time for soft

There’s too much to do. He’s not stupid— at least not more than usual, as Rocky would say. He knows that both of them are a little worse for wear. Maybe a lot worse for wear. But they have to keep going. There are too many repairs to be done on the ship, and if they’re going to make it out of this alive, they both have to keep moving forward.

  Grace shifts in his seat, hand reaching up instinctively to protect his left ribs as he does. Gosh, they’re sore. No matter what way he sits or lies down, or how faithfully he takes anti-inflammatories, his left side is killing him. He’d even lamented as much to Rocky, who told him never to use the words “kill” or “die” unless he is serious. That is, Rocky told him so after Grace witnessed the Eridian equivalent of a panic attack for the first time. It’s not an experience either he or Rocky would like to repeat.

  Not only that, but there’s been a steadily increasing pressure in his lungs, it seems. This rib situation must have irritated the delicate pleura—the lining of the even more delicate lung tissue—and caused his asthma to act up. At least, he thinks he had asthma, maybe as a kid. His childhood memories are among the least clear, but there is something to the sensation of breathlessness, of medication on his tongue, of running, running—

  Nope. Don’t go there.

  “Grace,” says Rocky, from across the room. He’s added some layers of fabric to his usual toolbelt, enough to overlie the places where his many legs hinge. Maybe Rocky is sore too. “You make sounds of discomfort. You are okay, question?”

  "Uhh…yeah bud, I think so," Grace replies, clearing his throat and rubbing at his eyes, as if that could wipe away the memories. Incredibly, it does not help in the slightest. He distantly hears the sound of his friend entering his ball, then clunking over towards where Grace has set up shop for today. Rocky's movements are still slow and uncoordinated-- an odd sight given his usual flighty nature. That ends up being the ticket to snap Grace out of his hair-raising reverie.

  "Oh--hey, hey, don't hurt yourself," he urges, standing from his chair, both knees popping angrily in protest. He meets Rocky halfway, closing the distance and sitting on the floor in front of him. "You still need to rest."

  "Grace need rest too. Heartbeat too fast. Breathing too shallow."

  "Hey, what did we say about using the screen reader on me?"

  "Screen reading device not needed. Rocky hear without assist. Not good."

  Of course he would be paying more attention than usual. Rocky had been limited in energy and movement over the past week, leaving him with only observation and occasional conversation between sleep cycles. Even knowing he would have done the same, Grace can't help but feel a bit irritated. He hates the sensation of being watched at all times. It had been hard enough getting used to Rocky's observance while he sleeps, but at least he's unaware during most of those hours.

  His head gives an unpleasant throb, a building pressure somewhere behind his eyes. Sliding off his glasses, Grace pinches the bridge of his nose, attempting to quell the urge to snap at his friend, who at the end of the day, just cares about him more than anything. Even if it can be in the most annoying way possible.

  "Grace?" Rocky asks warily, inching ever so slightly closer. His carapace drags along the ground as he does, like his legs won't hold him up.

  "Buddy, you gotta rest," Grace deflects easily, now that he has a new focus of concern. "You're not looking so hot."

  "Am hot. Much hotter than Grace. Burned Grace."

  The barely-visible tremor becomes more apparent as Rocky speaks, signaling increasing anxiety. Reflexively, Grace places his opposite hand over the still-bandaged wound. Nothing there that Rocky needs to hear.

  "Not what I meant."

  "Rocky worry worry worry."

  "You don't need to worry, Rock," Grace insists with a smile and a gentle three-beat tap against Rocky's ball. "You just need to heal. Grace worry worry worry."

  Rocky gives a hum equally disapproving and exhausted,  carapace thumping heavily on the ground. With that, Grace knows he has won this particular battle, and gets to his feet.

  "Come on. You go, I'll help push."

  He puts more confidence into his voice than he actually feels. At least, that's what he tries to do. He's pretty sure the jig is up when he has to stop pushing Rocky's ball with a gasp, swearing he could feel his rib sliding in his chest. The thought alone makes him feel woozy, enough to send him to the ground. A precautionary measure, of course.

  Why is he so sweaty?

  "Grace okay? Grace hurt?"

  Rocky. Okay. Focusing on Rocky.

  "I…I'm okay. Just felt weird. It'll pass."

  As he sits, trying his best to breathe and not be sick all over Mary's floor, he can sense Rocky's silent urgency. They both know that Rocky needs to get back to his tunnels--that he never should have left in the first place. He's trying to outrun his sleep cycle again in favor of watching Grace, which they've talked about. Extensively. 

  Rocky's legs seem to want to fail him again, though he does his best to hold himself up.

  "Grace?" he says, voice lowering enough that the computer does not translate.

  I know, I--I gotcha, hold on," he says, still somehow breathless, despite his position on the floor after minimal effort.

  "Rocky sorry. Sorry sorry."

  "Don't--ah, don't apologize," Grace grunts, throwing his shoulder into Rocky's ball, making a bit of progress toward his 'airlock.' "Not your fault."

  "Should not have left tunnel. Statement."

  "Now that, I do agree with."

  At last, they reach the tunnels, and Grace hears the familiar sound of his panel opening. Rocky weakly scoots inside--so weak, it's starting to become alarming. Grace can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, whether from anxiety or physical effort, he cannot be sure. He is sure that it sounds thunderous to Rocky's sensitive hearing.

  "You gonna be okay, buddy?" he whispers in lieu of an apology, still blinking the stars out of his vision.

