JUNE OF DOOM

The annoyance bled from his face. His attention sharpened. His gaze flicked between the empty seats, the blood on the floor, the abandoned bottle. He was putting pieces together. There weren’t anywhere near enough people left on the train. Something had happened while he'd been fighting his way back onboard.

“I don’t know if you realised, but I kind of had to improvise after the last stop, on account of that fuckin’ arsehole kicking me off the goddamned train,” Tangerine said, moving more quickly down the carriage. You swallowed past the lump in your throat. 

“I saw.” Of course you saw. You had already sent Maria at least a dozen tests about her goddamned bad luck magnet. If you had known her little pet project was running a job anywhere near Tokyo, you wouldn’t have let the Twins say yes to this fucking contract. Hell, you wouldn’t have even told them about the job.

A cruise, you thought to yourself as you flicked between cameras on your second monitor, ensuring that Tangerine had a clear path ahead of him.  I don’t care what the job is; their next contract is going to be on a cruise, and I’m going to be required to join them. For safety reasons. And I will deal with Maria myself if that pesky little bug of hers is within a hundred miles of my boys.

“Oh, great. That’s real fuckin’ great ta know. You an’ Lem have a laugh about that one while I was trying to get back on the fuckin’ thing?” Sarcasm dripped from Tangerine’s voice.

A steady hand ran through sweat-slicked curls. Blood clung in dark, congealing threads at his knuckles, tugging at torn skin every time his fingers moved. You could hear the strain in the silence between his words more than in the words themselves.

Eyes flicked across the screens, taking in empty carriages, bright lights, a single ticket conductor making his way towards the rear of the train. Your attention snagged on the feed. 

Counting. Empty seats. The blood trail. The locked door at the far end. Something in your chest tightened, sharp and immediate. Of course Tangerine would put it together so quickly. Or at least, would spot enough pieces to know that there was a bigger puzzle waiting for him at the end of the line.

“Stop.”

The phoneline crackled.

For a long, endless moment, you were convinced that the connection must have cut out again. Tangerine kept moving. Relief curled at the back of your mind. If you could just buy a little more time, you could find a better way to deal with everything.

Shoulders back, head forward, Tangerine reached the doors.

“Trust me. You need to turn around. You can still–” Your voice held steady, a tightness beneath it as you forced yourself to remain calm in the face of disaster. You couldn’t allow Tangerine to go through that final door.

“I can’t hear myself fuckin’ think. D’you want me to turn this thing off?” Tangerine snapped, as the door between carriages slid open seamlessly, revealing the empty area beyond. His head remained down, following the dark, slick trail to the closed toilet door – the source of the coppery tang filling the air.

“Tan, please–”

He wasn’t holding his phone up anymore. Not even pretending to listen.

You muted yourself, hand rising to press against your mouth as something sharp tried to force its way up your throat.

You already knew what was behind that door.

You had seen Lemon go down.

You hadn’t seen the shot land, but you’d seen the way his body folded anyway, the borrowed vest doing nothing to change the outcome you’d been trying not to accept. After that, there had been no clean feed – no camera inside the bathroom, no angle, no certainty, just the locked door and the aftermath you could only partially reconstruct from movement, blood, and timing.

It wasn’t enough. None of it was enough.

And that was the problem.

Tangerine couldn’t see it like this. Not with anger and frustration already starting to tilt him off balance, not when one wrong move would send him spiralling. You swallowed hard, forcing your breathing to stay even, because if you lost control now, there would be nothing left to anchor him with when it mattered.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The thought circled around and around in your head.

You had taken every precaution – far more than usual. You had told them both to wear goddamned bulletproof vests, though it would seem only Tangerine listened to you. To take back-up guns along with their favourites. You had slipped a spare pair of brass knuckles into Tangerine’s kit yourself, and extra bullets for Lemon who never seemed to have enough (along with an extra set of Thomas the Tank Engine stickers, just to ensure he didn’t run out of those, either). 

You had watched through the live feed as Tangerine stripped off – just enough to take his own vest off, to press it into Lemon’s hands with a level of insistence and care that would never get old.

Something isn’t adding up. You tried to push the thought down, to dismiss it as no more than wishful thinking, and yet… how had a bullet to the chest taken Lemon down, if he was still wearing Tangerine’s vest?

You forced your attention back to the other feeds, searching for answers.

Screens surrounded you on all sides, the bank of monitors lighting up your room, pulling you back into the space you knew too well. This was where you belonged when the Twins were on a job: tucked away behind the safety of half a dozen screens a thousand miles away in London, waiting for them to come back home.

Two monitors showed eight cameras from the train, rotating through the different views, giving you a steady overview of anyone coming their way. Two more tracked news feeds, weather reports, world events – anything that might shift the environment the Twins were moving through or heading towards. Another sat open to your emails and messages, a constant flow of information and deals and job offers and warnings, all of it traded and weighted and never truly quiet.

A message popped on your main monitor, the familiar name enough to bring a scowl. You ignored it, your focus locked on the feed of Tangerine trying to gain entry through that damned door. 

It pinged again.

You unmuted yourself. You had a job to do.

“Do not open that fucking door, Tangerine. That’s an order.” If it were any other time, Tangerine would remind you that they are freelance contractors. That if anything, he’s your boss; you can’t give him orders. 

Gold glinted around his wrist, chains shifting as he moved. The medallion at his neck lifted briefly when he threw his weight into the door, forcing it open with a controlled violence that left no room for hesitation. Tension thrummed through every inch of him, coiled tight beneath the surface. And still – he hadn’t said a word about his suit.

Not the bloodstains soaking into his collar. Not the missing buttons. Not even the state of his shoes, scuffed and ruined in a way that suggested he’d stopped caring about anything except getting back here. That silence said more than anything else.

“Tan–”

You could tell the moment he saw what was inside. The camera feed remained unchanged – not frozen, the little clock at the corner marching on in the way that time is wont to do. But the man on the other side of the screen was.

