Archive of Our Own

27Y:04M:20D MISSION ELAPSE TIME EARTH | 02Y:00M:17D TIME ON ERID
biodome DAY 47 — wake cycle

There's that one tree in the backyard that I still remember.

Thick trunk, roots sticking out in waves past brittle soil, the one solid branch that's just low enough for me to wrap my arms around and hoist myself up. If I angle myself just right I'm near invisible past the leaves, safe from prying eyes looking out the kitchen window. I remember the texture of the bark beneath my fingers, the spot where I picked it clean off the branch. I remember the warmth of the sun, the shifting spots of light on my face. I remember the breeze, the smell of dry yellow grass, and ducking deeper into the brush at the sound of the kitchen door scraping against the patio.

It gets fuzzy after that.

I don't recall who's house the tree belongs to, who's gaze I'm hiding from. I know I'm not much older than my kids used to be, twelve, maybe thirteen. I'm the only one here. There are no other kids hiding in the branches, no one trampling the grass below, playing tag. It must be my parents house, or maybe my grandparents, possibly an aunts. There's boredom here, trapped in the stillness of the air. The type of isolation I won't be able to put a name to until I'm twenty-three, throwing up a bottle of duty-free danish snaps into an airplane toilet.

A lot of my autobiographical memories haven't filtered back in yet, even over half a decade post forced coma. Most of the missing patches seem to be from my childhood, an invisible line in the sand before the age of fifteen, a cut off point I can't recall the origins of. There's a special haziness associated with summers. Off-white gaps, unappealing shades of beige. Like my brain is telling me, preemptive, why look? What's the point.

Still. Some days, there are other brief snatches that come with the tree. Tonight they come to me as thunder rumbling in the distance, wind picking up to whip leaves into my face, the sudden ripple of the clouds, opening to drench me faster than I can climb down. Slipping on that picked clean branch, a moment of weightless free-fall. The memory of pain is absent, in it's place the yellow tiles of a bathroom, the rough texture of a towel scrapping against my scalp. Scraped knees, blood running down my shins in pink rivulets.

Ryland, someone tuts behind me, clicking their tongue. Would it kill you to use that big brain of yours.

Thunderstorm raging outside, throwing warm summer rain against the window pane as I shiver under the blankets, sniffly and burning up with a fever. Light that streams in from the living room, the click of a lighter, a brief whiff of cigarette smoke before a window opens to carry it away.

I wake like that — light from the bedside lamp across my face, shirt plastered to my back with sweat, burning up.

I try to kick off my sheets, to scramble out of bed and away from the heat, only to realize I'm already on the floor. Panic grips me, the air so suffocating that for a moment I'm back on the Mary, ammonia burning down my nose, Rocky's hand on my arm, blistering skin.

"Rocky," I gasp, then get hit by an adrenaline induced wave of nausea as I remember that he's not here, that he's halfway across the planet, renewing his and Adrian's mating vows. "Rocky," I say again, regardless. Pathetic, instinctual. It's no good. There's no answer.

I heave myself up on all fours, slip in my own sweat, sheets damp around my ankles. Okay Ryland, think. Use that big dumb brain of yours. Rocky is not here, yes, but there's a thrum of over thirty very smart Eridians monitoring your every move. If this was something as drastic as a fire they'd notice the difference in temperature. The increase in carbon dioxide. So no fire. Probably. There's enough oxygen too. Yes, the air is uncomfortably hot, like I'm stuck in a sauna, but it's breathable. And I can move. I'm shaky and sweaty, but I manage to get up on my own, no popping of my ears, no pain in my jaw, no increased pressure. So no complete failure of the life support system. Even if there was, there's a spare tank of oxygen by the bed, and by the door, for just such a case, and the house itself could withstand the additional pressure if there ever was a leak in the biodome, a habitat within a habitat. Rocky made damn sure of all that.

So what? Why am I being boiled alive? I stumble my way to the door, resist the urge to pull off my soaked shirt. There's a little emergency panel set into the wall, another safety precaution. The temperature gauge reads λ∀ in raised letters. 35° Celsius. "Jesus—" I start as I rip open the door with that same animal instinct that made me call out Rocky's name. The air that hits me is so hot, I choke on the rest. In the half second it takes me to slam the door back closed again the temperature ticks up to 36°.

There's a click from the emergency panel, then an Eridian voice I don't recognize. [Calm calm calm, human,] it says, with the detached evenness of someone who's comfortable with temperatures fives times as high. [Biodome temperature regulation malfunction. No danger. Stay inside. We fix.]

> > data recovered via DEEP SPACE PROBE: YOKO at approx. 25Y:08M:05D TIME ON ERID
> > > excerpt from [Star-crossed: My brief life with the savior of humanity by Linda Thomas]

Even in our early days — what some might call the honeymoon phase — Ryland was prone to showing up late to our dates or forgot we had scheduled them altogether. In the moments we were together I'd often find him lost in thought, staring over my shoulder or up at the sky. 'Got some place better to be,' I would joke and watch his brows crease for a moment, the same way they creased when he got angry at scientific inaccuracies in the evening news. A brief glimpse of genuine emotion before he'd apologize, promising to make it up to me, only to inevitably forget again. We both lead busy lives at the time, with his transition out of academia and my often unpredictable schedule at the hospital, and I fancied myself a pretty understanding and independent person, but sometimes I had to wonder — was there something I did wrong? Anything that would have made him love me better? Love me more? Love me at all?

27Y:04M:20D MISSION ELAPSE TIME EARTH | 02Y:00M:17D TIME ON ERID
biodome DAY 47 — sleep cycle

Once you spent half a year orbiting an alien planet as you slowly starve to death — plus well over a year after that cooped up in a tiny observation enclosure trying to recover from said starvation — teetering on the edge of heatstroke really doesn't seem particularly alarming anymore, in the grand scheme of things. Just another Thursday, really. Not that I know what day it is.

After the first eight hours or so I have a pretty good system going, thanks to the dutiful help of the biodome thrum. The problem with heat of course is that to dissipate it needs somewhere to go and since the biodome is at a cozy 65° at the moment it's not like I can just crack open a window to let it air out. An air-conditioning unit could work, but there's a complexity to that sort of machinery that defies the language barrier that comes with talking to any Eridian that isn't Rocky. So I settle for talking them through making me a small portable fan instead, and instruct them to supply me with a bunch of spare canisters of water — sealed and kept temperate in xenonite — once we realize that all the water in the pluming system is essentially getting boiled on it's way to the house.

By the time the overhead illumination dims I manage to bring the heat down to a cool 34° with said fan, a wet towel and a plate of ice I scraped out of the specimen fridge we brought down from the Mary. Flat on the floor beside the bed, stripped to my t-shirt and underwear, with a wet scrap of fabric over my forehead and in the direct path of the fan? I'm golden.

The house would have insulated me from the heat remarkably well actually, it being mostly xenonite and all. It probably would still be a comfortable 25° in here if it hadn't been for me leaving one of the windows cracked open every so slightly at night. Stupid really. Unnecessary. I've only been here for a month and a half, something like this was bound to happen. And here I go fudging with the integrity of Rocky's safety precautions. He'd have a whole lot to say about that. Lots of colorful expletives. We never bothered to add any of that to the translation program, but it didn't really matter. It became inevitable, those years it was just us back on the Mary, understanding each other. And oh—

I miss him, suddenly.

No. Not suddenly. I always miss him. Even when he's just in the other room. It's a sliding scale really, downhill any second my hands aren't on his carapace. Any second one of his arms isn't pressed up against my ankle, my thigh.

So not suddenly. Extremely. Expeditiously.

It's been an… issue. To say the least. The separation of us. Like cutting off a limb if the limb was an alien you've been living with in such close quarters for four years that you've learned to pick out his tread in a crowd of his five legged peers, despite your very inferior hearing.

It's not like we've never been separated before. It's not like it isn't possible. Of course it is. Before all this Rocky spent years stranded alone, when I wasn't even born yet, and we managed months apart after we said goodbye, when we thought it would be forever. The problem is the during — the months we spent trying to save our stars, and the years we spent hurdling towards his salvation and my death, lone beings in a dead galaxy. The problem is the after — the weeks I spent alone in Erid's orbit, starving, when Rocky had to de-board the Mary to save his planet. To try and save me. The months planet-side I spent in a coma, the things I don't remember and he doesn't talk about. The regaining consciousness, alone in my windowless enclosure, on the mend yet still certain I was dying until I heard Rocky scream my name from the other side of the partition, cursing out the inefficient cycling sequence of the airlock in his desperation to get to me.

