❤︎ bix is back ❤︎

You splutter and cough, immediately starting to hyperventilate. Grace is about to intervene when your breathing pattern changes into steady, controlled counts of four. Interesting, Grace thinks. You must be good at self-regulation. That only manages to make him more curious about you. 

After a few hours of talking you through the uncomfortable medical aspects of waking up from a coma, giving you privacy to put some real clothes on, and figuring out if you have amnesia like he does (you don’t), he finally explains his side of the story. 

You’re wide-eyed as Grace explain how he was sent on the mission against his will. You don’t believe him when he explains how he met Rocky, and you nearly have a heart attack when he peeks around the corner. You’re relieved to hear about how Rocky and Grace managed to identify a predator of astrophage. 

“I- I have so many questions,” you say. “I remember you. I remember everything. But- why was I in coma for so long? I was supposed to wake up in time to help—Where are we going? Do we have to- do we have to kill ourselves now?”

“No, we’re going to Erid,” he explains. “Rocky’s planet.” He explains how Rocky donated fuel, the Taumoeba leak, and how Grace had gone back to save him.  

“Listen, I- I have a lot of questions too. I remember very little about you. Why would they send a kid?” Grace asks.

“I’m a pilot,” you explain. “I was… I went to a special trade school as a teenager. I was some sort of prodigy. At least that’s what they called me. I volunteered. You and Stratt didn’t want to put a kid on the mission initially. But then the rest of the crew were struggling to adapt to the demands of flying the Hail Mary in simulations, so Stratt convinced you I was the right person.”

“But I’m a teacher, why would I ever send a kid to their death?”

You shrug. “I’m 18. So I could consent. And you got to know me, and… I guess you thought I was good.”

He chews on his lip. “Okay. Well… definitely could’ve been helpful when we were flying in Adrian’s low orbit.”

A swell of guilt crawls up your throat. It must show on your face, because he immediately backtracks. “No- no, I didn’t mean that, I- don’t feel bad. We managed fine.”

•••

A few weeks pass. You get your strength up, and also learn how to talk to Rocky. You rely heavily on the laptop translation program, but Rocky takes to you immediately. You’re so quiet and curious—exactly the type of student Grace used to like as a teacher. “A pleasure to have in class,” as he would say in parent-teacher conferences. Rocky sees it too—he’s got some kind of protective instinct for you. He’s much nicer to you than he is to Grace, at least. Much less teasing. When you smile at his jokes, he’ll repeat them until they’re worn into the ground.  

Grace doesn’t tell you about the weeks of anxiety he’d had over your sleeping body, the way he’d prayed to gods he previously didn’t believe in for you to wake up so he’d  have human company. The way he’d worried when Adrian’s gravity had started to pull the ship apart during the Taumoeba sample collection, threatening your dormancy in the crew quarters. He couldn’t believe you were finally awake. 

Your personality is hard for them to figure out. You want to trust them, but you’re struggling. You’re much more comfortable with Grace than with Rocky but you are still very quiet. You find their friendship, their shorthand and ease, intimidating. You feel a deep guilt that you weren’t able to help with the actual mission—you make up for it by stealing Grace’s chores and ship maintenance tasks. You barely tell them anything about yourself, afraid to get close to them just to have them taken away from you. You don’t unpack that. You’re good at not unpacking things.  

You bury those feelings under your apprehension about going to Erid, which is easier to deal with. You don’t remember everything about your life before Stratt recruited you—it must be the lingering effects of the coma—but you do know that you don’t really want to go back to Earth. Something about it unsettles you. So you try to look forward to Erid. 

You pretend not to notice all the ways in which Grace is trying to break you out of your shell. 

•••

Rocky and Grace are in a party sort of mood today. Grace had figured out that the two of you could eat Taumoeba once the food (and eventually the coma slurry from your two dead crewmates) ran out. The starvation-before-reaching-Erid problem had been weighing on your minds and it was good to know that you’d at least survive until Erid where the scientists there could synthesize the things you need. 

You’d managed a relieved smile and celebrated with them for a bit but Grace caught you trying to slink off just as he brought out the last of the vodka. “Hey, come on,” he calls out to you as you try to leave the Don’t Go Crazy Room. “Stay with us?”

“Oh, I don’t drink,” you say. There’s a crease between your eyebrows. 

Grace laughs. “Not what I meant, kiddo, I wouldn’t give alcohol to an underage—well, we’re in space, so maybe it doesn’t matter…” You watch him ramble, the crease on your forehead deepening into a line. 

“Please stay, question?” Rocky asks beseechingly. He taps his front-facing legs on the floor gently. Something in your face melts—he sure knows how to weaponize cuteness. You reluctantly sit down a few feet away from Grace.

After a few swigs of vodka Grace turns on the karaoke machine. He and Rocky are goofing around. They try to get you to sing but you refuse. Grace pouts. He’s a little tipsy. “Why not?” He whines. “C’mon, kid…”

You shake your head, tight-lipped. You’re stressed again. Grace chews his lip, frustrated. He’d been doing everything he could possibly think of to make you more comfortable around them. 

Grace stops drinking and grab some water, thinking maybe the drinking was stressing you out. After half an hour he’s a little more sober. You do seem to relax a bit more. You make a joke about his singing that makes Rocky laugh, one of his non-dominant legs thumping on the ground. The teasing makes Grace grin so wide he’s afraid he’ll put you off. It feels like a victory—he doesn’t even care that much for his dignity. 

The room goes quieter after a while, the three of you basking in each other’s presence and the success of having another problem solved. 

“Hey,” Grace says after a while. “Why don’t you behave like a kid?”

Your body language stiffens slightly despite your best efforts to remain relaxed, to remain easy to be around. You shrug. “No time.”

Grace scoffs. “Not true. We have all the time in the world now.” But you know he knows what you mean. If you’re that age and already such a good pilot, you probably didn’t have much of a childhood.

Rocky pipes up: “You can relax. Grace will not hurt. Rocky will not hurt.”

You nod slightly. Grace smiles. “C’mon, kid, you gotta relax,” he says, reaching for you. 

You stiffen further, cursing your own reflexes. You want to relax so badly. You’re not used to any sort of physical contact. Grace has been trying you with pats on the shoulder, ruffling your hair, and high fives the past few weeks to get you more comfortable with him. You look at him like a deer in headlights. You don’t run away. You quietly congratulate yourself for managing to be okay with how his hands get close, hesitate, and grab you. 

He scoops you up and pulls you into his lap. Never mind, you think. Now I’m panicking. In for four—“Grace, what are you doing?” You ask, your voice a bit breathy and anxious. You grab firmly onto his forearms and try to pry him off. He doesn’t budge. 

“Chill out, not gonna hurt you,” he says in your ear. You suppress a shiver at the gust of air over your sensitive skin. “Just trying to get you to be a kid.” With that, he digs into your sides. 

You yelp, trying to twist out of his grip. “No-nonono Grace don’t do it—stop—Grace, no—“ You grit your teeth to muffle any laughter. 

“You can laugh, I know you wanna,” Grace teases, crawling his big hands up a little higher onto your ribs. Rocky’s alert by now, watching carefully. He can tell Grace is not hurting you, despite the almost pained noises you’re making to avoid laughing. 

You kick out against the floor, grunting in frustration. “Lehet me go!” you growl. 

“Why are you so afraid to laugh?” He asks. “It’s not gonna kill ya.” 

“What Grace doing, question?” Rocky finally asks. 

“Torturing me!” You shriek. It’s the most emotion they’ve gotten out of you yet. 

“Not torturing,” Grace corrects in his teacher voice. “Tickling. If you touch certain human body parts it causes a nervous system reaction of this, uh, funny feeling and it makes humans laugh. If they’re sensitive to it—ticklish, that is.”

“Why doing this, question?”

“Because he’s evil—“ you grumble, a choked laugh escaping as Grace squeezes a little harder. 

“Because grumpy pants over here needs to lighten up,” he says, blowing a puff of air into your neck. “And it’s fun. And I’m in the mood for some fun today.”

You change tactics, curling up in his lap as much as possible to block the tickles out. Doesn’t manage to deter him, though. There’s always a spot wide open, no matter how much you defend. Grace skitters his fingers along your neck so you reach up to swat him away, letting out a few squeaky giggles, and he takes the opening to claw at that junction between your sides and ribs. Instant squirming. When he’s able to crack you open, you laugh a lot.

“Ahahaha- GRAHAHACE! It’s not FAHAHAIR- Lemme gohoho!!” 

“Life’s not fair, kiddo,” Grace teases. He pokes and prods at where your arms are clamped down to protect your armpits, which gets you giddy and giggling almost as much as if he could actually get under your arms. “Especially not for people this ticklish,” Grace adds. 

“Cute,” Rocky trills. “Is supposed to be cute, question?”

“Ohhh, hear that?” Grace murmurs in your ear, rubbing his stubble there while he’s at it. He earns a squeal for his efforts. “Yes, Rocky, it’s supposed to be cute. Veeeery cute. Aren’t you?” 

