Even if he does everything he's supposed to do exactly as he's supposed to do it, Rocky still isn't satisfied.
The long hours are starting to get to him. It's not Rocky's fault, not all of it. He doesn't understand human needs, and Grace has been a little lax at enforcing them, sometimes. He's less "insisting on meeting the demands of the human body" and more "complaining about Rocky's overbearing orders." He gets how Rocky could misconstrue one for the other, especially when Grace ultimately ends up caving every time he applies more pressure.
On top of all that, he's right. The stars are dying, and the pressure to save them is in their hands. Well, his hands. Rocky's... whatever. He sips at old coffee that hasn't been hot for hours and hasn't been good since the beans were picked from the plant. It's doing very little to make him feel less tired, but it's making his heart hammer and his hands clammy, so clearly it's having some effect, right? Maybe it will keep him awake for a few more hours, just so they can get through this paragraph of the sampler instruction manual. They've been fighting it for hours, but it's been fighting back. Grace takes off his glasses and cleans them on his shirt, hoping that it helps the blurriness and frowning when it doesn't. He rubs his dry, tired eyes. He probably needs to drink more water. When was the last time he drank water? His head is killing him.
"Where Grace going?"
"To get a drink, Rock. Can I do that, or do you need to come with me?"
"Grace crabby," Rocky says, and he can't tell if it's a tease or a jab. Either way, he shouldn't let it get to him, but it irritates him, makes him feel like all his needs have been reduced to just whining. The annoyance sends a spike of pain through his temples that stops for a chat on its way past his eyes before cutting straight through the other side.
"Grace exhausted," he replies. "I need five."
"Five what, question?"
Grace doesn't reply, just grabs his mug and brings it to the area what he's been generously been calling a kitchen, but is really more of a food storage area that also gives him water. Armando whirs to life from rest mode--even the robots are sleeping more often than he is--ready to be helpful.
"Doctor Grace, it's late. You should be sleeping."
"Hear that, Rock? Mary agrees with me." he calls. Armando is pouring a cup of water before he even asks, so she's probably been waiting for him to remember he needs one. He holds out his mug of coffee, which Armando begins cleaning after handing him the water.
"No, no," he says, "another cup, please, pal."
"I do not advise you intake more caffeine than you have already, Doctor Grace," Mary says, and her word is law. He's not about to try to talk his way into one more. If he falls asleep face first into the bench top they're working at, it will at least prove a point to Rocky.
He's got to put his foot down somewhere Rocky won't roll over it in his ball. He's got to march in there and tell him he's not reading another line of the sampler instructions until he's slept.
Another 45 minutes later, Grace's vision is swimming again, blurring the words of the sampler instructions so badly that he can't even read them. This time, it doesn't go away when he rubs his eyes. He lets his glasses hang from one ear and leans back in his chair, scrubbing his hands over his face, fingers making a second lap up to massage his temples.
"I need a break," he says. "My brain is leaking out my ears." He regrets it as soon as Rocky jumps in alarm.
"No," he curtails, "no, I shouldn't have said it like that. I just mean I'm exhausted. My eyes hurt. My head is pounding. I need to eat and sleep."
Rocky hesitates, now properly spooked enough to take the complaint seriously, though he appears to have calmed down a little at the explanation.
"How often Grace need sleep?"
"More than I have been. Eating, too. That's, like, every five hours or so, when I'm awake. Sleep, every 16 ish, and water throughout the day."
"Grace has done none of those things in many hours." Grace chuckles.
"That's what I'm saying. I know this is important. I'm trying. Just give me a few hours."
Rocky does an approximation of a nod, and Grace gives a sloppy, unenthusiastic thumbs down.
"Grace need food?"
"Later. After I sleep." He should probably eat something before he goes to bed, but his stomach feels choppy, and he doesn't want to put anything in it that might come up later. Sleep will take care of the headache, which should help the nausea.
He stands, and as soon as he does, he realizes he should have done so a little more slowly, given how long he's been sitting in the same position, when the ship spins around him. He reaches out blindly and steadies himself on the nearest surface. Based on how warm it is, it must be Rocky's ball.
"Grace?"Rocky calls. "Grace, what is happening?"
He doesn't even have time to respond before everything goes dark.
-----
His senses cut in one by one. First, he becomes aware that his headache has gotten considerably worse, and now his body feels bruised, too. His cheek is pressed against something cool.
Hearing comes second, which informs him that Rocky is beside him, panicking so hard that the computer is only occasionally spitting out words from the lexicon, meaning that he's using language they don't have and probably don't want common words for. The rest is just frantic squeaking and tapping on the inside of the ball, intermittently punctuated by his name. He tries to offer a thumbs down, but he can only make his fingers twitch. Rocky notices, anyway.
"Grace? Grace can hear me question? GraceGraceGrace."
Finally, he's able to pry his eyes open, slow and fluttery, which elicits excited squeaking from Rocky. The cool thing against his cheek, he learns, is the floor.
"Grace can hear me question?"
Grace nods.
"Yeah, I can hear you." He groans as the pain comes to him in waves. "That really hurt," he mutters under his breath to himself, even though Rocky can hear it.
"What just happened question? Grace fall and would not wake up."
He sits up, one hand flitting to his temple as he feels lightheaded again, but not enough to lose consciousness again.
"I think I fainted," he replies. He doesn't remember it, but that's the only explanation for what just happened, and it makes sense why he feels so bruised. Because he is bruised. Because he hit the ground.
"Don't understand."
"Yeah, sorry, new word. Not the best way to introduce it. It's... kind of like sleeping. But it's a surprise."
"Surprise," Rocky repeats. "Grace never fainted before. Grace always sleeps in bed."
"Well, I've never been this exhausted before. It's a biological thing. Anatomy and all that. I'm too tired to explain it all right now, but it's a fun little way for your body to tell you to rest."
"Not fun at all. Grace hurt. Rocky scared."
"I know. It was a joke. I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to do that."
"Then why sorry?"
"Because I scared you."
Rocky moves around in a contrary gesture that Grace knows means he's about to argue. He braces himself to be scolded, but it's not what happens.
"Rocky should apologize. Grace said he need rest and food and water, but I ignore."
It's a little surprising to hear him say it. He'd been expecting anger, but what he's getting is guilt. It's not much better, and makes him feel guilty in return.
"I could have stressed it a little more. This is just so important, and... it's interesting." He doesn't mention that he also doesn't want to disappoint Rocky. "I can get wrapped up, sometimes."
"Never do that again. Grace eat. Grace sleep. Now now now."
"Alright, alright. I'm going."
"Slow."
Rocky comes closer so he can use his ball to help him stand, where he wavers again. With Rocky there, however, he has a stable surface to steady himself on, and he makes his way to the makeshift bed, covering himself up as Rocky moves back to his side of the ship.
"Gonna watch me sleep?" Rocky trills an affirmative. "Yeah, I guess that's fair."
"Grace will be okay?"
"I'll be fine when I wake up. Just need to take it easy for a little while."
"Grace rest." That's big. It had taken a long time to explain rest, the concept of not moving but not sleeping, either. In fact, this might be the first time Rocky hasn't called it "lazy."
When Grace wakes just a couple hours later, his stomach is no calmer than it had been before he'd fainted. That's to be expected--he probably should have eaten something before sleeping--but it's still inconvenient. He grabs a rather tasteless shortbread cookie from his treat stash, and ignores Mary when she tries to push a nutritious meal on him.
"Later," he promises. He figures that if he primes his stomach a bit with something bland, it'll reactivate his appetite, and he'll feel ravenous later. In fact, he's counting on it. He nibbles at it slowly, but in the meantime, he nabs a glucose tablet out of the med kit and pops it in a cup of water. It can't hurt. He probably needs it, if the weakness in his knees is any indication.
"I need you to back up, Rock," he says. Rocky is mere inches from his legs, has been since he stood up from what was supposed to be a good night's sleep but ended up being a glorified nap.
"Grace say Grace sleep long time. Grace only sleep two hours."
"I know. I think I woke up because I feel nauseous. It's probably a sign I need to eat something."
"Don't like this," Rocky frets. "Worried."
"Yeah, it's not exactly my idea of a good time, either, but I'll pull through. You don't have to worry so much and you don't," he says, shoving Rocky's ball as hard as he can and only managing to move him a few inches because he's as heavy as a refrigerator but not nearly as likely to be running right now, "have to be so clingy."
"Rocky is helping."
'Rocky was helping. Now Rocky is annoying."
"Grace still crabby."
Grace sighs.
"Yeah, I guess I am. Sorry. You're just trying to take care of me. This isn't your fault."
"A little my fault." He furrows his eyebrows.
"No, I promise it's not." He reluctantly finishes the last bite of his cookie, though his plan to want to eat a meal after has backfired. His stomach feels overfull from just that, like it's sitting in his stomach and not moving. "Ugh. I still feel terrible. I think I'm going to try to sleep some more. Come on. It's time for the show."
Rocky sticks to his side until they get to his bed in the tunnel, where he only detaches himself from Grace's legs when he's nestled down and covered himself with the blanket.
"Grace sleep now question?"
"God willing," he replies. He rolls over onto his side, then turns to the other when gastric acid threatens to make its way back up his throat. The left side provides a bit of relief, enough to be some semblance of comfortable, so he closes his eyes and waits for sleep to come.
