The Beef Mom

"Pebbles!" Adrian shouts, and three little carapaces, one bigger carapace, and a head all snap in their direction. It's funny--Rocky learned to turn his body toward Grace's to show that he's paying attention just because it's polite by human standards, but now, his kids to it, too. 

"Uncle Grace started it!" 

"Not care who start, I will end," they reply, something that brings Grace right back to Grover Cleveland Middle. Best to shape up, he thinks. Those are the words of a parent on the edge. 

"Sorry, Adrian," he says. "I know it's close to bedtime. I'm not trying to rile them up." 

"Is not that," they say in a tone that sounds like an eye roll. "Pebbles playing too rough with Grace. Not want them to harm you. Is also your fault. Chasing pebbles when you know it will hurt later." 

"Aw, don't worry about that. I'm tougher than I look!" 

"Is lie," accuses the smallest, Mica. "Uncle Grace is fragile. Also slow." He grins. 

"Oh, yeah? Well, I'm still fast enough to catch you!" he exclaims, lifting their ball off the sand and rolling them forward. They trill in delight, and the larger two line up for the same treatment, begging to be next. This is their very favorite game. "You two are getting too big for me to bowl with," he says, but that doesn't stop him from trying. Maybe Adrian is right about him overdoing it, he thinks as it reignites a familiar twinge in his back. "Maybe I'll ask your parents to build a ramp to roll down. That might be fun." 

The excited chattering that comes as a response from that earns him a glare from Adrian and Rocky, who will have to listen to that until they make it happen. 

"Rocky Adrian work so hard to raise polite pebbles, and Grace ruins them in two hours," Rocky laments. 

"Aw, somebody's gotta spoil them. They don't get to come over here all that often."

"Uncle Grace not let us have bedroom," points out Flint, diving toward Grace so fast that he has to duck away, then laughing. Sometimes, he thinks they forget he's a different species with breakable bones. 

"Woah," he says, "careful, kiddo. You'll flatten me." He backs straight into the third pebble, Slate, and startles. They've gotten to the point in the evening where "play time" has graduated into "exercising group hunting tactics," which is usually about when Rocky and Adrian take them home. Besides, Adrian is right. It's been about two hours, the end of his limits. Even though it's been a while, and he's much healthier than he was when he got to Erid, his stamina never fully recovered. Overexerting himself still ends in some nasty fatigue and headaches, sometimes even a low grade fever, if he pushes it. And he's pushed it tonight, already feeling a tension headache creeping up at the base of his neck. He doesn't blame himself. Rocky and Adrian deserved a date night, and he was more than happy to pebblesit. 

"Lovely mate," Adrian starts, "my sweet, trouble-making pebbles, is time to leave Grace alone for night." 

"No!" shout the pebbles. "A few more minutes!" 

"We can visit Grace again soon," Rocky says.

"And will talk about ramp?" asks Mica.

"Can think about talking about ramp. Not promise."

More protests, but Grace has to admit, he is tired. "Scuttle over here for hugs," he commands. "I'll see you guys soon. Go get some sleep." 

"Goodnight, Uncle Grace!" they cheer over one another as they press in close for hugs, then trail after Adrian. Rocky doesn't move. 

"You'd better catch up," Grace says. "Adrian's got their hands full with them. They're pretty hyper tonight." 

"Will go in minute. Many thank for keeping eye on them. Adrian Rocky date was very nice."

"I'm glad!" Grace shivers against a small breeze, finger and thumb unconsciously rising to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. Though it's beyond worth it, they're a lot to handle, and he always ends up going to bed with the worst headaches after he babysits. "You've got some great kids, there."

"Yes. I walk you inside, question?"

Grace hesitates, surprised and a little confused by the offer. "Sure, if you want to." Rocky wants to, and leads the way. "Something on your mind, Rock?"

"No, nothing wrong. Just worry for you." 

"Worried? Why?"

"Pebbles exhaust Grace." 

"They're young. They'll grow out of this phase where they never sit still. That, or they'll take after you." 

"Not problem. Problem is that Grace body still weak. Even now, Grace is hurting." 

"It's just a headache. I'll sleep it off." 

"Heart beat fast, too. Shaking a little. You are cold, question?"

"The biodome is fine, if that's what you're asking."