Your face is so red. You definitely can’t handle compliments. “I’ll let you go if you promise to be a little more relaxed,” Grace says calmly, chuckling a little at the shrill shriek he hears when he claws gently at your tummy over your shirt. 

“PLEHEHEASE PLEASE I’ll be MOHOHORE relahahahaxed…” Your laughter dies down as his fingers slow.

Rocky chirps happily. “Good,” Grace says. 

He loosen his hold on you, but you don’t move. He rubs gently up and down your side. Your body is limp in Grace’s lap. “You okay?” He asks softly after a bit.

“Mm,” you hum noncommittally. Your eyes are closed.

Oh. You trust me, he realizes. Grace smiles to himself and he feels his eyes sting slightly with wetness. Rocky notices and mutters something about leaky humans before settling down in his ball. But Grace can tell Rocky’s happy.

You actually fall asleep like that. On Grace. He’s so touched that he has to get himself together before picking you up bridal-style and bringing you to bed. He tucks you in gently and goes off to get ready for bed as Rocky watches you sleep. Grace climbs into his bunk, wishing the ship a quiet goodnight. 

“You know, Rock, you don’t have to say that every time,” Grace says, grunting slightly at the stretch. I turn around to see him braced against one of the tall cabinets with his arms above his head. His shirt is ridden up, exposing an expanse of pale skin. I trace down his belly with my eyes, following his happy trail to an abrupt dead end at the waistband of his tied-off jumpsuit. 

I realize my mouth is open a second too late. I shut it quickly, my teeth clacking together as Grace notices my staring. “What?” He asks. 

I shake my head. “Nothing.” Too quick. Damn. 

Grace wanders out of the lab, an amused half-smile on his face. “Okay. Come find me when you’re done being weird,” he calls over his shoulder. 

Neither Rocky nor I move for a second. I cover my face. “Why flustered, question?” Rocky asks. His voice is slightly lower pitched than usual—the I’m-Making-Fun-Of-You tone. I shake my head dismissively. Rocky lets out a series of amused notes and returns to his work. 

I try to focus on what I was doing before, but I just can’t. It’s like my hands are itching and restless. Thank God Grace isn’t in the room or I’d be getting the worst cuteness aggression right now— damn it. Spoke too soon. 

Grace trips on his own feet walking back into the lab. I watch him laugh it off, toss up a breezy “I’m fine!”, and promptly walk into a table with an “oof.” He stumbles around Rocky’s ball, grabs his favorite pen, and leaves. Jesus. I take a slow breath as I try to will away the urge to squeeze that man until he pops (affectionately). 

Rocky chitters with amusement. “No understand why you think is cute when Grace is dumb, statement,” he says. I scoff lightly at the hypocrisy—I once woke up in the middle of the night and realized Rocky was doing the Eridian equivalent of babytalking (pebble-talking?) us while we slept because he thought Grace’s snoring was cute. “Pot, meet kettle,” I say sarcastically. 

“Don’t like this human expression. Makes no sense,” Rocky replies calmly. I huff in flustered frustration. 

•••

God, this is driving me crazy. I just can’t do it anymore. 

It’s been a few hours, but this feeling just keeps getting worse. We’ve been cuddling, because I was hoping it would tame the urge a little. He’s got no clue. Probably. At least, judging by the way he’s sitting—totally relaxed, arms above his head, shirt rucked up—he doesn’t know what’s going through my head. 

My thoughts are pretty much: Tickle him. Tickle him! Don’t you see how his spots are wide open? I wonder if he’d squeal if I just did it without warning—nope. 

“Grace,” I finally say after another half hour of agony. 

“Hmm?” He hums, idly scrolling through one of the books Stratt pirated. He’s reading Percy Jackson, like one of his middle school students. Damn, that makes me want to tickle him more somehow. 

“I… there’s something I need,” I say haltingly. 

“What’s up?” He sets the laptop aside. 

I angle my face away, pushing my cheek against his chest a little more. It makes the next part easier. “I… I really want… I need to, um—“ I take a shaky breath in. “Can I tickle you?”

He’s quiet. I hear his breathing catch in his lungs beneath my ear. “What?” He asks. I hear his heart rate increase. 

“I’m not saying it again,” I mutter in embarrassment.

“I— you want to do that? To me?” He asks. He sounds shocked. I look up and he’s got a flattered expression on his face (and a bright red blush to match it). 

Oh, great. We’re both embarrassed. Tweedle Dee and Twiddle Dum over here. 

“W- me? Why?” 

“Because, I- well, you stretched, and, and you’re just so cute, it makes me want to—“

I cut off, hiding my face. I peek out after a few seconds of silence. “Can I?”

His mouth is slightly open. A nervous smile starts to spread across his face. “Uh, y-yeah.”

I sit up. “Okay,” I say with a shy smile of my own. 

I place my hands gently on his tummy. He hisses at the contact of my icy fingers. “Sorry, sorry,” I murmur. “Poor circulation.”

“Yeah,” he says with a nervous chuckle as he watches me blow hot air on my hands to warm them up. “Just go easy, okay?”

I smile. I’m sure it’s wobbly and undermined by the blush on my face, but I try to tease him anyway: “Why, are you scared?”

This seems to have been more effective than I anticipated, based on the choked noise from his mouth and the quickly spreading blush. There’s a variable  I hadn’t thought of before: anticipation. Seeing me warm up my hands and watching them creep closer to his tickle spots apparently has a profound effect on Dr. Ryland Grace. There’s already a few nervous giggles slipping out: “N-nohoho…”

I poke his tummy gently in a few random spots. “I’m barely touching you,” I say, wiggling my fingers along the soft hairs of his happy trail that had captivated my attention earlier.

Grace’s hands shoot down to defend himself. “H-hehehey, give a guy some wahaharning…”

I wiggle my fingers up his sides. These light, random tickles seem to be working very nicely. He’s so giggly, it’s adorable. 

“Wahahahait- hold ohohon!” He squeals. 

“I was waiting before, but you didn’t like that very much,” I tease. I pull my hands back, wiggling them over his torso. 

“Noho- that’s not what I meheheant- stop, wait, no, don’t—“ he babbles. I smile wider at the obvious dilemma in his voice. 

“Ohh, I know,” I say faux-sympathetically, in a patronizing tone. “Poor thing. Can’t decide what you want, huh?”

He shakes his head desperately, cheeks beyond red at my teasing. I watch as his arms flop above his head, completely surrendering to the tickles. My fingers slow as a blush creeps onto my cheeks again at the sight.  My mouth falls open slightly. 

“Wh-whahat?” He asks through residual giggles. 

“No, I just… you’re so…” I rub my face, embarrassed. He’s looking up at me with that silly grin, exposing all his tickle spots, completely relaxed and willing to be tickled—by me—and he’s asking me what’s wrong?

We stare at each other in flustered bewilderment for a few seconds, like a sort of stalemate. I’m gripped with a rush of giddy need to tickle him again and let my hands fall back to his sides. 

He starts to giggle for me again as I knead his ribs gently. “I cahan’t believe you’re sohoho— affehehected by me,” he giggles out, staying mostly still but twitching a little as I hit sensitive spots. 

“Yeah, don’t let it go to your head,” I murmur back, deflecting by poking at his underarms. He squeals a little and wiggles happily under me. 

I hide my red face in his neck, which seems to tickle him more. “You’re so fucking cute, it’s not fair,” I mutter. 

“Lahaha-language,” he says lightly. 

I reward him for that comment with a particularly mean dig into his pectoralis major. He shrieks in my ear. I laugh slightly, the sound vibrating into his neck in a way I know tickles like hell. From experience. 

I sit up to look at his face and he’s got the most pleased grin I’ve ever seen on him. I admire it for a few seconds, my fingers still scratching gently under his arms, drawing a constant stream of soft chuckles. Then I realize something.

“Holy shit, you’ve been doing it on purpose,” I say in flustered awe. 

“Whahahat?” He asks, his arms coming down a little defensively. 

“Yeah, you are. Oh my God. You’re provoking me. Scolding me for cursing. Literally taking it lying down. Wait- was the stretching on purpose too?”

He shakes his head, a guilty grin spreading across his cheeks. 

“Liar,” I growl, moving my thumbs to the crease of his hips and massaging as deep as I can. He nearly screams with laughter, hips bucking against mine. 

He taps the floor twice with his hand and I stop immediately, breathing faster than normal. An incredulous smile makes a permanent home on my face, right next to my vibrant blush. “You were doing it on purpose,” I repeat, shocked. 

He shakes his head desperately, covering his face through residual giggles. I peel his hands away. “Y’know, you can just ask me,” I say lightly. I chuckle at the groan of embarrassment that ensues. I watch his smile silently. 

“Y- you really wanted me to tickle you that bad?” I ask, flustered. “I- wow.”

“Could say the same to you,” he mumbles. 

We both laugh. I settle back down to cuddle with him again. 

“Mm. Rocky probably thinks we’re idiots,” I hear Grace murmur as he picks up his laptop again. 