And waits for sleep to come.
And waits for sleep to come.
And sleep never shows. He grows frustrated with trying. He needs something to distract himself, something that will occupy his mind without being so interesting that it keeps him awake. What had he done back home when insomnia struck?
"I think I need something to read," he announces. "Something boring."
"Sampler instructions boring."
"Very correct." Though the process of figuring out the machine itself is... fun is the wrong word, but it's in the right family, the instructions themselves are dry as anything. If he starts at the beginning, reviewing what they've already worked through in his exhausted blur, it might just put him to sleep.
Neither he nor Rocky love that he has to stand again to retrieve them, but the glucose tab has had over an hour to work its magic, so he's not so afraid. He's mostly just bone-deep tired, so much so that he can't figure out for the life of him why he's still awake.
With manual in hand, he snuggles back down into his bed, as uncomfortable as it is, and opens it to the first page. As mentally and physically spent as he'd been while they were working on this, he finds that he recalls very little of it, and given how muddled his mind is now, it doesn't even make sense, so it seems to be the perfect choice of reading material to carry him off to dreamland.
However, flipping through the pages as he goes, he becomes aware of a small, bright dot in the middle of his vision, like a camera flash. He tries to blink it away, but it doesn't dissipate. Over the next few minutes, it becomes larger and larger, taking up more of his visual field until it's sizeable enough that he can no longer read the words in front of him. He shuts the manual, blinking and rubbing his eyes in a fruitless attempt to clear them.
"Grace sleep now, question?"
"Uh, yeah. Just a minute." Grace is growing a little concerned with the hole in his vision, and apparently it shows on his face, or in his posture, or maybe he's just silent for longer than he thinks, because Rocky begins to pace above him.
"Something is wrong, question?"
"Something is wrong, statement," he replies. Suddenly, even through his current cognitive haze, a memory strikes him.
"Did you sleep here?" Carl asks, two coffees in one hand. "Why are the lights off?" He flips them on, then back off when Grace holds his hand over his eyes like he's emerging from a movie theater on a sunny day. Has he really been in here so long that the light hurts?
"I assume you need both of those?" Grace replies, dodging the question. He really does want one of those coffees, though.
"You're confusing me with someone else." He hands one over, and Grace takes it with gratitude so fervent it's embarrassing. "You didn't answer my question."
Rats.
"Technically, the answer is no," he says, but that does nothing to prevent the eye roll he receives. "I couldn't sleep."
"Maybe if you tried leaving that chair."
Grace sighs. Carl is a no-nonsense kind of guy--well, he's managed to convince him to partake in a little nonsense--and a straight-shooter. There's no way he's going to wiggle out of this.
He has to admit, though, Carl is right. For the last half hour, he's had four different research papers open on his computer, and he's barely even been able to see straight to read them. His eyes are so dry that everything had blurred together into a bright little hole in the middle of his visual field for the better part of an hour, before it passed. Since then, his head has been pounding, like someone took an ice pick to his eye. That's why he's been sitting in the dark. He had to turn off the lights and dim his computer screen as low as it can go. Even that's a little much. Hard to look at.
"I just have one last question I need to answer. Then, I'll go home."
"What's the question?" He opens his mouth to reply, then falters. What is the question? His brain feels like cake batter, mostly mush with a few solid clumps of thought scattered throughout, most of which are negligible enough to ignore. Even just trying to bring up the thought sends another spike of pain through his head, and he winces. "See? This is why you need to sleep."
"Hm. Maybe you're right." He reaches for his coffee, taking a long sip, then pressing the warm cup to his temple and closing his eyes. It helps a little. "My head's killing me."
"Have you eaten recently?"
He has to admit that he's been a little sick to his stomach for the past hour.
"I'll do it after the coffee. Little queasy right now."
"That's why it's dark in here?" Carl asks. "You have a migraine?"
"Migraine?" he repeats. "No, just a headache."
"Does it feel like your brain is coming out of your eye?" How could he possibly know that? "If you're nauseous and the light hurts, it's a migraine. My brother gets them."
"Ah. Sorry to hear that." Well, back to it, he thinks, but when he tries to return his attention to the screen, it's so bright that he flinches. "Gah," he groans. "Okay. Maybe you're right."
"I'm taking you home. Drink that; it'll help." That was the plan, anyway. He'd argue, since he still hasn't completed everything he'd wanted to accomplish for the day, or the night, or whatever time it is, but if he's being honest, home sounds good. Bed sounds good. A dark, quiet room so far from this office that his laptop can no longer smell his fear sounds good.
"You don't have to do that. I can get home on my own."
"On what, your 12-speed? There's no way you're biking home."
"I can call an Uber."
"Just get in the damn car, Grace."
"Right. Okay."
The pain had only gotten worse from there. It had taken him several hours of lying in bed in the dark silence before he was able to get up again, and another several before he could look at a screen. In the end, he was lucky that it was Carl who'd found him, because he was pretty sure that another few hours in that office might have killed him, and nobody else would have taken him home like that.
"It's a migraine," he realizes aloud, feeling stupid for not having clocked it earlier.
"New word."
"It's like a headache, but worse. I've had one before. It got pretty bad."
"How do we fix, question?"
"Caffeine," he says, even though it sounds like he's just trying to worm his way into another cup of coffee, "and rest. Dark, quiet." He reaches up to turn the light off, wincing away from it as he realizes that the sensitivity has already begun. The pain won't be far behind. "I'm going to get more coffee. I'll be right back."
Really, saying he'll be right back is a waste of his breath, because of course Rocky is coming with him as he makes his way back to the Hail Mary. She approves another mug under the circumstances, which he starts drinking even though it's too hot. A burned tongue is less painful than the migraine is going to be.
"Medication recommended," she says, and he hears Armando whir to life insidiously. Though he's normally the type who's reluctant to even take Tylenol, if Mary's got something to stave this off, he's not going to say no. What's another mystery pill? He pops it in his mouth and swallows.
"Medication will fix?"
"We'll see, I guess."
------
Medication does not fix.
Just 15 minutes after he takes them, the pain starts. At first, it's annoying. A nagging headache behind his eye that has him happy that he'd turned out the light, but well enough to be bored. He sits up in the tunnel, bouncing a ball against Rocky's wall, knowing that he's screwed if he doesn't catch it when it bounces back, because there's no way he's retrieving that this time. Rocky has never liked this game, and he especially doesn't like it now. He keeps reminding Grace that he needs to be resting, and he always complies for a few minutes, but inevitably the boredom of lying down doing nothing wins out, and he ends up with the ball once more.
Then, the pain is significant. Finally, he lets the ball hit the wall and bounce away with no effort to catch it.
"Migraine worse, question?"
"Yeah, it's starting to get bad. I think I might just lie down for a little while."
"Good good good."
Half an hour later, Rocky checks in.
"Grace okay, question?"
"Yeah, I'm hanging in there." He's thrown an arm over his eyes to block out what very little light shines through the tunnel from his ship, as it had started to sting. "Just need a little time."
"More medication."
"You can only take so much at a time, or it makes you sick. I'll get more in a few hours." Rocky trills, and he can't think straight enough to interpret it.
"In meantime? More caffeine question?"
"It's a long shot, but it might not be a bad idea." It might not be a good idea, either, but it's the only one they've got. Rocky skitters off to retrieve coffee, having Armando pass it through air lock. Carefully, so as not to spill it, he returns, passes it through the other one near Grace's head.
"Thanks," he says, sitting up just long enough to take a sip. It's probably best to test a small amount, first. His stomach feels all swirly and churning.
"Rocky calls this drink Hail Mary," he says, and Grace laughs despite the increase in pain it causes as the movement jostles his head. "Get it? Is joke. Long shot."
"Yeah, Rock, I get it. Good joke. Now, I need you to be quiet."
Reluctantly, Rocky agrees.
------
Rocky POV
Eventually, Grace's pain is debilitating. He asks for silence, and no longer responds with more than a thumbs down when Rocky asks him if he's okay. Rocky can't interpret that, because Grace is NOT okay, as evidenced by the aforementioned lack of verbal response. Is he lying, or is he using sarcasm again? Rocky is still hazy on the difference. It worries him. How is he supposed to know how Grace is feeling if Grace won't tell him?
He asks for quiet, but he can only be quiet for so long, especially as Grace goes stiller than he's ever been and stops talking. Grace never stops moving, even in his deepest sleep. Grace never stops talking. It's concerning. No, more than that. It's terrifying.
Worst of all, this is his fault. Eridians sleep between three and twelve hours at a time, depending on circumstances, but humans are supposedly meant to sleep between seven and nine no matter what. Rocky doubted that, at first, given that he's watched Grace sleep for as few as two and as long as thirteen, but it's starting to make sense now that he knows they're only meant to be awake in 16 hour increments. The times that Grace has slept for more than eight hours have always come after bouts of sleeping only two over the course of several Earth days. Rocky hadn't thought that abnormal, hadn't known he was extending Grace's limits as far as he was.
He was wrong. Every time he'd ignored Grace's complaints of being tired and called him lazy for it, he'd been making him sick. That was never his intention. Of course, it wasn't. Forty-eight hours just seems like such a small amount of time to him. He hadn't taken into account how long it is to Grace.