We've been trying to get better at it since my recovery, in slow increments. Breeding resilience, slow pain staking process, our absence from each other's periphery like nitrogen to taumoeba. Minutes, then hours, then days — first his, then mine. We didn't try sleeping separately until I moved into the biodome and that has been— Well. Rocky didn't leave at all, that first month. Spent all his time between the little workshop habitat he'd build himself just off my bedroom and biting my ankles in his EVA suit. He spun me some yarn about finishing construction on the house — which in his defense is still pretty sparse on account of getting me out of that medical bay as fast as possible and into a habitat that was less likely to make me loose my darn mind — but I think he felt guilty, for those months I was barely conscious, for not being able to watch me sleep then. It took a lot of cajoling to get him to leave the biodome for even an hour at a time, outright arguing to attempt one night alone. Not that it worked, really. Not like I didn't wake up three hours in, covered in sweat, eyes stinging, cheeks wet, his weight on my chest and hands stroking through my hair, voice a low and rumbling whisper, repeating over and over, [Rocky here, Grace safe, Rocky here here here, always here], until I stopped crying.

But then Rocky came to me two weeks ago, fidgeting and clearly dreading whatever conversation we were about to have, and told me, so uncharacteristically sheepish it set my teeth on edge, that Adrian had requested a 're-matching' and that to honor said request he'd have to go visit to his birth thrum. We'd never encountered that word before, re-matching, but the meaning was pretty clear: two mates in the process of rekindling their relationship after so many years lost to each other might very well seek to renew their vows, to re-up their commitment. A lovely thought really, to know a custom so beautiful spans across solar systems. Rocky assured me he'd only be gone for a couple days, a week tops, that the biodome thrum would keep him diligently updated about my whereabouts. Made it clear that he didn't have to go at all, that he'd be happy to postpone if it made me uncomfortable. But of course he had to go. Of course I had to convince him to go.

I only met Adrian twice, at this point — once half delirious during recovery from behind the clear partition they'd put into my observation room after Rocky had torn them a new one over that oversight, and once when I moved into the biodome, shepherding me around, taking notes of preferred water temperature and sand texture. Neither meeting was particularly conductive to us bonding, between my lack of coherent thought the first time and the being so nervous to meet Rocky's mate I was trying not to throw up on their carefully landscaped terrarium the second. But they seemed lovely. Kind. Patient with my ramblings, if distant. It always bothered me a bit that I haven't got another chance to try and connect since, that Rocky is keeping us apart like that but hey— I get it. He's had a hard enough time rekindling their relationship, having his leaky squishy space blob third wheeling isn't particularly sexy.

I roll over on my blanket floor bed, scrub the wet scrap of fabric over my face, try to get more comfortable. It's not really working all that well.

He's been gone three days now, including this one. Two nights. One and a half nights if you factor in that I only slept about four-ish hours before the heat got to me, last night. Half a night if you account for the fact that I didn't sleep at all, that first one. Zero, if you were to measure the ones I've slept through. That I slept easy.

But that doesn't matter. My comfort in all this. I've endured worse. I'll get used to it again. Just one more thing on my long list of stuff to miss, like coffee and my kid's laughter and the smell of rain on hot asphalt. What matters is that Rocky has a life here. Friends and family and a mate. What matters is that he's had to be alone longer than I've been alive, and that now, finally, he's not. What matters is that he's safe, that he's healthy, that he's visiting his birth thrum with Adrian, that they're finally re-connecting. That I argued him into going, into ripping of the proverbial bandaid. That I kept my hands from shaking until he left.

That I'm being brave. For him.

Besides, he'll be back in about three days. So it's fine. More than fine, even. I have food, water, I'm no longer sick or malnourished. Yes, I am under involuntary house arrest but so what? I don't have anywhere to be. No job, no planets to save, no ship to keep running. I've got nothing but time and every piece of media ever made at my disposal. I've been meaning to brush up on my classics anyway, maybe it's time for a lazy few days of light summer reading. Haven't had a vacation or time to myself without the threat of imminent death in— wow. Over a decade. So, really. This is great. What more could I want?

I chuckle to myself. My very own Eridian summer break. Now there's a concept.

My gaze catches on the light filtering in from the window beside the door, barely visible streaks of fake moonlight starting to smear themselves against the rough texture of the floor. I fold my hands across my chest, try to shift my face onto a cooler patch of the pillow. I think of Rocky, back on the Mary, squeezed into my bunk beside me, my chest scraping against the xenonite of his little EVA suit with every inhale of breath. I remember the ghost of Stratt's hand patting the back of my chair, gentle, and the grass at Baikonur, scratching wet against my cheek. I look at the closed window above my bed. I don't think about being stuck in orbit, alone, or waking up in a windowless room, to weak to move.

It's fine.

I'm fine.

I close my eyes. I press my palms against my chest until it hurts. I don't sleep.

> > data recovered via DEEP SPACE PROBE: YOKO at approx. 25Y:08M:05D TIME ON ERID
> > > excerpt from [transcript of TV Interview with Y. Volkov and A. Morozova; surviving HM backup-crew]

Interviewer: Now I know we have talked about his many accomplishments extensively already, given that some of his logs have finally been made public, but I have to ask — What was Dr. Ryland Grace like, in person?

Morozova: [serious] Funny man. Dress like teenager. Tried to be— what is word? Small in presence?

Interviewer: Ordinary? Unassuming?

Morozova: Unremarkable. Yes, yes. Did not want attention on him. Was difficult of course because he was second in command.

Volkov: [laughs] Also because he talked a lot when he was nervous. So— all the time.

Morozova: And because of anger issue. Easy upset. Tried to hide but eh, was obvious. Told one of guards he had 'less critical thinking skills than single cell organism' once, when mess with experiment. Very funny.

Volkov: [laughs again] Yes, I forgot about that. Especially funny because he wouldn't even swear. But I think that was one of the reasons he was so close to Stratt. Didn't look it, but he could keep up with her.

Morozova: Was good. Have both of them. Important.

Interviewer: They complemented each other?

Volkov: Very. He could be kind, when she couldn't. Or angry. Or sad. Human. Every room he was in was always— [looks to Morozova] I'm not sure there's a word?

Morozova: [thinking] Don't have word. But always more fun when he was there.

Interviewer: He sounds like a lovely person to have known.

Volkov: [nodding] Yes. Though— [pause] I don't think he ever really realized how much we enjoyed being around him.

Morozova: [sighing] Couldn't notice. Always too busy. Took work to bar even. Sad. Always running.

27Y:04M:21D MISSION ELAPSE TIME EARTH | 02Y:00M:18D TIME ON ERID
biodome DAY 48 — wake cycle

The frequency of any of my autobiographical memory just flashing back into existence has been on a steady and somewhat predictable decline since we started our journey towards Erid. It made sense, in a way — In the early days most of it had been tied to my direct survival, things I needed to know, like the existence of the Petrova line, my mission, the love I had for my kids. Running for my life, away from the one person I'd spent years working on preserving it with. But about a year into that one way trip my brain seemed to catch up, seemed to realize it was safe now, that where we were going I'd have no need for the memory of things I'd never return to.

There are things about myself, as a result, I've come to accept as facts with very little evidence or context:

I like to sleep with my head under the covers. I was a fast runner, pre starvation. I dislike moving through a crowd unless I'm moving with the vibrations of music blasting through bass heavy speakers. I have three tattoos, all without meaning, because I couldn't bring myself to tell another living being what I actually wanted them to mean. There's something comforting to me about the smell of cigarettes, but I'm sure I've never been a smoker.

Memory is fickle like that, I suppose. I know, with a simple sort of logic, that I've always been a voracious reader. Of course I was, my brain will tell me. I had to be. But there's no explanation beyond that, even if I try and poke at it, just brief moments — a flashlight under the covers, a stain on a library carpet, oddly sticky, my knees pressed to my chest in a bathroom stall, the distant sound of the school bell as I hold the book so close to my face my nose is brushing the paper. Vague images I'm not entirely sure I haven't simply borrowed from movies.

Another fickle, funny thing: I only ever seem to fully remember what I read, or watched, once it's in front of me, especially if it's trapped in that hazy fog that is me before fifteen. I know I've read Dracula, but it's contents only really come to me as I scroll by it on my laptops endless library, feel a certain sort of giddiness when passing Frankenstein, but can't place it beyond that, odd sense of nostalgia without time or place.

Nothing really comes up when I hover over Pride & Prejudice, so that's what I settled on for my little vacation. Can't say I have a particular fondness for the romance genre, but I enjoy it well enough in my current altered state. We're back at a balmy 35°, even with my wet towel fan combo.