"You know is not." 

He sighs. "Yeah, I'm a little cold." 

"Grace have fever. Knew this would happen." Rocky leads him to his bed and shoves him down, where he flops onto his back with a little "oof," waiting until Rocky walks away to fret with something in the kitchen before sitting up again.

"Woah, knew what would happen? Nothing is happening." Rocky returns to the bedroom with a pouch of water and the forehead thermometer he never trusts Armando to attach, since Rocy can do it better. He doesn't ask before swiping it from temple to temple, turning the screen around for Grace to read aloud. He doesn't have his screen reader. 

"37.9," he says. "Barely anything." 

"Is something," Rocky argues. "Is because Grace watch pebbles for us." 

"Well, yeah. This also happens if I walk too far or stay up too late. Post-exertional malaise, remember?" They found that term together on the laptop while they desperately tried to figure out why Grace was spiking nightly fevers and fighting migraines as he recovered and became more active. Space depletes the human immune system, though they're not sure why, and going from 0 G for years to suddenly adjusting to 1.5 G wasn't easy. Not everything came back online the way it should, and his body's defenses don't always know the difference between a foreign threat and a harmless inconvenience anymore. 

"Rocky is afraid of pushing Grace too far. Adrian worry, too."

"That's sweet, Rock, but I'm afraid there's not a lot that can be done about it. Sometimes, you don't get all the way better when you get sick. You don't want me to miss out on your kids' lives just because I get a little worn out, do you?"

"Of course not," Rocky replies. "Pebbles love love love Grace. Would never, ever take them away from you."

"Okay, good." 

"Does not mean problem doesn't exist. Is not safe for Grace to always have fever and pain."

Grace sighs again. "You're right." He shivers, a spike of pain shooting through his neck as he moves. It's hard to admit it even to himself, but running around after them, then spending the next day so tired he can't think straight isn't sustainable. "So, what do we do?"

"Adrian had idea. Grace not get as sick if sitting, but still want to play with pebbles. What if we built chair that lets Grace move around?"

"Like a wheelchair?" 

"Yes! Grace use cane, but sometimes is not enough. Could also help Grace on trip to and from school."

Oh, wow. That's a lot. Obviously, he'd known this would come at some point in his life, but the cane was an adjustment in itself. It made him feel old. Rocky and Adrian helped with that--mostly, just by not knowing what the hell he was talking about and making him realize that much of his hesitation was rooted in human societal pressures, which did not apply here. Still, with wheelchairs comes the risk of muscle disuse and deconditioning. The thought that this might be what peak physical health looks like for the rest of his life frightens him a little. 

But his head is throbbing. His joints are swelling, too, and the fatigue is starting to set in. If he'd been able to sit, could he have hung out with them longer? Could he have enjoyed the visit without having to worry so much about whether he will be well enough to teach tomorrow? Could they have played together without making Rocky and Adrian panic about how much stress his body can take?

"Would be easy to make. You could try, and if you not like, then not have to use. Choice is up to Grace." 

He nods. "I think it's worth a shot."

Rocky gives him jazz hands. "Good good good! We will make. Will be beautiful! And safer for Grace body. More comfortable." 

That's all Rocky wants for him. All anyone here wants for him, really. A comfortable life filled with as much joy as he can get. If a wheelchair helps him achieve that, why not give it a try?

"Thank you, really. I appreciate it." 

"Is partly selfish, too. If Grace have wheelchair, Rocky not feel as guilty asking Grace to pebblesit."

"You do realize that if you build me a wheelchair, you're going to need to build that ramp after all, right? And I'm gonna let them play on it."

Rocky whines. "See? Grace having more fun already." He takes another sip of water and lies back down. "Want me to watch you sleep? Adrian won't mind."

"Nah. Get home. I'll be okay."

"Okay. Will stop by tomorrow morning to check on you. Sleep, now." 

"Get home safe. And thank you."