Seconds stretched into infinity as he stood in place, unmoving. You wished you could see what he could fully. When at last shoulders went back and he crouched, moving so slowly, with such care, you knew without a shadow of a doubt that whatever state he had found Lemon in was not good.

Something in your chest tightened hard enough to make breathing feel like a choice you might not get to keep making. You forced your hand to stay steady on your keyboard, forced your eyes to keep tracking the feed instead of flinching away from it. 

“Tan. Tan please, pick up your damn phone. Listen to me. Please. You don’t have time for this.” Each word cut that little bit deeper. You hated yourself for it, but you couldn’t afford to lose both of your boys. Not now. Not while there was still something you could do about it.

You watched as Tangerine pulled off his medallion – the one thing you had never seen him without in all the years you had known him. He slipped it around Lemon’s neck, hands moving with a care that never seemed to belong in moments like this. You forced yourself to bear witness to it. Lemon didn’t deserve to go out like this.

“Tan…” 

Words failed you. 

Tangerine didn’t look up. His hand rested on Lemon’s shoulder, fingers curled tight in the fabric of his denim jacket like if he held on hard enough, he could stop it all from being real. Dark curls hung limply around his face, hiding his eyes but not the way his shoulders had gone frighteningly still.

He stared down at the man he had spent more of his life with than without. Lemon liked to joke that you were the other half of Tangerine’s heart, but you both knew that he was the one who truly kept Tangerine grounded – kept him sane. If either of them believed in a higher power, Lemon would be the other half of Tangerine’s soul. 

You watched, helplessness and shame bubbling in your chest, as Tangerine had to be the one to find the other half of his soul slumped in a dirty bathroom nearly six thousand miles from home.

It’s not fair.

You should have been able to do more for them. What was the point of you, if you couldn’t be there to stop this? If you couldn’t help save him? You opened your mouth anyway, searching desperately for something useful to say. Something that could help hold his shattered pieces together.

Nothing came.

The icon in the corner of your screen pinged again, sharp. Loud. Insistent. 

Your jaw tightened. Not now.

Another ping followed immediately after, bright against the dark feed. Demanding your attention while Tangerine sat on the floor beside his brother, looking like the world had just split open beneath him. Like there was nothing and no one left to live for. 

You swallowed hard, forcing your breathing to slow. One breath in. One out. Calm. You needed to stay calm.

One of you had to.

I’ll get him home, Lem. For you.

Your fingers didn’t stop moving as you typed, the loud clacking of keys filling the spaces between the quiet hum of your apartment. Stopping would mean dwelling, and you couldn’t afford that yet.

You could put in an alert for an ambulance at the next station – Tangerine could get off with Lemon, could leave it to the experts to see if there was anything still to be done –  but looking at the routes, it wouldn’t get there in time. And, you realised, you couldn’t rely on Tangerine to get them both off of the train without assistance. And alerting someone… that could pose an entire new range of problems, should The White Death’s men catch wind of a problem with the delivery of his money or heir.

Who else was still on the train? You ran through prebooked seats. A nurse was in carriage 15, but– no, she had departed on the previous stop. There was a teacher still in carriage three. They would probably know basic first aid, right?

No more than Tan would know, you forced yourself to admit, searching, searching, searching for any other way that things could go. You refused to acknowledge that Lemon was far past that stage. Your mind kept circling uselessly through options you already knew were impossible. Too late. Too far away. No signal worth trusting. No miracle coming.

And Tangerine still hadn’t moved. 

You had never seen him like this. Not even in the aftermath of the Bolivia job – one that, for all their bravado, you know weighed heavily on their minds. Could he come back from this? Would he even want to?

You clicked to open the line between you again. “Tan. I need you to get up. There’s a stop coming up in a few minutes. I think, if you can get Lemon off the train… I can call in a few favours. Get someone there off the books to check him over. But you need to get up.”

The screen pinged again.

Something inside of your chest snapped. Heat flooded through you so fast it made you dizzy – anger, sharp and ugly and helpless. At the people messaging. At the train. At the stupid fucking girl who had done this. At yourself.

If you had only been better, this wouldn’t have happened. It was your job to keep them safe. To tell them what to do, and where to go, and how to get the job done. The still figures were burned into the back of your eyes even as you screwed them shut, trying to banish the image from your mind. You had failed them. Had failed Lemon.

You couldn’t fail Tangerine again.

Nails bit into your palms hard enough to hurt. You adjusted your headset, panic clawing higher in your throat with every second he stayed silent. Fuck the job. I’m getting them home.

Switching between lines, you pulled up the number from memory, not bothering to open her messages at all. The call connected on the first ring: M. Beetle.

“What the fuck do you want, Maria?” you asked in lieu of a greeting, eyes flicking between camera feeds. 

“Hello to you too, sunshine.”

“I don’t have time for niceties.”

She paused, no longer than a beat, before asking, “Didn’t you check my messages? I’m calling about a favour.”

Laughter crackled down the line, low and sharp and bitter. You shook your head. “Fuck you. Do you know what your little bug just did to my guys?”

There was another pause. “I’ve been a little busy. I heard that the Twins are on the train.”

“I don’t give a fuck that he’s your favourite. I don’t care that this is his first job after rehab, or whatever fucking therapy you sent him to.” Of course there had been gossip about one of the top agencies top assets taking a sabbatical. Things like that just didn’t happen in their line of work.

On the other end of the line, there was a brief shuffle – papers, maybe a chair shifting, the faint clink of something being set down too firmly. Maria didn’t interrupt. She never did, not when it mattered. You had always respected that about her; keeping someone like Bug operational was no small thing, and it took a particular kind of handler to make that look effortless. 

“If he comes anywhere near–”

“So you know that Ladybug is onboard.”

You hesitated. “Of course I fucking know. It’s my job to know.”

On the screen, Tangerine takes a gun from a second body, emptying the bullets, reloading with ones of his own. 