I ran out of ice during the night and with the fridge unplugged to keep it from contributing to the heat there is not much I can do to replenish it. But i did rig myself a water distribution system by fiddling an IV line into one of the xenonite canisters and hanging said canisters far enough above my head to get a steady flow of water dribbling in my mouth from where I'm still mostly just lying on the floor beside my bed to conserve energy. Eventually I'm pretty sure my laptop's gonna give up on me in these conditions but for now it's dutifully letting me read about Elizabeth Bennet's predicaments of miscommunication.

Strange I've never read it actually, because there was a copy of it in the closet, edges torn, logo of a library on the jacket that I've never seen before, that wasn't our local one. No book in that house was ever safe from me — I'd read through Frankenstein twice by the age of eight, scar on my forearm from where I fell onto the edge of the coffee table climbing the bookshelf — but it somehow never occurred to me to open that particular one whenever I was hiding away, tucked beneath winter coats. Maybe it was the headache I always got from the lavender bags stuffed in every pocket to fight the smell of cigarettes. Maybe it was the noise, the banging of fists against the wood of the front door, the creaking of the porch—

I snap out of the memory chocking on the IV line still dutifully dripping water into my mouth, plastic tube stuck beneath my tongue. I must have dozed off I— The banging persists as I roll over to retch water onto the floor, most of it caught in the front of my shirt. My stomach turns, dizzy sort of nausea, far away, stuck in that closet, stuck on the Mary, stuck stuck stuck, and that fudging banging persists and I—

Next thing I know the front door rips open, Rocky barreling through with such velocity he immediately slips on his front two legs and eats shit.

[Grace!] he trills as he rolls over himself twice, then skitters to a halt in the middle of the room, voice a full two octaves higher than usual. [Grace, Grace—]

"Careful," I wince before some of my own survival instinct kicks back in beyond the chocking and the memory induced panic and Rocky induced confusion, and I manage to scramble to my feet and sprint over, slamming the door shut again as the temp ticks up to 36°. I regret it instantly, sweat breaking out over my whole body as I sink down to the floor to lean against the door, panting in the heat. Not that I have much room to dwell on that because a second later I have my arms full of Rocky, remaining air knocked out of me as his carapace slams into my chest.

[Grace okay, question?] he asks still so high I have to strain to hear it over my wheezing. My hands come up on instinct, palms digging into the edges of his EVA suit, holding on for dear life. [Grace sick, question? Heat this high bad bad bad for humans, statement.]

"Not sick," I wring out, aiming for reassuring and failing miserably between the wheezing and the way my voice breaks with the sudden relief of having my hands back on the xenonite of him. "Not sick," I try again, patting along his side, familiar rhythm. "Heat below forties is still okay. All good. I'm okay."

[Knew leave Grace alone bad bad bad,] he rumbles, slipping one of his arms between my back and the door, another squeezing my hip as he starts rubbing his carapace up and down my chest in an effort to get a better echo of my heart, my organs. Proof of life. Hard to say now, in retrospect, when that habit developed, just that it did long before we made it to Erid's orbit, long before we were even close.

It's too hot, uncomfortable, like scraping my chest against a radiator. It's the best thing I've felt since he left.

"I'm okay," I say again, my fingertips white where they're straining against the barrier between us. I try to slow my breathing down for him, try to give him the visual confirmation of my calming heart. It doesn't really work, not with the heat this high. Not with him pressed this close, fingers digging into my side hard enough to bruise. Our proximity seems to calm him down regardless, eventually.

[Leaking,] he complaints, when enough time has passed for me to feel the sweat starting to dry tacky against my back. [More than usual. Whole body. Why, question?]

He leans back enough to tilt his carapace up at me, an achingly human gesture. I didn't know, until I came here, until I met others, how much of him — his movements, his mannerisms, the pattern of his speech — is there for my benefit alone.

"It's just sweat," I huff, smile creeping back into my voice now that the initial shock of his presence is wearing off into a calm sort of familiarity. "My body's trying to cool me down. Some people are used to this type of heat but where I grew up temps were a lot milder so— I'll just be sweating pretty much all the time now till the heat goes down."

[Hmm, disgust,] he shoots back, then says, stomping a foot in that way that says he already knows the answer and just wants to see me squirm as I admit to fudging something up because I was being careless. [Why house not insulate against biodome heat in first place, question?]

I pull a face. "No idea," I lie. "How about you go fix?"

He lets out that long low tone I've learned is his version of a sigh. The exasperation of it is undercut, just a little, by how he's still got me pinned against the door. [How bout Grace listen when Rocky explain fucking safety protocol.]

"Oh," I breathe, letting myself sag a little in his grip, a fainting maiden right out of a romance novel. "Oh Rocky, buddy, the heat. I think it's getting too much for my frail human body. I don't know how much longer I can make it without you go fix—"

The effect is instant, Rocky's carapace shooting up, like he's standing at attention. [Yes, yes. Rocky go fix now,] he states, urgent sharp notes. Then he catches on and I get the wind knocked out of me again as he let's himself sag down against me harder than necessary. [Grace full of shit, statement,] he trills, too light to hide his relief.

"Sorry, bud," I laugh, pat my hands up his sides again. "I'm fine. Promise. And yes. I left the window cracked when I went to bed."

[Rocky know,] he grumbles. [Grace stupid like that.]

"Hey," I protest weakly. He's not wrong.

[Rocky still go fix.]

"Hey," I say again, hands stilling, instinctual, my palms flat against the xenonite. "The biodome thrum is already on it. It's fine."

[Rocky fix better. Fix faster.]

"Yeah, just—"

Just. I'm being stupid.

He wasn't even supposed to be here for at least another three days. I can do without another few hours. And I— Fudge. I didn't even think about that, the fact that he's here now, that he's back early. That they must have told him, that he must have rushed here away from his friends, his family. Away from Adrian. Didn't even realize I was intruding from halfway across the planet. Didn't really care — don't really care — as long as I got my hands back on him, as long as I got him here, hanging onto my every word.

[Is okay,] he says when I fail to elaborate on any of that. It's quiet. Gentle. [Can stay. Happy happy happy to stay with Grace. Let thrum fix.]

I know he means it, too. But it's not fair, keeping him here like this. The faster this is fixed, the faster he gets to go back.

"No, no," I say, force a smile into it. "It's fine. You're right. You fix better."

> > data recovered via DEEP SPACE PROBE: YOKO at approx. 25Y:08M:05D TIME ON ERID
> > > excerpt from [voice mail left for Dr. Ryland Grace by Dr. Marissa Diêm]

«[…] and like i don't even know why i'm still leaving you these messages because it's been what? twenty years now? that's— wow. never really counted it, but yes. twenty years and three-ish months. we knew each other less than that. or at least i knew you less than that, only been a couple years for you with all the time dilation you must be doing up there. anyway. [PAUSE] well— jules managed to scrounge up a flask of whiskey for my birthday last week, that was exciting. okay. very exciting. but also i guess— i don't know. made me think of showing you that data on the petrova line before they announced it and the irony of me leaving you these messages now and just— i'm not mad anymore, i swear. i get it. i think. but you know. i still just wonder sometimes why you didn't call, why you just stood me up. again and again. you'd do this, even back in grad school— transferring labs halfway through the semester so me and that girl i was crushing on could pair up when i never even asked you to do that, or — ugh—blocking literally all of your summer break with course work when we'd been talking about taking a trip to europe for aaaages just— yeah, just you'd take yourself out of the equation without considering what it did to the people around you, what it did to me like— man i don't know, we never really talked about any of that stuff, but it always felt to me kinda like you were so used to no one giving a shit if you were around or not that you just assumed that's what it's supposed to be like which is— sad. quite frankly. but it was also kind of a dick move. assuming no one cared when there was so much evidence to the contrary. having your walls up like that. all that fucking running away. [PAUSE] anyway. hope wherever you are right now— fuck. [PAUSE] [SNIFFLING] fuck. [MORE SNIFFLING] i'm just— just gonna imagine you found what you've been looking for. out there. for all our sakes of course but also— you know. that you got to be at peace. or whatever. in the end. [PAUSE] okay. wow. I gotta go. just— lova ya. okay? bye. »

27Y:04M:21D MISSION ELAPSE TIME EARTH | 02Y:00M:18D TIME ON ERID
biodome DAY 48 — sleep cycle

The sleep deprivation catches up with me about two hours after Rocky's gone out to 'fix better'. It's by far not the longest I've been awake in one stretch, but it's the longest I've been awake in one stretch in a while and the heat exhaustion is definitely not helping either. There's a comfort too, in knowing Rocky is closer now, even just for a little while.

