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He had first called up some episodes of The Office, but he found he couldn’t pay attention to the dialogue. He wasn’t in the mood for humor, anyway.
If Grace was still on Earth, he would have plenty of options for places to go. A quiet park, maybe a movie theater, a walk on the beach. Something like that. As it is, stuck on the Hail Mary, he just doesn’t have that many options of places to go after a fight with his roommate.
The grating is cold beneath him. He chucks his mini basketball against the nearest screen, where the projected tree branches shudder. The ball ricochets, hits a floor panel, and then bounces back to his hand obediently. Thunk-thunk.
It's not like Rocky doesn't know where he is. Rocky always knows where he is. Can see through surfaces with his weird alien echolocation. It makes it all the more inexplicable that Rocky usually insists that they spend all their time in the same room together. They’ve had many, many conversations about boundaries and the importance of them both at least pretending that Grace has privacy sometimes. Rocky's attempts at respecting these concepts have, for the most part, left something to be desired.
It probably says something that now, even two hours after their argument, Rocky hasn’t come to find him.
Grace throws the ball again. Thunk-thunk.
Grace doesn’t consider himself a particularly argumentative person. He and Linda had argued sometimes, especially after they moved in together, but it wasn’t, like, an excessive amount. And his years in school with the kids had unearthed wells of patience Grace and never before thought possible in himself. If he could get through years of teaching seventh graders, he could withstand anything.
No, Grace is not argumentative.
If Rocky needs this time to sulk, then that's his right. Grace has no problem with this.
Years and years ago, Linda had said, God forbid you concede on anything.
It was an accusation she could – and did - apply more than once over the course of their relationship. She'd say it jokingly if Grace didn't agree with her opinion on a movie. She'd say it snarkily when Grace insisted that, actually, leaving the dishes in the sink to soak overnight was not only acceptable but helpful.
She had said it explosively, later. When Grace would not back down from his thesis and was summarily expelled from academia.
Grace would not say he is argumentative, but maybe he’s stubborn. Maybe he just stands by what he believes in. Maybe, sometimes, it's possible that he does that a little too much. Sometimes.
He tosses the ball again.
His arguments with Linda usually involved her articulating to him, in very clear terms, what was bothering her, and Grace disagreeing with the nature of her whole premise. They managed to resolve very little between them. Practically nothing, really.
He had been very, very bad at living with her. There'd been a reason they'd only managed it for eight months. Grace always guessed that he’d be better now if he tried – mellowed with age and less up in his own feelings about his failure as an academic. He had always planned on trying again someday with someone new, but in a distant, something-for-the-future kind of way. He could not have guessed that that future would involve an exceptionally bossy alien who he couldn't physically get away from, was incapable of helping with chores, and always wanted Grace to adhere to his cultural norms without making space for Grace's natural sort of inevitable tendency to -
To mess things up.
The speakers are pumping out wind sounds. Beneath it, Grace can hear the Hail Mary’s humming life support systems, the clank and click of the machinery in the walls. In the months after he awoke alone in a ship in the middle of space, in the months that he thought he’d be heading back to Earth, those sounds had been his only companions.
He tosses the ball and catches it on its return. The movement pulls at the tight skin of the burn scar on his arm.
He lets out a deep, deep breath. He stands.
He checks the lab first, but it’s empty. Luckily, there really aren’t too many other possibilities.
Rocky is sitting in his bubbled copilot chair in the cockpit. He has Mary reading him what sounds like the downloaded Wikipedia page about golf. Just like, the general concept of golf. His hands are busy with something, though Grace doesn’t immediately recognize the project.
Grace lowers himself into his pilot chair. Mary obediently lifts the lights around him. Rocky is holding his body stiffly, and his hands are moving with enough force that Grace worries he'll break his model.
Grace pushes the toe of his socked foot against one of the Hail Mary’s panels. His chair spins a bit.
“…A typical par-three hole is less than two-hundred-and-fifty yards in length…” Mary says.
Rocky likes Earth media well enough, though, to Grace's disappointment and his continued concern for the future of their Movie Bros Club, visual media holds less interest for him than manuals. Once Rocky learned he could have Mary read anything in her archives to him, it was over for Grace. He’d dug out the earplugs and tried to maintain his sanity and established a strict limit on Mary’s impromptu audiobook sessions. A limit that Rocky, mostly, agreed to stick to.
Rocky keeps working. He has his toolbelt on, but all of his serious equipment is down in their lab, so he must just be tinkering. Grace guesses it’ll be related to Earth plant cloning, their current shared scientific obsession.