“Then you should know that he likes to use sleeping powder on his jobs.” 

There was a pause on the line. No more than a beat, but enough that you noticed it immediately. When Maria spoke again, her tone hadn’t changed – but something beneath it had tightened, her careful control beginning to fray. The pieces began to click together: it wasn’t just a courtesy call, or another handler trying to build up favours owed. Clearly, she was worried about her operative, too. “He won’t use a gun unless he has to. Wouldn’t even take the one I left for him. I told him not to use it this time, but…”

“There’s a possibility he might have used it on Lemon,” you finished, eyes wide. Your mind flashes back to Lemon falling asleep on the job – something that you have never seen either of them have to do in all the years that you have worked with them, no matter how exhausted they may be. 

“Last time he used sleeping pills on a job, his target nearly stopped breathing.”

Your hands moved faster than your mind could keep up, pulling up the footage to retrace Lemon’s footsteps. With the two of them having split up to cover more ground, it was possible, between tracking them both, keeping an eye on the other carriages, and trying to track down what the hell had happened with your client’s son, you might have missed something else.

“All we want is the briefcase. At this point, we are willing to split the contents with the Twins and to call it a wash. As far as we are concerned, our client has nullified their end of the agreement. We don’t take contracts stealing from other contractors; it’s bad business.” There was a tightness to Maria’s words that barely registered, your focus lost on retracing every moment back to when the twins first boarded. 

“I can get my guy to your guys if you give me your word he isn’t going to shoot first and ask questions later. I know his reputation.”

Silence hung between you as you finally found it: the moment Ladybug slipped something into Lemon’s water. Your eyes cut to your top monitor, the one displaying Tangerine – barely keeping his broken pieces together, trying to force himself up. To find the strength to do what needed to be done. For Lemon.

Hope sparked in your chest; you tampered it down, forcing yourself to stay calm. There was still so much that could go wrong – still no guarantee that it is the drugs, not the bullet wound, that was keeping Lemon down. Would it be cruel to give Tangerine hope only to snatch it away?

What's the alternative? Pretending you hadn't put the pieces together? Pretending there wasn't still a chance, however small?

If Lemon was alive, Tangerine deserved the opportunity to try and save him. You weren't going to take that away from either of them

“Deal,” you said, running through the calculations. If you could get Tangerine’s attention for long enough, you could get him to listen to reason. Probably. If there was a chance that it could help Lemon. “I can probably manage that.”

“I need more than probably,” Maria said sharply. 

A little incredulous huff fell from your lips. “And you’d have more than probably if your guy hadn’t drugged mine. More than once. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Her silence spoke volumes. You continued watching the footage, pulling up multiple cameras, fast forwarding to see if there was anything else you might have missed. Frustration began to rise as the footage cut out again, the connection struggling to keep up.

“I can’t guarantee anything. Your guy just kicked mine off the train, and then he thinks come back to– a dead body. I’d be more worried if he was thinking clearly right now…” You trailed off as the video feed came back into view, quickly flicking through the cameras to find Tangerine. You bypassed Bug, the teacher still in carriage three, a girl wandering the isles with something stuck to her back. You flicked back, squinting at the screen.

Is that…?

“New plan. Tell him he’s after a girl. Wearing pink; he can’t miss her. She has a train sticker on her back. Have him keep her out of the way while I get the Twins out of there. If you can do that, your guy can have 75% of what’s in the case – but only when the Twins are safe.”

Static filled the line. For a moment,you thought you had lost your connection to Maria, too. “Well?”

“Are you even authorised to make that kind of financial decision?” she asked at last. “That’s a lot–”

“Do you want to get your guy out of there or not? Because I don’t know about you, but our job’s been fucked from the beginning. There will be other jobs.  I can help them rebuild their reputation. But I can’t do anything if they’re…” You swallowed hard, your fury snuffed out in the fact of the real possibility that you might lose them both. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The line disconnected before you could say a word. You took a steadying breath, giving yourself only half a beat, before you, too, clicked disconnect – this time, on the call to Tangerine. You clicked to redial.

On the feed, he didn’t even flinch, thumbing open the revolver and checking every chamber was loaded.

You hit disconnect. Clicked reconnect again.

A hand automatically reached for his pocket. He glanced at the screen. Lowered the phone.

“Shit.”

Disconnect.

Reconnect.

Disconnect.

Reconnect.

Disconnect.

Reco–

At last, you watched the graney figure lift the phone to his ear.

“Not now,” he snapped. No luv accompanied his words, no softening, no little edge of apology. Before he could hang up on you again, you spoke.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Tangerine! I need you to get back in there and– ” 

He didn’t let you finish.

 “I can’t.” The words cracked on the way out. He sucked in a shuddering, wet breath, bloodied fingers tangling in his hair as he shoved dark curls back from his face. For one terrible moment, the mask slipped. Grief flashed naked and raw across his expression before he forced it down again. 

“You need to get back in there.”

“You don’t understand.” His laugh sounded wrong. Hollow. “I can't. Can't you see the blood on that fuckin' thing?” He turned towards the nearest security camera as though you were standing in front of him instead of thousands of miles away. “Lem, he–” 

“He has your vest.” The words landed between you. Silence followed. “You didn’t check his pulse.”

Tangerine stared at the camera. For a moment, you thought the feed had cut out again, or that he might hang up. “You think I don’t know what I saw?”

His voice went quiet. “I know what a fuckin’ gunshot to the chest looks like. I know how much blood there… is…”

His words faltered. You watched his gaze flick back towards the trail running across the floor. Back to the bathroom. Back to the blood. You could practically see him replaying it. The amount smeared across the carriage. The vest. There was a lot of blood – enough to be noticeable, but nowhere near enough for a man of Lemon’s size. “FUCK.”

The following minutes were a blur. Through the feed, you watched as shaking hands pressed to Lemon’s neck, holding it there, counting. Hands moved to Lemons’ cheeks, tilting his head up and back. Tangerine pulled his arm back, letting his open palm fly as he slapped the – dead? Unconscious? – man. 

