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is not enough

“Grace how old question?”

Grace blinks, lifting his head up from the cool metal of the lab table where he’s been nursing a headache for the last hour. Caffeine withdrawal, he thinks, having finally run out of coffee four months into their four year journey to Erid.

“Thirty—uh…” His mind blanks for a second, forgetting to calculate the four years he spent in a coma, and the still slightly patchy memories that have come back from his life. “Thirty-six, I think? Give or take a year or two.”

Or: Rocky finds out how long humans live and crashes out.

linked to ao3 here

—

Rocky is being weirder than usual.

Ever since Grace gave him his own laptop (“portable Earth thinking machine, Grace!”) he’s been squirrelled away doing his own personal research on humanity. So far this has included: watching the entirety of Grey’s Anatomy, reading the entire Wikipedia on radiation, which then led to the Chernobyl incident and watching every documentary he could find, and getting frighteningly into Blue’s Clues even though he can’t even see color so Grace has no idea what he gets out of it.

“Grace how old question?”

And he keeps asking questions like that.

(Other questions that have been asked: "Grace healthy before trip?" He thinks so, although he can't remember his last check-up. He assumed he had one at mission control. "Grace healthy now?" Yes, according to Mary and Armando, though there are limits to what exactly they can check. And how long it takes for exposure to radiation to turn into cancer. Not that he tells Rocky this.)

Grace blinks, lifting his head up from the cool metal of the lab table where he’s been nursing a headache for the last hour. Caffeine withdrawals, he thinks, having finally run out of coffee four months into their four year journey to Erid.

“Thirty—uh…” His mind blanks for a second, forgetting to calculate the four years he spent in a coma, and the still slightly patchy memories that have come back from his life. “Thirty-six, I think? Give or take a year or two.”

When Rocky doesn’t say anything, he lifts his head to see Rocky watching him from his xenonite ball.

“Why?” he asks, squinting as pain pulses faintly behind his eyes. He really should go lay down and ask for Mary to dim the lights.

Rocky makes a series of tonal noises that Grace can’t comprehend and Grace frowns at that. It’s been awhile since neither he nor the translator can pick up on Rocky’s words.

“Grace need rest,” Rocky says, which he knows isn’t what he said before. But his head hurts so he lets it go.

“Ugh,” he says, face smushed against the cool table.

“Grace go lay down now,” Rocky says in that firm, no-nonsense voice that Grace has learned not to disobey. The problem is that Grace thinks if he gets up now he might throw up. This headache might be veering more towards a migraine than he thought.

“Gimme a sec,” he mumbles, taking deep, even breaths through his nose to steel himself, finally stumbling onto his feet with all the grace (heh) of a baby gazelle.

“F–fudge,” he pants, grasping on Rocky’s xenonite ball to not fall over.

Usually Rocky protests when he does that (“Am not furniture, Grace!”) but he must look worse than he thought because Rocky doesn’t say anything, instead pressing closer to stabilize him.

“Ugh,” he says, head aching with pain. “Sorry.”

“What wrong? What wrong with Grace?”

“‘S just a headache,” he mumbles as he slowly makes his way to their bedroom, blinking hard against the white spots in his vision.

“Not like other headaches Grace has had.”

Rocky moves with him, keeping his ball under Grace’s hand for stability, and Grace is so grateful for him it hurts.

Grace concentrates on breathing, all but collapsing when he reaches his bed.

“Mary?” he says, muffled against his pillow.

“Yes, Dr. Grace?”

“Dim the lights, please.”

“Of course, Dr. Grace.”

He exhales in relief when the dorm goes dark.

“Grace? What wrong Grace?”

The sound of his computerized voice is blaring and he reaches blindly for the laptop to turn it down lower.

“Yeah, Rock. ‘s a little worse than my usual headaches. ‘S called a…uh.” His mouth feels fuzzy. “Migraine. Just…need some sleep.”

He can feel himself starting to drift and he hears the patter of Rocky’s steps as he slips into his own sleeping area.

“Rocky will watch,” he says and Grace hums, finally letting the sweet relief of darkness take him.

