on my way,

Grace is getting better at predicting how long Rocky is going to sleep. A lot of factors go into it: how long he's been awake, how big his meal is, and, most importantly, how much physical movement he's been doing since his last sleep cycle. He told Grace that Eridians sleep anywhere from about 3-12 hours, which is a very wide range, but Rocky's usually out for about five or six, depending on what they've been doing lately. At the very least, he can expect him to sleep for a good four and a half. 

That means he has four liquid hours for himself every three and a half days or so. 

It's not that he doesn't feel bad about leaving him when he thinks he's being watched, but it's his only alone time, and privacy is something he gets very little of around here, now that they're building the xenonite tunnels through more or less every room on the Hail Mary. He's got to savor what little he has. 

"Grace chew bad," Rocky complains as Grace munches on a dry but seasoned piece of chicken breast. Grace rolls his eyes. 

"Guess I'll just choke to death instead," he replies sarcastically. Rocky is very vocal about his misophonia, but it's not like he can do anything about it. 

"Soup is better. Except when Grace slurp."

"I'm not gonna eat soup for every meal just because it annoys you less." 

"Mashed potatoes fine, too. Grace could mash food before eating. No chewing."

"Wish I could bring you to Earth, Rock. You'd love snakes." 

Rocky finishes the last horrifying "bite" of his meal, then folds his front legs up in that way he does when he's preparing for sleep. Grace knew this would happen--it's always not long after he eats. It appears to just be how his biology works. 

"Grace watch Rocky sleep, question?"

"I always do, don't I?" he asks. To feel better about his half truth, he adds, "You want your story?"

He chirps happily. In the ten ish minutes it takes Rocky to fall completely to sleep, Grace has been telling him the plots to his favorite movies. It had started after Rocky had just happened to fall asleep while he was talking, but when he'd woken up, he requested that Grace talk to him as he drifts off every time. It was nicer, he said, than falling asleep to silence. A reminder that someone was there. 

"Alright. Where'd I leave off?"

Three approximately remembered scenes from the Princess Bride later, Grace trails off, then tests his luck. 

"Rocky? You still awake?" 

No response. Excellent. He stands as slowly and quietly as he can, then sneaks away to the lab to work in private. 

Honestly, he does miss the chatter, just a little bit. He's gotten used to it, and, although it can get overstimulating at times, he misses it when it's gone. Still, there's something liminal and nostalgic about working in a silent lab. It's been a while. He likes working alongside Rocky, even though he's pushy and demanding, but they spend all their time together. With their current project, he's been ordering Grace around a lot. It's nice to have a moment of peace to just do stuff to cells and take notes. 

As usual, he doesn't realize how much time has passed until he notices that both his feet are asleep from the way he's sitting crisscross in his chair, and his shoulders are aching from leaning hunched over like a goblin. When he forces himself to look up from his microscope, it actually hurts his eyes to adjust back to reality. Eye breaks, he reminds himself, and taking little laps around his bench top every once in a while. He always gets too wrapped up to remember those things in the moment. 

His back pops as he stands to stretch, which initiates a domino effect of unfortunate events. 

First, the backs of his knees knock his rolling chair backward into the xenonite panel, which makes a pretty loud sound. 

Actually, a louder sound than he expects. Much louder, and different in nature. Instead of a hollow thunk, what results is a strange, long crack, like someone stepping on a frozen lake and splitting the ice.

Wait. Cracking ice.

The panel.

In a split second display of poor self preservation instincts, he glances up instead of moving out of the way. In his defense, how is he supposed to know that of all the panels in the lab, the one that would break is the one directly above him? By the time he realizes he's about to be hit, there's no time to move out of the way.

It comes down on his head hard, and it's large and heavy. Heavy enough to knock him off balance, which sends him crashing into the bench top in front of him with force enough that when his ribs clip the side of it, the pain is so intense and immediate that he cries out. The surprise dims his reflexes, and instead of reaching out to catch himself from hitting the floor, both arms instinctively guard his abdomen in agony. That means that he has no free hands to catch himself when he hits the floor with force, his temple colliding hard with the metal floor of the ship. A sharp strike of pain is the last thing he registers before his senses go black and is body is blissfully numb. 

-----

A high-pitched ringing sound is the first thing that lands in his awareness. For a moment, he panics, thinking that some alarm on the ship is going off, but as it fades, he realizes it's coming from his own ears. Soon after it clears up, the pain fades in, intolerable within seconds. His instinct is to jerk forward to clutch his temple, but when he tries to sit up, he bonks his forehead on the xenonite that's still pinning him to the floor. 

It's not that it's immovable--it's heavy, but not so bad that he can't pick the panels up. Thanks to Rocky, some of them are small enough to lift, while others, he more or less had to raise from the ground and shimmy into place. The one on top of him is, unfortunately, the latter. They mustn't have secured it well enough. He pushes against it, but has to stop as soon as he starts because the pain in his ribs becomes unbearable with the strain. He groans again. 

Normally,  he would be able to mind over matter this situation and hype himself up. A moment of agony is just the price he has to pay for freedom, but his mind is running too slow and his thoughts are too fuzzy to do a proper risk vs reward assessment. It's like he's thinking underwater. 

"Rocky," he shouts weakly, hoping against hope that his friend might hear him. Even in his muddled brain, he knows that's not likely. When Eridians sleep, nothing in the world can wake them, especially not a sound being made in a different room entirely. If he wants help, he's either going to have to go get it himself, or wait for Rocky to wake up, which could be hours from now. How is he going to last that long?

Getting up is the only way to go, he thinks. He tries to roll out from under the panel, but his exit is blocked by the bench, and besides, his ribs can't bear that much weight. As it stands, at least the xenonite panel doesn't have 100% of its weight on him. It caught on something and is a little crooked, leaving him just enough space for his chest to move up and down, or at least enough to accommodate the shallow breaths his probably broken ribs are allowing him to take. 

Distantly, he knows that this is his fault. Not only that, but Rocky is going to be mad. 

No, not mad--betrayed. Well, probably both, but the sting of knowing he's been lying is going to hurt worse. In a way, he's kind of getting what he deserves. He's not there to keep Rocky from danger, so he runs into it, himself. The universe has a way of working these things out, he supposes, but it's not going to make Rocky feel any better. In fact, it will only make his anger more complicated, as it will be tempered with concern and, if he's lucky, a little pity. 

He's not sure how long he lays there for. Because of his swimming head, time is a blur. It could be three hours, could be 45 minutes. It feels like forever. Periodically, he shouts Rocky's name again, but to no avail. Help is going to arrive when it arrives, and he just has to suck it up until then. 

His ribs are on fire. Every breath he takes feels like someone has stabbed him in the side. He hasn't broken a bone since he was a child and fell off the monkey bars straight onto his wrist, and he'd blocked out how painful that had been. Not to mention, it probably wasn't as bad as this is. At least he hadn't needed to use his arm to breathe. At least his school had gotten him straight to the hospital for pain meds. 

Suddenly, he hears something. Or, at least he thinks he does. A rattling sound from down the hall, and it's getting closer. 

"Grace," Rocky's voice, tone indecipherable through the computer program. 

"Rocky!" he shouts. The rattling stops, then starts moving toward him. Rocky had heard him, thank god, and he's coming to help. That, or he's coming to yell at him. Probably both.

"Grace," Rocky snaps. "Why Rocky wake up alone?" 

"I'm sorry," he replies, but fortunately, before he has to say anything more, Rocky finds him and zeroes in. He's still a little ways down the hall. 

"What happened?" he asks. "Grace trapped. Injured, question?" 

"Yeah. Wanted'a get some work done while y'slept." Woah, his speech is coming out weird. Did he actually give himself a concussion?

"Why Grace sound drunk, question?" 

"Hit my head," he replies. When he looks to the side, he can see Rocky's feet inside his ball. Rescue? How will  he manage to do that without being able to touch him?

"Why did Grace not just move panel, question?" So many questions. They're making his head pound worse than it already is. 

"Hurt my ribs, too. S'too heavy. Hurts too much."

Rocky doesn't say anything for a moment, but suddenly, he feels the panel begin to shift, then lift off of his body. When his blurry vision focuses, he sees that Rocky has managed to get under the elevated part of the panel with his ball and rolled forward, serving as a wedge and bringing the point of contact closer to the other side of it to increase the angle. 

"Grace crawl out now," he prompts when Grace doesn't move. Oh, right. He should probably stop staring and do that. 

Noisily, and with a lot of difficulty, he manages to prop himself up on his elbows, then draws his knees closer to his chest. 

"Ahh," he moans. "This hurts."

"Rocky not feel sorry for Grace," he warns. 

"Sorry. I'll be quieter." 

"Did not say that. Grace focus on crawling. Make pain noise if need." 

And make pain noise he does. By the time he's fully out from under the panel, he's sitting back on his feet, hunched forward in agony. The pain is so bad that he's sweating, panting in shallow puffs of air that are beginning to make him feel lightheaded. 

"Thank you," he says, reaching out to touch Rocky's ball. He rolls backward in a recoil, reminding Grace that he's not forgiven yet. "Rocky, m'so sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"Grace need medical attention," Rocky curtails coldly. He blinks, the subject having changed too fast to keep up with. "Breathing and heart rate fast. Stupid."

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Okay." 

He has to use the wall to do it, but he gets to his feet. There, he still can't stand up straight, still can't breathe right. His face is damp with sweat, and he's dizzy. Really, really dizzy. 

"Grace careful!" Rocky exclaims. It's only because of his warning that he realizes he's swaying so far forward, he's on a collision course with the floor. He takes a clumsy step forward to compensate, the jarring movement eliciting a hiss of pain from his ribs. 