He scrambled for the phone.

“He’s breathin’ – pulse is weak, but it’s there. He’s not wakin’ up.” Hands pulled at Lemon’s shirt, tearing the fabric without thought. Beneath, the familiar dark fabric of a bulletproof vest came into sight. Fingers probed the hole, searching. Tangerine pulled his hand back. No blood. A laugh echoed, broken and bright and filled with relief, it was a tangible thing. “He hit his head. Fuck. He’s not bleedin’ out.”

Your eyes slipped closed, relief surging through you. You hadn’t lost them. There was still hope. You didn’t allow yourself more than a moment before pressing on. You pulled up the message thread from Maria, scanning the information sent across to you. 

“There was something in the water. Depending on how much he drank, it could wear off anytime between the next fifteen minutes, and the next six hours.” Your mind flashed to the bottle Tangerine kicked an eternity ago, the thing going flying. It had to have been at least half empty, maybe two thirds. He could be out of things for a while longer. 

“I need you to get him to the door at the next station. I’ve called in a few favours. You get him out, and someone else will take care of the person who tried to shoot him.” You were careful with your words, not wanting to give Tangerine anything more tangible to go off of.

Even now.

Despite everything, despite the blood and the panic and the possibility that he had very nearly left his brother lying unconscious on a bathroom floor, some part of him was still trying to think three steps ahead. Still trying to weigh up the costs and the benefits, to protect them both in the long run. 

“Fuck the job. We can deal with the fallout later.”

A strained laugh escaped him. “Love your enthusiasm, luv, but The White Death–”

“Can wait.” The words came out sharper than intended. “What matters more? Your reputation and the possibility of getting fucked over if he finds you? Or getting that headwound checked and getting Lemon somewhere safe?”

For a moment, Tangerine didn't move. You watched your question land.

The briefcase. The son. The job. The White Death.

Years of careful reputation-building, of contracts and contacts and whispered recommendations. On any other day, it would have been a difficult choice.

Then his gaze dropped to Lemon.

There was no decision at all. 

Some of the tension went out of his shoulders. Not because he had relaxed – if anything, he looked more wired than before – but because he finally had something to do. Something tangible. A problem he could solve with his own two hands.

He crouched beside Lemon, sliding one arm beneath his shoulders and another around his waist before hauling him upright. The movement looked awkward, but not difficult. Tangerine barely seemed to notice the extra weight as he steadied Lemon against his side, one hand immediately coming up to check that his head wasn't lolling too badly.

“I've got him.” The words were quiet. Certain. Then he glanced towards the nearest camera. “What's next?”

Relief hit so suddenly that it almost hurt. An hour ago, that question would have sent dread coursing through you. Without Lemon, could there even be a next? But now? Now it was about getting home.

“I've got you,” you said, swallowing around the tightness in your throat. “Both of you. Now move.”

Tangerine adjusted his grip on Lemon and headed for the carriage door without another word. The tension remained in his shoulders, grief and relief tangled together into something raw and ugly and human, but he was moving. Breathing. Thinking.

Lemon's head lolled against his shoulder. 

"You absolute fuckin’ idiot," Tangerine breathed, forehead pressing briefly against Lemon's temple. The insult lacked any real bite. "I’m not lettin’ you outta my sight again.”

You watched them disappear from one camera feed and reappear on the next.

Moving. Alive. Together.

For the first time all night, you stopped fighting the tears. 

If you liked what you read, please consider leaving a kudos or comment on AO3.

"Grace is late." Grace groans, not bothering to pick his head up off his pillow.

"Late for what? We're on a ship in the middle of space where time means nothing, what appointment could I possibly be missing?"

"Trajectory need adjustment again. You promised today."

"It can wait, Rocky. My head hurts." 

"No, Grace take headache medicine an hour ago." 

"And it didn't work. Ergo, still resting. Unless we're going to hit something, I'm not worried about it."

He expects Rocky to leave him alone. Usually, he's pretty good at reading when Grace is grumpy and either goes to work on his own stuff or makes him go to sleep, but he seems a little confused. 

"Why medicine not work, question?"

"I don't know. Medicine's not magic."

"New word." Grace sighs. 

"I'm way, way too tired to explain magic to you." He'll have to remember to do it later, though. He'd be interested to see if there's any kind of Eridian equivalent, or if the entire species is as logical and reasonable as Rocky. 

As much as he's hoping that will be the end of it, Rocky doesn't budge from the door of the dormitory. 

"Can I help you?" he asks, trying for patient but landing closer to "retail employee who is barely restraining physical violence."

"Medicine always work for Grace." 

"I promise I'm not lying to you. I'll come find you as soon as my brain stop trying to get out through my eyeball." Wrong time to use  an idiom, because Rocky trills, anxious and high, at the word choice. "Ow, Rock, stop." He does so immediately, recoiling. 

"I hurt Grace?" 

"Just--the noise. Too loud." 

"Wrong," he decides again. "You hear with ears. Eyes for light. You say headache is hurting eye." 

"Headache makes both hurt. Light and noise." 

"Why, question?" 

"You know what else hurts when you have a headache? Thinking. I'll talk to you later, but I really need some time in the dark and quiet. Please, just go away." It's too late for that, though. Rocky is worked up.

"I won't leave you."

"I wish you would."

"If you are sick, I keep you safe." 

"Not sick, just hurts."

"But why?"

"Why what?" 

"Why hurt if not sick or injured?" 

Grace sighs. "I don't know. Eridians don't have anything like that?" 

"Pain for no reason? No. If leg hurt, then leg is hurt."

"Well, humans are weird." 

Even as frustrated as he seems, and as dubious about the excuse as he might still be, Rocky seems to accept that. It might just be Grace's tone. Still, he doesn't leave, opting instead to sit quietly in the corner of the room, somehow even creepier than his normal sleep patrol. 