When Grace wakes, sticky and damp with sweat despite having kicked off all his blankets in the night, the first thought that comes to mind is a dark joke that he would never repeat: maybe we should have just let the sun dim. He's hot, and not in an "I put too many blankets on" or "I slept in too late and now the sun is shining directly on my bed" sort of way. It's, like, dead of summer in the desert hot. After years on the Hail Mary and another year spent in a biodome, he hasn't woken up sweating in a long time. In fact, most of that time, he woke up shivering from starvation and malnutrition. It's only been in the last few months that he's really gotten his health back, even if there are some things that won't ever be the same. New pains that didn't exist before, less stamina. Both of which are negligible, given that they mean he's alive to feel them. 

"Ugh," he groans, rolling over onto his side. "What's going on? Why is it so hot?" 

Who does he think he's talking to? His biodome is no longer continuously monitored at his own request: knowing that the Eridian scientists were watching his every move had freaked him out, so he'd put an end to that as soon as he was no longer at risk for sudden cardiac arrest from refeeding syndrome. 

Oh, well. Rocky will visit later--he always does--and they'll figure it out from there. In the meantime, Grace tries everything. Maybe the heat is getting trapped in his house, he thinks, so he goes outside for fresh air, only to find the artificial sunlight to be even worse. Perhaps a dip in the water will cool him off, he surmises, but when he gets to the coast, the steam clouds above the sea warn him that trying that would be ill advised.

Of all the days for Rocky to be late. 

Usually, he comes before class starts. Sometimes, he and Adrian stop by again in the evening, but he can normally count on Rocky to be knocking down his door the second he wakes up. He must be busy. It took him a long time to feel ready to back off the biodome duty and get back to work, but he's been easing into it. It's been good for him to have something to do, and Adrian has appreciated the fact that he has topics to talk about that aren't Grace. In fact, it's even improved Grace's relationship with Adrian. They no longer feel like an afterthought to Rocky, and gave Grace a chance. They hit it off, and the three of them have gotten really close, recently.  

The fact that Rocky doesn't stop by in the morning means that he's going to have to teach in this heat. It's not the worst condition he's ever taught in: substitutes are difficult to find last minute, and it's often easier to just suck it up and go to work. He's fought through nausea and chills and fevers, just like any other teacher. It'll be okay. All he has to do is pull up a chair and try not to move, if he can help it. 

At first, he reasons that he'll be cooler if he shed his blazer and wears white to deflect the sun, but his arms are turning pink by the time he's finished sorting through his lesson plan and setting up the planetary model, so he reluctantly dons it. He loosens his tie, grateful that he's the only one who really cares about dress code. Eridians don't even wear clothes with any regularity. They can, and some do, wear little shirts or socks, but from what Grace has gathered, it's personal preference. 

Students file in in groups of twos and threes, chatting about god knows what. Grace's Eridian is getting better, but he definitely can't understand anything when more than one person is speaking at a time. They take their seats, turning their attention toward him as he greets the group. 

"Morning, everybody!" he says, trying for cheerful. He always overshoots when he isn't feeling well, and it comes out slightly off putting. "Go ahead and take your seats."

As time goes on, it becomes clear that sitting is not enough. Is it getting hotter? He can't tell, but he wouldn't be surprised. Over the course of one class, he goes from sweaty and sticky to nauseous and cramping, all topped off with a raging headache. Again, he's used to powering through that sort of thing, but a man has to have limits. Usually, he can take a generous dose of cold medicine and show a movie. This is actively getting worse the longer the relentless sun beats down on his head. He doesn't realize he's practically doubled over in his chair until he has to sit up to gesture behind him and a cramp rips through his abdomen so sharply that he cries out in pain. 

"Mr. Grace?" one of his students calls. His eyes focus just long enough to make out that several of them are pressed up against the barrier, clearly scared that something is wrong. 

"It's fine," he manages, cloying and tight. "I think I'm going to let you guys go a little early today. Sound okay?" 

"Something is wrong, question?" 

"Nah, no worries. I just thought you'd like an early start to the weekend." 

"In middle of lesson, question?" someone else asks. Darn it. His kids on Earth would be out the door before he could turn around, if he gave them this chance. 

"Uh, yeah. We'll pick it up where we left off, okay? Don't forget." 

Because he's being so strangely insistent, they do obey, slowly gathering their things and exiting the classroom, grumbling and gossiping as they go. This time, he's grateful he doesn't understand what they're saying. 

