whump sideblog

Rocky has not been doing well. 

Since Adrian, he's been spiraling. Between Grace almost dying, almost dying himself, and the reality that, now that they've found the predator, he's facing another long journey alone, where he will be greeted by 22 families that have been waiting for their loved ones only to step off the ship alone, he's barely coping. Anything and everything seems to set him off. 

It had started small. He seemed off at breakfast. Quiet. That wasn't like him. Rocky was always chatting about something. It worried him, especially given how recent his injury was, and knowing that Eridian illnesses could enter through damaged exteriors and open wounds. Could something be wrong with him?

"You're quiet today. Feeling okay?" he asked. Rocky perked up, confirming just how lost in thought he'd been. 

"Yes," he replied. "Feel good." Weird, again, that he appeared to want to leave it at that. 

"Whatcha thinking about? You seem kind of far away." 

"Thinking about home," he replied honestly. Grace grinned. 

"Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do when you see Adrian for the first time? I bet they'll be waiting for you the second you get off the ship." That didn't go over the way he thought it would. Instead of excitedly jabbering about Eridian greetings, his carapace hit the bottom of the ball in despair. "Hey, you okay? Did I say something wrong?"

"Many... many Eridians will be waiting at bottom of ship for loved ones." 

Grace didn't respond immediately, unsure what to say. "Oh." 

"Rocky will have to say whole crew died. Will have to say 22 times. Is going to hurt everyone." His vents opened audibly, rapidly, three times. "Worse. Rocky will have to say whole crew died but Rocky survive."

"Woah, Rock. That's not worse. That's so much better. You have to see that you living is better than everyone dying, right?"

"Why Rocky? Rocky only?" 

"We talked about that. It was just luck. Your workshop was the closest to the fuel. Just how the ship was built."

"Ship was built stupid." He was mad. 

"I know how you feel. On Earth, we call it survivor's guilt. The feeling that it's not fair that you lived when other people died."

"Is not fair."

"No. It's not." Grace inched closer. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're alive. And Erid will be, too. Yeah, they're gonna be sad. What happened is a tragedy. But they're gonna be happy that you lived." He placed a hand on Rocky's ball, feeling the cool xenonite beneath his palm. After a few seconds of holding it there, Rocky leaned into the pseudo-touch. He stroked his thumb over the smooth surface as if that would do anything to comfort him. They sat like that until Rocky pulled away, asking Grace to finish his breakfast so they could get to checking the taumoeba farms for the day, and Grace didn't know what to do other than agree.

 -----

Things got worse from there. Soon, general bouts of depression turned into rampant, uncontrolled anxiety that he didn't seem to know how to calm on his own. Sometimes, when Grace would ask him if he wanted to watch a movie, he'd decline, saying he had something else to do, only for Grace to find him pacing back and forth in his tunnels. He started saying self-deprecating things, implying that he wasn't working hard enough or fast enough. For whom, Grace wasn't sure, and he never wanted to explain it. He stopped seeming happy about going home and more like he was dreading it. 

Grace knows the signs. He worked with kids, after all, and kids are just tiny adults with big feelings they don't know how to regulate, yet. What a lot of teachers might treat as misbehavior and disobedience, Grace recognizes as distress. Behavior is a roundabout and often misguided way of fulfilling needs, and he's gotten pretty perceptive. 

So when Rocky's behavior changes so drastically, he's on top of it in real time. 

They were in the lab when he looked over to see that Rocky had lost focus, something he never used to do. In fact, he found it annoying that Grace did it so often, even when it was just because he was tired or hungry. But here he was, fussing with the same breeder tank so fervently that the xenonite barrier was too thick to possibly use, going over and over the same spot with his tools. 

"Rock?" he called. "I think that one's finished, bud." 

Rocky snapped back to the moment and hummed in annoyance. 

"This one no good," he said, tossing it aside more aggressively than needed. "Rocky make wrong. Start over."