Another thing about Rocky: he's not as patient as you'd expect someone who floated alone in space for half a century to be. Every half hour or so, he asks Grace how he's doing, if he needs anything, if his head is feeling better. Unfortunately, as time passes, the pain is getting worse, and every time Rocky speaks, he finds himself less willing to answer than the time before. By the time it peaks, he's curled up in a ball on the bed, the palm of his hand pressed to one eye, breathing slowly and deliberately in an attempt to control his swirling stomach. 

"Grace is awake, question?" 

He groans. "No." 

"Sarcasm. Not funny. How is head pain?" 

"Ugh." 

"Cannot interpret sound. You make a lot of sounds. All mean different things." 

"Means lemme'lone." As much as he feels bad because he knows Rocky means well, he's pretty sure that if he speaks, his head is going to explode, and Rocky will like that much less than a little attitude on the front end. 

Of  course, it's Rocky he's talking to. The more he tries to push him away, the closer he's going to get. 

"Grace slur words. Sound drunk." That's not technically a question, so he doesn't have to answer.  "I know you're not sleeping. Grace ignoring me." Trying to, he thinks, but failing. 

If only Rocky's Eridian voice wasn't, like, the perfect enemy to a migraine: so loud and high that when he got close enough, he felt like he could physically hear the vibration of the sound. Normally, he kind of likes it. At the very least, it's fascinating. Now, however, it's making him feel sick. 

"You can hear me, question?" he asks, sounding a little uncertain, now that he's been silent for so long. Grace has had headaches before, but he hasn't had one this bad since he literally cannot remember when. What he'd so confidently written off as nothing earlier is starting to become a major concern. He's rocking back and forth in his ball, creating a lot of noise with his feet and the xenonite. 

"Grace, respond. Grace please respond." Before he can even shift to offer him a thumbs up to let him know he can hear him, Rocky rams the bed with his ball, causing him to cry out in alarm and pain. It's enough to set the nausea over the edge, and he bolts upright. "If awake, why you ignore Rocky!" he demands, but Grace can't answer. As fast as he can, he shoves across the room to the trash basin and loses what little water Rocky had been able to bully him into drinking today. Rocky screeches, and it triggers another round of gagging. 

"Rocky," he coughs when he's able to take his first breath, "stop."

"You lied! This is not headache. Rocky has seen headache before. Not look like this. Grace is sick." 

"Migraine," he forces through a tight jaw. "Bad headache. Harmless. Hurts." 

"Lie! Not harmless!" Empathy usually comes easy to him, but through the pain haze, he hasn't really been putting himself in Rocky's shoes. The terror in his voice changes that. His best friend, whose biology he knows next to nothing about, is suddenly in incapacitating pain from a condition that has previously only ever made him a little grumpy. It makes sense that he's not going to believe him when he says they're the same thing, and if he were to see Rocky this sick, he'd probably freak, too. Rocky thinks he's dying. Though it's not going to be easy, he has to find a way to convince him of that. 

"Hey," he whispers, breathing hard. "Calm down." It has the effect he's hoping for: Rocky is forced to calm and quiet himself down enough to hear him over his own panic. "This will go away. Just need quiet and dark." 

Rocky hesitates. "How long, question?" 

"Few more hours. I need you to trust me." It's a big ask. He's asking him to ignore every instinct, plus a massive trauma response, just based on his word. If Rocky refuses, he's not sure what he'll do, because this has already eaten up almost all the remaining energy he has. If he continues this conversation, he's going to throw up again. 

"...Deal. " Grace breathes a sigh of relief and blindly reaches out to pat his ball. "Grace need help getting back to bed, question?"

"Yes." He uses the ball to get himself up, then follows it back to the bed, where he lies down once more. "Thanks."

Shouta was a rational man, a realist. There was no way he could swim back to a ship he couldn't even see. There was no way for the crew to turn the ship around to find him. There was just no way.

He was as good as dead.

The waves continued to batter him about, his body bobbing uselessly in the endless sea. Over and over he was plunged under the waves. Over and over he had to fight his way to the surface for even the most pitiful gasp of air before going under yet again.

'It's no use…'

His strength was fading fast.

Shouta went under again, his limbs weak as he desperately clawed for the surface that got further and further away.

He was sinking.

He was dying.

His thoughts drifted to his crew. His scheming captain, Nedzu. The equally scheming navigator, Nemuri. All the young greenhorns they'd taken in recently, half of them still finding themselves getting sick over the side, still struggling to find their sea legs.

Hizashi.

Shouta's hand reached to his chest, where a necklace carrying a gaudy cat pendant lay.

"I swiped it for ya during our last raid! Don't you think it suits you, Shou?"

Maybe there was an afterlife they could reunite in, someday…

Just as his vision began to fade for the final time, something bright entered Shouta's line of sight.

Two glowing orbs of light.

Suddenly, he was ascending, and strangely enough he felt hands hooked under his arms.

Perhaps this was an angel, taking him up to Heaven.

Hah. As if Heaven awaited a man like him…

Shouta breached the surface and what met him wasn't Heaven, but Hell. Nothing but agony as he coughed and retched up the sea water that had entered his lungs. He was totally weak from near drowning and from his earlier efforts to stay above water. He would have sunk beneath the waves yet again if not for the person keeping him afloat.

Wait…

The person?

Shouta finally gained enough senses to find alarm in the arms encircling him, the two glowing orbs right in front of his face. Not orbs, but eyes. Glowing violet eyes piercing the darkness of the storm.

He took in the details of the face before him, the opalescent pale skin, the glittering scales along the cheekbones and forehead, and those eyes- glowing, with irises as silver as the moon.

A siren.

Shouta tensed. Sirens were rare creatures of the deep, known for their hypnotic songs that could drag the most hardened sailor to a watery grave. They were thought to be born of innocent souls who died violently at sea, twisted and made monstrous by their need for revenge. He wasn't sure if he believed all of that, but he knew they were strong and unforgiving, and he was definitely at a disadvantage.