Back when it was still just the two of us on the Mary — about a year and a half into our journey to Erid —she developed a habit of blasting her proximity alarm in random intervals throughout the day. It took seventy-two sleep deprived hours of flipping through every manual, swiping through every screen, cajoling and outright begging her to stop before Rocky finally realized that one of the hull panels had warped itself over her sensors, only because in his desperation for her to stop he'd resorted to banging his carapace against the dormitory wall hard enough to amplify his echolocation. The relief of having found the issues hit me so hard I didn't even really care that fixing it would require an EVA, at least not until I came back from said EVA so exhausted that I tripped over my own feet on egress and sprained my ankle so bad I couldn't walk for a week straight.

I had to army crawl my way back into Armando's reach, Rocky bumping into my side as he wobbled back and forth in his ball, chittering at me in panic, until finally the combination of pain, sweat and lack of sleep got to me enough to snap at him to just go away for once and give me a freaking minute. He let out a series of tones I had no way of interpreting in my state, then scurried back to his own area as Armando heaved me up into my cot. The guilt hit me immediately, violently, and didn't dislodge from my chest the whole way through Armando swaddling my ankle in ice, nor as I was trying and failing to fall asleep to the sound of Rocky's angry tinkering on his side of the partition. It might have been our first actual fight, the first time we'd slammed metaphorical doors in each others faces, if it hadn't been for me waking up to two makeshift crutches leaned against my cot, perfectly sized to my height, or me upon that discovery immediately hobbling over to press myself against his partition to apologize so profusely that I left tear streaks against the xenonite.

Rocky still didn't much talk to me after that, no matter how much I tried appeasing and joking and yes, groveling, just stayed hauled up in his workshop, tinkering on something he wouldn't let me see, only really turning to me when it was time for him to remind me, [Grace sleep now, order. Rocky watch.] He kept that spiel up for nearly four days — long enough for me to debate just finding Yáo's gun or yeeting myself out the airlock in lieu of being able to walk into traffic — until eventually he woke me up from a nightmare by crawling into my bunk to sit atop my chest. So relieved to have him anywhere near me again it took me a full two minutes of clinging onto him for dear life until it hit me that he wasn't in his ball, that he was here with me, in my bed, that he'd build himself his own little EVA suit. That I was hugging him, truly, for the first time.

[Grace mean when hurt and tired,] he said, sulking and then hugged me back. [But is okay. Rocky still fix. Will always fix for Grace. Build suit. Can protect Grace now.]

The hug was clumsy, rough, the gesture unfamiliar to either of us, really, the suit still a prototype, too stiff, and the cot too small to fit us both comfortably, and I didn't care, wouldn't have cared even if he'd been standing directly on my bruised ankle, I just smeared my tear streaked face into his carapace, apologizing, until he warbled [disgust, disgust, disgust] at me and pulled away only to come back for another round not half a second later.

He didn't leave my side that night, even after I'd calmed down. He didn't leave my side, after. Period.

A week ago — when they learned about Rocky's imminent departure — the biodome thrum had offered to send someone to watch me sleep, had insisted really. But Rocky had gone suspiciously quiet at their offer, and I had been instantly, somewhat embarrassingly, nauseous at the thought of waking up from any possible nightmares beside anyone that's not him, and very quickly that was that. It only occurs to me now, as I wake up from my doze to the creak of the door and Rocky pitter pattering through the house as silently as possible, that maybe his quietness on the topic was less a lack of interest or anything to say, but more an indicator of his own apprehension. Of his own discomfort with anyone being this close to me that isn't him.

He brushes past me as he comes in, just a tap of his arm against my shin. I hear the airlock to his little room, some rustling through the xenonite. There's part of me, even half asleep — especially half asleep — that's disappointed he's going to watch from afar rather than come curl up with me, but i get it. He's been traveling for days, just spent hours fixing my climate control, it's probably been ages since he's had a moment to himself. He doesn't talk about it often but I know the transition has been hard for him too. That it changed him, all those years alone. All those years with me. Eridians don't dream like humans do, but I've held him through his own moments of panic, tapped my hands against the side of his carapace for hours in the days after I first woke up planet side. Have kept my distance on the days where even my presence was too much, too sudden.

But in the end, here, in the dim half reality of 35°, my worry is short lived. Here, he scuttles back out of his room to worm himself into my makeshift floor-bed of blankets and pillows, rubs his carapace against my arms, impatient, until I open them to wrap myself around him with a sight of barely veiled relief.

"Hey bud," I mumble, fighting to stay awake as he reaches up to brush sweat slicked hair off my forehead. The gesture is gentle, well practiced. Achingly familiar. He's wearing what we've dubbed his pajama suit — version twenty-one of the EVA suit made up of an extremely fine mesh of xenonite panels, not sturdy enough to risk running around the biodome, but more than capable of handling my bed and most of the house. When I glide my hands over his carapace it moves smoothly against my palms, allows me to press my fingers against the shape of him with ease.

[Rocky and Adrian fix temperature control,] he tells me, voice pitched low for my benefit, hand still in my hair. [Will take time for air to circle through cooling sequence. Four five days until temperature normal again. Grace will have to wait here. Apology.]

"No, no, don't apologize," I try to soothe, really fighting to hang on to consciousness. It's pretty hard to care about another four or five days in the heat when I'm wrapped around him like this. "It's fine. I'm fine here. I got water and vitamin shakes and plenty of romance novels. I'm good, pal."

[Yes, yes,] he hums. [Is okay. Rocky stay too. Grace Rocky read romance novel.]

I huff out a laugh at the thought of subjecting him to Jane Austen, about explaining the societal expectations of marriage in eighteen-hundred-thirteen, and then I remember why he was gone in the first place, that he's supposed to be living his own romance plot right now, on whatever the Eridian equivalent of a honeymoon is. "You don't have to stay," I say, a lot more awake now, trying to sit up a little, to scramble away from my own guilt. He doesn't budge, just pushes me down again, gentle but firm. "You should go back to Adrian," I try regardless, even as my body goes lax in his hands, the traitor. "You guys only just reconnected and I— I'm okay. Really."

[Grace being stupid,] Rocky grumbles, throwing an arm around my hip to slip a hand past the hem of my shirt and grab at my side and I— Gosh. I'm rapidly loosing the battle here. [Always stupid when no sleep.] he rumbles, tone so stupidly fond I feel my throat closing up with it. [Grace sleep now. Rocky watch. Rocky stay.]

"I'm fine," I try one last time, but it's weak, and I'm already mostly out again.

In my dreams I'm up in that tree, digging my fingers into the bark, adrift in the sweltering nothingness of summer. In my dreams Stratt climbs up to sit beside me, dangling her feet as she takes my hand and reminds me, her eyes sad, "You don't even have a dog."

In my dreams I'm twelve, maybe thirteen, watching my blood run pink against the bathroom tiles, missing something I've never had.

> > data recovered via DEEP SPACE PROBE: YOKO at approx. 25Y:08M:05D TIME ON ERID
> > > excerpt from [Saving Grace — An intimate portrait of Earth's savior as told by those left behind; Chapter Four: The Carl Hypothesis by Carl Martin]

For all his childlike curiosity and awkward attempts at nonchalance, he really was a remarkably stubborn man, utterly undeterrable once he set his mind to something. There was a perpetual motion to him, like something inside him told him to keep moving even when dead tired. So much so that on more than one occasion I was instructed to quite literally sit on him to get him to take breaks. One memorable instance, back on the aircraft carrier, I was forced to keep watch at the foot of his bunk because he'd tried — and failed — to sneak back to his lab twice in the span of twenty minutes, arguing that he'd easily stayed awake for forty-eight hours at a time back in college.

I remember that day in particular because it was the first time I had actually seen him sleep. It was a fitful affair, the shitty blankets they supplied us with pulled all the way over his head, legs twitching like a hunted dog. He woke after exactly four hours, gasping for air and kicking me so hard in the side it left a bruise. I still wish, even years after his departure, that I had asked him what any of that was about. But as it stands back then I just swore under my breath, grabbed his ankle and told him to take a deep breath, reassuring him he was safe until he seemed to remember where he was, apologizing for his actions all the way back to the lab.

I know he would not appreciated me telling this story here, but quite frankly there were only so many of the same cheerful surface level accounts of his life that I could stomach. I want to remember him for who he was — kind, yes. Funny and whip smart, sure. But he was also strange, stubborn, easily held grudges. A deeply complex man.

He was my friend. And I miss him dearly.