"Ow," he moans, "ow. M'okay." 

"Pain looks bad." 

"S'really bad. Think I broke some ribs." Rocky trills anxiously. 

"Grace is clumsy. Wobbly."

"Really dizzy. Hit my head."

"Grace said that already. Remember, question?" He doesn't. He shakes his head. "Is okay. Grace get to medical room, will fix." 

"'Kay." His next step forward makes him even dizzier, resulting in him needing to back up against the wall and slide down to sit on the floor. His stomach is churning urgently with vertigo and intense pain. "No, no. Need'a lie down." 

"Can rest after Grace receive medical attention." 

"Noo," he whines. God, did he really just do that? He's so nauseous. His mouth fills with insidious, warm water, which only increases his distress, because he knows what's going to come next. "M'gonna be sick." 

He bolts to his feet, now disoriented enough that he doesn't know which way is up, and leans against the wall, bent double as he loses the coffee in his stomach. Great, now he's putting Rocky through this. If he's annoyed by Grace's chewing, this has to be unbearable.

"Grace okay, question?" he asks, words coming out quick and anxious. "Grace safe, question?" 

"Fine," he replies, wiping his mouth and coughing. He staggers several steps away in what he hopes is the direction of the medical bay. This sucks. He needs painkillers and a dark place to sleep until he feels better. 

"Grace is not fine," Rocky bites. "Stop lying. Can see Grace is not fine, so stop lying. Insulting."

Grace winces. 

"Sorry. Jus'don't want you to worry."

"Rocky worry no matter what Grace says. Feel better if Rocky know Grace is telling truth." 

Telling the truth. Of course. He owes Rocky that much, after what he did. 

"I need help," he admits. 

"Rocky help. Grace follow Rocky. Lean on ball for balance. Get to medical room together."

"Okay," he replies. That's the only way. He's going to have to rely on his best friend, whom he just betrayed, to get himself treatment for an injury he acquired in the process of said betrayal. Rocky is a bigger person than most people he knows. 

He begins to roll in the direction of the med bay, and Grace follows, hugging the wall of the ship the whole time. When he stumbles, he always reaches out for balance, and Rocky's space ball is always right there to steady him. Slowly, painfully, they make their way across the lab and to the door. 

"Watch step," Rocky commands. He does, or tries, but his injured brain miscalculates how far he needs to pick his foot up and he falls forward, hitting Rocky's ball at an angle that doesn't allow him to catch himself. He hits the ground on his injured side with a horrible, strangled cry. "Grace, Grace, Grace," Rocky frets, so anxious that he's rocking his ball back and forth in small circles. 

All he can do is try to breathe through the pain, but that's the problem; he can't breathe, can't fill his chest with a proper breath and it's making him lightheaded, so lightheaded that he's going to pass out, and oh god the pain--

"Grace," Rocky's voice comes from beside him, this time steadier and less frantic. He's forced himself to still inside his ball. 

"Can't breathe," he strains through gritted teeth. 

"Grace can breathe. If Grace can talk, can breathe." His tone isn't dismissive, but slow, sure. Like he's trying to soothe him. 

"It hurts," he manages. All he can feel is pain and air hunger. 

"Pain medicine soon. Grace is close. Catch breath. Then, Grace get up."

He shakes his head. "I can't."

"Do for Rocky. Trust Rocky. In slow, out slow." 

Sweat drips from his forehead onto the floor. He takes another gasping breath, but this time, he holds it at the top for as long as he can before releasing, visualizing all the little O2 rings from his alveoli crossing through his capillaries into his bloodstream like they're tourists unboarding a cruise ship. He releases it, holds, and takes another, holding that one, too. The O2 rings have little hats and suitcases and Hawaiian shirts. He has to hold his breath for long enough to give them time to get off the boat, or they'll end up in the water. Release, hold. Breathe in, hold. He can't be responsible for the biggest maritime tragedy his lungs have ever known just because his brain thinks he's dying. 

"Good," Rocky encourages. "Grace breathing slower. Need more time, question?" 

"No," he replies. The sooner he gets up, the sooner he gets pain meds. Eyes on the prize, and doesn't double vision mean twice the prize? "Think m'okay."

"Lean on ball. Rocky is here." 

Even after he abandoned him in his sleep, Rocky is here for him, and he's not leaving. Grace doesn't deserve him.

"M'so sorry for leaving," he grunts as he uses the ball to climb back to his feet. 

"No worry about that now. Rocky Grace argue later."

He chuckles. 

"Sure."

It takes so, so much effort and a lot of time, but slowly, they make it to the med bay, where he lies down on the bed, closes his eyes, and waits for Armando to whir around him, pressing here and there on his ribs and head seeking out tender spots. It feels unnecessary and gives him little more data than Grace just explaining his symptoms, but Armando is so stubborn. It's not worth the argument. 

"Diagnosis: bruised or broken ribs. Diagnosis: head injury, likely a concussion. Treatment course: pain control and observation." 

Rocky bobs up and down, recoiling indignantly. "Can't do more for Grace than pain medicine and watch him sleep?"

"Not much t'be done," Grace replies. "Stuff's just gotta heal on its own." Rocky seems to pout a little. "S'okay."

"Fine." 

Grace braves the light to look at him, even though he knows it's not necessary. Rocky can barely tell the difference and doesn't exactly care about eye contact. 

"Rock, I'm so sorry." 

"Not now," he scolds. "Grace need rest, now. Can fight after sleep."

"Not trying to fight. Trying to apologize." 

"Well, Rocky want fight. Wait until after sleep. Rocky need time to rehearse." He fights a smile, because he's absolutely serious. "Grace sleep now." It's not a question.

"Okay. Fight tomorrow." 

He shuts his eyes and just hopes Rocky will be okay until they can hash this out tomorrow. 

-------

 The next time he opens his eyes, it stings, but it's not unbearable. More importantly, the thoughts in his aching head are clearer, like he can actually think straight. The pull of just closing his eyes once more is strong, but he resists.

"Mary, how long was I asleep?" 

"Approximately 13 hours, Doctor Grace," she returns. That's terrible. No wonder he's so groggy. 

"Grace is awake," Rocky chirps. He sounds so relieved that for a moment, Grace forgets he's in trouble. "How Grace feel?" 

"I'm okay," he replies. "Sore, but that'll stick around for a while. Thanks, uh. Thanks for staying. I know I'm probably the last person you want to be around right now."

Rocky almost flinches. "Grace is only person Rocky want to be around. Very hurt. Rocky big worry. So scary."

"Right. Sorry. I just meant I know you're mad at me."

He taps the inside of his ball angrily. "Does not mean Rocky no want to be around. Grace know that." Grace nods. "Grace apologize now."

"I'm so, so sorry, Rock. I left you alone while you were sleeping. I shouldn't have done that."

"And, question?"

He thinks about it, scared of answering incorrectly. 

"And I lied to you. I told you I'd watch you sleep, and I didn't. I should have. You do it for me."

He seems satisfied with that. 

"Rocky know Grace does not care if Rocky watch sleep. Rocky watch because it make Rocky feel better. But Grace supposed to want to keep Rocky safe, too." 

He feels tears, remorseful and just outright sad, prickle in his eyes. 

"Of course I want to keep you safe. I just figure, we're on the ship. I know nothing can hurt you here." Rocky hesitates. There's more to this than he's seeing on the surface. 

"Rocky have... bad dreams." 

A beat of confused silence. 

"What?"

"Started having many Earth week ago. Rocky think I need feel someone near. Haven't had bad dreams since Rocky met Grace. Grace leave is reason."

"Oh, bud. I'm so sorry. Why didn't you say something? I wouldn't have left if I'd known that."

"Didn't know why! Didn't know Grace leave Rocky alone!" 

He's pretty sure he's never felt so guilty and ashamed in all his life. He sniffles. 

"I can't tell you how sorry I am. I'll never, ever leave you alone again. I promise. I shouldn't have done it at all."

"Then why?"

"Why what? Why did I leave?" Rocky trills an affirmative. "I... don't know. I guess I get anxious if I sit alone with my thoughts for too long. I start thinking about things. Remembering things. A lot of it isn't nice. I guess I do things to keep my mind off everything." 

Rocky creeps toward him in his ball. Grace places his hand on the faceplate. 

"Rocky doesn't want Grace to feel bad, either. Make Grace think bad thoughts is not good solution." Grace thinks for a moment. 

"Maybe I just start bringing in things to do. I can read, do word puzzles, play games. Stuff like that."

Rocky perks up.

"Would be okay?" 

"Of course, buddy. That would be good." 

"Good for Rocky, too."

Despite the pain in his ribs, he sits up. "Can I give you a hug?" 

"A... why?"

"Something humans do after they fight and make up. You don't have to, though. Only if you want to."

"Grace Rocky hug," he replies. Grace winces as he gets down from the bed, hoping Rocky doesn't see it. "Careful. Hurt." Darn it. 

"I'm being careful." Delicately, without pressing himself too tightly against it, he wraps his arms around Rocky's ball, and hears the little tap against the glass as Rocky leans in to accept it. His version of hugging back. He can even feel a little warm spot where he touches the xenonite, right in the middle of his chest. "Forgive me?"

