Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

As consciousness returns to him in dribs and drabs, Grace starts to accept that he’s in for a bad day. 

That in itself isn’t unusual at this point. He and Rocky are now three years into what – for Grace – is essentially a suicide mission, though he’s still clinging to hope that Eridian scientists will offer him salvation in time. He harbours zero regrets over his decision to turn back for Rocky, but his weakening body finds new ways to complain at him on a daily basis. Solid food has long been reduced to the rarest of luxuries, with him saving only a meagre supply of noodles, burritos, and canned stews and soup in the hope that they’ll help the Eridians replicate proper food and nutrients one day. The buried stash calls to him like a siren every time he’s forced to swallow gravelly coma slurry mixed with water or formless spoonfuls of taumoeba, but all things considered he could be a lot worse off. Eating may no longer bring pleasure, and the weight may be dropping off him faster than he’d like, but his supplies are holding steady and through careful effort he’s managed to remain relatively fit as opposed to cachectic.  

It’s a difficult balance, remaining active enough to maintain his lean muscle mass without burning too many calories, but after a lot of trial and error he’s mostly mastered it. And yeah, his joints are often stiff and sore in the mornings and his hair is thinning at a faster rate than his vanity would like and waking up with a headache is starting to feel routine, but he’s still here. Still alive and kicking long after he was supposed to die, alone in space with no-one to miss him.  

And even better, Rocky’s still by his side; endearingly chipper and buzzing with anticipation as each new day brings them closer to Erid. The sight of him working away over a piece of faulty equipment or humming with excitement upon learning a new Earth word or initiating a hug in his newly designed, form-fitting suit is enough to remedy a hundred bad days. 

Still... something feels especially off today. Something that Grace can’t entirely blame on creeping malnutrition. His pounding headache is hardly a new phenomenon, but the aching chill digging into his bones is an unwelcome stranger. His chest feels tight, as though Rocky has made good on his threats to sit on his fragile ribcage while watching him sleep. A wet cough escapes him as his eyes peel open, and he’s forced to cringe at the sensation of sandpaper in his throat. That’s certainly new. Maybe he didn’t mix enough water into his coma slurry last night. 

“Mary?” he groans, lifting a weak hand to his eyes to shield himself from overhead lights which have clearly been set to blinding. “What’s the temperature in the dorm?” 

“Good morning, Dr Grace. Current temperature in the dormitory is set to 22 degrees celsius. All heating systems are fully operational.” 

There goes that hypothesis.  

Any clarity he’d hoped to feel after Mary’s report fizzles into nothingness, but he thanks her anyway and lifts himself into a seated position with a groan, pulling his patchwork blanket tight around his shoulders. It wouldn’t have surprised him if the heating systems were malfunctioning. The Hail Mary is a magnificent feat of engineering, but she’s also been forced to operate for far longer than she was ever intended to. As a result, a good chunk of his and Rocky’s time over the past year has been spent identifying and fixing various faults. None of them have ever been too serious, and with Erid now an estimated four weeks away, the likelihood of a catastrophic disaster hitting them before Rocky can save his planet is lower than it’s ever been.  

That being said, a heating failure would at least have provided an explanation for the cool film of sweat across Grace’s brow, and the liquid ice creeping along his veins like slush, and the aching chatter of his teeth. It would be something fixable - routine even - compared to the dawning alternative. 

A weak chirrup and subtle movement out the corner of his eye forces Grace to turn towards Rocky, who seems a little off himself. More rigid and alert, his carapace clicking away without forming words as he edges towards Grace in his transparent xenonite suit. 

“Grace slept thirty-nine thousand seconds this time,” he hums, the open laptop on the floor translating dutifully even though Grace rarely requires its services anymore. “Rocky was worried.” 

“Sorry pal,” Grace says meekly, offering a small smile despite knowing his friend won’t see it. “Think I overdid it yesterday. Just feeling a little off this morning.”  

Maybe that’s all the explanation he needs. After all, yesterday marked his first spacewalk in over five months. The work itself had been routine and wrapped up within an hour – a simple matter of covering an area of wear and tear on the outer hull with a sheet of protective xenonite – but no spacewalk is entirely without effort, and Grace had climbed out of the airlock in the aftermath dripping with sweat and panting for breath. He’s boasting considerably less muscle and fat than he had to his name five months ago; it makes sense that yesterday’s efforts have knocked him for six. 

So he has an explanation for both his muscle aches and the fact that he slept over two hours longer than usual, and also for the fact that even factoring in that extra sleep he feels anything but rested. Cool. Great. He can deal with that. 

Doesn’t quite account for his fever though.  

“Off in what way, question?” Rocky asks, almost tentatively, his front two claws clicking in a nervous rhythm. 

No doubt he’s thinking of his crew. If Grace comes clean and admits his suspicions that he may be brewing an infection, all he’ll do is cause Rocky unnecessary panic, and he’d never forgive himself for that. 