As if reading his mind (and he wasn't sure if it couldn't) the siren spoke up, "I won't hurt you if you don't hurt me," the young sounding, feminine voice sounded clearer to him than it should have given the storm, something otherworldly pushing her words through the surrounding noise.

"…you saved me," Shouta said, his voice rough from coughing up half of the ocean. He was half in awe and half very confused.

It was hard to make out the siren's expression, or much detail about her at all beyond her face, but he thought she must have shrugged. Then, she took his hands by the wrists and wrapped them around her shoulders as she turned from him, prompting him to hold on to her.

As she turned, she exposed the triangle-shaped dorsal fin that protruded from between her shoulder blades.

'Interesting…'

It seemed that this siren intended to help him, but Shouta couldn't figure out why. He'd never heard of a siren helping humans before, and given all that humans had done to sirens- hunting them for sport, putting them on display, using and abusing them then dumping what remained into the sea- he didn't blame them. Perhaps this siren was misleading him, and actually did mean him harm.

But it didn't seem like it.

And besides, it was either trust this unlikely ally, or drown.

Shouta held on as best as he could, and the siren swam, and she swam fast.

He could feel the drag of the ocean around them, feel the power of her slighter upper body trailing into a tail of unknown length as she jetted through the water. More than that, he could see the distance they were traveling as she took him out from the storm and into a calmer sea. The clouds before them began to break, he could finally make out his surroundings.

And up ahead, he could see it.

The Yuuei.

"That's…" he couldn't believe it. He really thought he'd never see the ship, the crew, Hizashi, again. He wasn't one to believe in miracles but damn it all…

The siren surged forward, swimming up to the ship, and Shouta could hear the astounded voice of the young lookout, Tenya, announce their approach and the resounding chaos from the crew. So many faces appeared at the gunwale closest to him that he was surprised those fools didn't didn't tip the vessel right over in their haste.

He couldn't find it in him to be anything but relieved, especially at one familiar face in particular.

"Shouta!? Is- is that you!? Is it really you!?" the cracking of Hizashi's desperate voice had Shouta's throat growing tight.

"Oh my god, it's really him!"

"It's Aizawa!"

"He's alive!"

"Who's with him?"

"Tell the captain!"

"Is that a-"

"Quick, throw the scramble net down!"

The rest of the crew scrambled to get what they needed to pull Shouta out of the water, but he only had eyes for Hizashi. He cracked a tired smile as the loveable fool dove off the side of the ship and swam out to him, boots and all.

The siren keeping him afloat disengaged from him and shied away at the newcomer. He only just started to paddle in place when Hizashi finally reached him. He suddenly found his arms full of loud blonde, salty kisses pressed to his salty face.

"I thought I lost you, I thought I'd never see you again, shit, Shouta, I was so-"

"Zashi-" their heads went under briefly, and then they resurfaced, "-you're drowning us." He wanted nothing more than to embrace his lover right back, but they couldn't do that and stay afloat at the same time.

"Right, sorry," Hizashi chuckled, and Shouta took in the sight of him. He looked so exhausted and yet so relieved, it was a feeling he could relate to greatly.

As the crew dropped down a scramble net to them, Shouta and Hizashi grabbed hold, and Shouta was grateful he no longer had to work to keep himself from sinking. He turned to look at the siren. He hadn't forgotten about his rescuer, and finally, beneath a clear sky, he could get a good look at her.

She was surprisingly young, no older than their new cabin mates, with long purple hair that clung to her scalp and spread out like seaweed into the water. Her face was angular, marked by purple scales that matched her hair, and her ears were pointed. Seeing a siren up close for the first time, Shouta was struck by how human and yet… not, she looked. So close to familiar, and nonetheless kind.

"A siren…" Hizashi gaped in awe. He glanced between her and Shouta, "you saved him?"

She definitely looked bashful at that, shrugging her shoulders. It was quite endearing, Shouta had to admit, and honestly surreal.

"I owe you my life," Shouta said, "I don't know why you did it, but I'm grateful."

Maybe it was rude to question her, but he was honestly curious. Sirens didn't usually go out of their way to help humans.

She considered him for a moment, and then she moved, working her arms more to keep her steady. The tip of her tail rose from the water, the definitive shape of a shark's tail on full display. More interesting, though, was what was on her tail.

A length of fine fishing net had been wrapped around the tail right before her caudal fin began. Attached to that net was a splendid array of glittering trinkets at various stages of decay from being submerged in the water for so long. It was likely these decorations had been retrieved from various shipwrecks, and they all centered on a single theme.

Cats.

They were all shaped like cats.

Shouta's hand found the pendant hanging from his neck. "I take it you like cats?"

"Cats…" she repeated, looking from her collection to Shouta's own treasure. It wouldn't be a bad bet to assume she'd never heard the word before. Not many felines out here for a siren to encounter in the open ocean. She lowered her tail back into the water. "Yeah…I like 'cats,'" she tilted her head, "…and you like cats, too?"

Shouta nodded, "yes, I like cats."

"More like he loves 'em!" Hizashi piped in with a fond smile, "they always get the best of his catches if he sees them around."

The siren's lips twitched in an almost smile. She looked back at Shouta, "well, you like cats. And so do I."

And it was as simple as that.

Shouta found himself giving the young siren a small smile, "thanks, kid. I won't forget this."

"My name isn't 'kid,'" she corrected, looking a little put off, "it's Hitomi."

"Hitomi," he nodded. "I'm Shouta. Thank you again."

She shrugged her shoulders again, looking unsure of what to do in the face of his gratitude.

"Is there anything we can do for ya?" asked Hizashi. "You really helped us out after all! We'd invite you aboard for a drink, but, uh- well…" he gestured to her with a sheepish grin. Probably not a good idea to drag a creature of the ocean onto a dry ship.

Hitomi shook her head, leaning back and beginning to drift away. "I should go, try to stay dry from now on," she said, and Shouta nodded in understanding.