  Rocky does not answer, the top of his carapace elevating slightly to form the echo-sounds. Grace wishes desperately in this moment that he wouldn't. There's nothing to see here that wouldn't stress him out. Although, who knows what kind of echoes Rocky sees in this state.

  "Grace will watch, question?"

  "Grace will watch, statement."

  To the untrained eye, it would be nearly impossible to tell when an Eridian enters a sleep cycle. Grace supposes he can feel more than see it, as if the consciousness of his friend were tangible, a palpable loss. Or something. Grace couldn't pretend to know anything about that--he has his Doctor of Philosophy in molecular biology, after all. Not a Doctor of Philosophy in…well, philosophy. He couldn't possibly speculate on the nature of souls. But something about the way Rocky lies so still, collapsed in on himself in a way he never chooses to be otherwise--it reminds Grace horribly of the countless days (weeks? Months?) that his friend had spent incapacitated and motionless. A sunlit absence.

  Grace couldn't stay awake to observe then, no matter how hard he tried. His own body ached for collapse beside his friend until it finally happened without his consent. They're both lucky he had been awake enough to start the Taumoeba farms at all. He may have had to crawl to the breeder tanks at first, but by god, did he do it. But he could not do the one thing Rocky needed to feel safe in his most vulnerable moments: observe. He did his best. He did everything he could.

  As always, it was never enough.

  It's never enough.

  --

  The next time Grace opens his eyes, he regrets it. The lights in the lab shine directly into his eyes, sending a jolt of pain through his head. That part of the post-insane-EVA-concussion hadn't quite gone away yet, but even then, this is the worst it's been in a while. He turns away from the light, bumping into--

  Xenonite. Rocky.

  Oh no.

  His eyes shoot open again, realizing with a sickening feeling that he had promised to watch. He had promised, had even said "statement." He had failed again.

  Rocky, for his part, had not moved. He would never know that he was left unguarded, unprotected, vulnerable. Not unless Grace told him, which he is not particularly keen to do. He feels stung by his own betrayal, somehow.

  Not stung enough, apparently, as his eyes begin to flutter closed again.

  Nope!! Nope, not doing that, thank you.

  He forces himself to sit up, leaning against Rocky's barrier for support. Even that small motion makes him breathless, which is unbelievably frustrating. Maybe he really should visit the nannybot. Did he have an inhaler before? Does he need one now? Is there even one on the ship?

  It hardly matters. He is far too exhausted to go all the way there right now anyway.

  "Rock? You awake?" he rasps, and his voice grates in his throat, his chest, his head. It's for the best that he receives no reply--Rocky does not need to see him in this state. He does his best to clear his throat, but the sudden nausea that brings stops him in his task.

  This is…not good.

  He can't remember the last time he felt this awful. Every breath is tight now, pulling at his ribs. His entire being sinks like a stone, as if the gravity had gotten somehow stronger on the Hail Mary. All of him wants to let the crushing weight take him back to the floor, press his cheek against the cool metal, and drift away.

  But he will not do that. Not while Rocky sleeps.

  If he's going to have a prayer of staying awake, though, he needs to get up. Bracing one shaky hand on the xenonite barrier, he slowly pulls himself upright--

  Until his left side screams at him, knocking his breath away, and his legs out from under him.

  He doesn't remember hitting the ground. Maybe he fainted? But he's glad he didn't feel it, because it must have been absolute hell. As he comes back into awareness, his lungs are screaming for air, his ribs fighting against deeper breaths, too much too much too much. He can't breathe, he can't he can't--

  "Grace?"

  Rocky's voice from behind gives him a startle enough to jolt forward, jostling his ribs and his lungs both. The pressure builds in his chest, rising, rising--

  Oh god. Please don't cough. Please don't cough. Please please--

  "Grace okay? Question?!"

  No.

  The next inhale he takes catches in his chest at last, and there's no stopping it-- his lungs spasm, and he's coughing, coughing, coughing--wet and deep and excruciating. Each inhale is won at a cost, a knife plunging deeper. Grace desperately presses a hand to his side, his ribs screaming, slipping--

  Stars in his vision. Head throbbing. Lips tingling.

  Stay awake. Stay awake.

  "Grace breathe!! Grace calm, Grace breathe, breathe, breathe."

  Rocky sounds absolutely beside himself, his voice up at least two octaves from his normal register in his panic. Grace tries to focus on Rocky's trilling, the steady hum of self-soothing just within hearing range. He has to calm down. He has to breathe, or he's going to pass out.

  "Good good good. Grace breathe."

  Tilting his chin up, Grace leans his head back against the xenonite barrier, his own form of self-soothing. His airway is not closed. His lungs are expanding. Yes, his ribs are on fire, but he can breathe. He can breathe.

  He takes a tentatively deeper inhale, and then another, and another. His body still shakes, covered in perspiration, but the stars have gone away. For now.

  "What happen, question?" Rocky asks nervously, still humming the self-soothing tone beneath his words. Grace wonders if Rocky knows he can hear it too.

  Still panting, Grace takes another moment to gather himself. The sleeve he uses to wipe at his face comes away soaked. Does he have a fever? It wouldn't be surprising given--

  His body gives a powerful shudder, which tells him enough.

  "Rocky…" he starts, just as soon cut off by a few more coughs, hidden behind closed lips. The hand cradling his ribs moves slowly to his chest. Surely Rocky can hear the wheezing of his lungs, even if Grace can't.