27Y:04M:22D MISSION ELAPSE TIME EARTH | 02Y:00M:19D TIME ON ERID
biodome DAY 49 — wake cycle

[What does hand flex mean, question?] Rocky asks from where we're huddled together on the floor, watching the 2005 adaption of Pride & Prejudice. Well he's huddled, pressed into my side, one arm under my pillow, two more slung over my hip, still in his pajamas. I'm stretched out trying to somewhat distribute myself away from his heat, though with my hands still idly moving over his carapace I'm doing a bit of a poor job at that.

I tried reading it to him, at first, but he got bored so quickly that he ended up taking my ventilator apart while I wasn't paying attention, focused on doing all the voices, because he'd decided his compatriots did shoddy work, and the hour it took him to put it back together was so miserable I simply did not feel like risking a repeat of that. He did do a better job on the ventilator, in his defense. It's much quieter now and has multiple speed settings, one of which nearly tore off my shirt and underpants. We had briefly discussed the option of attaching a temporary AC unit to the house, but the logistics of doing that without drilling any holes into the house and risking a temperature spike made my heat headache worse, and the logistics of him having to leave me alone for multiple hours to gather materials made him fidgety and cranky, so here we are now, on the floor, with the ventilator set to a non-clothes ripping speed, watching Mr. Darcy's hand flex.

"It's uh—" I hit pause, search for the right word. "Have we had yearning in the vocab yet? Missing someone or something so much it hurts. You can yearn for a place, like the house you grew up in, or for something more abstract like uhm— freedom, or happiness or something. Or rather— here it's wanting to be with someone so much it hurts. Like you love them so much it's painful when you can't be together."

Rocky straightens up in alarm. [Humans in danger when away from mate, question? Why not tell Rocky, question?]

I huff out a laugh. "Not pain like when I bump my head against something. It's emotional pain. It can manifests physically like a tight chest, or nausea, and such, but it's not actually dangerous. And it's not always what happens, usually there are extenuating circumstances like being separated for a long time, like uh— uhm— you and Adrian." I falter on that last part, just a little. I'm not proud of it.

[Hmmm,] he hums, settling back down, shuffling ever so slightly closer. [Yes, understand. Experience time different, so don't have exact word but similar. ♪♭ ♬♬. When want something more than reasonable.]

"Yeah, that works," I say and my voice is weird, like I just swallowed a handful of sand, and I suddenly feel— uncomfortable. Guilty. Warm, more than reasonable. I try to roll to the side, to start the movie again. Resist the urge to tell him to leave again, to go back to Adrian. It hasn't worked so far, I doubt it will now. Rocky doesn't budge, keeps me pinned under him, like he's aware I'm about to bolt.

[Not understand movie hand flex though,] he says. [Can be together. Can touch. Why yearn, question?]

"Oh well, they could be together, but they aren't because they have too much pride and prejudice to be honest about how they feel." My attempt at humor clearly doesn't land, just makes him tap his hand against my side, impatient. "I think," I try again, swallowing down my own discomfort. "It's more— Right now Darcy doesn't know Elizabeth loves him back, she doesn't even know she loves him in the first place, so yes she's right there, and they can touch but he just— he can't have all of her, you know? He can't truly touch her until they break that barrier. So he yearns."

[Hmmmm,] Rocky hums again, a bit deeper this time, like this is all very strange to him, which it probably is. [Human emotion complicated. Impractical. But think—] And he un-loafs himself slightly then, tilts back his carapace so he can reach over and run his fingers over the scar he left on my underarm. Says, as he splays his hand out over it, covering it whole, [Rocky understand.]

The xenonite mesh of his suit flexes against my skin, warm and slightly sticky with the heat and our proximity. "Rock," I wring out, voice full of sand. "Bud—" And then he presses his fingers deeper, squeezes hard enough to hurt, and I feel warm, and unreasonable and I— Just—

The thing is this:

Those days I was alone on the Mary after we reached Erid, when it was just me and Armando and Mary recommending over and over again that it would be advisable to induce coma, that clinging onto consciousness as I was, waiting to hear his footsteps in the airlock, was a waste of energy, that it would probably be what kills me, in the end, those days I— And I'm not proud to admit it, I'm not but— There was a time, a point in my deterioration, where I kept think if I die — when I die — maybe I could go out like that. With his hands on me. I'd die nearly instantly, in his atmosphere, but the last thing I'd feel would be his fingers burning my skin and that's— insane. I know that's insane. Ilyukhina wanted heroin, a euphoric death, DuBois nitrogen, slow and gentle, Yáo requested nothing but a handgun, quick and easy. I had all of those at my disposal still. But I wanted to go out in the most painful, horrifying way possible. Just to touch him again. Just to— Jesus Christmas. Fudging—

Fuck.

Fuck me.

[Grace?] Rocky asks, hand still splayed over the scar, one of his legs nudging mine. Always so attuned to my mental breakdowns.

"I'm fine," I say, automatic, and then nothing else because it feels like my chest is caving in, like I'm dying again, starving with how much I want him. Burning up with how much I suddenly, selfishly, wish he'd want me too. I hide my face in my hands, try to breathe. It does nothing but make me aware my eyes are leaking.

[Grace,] Rocky says again, shoving closer, carapace pressing against my chest. Then, as if he can't literally see right through me, [Grace show face to Rocky, demand.]

"I'm fine," I say again, through tears.

[Grace full of shit, statement,] he scolds, but I know him too well not to pick up on the worry underneath, the care. [Grace stop lying now. Tell Rocky what's wrong. Rocky fix. Rocky always fix.]

"No," I snap. Feel guilty about it. "It's fine, I'm fine, just—"

[Want Rocky to leave?] he asks, uncertain, probably remembering that conversation we had years ago about memory and trauma and being held down against my will, as if that was relevant now, here, with him, as if I wouldn't let him flay me open if he'd ask to touch my insides, as if—

I shake my head, still crying, sobbing now really. Unable to say any of that.

[Grace. Grace. Grace,] he thrills, understanding somehow, regardless, closer now, prying my hands from my face. He puts them on his carapace, presses my palms against his sides, my fingers slipping in the heat, in my own tears, as I hold on for dear life. His hands, back on my face, wiping my cheeks, xenonite rough against my feverish skin. [Is okay. Rocky here. Take care of Grace now.]

He unfurls the rest of himself, my head falling back into the pillow with a thud as he removes his arm to climb on top of me, rolling me onto my back, boxing me in. A heavy weight on my chest, rising and falling with my shaky breaths, guiding my lungs back into a normal rhythm. His hands on my face, brushing away tears and hair, sweat slicked over my forehead. His hand on my hip, squeezing, one of his legs between mine, a firm pressure, pushing them apart, and I— I'm half hard against him, the realization so sudden it makes my head spin, too hot, unreasonable half reality of summer—

"Rock, bud," I choke out, heart beating out of my chest as he shushes me, one hand still cradling through my hair even as the hand on my hip moves down to palm me through my briefs and— god— oh—

Here's the other thing:

I didn't even kiss anyone until I was nineteen, well into undergrad. Promptly forgot that was an option, after the fact, didn't stumble into anyone's bedroom until a year later, never really got used to sharing a bed even after Linda moved herself into my apartment. And it's not even that I was a late bloomer, rather that there was always something more interesting to do, something else on my mind. Not like I didn't try, eventually, didn't experiment, didn't put in effort. Just that there was a scientific sort of detachment to it, always, dissecting my own actions under a microscope, staring from the outside in.

Out of step, out of sync, for so long that — once on the Mary, when Rocky build his little EVA suit to share a bed with me, curling up around me every night, space too tight to fit us any other way — it crept up on me so slow that I didn't connect the frantic beat of my heart, the nervous sweat of my palms, the eager anticipation of sleep to what it was, to what I wanted. Not until I woke up a month in, pressed into his side, so hot and achingly hard and wanting, it nearly send me into a panic.

Rocky soothed and teased and prodded and said, laughing [Grace no need to feel embarrassed, is normal for adolescent human, have read on Wikipedia] like he wasn't fully aware of my stage in the human life cycle at that point, and I had to shuffle out of the bed to take care of it in the tiny bathroom, fully aware he could see me through the door, could hear me no matter how hard I was biting down on my own palm. He didn't say anything about it after, not even when it happened again, two nights later, suspicious silence when he'd gone through a whole phase of informing me of the precise stages of my bowel movements, not half a year prior. He didn't say anything, until he did, until he put a hand on my hip two weeks later, pressing me back down into the mattress as I tried to do my awkward shuffle to the bathroom, and said, so serious it nearly made me come in my pants right then and there, [Rocky done with research now. Can take care of Grace. Want to help. Grace want too, question?]