When Grace wakes up approximately twelve hours later, the migraine is gone, leaving behind just the telltale exhaustion and grogginess. He rolls over on the bed and squints his eyes open to see Rocky with his laptop, his screen-reading device aimed at it.

“Has Grace been drugging self question?”

Grace blinks, rubbing his eyes. “Huh?”

“Rocky learn Grace wake-up drink is drug. And now drug gone so Grace going through 🎶🎵”

“Uh, need word,” Grace says.

“When stop taking drug,” he says impatiently and Grace adds the word <withdrawal> to their dictionary.

Which is how Grace finds himself explaining caffeine and caffeine withdrawal to an alien species that doesn’t even like to eat around other people, much less ingest something that is objectively poisonous to their bodies.

“Humans crazy!” Rocky says, spinning in his enclosure in distress. “Humans fragile, delicate, live so little, crazy crazy crazy! Why Grace try to poison self question?”

Grace laughs. “As soon as humans are born, we start dying. You know, there’s a theory that oxygen is actually toxic to us—it just kills us very slowly.” He shrugs. “And with the amount of radiation I’ve probably been exposed to at this point…I’ll be lucky to get ten years more, if that.” That’s if he makes it to Erid at all, which he doesn’t say. He knows talking like that upsets Rocky.

“Grace not die,” Rocky says, stomping one of his feet agitatedly. “Rocky fix. Grace not die!”

“You can’t fix cancer, Rock,” Grace says gently. “Or aging.”

“Grace not die! Grace not die!” Rocky sounds more and more upset, the pitch of his voice going higher and higher until Grace starts wincing, the sound piercing to his still sensitive head.

“Rock—Rocky, stop. Rocky, that hurts!”

Rocky immediately quiets and presses up against the barrier, hands splayed as Grace grunts, rubbing his temples to ease the pain.

“What’s going on with you?” he asks after a moment, bewildered.

“Nothing. Rocky fine.”

Grace notes that Rocky has pitched his voice low this time, careful not to trigger another headache.

“Bullcrap,” he says. “You’ve been weird for the past week. Watching me all the time, asking about my health. And don’t give me that excuse about our trip—I’ve still got plenty of coma slurry and food and I’m not even close to starving yet.”

Rocky shifts back on four of his legs, the other still on the barrier, then presses forward again, like he can’t decide if he wants to run or stay close. Another weird trait he’s developed. Grace knows they’re close—too close, some would say—and Rocky has never really known what personal space is, but he’s gotten even clingier lately, constantly checking on Grace and monitoring him and bumping into his legs with his xenonite ball.

“Rocky need to know Grace is okay.”

“Of course I’m okay, pal.” Grace furrows his brows. “I promise most humans drink caffeine, and a lot of us get migraines. Neither are gonna kill me.”

Rocky still seems upset, which Grace would marvel at being able to tell considering Rocky doesn’t even have a face, but right now he’s too concerned, pressing his hand to where Rocky’s is splayed on the xenonite barrier above his bed. Even through the wall, Rocky’s hand feels warm.

“Grace is friend,” Rocky says and like always, those words threaten to make tears fall from Grace’s eyes.

“Rocky is friend too,” Grace says gently. “And friends talk to each other, you know? They tell each other what’s wrong.”

“Grace take long time to tell Rocky that Grace not going back to Earth,” he points out and Grace winces.

“Well, I’ve never claimed to not be a hypocrite,” he says.

“Need word.”

“Uh.” He thinks for a moment. “When someone gives advice or makes a statement that they consider true but they don’t follow that advice, that means they’re a hypocrite.” He should know, he thinks wryly, the coward that he now knows he is.

“Humans strange.” Rocky’s voice is subdued. “Why say what don’t mean all the time question?”

Grace shrugs helplessly, watching Rocky’s little fingers tap on the xenonite. “We’re weird, contradictory creatures who like lying and saying what we don’t mean even though we place a lot of value on loyalty and truth. I don’t know if there’s a reason for it—the state of human nature is something philosophers on Earth have been arguing about for years.” He pauses. “But…truly Rocky. Are you okay?”