"Yes. Rocky forgive."

qifrey so very often tends to clasp his hands together, rubbing them against each other or simply clinging to his long robes. a gesture so telling of just how uncomfortable due to silverwood he constantly is, always slightly nervous, always tip-toeing around the edge of a cliff.

and he's been doing so since childhood! his emotions are so closed-off when it comes to casual body language, which is both an indicator of his character and the ways in which he deals with his curse. unable to trust even his closest friend, he chooses the only vaguely soothing thing: to curl into himself, to detach, to distance.

meanwhile olruggio, despite his scruffiness, generally comes off as a more open, "simple" man, hands flying all over the place when he's agitated. he expresses his emotions freely, without restrain.

qifrey curls into a ball for comfort, meanwhile olly splays like a star, comfortable in his skin an in qifrey's presence

and what happens when they start to interact?

olly keeps reaching for qifrey, talking some sense into him with his hands, with spontaneous and emotional physical touch.

he does so even upon first meeting

he keeps and keeps reaching out to qifrey, both literally and symbolically. no matter how hard qifrey tries to run away, to hide deeper into himself, olruggio will always be there to offer him a friendly hand or otherwise

this particular parallel is especially dear to me:

they changed so much, but they also haven't changed at all

and the culmination of this dynamic in a single image for me is this:

"Did you go home last night?" Carl asks as he hands over a large coffee from the shop down the street. He's been kind enough to pick Grace up a cup when he goes in the morning, since he's so absorbed in this that he barely sleeps. It's counterintuitive, as he's always imploring him to get some actual rest, but appreciated, anyway. 

"I did, actually," Grace replies, his voice raspy and hoarse from disuse. He clears his throat and takes a sip of too-hot coffee. 

"Did you sleep there, or is this some kind of 'I watered my cactus' technicality?" 

"Egg on your face, I don't have a cactus. Can't keep them alive." 

"You're so nice; how could you be less nurturing than the desert?" 

"They just don't like me. I think they would, if they got to know me." Carl rolls his eyes. 

"Don't change the subject."

"I didn't?"

"If you went home and slept, why do you sound so terrible?" 

"Give me a break. It's still early. You're the first person I've talked to today."

"Stratt hasn't been in?"

"Not yet. Must be busy." 

"She always is." Carl gestures to the microscope in front of him. "Seeing anything exciting?"

Grace shakes his head. 

"Nah, nothing. I'm taking a break to rest my eyes. It's giving me a headache."

"You sure it's the scope? You look... I don't know. Bad." 

Grace sighs in resignation. It's not like he was trying to hide anything, but he wasn't going to complain about not feeling 100% when everyone else is just as tired as he is. The slight headache he'd woken up with has added joint aches and slight nausea to the party. He's been freezing since he got out of bed, and he'd realized why as soon as he'd opened his door to come to the lab: the temperature outside dropped drastically in the night. Is he really getting so old that his joints hurt when the weather changes?

"I'm just feeling a little under the weather today. Nothing major. I'm sure it's just because of the cold snap. I thought I'd do some desk work today, but it's hard to focus. I might shift gears in a little bit."

"Alright. Well, let me know if you need anything. I'll be in my office." 

Grace holds up the radio and gives it a little wiggle. 

"I know where to find you."

------

Grace works for about an hour more on the microscope before the headache becomes too bothersome to fight through anymore. He takes off his glasses so he can scrub his hands over his face proper, coughing a little as he does so.

That's another annoying development--an annoying, dry cough. Now, it's starting to come together. It's not just a cold snap--he's coming down with a cold. How irritating.

He allows himself about 30 seconds of wallowing before he straightens up, sets the microscope back on the lowest setting, and replaces the cover. 

His breath catches and he coughs into the crook of his elbow, but quickly finds that he's having a hard time catching his breath. What had started as a negligible little tickle in his throat has become chest pressure and a dry, sore throat. This cold is really moving fast. 

"Grace," the radio chimes. Not now, he thinks, but he can't stop coughing to answer. By the time he gets his lungs under control, he realizes that Carl could see the whole thing through the window in his office. 

"Yeah," he chokes out, still fighting the lingering tickle of the coughing fit. "Sup?" 

"You good?"

"Yeah. Swallowed wrong."

"Sure," Carl says, not even pretending to believe the lie. Grace wouldn't expect him to. He's not even sure why he told it. "I think there are cold tablets in the first aid cabinet, if you want to take something for that."

It feels embarrassing, for some reason, to go raid the first aid kit for something as stupid as cold medicine and cough drops. Obviously, this sort of thing is the very reason they keep them in stock, but that doesn't make it not feel weird, maybe even pathetic. All he can do is hope that they clear his head up a little, because he's beginning to feel that lightheaded, weak feeling he sometimes gets when he's sick. It's usually the final straw that lets him know he needs to call out of work, but now, it's more likely just a sign to stop microwaving his dead cup of coffee back to life over and over and start drinking water. 

After opening the two prepackaged pills and swallowing them with what has got to be the first sip of water he's had today, he stretches sore muscles. He realizes with dismay that he's done it again: stayed in the lab all day without leaving for more than coffee and the restroom. Perhaps that's affecting his headache. It's time for a change of scenery, he decides, so he heads to the computer and sits down at his desk, pulling up his backlog of bookmarked research papers. 

For the next half hour, he has to change positions every ten minutes or so because his back is aching. Though he finds the papers interesting, most of them, anyway, they're dry, and he's tired. The cold tablets are lulling him to sleep. He keeps catching himself shutting his eyes, until finally, he doesn't catch himself. Instead, he startles badly when someone claps the back of his chair. 

"Good morning, Doctor Grace," Eva greets. Eva just caught him dozing at his desk. It's not the first time, but it's a lot more explainable when she passes him on her way home than on her way in for the day. 

"Uh," he stammers, "hey--good--um, hi--"

"Very eloquent," she teases, deadpan. "You sound terrible. Please be careful not to get anyone else sick."

And... that's just about as badly as that could have gone. Not only did she catch him asleep first thing in the morning, but she pointed out that his voice now sounds like he's been gargling marbles. He's humiliated, though that wasn't her intent. His one consolation is that no one else was around to see it, even if he'd have preferred it be anyone and everyone else if it meant that it wasn't Eva. She's so perfect, composed, unflappable. He hates to let her see his own... flaps. 

Grace gives reading a college try for the rest of the morning, but it's not easy. The cold medicine is doing a lot more to his energy levels than it is for his symptoms. Every once in a while, he has to take a lap just to keep himself awake. Not to mention, the cold air from outside is seeping inside, leaving him shivering. All that combines to create an unfortunate reality in which being so embarrassed by being caught sleeping at his desk this morning does not keep him from falling asleep at his desk in the afternoon, this time with his fox cardigan pulled tightly around him. In his poor, ill, sleepy judgment, he falls victim to the alluring trap of believing that he can rest his forehead on his arms with his eyes closed for just a second, because it would feel so good and he will definitely be able to open them again when his five minutes of allotted eye resting is up. 

Shockingly, that doesn't happen. 

Instead, what happens is that Carl comes to find him half an hour later to bring him the cup of soup he had the intern pick up for him when they sent him to the deli for lunch, which wakes him from a sleep that's apparently so deep and so filled with some sort of cruel, dayquill-slash-stress fueled nightmare that he shoots to his feet immediately. 

"Woah!" Carl exclaims, and if that's not embarrassing enough, going from sitting to standing so quickly makes everything feel like it's swirling around him, and he has to catch himself with one hand on his desk. "Jesus. You okay?" 

"Yeah," Grace replies, easing back into his chair. He glances around--people are looking. His cheeks are burning. 

"What was that all about?" 

He forces his best, least shaky smile and still feels the corners of his mouth twitching, letting him know he's not doing a very good job.

"I think I fell asleep at my desk," he laughs, hoping he hasn't heard through the grapevine that it wouldn't be the first time today. "The cold medicine is making me tired. I shouldn't have taken it. It's not even really helping." 

He wishes he hadn't said that bit, because he feels like he's being a baby about a little cold, but it's true. If anything, he feels worse than he had before he took it. Could it be expired? 

"Pills can only do so much, and you look rough. Why don't you just head out for the day? I can tell Stratt--"

"No," he curtails, "no; I don't need to do that." 

"What could it hurt? It's not like you're getting much done here."

Ouch. 

"Ouch."

"Am I wrong?" 

"Yes," he argues, somewhat petulantly. Carl raises an eyebrow, and he sighs. "Sorry. Shouldn't have taken that tone. I'm just... not feeling great. You're right. But I have stuff I need to get done." 

Carl puts his hands up in a placating gesture. 

"Alright. Suit yourself." He points to the small cup of soup he'd set on Grace's desk. "Eat that. Should help."

"Thanks." He feels guilty for snapping, and the fact that he sets aside the kind gesture because the thought of eating makes his stomach flip does nothing to assuage that. He'll have some later, he promises himself as he turns his attention once more to the computer in front of him. 

-----

It's slow going. Even the adrenaline of having embarrassed himself badly twice before lunch isn't enough to keep the drowsiness from setting back in almost as soon as he sits back down. It's like every time he sits, he can't stay awake, but standing sounds even more exhausting. He just can't win. To be losing the battle this badly to a stupid cold makes him feel weak. 

Taking notes on what he's reading helps him both to stay focused and to remember what he's just read, which is good, because it feels like everything is going in through eyes and out through his ears, never landing in his brain. His lips are moving as he reads, pen balanced and wiggling between his thumb and forefinger while he thinks. Eventually, the coffee somehow manages to hydrate his cells enough that they're willing to let the moisture go, and he leaves his desk for the bathroom. 

As he's washing his hands, he looks up at the mirror only to almost startle at the reflection that peers back at him. Yeah, now it makes sense why Carl has been insisting he go home and why Eva treated him like a biohazard. His face is wildly pale in the low light of the bathroom, with only four spots of pink to break up the grey monotony: his cheeks and his eyes. The rings around his orbitals are puffy and dark. Even his posture is stooped and miserable. 

