Work Text:
I wake slowly to the sound of ocean waves. The sky is a soft grayish-blue.
Wait. That can't be right.
Beneath the crashing of the waves, there's a constant humming tone — the thrum of machinery. And the ground beneath me isn't soft, like sand should be. I'm in the simulation room. Dang it.
… Why am I sleeping in the simulation room? I didn't lose my memory again, did I?
I lift my arm up, and the underside is lined with reddish indents, from the floor grate. So I've been here for a while. That doesn't really answer my question.
I come here by myself when I'm feeling particularly depressed. I don't think it helps, but… well. It's like when you're really hungry, and someone offers you a piece of gum. It's not really what I want, but it's probably better than nothing, right?
Something clicks in my mind. I had a fight with Rocky. That had something to do with this.
It wasn't really much of a fight, I remember now. The details trickle back to me as my brain starts to wake up.
He was telling me to eat, and I told him if I ate any of the stupid coma slurry stuff right now I would probably end up losing more nutrients overall than I'd gain.
He doesn't like watching me eat. He likes watching me throw up even less.
You not eat for two days, he'd snapped. Eat now!
And then, from some combination of sleep deprivation and hunger and a generally less-than-ideal emotional state, I blew up at him. What I said exactly, I don't remember, but I think I yelled at him. I never yell at him.
I saw him skitter off to some other corner of the ship, and I did the same — I ran in here, to blow off steam, I guess. And fell asleep, apparently.
So I haven't lost my memories again! I just took a very disorienting nap. That's… good, I suppose.
A seabird calls overhead somewhere. I've heard that exact sound… probably hundreds of times, now. The loop on the ocean video is pretty long — a few hours, I'd guess — but I don't think the designers took into account the sheer amount of time that I'd be spending in here. Makes sense, I suppose. Technically, I'm supposed to be dead by now.
The sky is achingly blue. I think if I look at it any longer, it'll make me more nauseous than the thought of eating something. I switch it to a panorama view of space to set expectations.
I should probably apologize to Rocky. And eat something.
I hate apologizing to people. That's mostly because whatever thing I'm required to apologize for is usually something that seems stupid and trivial and unimportant, and for which I don't actually feel sorry. Like that one time I accidentally interrupted a conversation Stratt was having with some important government person. First off, who cares, and second, there was a long enough pause I thought they were done talking. Sue me.
Rocky doesn't fight with me very much, but when he does, it feels very important and not stupid. I think it's probably just because he has no experience with human social norms and doesn't care if I break them as long as I'm not particularly rude. Today, I have been particularly rude.
I fold my legs at the knees and throw an arm over my face. I'm being a baby, and I know it. Pull it together, Ryland.
Calling myself Ryland doesn't feel quite right anymore. Pull it together, Grace!
But I don't pull it together. Instead, I just kind of lie there pathetically and sniffle for a while.
I'm not sure how long I stay there. I just know that I'm very tired and very hungry and that I really don't want to solve either of those problems.
Maybe I can eat something later if I'm feeling less horrible. I should probably be researching all of the nutrient deficiencies I'm going to develop in the next few years, but… I don't want to. I'm anxious enough as it is.
I hear a clunking noise approaching. Rocky. I don't want to deal with this right now.
"What d'you want, Rocky?"
The clunking gets closer, changing pitch as he rolls on top of the floor grate. The xenonite shell bonks gently against my head. Rocky doesn't say anything, but I can feel his warmth through the shell.
I don't say anything. I don't really know why I want to ignore him. Some self-loathing part of me wants him to stay mad at me. I don't deserve this kindness.
I also don't really have it in me to tell him to go away, so it's silent for a few moments.
"You are upset," Rocky says quietly. It's not a question. He sounds hesitant, like he's afraid I'm going to start yelling at him again. I don't have it in me to yell at him again.
I nod.
He seems to think for a few seconds. "Human brain very strange."
"I know."
"Tell me how fix."
I crack an eye open to look at him. He shifts uncomfortably. How do I tell him he can't fix this? I'm pretty messed up even by human standards. For any psychologist, I'm a basket case.
"You hear me, question? I said tell me how fix."
"I — I heard you. I don't know."
He makes a frustrated sound and doesn't say anything else. I stare up at the ceiling. The constellations are, of course, out of alignment with anything you can actually see from here. The Big Dipper is completely unrecognizable from the airlock window.
We sit there for a while. I don't know why Rocky hasn't left yet, or snapped at me again. He's so patient it drives me crazy sometimes. He's had a lot of practice with waiting, I guess, but I'm… not used to people making an effort to be patient with me, even before I decided to get a job working on the most time-crunch-y project imaginable.
Rocky's tolerance is more terrifying than refreshing, for some reason.
I'd steel my nerves, but I don't have any fight left in me. "I'm sorry for yelling at you."
"It is okay. You are mean when upset."
"That doesn't make it okay."
"But it is a reason."
I sigh. "You're being way too kind to me."
"Cannot be too kind," Rocky insists with a new fervor. "Is not a thing."