He eyes Armando briefly, the bulky medical robot hanging idle at the end of his bed as per usual, and wonders what its chirpy voice would tell him if he requested a check of his vitals. There’s no way to do so without alerting Rocky, however. And honestly, he doubts there’s any need.  

One benefit to working in a school for so many years is that he’s built up a robust immune system that has become resistant to any germ or virus that snot-nosed kids can throw his way. And yeah, in theory he shouldn’t be able to catch anything because there’s no other human beings on board and the ship was probably scrubbed into perfect sterility long before he was launched into space... but he’s also a living, breathing habitat for bacteria, with them making up approximately 50% of all cells in his body. If malnutrition is capable of anything, it’s this; reducing him to a walking risk factor for opportunistic infections, triggered by bacteria that have been living rent-free in his lungs and gut or on his skin for years. 

There’s no reason to panic. Not yet. Yeah he’s tired and a bit shivery and he can feel a wad of mucous trying to escape every time he stifles a cough, but that’s nothing he hasn’t experienced before. Unless he’s harbouring some new, deadly alien parasite – which he sincerely doubts – there's no reason to concern either himself or Rocky with what is likely just a bad cold. 

“I’m just a bit tireder than usual,” he replies eventually, settling for a half-truth, because lying outright to his best friend feels like a step too far. “Lesson learned. I’ll stay in the lab and take it easy today, how does that sound?” 

“Sounds suboptimal,” Rocky says, and despite having no discernible facial expression, Grace can tell that he’s sulking. “Grace should rest if tired. Tiredness make Grace stupid and grumpy. No help at all.” 

“Thanks for that, bud,” Grace laughs, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest as a new cough threatens to burst forth. “I’ll be even less help if I go back to sleep though. Come on, we’ve got tons of work to do. No rest for the wicked and all that.” 

He forces himself to stretch his arms above his head, ignoring the whine of stiff joints as he does so, before climbing down from the bed with even less grace than usual. His footing falters as the sudden change in posture makes his head spin, but he steadies himself with a hand against the ladder before his legs can give way. No doubt his lightheadedness isn’t lost on Rocky, but the Eridian remains quietly watchful.  

Grace hates to admit it, but such dizziness in the mornings is no longer a noteworthy phenomenon either. 

He doesn’t get away with clambering up the ladder towards the lab uninterrupted. The instant he places one foot upon the lowest rung, Rocky bristles and assumes his usual mantle of Overbearing Parent - a role he has adopted with gusto. 

“Grace no work yet. Eat first.” 

While the thought of eating anything right now, especially powdery coma juice, is enough to make Grace’s stomach leap into his throat, he obediently turns to Armando to request his morning portion of slop without protest. Over the past three years he and Rocky have learned to compromise on a great many things, but Grace’s health and wellbeing isn’t one of them. Rocky has always been adamant that when he makes it home, Grace will be stood by his side, alive and in one piece. 

Besides, Grace is hardly in a fit state to start an argument with either a three-hundred-pound alien rock or an overwhelmingly attentive robot who has made it clear on several occasions that it can and will force-feed Grace when necessary. Some battles simply aren’t worth fighting.  

The next few hours pass uneventfully, all things considered.  

Rocky has banned Grace from doing anything that remotely resembles physical labour, so he busies himself instead with his weekly review of the Taumoeba breeding farms. The work itself is fairly rote at this point, but Grace always enjoys receiving confirmation that their little star-savers are thriving. There’s a simplicity to the task of checking each tank and refilling their supply of astrophage that feels quaint in comparison to endless repair work or dangerous spacewalks.  

Still, he’s not exactly feeling back to normal. The bone-deep chill is gone, but the feverish haze and dripping sweat that have emerged in its wake brings its own brand of discomfort. The exertion required to lift even the smaller breeding tanks is enough to make him pant, and more and more he’s found himself coughing into the crook of his elbow. He can hear Rocky still every time he hacks up another wad of thick green phlegm – hears a beat of silence replace the steady click of working claws – but Grace can’t bring himself to offer an explanation. He’ll have to, of course. In time. The thought of broaching the subject now feels cruel though, especially as Rocky’s prior exposure to ‘sickness’ resulted in the loss of his entire crew. 

There’s only so long Grace can mask his symptoms, however. As is usual, he’s tried to keep up a running commentary – Rocky prefers this to working in silence - but exhaustion has rendered his tongue thick and clumsy, and his sentences tend to wilt without reaching a natural endpoint. Standing for too long tilts the room on its axis, so he resorts to collapsing onto a chair instead of pacing as he normally would. And as the hours creep by, his breathing becomes unmistakably harsher, more effortful, so much so that he gives up on his spiel altogether and checks the last of the breeder tanks in uncharacteristic silence.  