Grace is still for hours. The only reason Rocky knows he's even alive is the occasional little noises he's never heard before, which he can only interpret as pain. They're infrequent, but maybe that's a good thing. At least, maybe it's better for Grace.
Without his chatter to fill the silence, Rocky is left to his own thoughts, and he hates it. He's been alone for so long. He hates when Grace sleeps, or, at least, he did before. It's too quiet. Often, he drags Grace out of bed early just because he can't stand it any longer. He'd done it this morning, in fact, and he regrets it. Now, he's sitting here, trapped behind a wall, unable to do anything but watch as his best friend falls victim to a worsening illness that he doesn't understand. Can Grace die of a migraine? He sure looks like he's dying. How can it hurt that much if he's not dying?
Oh, no. Grace is dying. Just like his crew, just like the stars, just like their worlds. Once again, Rocky can do nothing about it. He couldn't fix the radiation sickness, and now he can't fix Grace. Nothing he's tried has worked, and he doesn't know what else to do. All he can do is watch Grace sleep, if he's even sleeping. He makes that sound again, proving that he's unfortunately not.
It takes eight hours, but finally, Grace moves. He uncovers his eyes, something he'd said he was doing because the light hurt. He doesn't sit up, not yet, but that's okay. Rocky would tell him to lie down even if he tried. In an instant, he's bursting through the airlock in his ball, rushing to his side.
"Grace?" he calls. He wishes he could do it quietly, because Grace said sound hurt, too, but he has no control over the computer volume.
"Yeah, Rocky, I hear ya," he replies, and Rocky can't resist a little dance of relief at the sound of his voice. It sounds different, like a combination of speaking and his pain sounds, but it's there.
"Feel better, question?"
"Starting to. Are you okay?"
Rocky is silent for a moment, sure he's misunderstanding the question. Why would Grace be asking about him at a time like this?
"Grace is one who is sick."
"I know, but... after everything that happened with your crew, I can't imagine how scary this must have been for you. I'm really sorry."
"Not Grace fault. Grace shouldn't feel guilty."
"But I do. If I'd just--ugh," he cuts himself off with another pain sound.
"Stop talking," Rocky commands. "Always so much talking."
"You're one to talk," he whispers. Rocky doesn't understand the expression, but this isn't the time for a semantics lesson.
"What would make Grace better?"
"Water might help."
"Yes yes yes," he says excitedly, so eager to actually be able to do something after being helpless for so long. "I will bring. What else, question? I can bring medicine."
"Sure. That would be good."
"Stay there." Rocky hustles over to the Hail Mary to ask Mary for water and pills, then returns as quickly as he can. The faster he moves, the faster he can help Grace get better. Not to mention the fact that he doesn't want to leave him unattended while he's paralyzed with pain. Someone needs to watch over him.
He passes everything through the air lock, cheering when Grace sits up without wavering.
"Feel okay, question?"
"Yeah, I'm okay. A little dizzy, a little nauseous. Mostly, everything just feels bruised."
"Makes sense. Grace fall and bruise everything."
He laughs again.
"Just about." He swallows the pills with a much healthier sip of water than he's been allowing himself for the past few hours. Grace keeps glancing over, and though Rocky realizes he's staring at him, that does not deter him. He'd really thought Grace's brain was shutting down. That he might die. "Hey. Seriously, I'm okay. Migraines are painful, but pretty harmless. They pass, and you're fine. It's passing. I would have explained it better, but I wasn't really thinking straight."
"Good thing. Very good thing that Grace is okay. Relief relief relief."
"Yeah, definitely a relief." He lies back down, but this time, his face and posture are much different. Less stiff, less strained. More normal. "I think I could sleep, now. This was pretty exhausting. Assume the position." Rocky hops back into the tunnel and perches above him. "Goodnight, Rocky."
*extends my hands revealing the crumpled up The Characters of my new hyperfixation*
"Grace," Rocky prods, not for the first time since they started working today. Or was it last night? It feels like days, but it's hard to count up here, especially when Rocky scolds him every time his attention wanders for more than a second. "Grace, astrophage is down here."
"Thank you, Rocky," he replies tightly, sarcastically, "I know."
"Then why Grace keep looking away?"
"Because my eyes hurt. Humans are supposed to close them every once in a while."
"Grace close his eyes every few seconds," he argues.
"That's blinking. I was talking about sleep."
"I know."
Grace sighs. He's had rough bosses before, sure, but he didn't exactly apply for this job, and he's certainly not being paid. Rocky is bossier than any supervisor he's ever worked for, more demanding than any PI he'd ever had in grad school, and more overbearing than even the most difficult of his students' parents. Even if he does everything he's supposed to do exactly as he's supposed to do it, Rocky still isn't satisfied.
The long hours are starting to get to him. It's not Rocky's fault, not all of it. He doesn't understand human needs, and Grace has been a little lax at enforcing them, sometimes. He's less "insisting on meeting the demands of the human body" and more "complaining about Rocky's overbearing orders." He gets how Rocky could misconstrue one for the other, especially when Grace ultimately ends up caving every time he applies more pressure.
On top of all that, he's right. The stars are dying, and the pressure to save them is in their hands. Well, his hands. Rocky's... whatever. He sips at old coffee that hasn't been hot for hours and hasn't been good since the beans were picked from the plant. It's doing very little to make him feel less tired, but it's making his heart hammer and his hands clammy, so clearly it's having some effect, right? Maybe it will keep him awake for a few more hours, just so they can get through this paragraph of the sampler instruction manual. They've been fighting it for hours, but it's been fighting back. Grace takes off his glasses and cleans them on his shirt, hoping that it helps the blurriness and frowning when it doesn't. He rubs his dry, tired eyes. He probably needs to drink more water. When was the last time he drank water? His head is killing him.
"Where Grace going?"
"To get a drink, Rock. Can I do that, or do you need to come with me?"
"Grace crabby," Rocky says, and he can't tell if it's a tease or a jab. Either way, he shouldn't let it get to him, but it irritates him, makes him feel like all his needs have been reduced to just whining. The annoyance sends a spike of pain through his temples that stops for a chat on its way past his eyes before cutting straight through the other side.
"Grace exhausted," he replies. "I need five."
"Five what, question?"
Grace doesn't reply, just grabs his mug and brings it to the area what he's been generously been calling a kitchen, but is really more of a food storage area that also gives him water. Armando whirs to life from rest mode--even the robots are sleeping more often than he is--ready to be helpful.
"Doctor Grace, it's late. You should be sleeping."
"Hear that, Rock? Mary agrees with me." he calls. Armando is pouring a cup of water before he even asks, so she's probably been waiting for him to remember he needs one. He holds out his mug of coffee, which Armando begins cleaning after handing him the water.
"No, no," he says, "another cup, please, pal."
"I do not advise you intake more caffeine than you have already, Doctor Grace," Mary says, and her word is law. He's not about to try to talk his way into one more. If he falls asleep face first into the bench top they're working at, it will at least prove a point to Rocky.
He's got to put his foot down somewhere Rocky won't roll over it in his ball. He's got to march in there and tell him he's not reading another line of the sampler instructions until he's slept.
Another 45 minutes later, Grace's vision is swimming again, blurring the words of the sampler instructions so badly that he can't even read them. This time, it doesn't go away when he rubs his eyes. He lets his glasses hang from one ear and leans back in his chair, scrubbing his hands over his face, fingers making a second lap up to massage his temples.
"I need a break," he says. "My brain is leaking out my ears." He regrets it as soon as Rocky jumps in alarm.
"No," he curtails, "no, I shouldn't have said it like that. I just mean I'm exhausted. My eyes hurt. My head is pounding. I need to eat and sleep."
Rocky hesitates, now properly spooked enough to take the complaint seriously, though he appears to have calmed down a little at the explanation.
"How often Grace need sleep?"
"More than I have been. Eating, too. That's, like, every five hours or so, when I'm awake. Sleep, every 16 ish, and water throughout the day."
"Grace has done none of those things in many hours." Grace chuckles.
"That's what I'm saying. I know this is important. I'm trying. Just give me a few hours."
Rocky does an approximation of a nod, and Grace gives a sloppy, unenthusiastic thumbs down.
"Grace need food?"
"Later. After I sleep." He should probably eat something before he goes to bed, but his stomach feels choppy, and he doesn't want to put anything in it that might come up later. Sleep will take care of the headache, which should help the nausea.
He stands, and as soon as he does, he realizes he should have done so a little more slowly, given how long he's been sitting in the same position, when the ship spins around him. He reaches out blindly and steadies himself on the nearest surface. Based on how warm it is, it must be Rocky's ball.
"Grace?"Rocky calls. "Grace, what is happening?"
He doesn't even have time to respond before everything goes dark.
-----
His senses cut in one by one. First, he becomes aware that his headache has gotten considerably worse, and now his body feels bruised, too. His cheek is pressed against something cool.
Hearing comes second, which informs him that Rocky is beside him, panicking so hard that the computer is only occasionally spitting out words from the lexicon, meaning that he's using language they don't have and probably don't want common words for. The rest is just frantic squeaking and tapping on the inside of the ball, intermittently punctuated by his name. He tries to offer a thumbs down, but he can only make his fingers twitch. Rocky notices, anyway.
"Grace? Grace can hear me question? GraceGraceGrace."