Rocky keeps his hand on the xenonite, next to Grace’s, but he tucks the rest of his legs under him in what Grace internally calls a cat loaf. The one time he said that out loud and showed Rocky a video, Rocky didn’t talk to him for a solid 24 hours, so he doesn’t voice the thought.

“Using portable Earth thinking machine to learn about humans while Grace asleep. Lots to learn. Rocky not a scientist like Grace but want to learn about Grace’s kind.”

Grace presses his hand more firmly to Rocky’s, wishing they could touch for real. He wouldn’t mind more marks on his skin to match the one on his forearm where Rocky dragged him along the ship to save him.

“Rocky learn about many things—humans like flow-rhythm-movement like Eridians, like having family. Family different than on Erid, but same too. Humans cruel sometimes—Eridians also cruel. Humans fascinating. Think Rocky would like most of them. But worst thing about humans. About Grace—die. Die die die. So quick. Rocky fix. Grace not die. Rocky just met Grace. Grace no die so fast. Rocky need fix. Rocky need fix.”

Oh. Oh, man.

“Rocky…” Grace starts, swallowing hard.

“One hundred Earth years maybe if lucky. Grace already 36. Seventy Earth years, if lucky. Rocky live almost 400 more Earth years than Grace. Rocky must fix.”

Grace inhales shakily, using his free hand to wipe the tears that have started sliding down his cheeks.

“Well, pal,” he says, laughing wetly. “If you find a way to prolong human life, you’ll have solved a problem humanity has been trying to fix since the beginning of our history.”

“And then you say sick,” Rocky continues, like Grace hadn’t said anything. “You say word we don’t have for type of sickness, but Rocky heard before from Earth media. Sickness humans can’t heal. Take you away even faster. Grace…Grace cannot die. Rocky watch entire crew die. Grace cannot die.”

“Rock—this isn’t the same as your crew. Humans just…we don’t live as long as you guys. But you’ve gotta understand—however much time I have left, the fact that I get to spend the rest of it with you? Not alone? I told you this once and I meant it—you’ve given me everything. I had nothing before you, not really. I had my kids, my students. I loved them, I miss them. I hope they’re okay. And I had a few casual friends, sure.”

He had never been as alone as Stratt had made him seem, but he remembers going home to his silent apartment, eating a still-cold microwave burrito for dinner. The days had been fine—plenty to do, enough people to chat with. But the nights? Not even a dog, Stratt had said.

“You’re my best friend, you know? Not sure if Eridians have, like, levels to relationships like humans do, but you’re it for me, buddy. I picked you. However much time I’ve got—I’m happy I get to spend it with you. Whether that’s ten years or sixty years from now.”

“Is not enough.”

Grace inhales sharply, his hand flexing on the warm xenonite. Rocky’s twitches in response.

“Oh,” he says weakly.

“Is not enough,” he says again and Grace sniffs hard, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve.

“Okay,” he says shakily. “Okay. I don’t—what do we do about this, pal? I can’t make myself live longer. That’s not how it works.” He wants to live—that’s always been Grace’s problem. Even when he had nothing he wanted to live. Now he has Rocky and he’s hurtling towards a planet he might not ever get to, and even if he does, who knows if they’ll be able to find a way to make an environment he can survive in. And still, despite all that, he wants so desperately to live.

Rocky keens softly, a plaintive note that rends Grace in half with its anguish and he bowls over, crying openly on the xenonite.

“S-sorry, I know this is gross,” he says but he can’t stop, some kind of feedback loop between Rocky’s preemptive grief-croon and Grace’s fragile emotional state just making him sob harder.

“Grace want to live too question? Grace not come to terms like said before question?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, nails scratching against the xenonite in the impossible task of trying so hard to hold Rocky’s hand. Wishing he could so badly. “Yeah. Grace want to live. Statement.”

“Rocky will fix.”

“Okay,” he whispers, smushing his wet face against the barrier. Rocky presses up, his carapace resting against Grace’s forehead, like it did when Grace found him on the beached Blip-A. Grace exhales, tension loosening in his shoulders. He still can’t see a way out of this immutable part of being human, but. Grace is selfish. Grace wants to live.

“Okay,” he says again, voice thick with tears. “Rocky will fix.”

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