I watch him scroll back to Percy Jackson. I settle in more comfortably against his chest. “Has he gotten to Camp Half-Blood yet?” I mumble.

“No. Didn’t get very far,” Grace admits. “I was thinking about—you know.”

Stratt shakes her head. “You are not late. Let’s begin,” she says simply. There’s something sad in her eyes, something kinder than usual. I chalk it up to the recent loss of Dubois and Shapiro in the explosion. The mood in the conference room is tense. 

“Simply put, we need a new science specialist for the mission,” Stratt says, leaning back in her chair slightly. 

“Yeah, but…who?” Grace finally says, rubbing a hand over his weary eyes. He looks up to find the entire conference room staring at us, seated next to each other like lambs to the slaughter.

“No, nonono,” Grace starts to say. I’m not sure if he understands it’s both of us. “Me? I can’t… I’m not an astronaut…” His rambling fades into the background as I attempt to process what is happening. Vaguely I can feel my hands shaking, hear the way my pen clatters to the floor. I search Stratt’s face for something—anything. She’s looking pointedly at Grace, not me.

“You don’t have to worry,” Stratt says. She nods her head in my direction. “You’ll have a companion on the science team.” 

We make brief, but heavy, eye contact. He sees the sheen of sadness in my eyes, the simultaneous shock and resignation on my face, and something both terrified and determined appears in the set of his eyebrows. He looks away.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I process Grace arguing, objecting, asking for time to think about it. I hear him protesting that he’s a failure, that he doesn’t rise to the challenge. I hear Yao say something about how he doesn’t want unwilling members on his crew. Stratt permits Grace three hours to think about it. My eyes track him as he leaves the room, and then flick back to Stratt. She looks sad. It’s then that I realize we only have the illusion of choice. 

Eventually I wander out of the conference room, slumping down on a bench. It feels like my brain is going through the five stages of grief, but seems to have skipped denial. My rational mind understands that denial is not an option.

Anger, then. Sudden, white-hot anger: How could Grace be so self-absorbed at a time like this? How could he leave me, alone? Doesn’t he know I need him? How could Stratt do this to us? Why do both of us have to die?

A little bit of bargaining. Maybe…Grace doesn’t have to die if I convince Stratt that I am enough for the mission, that my lack of expertise is negligible and the rest of the crew can catch me up. Grace could go back to teaching. Or… what if it was the reverse? What if he gave up his life for me?

I shake my head slightly. Stratt has made her decision. Depression, then. Depression suits me nicely. I start to list the things I never got to do. Travel to Japan, try that viral ice cream shop. Tell my sister I love her. Make new friends. 

A shadow appears in front of me, blocking my view. I look up sullenly. It’s Stratt. I don’t know why but I shift aside on the bench, making room for her. I don’t have it in me to be angry with her anymore.

She sits next to me quietly. We sit in silence for about ten minutes before I speak up. “I’ll go willingly,” I murmur. 

“Why?” she asks quietly. She knows I know that really there is no choice.

“I have to,” I reply. “Literally and morally.”

She nods slightly. After a few more moments of silence, she asks, “Is there any way I can make up for it?”

I look at her carefully, cataloguing the tiredness in her features and the gentleness in her eyes. I know she doesn’t feel bad asking me to die. But now it seems like she’ll miss me. 

“Two things,” I finally say. “One, be gentle with Grace.”

She tilts her head to the side. I elaborate: “He’s not a coward. It’s a- it’s a normal reaction. D-don’t make it worse for him. Please.” My voice trembles.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “I will try.” 

I take a deep breath. “Um, and my second request is… can I… can I have a hug?”

I watch surprise flit across her face. For a second it seems like she’s going to say no, and my face crumples slightly. But then she opens her arms. 

I fall into her, pressing my ear against her heartbeat. The gray turtleneck she wears is soft and inviting. I close my arms around her waist, slightly surprised by her fragility—this woman who has taken care of me and challenged me to be better throughout my entire time on Project Hail Mary. This woman who gave me Grace—the best lab partner, the best friend I ever had—and smiled faintly when we were being dorks together. This woman who is sending me off to save the stars. This woman who is sending me off to die.

We stay like that until my back hurts from leaning over. I sit up slowly, wincing at the twinge beneath my left shoulderblade. She notices, because of course she does, and offers an arm to help me up. I let her walk me back to my tiny quarters. 

I fumble to unlock the door. I nod absently as she explains that a permanent bodyguard will be assigned to me to ensure that I don’t run away. I understand why she has to do it.

I hold the door open for her. I watch as she takes inventory of the room, eyes skimming over my meager possessions and small personal objects. She tells me I’ll have a duffel bag to bring personal effects with me on the Hail Mary. I nod. She examines my strained posture and then ushers me over to my bed. 

“Lay down,” she says quietly. “I have an hour until Grace’s time is up. I can stay with you.”

I murmur something like “you don’t have to” as she pushes me down onto my bed to lay on my stomach. I feel her straddle my hips and I stiffen. “Stratt? What are you doing?” I ask tiredly.

“I can help with the back pain,” Stratt says. “Just… just let me do this.”

I hear something pleading and guilty in her tone and relax into the bed. I feel her hands start to loosen the knots in my back, thumbs kneading into the muscles beneath my scapulae. I sigh into the mattress. She continues until I’m half-asleep, touches slowing into something lighter.

I feel her push up my shirt and trace her fingernails along my spine. The cool air kisses my back, making me shiver. “My mother used to do this for me when I was little,” she murmurs by my ear. I nod slightly. She traces gently along my back with her fingernails and the pads of her fingers. Goosebumps rise up wherever her fingers trail.

I shudder when she traces a gentle zigzag pattern against my back ribs, drifting down to my sides. A soft “ngh” sound escapes my lips as I shift slightly.

“What’s wrong?” She murmurs. 

“I- I’m just sensitive,” I explain, hiding my blush in the pillow. 

There’s a moment of silence. “Hmm,” she hums. “Is it bad?” 

I hesitate before shaking my head. She resumes the gentle tracing, this time intentionally dipping into my ticklish spots.

I hold my breath and bite my lip to avoid laughing. My arms tense and then relax again as she scritches gently along the edge of my underarm. I squirm into the mattress when her nails ghost along my ribcage. She traces circles into my lower back.

“So sensitive,” Stratt remarks. She spiders her hands from my hips up to my armpits, tapping her fingers so lightly, they’re barely touching me. I squeal softly into the pillow. “Ticklish like a child,” she mutters fondly.

She stops, rubbing my upper back gently. I take slow breaths. “I feel silly,” she admits, surprising me. “Pampering you—tickling you before sending you off to die.” 

“Mm,” I acknowledge. “Well. At least you’re making it very difficult for me to hate you,” I murmur back. 

She laughs lightly. It’s a nice sound, but there’s something sad about it. “I had hoped this wouldn’t happen,” she says quietly. “It is stupid. I wanted… I wanted you and Grace to be in my life after the launch. Even though I will probably be arrested as soon as the ship is in the atmosphere.” 

I roll over underneath her to lay on my back. I’m surprised to see some wetness in her eyes. “We’ll send you video logs,” I murmur. “On the probes. The beetles. We’ll talk to you. You’ll see us again.” 

“Do you promise?” She says, a faint smile crossing her face. 

“I promise.”

“Good,” she says quietly. “Earth is in good hands.”

I shrug slightly. “Scared hands. Terrified, actually.”

She shakes her head. “Good hands,” she repeats. “Now let me make you laugh again.”

I smile, letting my head tip back with soft giggles as she starts tickling me. She squeezes gently at my hips, then skitters her fingers across my belly. “If I had known about this sooner, I wouldn’t have waited until now,” she teases quietly.

I shake my head desperately, lost in quiet hysterics as her hands make a home under my arms. A string of incoherent flustered ramblings and, to my surprise as well as hers, “thank you”s, escape my lips.

“Thank you?” she repeats, stopping her hands. “For what?”

“F-for- for… for making me smile, y’know… for making this easier for me…” 

She shakes her head. “No. No… you’ve made it easier for me.”

This seems to remind her of something, and she gets up. “I have to go,” she says sadly. “Grace… Grace’s time is up.”

I sit up. “Remember what I said,” I say quietly. “Please.”

She smiles sadly and closes my door with a gentle click. 

I don’t see much of her after that. I don’t see Grace again until minutes before launch. He’s sedated, his hair scattering messily across his forehead. I run a hand through it, trying to get it out of his eyes. I make eye contact with Ilyukhina and nod slightly as the needle enters my vein. I squeeze Yao’s hand gently before falling unconscious.

———

Thankfully, there’s been much fewer tasks now that we’ve sent the beetles back to Earth and bred a nitrogen-resistant Taumoeba for Erid. Now it’s just basic ship maintenance, which is mostly my job as the secondary engineer—rest in peace, Ilyukhina.

There’s also some work to help prepare Erid for our arrival. Rocky wants us to write up every basic need we can think of. And then, he wants us to write all of our ‘wants’ as well. Finally, there’s some academic work that Grace and I have been doing when we have the energy. Writing papers on all the things we’ve learned, doing little experiments. And I’ve also gotten Grace into the humanities—my guilty pleasure. We love talking philosophy, history, international relations (which seems a bit silly in space, but I loved learning about it in college), you name it.