Finally, he's able to pry his eyes open, slow and fluttery, which elicits excited squeaking from Rocky. The cool thing against his cheek, he learns, is the floor.
"Grace can hear me question?"
Grace nods.
"Yeah, I can hear you." He groans as the pain comes to him in waves. "That really hurt," he mutters under his breath to himself, even though Rocky can hear it.
"What just happened question? Grace fall and would not wake up."
He sits up, one hand flitting to his temple as he feels lightheaded again, but not enough to lose consciousness again.
"I think I fainted," he replies. He doesn't remember it, but that's the only explanation for what just happened, and it makes sense why he feels so bruised. Because he is bruised. Because he hit the ground.
"Don't understand."
"Yeah, sorry, new word. Not the best way to introduce it. It's... kind of like sleeping. But it's a surprise."
"Surprise," Rocky repeats. "Grace never fainted before. Grace always sleeps in bed."
"Well, I've never been this exhausted before. It's a biological thing. Anatomy and all that. I'm too tired to explain it all right now, but it's a fun little way for your body to tell you to rest."
"Not fun at all. Grace hurt. Rocky scared."
"I know. It was a joke. I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to do that."
"Then why sorry?"
"Because I scared you."
Rocky moves around in a contrary gesture that Grace knows means he's about to argue. He braces himself to be scolded, but it's not what happens.
"Rocky should apologize. Grace said he need rest and food and water, but I ignore."
It's a little surprising to hear him say it. He'd been expecting anger, but what he's getting is guilt. It's not much better, and makes him feel guilty in return.
"I could have stressed it a little more. This is just so important, and... it's interesting." He doesn't mention that he also doesn't want to disappoint Rocky. "I can get wrapped up, sometimes."
"Never do that again. Grace eat. Grace sleep. Now now now."
"Alright, alright. I'm going."
"Slow."
Rocky comes closer so he can use his ball to help him stand, where he wavers again. With Rocky there, however, he has a stable surface to steady himself on, and he makes his way to the makeshift bed, covering himself up as Rocky moves back to his side of the ship.
"Gonna watch me sleep?" Rocky trills an affirmative. "Yeah, I guess that's fair."
"Grace will be okay?"
"I'll be fine when I wake up. Just need to take it easy for a little while."
"Grace rest." That's big. It had taken a long time to explain rest, the concept of not moving but not sleeping, either. In fact, this might be the first time Rocky hasn't called it "lazy."
BEHOLD MY OTHER HYPERFIXATION, JURASSIC WORLD CHAOS THEORY
anyway here's a lil concussion fic, as a treat. for those with no context, the gang is hunting down a bad scary person they know nothing about and just got attacked by dinosaurs. now they're stowing away in an empty dinosaur storage crate on a ship headed for unknown places :)
Ben's shoulder is killing him.
He owes Mateo his life for ramming the truck through the wall--they all do. If he hadn't, they'd be raptor food. However, that doesn't mean it didn't hurt when he'd landed hard on his side, followed quickly by a pile of falling rubble. The adrenaline had taken care of the pain for a while, making it bearable enough to ignore so they could run, but he's pretty sure he'd done it in when he had to climb onto the top of a crate to avoid being lunch once more. Since then, it's been throbbing in time with his heartbeat, in time with his pounding head.
He sits down hard on a pile of cloth bags, which look softer than they are and are wetter than he'd anticipated. Instead of a perfect, pillowy pile of hay, he hits a slick sack of squishy sludge. It's probably dinosaur food of some sort. He's just happy it's for an herbivore.
"Is everyone okay?" he asks. It's the first time they've really gotten a chance to check in with each other since the fight broke out, and if everyone else is hurting like he is, they need to know.
"I'm gonna feel that in my back tomorrow," Darius says. He's the one Ben was most worried about, since he'd been pinned and unable to get up until Mateo lifted the sheet of metal off his body.
"Nothing bleeding, internal or external?"
"I think everything's where it's supposed to be," he agrees, and Ben relaxes.
"Good."
"That's it. We're all taking Kenji's rock climbing class. I can't believe how fast he scaled that crate!" Sammy gushes, and Kenji flexes.
"That? Oh, that was nothing."
"Tell that to my shoulder," Ben says. It's intended as a joke, but his voice is tight, and he's cradling the arm. Yaz frowns.
"You asked us if we're okay, but I don't think you answered your own question."
He shouldn't have said anything.
"I fell on my shoulder. I'm sure it's just sore." Kenji is moving in closer, sitting beside him on the wet bags. "Really, it's not anything to worry about--Ow!" he interrupts himself when Kenji pokes it lightly. It probably shouldn't be that sore. As much as he hates the stares he's getting right now, full of concern and anxiety, he lets him continue to prod around, wincing and grunting in pain. Kenji tugs the neck of his shirt to reveal the top of his shoulder, which elicits gasps from the others. When Ben looks down, he can see why--the entire socket is flat rather than rounded, and very bruised.
"Ben, this looks dislocated. Why didn't you say anything?"
"I thought it was just sore from the fall."
"Well, it's a little more than that. I'm gonna have to reset your shoulder."
"You're gonna what?" Ben parrots. "Did you go to medical school while we weren't looking?"
"It's easy. I've done this climbing, like, so many times." He opens his cockily shut eyes to scrutinizing, disbelieving gazes, and backpedals. "Fine. Twice. But that doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing."
"I... trust you?" Ben promises cautiously. Kenji nods, taking Ben's hand and placing it on his own shoulder.
"This is going to hurt, but just try and breathe. It'll feel a lot better in a minute. Sammy, I'll need your help."
Together, the two of them rotate and massage his shoulder until he feels a popping sensation, accompanied by the telltale sound that means success.
"Argh," he groans, half pain, half relief. "Thanks, guys. That was gentler than I was imagining."
"Yeah, all that pulling and pushing is mostly movie stuff. It can really mess up your joint in real life. This works much better. Does it still hurt?"
"A lot less."
"Good. You should get some rest. I'm sure that took a lot out of you."
"Mhm," he hums, which is all he can muster. He's even more exhausted than before, and the additional pain and stress have made his headache that much worse. "Think I might close my eyes for a minute."
"We'll try to keep it down."
Ben smiles.
"Nah. Keep chatting. It calms my nerves."
"Really?" Yaz asks. Ben smiles.
"It's just nice to know you're there."
He falls asleep to the sound of his friends chatting softly about nothing.
-------
Slowly, Ben comes to realize why the begs he's lying on are so damp. Something above him is dripping.
Right onto his face.
The first few drops are annoying. The next, infuriating. After that, they're so bothersome that they're borderline painful. With the next drop that hits his cheek, he can't restrain an irritable growl, one hand brushing the water off his face. It's apparently not the first time he's reacted as such--he's been swiping at his cheeks for some time, now, though he hadn't realized just how much fury the gesture had held until Sammy giggles.
"Someone's cranky," she teases.
"I'm trying to sleep, and the Gallimimus above us is being very rude."
Darius shakes his head.
"That's not a Gallimimus. That's downstairs."
"Then what's above us?" Yaz asks. A roaring comes from above them, so loud she flinches. He watches Sammy reach for her shoulder, placing a gentle hand there to soothe her. She's been putting on a brave face, but she's scared, he can tell.
"Baryonyx," Darius says, overlapping the other rushed answers, like they're all trying to win. Sammy laughs.
"How'd you get that so fast?"
"DPW, remember?" he replies with a cocky smile.
""Whatever it is," Ben, admittedly, snaps, "it's annoying."
"Wow, someone's really cranky," Yaz snickers.
"Give him a break, guys," Kenji interjects. "He's in pain."
"Right. Sorry, Ben. Does your shoulder still hurt pretty badly?"
"It's just been a stressful day. I'm exhausted, and I have a headache I'd really like to sleep off."
"Sure," Darius replies. "Do you want us shut up, this time?"
He thinks on that. As much as he still wants to hear their voices, every time they get above a certain volume, it sends a spike of pain through his head.
"Maybe just a little quieter."
"We can do that;" Yaz promises. "Try to get some sleep."
Ben doesn't have to be told twice and rolls over on his side, hoping that his hair and beanie might block some of the water from keeping him up.
The next drip falls right in his ear.
------
Every time he just barely manages to fall asleep, the ship hits another wave, which intensifies the headache. He knows it's probably annoying his friends that he's groaning every time they move too much, but he can't help it. Nausea and a slight sense of vertigo have come to accompany the pain, which means that not only does every wave hurt, it marches him one step closer to losing his tenuous grip on the contents of his stomach. He's grateful it's probably empty by now.
The next wave they hit isn't particularly large, but it jostles his head so much it's unbearable, and he grunts, one hand flitting to his temple.
"Dude, are you okay?" Darius asks. "You're really reacting every time we hit a wave. That one wasn't even that bad."
"It's just that headache," he admits. The entire group seems to dislike that answer, but especially Sammy.
"Still? You've been nappin' for three hours." Has it really been that long? It doesn't feel like it. "Is it gettin' worse?"
He surveys it for the first time and has to admit that yes, it is getting worse. What had been a nagging ache a few hours ago is now a throbbing pain, like his brain is trying to escape through his eyes. He's beginning to wonder if it's a migraine.
"A little. The ocean isn't helping. It's making me dizzy, which is making me nauseous."