"We have a lot of tanks. It's okay if you want to take a break for a little while." 

"Rocky can make more tanks. More is better." 

"Let me rephrase that: I think we should take a break for a little while. I need another cup of coffee, anyway. Want to come with me?" 

Rocky hadn't left his side in days. Normally, he encouraged Grace's breaks--they're the only thing standing between him and being too stupid to function--but this time, he shook his carapace.

"We should check tanks again." 

Grace frowned. "Again? We checked this morning; they're fine." 

"Taumoeba need tank transfer soon."

"We agreed to do that tomorrow." 

"What if tomorrow is too late? Should check now. Just to be safe." 

Grace sat on the floor to be at his level. He wasn't sure if that meant anything to Eridians, but it made him feel better. 

"What are you afraid is gonna happen if we let them sit until tomorrow?"

"Taumoeba could die. Could eat astrophage too fast and starve."

"And then what?" 

"Not enough to send back to Erid and Earth. Stars die, planets die. Fail fail fail." His legs began to scuttle around, causing his ball to rock quickly back and forth. "Crew die for nothing. Rocky Grace die for nothing. Fail fail fail." 

"Hey, hey. That's not gonna happen."

"Grace just making excuse to be lazy. You don't know future." Strange little dig aside, Grace had been on both ends of this conversation many times, worrying about distant hypotheticals. 

"No, but neither do you, and working yourself into a panic attack about it isn't going to make anything better. So let's just take a second. You're safe, alright? Everything's okay. The taumoeba are alive, the stars are alive, and we're alive. Focus on that."

"Panic attack, question?" 

Grace had used the word before--he'd had enough of them, after all--but this was the first time he'd used it in relation to Rocky. It was the first time he'd needed to.

"I think so, pal. You're stuck in a situation that hasn't happened and probably won't. You've got to get yourself out of it, and the best way is to focus on what's happening right now. What can you see around you?" 

"Grace," he replied. 

"Good. What else?" 

"Microscope. Benchtop. Lots of trash on floor."

"Is that an insult?"

"Rocky also see trash can. Empty." Grace chuckles. 

 "Yeah, yeah. I get the hint. I'll clean it up today." The grounding seemed to have worked, or at least Rocky was now calm enough that he wasn't running in place anymore. "You okay?" 

"Yes. Feel better. Thank."

"I'm glad. And hey, I know this is a stressful time. I don't need to remind you all the times I've broken down in front of you, so if you ever feel like that again, talk to me. I'm here."

To his surprise, Rocky takes him up on that. As his panic attacks continue, he remains open about them with Grace. Part of it is because of their severity. Grace suspects that if they were on Earth, he'd probably be managing them with some combination of medication and therapy, but they aren't, and he can't. They don't have medicine--Grace doesn't even know how something like that would work--and, though he's a good teacher and knows how to deal with these kinds of things as individual episodes, he's no therapist. The best he can do is mange them as they come. 

They work out several different techniques from focusing on surroundings to a call and respond tapping game on the xenonite. Soon, Grace finds himself talking Rocky through some emotional issue, whether it's a panic spiral or a particularly strong spell of grief and dread, nearly daily, sometimes more. Of course, he doesn't mind. There's nothing he wants more than to be there for his best friend. It's hard to see the guy struggle so badly. But that doesn't mean that helping isn't hard, too. 

Caretaker burnout. He'd gotten it as a teacher, from time to time, especially when he had a kid in his class with especially difficult home circumstances. Those were his kids. He loved them. He couldn't just stand by and watch them struggle, so he ended up opening his classroom early and giving out granola bars to the kids who didn't get breakfast, staying late to give a quiet space to the kids whose parents fought too loudly every night for them to focus on homework. On his lunch break, he dimmed the lights and let in anyone who couldn't deal with the loud, bright cafeteria. Never once had he regretted those things, but he went home every night exhausted, and spent his holiday breaks too tired to really enjoy them. 