"Ugh." He leans down to splash cold water in his face. It's not going to help, but it might feel nice to have something cold against his aching forehead, even just for a few seconds. He scrubs like he's going to be able to wash away the pallor. "Ugh," he groans again, which trails off into another coughing fit. It's concerning how bad that's managed to get in just the span of a few hours. 

That's it, he thinks. If he goes back in there and sits at his desk, he'll be, as his students would say, cooked. For the sake of his continued consciousness, he has to find something to do that's not sitting at a desk. 

It's for that reason that, as soon as he's dried his hands and face and managed to look at least a little more alive, he heads to his desk and grabs the walkie-talkie. 

"Carl? Over." 

"Grace, you don't have to say over." 

"Don't have to say what? Over."

There's a pause that Grace wants to assume is Carl laughing at his joke but is more likely him rolling his eyes. 

"Do you need something?" 

"If you've got some time to kill, I was going to do some work on the box. I could use some company." Silence. "Over." 

"Yeah, I've got time. I'll be right out." 

-----

Perhaps it was a stupid assumption to make that physical labor would be less draining than mental. For want of a task that would keep him awake, he's sacrificed what little energy had been fueling him for the day. Now, hes tired and in pain. His back hurts more than he'd given it credit for, more than it had an hour ago. It's not like he's been to the gym recently, but he has been pulling a lot of late nights, many of them spent doing what he's attempting to do now. He wouldn't call it exercise, but it's certainly physical, which he's not used to. Leaving work every evening with just enough time to grade papers while he eats dinner before bed doesn't leave him a lot of time to work out. All this has really shown him just how out of shape he is. 

"Hand me another roll of aluminum foil?" Carl requests, breaking him from his thoughts. He nods, reaching for the pile and grabbing the box, and that's when the worst happens. 

As he stands, he realizes that he's done so too fast too late, because everything spins around him. His heart starts pounding hard and weird in his chest, and it's incredible how instantaneously his body goes from chilled to breaking out in little beads of sweat. He extends the roll in what he thinks is Carl's direction, but he's not sure. It's like trying to pin the tail on the donkey after being spun in circles. 

"Grace?" 

Apparently, he'd been a little off in his trajectory, so he turns in the direction of Carl's voice only to once again overshoot, which causes him to stumble forward two steps. Turns out, he's two steps away from Carl. 

"Woah!" he exclaims as Grace knocks into him with some force, letting the foil fall to the ground when Grace's clumsy hand drops it in favor of steadying him by the shoulders. When he still finds himself trying to blink away grainy spots from his vision, Carl helps to ease him to sit on the floor and crouches beside him, guiding his head between his knees. "You okay?"

He wants to say yes, but what comes out is, "Mhm," which is a little ambiguous when you're white as a ghost and have just knocked into someone with your full weight while simply trying to hand them a roll of aluminum foil. 

"Easy. Sit down."

"Sorry," he mutters, finally able to force his clumsy tongue to form differentiated syllables. 

"Shut up." 

"'Kay." 

After he's had a few minutes to compose himself, Grace uncurls himself from his shrimp position and tests sitting up straight. When nothing terrible happens, he commits and leans back a little bit, supported by his arms, which are no longer trembling under his weight like his knees had been.

"Sorry about that," he says, aiming for 'brushing it off' and arriving at 'shameful half-laughter'. "I don't know what that was about."

"You're smart, want to take a guess?"

"Something something chemical reaction between caffeine and whatever's in Dayquill?"

"Probably a good start," he replies. "What possessed you to think it was a good idea to start working on the build right now?" 

"I kept falling asleep at my desk. Figured that if I got a little blood flow to my brain, it would help me wake up a bit."

"Well you almost got blood to flow from your brain onto the floor." Grace grimaces at the mental image. 

"Thanks for... uh, well I hate to say 'catching me,' because it makes me sound like a wilted damsel, but--"

"No, that's the word I'd use. And you're welcome." He stands. "I'm going to bring you some juice and your soup, which you should have eaten already."

As Carl heads off to do that, Grace shuffles out of the way of foot traffic with as much dignity as he can without risking standing prematurely. Once he's pressed with his back against the wall, he looks both ways to make sure he's alone and gives himself another brief wallow, letting his head roll backward and closing his eyes. He's used up his quota of miserable groans for the day, so instead he has to settle for taking a moment to himself, appreciating the quiet and focusing on mitigating the nausea enough that he'll be able to force down a little soup when Carl returns. 

-----

At this point, he has accepted that Carl is right: he should probably go home. However, accepting that is one thing, and choosing to act on it is another, and he's only willing to do the former. He's got so much left to do. There are still gaps that let in trace amounts of light at around the perimeter of the ceiling, so little that he can't see it with the naked eye, but enough to be messing with his experiment. He needs to go around and tape both the inside and outside of it, and that's a daunting enough job for two people, let alone just Carl. And because they've already worn down the free time of the few people who had chosen to volunteer to help them, it will be Carl alone. 

Why can't he just leave it be and take a few days off to rest and heal? The answer is that he could. No one would stop him from walking out the door and going right back to bed. But what right does he have to waste a day of their very limited time budget for a little cold? Putting them a day behind affects everyone, and the astronauts deserve better than that. Unless he physically can't, he's got to show up, which means sucking up feeling a little under the weather and doing his best. 

"You awake?" 

Darn it, he forgot to stop wallowing. 

"Yeah, just thinking. Thank you," he says as he accepts a bottle of apple juice from the vending machine and the soup Carl had been so kind as to reheat for him. He opens the lid and smells it: good, but that doesn't mean he wants to eat it. However, he has no choice. Carl has closed in for the kill, and if he doesn't eat, his whole justification of that little swoon falls apart. 

So he toughens up and takes a few bites until it feels like the surface tension of chicken and rice soup is all that's keeping his stomach from overflowing. It's about half the small cup. 

"That's all?"

"For now. Cold meds on an empty stomach made me a little queasy. Gonna see how that sits for a little while." 

To his surprise, Carl actually seems satisfied with that answer. He still clearly thinks Grace is being an idiot by virtue of simply being here, but in his defense, he's probably right. 

"I think I feel good enough to get back to it," he says in what he's convincing himself is delusional optimism rather than an outright lie. "What do you say, you still have a little time?" 

"For you?" he asks, extending a hand to help him to his feet where, thank god, he stands steady against the little head rush it gives him. 

-----

To ensure a proper seal, Carl works on the ceiling seam from the outside while Grace works from inside. He has to stand on a small stepladder to reach it, pressing the tape into the crevice and hoping he's not missing any spots. Even with the door open, it's really dark. 

Once again, he has regrets. The part of him that had thought this would be a good idea when he was shivering at his desk was so stupid. Now, instead of being wrapped in a cardigan doing nothing with his body but staring at a computer screen, he's fighting against the heaviness of his own limbs, fluctuating between the chill of the day and the oppressive heat of exertion. 

That, or he's starting to run a bit of a fever. Either is possible, at this point. 

He pulls out his phone to see the time: 3:23. It's been an hour and a half. Normally, he plans to be here until at least 6 or 7, but under the circumstances, he's considering letting himself take off at 4, so long as he brings the laptop so he can get a little work done from the comfort of his bed.

He's busy daydreaming about that when he feels it again, that flash of heat and wave of dizziness, the same as earlier. Suddenly, a wave of nausea washes over him, so strong that it induces a burst of panic in his chest that he's actually about to vomit in the astrophage box. Oh, god. He can't do that. If he thought it was embarrassing that Eva had caught him sleeping, if he throws up in here, he's going to have to volunteer to be launched into space with the Hail Mary. 

His fingertips and toes start to tingle, which is odd. That shaky, heavy sensation intensifies, leaving him trembling and sweaty and dizzy and disoriented and nauseous and--

Then, his ears are ringing. It's too dark in here to notice that his vision has gone black, so he doesn't see what's coming until it's already happened and his knees go out beneath him. The last thing he's aware of is uncontrollable free fall. 

----

After a blip in his awareness, the ringing in his ears gives way to the sound of someone saying his name. 

"Grace," they call. He calls. It's a man's voice. Carl. 

"Hmngh," he tries, and even he isn't sure what he was going for, there. Carl is tapping on his cheek kind of hard, bothersome enough that he instinctively tries to swat his hands away.

"Grace? You with me again?" 

He pries his eyes open, but it barely matters, because he can't see anything but a sliver of light from the ajar door. 

"There, you go. Wake up."

"Carl," he rasps. His voice has gotten exponentially worse from frequent coughing since the last time he spoke to anyone. "D'I pass out?"

"Yeah, you did. I heard a thump and came running in here, found you unconscious on the floor." 

"Oh," he says simply. What else can he say? He tries, "Sorry," but Carl ignores it. 

"You're an idiot." 

"Sorry." 

"How do you feel now? Think you could sit up?" 

"Yeah," he says, finding out that he's really not as he tries. His head spins again and everything goes fuzzy and wavy, but Carl helps him lean against the wall. "Sorry." 

"Stop saying that. I know you are."

"Okay. Uh, I'm," he catches himself about to say it again and curtails it, "okay. You were right. I think I need to go home." Carl huffs out a laugh. 

"Yeah, you think?" 

"Right. Obvious statement." 

"I'll let it slide, given that you're barely upright. I'm gonna go get your coat, let you sit a minute, then drive you home."

"You don't have to do that." 

"You think you're gonna bike back like this?"