He and the crew waved her off, the more enthuastic of the crew shouting their thanks as the siren swam further out from the ship, her dorsal cutting cleanly through the water.

Shouta finally got himself back on deck, where he was bombarded with more affection than he would normally allow, but for now he welcomed it. Someone let out an exclamation of surprise and he looked out to the sea again.

Out in the distance, he spotted Hitomi, now joined by two more figures in the water, each sporting a head of blond hair. Her pod, he assumed. They must have followed along to ensure her safety.

Buck didn’t know how long it had been since Doug had come back to torment him, but he knew that it was longer than usual. 

This was his chance, a thought popped into him. Escape.

Doug was gone, this was his chance to escape, would probably be his only chance to escape for a while. 

He slowly sat up, every muscle in his body protesting loudly. And even that simple movement had him panting. Fuck. 

At least that last time Doug hadn’t injected him with those drugs that made his body feel like he was being burnt alive for hours from the inside. Now Buck needed to figure out a way to get these ropes off of his arms. Buck couldn’t see the back of him, so he had no idea how Doug had tied him up, but even after multiple days, they were still as tightly bound as when Buck first woke up in here. 

Buck looked around, his neck screaming as he turned his head from side to side, scanning the room. His abs also started screaming from where he was sitting unsupported, causing him to lean on the wall next to him, which also led to his shoulder being on fire as it came in contact with the wall. Fuck… it was taking everything in him to just sit up, how was he supposed to get out of here. 

What had all of the drugs done to him that set his body in agony with every small movement? 

His gaze scanned the room, seeing nothing that could help him get out of here. There was just the old scratchy wool blanket around his legs and the lantern. Doug hadn’t even given him any clothes since he first woke up. And speaking of that, wherever they were, it was freezing. The blanket had been doing little to help. 

Maybe he could pull the ropes apart if he tried hard enough? 

He took a deep breath before doing that. Trying with every ounce of strength and energy that he could find in his body. Only for nothing to happen, just like every attempt he had tried before. 

Ironically, the next problem that Grace has to deal with on their journey to Erid begins with Rocky trying to look out for him.

After the two of them sit down and discuss the timeline of the next few years, and what Grace will eventually have to face at the hands of malnutrition, Rocky insists on learning more about human biology as a whole. Rocky is going to get Grace to Erid alive, he promises Grace with a conviction that has Grace both believing him and feeling slightly concerned, and the end result is that they both end up spending weeks pouring over documents and websites concerning the many different health conditions and potential threats to human life.

Grace volunteers to look through the information on radiation poisoning, of course. That had been a rough conversation the first time around, and he doesn't want to inflict that on Rocky again if he can help it. Despite the eridian's insistence that his brain doesn't work the same as a human's, and that 'trauma' is processed differently, and he's absolutely fine, thank you– Grace had his doubts.

So, one day when Rocky is asleep, he reads through the list of symptoms all by himself. He wants to commit them to memory, just in case there is another issue with the astrophage, or he has to do deep-space repairs outside of the ship, or some other emergency scenario crops up. If he starts developing symptoms in the aftermath, he wants to know what they mean.

It feels a bit overkill, actually preparing for such a scenario, but by this point he knows better than to underestimate the danger that space can pose to them. This feels like a healthy paranoia, rather than an irrational one.

It's at that point that he gets thinking - what would radiation poisoning look like in an eridian? Something similar to what you'd see in a human, probably, based on the limited descriptions Rocky had given him when discussing the fate of his crewmates. And, if it affects eridians like it does humans… maybe there are long-term effects to be wary of, too.

Maybe Rocky would end up experiencing long-term effects.

Sure, he had been shielded by astrophage and then by Tau-ceti, but what if he'd still been exposed for long enough for it to do damage in a way that wouldn't be immediately noticeable? What if he'd been injured, and neither of them had realised it?

No. This wasn't a train of thought that he would entertain for any longer. Grace shakes himself – he was being paranoid, and that was all.

Just in case, he asks Mary to check Rocky's vitals, a function that they had spent painstaking hours setting up when Rocky had first become a permanent member of Mary's crew, and, naturally, all is well. If there was anything wrong, they would have noticed by now, Grace tells himself again, trying to combat his worries with logic. Rocky had spent decades by himself. That should have been more than enough time for any problems to show up.

Still. Grace can't shake the feeling that something very bad might be about to happen.

He looks over at his friend. Rocky still has hours left of his sleep cycle, if previous times are anything to go by. Grace moves closer, looking down at his friend. It's impossible to tell anything about him when he's like this. There's no movement while they're in this state of paralysis, not like you'd get with a sleeping human. In fact, grace can picture an eridian looking exactly the same way if they were–

No. No. He wasn't going to think about anything like that. Mary had checked, and Rocky was fine, so Grace was going to get up, return to the computer, and finish his research. Then, he would put the whole morbid topic behind him.

Grace doesn't get back to his feet. Instead, he leans forwards, pressing one hand against the pane of xenonite closest to Rocky.

He'll get back to work in a few minutes, maybe. Taking a break for a little while longer won't hurt.

—

The checking becomes a habit. An innocent habit, but not something that Grace can deny is increasing in frequency. It'll get to the halfway point of Rocky's sleep cycle, or thereabouts, and Grace will find himself gravitating towards the eridian, sitting beside him, making sure that he is close enough to notice if something goes wrong.

Initially it's purely for Grace's benefit, too. When the spiralling thoughts become overwhelming, walking over and sitting next to his friend provides some level of relief. Mary can tell Grace Rocky's vitals, and Grace can sit there, waiting – hoping – for his friend to wake up sooner rather than later.

Rocky has only woken up a couple of times when Grace has been sitting there, having been unable to pull himself away again, and he hasn't had any questions yet. If anything, he has seemed pleased by Grace's proximity. It's probably an eridian thing – Rocky has always maintained that he should watch grace as closely as possible when grace is asleep.