Now, Rocky needs the same support, but it's even more difficult. The kids went home at the end of the day, plus they usually have family and peers to lean on to fill the gaps that Grace couldn't. He lives with Rocky, meaning that he's on call 24/7, and he's all he's got. Not to mention how guilty he feels for feeling that way about it, even if it's just a little bit in the back of his mind. 

Their dynamic starts to become a little... codependent. Rocky needs to be around Grace to feel safe. Grace needs to be around Rocky to feel that Rocky is safe. Because of this, they rarely spend any time apart anymore. The personal space that Grace had craved so badly when Rocky had moved in now becomes an impossible thought for both of them. 

The only time they can't be together is when Grace is sleeping. This becomes a problem, because Grace needs about three times the amount of sleep that Rocky does. Every 16 hours, Grace lies down in bed, Rocky above him in his bulb, and they mutually feel as though they're leaving behind a lover when they go off to war. 

The solution? 

They do not find one. But they have to do something.

So, Grace stops sleeping. 

Well, not stops. Not entirely; he can't. But he starts pushing himself to stay awake until his eyes are so heavy he can no longer keep them open, then waking up a few hours later and forcing himself out of bed to start the day rather than rolling back over and finishing his sleep cycle. When he starts to sleep longer and longer as he becomes progressively more exhausted, he begins setting four and five hour timers so Rocky knows exactly when he's going to wake up and can feel more in control. It's not healthy, not for either of them, but it's comforting, and without pressure to do the good hard thing, people usually settle for the maladaptive easy one. 

They've been doing this for about three weeks. Really, both of them had expected to be on their respective ways back home by now, but after Planet Adrian, they both needed time to recover. Grace's burn still hurts all the time, and Rocky is not well. They agreed not to part until they both healed, and, while they've been running hard, it appears to have just led them in circles. 

The sleep deprivation has been brutal. Lately, Grace is always, like, an hour or two away from straight up hallucinating. He can no longer deny that he's hiding so much from Rocky that at this point, it's bordering lying. When he stumbles from a dizzy spell, he blames his shoelaces. Despite a general lack of appetite, he forces himself to eat just enough to keep Rocky from worrying. He's drinking so much coffee to stay awake that the taste is starting to nauseate him a little. Rocky knows something is up, but since he'll only feel guilty if Grace tells him he's staying awake to keep him company, Grace doesn't tell him much, which makes his anxiety worse, resulting in Grace needing to stay up even more. It's a sort of martyr Olympics in which they're competing to come in last place. 

It all comes to a head one night. Well, Grace is calling it night, because he hasn't slept in almost 48 hours. Rocky is working in his bulb on--something. Grace isn't really sure. Rocky probably told him, but he either forgot, or he wasn't focusing hard enough to retain it. He's sitting at the benchtop, eyes shut because Rocky can't tell. Everything aches, bone deep and nagging, and the fact that he's shivering from exhausted chills is exacerbating the pain. 

"Rock," he rasps, voice dry and hoarse from being awake so long, "I'm getting really tired. Think it might be time for bed."

Somehow. Grace has no idea how. Without eyes nor any reference point for puppydogs. Rocky gives him puppydog eyes. 

"Or not," he quickly corrects. "Only if you're okay."

"Few more hours, question?" Rocky asks. It's only been three hours since his most recent anxiety attack, and Grace doesn't blame him for still feeling iffy. It's just... Grace does, too. And it's starting to feel kind of urgent. 

"Sure. Of course." He's not sure what he's even going to do for all that time. There's nothing to work on, really. He supposes he can just pre-label tanks as Rocky makes them. That's easy enough. Faced with the thought of another several hours of work, he pinches the bridge of his nose to try to relieve the headache that's been bothering him almost constantly for the past week. It's spiking, now, begging for unconsciousness. 

"Grace is hurting, question?" 

Tread carefully, Grace. Don't lie to him, but don't make him worry. "Nah. Just a little headache. Nothing I can't handle." 