"I can... I'll figure something else out. You've done enough." 

"Grace. Just take the favor." 

He takes a deep breath, releases it through his mouth, which triggers more coughing, and nods. This is just kindness, and, although it's hard to accept when he's been taking care of himself for so long, he needs kindness right now. Even if this is is own fault. 

"Uh, sure. Yeah. That sounds nice. Thank you."

"There. Wasn't so hard, was it?"

"That's dismissive." 

He snorts again. 

"Stay there. I'll be back." 

Grace takes a much needed moment to survey his body. His head is pounding. He's not sure if he hit it when he feel or if the headache has just gotten that bad. Everything in his body feels bruised, but it may well be. It was stupid to let things get to this point. And now Carl is going to have to take time and effort out of his day to drive him home, like he drank too much at a party. It's childish, really, and he regrets it. He could have just taken his laptop home, but no, he had to keep pushing.  

"Think you could stand if I help you?"

Grace nods, and, though it's not easy, he gets to his feet and manages to stay there. Carl walks him out the door, unfortunately past prying eyes, toward the car. Just when he thinks he's home free, he hears her. 

"Doctor Grace?" Eva calls. If he cursed, now would be a good moment to do it. 

"Oh," he says, turning around to face her while Carl holds onto his arm in case he falls again. "Hi." She waits for him to explain, asking questions solely with her eyes. "This? It's nothing. Just--not feeling so hot today. I think I'm gonna get some sleep and start fresh tomorrow." 

He's not sure how it's going to go over. He knows she's not going to tell him no, but he can barely stand to think about what her eyes are going to say. 

To his surprise, her eyebrows crinkle slightly, softly. Like she's worried. 

"And why is Carl holding your hand?"

"He fainted."

"Carl," he protests, but the damage is done. She raises one eyebrow and sighs taking a step forward. 

"I know this is important work, but you're no good to me or the project if you're this ill. You're dismissed for tomorrow, too." Before he can argue, she cuts him off. "Dismissed doesn't mean 'you may stay home if you'd like.' It means 'don't let me see you here.'"

He nods, disappointed but not about to fight her. 

"Understood." Then, he realizes this is a favor, not a punishment. "Thanks." Predictably, she doesn't acknowledge that, instead turning on her heel and heading back into the building, leaving him and Carl alone to finish their trek through the parking lot to the car. Not a moment too soon, either. He's starting to feel really lightheaded again.

His head against the cold window fogs the glass, and it feels amazing on his aching temple. Without meaning to, he dozes on the way home, only waking slightly every time they hit a bump hard enough that his head bounces off the window a little. Before he knows it, Carl is shaking his shoulder. 

"We're here," he says. Grace exits the car, feeling a little steadier now that he's had some time to sit. He doesn't need Carl's help to get inside, but he stays close in case he does. 

Inside, Carl helps him to his extremely small living room and eases him onto his very hard couch. Even as uncomfortable as it is, it's a relief to lie down. 

"I'm gonna grab you some stuff. Sit tight." 

Stuff? What kind of stuff could he need, past maybe another dose of cold medicine, which he doesn't have? Carl is rummaging around in the bathroom, learning just that. 

"Why is your medicine cabinet stocked like you're only allowed war rations?"

Grace shrugs. 

"I don't get sick very often." 

He's beginning to welcome the idea of being left alone to rest when Carl wanders, rather than to the front door, to the small kitchen, and begins going through his fridge. Because he's not totally sure why that's happening, he stays silent and lets him investigate whatever he's looking for. When he's done in the fridge, he opens the pantry. 

"Do you eat anything but Ramen and frozen waffles? " 

"Feels like a judgy question." 

"It is."

"Well, thanks for the ride," he says, hoping to lead him out the door before he starts reading his diary. "I owe you." 

"I'm coming back. You have nothing in your medicine cabinet except Zoloft and dust, and I don't want to leave you alone until I know that fever you're running isn't boiling your brain. I'm going to the pharmacy. Any requests?"

"Can I request you not do that?"

"Request denied. Think you could eat anything?" He shakes his head vehemently. Anything he puts in his stomach right now, he will be reunited with immediately. "That's fine. The main thing is bringing down the fever." 

"Seriously, I appreciate it, but you don't have to do all this. I'll be fine." 

Carl is already fishing his keys out of his pocket. 

"Don't lock me out." He has to admit, the thought did cross his mind. 

Ultimately, he's too tired to fight him on this. He simply settles in under his quilt and turns on the TV while he waits for Carl to return. The quilt and cardigan aren't enough, and he's still shivering. Maybe Carl is on to something when he says he should own a thermometer. 

It's easy to doze, and hard to force his eyes back open when Carl steps through the door an unknown amount of time later, carrying two plastic bags and a paper one with a smiley face on the front. He stretches, then chokes on a yawn, coughing until his chest hurts. Carl undoubtedly notices, but he busies himself with unpacking the bags he'd brought on the kitchen counter. 

"Catch," he calls, and before Grace can even sit up to see what's being thrown at him, a thermometer lands in his lap. "Use it." 

"Ugh." He feels a bit childish, but he does as he's told, taking it out when it beeps 30 seconds later. He glances at the number and thinks yeah, it's probably for the best that Carl drove him home. 

"What's the damage?" 

"Little over 102." 

"No wonder you fainted. You're cooking. Coming in today at all was a stupid choice."

"It was just a headache this morning." 

"Sure." The next thing Carl hands him is a blister pack of two blue gel capsules. "These are for the flu. Might be a little stronger than the cold meds you took earlier."

"Those made me feel drunk."

"And these will make you unconscious. It all works out." Grace takes the pills with a sip of the cup of orange juice he's handed. 

"You're really good at this," he says. "I'm sorry about the trouble."

"You should be. Next time you do something stupid like this, I'm leaving you in the box." Grace laughs. 

"Fair enough." 

Now, with a cup of orange juice, a bottle of water, and a sleeve of crackers on the table in front of him and two quilts on top of him, Carl decides that Grace is safe enough to leave alone, and he shrugs back into his jacket. 

"Thank you. For everything, really."

"If I see you tomorrow, I'm gonna be pissed." 

"Right. You won't, I promise." 

"Good." With his hand on the doorknob, he rethinks what he said. "But if you get worse, call someone. Doesn't have to be me, but I won't be mad if it is."

Whereas before, he'd been spending most of his free time doom-scrolling through academic papers on the laptop or taking depression naps, Grace now spends his days with Rocky, chatting to build a lexicon. It always starts out about science, but that limits them more than one would think. In order to explain scientific concepts to one another, they need enough common language to be able to put things in plain, simple terms, first, and that's hard without taking about simple things. 

More than just informative, he actually finds it fun. He's smart as a whip and, as he's coming to learn, actually pretty funny, for a guy who claims not to understand humor. He catches on to things quickly and it feels like they generally enjoy each other's company. Days that had once felt insurmountably long have turned into staying up late without even realizing it. 

However, he's not tethered to an alarm clock anymore, so when Grace wakes up feeling like he wants to do nothing but roll over and go back to sleep, it's unusual. Immediately, he becomes aware of a nagging pain in his stomach and a headache, plus the feeling of being slightly chilled on a ship that's normally quite comfortable. As he does many mornings, he forgets where he is until he opens his eyes, so he groans and rolls over, tugging his blanket over his head. 

"Grace is awake," Rocky celebrates with a little dancey dance. After a sleep cycle, Rocky is awake for around 86 hours--three and a half days--and the fact that Grace is supposed to spend 24 of those asleep is annoying to him. Often, that leads to Grace caving and staying up far too late and waking up after far too little sleep. Rocky gets bored, which makes him antsy, which makes him pace and move around until it wakes him. He's yet to determine whether it's being done on purpose, but he has his suspicions. 

"I'm going back to sleep." 

"Grace just wake up. Why would Grace sleep again, question?"

He almost says that he doesn't feel well, but he stops himself. Eridians don't feel ill often. Their hot temperatures boil any germs that might be out to get them, and their sleep cycles are strict, involuntary, and paralyzing. There isn't really any wiggle room for Rocky, which is why Grace hasn't been allowed to sleep in since they met. Introducing the concept that he feels sick enough to want to be unconscious might bring up some trauma for him. It's already a sore spot. 

"I'm just comfortable," he half lies. Now that Rocky has his ball, he can sleep in his bed again instead of on the floor of the tunnel bridge. It's been nice. 

"Breakfast time. Grace eat." His stomach is churning a little alongside the aching feeling, so breakfast doesn't sound appetizing, but maybe something light will help. 

"Let me get dressed, first. I'll meet you there." It doesn't matter that Rocky is blind nor that he has no concept of human modesty: watching him change is a boundary he's set. As Rocky scurries away to wait, he dresses, noting the way it aggravates his stomach pain, and moving around does no favors for the headache. Stress and the food must be getting to him. 

By the time he's dressed, he's already so tired and nauseous that resisting the urge to go back to bed is hard. For a moment, he considers whether it's worth putting up a fight for this one. Bed looks so nice. However, he decides against it. He'll feel more awake after coffee. 

"Grace take long time," Rocky complains. 

"Yeah, well, I put my pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of us."

"Don't understand expression. Maybe if Grace let Rocky observe 'get dressed'--"

"Absolutely not." 

"For science!" 

"You can't keep using that phrase to get whatever you want."

Even teaching human middle schoolers, Grace has never seen anyone pout as obviously or as often as Rocky does. Because they've got the privilege of gravity for now, he gets the luxury of drinking coffee out of a mug rather than a bag, which is nice. Maybe it's familiarity, but he swears it tastes better that way. Mary tries to push sausage and eggs on him, something he'd normally be excited about, but the thought of forcing down powdered eggs and dried out sausage makes his stomach churn. 