Normally, he’d have regaled Grace with a lengthy explanation of his work before Grace even had the chance to ask. Now, he just works silently.
The air feels thick, though Grace assumes it’s just his perception and not the Hail Mary’s air systems actually failing.
“So.” Grace clears his throat. He flicks one of the switches that powers the floor illumination, up-and-down, click-click-click-click. The lights beneath his chair blink on and off. “Are you still mad?”
Rocky doesn’t respond, which is crazy. He’s emitting a low noise, something like a hum, at a frequency that Grace doesn’t recognize. He guesses it’s an Eridian anger noise.
Grace sets his foot back on the floor and leans over his knees. He scrubs his hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp. Ugh.
Rocky has been annoyed at him plenty of times, has been impatient with him or inconvenienced by him or frustrated by their communication difficulties, but, Grace is realizing now, Rocky has never been angry with him.
Grace has never been very good at apologies. He wonders if it's one of those intrinsic human things, those universal difficulties, or if it's just a Grace thing.
“Look,” he says. He clears his throat again, the awkwardness making the words stick in his trachea. “I’m a- I’m a big idiot. I can admit that. Okay? And I can be a jerk. I was- I was a jerk.”
“No understand word,” Rocky says.
Grace squints, skeptical. He’s pretty sure that Rocky is messing with him, but he’s not sure he’s in a position to negotiate, here.
“Factors affecting the calculation include altitude, gradient of the land from the tee to green, and-“
Grace says, a little more snippy than he should be, “Mary, would you please stop talking about golf for one second?”
The onboard computer obediently goes silent. Grace turns to Rocky. “Jerk. Someone who’s selfish and, and – you know.” He lets his glasses hang from one ear so he can rub at his eyes.
"Someone who says not truth,” Rocky offers. “Someone who break trust.”
God, Grace doesn’t even remember teaching Rocky the word trust. Maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe this situation wouldn’t sting so much if Rocky couldn’t wield that one in his direction.
“Yeah,” Grace says. He leans back in his seat.
Rocky does not immediately say anything more. He just keeps working, too rough with the little model, his body still thrumming with that strange, new sound.
"I'm sorry I lost my temper," Grace says. "I shouldn't have shouted like that."
"Volume of voice not important," Rocky says. "We make deal. Grace make promise. You say one thing, and you do not do thing. You make promise. That is important."
Grace had gotten overly comfortable with their routine in the year since their trip toward Erid began. That had been his first mistake.
For what it was worth, he had planned to be there when Rocky woke. He always had timed it right in the past. But this time, Grace was in the lab when he heard the distressed, confused trilling from the dorm and he knew, he knew, he had messed up.
Rocky does not have to sleep as often as Grace does, but he always sleeps for so long, and he is paralyzed the whole time anyway, and it’s not like Grace doesn’t keep an eye on him, off and on. He can justify for himself, quite easily, that it’s no big deal if he slips away sometimes while Rocky is sleeping. It’s not like he’s in any real danger here on the ship. It’s not like there’s anything Grace actually needs to protect him from.
It would have all been fine – it had all been fine - as long as Rocky never found out about it.
He had tried to explain his thinking to Rocky just a few hours ago. That it wasn’t like he left Rocky alone the whole time, but more that he kind of popped in and out of the dormitory while Rocky slept. That Rocky can always hear Grace whether they’re in the same room or not, so it’s not like he could mistake himself for being abandoned. That because of the nature of their living situation, the grand majority of the ship’s chores fall to Grace to do – cleaning up after both human and Eridian completely on his own – so it isn’t fair that Rocky expects him to just sit there for ten-plus hours each time Rocky needs a nap. That maybe if Rocky wants him to watch the whole time, that he should contribute more to the chores.
Rocky had been angry, firing off accusations of betrayal too fast for the laptop to properly translate. And Grace had argued it all, defended himself, explained all his great justifications for his behavior, all the wonderful reasons and deep-seated logic behind his very intelligent decision to leave Rocky alone while he slept, after Grace had promised to watch over him.
He had assumed that what Rocky didn't know couldn't hurt him. And he had assumed that if Rocky did know, he would be annoyed but not hurt.
Grace watches Rocky hum and fidget. He miscalculated. He badly miscalculated.
“I thought it was just kind of a preference,” Grace says now. His voice is low in the now-quiet cockpit. He almost misses Mary's golf stuff. “But it’s really important to you, huh? I mean, really important. To have me there.”
Rocky’s humming finally stops. His hands pause in their work. “Yes,” he says.