"Need medicine, question? Food? Water?" 

Everything but sleep, he notices. Rocky wants so badly to take care of him, he really does. That's part of why he can't leave him alone. 

"I'll be alright. Might just rest my eyes for a minute. Won't fall asleep, I promise." He stands from his chair with the intention of sitting on the floor leaning against the tunnels, and everything goes black for a moment. It's not enough to knock him out, thankfully, but it's disorienting and a little scary nonetheless. He grips the benchtop as an anchor, leaning into it for the few seconds that his knees feel weak. 

"Grace?" 

"Fine," he dismisses. "Maybe--gonna get some water." 

He trusts that his vision will clear as he takes a blind step toward the dormitory, and it does. Rocky scuttles through the tunnels, keeping pace. 

Grabbing a water pouch from the drawer, he sticks the straw in and plops down on the floor a little harder than he intends to, which hurts his aching joints. Rocky is right behind him. As much as he wants to just lie down here and sleep, Rocky's anxiety is thrumming through his body, making his carapace tremble. 

"M'good, Rock. Dehydrated, probably. You know I'm bad at drinking water." All of that is true, even if it's not the whole picture. 

"Sit and drink until feeling better. Grace work hard." 

At least he acknowledges it. 

"Thanks. I'll be back at it in a minute." 

"Not rushing. Work can wait." Sure, it can. Because the work isn't the problem, just the outlet, and, even if he's too wrapped up to admit it, Rocky is too smart not to know that. 

"You doing okay?" 

"Why, question?" 

"I don't know. Just like knowing if you're okay." 

"Grace is worried, question?" '

Grace hesitates. "Well, yeah. Of course I am. Always."

"Hm. Explains why heart is beating fast fast fast." Oh. Maybe that's why his chest feels tight and his head is still spinning even though he's sitting. "Been many hours since Grace last eat. Not hungry, question?"

"Not really. My stomach feels a little weird. Kind of nauseous. The water is fine for now."

He changes the subject as nonchalantly as he can, not wanting to answer further questions, and Rocky seems eager to talk. It's nice. Like he's being his usual, chatterbox self. The only problem is that paying attention to the conversation at all is taking a lot of effort from Grace, and he doesn't really have the energy to spare. Lucky for him, Rocky can't see whether his eyes are open or shut, so he's closing them and not moving beyond feverish chills, conserving energy like a lizard in the desert. It serves the secondary function of shielding his sensitive eyes from the harsh light that's making his head pound. It's been a while since he's let himself get so tired he feels like he has the flu, but that's certainly where he's at, now. 

He'd be content to sit here like this for another two hours until Rocky feels safe enough for him to sleep, but Rocky needs a way to channel his energy. When he finishes his water and sets the pouch down, Rocky leans toward him. 

"How head feel, question? Water helping?" 

"Uh, a little. Still hurts." Really, the water didn't change much of anything. 

"If Grace need sleep now..." That's a nice offer. He'd be happy to take him up on it, but he seems so sad.

"As soon as we check the breeder tanks again. Deal?"

Rocky holds his fist against the glass to bump. "Deal." 

The faster they get through this, the sooner he can get to bed. 

This time, when Grace stands, he does so slowly. That doesn't mean he doesn't still need to keep his hand against Rocky's tunnel to stay upright. 

"Grace drink more water, question? Still wobbly. Shaking." 

"Tired wobbly, cold shaking." He pulls his cardigan tighter around himself, but it doesn't help. The call is coming from inside the house. It's so bad he's starting to wonder if he really does have a fever. Can you get so tired your body interprets it as a foreign threat? "Hop in your ball, Rocks.Breeding tank room time." 

Excitedly, Rocky complies, then leads the way to the tank room. The further Grace walks, the more it becomes apparent that he's Really Not Feeling Well. If he were to be given a sobriety test right now, he's pretty sure he'd fail, because walking in a straight line is almost impossible. His feet are clumsy and heavy, head spinning. Rocky either doesn't notice or thinks that ignoring it is the polite thing to do. Still, the only thing that's going to soothe him is knowing that everything is secure and stable before Grace goes to bed, so he's fine with pushing. Surely, he can hang on for the half hour or so it's going to take to inspect the tanks to Rocky's satisfaction.