Darius doesn't appear to like that answer.
"Are you sure it's just the ship? Did you hit your head when the truck hit the building?"
He has to think about Darius' question, but decides after he's sorted through a replay of the events that no, he hadn't hit his head. He'd just been rattled, and thrown hard to the ground. It feels like his head was jammed down hard onto his neck bones.
"I'm fine. I could sleep this off, if I could sleep." His tone is snippy, like he's angry at Darius for even asking, and he immediately regrets it.
"It was just a question," Darius says defensively, and he sighs.
"I know. I'm sorry. I just... My head really hurts. It's nothing you did."
"Sweet as pie even when he's crabby," Sammy says. "Here. Do you want to switch spots with me? I don't mind if my hair gets a little wet."
"You don't have to do that. I'm okay, really."
"Nope," she insists, already getting to her feet. "Let's go, big guy. Up you go." She pulls him to his feet, where he wavers as the world spins wildly. He expects it to pass, but it doesn't.
"Woah," Yaz says, springing into action and steadying him as he nearly falls. "Come on. Sit down."
She eases him down into Sammy's spot, and when his eyes still don't focus all the way and his hand doesn't come away from his temple, she helps him lie down.
"Is that any better?" she asks.
"Kind of. Everything's still spinning." He forces a small smile for their troubles. "I think I hate the ocean."
"You didn't get this sick on the way to Nublar," Kenji points out. They hit another wave and he moans in pain--literally, in front of all his friends, moans in pain. It's involuntary and he'd have bit it back if he knew it was coming, but he's just as surprised as everyone else. "I think Darius was onto something. This seems like more than seasickness." Kenji scoots closer and begins prodding his head.
"I didn't get hit, just jostled really hard. I'm not hurt."
"You can still get a concussion from jostling, Benny Boy," Kenji says, "and I think you've got one."
Sammy gasps.
"What do we do?"
"What can we do?" Kenji asks. "We just have to keep an eye on him and make sure it doesn't get worse. Somebody, give me their phone." Yaz hands hers over, and he tries the screen, then the power button, but the screen remains black. "Someone whose phone is alive, give me their phone." Darius extends his for Kenji to take, and he shines the flashlight into both of Ben's eyes. It hurts, and he flinches, but lets Kenji finish looking for whatever he's looking for. "His pupils are reacting to light, and they're the same size. He seems pretty coherent, just crabby. I don't think it's too bad."
"We'll take you to a doctor as soon as the boat docks," Darius promises, but Ben shakes his head, pretending the motion doesn't hurt.
"Only if it gets worse. I'm fine. All I have to do is rest, right, Kenji?"
He hesitates.
"I mean, if it's mild, but I agree with Darius. You need your brain scanned."
"For more reasons than one," Yaz adds, and he rolls his eyes, then winces.
"Yeah, yeah. Funny."
"Do you think you're comfortable enough to sleep? Now that you're not being rained on."
"Aren't you supposed to stay awake with a concussion?" Sammy frets.
"Nah, that's a myth. He should sleep. It'll help him heal, plus, he's got to be tired."
"Really tired," Ben stresses, stretching out on the floor, using a bag of hay as a pillow. At least this one isn't wet. "I could sleep like this."
Darius shrugs out of his jacket and lays it over Ben, which, after a brief protestation that he secretly hopes he loses, he accepts. It's soft, dry, and warm.
"We'll be quiet for real, this time," Yaz promises. "You need to sleep."
Ben shakes his head.
"You remember on Nublar, when we met those poachers, and we all got our own bedrooms?"
Sammy laughs.
"Yeah, and we all ended up in the same room, anyway."
"Exactly." Darius nods, looking amused.
"Understood. We'll keep it down, though."
"Thanks," he says with a smile. "Goodnight, guys."
He falls asleep to the sound of their quiet chatter.
new fandom alert: jurassic world chaos theory. it's the best. this fic is 7K words and i wrote it in two days. the obsession is strong and it is hurting me so if you like this PLEASE REQUEST MORE I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS AND I HOPE SOMEONE, ANYONE, WANTS TO READ THEM
don't feel pressured but it's really fun! it's an epiosde tag to the end of s2 so if you're planning to watch it and haven't seen it, please don't read this until you get there!! :) enjoy!
After nearly a year spent in the wilderness of Isla Nublar, Ben has learned to expect bad things to strike the second it becomes most inconvenient, often even impossible, to deal with them. Ever since they were children, that's been the case. Just when they were at their most exhausted, they'd hear rustling in the bushes so loud that they couldn't afford to stick around and find out what was making it. At their hungriest, a pack of Compys would emerge from nowhere and demand what little food they'd mustered up. Every time they thought they'd been rescued, it would just so happen that their saviors were just some wolf in sheep's clothing who wouldn't care if they were rescued or killed, so long as it meant they were out of their way.
All that is to say that when he wakes up at the most critical point in their investigation, when they're so, so close to finding Brooklynn and figuring out why she'd let them all believe she was dead when she's not, shivering and covered in sweat, it's all he can do to hold back a groan of frustration.
For a moment, he's content to live in a delusion in which the temperature hot jungle had dropped drastically and that the sticky dampness on his skin is just humidity, but as soon as he sits up, any hope of that is shattered as his head throbs and spins. Everything hurts. Every joint in his body, every muscle, even his eyes. The vertigo makes him feel for a moment like he might either throw up or faint, but once he gives himself a moment to collect himself, it passes.
"Good morning," Zayna greets teasingly. As he gains his bearings, he realizes that part of why he's so uncomfortable is because he's sitting in a wooden boat, and they're moving. He doesn't remember doing it, but at some point, he must have shifted to sit on the floor and rest his head on folded arms on the seat. No wonder his back is killing him.
"Did I fall asleep?" he asks. It doesn't feel like he had. If anything, he's more exhausted now than before.
"You are waking up, so that seems like a good guess."
Coming from anyone else, he might feel a little irritation at the jab, but from Zayna, he just rolls his eyes good-naturedly. He should have seen it coming, but his brain feels slow and muddled, like he's thinking through syrup. Maybe that's just sleep inertia, he tells himself, until another wave of nausea washes over him, this time so intense that he leans over the side of the boat, expecting to be sick. It doesn't come--probably because he hasn't felt like eating recently, so he reaches in and rinses his hands in the water so the sudden movement doesn't raise suspicion. He can't let them know something isn't right, not when they're this close and especially not when it's tolerable. He can pull through this. Maybe, he hopes, he's just a little seasick. That can cause full body aches and shaking chills, right?
"We're here," Darius announces as they dock at the bank of the river. Scanning the area, he decides that where they are is relatively safe. Though "relative" could mean anything from "his apartment" to "three inches from the claws of the Scorpios Rex," he's got a good feeling about it, even if it's the only thing that feels good. He can't bite back a groan as he stands, but Darius just smiles jestingly and offers a hand getting up, which he takes.
"It looks like there's a chicken farm up ahead," Sammy points out. Well, she would know.
"I think that's our best bet," Darius agrees. "Let's go."
On his feet, Ben feels a little faint, and wavers a little bit, which means that he's taking up the rear of the group. However, no one seems bothered, or even to notice, so he walks a little faster to catch up to them, then focuses so much of his energy on trying not to sound out of breath that he nearly misses when they actually arrive at their destination.
Sammy was right--it is a chicken farm. But, if there's one thing he should always count on, it's that danger is never far behind. As they all fan out in different directions to explore the space, he suddenly hears Darius shout.
"Run!"
Within seconds, a Monolophosaurus comes sprinting out of the small hut that's been built for it, angry, chomping at Darius' feet. Ben wants to help, to pull him faster, but he's powerless to do so. Even trying would slow them down. Then, from seemingly nowhere, a second dino chomps at him from the side, causing Darius to stumble. He manages to keep his balance and keep running.
Without warning, both dinosaurs are jerked backwards as if being yanked, their necks jaggered harshly back. They slow to a stop when they realize that they're wearing collars, which are attached to thick, metal rope leashes. Ben is grateful for the break. He's not sure how much running away he's got in him, not now. Between the strain on his aching body, the burning in his lungs that isn't quite going away even as he coughs trying to catch his breath, and the spinning sensation in his head, he's running on empty.
"Ben? You alright?" Sammy asks when he can't stop choking on air. Just as he's about to confess to how poorly he's feeling, Kenji runs up from behind, wooden lawn chair in hand, to rush the dinosaurs. He's been doing that a lot, lately; putting his life in danger long after he's safe. Some combination of anger, grief, and traumatic hypervigilance has stirred together into some sort of death wish. Fear takes away what little breath he has, but hey, at least it stops him coughing.
"Kenji!" Yaz shouts, her voice so pointed that it drags him sharply back to reality. He stops in his tracks, dropping the chair to the ground and breathing hard. The realization of what he was about to do dawns on him, and he stands there, speechless. Yaz gently walks up behind him, careful not to sneak up, and takes him into a hug. Though perhaps not the tightest two in the camp fam, the two of them have always understood each others' tendency toward fiery sparks of anger with nowhere to go. She in particular is proud of him because she knows how hard it must have been to put that chair down.
All of a sudden, Ben is distracted when he hears a rumbling underground, something so subtle that he's not even sure it's real.