However, when we don’t want to do anything, we don’t have to. It’s one of those nights on the Hail Mary when none of us want to do anything.

We’ve been curled up for the past hour in the Don’t Go Crazy Room watching musicals. We finished Cats last night, for the umpteenth time. (I sat through it for Grace. God, the things I do for that man.) Today I got to pick the musical, but I sort of cheated. Heh. We’re watching Dirty Dancing. I argued that it was close enough because it had music and dancing in it. I really love musicals, I do, but it’s been at least 10 nights in a row where we’ve watched musicals…I need a break.

I do love our movie nights, though. We have exactly one big quilt on the Hail Mary, and since Grace and I are always so cold nowadays from the anemia and other maladies, we’re always sharing it. Both of us realized after about three weeks into our journey to Erid that we’re gonna have to cuddle each other for our warmth and our sanity. Touch starvation is real. 

And Rocky’s warm too. His xenonite suit (which he made for himself, for comfort and to get around better) is good at temperature regulation, but it lets some heat slip. We’ve been using him as a personal space heater. 

We’re all cuddled up together, watching Dirty Dancing, when the scene comes on. You know which scene. The one. The one where Johnny is trying to do a lift with Baby and touches her side and she giggles and squirms like that.

I realize this movie choice was a mistake for several reasons. 

One: Rocky knows. Rocky knows I can’t handle this stuff. Rocky knows what it means when I get in the mood—you know which mood. He can tell because of my heartrate picking up and the blood rushing to my face and my sudden inability to stay still. 

Two: Grace knows about it. He’s not as observant as Rocky (echolocation is an unfair advantage), so he doesn’t always notice when it’s happening. But he always catches on eventually.

Three: Grace has the same problem as me. Which I can tell because his previously still body is now shifting under the blanket, curling up around himself. He’s clearing his throat uncomfortably. I don’t need to look over to know that his ears are red at the tips. 

Four: Rocky thinks this little “problem” Grace and I have is hilarious.

What have I done?

This situation is unique for several reasons. It’s typically not Grace and me being in the mood for tickles at the same time. Usually, it’s just one of us who gets all shy and needy and asks the other, after much prodding and working up the nerve, to tickle them. Or, one of us has the insatiable need to get their hands on the other. Unless Rocky’s involved, which in this case he is. Rocky usually strikes immediately. The xenonite suit lets him actually tickle us if he wants to. 

This time, Grace and I both want tickles. We’re both flustered. And Rocky is pretending nothing is wrong. 

What??

The movie continues uneventfully, but I’m not really paying attention. I’m too busy being hyperaware of every spot on my body that is currently in contact with either Rocky or Grace. Rocky is mostly lying over Grace, but he has a claw draped across my tummy, which twitches idly every so often in a very tickly manner. Grace’s foot is nudged against mine, his big toe prodded right into the softness of the sole of my foot. Grace’s stubbly face rests against my collarbone. His breath gusts over the soft hairs on the back of my neck every so often.

In short, I’m dying over here.

I can feel the stiffness in Grace’s body that wasn’t there a few minutes ago and I know he’s not unbothered either.

“Grace okay, question?” Rocky asks. I suppose he can feel how stiff Grace is too. 

“Yeah, bud,” Grace replies. His voice is strained. Rocky hums knowingly and we both blush in the darkness.

When the movie ends, we eventually untangle ourselves to go to the ship dormitory. Rocky runs ahead to watch us sleep as I help Grace up and inevitably catch him when he stumbles on the way. (Falling is more serious nowadays as we’re both weaker than usual, so we help each other out). Grace can’t seem to look me in the eye and he’s rambling a little more than usual. I’d find it cute if I wasn’t also so wired.

We cuddle up on the mattresses we’d pushed together a long time ago—Grace on his back, me on my side and half draped across him, his arms around me—but both of us are restless. 

“Can’t sleep?” I murmur to Grace. 

“Mm’no,” he mumbles back. 

We’re both silent for a minute. We make fleeting eye contact and then quickly look away. We both know what’s wrong but are unable to give voice to it.

“Just close eyes. Is easy for humans. Sleep, I watch,” Rocky pipes up from the foot of the mattress. His voice is slightly lower pitched—the snarky tone, I’ve come to learn.

“S’not that easy, buddy,” Grace replies tiredly. “Our brains have to turn off first.”

“Thinking about movie, question?” Rocky asks slyly. 

I sit up fully. “Thinking about a lot of things,” I deflect.

Rocky raises his carapace at an angle in a sort of smug gesture. Grace sees it and stiffens again. “I know what you are thinking about,” Rocky chimes smugly. 

“What?” Grace asks nervously.

“Silly humans. Always thinking about tickles,” Rocky replies, an amused trill in his voice. 

Grace makes a flustered choking sound and my breathing stutters. “What— no,” I say hastily. 

“Yes,” Rocky replies. “Scene in movie, the character tickles the other character by accident. You and Grace are flustered, statement.” 

Grace finally speaks up. “Will you stop saying that word?” 

“What word?” Rocky teases. “Tickle?”

I hide my face in Grace’s shoulder. He makes a whiny noise. We both regret teaching him the word for “tickle.” I mean, we really could’ve made up a new word for the concept to make it less flustering to hear.

“Human brain so inefficient, statement,” Rocky says, his words mixed with the trills of Eridian laughter. “I only have to say a word and human becomes flustered.”

“It’s not all humans, Rock, it’s just us,” I pipe up, still unable to look at either Rocky or Grace.

“Earth sent two humans who cannot handle tickles to save the stars,” Rocky muses. “Is funny, statement.”

“It’s noooot,” Grace whines. “Stop teasing.”

Rocky falls silent. I realize we’ve reached a stalemate. This is the part where someone cracks and asks for tickles. I glance at Grace, whose mouth opens and closes a few times before he covers his red cheeks with an embarrassed groan. 

“Rocky, just please…” I trail off. 

“You want me to tickle you and Grace, question?” 

“No, I mean, yes— I—“ I cut myself off with a frustrated sigh. My slightly feral hindbrain is demanding tickles with increasing fervor while the rest of my body slumps towards sleep. 

“Please, Rocky?” Grace finally says. I’m surprised he’s spoken up. Usually it’s me who has to suck it up and initiate a tickle fight. 

“Don’t worry. Rocky fix,” Rocky says, clambering up the mattress. Grace lets out a flustered squeak, immediately hiding his face in my chest. I start to chuckle at Grace’s reaction. 

“You are being cocky, statement. Rocky will tickle you first,” Rocky announces. 

“Wait, no, I didn’t mean to laugh—“ I say, my voice rising in pitch, but then one of Rocky’s claws is pinning one of my wrists up onto the pillow. Grace continues to lay his head on my chest, draping an arm across my waist and pinning my free arm to my side in the process, as he spectates with an amused smile. One of Rocky’s free claws drifts down my arm and starts to play with my underarm, scratching lightly.

“No- plehehease Rocky, wait—“ I plead through sleepy giggles. I hear Grace make a cooing noise at my reaction. My hips shift against the mattress as I squirm helplessly. My cheeks are on fire. 

“Wait, question? But Rocky waited already, statement,” Rocky teases. “You asked to stop waiting before, and now you want to wait. Human brain is very confusing about tickles, statement.”

My head falls back against the pillow as I giggle and my back arches, pushing my chest up. My feet kick lightly at the mattress. Grace draws a light, tickly pattern with his pointer finger around my bellybutton. “This is what happens when you laugh at me,” Grace murmurs into my ear. “What is it they say about glass houses?” he adds rhetorically. Rocky contains to scribble at my underarm at an unrelenting, but gentle, pace. The tickles are so soft and fluffy that my mind and body are melting. My laughs and pleas slur with sleepiness. 

“Human giggles are very cute,” Rocky trills. “Never get tired of hearing giggles, statement.” I make a noise of embarrassment.

Rocky starts to slow down after a few seconds, not wanting to make the tickles too intense right before bed. It doesn’t take much to tire me out, honestly. I lay there, panting slightly, for a few seconds after they stop.

I feel Grace fidgeting next to me. “Rocky,” I murmur. “I think Grace is jealous…” I smile as I hear Grace make a flustered noise. 

Rocky switches his attention, moving one claw to Grace’s tummy. I help Rocky by pulling up Grace’s shirt. Our tickle fights are one of the only times when I get to catalogue the impact of malnutrition on Grace’s body. Thankfully, I still see a bit of pudge and muscle where his stomach is. I smile at the squeal Rocky draws from Grace’s lips when his claws skitter across and knead the sensitive skin.

I help out by stealing one of Grace’s hands, pinning his forearm in place between my thighs, and scratching my nails gently across his palm and inner wrist. “So cute,” I murmur in Grace’s ear. Praise really gets both of us, but especially Grace. The man can’t take a compliment. 