Grace takes it as a sign that it's fine to continue as he is. He's doing a good thing, really, if it can provide his friend with even more comfort than usual.

—

He has taken to recording the length of time that Rocky spends asleep. It's a precautionary measure, and even if he feels a little weird for doing so the first time around, he can't convince himself to stop. If there did end up being something wrong with his friend, he wants to be able to know about it as soon as possible.

—

When he ignores the urge to check on Rocky, Grace starts to get antsy. It feels like he has an itch under his skin that he can't scratch. Not with logic, at least.

The last time he'd felt like this had been before Stratt had given him that impossible choice. With so many lives at stake, he found himself going over and over the same sets of results, double and triple checking the numbers.

Then, there had been no relief for it, or at least no time for him to find any. Now, there is, so why shouldn't he indulge? His actions aren't hurting anyone.

Grace goes and checks on Rocky.

—

He can't stop thinking about it – about what his life would be like without Rocky.

It would probably be cut short, Grace thinks. If Rocky dies on the way to Erid, he probably won't make it through the last couple of months of travel, not if their research is accurate. This, however, feels like the least concerning part of the whole scenario. Death might be kinder than having to carry on without Rocky, because Grace would have to carry on, or else carry the weight of condemning all of Erid to a cold death.

All those deaths on his conscience, and yet he still keeps cycling back to the thought of losing his friend. The idea of failing Rocky somehow makes him feel worse than the idea of failing an entire planet.

—

Rocky has been asleep for an hour longer than on average. It's almost the longest time that Grace has recorded rocky sleeping for, period. In only ten more minutes, it will beat the record.

The ten minutes drag past.

The thirty minutes after those seem to take even longer.

Grace must check in with Mary at least a dozen times (an estimate he would triple, if he were thinking rationally, which he isn't). Eventually he resorts to pacing, filled with too much nervous energy to continue sitting beside his friend, walking back and forth beyond the barrier that separates the two of them.

He knows how punishing the eridian atmosphere is for humans, has the burn scars to show for it, but he still finds himself fixating on how he might find a way to face it again to get closer to Rocky. Rocky is working on a solution to increase his mobility in Grace's environment, but Grace has no way of doing the same in Rocky's. Until now, he'd never thought about this problem, and now that he has he can't help berating himself for the lack of foresight.

Maybe Grace can build something. He may not be an engineer, but he's a fast learner. Maybe a robot…? But, no, any materials he has access to either wouldn't be able to survive the heat and the pressure, or are in limited supply. He needs xenonite. He needs Rocky–

Movement catches his attention.

Eridians can pull themselves from their sleep-state fairly quickly, but still need a little time to reorientate themselves after waking. Rocky, obviously sensing Grace's distress, manages to be up on his feet in half the time that he usually is.

Grace is already down on his knees beside him. "Rocky!" he exclaims, not making any attempt at all to keep the relief from his voice. "You're okay!"

"Of course Rocky okay," Rocky replies between clicks, obviously trying to get a good 'look' at Grace, just as Grace is carefully inspecting him for any signs of injury or distress. "Grace heart organ go fast fast fast – danger, question?"

Rocky's moving around just the same as he normally does, his movements smoother than any rock-spider's had any right to be. The notes that made up his voice sound as steady as ever. From the outside, everything seems to be fine.

"Grace think something is wrong with Rocky, question?" Rocky probes, seeming to notice the scrutiny.

Rocky's second question has Grace realising that he never responded to the first, and how selfish was that? Rocky didn't deserve to be dealing with all of this, and just after he had woken up, too.

"No, bud, I'm sorry," Grace says in a rush, "there's no danger. You just scared me a little, that was all. But it wasn't your fault. You just were asleep for a long time."

At that, Rocky hums. "Not long," he says. "This many seconds is still within normal range for eridian rest-cycle. Grace know this, statement."

He scuttles forwards, tapping one claw against the xenonite. "Grace leaking," he says, quieter.

Grace is. At some point the tears had started, and he hadn't been able to summon the willpower to stop them. He feels exhausted, despite not doing anything but sit next to Rocky for the past few hours. All this worrying, and for what? What would he even have done if something had gone wrong and Rocky had needed help? All he has done is make both himself and Rocky more stressed.

"Grace explain," Rocky eventually says. It isn't a demand. Grace is very familiar with the tone of a demand. "Grace explain, then Grace stop leaking."

Grace explains. To the best of his ability, at least. He tells Rocky about his worries, about his research – at some point, he even confesses to the collection of data he has been keeping on the duration of Rocky's sleep. It all comes out at once, a flood of information that Grace could do nothing to stop even if he wanted to.

He doesn't want to, though. Saying everything out loud makes the whole situation seem different somehow, as if he's seeing it from a different perspective.

"Many many many concerns," Rocky says, after Grace has finished. "Some can fix, some no can fix. We sort one group from the other group. Grace Rocky work together, then no more concerns."

He makes it sound so simple that Grace can't help but laugh. It's a real, genuine thing, and he isn't expecting it, so he starts crying again. Rocky starts berating him for leaking again, and Grace laughs harder, and the conversation has been well and truly derailed – but Grace feels lighter for it. Maybe he'll never reach 'no more concerns', but maybe things will be okay anyway.

After so long spent fixated on the idea of life without Rocky, he had forgotten to consider what life might look like with Rocky in it.

---

the prompt may have gotten away from me a little... i was originally planning on having rocky die en route to erid and writing about how grace would/wouldn't deal with that, but MagicalStardust suggested a 'grace dealing with OCD' fic and here we are. rocky dodged a bullet, there. and got hit by a different, OCD-shaped bullet.

“I had to make sure he’s fine. And on my way here, I just… I panicked, okay?”

Their words didn’t make sense; neither did the look of slowly dawning horror on his face. Something was missing. Something between the two, written in guilt and anger she didn’t understand. 

“I don’t understand,” she signed.

He turned to face her.