"Do you guys hear that?" he asks, bending down to put his ear to the ground. Kenji is close behind. They don't even have time to discern what the noise is before a more pressing one gets their attention. In a blur of motion, one nearly-forgotten Monolophosaurus lunges forward with such force that the metal rope holding the collar to the ground gives out, allowing it to shoot forward, followed quickly by the other.
Kenji pushes him forward to help him gain momentum faster as he shouts, "The dinos are loose!" That gets their attention, and now, they're all running for their lives.
Next thing he knows, they're all separated, and it's just him and Kenji. He doesn't have time to think about that, though, because they're still being pursued. One lunges, and Ben slides away, narrowly missing being hit. Instead, the massive creature hits an electrical panel, which makes another rumbling sound that has him holding his breath until he realizes what it is: a hidden platform rising from the earth.
Though he's learned better than to do so, if there's one thing he's good at, it's poking around in places he probably shouldn't. Still, it's their only option right now, so he and Kenji sprint inside, skidding to a stop in front of the first door they see and slipping inside, closing the thing's snout between the door and the frame until they can push it so hard that it pulls away.
"What is this place?" Kenji asks while Ben fights to catch his breath, coughing and wheezing with one hand over his painful chest. Kenji shoots him a questioning look, but he forces a smile and makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. They begin wandering down the long hallway, opening doors at random only to find empty room after empty room. After several failures, Ben finally stumbles upon one with something useful.
"An egg incubator," he whispers as he approaches it, setting his hand on the top. "It's still warm. The egg's got to be close by." He wishes he could stay here just a little longer. The heat from the incubator has warmed the room to what is probably an objectively uncomfortable temperature that almost relieves his chills.
"We should split up," Kenji suggests. "We'll find Bumpy's egg quicker." As ill-advised as that suggestion is in his state, he couldn't be happier to hear it. There are bigger, more important things to focus on than whatever cold he's come down with, but if the others find out he's unwell, they're not going to just let it go.
As soon as Kenji is out of earshot, he allows himself to clear his lungs as quietly as he can, coughing hard into his jacket before pulling it tighter around him in an attempt to stop his shivering, then heads out in the opposite direction of Kenji.
After checking three doors, he finally finds one with a table and a stool, and none too soon, because the running he'd done earlier is starting to catch up to him. He coughs a few more times, then wavers dizzily, reaching out to steady himself on the table before lowering himself onto the seat. There, he leans forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, scrubbing his hands over his face, completely exhausted. At this rate, he's going to run out of steam before they can find much of anything.
It's not until he finally finds the strength to try to stand that he spots what was right in front of him: a large plastic suitcase. Hoping with everything he has that it doesn't lock, he reaches around the side to find that, for once, he gets what he wants, and the case pops open. Inside, he can't help but laugh with relief, even though it ends in more coughing, because what he finds is a bunch of dinosaur eggs. Specifically, a light blue egg with darker blue spots.
Bumpy's egg.
Footsteps. He doesn't have time to react before the door opens, but luckily, for once, the person on the other side isn't trying to kill him.
"Brooklynn," he says breathlessly. What else can he say?
"Ben?" she asks, but her tone is significantly less enthused than his. "I told you to stay away. You can't be following me like this."
"Brooklynn, I... I don't understand wha... How did you...? I mean..." He can't find the ending to any of his sentences, stunned and sick. Just one more thing to add to his already overloaded body and mind. He'll be lucky if he can remain upright.
"Stop staring at me like that," she snaps.
"Sorry," he says sincerely, hands up in a placating gesture. "I just... You never told me about your... arm." He breathes. "I missed you." He opens his arms for a hug. "We all have." His friend, one of the best he's ever had, one he's spent so long thinking is dead--she's standing right in front of him. How is he supposed to process that? To his crushing surprise, she pulls away with an unreadable expression. Disgust? Fear?
He starts rambling, unable to stop the words tumbling out of his clumsy mouth, as they're running directly from the pit in his chest rather than his rational mind. By the time she's responding, something about the Broker cloning dinosaurs, about needing to send her to jail for the rest of her life, he's barely even able to track the conversation.
"I'll be back," she promises. He's lucid enough to know not to believe her.
She slams the door, leaving him alone in the room, breathlessly wavering once more. This time, he's not sure if the vertigo is illness or shock. He feels sick to his stomach. He's sweating again, swaying until he eases himself back into a seated position. Wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve, he shivers once more, massaging one aching temple. What is he supposed to do now?
Out of seemingly nowhere, the wall on his left changes, and the mirror isn't a mirror anymore: it's a window. On the other side is Kenji, staring in awe and horror and anger and whatever other emotions Ben can't even imagine.
"Kenji?" he whispers, not knowing whether he can even hear him. He watches him storm out, giving him only a moment to dread the fight that's sure to ensue. Next thing he knows, Kenji throws open the door and shoves him hard toward the wall.
"You knew Brooklynn is alive, and you didn't tell us?" he demands with another shove. "How long have you known?"
"I've--"
"How long have you been lying?"
Ben's head pounds with every shouted word, but he wouldn't say anything even if he could get a word in edgewise. He doesn't deserve it. Kenji is right. He's been lying. He'd been put in an impossible decision, one where he was bound to hurt someone, but that doesn't erase how badly he's hurt him. Betrayed him. And after everything, after he'd asked Kenji to give up his seemingly normal, well-adjusted life, just to drag him back into all this. Kenji shakes his shoulder hard enough that he grunts in pain against the movement.
"It's not what you think," he tries. It doesn't work. With a harsh, guttural yell, Kenji winds up and swings, his fist landing just an inch from Ben's face, causing him to flinch harshly. He hits it hard enough to shatter the glass behind him. Before Ben can even start to fret about his hand, he realizes that Kenji is on the verge of tears. Ben is fighting them, himself.
"How could she do this to us?" he asks. Ben doesn't even open his mouth. Adrenaline is making the world spin, and if Kenji doesn't let him go soon, he's terrified that he might fall into him. "How could you help her do this?"
Once again, he's rambling, rapid, nearly desperate apologies that fall on deaf ears. "I tried to tell you all. I never meant for you to get..." He's not sure if he should even finish the sentence or if this is so bad that there's no word that could wrap even partially around it. In the end, he finishes, "hurt."
When Kenji turns around, too angry to even look at him anymore, he realizes something.
"The eggs," he says. "Brooklynn took Bumpy's egg." With that, Kenji runs out, leaving Ben in the room alone. He stumbles forward, catching himself on the table, and coughs. It starts as slightly breathless anxiety and ends as the deep, low rumble of a nasty chest infection. There's no more denying it, no matter how optimistic (or delusional) he's willing to be. He's sick, and it's starting to look like treatment isn't going to be as easy as sleeping it off. Either way, he doesn't have a choice. If he's going to catch up to Kenji, he needs to leave now. Kenji pokes his head back through the doorway, clearly livid.
"Well?"
"Give me a second," he chokes out. "I'll catch up." He's happy to go, and after one more quick, fruitless effort to clear his lungs, Ben takes off after him.
Thankfully, they don't have to run for long before he hears voices. Through his congestion-muffled hearing, he can't quite make out who they might be, but when in doubt, the best bet is to double back the way you came. However, he can't do that, not unless he sees Kenji do the same, so he forces throbbing legs and burning lungs to carry him just a little further until he smacks full-speed into Darius, who steps out from behind the corner at just the wrong time.
"Ugh," he groans, painfully rolling off of him and lying on the floor for a moment to wait for his head to stop spinning. Kenji offers a hand, but he doesn't even look at it. He's smart enough to know it's not for him, and he's proven right as Darius takes it. At least Sammy takes pity on him and reaches out, straining audibly as she has to use a surprising amount of strength to help him off the ground. By the time he's gotten his bearings, Kenji is jabbing a finger in his direction.
"And he's known the whole time," he accuses. Ben is already sweating, which, under these conditions, he knows is going to look a lot like guilt.
"I haven't known this whole time."
"Oh, so not the whole time," he repeats sardonically.
"I only just found out." It sounds lame. It is lame. It's all he has. It's not enough. "I was only trying to protect you."
Suddenly, everyone is closing in. Some are shouting at him. He thinks someone might be trying to diffuse the tension--Darius, maybe? It's usually Darius, but who's to say he hasn't pushed past the limit of even his seemingly endless patience. He can't keep up with any one confrontation, since they're coming from all sides. All this is doing is worsening his headache and speeding up his already racing heart until he feels faint.
"Guys!" Zayna shouts, cutting through the chatter. Everyone looks to her as she asks, "Do you hear that?"
Darius pales.
"How did it find us?"
"How did who find us?"
From around the corner, footsteps get louder and louder until standing before them is a Baryonyx, grey as if it's old, ancient, even. At first, he doesn't even notice that it's got no eyes. For a moment, his movement is entirely arrested, even the rising and falling of his chest. The group begins running, but he's frozen in place. Kenji has to shove him to get him fleeing, and just as they start, yet another threat cuts in front of them, this time in the form of a smaller, but equally intimidating, Atrociraptor.
They sprint, but Ben only has so much in him, and he's been running on fumes all day. Adrenaline can only get one so far, and he's reaching even that limit. He's slowing down quickly. To his surprise, it's Kenji who lands just in front of him, and when he hesitates at a fork in the hallway--somehow, the others have outrun Kenji, too--Ben is able to catch up.