“N-nohohot cute—“ Grace protests through his snorts and squeals. “Oh, fudge— not my hahahand…”

“The cutest,” I rebut, my voice lowering to a soft coo in his ear. I laugh when he flinches from the tickle of my breath. 

“Is Grace tired enough yet, question?” Rocky asks. 

“YEHEHES- stahahap, I cahahan’t…” Grace says, trailing off into sweet giggles. 

Rocky releases Grace. I move, returning to our original cuddling position with me half on top of him. Rocky shifts again to rest instead at the head of the makeshift bed. He uses one arm to play with Grace’s hair and another to scratch my back gently (Grace’s back is too ticklish for the same treatment). Grace makes a happy humming noise. I press my lips together to hide the embarrassing sound of pleasure from Rocky’s touch. 

“Thanks, Rocky…” I mumble, my eyelids heavy. Rocky’s claw drags gently up my spine, then moves up to stroke the back of my neck. I shiver.

“Rocky. I know you. What is bothering you? You can tell me.” They say in a soothing manner.

“…do you still love me?” I hesitantly ask. They make a surprise trill and shift my way. I know this is a lot to just drop on someone, especially after everything we have gone through.

“Of course I love you! That’s not even a question. Why?” A leg taps against the floor quickly. They seem a bit…frantic is the word I would use. They reach a claw over, like they're testing a boundary we long since crossed. Their warmth spreads through me and I melt into the touch before I can stop myself, leaning into the pressure I've been yearning for.

“I-I just—you seem distant. You don’t want to hold me or sing to me. You stay a distance away when you watch me sleep—“

“I wanted to take it slow for you.” They say softly, now rubbing soft circles with their claw. I shudder a bit but relax into the touch. I itch for more from them.

“Slow?” It doesn’t seem right. Slow. I want to make up for everything so fast, right now. I’ve waited so long to see them again, wondering if they would just become a distant memory. Now there here, warm and in front of me and very part of me aches to close the distance. I don’t want slow.

“I don’t know the extent of what happened in space. You were gone for 42 Earth years (sry I have no idea what the conversion for Eridian years is) and did not want to rush you. I…was scared to lose you again. To push you away or overwhelm you. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you felt that way.” They apologize pulling their arm back, their warmth fading against my skin. Their claws come together to fidget and pull at each other. “I’m sorry.” They reiterate like they're not sure how many times it will take for me to believe them.

“I did not think of it that way. Don’t apologize. You were being very thoughtful to me. I appreciate that.” I shift just a bit closer to them, missing the touch that was once there.

“You were gone for so many years and I waited. Of course I love you.” The notes are low but soft, reassuring. They pull me into their lap and I try my best to hold in my relief and excitement. Their arms, that are much much bigger than mine, hold me close and I feel the vibrations coming from deep inside their body as they continue to talk.

“Is this what you want?” They tease a bit, rubbing the top of my carapace again. Their warmth envelops me as I melt in their arms. I feel so safe, the tension I was holding finally loosens.

“Yes. Very much.” I sheepishly say, trying to hide myself in them. They let out a small snicker that only makes me all the more embarrassed.

“You are just as cute as the day I first saw you.” They murmur, amusement dancing through their voice. “Still tiny. Still loud. Still trying to act tougher than you are.”

Their claws lightly scratch over the top of my carapace as they continue before I can stop them again.

“So talented. So caring. So stubborn.”

“Stop, please.” I feel them staring at me and I know they know I’m embarrassed. They have a smug air about them and their laughter travels straight through me.

They just continue “And determined. So adorable and amazing and good at so many—“

“Adrian please.”

They only laugh harder, claws scraping lightly along my sides and down my legs. Heat floods through me as I shrink into myself more. I whine a bit. I can’t take compliments and they know it.

“What?” They feign ignorance. “I only want to make up for lost time. Think of all the compliments I missed I could have given you!” They beam at me while it only makes me feel all the more flustered. “Such a blushy mate.” That’s it.

“I’m leaving. I have work to do.” As much as I loved it, I try to shift out of their grasp, trying to hold onto any dignity I have left. A claw grabs onto one of my legs pulling me back into them.

“Aw, leaving so soon? I finally give you all the attention you want and now you leave me? So mean.”

“Me? I’m the one whose mean? You're teasing and making fun of me!” I accuse, pointing a claw at them.

“Making fun?” They fake gasp out. “I would never do that to my tiny adorable mate! How dare you accuse me!” They laugh out cheerfully. “You're also so serious. Too serious Rocky. I will help fix your touch problem and your grumpy problem together!” They trill out while pulling my arm up.

“W-what are you—“ I cut myself off as they take a didget and drag it along the joint attaching my arm to my body. “Wahahait nohoHOHO ADRIAHAHAN—“

“Just as ticklish as I remember.” They taunt as another claw holds another arm up. I feel my heat rise even more as I twist desperately in their iron grasp. Why did they have to be so much bigger than me, this is so unfair. They easily keep me trapped, strong enough that all they do is snicker as I fight back.

“ADRIAHahahan t-thihis ISNT-HAha whahahat ihihi mehehent!” I squeal, kicking my free legs out as giddiness takes over me.

“Are you too ticklish Rocky? You know, I think you might have gotten even more ticklish in space!” A claw comes up to claw roughly at my carapace as I flinch away. The feeling buzzes through my body in a way nothing has in a very long time.

“I-I dihiHIDNT! Ahahstohop!” This is stupid and childish. But I can’t lie, it’s fun and I love it. I feel all my worries about Adrian melt away as I cackle in their lap getting the much needed attention I wanted. A sharp hiss escapes my vents before I can stop it, thin streams of stream curling up in the air between us. Well that’s just wonderful.

“You get flustered so easily. So fast.” They state the unfortunate obvious as the claw that was tracing my joint comes up to trace around my vents as I desperately grasp onto their arm.

“NOHOT THEHERE-AHAH ADRIAHAHAN!” I push against their body but nothing helps. They whisp the steam around in the air as they circle and trace the crevices. Their touches are light and soft, making me squirm.

“You sound like a hatchling right now!” Adrian laughs. “Listen to you! So squeaky!” I make an offended but desperate noise and they seem to take pity on me and slow their fingers to a stop. They go back to rubbing and scratching gently as I compose myself but the puffs of steam leaking from me makes it hard.

“Your a t-terrible mate.” I gasp out trying to seem a little tough.

“I wait 42 years for you and now you call me a terrible mate? Very ungrateful!” Laughter laces their voice at my comment making me feel very not tough. “I love you Rocky! Should have told me sooner. I can tickle you all you want!” They flex two claws above me making me let out a squeak. I flinch further into them as they reach down to hold me close. “You want to sleep?” The offer sounds like heaven.

“STAHAHA-NO!! I CAHAHAHAN’T-“

“You can’t what?” he asks rhetorically. The smug bastard is smirking. Smirking!

This all started because of some offhand comment I had made about Grace’s models and puppets being poorly constructed. I guess he was in a mood today, because he took this as an excuse to tickle me out of my rational mind. 

I’d stuttered, fumbled, pushed weakly at his hands, done absolutely nothing to stop him. And now I’m here. 

“Please- Grahahace! No-nononooo- not THEHEHERE!!” I squeal incoherently. He’s pinching up and down my inner thighs relentlessly. “I’m SOHOHOHORRY! PLEASEI’MSORRY-“

“Wow, you’re so ticklish here,” he muses, sounding almost bored. I can tell he isn’t, though, because of the delighted twinkle in his eye. But then he’s shifting, straddling my hips and pinning my arms under his knees. I’m practically immobile, and it’s a new and overwhelming sensation. A strangled gasp leaves my lips that has nothing to do with the tickles. Which, of course, are starting up again in earnest.

He pokes and scritches sporadically all over my torso. One second his hands are on my ribs, then my belly, then my neck, then massaging into my hip sockets with steady pressure. The worst is when he squeezes his hands under my arms and digs in to the soft hollows there. It’s constant and unbearable. I can’t even move my hands to fidget and slap the ground and get the restless energy out. My hips twist frantically against his, trying to buck him off. I realize I am terribly and inescapably trapped. 

“Jeez, so loud,” he remarks calmly. I’m too lost in hysterics to even respond.

I find myself starting to dissociate. Normally, when Grace tickles me, this doesn’t happen. But I can feel the panic rising and rising in my chest, and Grace, for all his usual observance of my reactions, isn’t noticing. I can barely get out any words. 

My laughter turns wheezing and halfway to silent, mixed with uncomfortable cries of his name and attempts at saying “stop.” I can feel wetness sliding from the far corners of my eyes. My skin is so flushed that the tears make cool tracks down to my ears. 

Grace finally notices something is wrong. His fingers stall slightly, instinctively continuing to play gently under my arms as my shoulders attempt to jerk away. “Hey— what, I thought we were having fun…” he says, trailing off. I can hear the concern in his voice, distantly. I’m too focused on trying to breathe. 