And I should have said no, should not have blurred that line, but I didn't know back then, that I'd survive, thought selfishly, what if I could have this, what if for the rest of my life, I could have him. Figured, as I nodded, as I told him, "Yeah, okay, yes, please, Rock—" what's the harm? What does it matter, letting us entangle like this, just for a while, when ultimately I won't make it out of here and he's got someone to return to, and centuries to forget about me.

I should say no, now.

But here, now, I haven't touched him like this since we reached orbit, two years ago — between the starving and the surviving and the him returning to his mate — and he's pulling at the elastic of my briefs, impatient, says [Grace] and [Please], and shivers when I dig my fingers into the ridges of his carapace. Here, now, I remember the bruises he used to leave on the inside of my thigh, and on my hip, when he forgot himself, too caught up in the way he could make me go pliant beneath him with a single touch, could make me go stupid, and the high I felt when we finally figured out all the ways I could wipe his mind blank just the same.

Here in the unreality of the heat and dimming lights and the breeze of the fan I remember I hate summer, despise vacation, am scared of the isolation and the boredom and the reminder that I'm always out of sync, out of step, that I can't even take care of a fucking dog. And here, right now, I don't care, don't have it in me to dwell on it, because Rocky is above me, all around me, makes me go pliant, makes me go stupid, says, trembling and so earnest I feel like I'm about to cry again, [Miss Grace, miss Grace so fucking much. Miss taking care of Grace. Miss being close. Love love love Grace. Want to be closer. Grace stop always fucking running away, demand.]

And all I can do is surrender, say, earnest, and incoherent and stupid and so in love, "Yes, please, I'm sorry. Rock, bud, my love. Here, come here, I'm here."

> > data recovered via DEEP SPACE PROBE: YOKO at approx. 25Y:08M:05D TIME ON ERID
> > > excerpt from [private forum log; anonymized; filtered keywords grace, rocky, love, relationship]

anon-user/A
okay listen
the ONE thing i haven't seen ANYONE talk about yet since we got those leaks is that high-key dr. grace and rocky the eridian were?? like?? in love?
like i CANT be the only one who sees it???
am i loosing it?

anon-user/C
oh they were fucking FOR SURE

anon-user/A
omg THANK YOU
i am kissing u on the mouth
i was going CRAZY over here

anon-user/C
no no dw i see it too
even just the way dr. grace smiles at him??
we've all seen the awkward as fuck interviews with him, that man does NOT look that relaxed ever

anon-user/A
YEAH
granted we're only now starting to get some more regular rations so maybe this is just all of our vitamin b deficiency talking but like
come on

anon-user/E
don't forget how they LITERALLY sacrificed their lives for each other
like that rock DIED for him

anon-user/A
oh yeah fuck they did WOW

anon-user/C
AND grace went back for him!!! literally fucking died for him too
like that's sad as fuck but also
man

anon-user/E
that's some soulmate shit fr

anon-user/F
idk man didn't someone say dr. grace was on the spectrum 

anon-user/C
so?? autisitc ppl can fuck??? 

anon-user/F
lmao not that spectrum
tho fair enough assumption
i meant i think someone close to him said he wasn't into relationships and all that stuff

anon-user/E
well maybe that only included same species relationships lol

anon-user/F
another fair point
i mean i get it
that rock's kinda
you know

anon-user/C
oh no PLS elaborate
like in detail

anon-user/F
listen all i'm saying is he looks like he'd be good with his hands
claws?
you know what i mean

anon-user/E
HA

anon-user/A
lmao well
rly hope they got to be happy in whatever time they had

anon-user/C
wow way to bring it down
but also same
rly makes you believe there's someone out there for everyone, you know?

anon-user/E
so true

27Y:04M:23D MISSION ELAPSE TIME EARTH | 02Y:00M:20D TIME ON ERID
biodome DAY 50 — wake cycle

I'm fifteen. I'm in the tree, in my grandparents backyard, in the sweltering heat of summer.

It's not their house anymore, technically. They've been dead for so long it's hard to get a good grasp on their faces in my mind, only remember my grandfathers hand in mine, my grandmothers smile, an abstract shape. It's not anyone's house now, really. Used to be my mom's, used to be where she ran to, twenty-one and scared, my wrist aching in her grip as she dragged me along, my legs too short to keep up. Used to be where I hid in the closet, staring at that copy of Pride & Prejudice, as a man who, if I was feeling charitable I'd call my father, tried to break down the door. Used to be where I spent my mornings climbing the kitchen counters to reach the box of cereal on the high shelf, and my afternoons climbing the bookshelf in the living room, and the evenings climbing into bed, alone, reading under the covers until I'd hear my mom's engine idle in the drive way, until the rhythmic flick of a lighter lulled me to sleep. Used to be where I'd sweat through my sheets, fever addled brain dreaming up star-scapes and space ships and a place, far away, where I'd know what it's like to feel wanted.

I'm fifteen and I'm in the tree and I'm wearing my grandfather's moth riddled ill fitting suit and I'm hiding up here so I don't have to be back at the funeral home, listening to people I barley know try to console me about my mother's death. I'm fifteen and I hold my head between my knees, face in my hands, and I don't understand, not then, and not for an eternity after, that the reason I'm crying isn't because of the grief, or the loneliness, but because of the abundance of my love that never had anywhere to go, that wasn't wanted, and the understanding, intrinsic, subconscious, that that very love is something I'll be too scared of ever having and loosing again. That for the rest of my life I won't even attempt to find a place to put it, attempt to find someone who'd love me with that same abundance. That it doesn't matter anyway, that if I haven't found that sort of love here, it's not out there, it's not meant for me.

That somehow, logically, that is my own fault.

It all comes to me as I stir up my midday vitamin shake, just slaps me out of left field.

Huh.

I feel briefly dizzy, watch a single tear plop into my cup, sniffle once, and then— there is nothing. Just a distant sort of sadness, like it's just something I've seen on TV, filtered through the cotton haze of summer, my dislike of the heat. I wipe the back of my hand across my cheek, give the shake another stir before I take a sip.

Rocky is in the other room, doing his own thing on his side of the house, tinkering around behind his partition, familiar sound of lazy days. We haven't really talked about yesterday, about waking up this morning, pressed into each other, still sweat slicked, hot, wanting. Didn't acknowledge the fresh bruises on my thighs, on my hip, didn't say much of anything at all because his hand was down my briefs again not five minutes after I woke up, rendering me stupid, pliant, pleasantly blank. I'll feel guilty about it again when he leaves in a day or two, will feel guilty about it in a couple hours probably, when we'll huddle up again to finish Pride & Prejudice, when I'm reminded of taboos and scandals and happy ever afters. But for now I'm in the kitchen, sweating through one of Ilyukhina's dresses because I've already sweat through all of my shirts, drinking vaguely glucose flavored vitamin shake, listening to the cling clang of Rocky's signature restlessness.

It occurs to me like this, and vis-à-vis of nothing, that the reason I've been running all my life isn't because I'm being chased, isn't because I'm trying to get away, but because if I stop running, stop moving, if I have to sit idly on my couch in the sweltering heat of summer break, I'll have to look at the lack and the want and the little of me my fifteen year old self deem lovable. That even those four years on the Mary I was running, that the only reason it didn't hit me back then is that I was certain I'd only have to stop once I'm dead. Safe in the assumption I'd never have to figure out what to do with myself, sixteen light-years away from any other living human being, away from everything I've ever known.

There's an irony to that, having that realization only now, something deeply hilarious to how my moment of self reflection comes only after I've passed the point of no return. And that's the odd thing, isn't it? Because it doesn't bother me as much as I think it should, the fact that I'll never see another human again. That I'll never even talk to another living person, that I'll never even see someone pass by in the distance.

What bothers me is that I won't know what happened to my kids. That I won't be able to have a beer with Marissa and show her pictures of Rocky. That I won't get to tell Stratt to shove it where the sun don't shine and see her reaction. Won't get to ask Carl if it ever haunts him, watching me face down in the grass, begging for his help. I don't think that had occurred to me either, really, when I turned the Mary around. That I'd have to live with that. The what ifs. That the rest of my life would be a constant rehearsal of conversations in the shower, arguments I'll never get to have.

I was just going to keep running until I'm dead, and now I'm not, and I'll just have to deal with this, with being me, forever, fifteen and scared and stuck in that tree. I huff out a breath, a halfhearted laugh. Stratt. She really was right, wasn't she. Even now, I'm a coward. Too scared to change my path. To adapt. To let go. To live. To be happy.