Grace pushes his glasses back into place so he can look at Rocky more closely. It’s only through a year of living in each other’s pockets that Grace can read his body language: the tension and the vulnerability.
It doesn’t matter, Grace realizes, how grounded in logic his decision was. It doesn’t matter that he had work to do, or chores to do, or that Rocky was always perfectly safe, or that Grace was bored and frustrated and wanting to wander the ship. He looks at Rocky in the seat, the copilot’s chair that they heat-proofed for him, looking small and stiff and sad. The logic doesn’t matter.
“I’m really sorry, Rock,” Grace says. “I’m sorry you had to wake up alone today and I’m sorry I was such a jerk about it.”
“Jerk,” Rocky says quietly.
Grace can't argue with that. He toes at the panel again so that his chair rotates, angling himself a bit away from Rocky. A coward. He's still a coward. “I guess I won’t blame you if you don’t believe me," he says, "but I won’t do it again.”
Rocky emits some clicks – it’s the echolocation sound he makes when there’s not enough ambient noise and he wants to see the world in more detail. Grace waits him out, lets himself be observed.
Rocky stops clicking and sets his work down by his own feet. He pushes the work with one finger, and it rolls on the padding of the copilot chair, back and forth. “Rocky do more chores,” he says.
The mental image of Rocky toting around garbage bags and mowing the lawn pops into his head, unbidden. “Yeah, it’s about time you did the dishes around here. Look, don’t worry about it. It’s not like – it’s not like you’re just laying around. You’re trying to grow food for me. You’re literally working to save my life – again, by the way. I think I can handle the chores.”
“Invent machine,” Rocky says. “Automate cleaning. Less chores for Grace.”
“I’d rather have the food so I don’t starve and die, personally,” Grace says. He sets his elbows on his knees to lean closer to Rocky. “I mean it. Don’t worry about the chores. I was just being a jerk. From now on, when you sleep, I’ll be there and I won’t move for anything. I’ll be sitting there like this.” He slips his fingers under his glasses so he can hold his eyes open ludicrously wide. He knows that Rocky can’t relate to having eyes, but hopefully the idea translates well enough.
“Hmm,” Rocky says. He fidgets, his body angling left and right a bit. His fingers clack.
Grace swallows. He needs Rocky to grant him a second chance to prove himself, even if Grace doesn’t really deserve one. And he needs Rocky to forgive him. For a lot of reasons.
Back on Earth, Grace specialized in keeping a comfortable set of walls around himself. He had work acquaintances and college buddies and that was about it. Easier to keep people at a distance for when they inevitably got tired of him. But he can’t do that with Rocky. Despite the literal walls between them, everything about their living situation demands a level of closeness. They need to be able to work together, or Grace will die on Erid. They need to be able to live together, or they’ll kill each other and then everyone on Erid will die.
But beyond that, Grace just wants Rocky to forgive him, to like him. He wants things to be okay between them.
He wants to be good at this.
Rocky says hesitantly, “I know watch sleep is not important for humans.” His fingers are still twitching, and he’s shifting his weight. “Maybe it is not requirement for Rocky to live. Maybe is preference. But is strong preference. Strong strong strong.”
Rocky doesn’t need to say it to remind Grace of how long he was on that ship alone.
Grace wonders for the first time how this Rocky is different from the one who left Erid all those decades ago. If maybe that Rocky wouldn’t have minded so much about Grace wandering the ship while he slept. If maybe there was a higher level of resiliency there, at once point.
Maybe trauma and loneliness change Eridian brains like they can change human brains. Maybe, like Grace, Rocky will carry those changes with him for the rest of his life.
Grace rubs at his hair. God. Linda had always been right about him. He's so self-centered.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t know that before now, pal.” Grace swallows, shame rising so quickly and totally that he has to suppress an urge to cry. It’s not completely right; Grace did know. Rocky had told him. Rocky had tried to tell him how important it was to him. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”
“Hmm,” Rocky says again. His fingers clack. He picks up his work and then sets it back down. He switches legs, his body swapping between front-facing facets. He’s indecisive, but Grace can’t read what more he’s feeling.
“It’s okay if you need to be angry with me for a while,” Grace says. “I get it. You can be angry as long as you need.” He clears his throat yet again, forcing down the emotional lump that has formed there against his will. “But I’ll watch you sleep even if you’re mad at me, okay?”
Rocky sends out an echolocation pulse again. Grace forces a humorless laugh.
“I mean, maybe don’t be angry too long. It gets really boring around here without you going around talking all the time. You know Armando’s a terrible conversationalist.”