The two water pouches he'd brought with him from home are long gone, and he knows he needs another, probably more than one. However, home is so far away. He can see it from where he's sitting, but the idea of standing is daunting. He knows he probably should have told his students to get help, but he didn't want to worry them, nor answer the hundred questions that would be sure to follow a statement like, "hey, my habitat is, like, twice as hot as it's supposed to be, can we check on that?" 

He tries to make it all the way home, he does, but the overwhelming heat and outstanding gravity pulling him down are too much. It comes down to a decision between settling for shade under the tree and potentially collapsing trying to make it the rest of the way to the house, so he decides to do the marginally safer thing and hide out in the shade until Rocky comes to visit. 

By the time he shows up, Grace has surpassed "uncomfortably hot" and driven straight into "intolerably boiling" town. He's not sure how long he's been laying there. Consciousness has been coming and going. He can barely see straight when Rocky bounds up to him in his suit. 

"Grace!" he exclaims cheerfully. Apparently, he doesn't immediately notice that he's sprawled out starfish style. At first, he thinks Rocky is politely ignoring the excessive leaking, but upon consideration, realizes that he's stopped sweating, and the hot sun has dried his clothes. That's not good. "Apology for running late. Ran into problem at work, but is fixed now. How was class, question?"

"Uh," he replies stupidly, "hey, Rock." 

"Hi, Grace," he greets. "You are okay, question? Lying on ground outside. Unusual." 

"Something's wrong with the biodome," he replies. "S'really hot."

"Hot?" Rocky echoes. "Okay. Will let scientists know that dome is not comfortable temperature for Grace. They will work on this." 

"No, that's not--I mean, it's really hot." 

Rocky hesitates, slowly gathering evidence. Grace is slurring his words, lying flat on the ground outside, not sitting up to look at him like he usually does. He wishes he had the words to explain it better, but his thoughts feel heavy and far away. 

"Heat is dangerous," he guesses. Grace nods. "Why didn't you say that!"

"Sorry. The heat... brain's not working like it should."

"Rocky will call Adrian. Wait here. Return in just a minute." Their radios have been having a very hard time getting calls through the xenonite dome, so Grace hasn't had any reliable way of communicating with Rocky, or even the science team, for that matter. Rocky has to leave the dome to get a signal. While he's gone, Grace's stomach twists. He'd been so close to sleep that he hadn't had much time to focus on the nausea, but now that he's awake, it's hitting him full force. With a jolt, he jerks upright and scrambles halfway to his feet, stumbling to the side to throw up in the sand. There's nothing in his stomach--he'd skipped breakfast and has surely sweat out any liquid he's consumed since this morning. He's still hunched over and coughing when Rocky comes back and screeches. 

"Grace!" Though Grace knows from experience that Rocky finds it repulsive when he leaks from his mouth (and in his defense, he's not wrong), he wastes no time rushing to his side in his suit and helping him ease back into a seated position. It must be really bad if Rocky is touching him so soon after he's vomited. On the Hail Mary, when he'd been trying and failing to hold down the taumoeba and coma slurry, he hid as far away from the noise as he could, half from disgust and half to give Grace privacy. Neither are a concern, right now. 

"Grace breathe. Is okay. Adrian is on the way with science team, will fix temperature settings soon. Grace need water. No move, Rocky bring." He hurries off to do so, leaving Grace leaning bonelessly against the tree behind him. The sand is hot, even in the shade, even through his clothes. He blinks, and Rocky is standing in front of him with several water pouches in hand, seemingly as many as he'd been able to carry. 

"Drink," he commands, pressing the straw to his lips. Grace does so reflexively, choking after a few swallows and pulling away. "Drink into stomach, not lungs." 

"Sorry," he snaps, snatching away the pouch to hold it himself. 

"Grace is agitated," he frets, a word he learned when Grace was starving and felt so guilty for being "grumpy angry stupid" that Rocky had to find different, less accusatory words to describe his emotional states. 

"Sorry."

"No apology. Sign of distress." Rocky presses his claw gently to Grace's cheek, the glassy surface cool on his skin. Even as thin as his suit is, the xenonite is a good insulator. Grace leans into the touch. "Adrian on their way. Grace hold on little longer. Will fix dome settings soon. Grace can hold on that long?"

"Kay," he replies, a response that almost lines up with the question being asked. "Keep your hand there? Feels nice."