“Please— please, Grace— I’m sorry— I’m-ah- I’m sorry—“

“Shh, stop apologizing, what’s wrong—hey, hey, come on,” he murmurs, his voice hushed and soothing. His knees finally release my wrists and I curl up as best as I can with him still sitting on top of me. My eyes screw shut, tears still leaking out, as I hug myself in an attempt to self-soothe. I can feel myself starting to hyperventilate.

He gets off of my hips urgently, pulling me up and into his lap. He holds me for a long time until I stop crying. For once, the usually rambling scientist is quiet. When my cries turn into sniffling breaths against his now damp t-shirt, he speaks up.

“I’ve never seen you react like that before,” he says. Something in his voice is more reserved than usual. Like he’s afraid of me now. Crap, I think. You’ve ruined it.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stutter.  “No, no, don’t apologize. I’m the one who messed up,” he murmurs. We’re both silent for a few seconds. “What… exactly did I do?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I- I just got overwhelmed. It wasn’t a big deal. I’m sorry,” I say, starting to pull away.

“No, talk to me,” he says gently, holding firm. “C’mon, use your words.”

“Okay, okay, uh…” I fumble. “I just- I, normally this doesn’t happen, I don’t really know what happened…”

He nods encouragingly. His hand shifts up to stroke my hair gently. Damn, he’s good at this whole comforting business. I tuck my head back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and resume my explanation.

“Sometimes I- I like, the- um, the intense, um, tickles,” I manage, stumbling over the embarrassing admittances and the difficult of saying the word. “But this time, I just, I panicked. I couldn’t move, and, I guess I feel better when I can squirm, or move, or whatever. And you weren’t stopping…” I trail off.

He waits patiently until I pick up again, red-faced and embarrassed. “It felt so confusing because it was all the spots I l-like, and the teases I like, and…it’s you, and I trust you, but I just kept panicking and I couldn’t stop it.”

When he’s sure I’m done, he says, “I’m sorry.” His voice is earnest and regretful. “I-it’s okay,” I say quickly.

“No, it’s not okay,” he says, shaking his head. “I won’t do it again.”

I still. I hope that doesn’t mean what I think it means. “You won’t- you won’t t-tickle me again?”

He huffs out an amused laugh. “That’s what you’re worried about?” he teases. “No, I meant I won’t push too far again. I won’t tickle you without checking in again.” He pauses. “I’ll tickle you as much or as little as you want.”

I relax slightly, relieved. 

“So,” he says quietly. “Would it be okay if I… got rid of that frown?” 

I hesitate, fidgeting shyly, before nodding. 

“Good,” he says with a fond smile as his hands move to my belly again. He’s so gentle this time, squeezing and tickling gently as if I were a baby and hugging me all the while. I curl up around his hand, letting out a few weak giggles as my face gets progressively redder. I kick weakly at the air, laughing, as his hands squeeze up my sides and claw gently at my armpits before stopping. He rubs soothingly at my ticklish spots as I calm down again. A loose smile lingers on my face, happy that we’re back to normal.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sorry for freaking out.”

I take a moment to look around me. The train car is empty—a privilege of being with the woman who Is The Government, I guess. Speaking of which, she’s sitting on my right, gazing out the window. I watch her face for a minute as rolling fields pass in our view. She’s not doing any work either, her laptop abandoned on the seats across from us with the neon-colored screensaver spinning across it. 

On my left is Carl. I hadn’t noticed he was sitting next to me. Usually he chooses a seat farther away, but the car is small. Or maybe he just likes us. Heh.

Come to think of it, this whole train ride is rather strange. We have the entire military (yes, all of them) at our disposal with more jets and planes and cars than we could ever use, but we’re sitting on a train for 5 hours just to get to an appointment with an expert. Why the sudden lack of efficiency? It’s not like Stratt. 

I slump in my seat as I ponder this question, sliding down slightly. My sweater bunches, riding up where my back meets the seat and driving my collar up to my chin. I purse my lips, using my precious free will and free time to let my brain be, well, dumb. I don’t notice the amused glance Stratt and Carl exchange over my head. 

After a few minutes of further silence, Carl clears his throat. I glance up at him over my glasses and raise my eyebrows slightly. 

“What… What are you thinking about, Dr. Grace?” Carl asks, thinly-veiled amusement in his voice. 

I shrug, worsening the shirt-bunching-up situation. I glance down slightly to make sure I’m decent—my tummy isn’t exposed, only a hint of my sides and back ribs, so I’m fine. “Nothing,” I reply.

Carl gives me a skeptical look. 

“What? I actually am thinking about nothing,” I reply. 

He smirks slightly at my cheekiness. I see his hand twitch, hesitate, and then something in his eyes hardens into resolve. Before I can process what that means, Carl’s thumb is jabbed into my side where my shirt rode up. 

I let out a very unmanly yelp and sit up straight, yanking my shirt down. I pretend not to hear the choked and muffled noise of amusement from Stratt next to me and I pretend not to see the amused look they share over my head (again). Mercifully, neither of them question my reaction.

“I wasn’t lying,” I say defensively. My voice is slightly high-pitched, dang it. “I was thinking about nothing. Or, how we’re doing nothing right now. Which is weird! Objectively. Y’know. We’re always so…” I gesture vaguely, “busy.”

Stratt finally speaks up. “So you think you’re being underworked, Dr. Grace?” 

There’s something in her tone I can’t place, something in her eyes that I can’t figure out. I think she’s… teasing me? Stratt? Teasing me?

“I- wha- no,” I say, flustered. “N-not necessarily.”

“I’m hearing he’s underworked,” Carl says to Stratt, an air of performance in his voice. 

“Mm, yes, that’s what I’m hearing as well…” Stratt muses. 

“Guys?” I say, chuckling nervously.

“I have just the thing,” Carl says. 

Before I can process what that means, Carl’s big, strong hand is tweaking my side. I squeak and flinch, my body twisting away from his hand until I’m practically in Stratt’s lap. “Carl!” I yelp.

He’s grinning. Motherfluffer. “I didn’t know you were so ticklish, Dr. Grace.”

“I- I’m not,” I deny vehemently. “Y-you just surprised me.” 

“Twice?” Stratt chimes in. I make a very intelligent grumbling noise in reply, covering my reddening face.

Unfortunately this blinds me to the shared look of mischief between Stratt and Carl, who nod once and then start tickling me. In. Earnest.

I absolutely explode with sound, somewhere between a laugh and a surprised squawk. “No- NO! Come ohohohon- GUYS!” Stratt’s nimble fingers worm their way under my sweater and the buttoned shirt underneath, scribbling diligently at my tummy. Carl continues the pinching and tweaking motions up my sides. I’m nearly hysterical. 

“What’s that, Grace?” Stratt muses calmly. “I can’t hear you. You’re going to have to use your words.”

“Noho- NOHOHOHO… Don’t use my ohohown exprehehessions on me!” I squeal. It’s a very masculine, put-together squeal—uh, what do my students say?—Trust.

I try to curl my knees to my chest and armadillo my way out of this one, but Carl puts a stop to that pretty quick by pinning my knees down with his free hand. He also squeezes my knees and thighs a few times, coaxing a few snorts out of me. Stratt actually coos at my reaction, which if I wasn’t being tickled to death I would find shocking.

“No- pleasepleaseplease- ahahahaha… fudge- you’re killing mehehehe!! Please…”

My laughter goes silent when Stratt sticks a finger in my bellybutton and swirls it around. I have a death grip on her wrist, but I can’t find the strength to push her away. My brain isn’t letting me. Traitor. I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at the smug grins on their faces.

She stops, though, mercifully. Carl takes the hint and reduces his awful squeezing along my sides. I get about 20 seconds to breathe before Stratt’s hands wander up under my arms for a grand finale. 

“Oh- Christmas Eve!” I yelp. My eyes shoot open and my elbows tighten to my sides, trapping her hands. 

“Oh, I’m stuck,” Stratt says, her bottom lip sticking out slightly in a faux-pout. 

“N-nahano, you’re not stuhuck, just gehehet out-“

“She’s trying,” Carl adds unhelpfully as Stratt wiggles her fingers around in earnest, right into the hollows of my armpits. I’m wheezing. Thank God she’s not doing this under my shirt, or I’d have actually died.

“I think we have a hostage situation,” Stratt remarks, changing technique to scratch her nails lightly up, down, up, down… It’s maddening. Fresh rounds of giggles burst out of me at every motion of her fingers.

“Don’t worry, backup is on the way,” Carl says, bringing his walkie-talkie to his mouth to mime calling for help. It’s not like I receive much help, because then he’s pulling up my shirt and digging one hand, poised like a claw, into my lower belly. 

I’ve always had a slightly soft stomach—no matter how much I work out or ride my bike to work, there’s always a little bit of pudge at the very bottom of my belly under the abs I’d worked hard to maintain. And, of course, Carl abuses this feature. Ruthlessly. His fingers vibrate into the soft skin, making me squeal and my arms loosen to grab at his hands. This action frees Stratt’s hands (where they were never really trapped, let’s be honest). As soon as Stratt is free, they both stop. 