And I am so mad at her, so suddenly, so viscerally, that it makes me miss her so terribly it physically doubles me over.

The vitamin shakes spills all over the floor, seeps into the hem of the dress as I sit there, head between my knees, hands on my face, unable to breathe. Rocky makes a distressed noise from behind his partition, the hiss of the airlock mixing with the scrape of his claws scrambling into his EVA suit. 

[Grace?] he calls out, that telltale warble of concern distorting my name.

"Grace," Stratt says, and takes my hand. I can feel it, but I can't respond. Can't move. The sterile bite of disinfectant hits my nose. Somewhere off behind me, Dr. Lamai  speaks to her staff. Stratt's hand is cold in mine, a bit clammy. "I won't insult you by asking you for forgiveness," she says. "You know me too well for that. You know I would do it again. And I don't think you'll remember this, but if you do— Just—" Her hand squeezes mine. I try to pull away. Try to look at her. Can't move.

"I know you, too," she says again, and her voice shakes, warbles. "And you're a good man. Just remember that."

I feel a spike of panic at her emotion, her uncertainty sharp even through the sedative. She's quite for a long time. A light flashes in my eyes, checking my pupils. A monitor beeps to my right, the blood pressure cuff on my arm inflating in it's scheduled interval. Her hand in mine, now warm.

"Goodbye Dr. Grace," she says, the woman who condemned me to my death once more. "Despite your best efforts, you will be missed."

It comes to me so fast, my last moments on earth. Everything before, that I chose not to remember.

Her favorite movie growing up was The Never Ending Story. She takes her coffee black. She'd prefer tea. She hums under her breath when she's deep in thought, pretends she doesn't when I point it out. She smiles a lot more than people see, mostly at me. She's the closes I came, back on earth, to letting someone see me, to offering someone a glimpse at that abundance of love I've never managed to put down. She didn't want it, either.

She misses me, still. I miss her too, despite it all.

I'm fifteen and I'm in the tree and I miss my mom and I'm crushed by the weight of it all, the lack and the abundance, and I don't know what to do with any of it, what to do with myself, for the rest of my life, or with all the imaginary arguments circling in my head that I'll never win.

But Rocky says [Grace,] right in front of me, worms his way between my legs to take my face into his hands, to squeeze my cheeks and wipe my tears, and I know who I am, here with him, know what the shape of me feels like in his arms. Know that it doesn't matter how deep I buried it, any of my un-shed love, because I can't help it with him, because since the moment I met him it just poured out anyway.

[Grace,] he says, and I'm thirty-nine, and I'm here with him, and I love him so much I forget to hate myself.

> > data recovered via DEEP SPACE PROBE: YOKO at approx. 25Y:08M:05D TIME ON ERID
> > > excerpt from [letter to Mr. Grace by Lisa Carmichael; former student]

// […] I never even told you what was going on but you just kinda knew. I remember the first time you brought in an extra set of lunch for me. I didn't even want to accept it because I felt so ashamed, but you just kept brining them in, no mater if I ate them or not. I think that was maybe the only stable thing I had for a while, school and your lunches. Your class in general. You did so much for us. You used to let Claire sit under your desk at recess because she always got overwhelmed by all the screaming in the hallway, and you allowed me and Alex to 'borrow' class supplies and books at the beginning of the year when you realized we were writing on paper scraps. And Kevin still talks about the time you stayed behind all afternoon to help him rebuild his science fair model when it got wrecked in the hacky sack incident. You just kind of always knew when any of us needed a little bit of extra help. I only realized once I had my own kids that you probably had a hard time growing up too. You probably knew what it was like. I don't envy you for that, but I'm so grateful it made you into the person we got to meet. Apart from the obvious saving the sun of it all, you changed so many of our lives for the better just by being you. I truly hope, wherever you are, you know that. //

27Y:04M:23D MISSION ELAPSE TIME EARTH | 02Y:00M:20D TIME ON ERID
biodome DAY 50 — sleep cycle

Rocky was there when they finally put me into that coma for my transport to the surface. Of course he was.

I had fought for weeks prior, silently and only with myself, on weather I was going to convince him to just let me die up there, to get me some of the heroin or Yáo's gun, but in the end I never got brave enough to break his heart like that, was too weak by the point it was time to go to do anything else but nod whenever he reassured me it was going to be alright, that he'll watch me sleep, that he'd be there when I woke up. 

Most of my last days up there are a blur, barley fragments in my memory, but I remember those last moments, remember him above me, shapes of nameless Eridians and Armando hovering at my periphery, and I remember his hand, gently stroking sweat slicked hair off my forehead, and how he said, so sincere it made me feel like I was going to combust, [Rocky love Grace. More than anything in this galaxy or the next. Is fact. Grace not forget when asleep. Grace have to promise.] 

I don't remember anymore if I did, don't remember anything after but the panic of waking up alone, only saved, absolved, by how I could pick out the anxious scrambling of his feet even through the blank nothingness of the xenonite walls.

"Did you mean that?" I ask now splayed out on the floor, Ilyukhina's dress hung out to dry after I washed the glucose flavored gunk out of it, kitchen floor cleaned of vitamin slurry residue. It's dark out, the only light coming from the little lamp by my bed and the laptop screen where Rocky is perusing Wikipedia entries of regency area architecture.

We finished Pride & Prejudice about an hour ago, spent another one discussing the concept of book adaptions and their issues with accuracies, and I feel guilty, warm. Unreasonable. There's sweat cooling sticky on my skin in the gentle breeze of the ventilator, my eyes still puffy, the bruises on the inside of my thigh a gentle ache. It's still 35°. One of my hands is still on the side of his carapace, idly tracing the pattern of him, one of his arms still pressed against my thigh. 

He tilts towards me, signals attention even as he keeps scrolling. [Mean what, question?]

"When you put me into that coma back on the Mary," I start, then immediately get too anxious to continue, the memory too sharp, oppressive. I sense him tense beside me, despite his complete lack of movement, know him well enough to clue into the fact that this got his whole attention, that he's on high alert. I huff out a frustrated breath, sit up a little to lean on my elbows. I can be braver than that, for him. Need to rip off that bandaid, just have to grimace myself through the inevitable burn. It's not fair to him, this half reality of things, not fair to Adrian.

"You said—" I start again, jaw tense, bracing myself. "You told me you loved me more than— than—"

He's swiveled around in an instant, has two of his arms slung over me before I can say anything else, knocking me back into the pillow, my hands pined beside my head so fast it makes my head spin. Preemptive strike, that little devil, aware I'm two seconds away from hiding again.

[Yes,] he says, stern, but there's something in his tone, in how the last note breaks away, that sounds like he's bracing himself too. [Yes, of course Rocky mean. Is fact.] 

"But—" And I feel the anger bubble up again, wasn't even aware it was still lurking but I'm angry suddenly, hands flexing against his grip, fresh tears stinging in my eyes. "You don't mean that. Actually. Not like— not like in the movie. You don't mean it like I— Like—"

[Yes, Rocky mean it. Rocky mean like movie. Love Grace like he's nineteenth century English woman.]

"Wait, why am I Elizabeth," I shoot back, momentarily off kilter, then catch myself again, insist, "No you don't," pulling my wrists out of his hold. He let's me go, instantly, of course he does, and I sit up, wipe the back of my hand across my cheeks, still angry. "What about Adrian huh? What about—" I gesture, nonsensical.

[Is okay,] Rocky says. [Adrian has new mate.]

I sputter, snort up the snot threatening to drip out my nose. "What."

[Is why I went away,] he says, a slight thrill of irritation in his tone now too. [Told you. Ceremony. Uncoupling of Rocky and Adrian. Re-matching of Adrian and new mate.]

"No, no, hey," I protest. "You said ceremony, like you and Adrian, like— like renewing your vows."

[Need word.]

"Vows? Uh— a promise. Very serious promise. In this case between mates. Renewing it means you're telling them you still love them and want to be with them, even after a long time has passed." 

[Oh,] he says, nodding that nod that's just for me. [Know vow. But renewing vow not a familiar concept here. Re-matching also rare. But happens. Usually when mate died. Rocky gone for a long time so is similar. Adrian wait and wait and wait. Tried very hard. But very very very difficult for Eridian to be without mate. To be alone.]

"Oh, buddy," I say, suddenly both angry and devastatingly sad at the same time, for a whole host of reasons. "Oh bud. I'm so sorry—"

[Why, question?] he asks, stomping his foot maybe a bit harder then necessary. [Adrian happy. Rocky happy Adrian not alone while Rocky gone.] 