Ugh, he really is pathetic. And he really is truly terrible at apologies.
"Grace only say truth, question?" Rocky asks.
"Yeah," Grace says. "I mean, from now on? That's a reasonable request. I can do that."
"Only say truth, or shut up stupid mouth," Rocky says.
Grace laughs. It makes a stray tear fall, to his embarrassment. God, he's become such a sap since almost dying alone in space all those times. He's pretty sure it's a trauma response, but he'll never know for sure. He reminds himself, not for the first time, that it doesn't matter up here, away from all other humans, with only Rocky to judge him. Rocky, who judges him for his choice of music and his organization of the lab and his "disgusting" eating habits, but never for the big things. Apparently.
"Deal," Grace says.
Rocky steps forward and leans his body against the xenonite panel nearest Grace.
Grace watches him, waiting for some clarity on what is happening, but none comes. Rocky remains in that unnatural pose, legs stretched straight to reach the wall.
“What are you doing?” Grace asks finally, when it becomes clear that Rocky is not going to move.
“Hug,” Rocky says. He leans back a bit, then forward more insistently: his body thunks against the xenonite.
Grace laughs. It’s the humor of Rocky’s movement, and the childishness of his demand, but mostly it’s just the sheer relief of it. It’s Rocky, reaching out in a non-Eridian way, for Grace’s sake, even after Grace has messed up so thoroughly.
Grace stands from his seat so he can close the distance between them. He presses his face against the xenonite where Rocky is leaning. When Rocky speaks or adjusts his position, he can feel the reverberations through the panel, and it truly is weirdly – shockingly – comforting.
So what if Grace will need to sit still and be patient a few times a week? He can’t believe he was ever so stupid about it. It’s hardly the biggest sacrifice he’s made on Rocky’s behalf, anyway.
And then, because Grace can’t control what comes out of his mouth, he says, the words a bit distorted from where his face is still pressed against the xenonite, “Is it weird that this is the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had?”
“Yes,” Rocky says.
“Historically, I’m not very good at conflict resolution. Or compromise. Or living with people.”
“Yes,” Rocky says. “Very bad.”
Grace leans back to squint at him. “Okay, not very bad.”
“Very pretty bad,” Rocky says. “Grace is very jerk.”
“Maybe I’m pretty good by Earth standards,” Grace points out. “I could be a paragon of human social skills, you don’t know.”
“Have seen many Earth movie,” Rocky states. “Hear many book. Grace is not good by human standard.”
“Ouch,” Grace says. He pats the xenonite close to Rocky before he lowers himself back into his chair. “Not wrong, though. But hey, at least we’re two of a kind, huh?”
It takes a little of the sting out of his mistakes – to know that yes, Grace can be stubborn and arrogant and argumentative sometimes, but so can Rocky. If anyone is going to forgive his stupidity, it’s going to be Rocky.
Rocky tilts his body. “Rocky very popular on Erid.”
“What?” Grace blurts.
“On Erid I win best roommate competition.”
“No, you did not,” Grace states. “That’s not a thing that exists.”
“Yes,” Rocky says.
“There’s not a best roommate competition, Rocky! How do they even judge that!”
“By who is best roommate,” Rocky says.
Grace stands. “You’re messing with me. I’m not going to sit here and get messed with. I’m going to watch The Office.”
“Jim-Pam!” Rocky trills. He hops up into his xenonite tunnel so he can follow Grace to the Don’t Go Crazy Room, his work grasped in one hand. “I win best roommate competition today also. Best in Hail Mary.”
Grace starts down the ladder, Rocky close behind. “Who’s voting for this? I have to see these ballots.”
“No. Grace make prize. Prize for Rocky for best roommate.”
“I didn't even get a chance to campaign!" Grace argues, solely for the fun of it, for the relief of being forgiven, for the joy of being able to banter again.
Later, Grace’s feet dangle from the grating in the Don’t Go Crazy Room, the familiar dialogue playing out around him. Rocky has already seen all of the episodes, and with his memory being what it is, he doesn’t have much interest in watching them twice. He sits in his ball beside Grace, most of his legs folded beneath him, still working on his project: a model of expanding the onboard greenhouse to grow human food for a sustainable timeframe.
They haven’t quite found an answer to that particular conundrum yet, the question of how to feed Grace once they reach Erid, but Grace has faith that they will.
Grace kicks his feet. He reaches over to Rocky, straightening the little taped and hand-drawn Best Roommate ribbon where it hangs proudly on his front panel.