"How about something else today," he suggests. "Maybe oatmeal?" 

She gladly complies, and Armando hands over a steaming bowl of way more oatmeal than he's planning on stomaching. He lets it soak as he sips too-hot coffee. 

"Alright, Rock," he says, settling into their morning routine, "tell me all about it." 

"Grace move a lot in sleep! More than usual. One side, then other side, then back to other side. So much movement." 

"That's interesting," he says absently, setting the bowl of oatmeal down beside him and hoping Rocky doesn't notice. "Maybe that's why I'm so tired". 

Every morning, Rocky walks him through everything he did and said in his sleep. Given how Eridians are legitimately paralyzed in their sleep, Rocky finds it strange and exciting. He's learned more about his sleep habits from his weird little alien friend than he has from anyone he's ever shared a bed with. Apparently he talks in his sleep, which both surprises him and doesn't. He's always talking. 

For the next few minutes, he pretends to pay attention to the detailed report of his every move, then gears up for Rocky's favorite part. 

"Grace have dreams, question?"

That, in particular, fascinates Rocky, which he supposes isn't a bad thing. Something about being watched makes him feel... well, stalked, certainly, but there's a sense of security under that feeling that's starting to grow on him. When he'd first woken up from his coma, he'd had a lot of nightmares, snippets of memories he didn't understand mixed with usual dream logic. A lot of being chased. A lot of being caught. 

With Rocky here, though, his dreams are a little lighter. He doesn't remember as many of them, but that's because he's waking up less often. It had taken time to adjust, but now that it's been a few weeks, he actually kind of finds it comforting. 

Still weird though. 

"Yeah," he says, "actually, a few. Want to hear about them?" Rocky trills in affirmative, so Grace delves into all the nonsense that went through his mind as he slept. 

After he finishes explaining his dreams (and all necessary context), it's usually time for some exercise, but he's not sure how well that will go over with his stomach. Luckily, it's not the first time he's ever skipped it--he's never been much of a gym guy--so it doesn't raise much of a red flag beyond the light scolding he receives for being lazy. Oh, well. He'd have earned Rocky's criticism somehow or another today anyway, he's sure. He usually does. 

"Time for computer?" Rocky asks, earning a laugh from Grace. He can't help it. His posture is just so universally, apologetically eager. It's sweet. "Time learn new words?" 

"Sounds good, Rock. What do you feel like talking about first?" 

"Grace explain Earth water cycle!" 

Great. He'd been hoping to coast in this conversation until he wakes up a little more. 

"You just want a puppet show." 

"Show necessary for Rocky to understand. Yes yes yes." 

"We can work on that one later. How about something a little easier to start the morning off? Something from the projection room?" Rocky perks up. Grace laughs. "Come on." 

-------

Grace might like the projection room almost as much as Rocky does. 

They're pretending to feel icy wind on their faces in the Arctic tundra when the nausea hits full force. Maybe it's because he forced himself to choke down half the bowl of oatmeal, maybe it's the projection making him motion sick, but regardless, his stomach flips insidiously. Panic follows on its heels, making him sweaty and shaky. 

"I'll be right back," he manages, getting to his feet as fast as he can and scurrying down the tunnel back to his own ship. "Bathroom."

He barely manages to make it to the toilet before his stomach contents jump up his throat. It’s certainly not the first time he’s vomited since he woke up here. Adjusting to being in space was awful on his stomach, and nausea was a constant background sensation for almost two weeks. However, it’s been a long time since he’s actually been sick like this, so it’s unexpected and annoying. 

"Ugh," he groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. When he's sure he's finished, he gets slowly to his feet, where he finds that, although it's done nothing for the abdominal pain, vomiting has actually taken away the nausea. "What was that all about?"

Though the projection room hasn't made him feel sick in the past, he guesses it's probably what threw him over the edge. His head aches, too, so maybe stress is the underlying factor. It's not like he can really catch a stomach bug up here in isolation, and his food is all precooked. Oh well, he decides. If it's anxiety, then ruminating on it isn't going to help, so he does his best to shove it from his mind as he rinses his mouth out with water and heads back to the tunnel. 

Rocky is waiting for him, as always. Seems as though talking with Grace is the best part of his day--well, likewise. One of the first and most terrible things that Grace has learned about him is that, before the Hail Mary came along, Rocky had been floating alone up here for about 46 Earth years. Longer than Grace has even been alive. He can't imagine how lonely he must have been. 

By the time Grace returns, he finds that Rocky has gotten bored of the projection room without Grace there to describe what's going on and to move around to deepen the simulations. He likes to be doing something with his hands at all times, and he gets antsy when he sits still for too long. Grace can't tell if that's an Eridian thing, or he's just an engineer. 

"I see we're getting to work," he announces when he steps into the lab. 

"Grace be lazy long enough." 

"A guy has to go to the bathroom one time, and he never hears the end of it," he mutters. "Alright, what have we got?" Rocky gestures to the pile of transparent panels. "Oh, wow. Are there more of these than the last time I saw them?" 

"Yes. Rocky build while Grace bathe and exercise and--"

"Okay, okay, I see. Jeez. This is..." daunting, crazy, exhausting, "impressive." That, more than anything. Rocky looks proud, as much as a sentient rock can. "Where do we start?"

---------

They work for over three and a half hours, Grace placing things where Rocky says they should go, then replacing them where Rocky says they should actually go, constantly tuning out the frustrated criticisms. The whole time, his stomachache is doing nothing but getting worse. At first, it's nothing he can't push through, but it becomes less bearable as time goes on. Eventually, he knows that if he doesn't go lie down soon, he's going to be sick again. 

"I think I need a break." 

"We just start working."

"Maybe to you, but it's been almost four hours. That's a long time to go without a rest, for a human. I'm exhausted." Rocky ponders this. 

"Okay. Grace take break." 

"Thank you." 

Nausea washes over him, worse than the background noise that it's been while they worked. Hopefully, that's just because he's allowing himself to think about it. He's always been bad about being in touch with his body when he's wrapped up in something. A vague memory washes over him of his days in astrophage research, one of a man bringing him a spare sandwich from the deli only to have him get woozy from low blood sugar when he stood to retrieve it. The man hadn't seemed surprised, either. 

"Grace need lunch, question?" 

Ugh. He probably does, but that's the last thing he wants to do right now. Given how well breakfast went over, he has a hypothesis about the result of putting more food into his roiling stomach. 

"I think I'm gonna skip lunch today. Stomach's feeling a little choppy." Before Rocky can ask, he finishes, "Means I'm a little nauseous." 

He's a little afraid of how that's going to go over, given what happened to Rocky's crew, but he doesn't react much. Grace realizes that he's only known the word "nauseous" in relation to causes like zero gravity and going too long between meals after getting wrapped up in work. To him, there's no reason to associate nausea with illness.  Another wave hits him, hard and intense. He swallows thickly, hoping he can will it away and frowning when he realizes he can't. One hand clamps hard over his mouth and he bolts upright. He would excuse himself, but he's pretty sure that if he removes his hand from over his mouth, he'll lose his tentative grip on the contents of his stomach, so instead, he just hustles out of the room as quickly as he can.

Just in the nick of time, he slams the door behind him and once again vomits, though this time there's nothing in his stomach to lose but what little water he'd managed to force down. This time, despite coming away soaked in sweat, he realizes that the trembling he's doing isn't just shakiness from his ordeal, but cold shivers. This really takes him back to his grad school days. Is he having a panic attack? So out of nowhere? In school, he'd stretched himself so thin all the time that he'd be hit with waves of sheer anxiety out of the blue, ones that made him shiver and sweat and, occasionally, vomit. He supposes that it's not exactly unwarranted, given his circumstances, but it's still startling. This is the last thing he thought he'd still be dealing with, after all the healing he'd done once he left research and became a teacher. The job isn't easier, not by any means, but at least he can see the impact he's making. In research, he'd just been forming, voicing, and defending one wildly unpopular opinion over and over. 

When he's sure his stomach is calm, he rinses his mouth out again, this time spitting the water out rather than swallowing it. Maybe he shouldn't try to eat anything else until the stress stomachache subsides.

This time, when he reenters the lab, Rocky has stopped working and appears to be waiting for him, staring at the door.

"Hey, Rock," he says slowly, wincing when his voice sounds torn up and shaky. "Taking a break?"

"Grace is hiding something."

"Ha--what?" he asks, aiming for nonchalance and hoping that Rocky isn't good enough at reading his tone yet to hear an obvious lie when he hears one. "What makes you say that?"

"Heartbeat too loud and too fast. Breathing too fast. Shaking. Weird all day. Grace is sick, question?"

Grace sighs. It figures that Rocky is too astute to pull off lying to him.

"Oof, okay. I wasn't trying to hide it, I just didn't want to stop working just yet. I should have said something." Rocky's tone shoots up an octave in panic.

"Grace is sick question?"

"No, I'm not--not exactly. It's just--it's called anxiety. Feeling anxious. Like fear, but there's nothing, like, dangerous going on to be afraid of. It's just your brain overreacting to stress and dumping the same chemicals that cause you to feel scared. Do you have anything like that?"

"Scared for no reason?" Rocky parrots. Grace nods, ready with the laptop in the hopes that his friend might understand the feeling. "Eridian word is," and a little musical trill that Grace enters as "anxiety" into the program. "Anxiety make Grace sick, question?"

"Yeah. It can't kill you or anything, but it can make you feel sick. I think I've been feeling anxious since I woke up."