The change isn’t lost on Rocky, who sets aside the sheet of xenonite he’s fashioning and edges along the floor of his habitat with the caution of a child approaching a startled rabbit.  

“Is Grace okay, question?” 

Even through the laptop translation software, his concern is evident. Grace feels his eyes burn with the desire to cry or collapse or both, and he can only offer a weak thumbs up that no doubt achieves the exact opposite of what he intends. He can’t shake the sensation of the room swaying, even in full gravity, and the energy required to pretend everything is normal far exceeds what he can realistically expend. 

“I don’t know, Rock,” he admits, his voice hoarser than it had been even a mere hour ago. “Think you might have been right earlier. I should go lie down for a bit.” 

When he looks up at Rocky, he spots his friend sitting directly opposite him, safe in his xenonite tunnel yet fidgeting with barely masked anxiety; a high, untranslatable whine escaping his carapace as he lifts a single three-fingered claw to the barrier separating them. 

“Grace is sick.” 

It isn’t a question, and Grace can only nod to confirm what Rocky already knows. The high-pitched whine becomes mournful and Rocky creeps closer to the xenonite wall, as though yearning to break through into Grace’s atmosphere and shield him from further harm. 

“It’s not so bad though,” Grace rushes to reassure him, not wanting to linger too long on the possibility that Rocky’s distress may be warranted. “Humans get sick more often than Eridians do, but our bodies are well-equipped to fight off infection. I’m not experiencing any symptoms I haven’t recovered from a dozen times before. It’s just... it’s been a while since I’ve felt like this.” 

Rocky ponders this information awhile, the vents on his carapace lifting intermittently as though to release his fear from his body. Eventually, he removes his claw from the barrier and settles it down on the floor. 

“So Grace... won’t die like crew, question?” 

Grace’s heart twists. He wants nothing more than to break through the clear barrier and grab Rocky in a tight hug, incompatible atmospheres and body temperatures be damned. Broaching the topic of death has always been tortuous, for Rocky especially. When Grace had been forced to come clean about their species’ vastly different life expectancies, Rocky had spiralled into a panic so severe that he hadn’t allowed Grace to work for a week, convinced that any physical labour would shorten his already pitiful lifespan. Only when Grace had implied that Death by Boredom would be a much quicker demise did Rocky finally relent, but no doubt he’d have invented the Eridian equivalent of cotton wool by now if he thought it would protect Grace from harm. 

“No. Grace won’t die,” he promises, though a shard of fear cuts through him as the fact that this is far from a guarantee stirs in his gut. “But I do need to rest, like you said.” 

“Yes, Rocky correct as always,” Rocky boasts with a hint of triumph as he draws himself to full height. “Grace go sleep now. I watch.” 

“You don’t need to do that, Rock. I’m sure you have lots to do-” 

“Rocky watch.  Rocky keep Grace safe. More important than work.” 

Grace can’t offer a rebuttal to that, though his eyes sting at the force of Rocky’s obvious care for him. It was stupid of him to force himself to act as though everything were normal. Even so close to home, Rocky can’t afford to lose him. Playing fast and loose with his health isn’t an option, and if that means he needs to wrap up warm in bed under the watchful gaze of a concerned alien and a pesky medical robot then so be it.  

“Okay pal,” he acquiesces, before rising to his feet on shaky legs. The movement no longer feels as natural as it should and he’s forced to balance one hand on his desk for support, but he manages to reach his full height without his vision becoming blotchy, which is technically better than earlier. He’ll take the wins where he can get them. 

The descent down the ladder takes three times longer than usual, but he makes it without falling and only when he’s reached the edge of his bed does he succumb to the urge to collapse onto his pillow face-first. He’s so exhausted that he could very well just fall asleep then and there, but the scientist in him demands baseline data. Now that he’s being honest with himself about the fact that he’s sick, he may as well assess the situation fully. 

“Armando, I need a set of basic obs.” 

With a deranged enthusiasm that is frankly concerning, the robot sets about poking and prodding him with sats and temperature probes and tightens a blood pressure cuff around his bicep with so much vigour that his hand turns white and numb. The assessment ends mercifully quickly however, and the results aren’t as terrible as Grace had feared: oxygen sats of 94%, heart rate 102 beats per minute, blood pressure 109/75mmHg, blood glucose 4.2 and a temperature of 38.3 degrees celsius.  

Not great all round, but far from anything requiring undue concern. Grace tells Rocky as much once his friend descends the ladder in his suit, and dutifully takes a couple of paracetamol capsules when Armando offers them. At the very least they should help with his muscle aches and fever, and who knows? Perhaps a good sleep will take care of the rest.  

He doesn’t get much time to dwell on that hypothesis. Slumber cradles him in its arms the instant his head hits the pillow, and as he willingly descends into a dreamless void, he hears a sweet, distant song as Rocky reiterates his promise to keep him safe.