"This way," Kenji chooses at seemingly random, and Ben doesn't question it.
The rest of the run is a blur. At one point, a fire alarm goes off, which is loud and startling enough to give them the precious extra seconds they need to run the rest of the way out of the lab, shutting the doors behind them. Ben leans against it for a moment, breathing hard but shallow.
"Come on," Kenji orders, grabbing him roughly by the arm and jerking him toward--the car?
The car.
Thank god.
Without warning, Ben has to cover his ears to shield his sensitive head from the sound of the building exploding behind them, the dust from which gives him a reason to cough, which he's been holding back since they'd had to run from the Baryonyx. Fear grips his heart and stomach. What if his friends didn't make it out? What if they're trapped back there, stuck, or injured, or worse?
Without downplaying the urgency of the situation, Ben throws open the passenger side door and plops inside, finally allowed to sit for the first time in hours. For the two seconds it takes Kenji to run to the driver's side and buckle up, he rests his head on the window and shuts his eyes. The glass isn't exactly cool, but compared to his body temperature, it might as well be, and he'll take what he can get. He suspects that he was already running a bit of a fever when he woke up this morning, so he can only imagine how bad it must be after all that stress and running. He can't hold back another cough, but he tries his best to muffle it into his jacket sleeve. Kenji doesn't care, anyway.
His already painful head bounces off the window when Kenji hops in the car and immediately guns it.
"We have to--"
"No," Kenji snaps. "You don't get to talk."
In the back of his mind, that's actually a relief. He leans his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose. As much as he wants to, he knows better than to reach out and touch the controls to give himself a little heat, so he hugs his jacket tight around himself and hopes Kenji won't notice him shivering, or at least will be too angry to address it. Kenji swerves the car sharply to the right to pursue the van that houses Brooklynn and the Broker.
They drive at speeds Ben never would have guessed this little white car could hit, taking turns he has to lean into like a motocross racer and hitting every rock and bump so hard he's sure they're going to pop a tire. If they were speaking, he'd make some joke, let Kenji know that if hunting bad guys doesn't work out, maybe he should consider a career in NASCAR, or maybe freelance high speed police chases.
Then, something happens that takes him just a beat too long for him to understand. Santos honks her horn as she rushes toward a fruit stand, playing chicken with a Kentrosaurus, who is minding its own business, politely purchasing a mango, by the looks of it. If he were thinking more clearly, he might be able to register something more specific than the feeling of imminent threat. As it stands, the fever he knows he's running slows his mind enough that he doesn't see it coming until it's too late, and the Kentrosaurus is swinging its tail directly into their path. Kenji swerves sharply to the right, causing Ben's head to hit the window hard once, then again when the car collides forcefully with a tree.
Ben's hand flutters to his head, the collision having ricocheted his headache from a 4 to a 7.
"Ugh," he can't help but complain. "Ow."
He looks to Kenji to see what sort of damage he'd taken, but he's wasted no time, already throwing the door open and sprinting in the direction of the van, desperately trying to get to the plane before it takes off with their friend--friend?--and the eggs.
"Kenji!" Ben shouts, but he knows it's not going to do anything. Even if he didn't hate him, nothing can stop Kenji running once he starts. When Ben opens his own door, the abrupt change from sitting to standing, combined with illness and the hit to the head, results in a wave of nausea so powerful that he finally loses to it, leaning against the ruined car with one hand and vomiting up what little water he's been able to tolerate all day. Great, he thinks. Add dehydration to the list of everything that's going on right now.
Still, he has no choice but to chase after him, so as soon as his stomach calms, at least for the moment, he wipes his mouth and dashes off after him.
As he approaches the tarmac, he's so relieved to see that their friends had survived the explosion that it almost brings tears to his eyes. When they get there, however, he's stopped in his tracks by the sight of Brooklynn holding the briefcase with the eggs inside, eyes deadlocked on Kenji's own frantic ones, as he's holding her lightly by the wrist.
"I'm not coming with you," she says, yanking the briefcase away.
"We're not leaving without you," Kenji insists.
"I'm not the same Brooklynn you knew. I have a job to finish."
So many emotions flood through him at the same time that it's hard to differentiate one from another, but, as always, the one that wins out is protectiveness.
"Wait," he calls, stepping forward, clearing his throat so his voice doesn't sound so wrecked from coughing and vomiting. "Bumpy's egg... It's in that case."
And here it is. The most confusing moment of his life. Because it's Brooklynn, his Brooklynn, the one with whom he spent almost a year surviving on Isla Nublar, whose life he's saved so many times and vice versa. The person he's trusted to get them out of trouble so often that she's one of the only people that's ever made him feel truly safe. Someone who's always done the right thing, even when it's hard. So why, he wonders with a sharp pain through his heart, does she hesitate?
But then, the world makes sense again. She stoops down, opens the case, and hands the egg to Kenji. For just a second, he convinces himself that she might be changing her mind, coming to her senses, but instead, she turns and boards the plane without another word, leaving them all standing there in stunned silence.
And the plane leaves. And Brooklynn leaves. And his heart breaks.
Grief, anger, confusion, and a mix of other unimaginable feelings collide as the gang argues. Disbelief that she's alive. Anger that she'd left.
"We have to find a way to contact her," Ben says.
"That can't be good," Sammy interjects, pointing into the distance. They turn to see a fleet of trucks pull up, and, following that, a jet.
Finally, he's able to relax, at least cognitively. Darius recognizes the man who steps out of the plane as Barry Sembène, who offers to take them home. He's suspicious, they all are, that this might be some sort of trap, but what other choice do they have, really?
He plops down in the first seat he sees, so exhausted that he doesn't even realize that the spot he's selected is right next to Kenji until he stands up pointedly and moves to sit on the other side of Darius. It stings, but he understands. How could he not? After how badly he's hurt him, he wouldn't blame him if he never spoke to him again. Well, at least Bumpy's egg is sitting one seat away from him, strapped in and safe at last.
-----
For a while, he dozes. The others flit around, doing whatever they're doing. Sammy worries about the injured dinosaur in the cage in the back of the plane, while Yaz trails closely behind. Darius chats with Barry, and by the sound of his recounting of the tale, he says all the wrong things. Kenji tries to pick a fight with Ben, but he genuinely can't keep his eyes open to participate. He feels guilty. Maybe, if Kenji can yell at him, he'll feel a little better, but Ben just doesn't have it in him to stay awake that long.
At first, he thinks it's a dream when Yaz turns around and says, "Hey, the Kentrosaurus isn't breathing." At the very least, he hopes it's just a nightmare, but of course, he would never be so lucky. Darius pulls him to his feet, where he wavers dizzily, nearly toppling over.
"You alright?"
"I'll look over there," he dodges when he tentatively gets his footing, pointing. Sammy is already doing chest compressions, and--is she giving it mouth to mouth?--so he has to hurry. They split up, all scrambling for something, anything that might give them a chance. As he rummages, his fingers finally find it--a case.
"I found something!" he announces. "A med kit!"
Yaz takes it and sprints to Sammy's side, where she opens it to find a giant syringe and vial. It can only be filled with one thing.
"That large a dose of epinephrine will either get her breathing again," he says unhelpfully, "or it'll kill her."
They all know they don't have another choice. Sammy uncaps the needle with her teeth, fills it, and jams it straight into the Kentrosaurus' neck. A long beat passes in which they all hold their breath, but then, a rare burst of good news: the dinosaur takes a gasping, deep breath. Ben sighs, laughing, which turns into a deep cough that he tries to hold in until he can stumble out of earshot of the others. This time, he can't stop until his vision turns grainy and so dark that he has to lean against a crate.
"Ben," Darius says sternly, this time helping lower him to sit, "seriously, is something wrong? You look terrible."
"Mhm," he tries, words not quite making it out. He needs more than a seat; he needs to lie flat, preferably for a few days. His ears are ringing. "Skipped breakfast."
"Don't you have one of those carob bars in your pack?" he asks, already unzipping it and fishing around inside. "Here. Eat."
"Thanks," he forces himself to reply, even though eating is among the last things he wants to do right now. There's not a chance it's going to stay down, but on the other hand, Darius is right. The fact that he's been running for his life, not to mention vomiting, means that low blood sugar is probably playing a role in this.
Luckily, he always thinks ahead. He turns down the bar, even after Darius is kind enough to unwrap it for him. Instead, he roots around the fanny pack strapped over his abdomen and finds a few carob candies, popping one in his mouth.
"Feeling a little airsick. This might sit better, and it's still sugar."
Darius looks worried, but reluctantly hands the bar back over for him to shove back into the bag.
"Stay down for a minute, alright? Don't push yourself."
Ha.
What happens next is predictable, but shocks him. Giving a huge, nearly dead dinosaur with big sharp spikes an enormous dose of pure adrenaline has a small chance of making it a tiny bit... agitated. Desperate to gain her footing, the Kentrosaurus thrashes side to side in an attempt to right herself, her body hitting anything that might be in its path. There's a flurry of activity: screaming, running, jumping, dodging--at one point, Barry even has dive to shove Sammy out of the way of the dinosaur's great tail before it crushes her.