By the time they reach the tank room, Grace is nauseated. Whether it's the vertigo, the lack of eating, or just sheer stress, he's not sure, but it's bad. Bad enough that he really needs to sit, to focus on breathing through it. Two things he can't do without Rocky noticing. Mind over matter, he says to himself. Just a little while longer. He shivers again. 

"God, I'm freezing."

"Mary broken, question? Temperature broken?" 

"No, I think it's me."

"Ah. Grace is broken."

"I'm not broken. Can't I just whine for a second?" 

"Oh! Grace need whine! Whine as much as you want. Rocky listen."

"Thank you, but that was it. Just cold." 

"Need sweater." 

"Wearing it." 

"Stay here. Rocky return soon."

Without explanation, Rocky rolls away, only to return a few minutes later, one corner of his quilt sticking out of the mesh airlock as Rocky holds it. He's awkwardly making his way toward him, rolling over the fabric over and over as he goes. It's a little slow, and a little sad, but Grace waits patiently until he drops the blanket at his feet.

"No need whine. Rocky fix." 

He laughs. "Thank you. That was very nice. You looked insane rolling like that, by the way. It was kind of threatening." 

"I am scary space monster." 

"You are silly cat toy."

Nevertheless, he gratefully accepts the blanket and drapes it over his shoulders. He has to admit, it does help. He feels a lot warmer. With that squared away, he begins inspecting the tanks.

He thinks he can survive half an hour, but fifteen minutes go by, and he's flagging. His hands are trembling so badly that he can barely read his own handwriting, and the strong smell of the permanent marker is so overwhelming that he has to put it away. His stomach is churning. He fumbles with the next tank he picks up, and it hits the floor. 

"Careful with tanks," Rocky scolds. "If crack, taumoeba escape." 

The nausea is blinding, now, and so is the lightheaded feeling. He heard what Rocky just said, but replying is out of the question. All he can do is shut his eyes and take deep breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth. However, the lack of response is uncharacteristic. When Rocky doesn't get the sarcastic quip he expects, he stops working and turns. 

"Grace hear me, question?"

He can barely manage a nod. With sweat now budding up everywhere on his body, Grace sheds his cardigan and blanket, letting them fall to the floor below him. 

"Something is wrong," Rocky says. It's not a question. 

His heart is pounding. It's making his ears ring. Okay, he can handle this, and he can do it without making Rocky panic. He just has to get to bed and sleep.

"I need'a lie down," he manages. "Not feeling so well." 

"Grace need medicine?" Rocky asks. Actually, Rocky has a point. The med bay is closer. 

"Yeah," he forces. 

"Rocky lead the way." He sets off down the hall, but he doesn't understand how really not well Grace is feeling, and he doesn't wait for him. He blindly follows Rocky by sound alone, one hand trailing down the wall to keep him on a straight path. 

"Rock, slow down," he calls. 

His vision is not coming back online like it had the first time. He wipes sweat from his forehead and staggers forward two uncontrolled, unbalanced steps. 

"Wait, please. I can't keep up."

"Grace need medicine now now now."

Each step threatens to be the last one he can take. No one can say he doesn't make an honest effort, but his exhausted body has nothing left, and he stumbles to a stop against the wall. At that, Rocky finally stops and turns around.

"Grace?" 

Rocky's voice is muffled, like Grace is at the bottom of a lake and Rocky is peering down from above. He isn't sure if he makes a sound as his eyes flutter shut and he collapses. 

----

The faint is quick, or, at least he thinks it is. Not enough time for Rocky to go get Armando, anyway. Instead, he's panicking beside him in his ball, tapping on the xenonite ball trying to wake him. Grace groans. Everything hurts, now both from exhaustion and impact bruises. 