"It is if I hurt you when you try to help me."
"I am not hurt. You are hurt. I try fix."
"You can't fix this. I'm just tired."
"Tired fix with sleep."
"Nope. It's not that kind of tired."
"I do not understand."
"That's okay. I don't expect you to. I don't really… understand it, either."
"So I can't fix. Can — help, question?"
"I don't know. Maybe a little, but…" I trail off. Nothing Rocky can do will bring me back to Earth, or make it so I get to eat real food again, or fix my brain chemistry. "Some people like hugs, or talking about their feelings. Or — hearing people say nice things. Some people have medication for this kinda thing, but we don't have any on board, so it doesn't really matter."
"Tell me about problem," Rocky demands. "Talk!"
"I mean, I think I told you most of it already. I'm just… tired and worried. All the time."
"What worry about? We will go to Erid, and be safe and alive together."
"There's still a pretty significant chance I'm gonna die of scurvy or something right after we get there." I wonder if there's any easy way to synthesize ascorbic acid. Probably not. And it probably wouldn't taste very good, anyway. Ugh.
"No no no. You will not die. I watch, make sure. All will be okay."
"How exactly are you gonna make sure?"
"… I will figure out."
I snort. "Okay."
My mind tells me not to believe him. My heart would dive out of the airlock without an EVA suit if he told me I'd survive it.
"Grace have many problem. I will fix problems." His voice takes on a semi-sarcastic, confident tone. "Not worry ♪♫♪♪. I am very smart. You doubt me, question?"
"Of course I don't doubt you," I murmur. "Wait, I don't… that word in the middle, I don't know it."
"What word, question?"
"The one right after you said not to worry."
"Oh." He fidgets nervously. When he speaks, it's hesitant, like he's anxious, or maybe embarrassed. "It is word of affection. Difficult to translate."
"What, like a pet name?"
"We have no pet. It is you and me only."
"No, it's — that's what it's called when you give someone an affectionate nickname. A term of endearment. Like, uh… in English we have lots of them. Sweetheart, honey, dear, baby, et cetera." I hope his word doesn't translate to baby. That's easily my least favorite of the bunch.
"Understand. Yes. It is like that."
"On Earth we mostly use words like that for our mates. Sometimes we use them for our children or really close friends."
"Similar on Erid. You are close friend."
"Aw, really?"
I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. I'm just not the kind of person that people call by a term of endearment, I guess.
"You do not agree?"
"No, I agree! I'm just… I don't know. I'm kinda surprised. I'm not — I'm not used to being important to someone like that, I guess."
He seems personally offended by that. "Grace is very important," he insists. "Important for Earth and Erid. Important important important for me. Love very much."
Oh. What?
"Oh," I mumble. "I — I love you too."
I want to ask him why he cares so much. Why he's trying, so hard, to keep a very weak, emotionally unstable, squishy, leaky blob happy and alive. I'm not worth the effort.
"Happy," Rocky chirps. He points at the screens. "Change it to sky explosion."
"Huh? Fireworks? Why?"
"This boring. I want to watch sky explosion." Blunt as ever, I guess.
"You got it," I sigh. I get up and switch it over. Rocky cheers.
I sprawl out on the floor again. I've always liked sitting on the floor, and it's nice to know that on the Hail Mary there won't really be any dirt or bugs on it. On the other hand… I miss bugs.
Rocky adjusts the position of his ball so the one flexible panel is facing me. He pokes one of his hands into it, and… grabs a fistful of my hair. Sure. Whatever. I don't really mind being an alien fidget toy.
He hums softly — not speech, I don't think, but a set of a few chords repeated over and over, like a song. I should probably just try to relax, but I can't. It is not fun to have your thoughts racing when your brain is too tired to keep up with any of them.
"You love me?" I ask. "Question?"
"Yes. Love love love Grace. Lots lots lots. Why you ask again, question? Forget, question?"
I wince. "Sorry. I wanted to hear you say it again. I'm pathetic, I know."
"It is alright. You are pathetic often."
"Ha," I mutter.
"I am not upset. I will tell you love love love often and you will not forget."
"I'm not — I'm not worth the effort, Rocky," I choke out, wiping uselessly at my eyes. I'm crying now, because of course I'm crying now. Dang it, Grace.
"I do not know about practical value. You are worth much much much to me."
"Okay," I sniffle. "Okay. I love — I love you too."
"You are upset," he says, alarmed.
I break into a grin that must look ridiculous on my tear-streaked face. "It's — no, it's, it's okay, I'm okay."
"Face leaking," he points out.
"This is good face leaking," I tell him. "It's — it's good. I'm happy."
"Happy," he repeats, and goes back to his… not-singing.
I'm not sure if I feel any better, but I don't feel worse, so that's something. I don't know how much of it is because of Rocky, and how much of it is because of the endorphins from crying. If endorphins from crying alone could stop you from being depressed, I'd be happier than a clam at high tide.
No matter how much he loves me, it's not going to stop me from getting scurvy.
I don't know. I look up and watch the fireworks.