"What does it... feel like?"

Hm. That's a good question. He's used to divorcing his mind from his body during times like these. It had started as a survival mechanism, then ended up being a habit, as most coping mechanisms do. This just happens to be a bad one that he can't seem to shake. 

"It feels like fear, I guess. Your heart rate and breathing increase, you get all cold and sweaty, sometimes nauseous. It can feel like a whole lot of things, really." 

"Oh." For a blissful moment, he thinks he's going to leave it at that. "Why Grace did not tell Rocky, question?"

"I didn't want you to worry. Like I said, it's nothing harmful, just a feeling. Uncomfortable."

"Cause pain question?"

"Sometimes. My stomach has been really sore since I woke up."

"Grace should have said something. Work done for today so Grace can rest." As much as his brain doesn't want to, his body has been begging for this all day. 

"Sure. I think I might take a nap. It might help me chill out a little. 1,800 seconds or so, and I'll be good as new." 

"Grace chill out. Rocky watch." 

Rocky follows Grace to the dormitory and assumes his position beside his bed while Grace settles in and rolls over to face away, curling in on his aching stomach and drifting off almost immediately.

-----

When he wakes, it's because Rocky is tapping on his glass ball, calling his name. 

"Rocky? What is it? What's wrong?" 

He's fretting, Grace can see it in his stance. He's upset about something. 

"Grace say Grace nap 1,800 seconds. Grace been napping 8,100 seconds." 

It takes him a moment to do the mental math that should normally be easy. He's been asleep for over two hours? He never naps that long. Heck, sometimes he doesn't even sleep that long. 

"Sorry, I didn't mean to. Must be more tired than I thought." 

"How Grace feel, question?" 

Honestly, he feels worse than before. The stomachache is no better--in fact, it's sharper, more like a knife in his gut than the earlier feeling of having taken a punch. He's shivering proper now, freezing and weak with chills. More than that, everything is starting to feel muddled, floaty, and dizzy, like he's waking up from being drugged. Overall, it's the worst he's felt since he woke up from his coma, even worse than that first day. 

"Uh, not great," he admits. 

"'Not great' is usually Grace way of saying 'very bad.'"

"No, it's--"

Actually, he can't argue with that. 

He desperately wants more sleep, but Rocky is worried enough as it is, and really, now that he's awake, he's not sure if he could even fall back to sleep in this kind of pain. Stifling a groan now that the cat's out of the bag would be more effort than it's worth. 

"Grace need medicine," Rocky insists. 

"Nah. All it'll do is make me sleep more." 

If he could only just relax, he's sure he'd feel better, but it's hard to do that when he can't even pinpoint what's making him feel so stressed in the first place. Is it the pressure finally getting to him? He doesn't feel particularly anxious, but there was a time right after the publication of his paper, when he was hearing nothing but arguments tearing him apart and calling him an idiot, when he was throwing up just about every other day, first thing in the morning, from pure dread. He'd tried medication then, but it hadn't done anything but take him from being nervous to being groggy and nervous. He's already groggy enough, now. 

"Projection room help Grace chill out, question?" 

Despite how awful he feels, he smiles. Rocky loves that room, now that he has his little tactile projector, and knows that the craggy, foggy beach is one of Grace's favorite simulations to go to. Sometimes, he'll queue it up after a particularly long day in the lab and stay there until he unwinds enough to fall asleep. 

"That sounds like a great idea." 

He follows Rocky there, then selects his favorite program, sitting down beside Rocky. This close, he can feel the slight heat radiating off his ball, and he leans into it until he's resting against it entirely, pressing himself to as much surface area as possible to soak up maximum warmth. It feels fantastic, almost enough to stop his shivering. As much as he calls Rocky clingy, and he is, it's Grace who needs the physical contact. Even when it's just a little fist bump here and there. 

Pain or no pain, watching the soothing waves, combined with the exhaustion from feeling ill and the warmth coming from Rocky, soon lulls him again into a light, restless sleep. 

Rocky’s POV

Grace is once again napping, this time without even giving Rocky the courtesy of a warning. He does that sometimes, falls asleep without realizing he’s doing it, so he doesn’t worry that he’s dead like he had the first time. Usually, it's after long nights and short sleeps and long hours in the lab. Today has been the opposite. Rocky feels like he’s been asleep more than he's been awake. Even then, he's acting strange. He insists it's anxiety, and that anxiety isn't dangerous, but can he really be this sick from something he swears is physically harmless? 

He's worried, but Grace finally seems comfortable for the first time in hours. His shaking has reduced significantly, and he's not so tightly wound against his aching abdomen. He hates when Grace is hurting. He hates when he lies about it. Why does he feel the need to do that? Rocky is all Grace has, and vice versa. They need each other. 

Grace tends to move around in his sleep, but this shifting is different. Restless, like he's trying to find a way to sleep that doesn't hurt. One hand keeps coming up to guard his abdomen, which is worrisome. Rocky is watching him sleep, so he shouldn't feel vulnerable to attacks. What does it say that even in his sleep, he's trying to protect his internal organs? What threat could he possibly be facing? 

"Grace," he prods, wiggling the ball in an attempt to rouse him without startling him. "Wake up. Your heart." 

"Hm?"

"Heart is beating so fast, like while exercise. Rocky never heard it beating like this while sleep." 

"It's fine, Just lemme sleep a 'lil longer. You're warm." He's listless and speaking strangely, his words slurred and more difficult to understand, like when he gets very tired. Stupid tired. But this isn't Grace being stupid, it's Grace being ill. And Rocky doesn't know what to do. There's very little he can do, given that he can't survive in Grace's atmosphere to touch him or bring him medicine. If he wants Grace to get better, he's got to convince him to do the work himself, and it might be too late for that. It's getting harder to wake him every time he tries, and this time, he's barely awake even though he's talking. His eyes aren't even open.  

"Don't like this. Something feels wrong." 

"You're overreacting," Grace reassures. However, not a moment later, his eyes shoot open, and he smacks one hand over his mouth like he had earlier. In the same rushed flurry by which he'd departed a few hours ago, he forces himself to his feet, but this time, he seems unsteady. He wavers, only managing not to fall by steadying himself on the wall of the ship. Rocky cries out his name, but it doesn't make a difference, and he goes staggering out of the dormitory.

This time, Rocky isn't about to let him run off alone. He doesn't care whether Grace lets him follow: he's coming in. Luckily, he's got bigger concerns than making sure that the door is locked, and Rocky manages to trail closely enough behind him that when he tries to slam it shut, it instead just hits the ball and bounces off. He watches in horror as Grace makes terrible, pained coughing sounds he's never heard before, purging water from his stomach through his mouth. 

"Grace!" he can't help but cry, even knowing that Grace doesn't want him in here. He knows he's lucky that the microphone on the computer is even sensitive enough to pick up on his trills this far away. Grace probably has to strain to hear it, but he hopes it's loud enough to get the gist. "Grace, how Rocky help?" 

He can't reply as he begins coughing again, though this time, he must be out of water, because nothing comes up. That doesn't make it less horrible--in fact, it might make it worse. Grace moans in pain, burying his face in the crook of his elbow as he rests his arm on the toilet.

"Get outta here," he commands roughly without looking up, but there's no heat behind it. There never is. 

"How Rocky help?" he repeats. He hates that he can't modulate his tone, because he knows that his panic comes through the computer speakers, and that makes Grace feel like he has to reassure him. He sits up straight, rubs at watery, red eyes, and sniffles. 

"M'fine, Rock," he reassures. "Be out in a few." 

"No." Rocky has to draw the line somewhere. "No more excuses. Tell Rocky what to do." When Grace sighs, still hesitant, Rocky adds a rare, "Please." 

Slowly, gingerly, he turns, angling his body toward Rocky's ball and leaning against him once more. This time, though, rather than supporting him from the side as he's accustomed to, Rocky finds himself staring at Grace's torso as he presses himself up against the ball from the front. Rocky shifts around in discomfort. This can't be all he needs right now. 

"This is helping?" 

"Mhm," he murmurs. "Not as cold." It's not enough of an answer to assuage his fears, but it's enough to interpret as an affirmative. The physical contact is helping the shaking, but he's still barely coherent, barely responding to his questions, and his heart is still pounding hard and fast. Treatment has to be more complicated than just making him comfortable. 

"Rocky want Grace to see medicine robot." Grace starts shaking his head before he even finishes his request. 

"Told you, he'll just--"

"Grace is sick and tired and stupid. Judgment bad." Grace pulls away from the ball, winces, and looks at him. 

"You're really worried, aren't you?" 

"Yes yes yes. Never seen Grace act like this before. New and scary." Whether it's guilt or finally seeing reason, Rocky can't say, but finally, he nods with a deep, resigned breath. 

"Okay."

"Okay what, question? Grace agree to see medicine robot?" 

"Yeah. Just... gimme a second to stand up." 

"Careful," he says, "go slow." The last thing he needs is for him to stand up too fast and get dizzy, which happens sometimes when he goes long hours in the lab without drinking water. Rocky knows he hasn't been drinking water. His hypothesis is proven correct when Grace wavers upright, leaning very heavily on his ball for support and balance. Why would he let things get so bad that he can barely stand before letting Armando look him over? 

Even once he's on his feet, he's not standing upright, not all the way. He's hunched forward, hand still protecting his stomach. 

"Grace go see robot, now," Rocky prompts when he doesn't move for a long moment. 

"I think I need'a sid'down another sec," he slurs, easing himself into a seated position once more. 

"No. Grace say he see robot. Grace is sick." 