I suck in greedy lungfuls of air. Vaguely, I process that there’s moistness at the corners of my eyes from laughing too hard. I can also vaguely sense that they’re both smiling at me. I tuck my knees to my chest, hide my face, and let out an embarrassed groan. “Ne-never do that again.”

“No promises,” Stratt says. 

“Okay, I’m asking you again—am I expendable? Is that why you’re keeping me around? Because I almost just died—“

“So dramatic,” Stratt murmurs, cutting me off. She’s smiling wider than I’ve ever seen her smile. I stop my flustered rambling, just looking at her smile in awe. I glance the other way to Carl, who’s sporting a similar grin.

i’ve always been a fidgety person—tapping on any surface despite not needing a clearer image, shuffling around when i ought to be standing still, tinkering on something unnecessary while having an unrelated conversation. i know this- everyone who has ever been in close proximity to me knows this; it's obvious if you pay attention to me for more than ∀ seconds. what i did not know was that aliens apparently also have this trait.

ryland's nervous energy manifests differently to mine, which i guess makes sense when you consider he has three less arms for activities, but it's obvious nonetheless—talking to himself when he’s in the middle of something that doesn’t require communication, constantly readjusting his clothing even after telling me he’s comfortable, vibrating his leg up and down if he’s sat down. it's nice to think that, despite the light years of distance between our two worlds and the complete incompatibility of our atmospheres and bodies, we really aren't all that different.

since i developed and began wearing the suit on a daily basis, our fidgeting has become more intermingled. mostly this means we're just tapping each other, but the thinness of the xenonite allows us both to feel textures that were previously unknown to us: my carapace and ryland's flesh. the squishiness of all that protects my friend from pathogens and wounds both unnerves me and intrigues me, but i suppose that he wouldn't be here if it were that inefficient. still, it's pretty gross.

apparently i have a morbid curiosity though, because the objectively disgusting feeling of ryland's skin moving under my claws is not enough to deter me from using him as a distraction item from time to time. like right now.

we're not talking much right now, both of us involved in our own entertainment, but the proximity made available by the suit is still novel and we are not about to waste an opportunity to cuddle, as ryland calls it. i idly rub my hand across the side of his abdomen while i listen to the drama i’m still not caught up on. seriously, how can i have been in space for years and still not have finished my podcast? ridiculous. 

i reach the part of ryland's body where his ribcage ends and his skin is especially squishy. out of interest, i squeeze gently to feel just how much give it has, and ryland makes an alarmingly high pitched noise as he startles in his seat. we both freeze, staring at each other, until i ask, "what the fuck was that?"

"language." ryland says weakly, marking the page in his book and setting it to the side. the speed of his heart tells me he’s embarrassed, and my interest piques. "and, uh- human thing."

i do my best to mimic the human expression of being unimpressed. "you watch me eat. you can tell me what that was."

ryland nods weakly. "okay, i just- i’m ꕷ𐒅𝚋ݬ𐒅𝛤ဌ. um- it's when you touch someone lightly, and they laugh."

"humans can be ticklish?" i screech, standing bolt upright and not caring for how taken aback ryland looks. "how? you’re so soft!" without waiting for an answer, i squeeze ryland's abdomen again and he squirms in his seat, a nervous smile beginning to form. i try tapping at his skin, and the squirming continues. "interesting. humans need even lighter touch to be tickled."

"so how does it work for yOU- hehehey!" ryland starts to ask, when i try to test out scratching gently and he yelps before giggling. it's kind of adorable how he curls up in a poor excuse of a defence. "c'mon, i gotta- it's for science."

i sigh dramatically, because i was totally prepared to tickle ryland like i would an infant eridian, but i guess he has a point. "much harder motions, since we have harder skin. like this." i rub against his arm in what i would expect to be a sensitive manner, but of course, he just nods. "where are humans most sensitive? eridians have places that are more vulnerable; i assume you do too."

ryland narrows his eyes, and i can’t help but laugh. "you’re just trying to get me."

"not just." i wiggle my carapace teasingly, both amused and disgruntled that i’ve been found out so soon. "i'll tell you my places if you tell me yours." i concede.

ryland sighs, and i can already tell he’s gonna go through with it. "alright. for humans, it's here," he gestures at his lower torso—all the squishy bits "here," he holds up his arms and points at the pocket of skin beneath the joint. "and for some reason, here." he lifts his foot and pats the base of it.

that last one makes no sense to me. "you- don’t you walk on that? surely it should be less sensitive, so it would be less painful."

"hey, i didn't design it." ryland grins, and i guess that's true. "your turn."

"eridians are mostly ticklish here," i stretch out one of my legs to demonstrate. "here," i tap the top of my carapace, where the vents sit. "and here." i point at my mouth. "where the body is weakest, at joints and openings." i explain, because ryland looked confused. "can i tickle you now?"

blood rushes to ryland's face, and i suppose the phenomenon of being embarrassed about your sensitivity is not unique to erid. "i don't- hang on, i’ve not had a turn yet!" he folds his arms petulantly. i am again reminded of a baby, though i don’t say this aloud. "where are you most ticklish?"

i wasn't expecting this question, and i shift from leg to leg for a moment in flustered surprise before answering. ".. my vents. where are you?"

"my ල𐒅Էලဌ." ryland gestures to the lower middle of the squishy part of his torso, and i mentally catalogue the word. "for humans, you gotta be pretty light- like this." he taps his fingers against my carapace so gently, i can hardly feel it—though i suppose it wouldn’t be as barely-there if your skin is so soft. 

"i think i was doing a good job." i say smugly, if only to hear the way ryland's heartbeat quickens. "it's kind of difficult not to tickle when i have to be so gentle on your weak sk♬♩♫-!" my words are quickly interrupted by a shriek as ryland darts forward and scrubs at my vents in an alarmingly ticklish manner for a human with such weak hands. i’m so surprised by the sensation that for a moment, i just flail around before i remember that i am considerably stronger than ryland and push him off. "rude!"

ryland, being the awful person that he is, just laughs at me. "that was so cute!" he grins, and i crumple down onto the floor dramatically. "you sounded like a cat."

"well you look like a baby." i retort, giving him a poke in the stomach for good measure. as expected, he squeaks and pulls away. "you’re a pebble. dumb, lanky, and dangerously squishy."

"and you are a ticklish rock." ryland teases, which is probably funnier if you’re a human; to me, this just seems obvious. annoyingly, it still makes me feel a little embarrassed. no- not embarrassed—flustered. "hey, do you guys ever get- like, cosmetic smoothing? like you’re getting polished?"

i tilt my carapace to the side. "yes. it's similar to human hair, since the skin grows back after time." a second later, i realise why he’s asking this question now. "oh- it can tickle, if that's what you mean."

ryland looks pleased. "i knew it."

for whatever reason, his smugness makes me all the more agitated and i scuttle a few metres back to finish my podcast. "i’m sitting here now." i declare. ryland laughs, but he doesn’t protest, and we resume our comfortable silence.

-

let this be very clear: i do not forget things. my memory is unusually good even among eridians, especially so when it's things i care about, so when i start idly tapping at ryland's ribs, it is not because i forgot about his sensitivity—it's because i think it's funny to watch him squirm. he assumes unconsciously that my memory must be similar to his (or maybe he’s just gotten used to me ignoring him completely sometimes and repeats everything he says for my benefit) and so his first instinct is not to complain about me being annoying, but to remind me. i can understand why he enjoyed teaching so much, to be honest. 

"hey- rocky!" ryland wiggles particularly strongly as i move my poking closer to the flat of his stomach. it's a good distraction as any from the fact that his stomach didn’t used to be flat, and wouldn’t be if he had enough calorific intake, but there's not a lot either of us can do about that right now. "that tickles."

i make a show of gasping and putting a claw against my carapace like i’ve seen humans do in movies when they’re shocked. "really? you are ticklish? i can’t believe i forgot!" ryland gives me an unimpressed look, and i just continue my joke. "it's funny because i didn’t forget, and i never forget anything."

"alright, alright- sue me for giving you some grace." ryland scoffs, playful. i’m about to say something very funny about the 'grace' part of his comment, when he scratches hard at the leg i still have resting against his torso and i squeal unflatteringly as i scramble backwards. "i remembered that, didn't i?" he adds, clearly pleased with himself.

"you forget everything, and you still remembered that?" i mutter, shaking my leg out indignantly. "rude and disrespectful."

ryland grins, poking at my carapace teasingly. i know there's no way such light touch might tickle, but i find myself shying from his hands all the same with that familiar nervous excitement. "i mean, with that kind of attitude, you’re basically just asking for it now."

bizarrely, the idea kind of sounds nice. i straighten up in a mix of embarrassment and confusion at this thought, and ryland laughs. "that is not- i am doing- you are wrong and dumb." i settle on eventually, higher pitched than i usually am. "when did you last sleep?"