Then, it happens. The Kentrosaurus hits the side of the plane so hard that it punctures the metal, and badly. Immediately, the air pressure difference takes his breath away, causing another coughing fit that almost keeps him from being able to fight his way to the control room. Kenji beats him there, already staring at the dash. Ben reaches for the big, flashing red button, but Kenji bats his hand away.
"Nonononono," he barks. "That's the button Darius nearly killed us with earlier."
"Then check the labels!"
"They're all in French!"
But they don't have time to argue. The number on the screen before him is shockingly low.
"Is that the altitude?" Ben asks frantically. "We're gonna crash!"
Kenji begins pulling up on the steering control as hard as he can, so Ben follows his lead, slipping into the seat beside him and fighting the other one. It's awful on his aching muscles, and the exertion makes his head pound, but he barely notices. All he can think about is the plane going down, and how his friends are doing tumbling around the back of the plane with the Kentrosaurus.
He hears the beast roar behind him, and he can only hope against hope that's not a sign that something has gone terribly wrong. Then, the plane's wheels touch the ground. The landing is rough to say the least, but as long as they're relatively parallel to the ground rather than perpendicular to it, he can't complain too much.
He stumbles out of the cockpit after Kenji, straight into the icy cold.
"Trains," Kenji says. "Only trains from now on."
If it wouldn't irritate Kenji, he'd laugh.
Once again, the adrenaline crash after the ordeal is overwhelming. He takes two steps, then realizes that his legs feel like jelly. Nausea so sudden that he almost doesn't have enough time to stagger to the side hits him like a bus, and he catches himself on the side of the plane to throw up into the snow.
"Hey, hey," Yaz, of all people, soothes. "Easy."
"Sorry," he chokes out. "Just--"
"Not judging. Deep breaths." He can't do that, either, and the attempt leaves him coughing so badly that he vomits again. "Woah, Ben. You gonna be alright?"
He wants to answer in the affirmative, but he can't catch his breath. When he finally stops coughing, he sways and droops. Yaz takes him by under the arm, Sammy under the other, and they lead him to a rock to sit on.
"That was really intense," Darius worries. "What happened?"
"Must've inhaled more dust from the explosion than I thought," he lies, thinking surprisingly quick on his feet. He'll tell them he's sick soon, but now isn't the time. They're in the middle of nowhere, in the freezing snow. What can they really do about a cold?
"The air here isn't exactly more breathable," Darius says.
"I'm okay," he promises. "Just needed a second to catch my breath. I'm fine, now." No one looks convinced. "We need to make a plan."
"Well, that guy is not on our side. Plus, we can't abandon Brooklynn, right?"
The silence that ensues is the longest of Ben's life. He wants to reply, to give a resounding yes, of course we can't, how could anyone even think otherwise?
But Kenji told him he doesn't get to talk. So he doesn't.
"We shouldn't leave until we know more," Kenji finally speaks.
"Sammy?" Yaz prompts. She sighs.
"Let's just get somewhere safe. Actually safe."
"Barry said we're near the Italian border," Ben chimes in. "Which means we're only a few hundred miles away."
"Away from what?" Kenji asks irritably.
"My girlfriend! She lives in Northern Italy. We can regroup there."
"S-sure," Darius agrees, and Ben is perceptive enough, even as ill as he is, to know what those looks mean.
"You all still think she's fake, don't you?"
Crickets.
"It's been a rough night," he says, not factoring in the fact that he has no energy to care, "so I'm going to choose not to be offended. But I assure you, she's very real, and a much better option than being arrested by French Intelligence."
They end up flagging down a truck that's going... well, Ben isn't sure where. He zones out a bit for that part, letting the others handle it after giving Darius the address while he sits heavily on the ground, not even caring that the melting snow is going to make his clothes wet. He can't stand any longer. When the trucker finally agrees, they cram themselves into the bed, knees to knees. Finally, the adrenaline can stop pumping. He can breathe, at least, so to speak. His lungs still feel like they're full of water that he can't expel. It's been getting progressively worse over the stressful day, and he's gotten very little time to rest.
He sits down and leans forward to put his elbows on his knees, then his head on his crossed arms. It barely helps. This is it. He's out of steam, drained completely dry, but at least they're finally safe. He's never been colder in his life, nor more exhausted. His head is spinning, body hot and cold at the same time with what has to be, at this point, a pretty decent fever.
"Is everyone okay?" Sammy asks."Really, okay."
Resounding affirmatives go around the bed of the truck, which does a lot to calm his nerves. This would be a good time to mention that he's not actually feeling all that well, but Kenji is still so mad, and who even knows how the others are feeling. They're probably just as angry. Instead, he sits up straighter and hopes he nods, but isn't exactly sure. The only thing he can feel is nausea, vertigo, and an insidious tingling in his fingers and toes. His eyes flutter shut for a second as he droops forward, and he catches himself and forces them open.
"Ben?" Darius calls, or, at least, he thinks it's Darius. "You good, man? You look kinda out of it."
"Yeah," he lies, without being able to force so much as a reassuring smile. Not even eye contact. "Tired."
"You look a little more than tired," Yaz says. "You're really pale."
His eyes flutter again against his will, and this time, instead of bobbing forward, he sways to the side, colliding lightly with Kenji. He braces himself to be shoved, but instead, he's steadied by one shoulder.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
Kenji's voice sounds like it's coming from above water, while he's stuck below, freezing and struggling for breath. He tries to sit up straight, then overcompensates without the physical strength to do so, which results in him toppling forward, fixing to hit the ground face first were it not for Kenji's quick reflexes grabbing him across the chest.
"Get him lying flat," Sammy says, nurturing instincts kicking in. She might know more about animal husbandry than human first aid, but at this point, his mind is too blank to really care.
"He's been dizzy a few times, but he said he was just airsick."
"Could he have hit his head in the car crash?"
"Check to see if he's bleedin' anywhere."
"Ben, you have to tell us what's going on," Darius implores as they manipulate his long limbs to lie with his head in someone's lap and his feet draped over someone else's. It's difficult, but Ben forces his vision to snap upward onto a fixed point: Kenji's face. He's in Kenji's lap. He throws an arm over his face and coughs so hard that they have to get him briefly sitting up again.
"That doesn't sound good," Yaz says. "Fess up. Now."
"Haven't been feeling so well," is all he can say. Sammy reaches across the truck bed to press a hand to his forehead, and gasps.
"He's burnin' up," she frets. "Ben, how long have you been this sick?"
He has to think really hard about the answer not because it's a difficult question, but because all his thoughts are just out of reach.
"This morning," he finally mumbles. "Be fine in a sec. Just need'a close my eyes."
"No, Ben, don't do that."
But he's already out, literally, cold.
-------
When he wakes, this time, he's still shivering, but now, he's covered in the jackets of his friends, who are huddled together around him. He groans before he dares open his eyes.
"I think he's waking up," Sammy says, and she sounds so excited that he can't bear to disappoint her. He blinks a few times to clear his vision, and if he was expecting to feel better than he did earlier, he was wrong.
"Hey," he greets, voice raw and rough from coughing and vomiting all day.
"It's so good to hear your voice," Sammy says.
"What happened?"
"You passed out," Kenji says. Ben can't read his tone. "We couldn't wake you up. You've been out for like an hour and a half."
He sits up, pushing past Darius' hand over his chest trying to keep him flat and swings his legs down into the truck bed.
"Where are we?"
"See for yourself," Darius replies, showing him the GPS on his phone, They're within miles of Gia's Nonna's house. Just miles, half an hour or so before he can see her.
"Gia," he says. "We're so close to Gia." He's going to get to see her so soon, to hold her, to... Oh, no. "She's gonna think I'm a mess."
"You are a mess," Kenji snaps. Sammy feels his forehead again and frowns.
"That fever's doin' nothin' but goin' up."
"Your hands are just cold," Ben reassures, but he knows it's true. Despite the snow and the fact that he's shivering, never been so cold in his life, he's sweating. They've all given up their coats for him, and that's his fault. If he'd said something earlier, if he'd told them about Brooklynn immediately, if--
Brooklynn. He hasn't apologized about Brooklynn. He's left them all betrayed, heartbroken, and confused. In his daze, he can't tell a good idea from a bad one, so he turns to Kenji.
"I'm so sorry," he says. Kenji's expression isn't one of anger or hatred, but confusion.
"Sorry?"
"For lying. I didn't... She asked me... I should have... I just didn't want anyone to get hurt. But now look at us."
"Dude, the only one who got hurt is you." Kenji places his own hand to Ben's forehead. "You've got to feel awful." He hesitates for a long moment because Ben knows he's got more to say. "You should have told me."
Ben fumbles for what to say next.
"Would you have cared?"
That throws him off. His expression flickers from concerned to sad in an instant.
"I would have liked to know."
Ben nods, his eyes heavy again. Even just talking is taking a lot out of him, and sleep is tugging hard at his ankles.
"Maybe you should rest," Yaz says. "You look beat."
"I'm exhausted."
"Are you comfortable?" At that, Ben actually laughs. "Right. Dumb question."
"I'll be fine," he says.
"For real this time?" Darius asks.
"Yes. For real."
"Good. Get some sleep. You don't want to look like such a mess when we meet your fake girlfriend." Kenji squeezes Ben's hand. "Glad you're okay, dude."
Ben squeezes back as he shuts his eyes and lets go.