"A li'l too sick to stand yet," he says worryingly. "Just need'a minute." He sits like that for a moment, on the ground with his head between his knees. When he decides, possibly arbitrarily, that he can try again, he does so, once more using Rocky's ball for support. It doesn't seem to matter. He still sways on his feet.

"One more second," he implores, moving to sit again, but Rocky can't let that happen. 

"No," he says sharply. Grace steadies himself, but doesn't sit. For all his complaining about it, he really does do most of what he's told. "Grace has had enough seconds. Grace go. Now now now." 

"Ugh," is the only reply he receives.  "Going. Jeez." 

It's a rough trek. Rocky has never seen him so clumsy, and he's naturally pretty clumsy. After just a few steps, they reach the doorway. 

"Watch step." 

Then, something horrible happens. Without warning, Grace's foot catches on the little ledge, sending him careening forward with barely enough time to throw his arms out in front of him as he falls. Rocky shouts his name, but it's too late. He hits the ground hard on his hands and knees, crying out in so much palpable pain that Rocky flinches. 

"Grace!" 

There's nothing he can do from his stupid space ball. He should have built something different, should have insisted he get himself checked out earlier, should have learned more about human anatomy so he might have any idea of what's going on--

Grace pushes himself to his knees and leans to one side, catching himself on the wall. Then, that terrible sound again, the awful coughing that had earlier brought up mouthfuls of water. All Rocky can do is get as close to him as possible in the hopes that maybe he was right, maybe the heat could help him, and a few more minutes of clinging to the ball might give him the energy to stand up and get to somewhere Armando can examine him. 

However, he has a sneaking suspicion it doesn't work like that. 

"Grace get up," he demands. Grace's face is pinched in pain, his posture rigid with it. Even his words are pushed out through a clenched jaw.

"Can't." 

"Grace get up." His tone is somewhere between frantic panic and irritable impatience, triggered by the aforementioned panic. Grace's heart is hammering so fast that he loses track of the beats, and breathing shallow and quick. "Have to. For Rocky." 

For Rocky. It's a long shot: a Hail Mary, as Grace has explained it to him. Something that's said or done in a desperate plea for victory against insurmountable circumstances. Grace is too sick to walk. He knows this. But he also knows Grace has to walk to get help, if that's even possible, anymore. He can't even think about that. All he can do is hope that by some miracle, Grace can muster up what little strength he still has and do this for him. He needs it. Needs Grace. 

And, by whatever means, Grace stands up. He's not steady, but he takes a shaky step forward, catches himself on Rocky's ball, and then takes another. Rocky keeps up the slow pace, always there to keep him from falling every time he looks like he might. Finally, excruciatingly, they make their way to the medbay, where Armando is able to step in and help him onto the bed.

"Grace very sick, bad bad bad sick." But the speaker is too far way to hear, and it just comes out as panicked trills that Mary can't decipher.

"Physical distress detected. Examination of Doctor Grace initiated," Mary announces, the best words Rocky has ever heard. He waits, sticky fear sensation oozing out of every crevice. He hasn't felt this scared since--well. That's not a thought he wants to relive right now. 

"Core temperature highly elevated: 103.6 degrees Fahrenheit." Because Rocky holds onto every word Grace says, he recalls one of their earliest conversations about species biology. Human body temperature is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Not just that, but they have a very narrow range of survivable temperatures. Get too hot or too cold, and things begin shutting down, not the least of which being the brain. But how hot can he get before that happens? Has it started already? Grace seemed stupid, when he was conscious, which he barely is, now. Only enough to try to swat away the probes as they whirl around him in a flurry of motion, placing a cannula into his neck to administer medicine and fluids. 

"Heart rate elevated: 136 beats per minute. Respiration rate elevated: 25 breaths per minute. Blood pressure elevated: 131/84. Blood oxygen saturation: normal. Likely diagnosis: infection and dehydration. Scanning for cause." 

Rocky sits, being as patient as he can be when all he can think about is how quickly Grace's condition had deteriorated.

"Rocky?" Grace calls, his tone helplessly lost. "S'happening?"

He's squeaking furiously, trying to explain to him that he was wrong, that this is not harmless and that he's very, very sick, but he can't. The laptop is in the other room, and Grace can't understand him without it. 

"Scan in progress," Mary informs him. "Please hold still."

Armando is trying his best to work around his flailing, but Grace is faster.

"Grace stop moving," Rocky implores. "Grace is safe. Rocky watch." The calm in his tone is 100% forced and possibly not even believable, but it doesn't matter. Sometimes, it's just nice to hear something familiar, he hopes, so he keeps chattering until Mary speaks again. 

"Underlying cause of illness determined," Mary announces. Rocky moves closer in anticipation. "Doctor Grace is experiencing: infection of the appendix." Appendix? What's an appendix? "Treatment course: immediate removal of affected organ." 

Three questions. It's an organ? It's infected? And, most terrifyingly, they have to remove it? As far as Rocky has understood so far, those are all pretty important. Worst of all, he can't ask any questions, not of Grace nor of Mary, before Armando is injecting something new through his cannula and beginning the process of surgery. 

----

It's surprisingly short and simple. About half an hour later, Armando places a few incisions into the abdominal punctures, then bandages them, and just like that, he's replacing his gown and ending calling the procedure successful. And it does appear successful. Grace's heart rate and respiration both begin to return to normal, and he's no longer squirming around in agony (though whether that's the surgery or the medicine is anyone's guess.) 

Rocky only leaves for a minute, just long enough to get the laptop and push it across the floor so he can talk to Grace when he wakes up. Other than that, he sits by his side, waiting. He talks to him. He tells him to rest, but secretly, he can't stop hoping he'll wake any second now. This is awful. It's just like how he'd felt when his crew were so sick, helpless and confused. Not only does he not really understand what was wrong, but he has no idea what happens next. 

To his surprise, Grace actually only stays unconscious for about another hour and a half. It seems as though the meds only briefly sedated him, and the fever and exhaustion did the rest. Rocky is torn between worry that perhaps he should be healing for longer than this and relief that he's okay when his fingers twitch and his head rolls from one side to the other.  

"Grace," he calls as softly as the computer program will allow without any real control over volume. "Grace can hear me, question?" 

"Hmngh," is the response, so Rocky decides that okay, sure, maybe he's not all the way awake yet, and waits a little longer. A few minutes later, Grace's eyes flutter open. At first, they're not fixing on anything in particular, but when he sees Rocky on the ground in his ball, mere inches from him, he musters up a sloppy, loopy smile. He looks ridiculous.

"Hey, Rock," he greets deliriously. 

"Hi," he replies. "How Grace feeling, question?" 

He surveys himself, which is more thought than he's given to his body all day, so Rocky is hopeful that maybe he's getting a real answer this time. 

"Better. What happened? My memory is a little... fuzzy."

"Fuzzy mean stupid?" 

He barks out a laugh, which jars his abdomen. This time, the wince is subtle, not gut-wrenching. 

"Probably that, too, but I just meant I'm having a little trouble remembering." 

"Because Grace stupid. Appendix infected. Grace was bad bad bad sick. So scary." 

"Oh, jeez. Guess I was way off, huh?" 

Rocky realizes in this moment that, beneath the joy at seeing that Grace is going to be okay, he's angry. He doesn't respond, doesn't move. But Grace knows him too well, and he can't hide anything from him. He picks up on it immediately, even in his weakened, slightly inebriated state. His eyebrows furrow and he frowns.

"You mad at me?"

"No," Rocky lies, because he doesn't want Grace to have to deal with that right now, not mere moments after waking from surgery, not when his temperature is still far too high and he's still got to feel seriously ill. "Rocky was worried. Rocky is worried." 

"But you're also mad," Grace says. He's sobering up quickly despite everything. Now that he's a little more with the program, Rocky decides that maybe, since he keeps pushing, he is clear headed enough for the truth. 

"Yes." 

"Because I scared you?" 

"Because Grace lie," he snaps. "Rocky say Grace is sick. Rocky say Grace is sick over and over again, and you lie." 

Grace is quiet for a long moment. 

"I understand." 

"Why Grace lie, question?" 

It takes conscious effort, but he calms himself down enough to be ready to listen to Grace's answer and hear out his side of things. 

"It wasn't a lie at first," he says defensively. "I used to get really bad stomachaches from anxiety, a long time ago. Felt sick just like I did this morning. That's all I thought it was, I promise." 

"And then later, question?" 

"Later, I..." he trails off for a moment, "yeah, I lied. In my defense, I didn't know it was this serious. I didn't want to worry you over nothing."

"Pain is something," he retorts sharply. Grace sighs. 

"I guess you're right." He looks directly at him, now, which Rocky knows means he's being serious. Genuine. He perks up a little. "I shouldn't have done what I did. I should have just gone to the medbay when you asked me to. I was wrong."

If Eridians could cry like humans, Rocky is sure he'd be on the verge of it. How can he possibly explain how badly this had hurt him?

"Rocky was alone for long, long time. Rocky and Grace only have each other. It's only us. Rocky can't," the voice over the speaker breaks, "lose Grace."

"I'm sorry, Rock. You have every right to be mad at me."

"Rocky... accept Grace apology. Promise Rocky."

"Promise you what, buddy?"

"Promise next time Grace get help sooner."

He offers a tentative thumbs up, not sure how well it will go over.

"Deal."

Rocky offers a thumbs up in return. It's still not right. 

"Rocky forgive. Grace rest." 

"Sure. Thanks, pal. For keeping me safe." 

"That's Rocky job. Now, Rocky watch Grace sleep."

"Happily."