"But you've lost your mate," I insist, then finally abandon my last bit of angry posturing to put my hands back on him again, hooking my fingers to the underside of his carapace to nudge him closer. "That's sad."

[Hmm. Yes,] he agrees, leaning into my touch with a relieved shiver, like it's been killing him to indulge my tantrum, to have to let go of me even just for a minute. [But Adrian and Rocky still close. And Rocky has new mate also, so is okay.]

And oh. Yeah. Right. That.

That would be me then.

Oh.

"Oh god," I say. "I'm a home wrecker. An interstellar home wrecker."

[Home not wrecked,] Rocky protests, taps a knuckle to the sturdy xenonite floor. [Built home myself. Home sturdy as hell, statement. And if broken, Rocky fix.]

But I can see him falter then, feel the nervous shift of his carapace under my palms, watch, helpless, as he lets go of me to tap two of his hands together, fidgeting nervously as he asks, [Grace not want? Had assumed because of human customs — sharing a home, sharing a bed, sharing everything — had assumed because Grace say he loves Rocky, but if Grace not want—]

He trails off, a low pitiful warble, and my heart breaks and wow— I'm being stupid. And maybe a bit of an ass.

"Rock, bud, my love," I say, stumbling over my own words, scrambling to pull him closer again, my fingers white against his side with the effort. "I want. Of course I want. I want you so bad it's making me stupid, I want you like—" I falter, momentarily overwhelmed by the relief of having him close again as he pushes back against my chest, wrapping two arms around my back. "I want you more than anything in this galaxy or the next," I wring out, chocking on my own sincerity, my face mushed into the xenonite of him. "I just didn't think— I didn't think you'd want me like that, too. I—"

[Of course Rocky want,] he says, my ribs vibrating with the sound of it. [Been very fucking clear on that. Want want want Grace, always.]

"I know," I concede, feeling stupid and warm and loved. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, bud. I get it now, I do."

[Is that why Grace so extra leaky past days, question?] He leans back just a little, arms slipping down to my hips, squeezing. [Grace yearn for Rocky?]

"I— yeah," I admit sheepishly.

He tuts at me, fond. [Stupid. Grace yearn for something he already has. Small squishy human brain.]

"Hey," I say, mock offended, swatting a hand at him. He catches it, pulls it towards himself again. "I've been through a lot okay, I get to have a squishy brain moment once in a while." 

[Hmmm, yes,] he hums, stroking a finger over my palm. [Is allowed. But no more yearning, statement. If Grace unsure about Rocky love, just ask. Rocky will tell you a million times, and if not enough a million more.]

I pull my other hand over my face, hot and embarrassed, heart racing like I'm a teenager again, in love for the first time, which I suppose in a way I am. Say muffled into my own hand, "Uh huh, yeah, okaaaay."

He pulls that hand off my face, always at an advantage with his five stupid limbs. [Grace promise to ask, question? Promise to stop fucking running away, question?]

I look at him, his shape in my arms, here in the house he's build for me, the suit he's perfected just to be closer, to touch me better. And I love him so much it hurts, and I'd gladly take it, gladly do it all again, even if he didn't love me back but he does, he does. With abundance.

I wiggle out of his hug, hold up my pinky finger. "Promise," I say, earnest, and he hooks his hand with mine.

> > data recovered via DEEP SPACE PROBE: YOKO at approx. 25Y:08M:05D TIME ON ERID
> > > excerpt from [audio transcript of video message from Eva Stratt; for Dr. Capt. Ryland Grace eyes only]

» […] if nothing else, please believe me when I say I would have liked for us to be friends. Very much. I think we probably already we were, despite our best efforts. I missed you like we were. Even though I kept on hoping you'd be spared missing me. I'll be dead by the time you see this. You might never even see it in the first place but— I believe you will. I believe you've figured out a way to keep going. You were always good at that, with all your running away. More than anything else, wherever you see this, I hope you found some peace after all. Though— judging by the way you smiled during that goodbye of yours, I think you might already have. […] «

02Y:00M:25D TIME ON ERID
biodome DAY 55 — wake cycle

[Hurry hurry hurry,] Rocky thrills at me, impatient. He's a couple steps ahead, leading me up the beach towards a part of the biodome previously off limits to me, part of the ongoing construction.

I do nothing to catch up, try not to laugh when he circles back annoyed, bumping into the back of my legs. It's finally cooled down enough in here to leave the house, still too warm for me to opt for anything other than one of Ilyukhina's dresses unless I wanna be strolling around in my underwear, but I'll take a cool 29° over the oppressive heat of the the past week. Someone in the biodome thrum must have done some sort of research on earth seasons because the overhead lights seem brighter, warmer undertones to the way they reflect on the water. It's way too hot to go for a dip — they haven't really figured out the right temperature or even movement of the ocean yet — but it's easy to imagine what that would feel like, sinking below the surface, just any other summer day.

[Grace stop being lazy now,] Rocky tuts as he reaches up to take my hand and start pulling me along, the pushing from behind apparently not yielding the desired results. [Watch Grace just lie around for many days and now still slow. Human body so inefficient. Tragic tragic tragic.]

"Oh you're one too talk," I huff, dragging my feet a little bit more just to mess with him. "Who's been lying on top of me the whole time, huh?"

[Not the same. Rocky has to watch Grace sleep. Not Rocky fault Grace so fucking lazy.]

I laugh, roll my eyes at him. He can't see it but I know he knows, he always does somehow. He squeezes my hand in that way that says hey, all good, we're just playing. I drum my fingers against his, back in sync.

We arrive eventually, an alcove set into the cliffside, tucked just behind the first bend of the beach. It's separated from my side of the biodome by a transparent semi circle of xenonite three times my height, the construction holding it in place like something out of Star Wars, an airlock or a hangar door. There are steps set into the stone on the other side of the partition, all different heights but arranged a bit like seats in a chaotic sort of amphitheater, or maybe a—

"Rock," I say, blindly reaching out for him, unable to tear my eyes away. "Is that— Did you build me a—"

[Classroom,] he chirps, always so impatient, shuffling up to push the top of his carapace into the palm of my hand. [Yes, yes. Know Grace. Need something to do or you will go crazy. Grace like?]

"Rock," I say again, too overcome by emotion to say anything else, really, and then I'm on my knees reaching out to him at the same time he throws himself into my arms. "I love it," I choke out, cheek smushed against him, not really sure if I'm laughing or crying or doing some grotesque version of both.

[Good good good,] he says, wiggling in my hold, unable to contain his own excitement. [Happy happy happy.]

"Wait—" I pull back a little, reluctantly, wipe my hand across my cheeks to see— yeah. I'm crying. "Is that why the climate control broke? Because you were building me a classroom?"

[Yes, yes,] Rocky says, stomping his foot in annoyance. [Construction perfect. Then Rocky leave for two days and everything goes to shit. Typical.]

I just laugh again — too giddy, too overwhelmed, too happy to do much else — and he reaches up to wipe the rest of my tears away, xenonite rough and familiar against my skin. Two days ago he came scuttling into the kitchen just as I was about to prepare my morning shake, still half asleep, pleasant and boneless, to present me with what it took me a second to realize was said shake pressed and frozen into a popsicle. I'd only told him about the whole concept the night before, mostly mentioned it in passing, but he'd still spent the whole night figuring out how to engineer molds and a freezer and a way to transfer all of it between our environments, and I felt so stupidly enormously desperately in love with him that moment, half of that firs popsicle melted in his hand before I could even get a word out.

That alone would have been enough for a lifetime, maybe two, is more than I ever expected, ever thought I deserve. This is— well.

[Not finished yet,] Rocky apologizes, patting over my back gently, sensing the shaky heave of my lungs. [Will take more time to construct equipment and test translator and make plan for lessons, but Erid very excited to meet teacher Grace. Rocky also excited. Very very very.]

I think about that, as I pat my hands over his sides, reassuring him I'm okay — spending more days aimlessly cooped up in the house with him, just the two of us lazing about, popsicles and romance novels and nights wrapped around each other — and I really don't think I mind much anymore, not having it all figured out. Don't really mind staying still, if it means staying right here, with him.

"Hey," I ask him on our way back up the stairs towards the house, gesturing to the little cliff jutting out over the water. Just a whim, spurred on by his impatient little bumps against my side, his attempts to herd me back into bed faster. "What do you think about building me a tree right there, once the classroom is finished?"

> > data recovered via DEEP SPACE PROBE: YOKO at approx. 25Y:08M:05D TIME ON ERID
> > > excerpt from [audio transcript of video message from Eva Stratt; for Dr. Capt. Ryland Grace eyes only]

» Oh, and Grace? I told you so. «