"uh uh, you can't pull that one on me again." ryland wiggles his fingers in my direction, and i suppress a squeak. why is this getting to me so much? "if you want me to stop, just say the word."

obviously my first instinct should be to tell him to stop, so i can go back to watching mamma mia with him and criticising the logistics of getting married at twenty human years. so- why is it that instead, i don't say anything of the sort? "i am not afraid of tickles." i say in a voice that completely undermines my statement.

this seems to be exactly what ryland wanted to hear, because he perks up even more. "i don’t know, you seem pretty nervous to me." he teases, fingers hovering just above my carapace. i squeak a little at the proximity, and he laughs, which does nothing to quell my embarrassment. "or are you just excited, hm?"

"you're seeing things." i say, focused entirely on how close his hands are to me—it feels like my insides are buzzing with the anticipation. "you need sleep. i watch."

"or, i could just do this." ryland begins scratching at my vents and i shriek in panic and excitement—which is a very strange combination of feelings, but i’m not really paying attention to that right now. instead i’m realising with horror just how much more ticklish the improved version of my suit makes everything now ryland's fingers can just glide across my carapace. "woah, that bad?"

"ye♬♪s!" i squeal, barely within ryland's hearing range. "it- ♩t fuck♫♬g t♩♫♪kles!" there's no way half of my words are making any sense whatsoever, but there's not a whole lot i can do about that when i feel like i’m about to explode. "♪♫♬♩!" 

"that one wasn't even a word." ryland teases, not letting up on my fucking vents holy shit why are his stupid fleshy hands so ticklish? it's all i can do not to smack him in the face and sprint away. "c'mon, you can do better than that."

i do honestly try to say something (mostly insults), but all that comes out is a garbled stream of notes and laughter. listen, okay- it fucking tickles, and i have barely had any contact with another living being for decades, and my brain can't seem to decide whether i love this or need to escape right the fuck now. it's a lot! 

ryland is entirely unsympathetic to my plight—just cooing at me like i’m a child. "uh oh, i think someone's ticklish! coochie-coo, rocky!" i don't think i've ever been more flustered in my life. 

the worst part might just be that i know i can escape if i want- we both know i’m perfectly capable of pushing him off and getting out of there if i want to. so the fact that i’m still here, being tortured relentlessly by a big squishy alien is.. not a great look on me. although i have no idea why i’m so embarrassed about this; we are literally in space. there is no one else for lightyears that might be able to see us!

"this is adorable." ryland says fondly, beginning to slow down a little. i think i prefer this—still pleasantly unbearable, but not so much that it's all i can think about. "i can’t believe this never came up before."

"y♩ou are- you♬♪ abusing this." i complain, still laughing helplessly. weirdly, the lighter touches make it harder to keep still, and i find myself squirming despite my best efforts otherwise. "i w♩ill have rev♬♫nge."

ryland pokes me again, and i squeak even though i barely feel it. "yeah, i’m sure you will, buddy." it sounds sarcastic, but his nervous grin suggests he knows otherwise. 

-

apparently there's a human saying that revenge is a dish best served cold. maybe this is true, in the sense of building up the anticipation would make ryland all the more tense and thus squeakier when i do eventually squeeze him to death, but i’m not nearly patient enough for that. another human phrase is cuteness aggression, which is when they find something so endearing that the brain doesn’t know what to do with the information and decides they need to kill it. when ryland first told me about this phenomenon, i thought it sounded ridiculous, but now i’m listening to his squishy body stumbling around and the way he laughs when he’s excited, and i definitely get it. 

so technically, this doesn’t have to be counted as revenge and i can still serve it cold later on. right now, i need to squeeze this human until he metaphorically pops.

i pounce on him when he’s sat on his bed so i don't actually injure him, and he yelps in surprise. "rocky! jeez, dude, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

"i have a problem." i say, poking his cheek as i do. it's interesting to feel the softness of it compared to the ungiving bones of his teeth behind it, but mostly i’m doing it because i think it's sweet. he kinda looks like a ♫♩♬♫—an animal that doesn't have much of a tough exterior, since it lives mostly underground on erid and thus doesn't need protection against the atmosphere. "cuteness aggression is the problem."

ryland blinks at me for a second, and laughs, the blood rushing to his face in the way i know means he's embarrassed. "you think i’m cute?"

"yes, cute cute cute." i punctuate each word with a poke to each one of his cheeks, both amused and endeared by his reaction to all this. "i’ve done some research about how humans can help this feeling."

"i- alright." ryland grins shyly, and i shift a little so all my legs are free. "what is it?" i give his stomach a quick squeeze and he makes an adorably high pitched noise, eyes widening as he realises. "oh, come on. i’m not- that's not fair!"

i trill happily. "it's so fair. you make cute noises, and i want to hear them." 

before ryland has the opportunity to complain all too eloquently, i begin to scribble at his stomach and he squeals, covering his face in his hands. "rock- rohohocky!" 

"you’re like a little baby." i coo teasingly, tracing nonsensical patterns where his shirt has started riding up and ryland squirms uselessly. "cute cute cute."

"not fahahahair." ryland giggles helplessly, and i very politely don’t point out the fact that he could totally get away if he just asked me to get off. "ihihit tickles!"

i laugh because that seems pretty obvious to me, but maybe it's not as clear to humans. "yes, i’m doing it on purpose. tickle, tickle!" i tease, and ryland whines in embarrassment, beginning to push at my arm halfheartedly—i know his full strength, and this isn’t even close to half of it. "now, i’ve been doing research."

"how- hohohow much rehehesearch could yohou have dohohohone?" ryland complains, pulling his knees up seemingly unconsciously as i start to poke at his hips. i squeeze experimentally at where they meet his thighs, and he shrieks. "NOHOHO- not thehehehere!"

"you didn't tell me all the places humans can be ticklish." i wag a finger at him in mock-disapproval, mostly because he keeps doing it to me when i crash into something in my ball. "i told you the truth, and this is how you repay me? i don't even know if your worst spot is your stomach now, so i need to test."

i pull all my hands back, giving ryland room to breathe as he stares at me in playful horror. his heartrate has increased, but if the way he’s fighting a smile is anything to go by, it's excitement rather than fear. "you’re setting yourself up for a whole lot of revenge, buddy." 

"it's for science! you love science." i wiggle my claws teasingly in the air, and ryland makes a very cute squeaky noise in response. "where should i start?"

when i don't do anything other than wait for a reply, ryland seems to realise i’m actually asking him. "where- you want me to tell you?" he gapes, as if i’ve just asked him to saw off his own leg. 

"well, i could just figure it out myself." i say smugly, positioning my hands over his thighs and chirping in amusement when he twitches. "i’ve heard vibration can often be ticklish for humans, do you want me to test that too?"

"you- it- wait, is it?" some of the tension drains from ryland's body as his curiosity overrides his nerves, and i laugh. "shut up- i didn’t even know that." he grins, folding his arms. 

i tilt my carapace to the side. "wanna see how it feels?"

ryland gestures to himself as if to say go ahead, and i begin to hum at a frequency too low for him to hear, but strong enough for it to rattle my body slightly; manipulating soundwaves is the most common way eridians tickle one another, but since ryland is incapable of doing anything similar, i didn’t think it was that important to mention. apparently i should have brought it up sooner, because the moment my carapace starts to vibrate on his stomach he gasps and claps a hand over his mouth to stifle his giggling—as if i can’t hear it regardless. 

"so? does it tickle?" i ask. it's obvious this is sensitive for him, but i will never pass up an opportunity to tease my squishy friend. 

he nods for a second, eyes squeezed shut, before he takes a breath and his laughter comes tumbling out. "yehehes! oh my gohohosh- sohohoho muhuhuhuch."

"good!" i begin to poke at his his chest and he squirms a little more underneath me. "where do i tickle next?"

"i cahahahahan't." ryland begs, which i guess is just an invitation for me to experiment on my own. after all, i don’t hear him saying no.

i laugh, squeezing gently at his ribs. he squeals, so i just have to keep going. "you can. i believe in you." 

the testing lasts a while before ryland starts to flag, which allows me to learn that pretty much every part of him is ticklish. the worst places seem to be his stomach (at least that wasn't a lie), thighs, knees and ears (ears? that seems ridiculous to me- why should they even have nerves?), but i was able to get at least a giggle from anywhere i tried. as expected, he is utterly adorable in every second of my 'experiment'—curling up in a futile attempt at defence, wiggling around to release some of the nervous energy, occasionally smacking the ground when i find a particularly sensitive area—and it's all i can do not to squeeze him so hard it begins to hurt.

eventually though, his stamina is depleted, and he lays spreadeagled on the ship's floor while i pat his head; i don't know if this is helping him or not, but i like it, so- whatever. "you are disproportionately good at that." 

"yes, i’m good at everything." i say smugly, happy to have brought my friend joy and proved my superiority at the same time—yet another point to rocky on the humans vs eridians scoreboard. "and you are very ticklish." i add, just to tease him a little more.

ryland scoffs, before reaching out and squeezing at my leg. i yelp in surprise and crumble to the ground as he doesn’t stop, a mischievous smile taking over his face. "oh yeah? it's just me?"

i squeal a series of words that are mostly just curses, and kick him off. he laughs at me and i huff dramatically. "you are.. also good at it. somewhat."