"Ugh." 

"Grace? Grace can hear me, question?" 

"Yuh," he tries, missing the syllables he wanted to hit by a mile. "S'rry. I c'n. Hear." 

"You need say word better. Cannot understand." He clenches and unclenches his fist to reorient himself with his body, then moves to sit up. "No sit up yet!" 

"S'fine, Rocky." Grace pushes himself up onto his arms, fighting shaking elbows, and balances upright. He's pretty sure he's swaying a little, given that his equilibrium is telling him the ship is rocking like Stratt's Vat, so he scoots to the wall and rests his back against it. 

"Rocky could not wake you up. Unconscious." That's a word Rocky learned pre-fishing, as a warning about what might happen to Grace in 6G, but this is not one of the intended applications of it. 

"Sorry. I didn't mean to do that." 

"Why happen, question? Gravity is same." 

Grace sighs. This isn't a conversation he wants to have. He looks up, wishing he'd seen this coming (he should have) and prepared a way to phrase it where Rocky won't blame himself. Maybe there isn't one.

"It's, uh, not a huge deal. I'm fine, now. I think I'm just exhausted."

Rocky is silent for a second. "Grace is tired, question? Fall asleep walking?" 

"No, no. It's, um. Called fainting. Exhaustion is a little different than tired. It's more like... really tired for a long time. Working too much for your body to keep up." 

"Oh." He really, really wishes he could read Rocky's expressions better, but when he's too emotional, he kind of goes still, and it's hard to figure out. "Is because you stay up for Rocky." 

"It's not your fault," he argues. "It's not the first time I've--well, I've never fainted before, but it's not the first time I've been exhausted. I used to do it, like, all the time on Earth." 

"You told me you needed sleep. Rocky say no. Ask for more hours. For you stay awake longer. Make Grace sick."

"Rocky, stop. I'm not blaming you, and I don't want you to blame yourself. At the end of the day, I'm responsible for knowing my limits, and I pushed them too far. It's my fault, really." 

"Not Grace fault!" Rocky snaps, then recoils. "Apology apology apology. Not mean yell." 

"You can yell if you want. You've been having a hard time. I want to be there for you." 

"Not like this. This won't work. Be there for Rocky can't mean not take care of Grace needs." 

He chuckles. "Yeah, you're right, I guess. We have to figure something out." 

Rocky trills an affirmative. "First step is Grace sleep many hours now now now." 

"Uh-huh. Love that idea. But what are you gonna do while I sleep?"

"Watch."

"What if you get upset again?" 

"Will... think about what I see. Grace. Grace heartbeat. Grace breathing. Grace talking."

"I talk in my sleep?"

"Talk all the time. Awake, asleep. Always talk." 

"Coming from you," he teases. "I'm ready to stand, I think." 

"Careful. Slow." Low-grade dizziness lingers, but it doesn't knock him off his feet, this time. Rocky clings to his side, following him to the med bay. If he could climb onto his chest as he lays on the bed, he would. It feels so good to close his eyes. "Comfortable, question?" 

"Reasonably. Enough to sleep, at least." 

"Oh! Forgot! Rocky be right back." 

"Wait, where are you going?" he calls after him, but Rocky doesn't stop until he returns once more with the quilt, dragging it stupidly through the airlock mesh. 

"Warm. Better." 

Perhaps it's the exhaustion messing with his emotions, but... it's been a long, long time since someone wanted to cover him with a blanket while he slept. It's enough to make him tear up a little. 

"Thanks." He reaches for the quilt and drapes it over himself. "Better."

"Good. Sleep long long time if need."

"Sounds good. You're gonna be okay?" 

"Yes. Sleep now."

"Alright, alright. I will. Just... wake me up if it's an emergency, okay?" 

"Rocky protect Grace, now. Grace sleep. No more talking, talk so much." 

"Right. Okay. Goodnight, Rock."