Thoughtful Fangirling

“Are there other Graces? Why do you need to specify?”

Rocky considers this, tapping his xenonite-encased claws idly against the floor. 

“No other Grace,” Rocky says. “We just do this.”

“Like an honorific,” Grace guesses. “It goes before everyone’s name? Everyone you know?”

Rocky whirs in surprise. “No, no, no. Not at all.”

“Okay, then who? What makes me qualify?”

Rocky is silent for a moment.

“...Does this offend Grace?” he asks, voice lower. 

Grace blinks. “No! I don’t think so. Is there a reason to be offended?”

“Good,” Rocky says, relieved. Grace is starting to recognize what Eridian relief sounds like. “No, no reason.”

“Who else do you call that?”

“You don’t have this on Earth?”

Grace considers. What for, friends? He couldn’t call Marissa “my Marissa.” That would be weird.

“I still don’t know what it means,” he settles on. “So I couldn’t tell you.”

Rocky groans in frustration. He’s a very impatient tutor. “We just say it.”

“Are you my Rocky?” Grace asks. He hits the two keys to make the my note. 

“I don’t know!” Rocky says. “You decide this.” 

“I decide? Who do you use it for?” 

“You. Adrian. I will use it for my pebbles.” 

Grace blinks. “So few?”

Rocky shifts. “I am… you do not have the word yet. Eridian who works alone often, not close to many other Eridians.”

“What, mechanical engineer?”

Rocky chitters with amusement. “Acceptable.”

“Is Adrian your only friend?” 

Rocky draws back, like he’s taken offense. “I have friends. Coworkers. But different.”

So just Adrian. And him. 

“This worries you,” Rocky says.

“Adrian is your mate,” Grace points out. “I’m not your mate.”

“Correct. You are not. You do not like to be a mate.”

Grace isn’t sure how to respond to that, so he ignores it.

“I’m your friend,” Grace says. 

Rocky hesitates, for a second. “...Correct.”

“Like your coworkers.”

“No.”

Grace sighs, rubbing his hand across his face. Okay, maybe that’s fair. It’s not like he felt about any of his coworkers like he feels about Rocky.

“Best friend,” Grace amends. “You’re my best friend, too.”

Rocky hums. “Acceptable.”

“Just acceptable? Now you are offending me. Can you just explain?”

This makes Rocky fall silent for a minute longer than usual. Grace is half-ready to apologize and to say let’s move on and to retype his own name without the superfluous my. 

“The Earth ‘best friend’ is not strong enough,” Rocky says finally. “It does not translate this way.”

Grace runs his fingers through his hair, a little nervous, for some reason. “Okay.”

“It is…” Rocky pauses. He has to pause more often, now that they’re not using the translator, to simplify his language. “It means that I am not Rocky without my Grace. You are part of… of the whole. When I wake up, I think of you. When I work. When I eat. When I think I am going to die.”

Rocky speaks slowly, but it’s still a lot of Eridian for Grace to grasp all at once. Even as he works out the sentences in his head, he can feel hot tears rising in his eyes.

“It means that when you are sick, I am sick,” Rocky continues. “And it means I will take care of you, because taking care of you is taking care of myself.”

Grace bunches up his sleeve, wiping it across his face, blinking furiously.

Rocky’s voice is soft. “So Grace is part of Rocky. Grace is like a cell. You see? My Grace.” 

Grace is quiet, for a moment, trying to get himself together. When he speaks, his voice is shaky.

“...Oh.”

Rocky hums, pressing his carapace gently against Grace’s arm. “You are leaking. Does this make you sad?”

Grace shakes his head, sniffing, crossing his arms across his knees and resting his chin on his sleeves. “Not at all.”

“Good, good.”

“I feel like that,” Grace mumbles. “Just like that. Just exactly—exactly like that.”

“About your old mate?”

“Don’t act stupid. You know I’m talking about you.”

Rocky hums, burrowing closer. Grace curls one arm around his carapace. That’s not enough, so he leans over, dropping his head down so his forehead presses against the xenonite. 

“My Rocky,” Grace whispers in English. 

“My Grace,” Rocky echoes in Eridian. Grace can recognize the note at the start. He will add it when he plays Rocky’s name. 

“How long have you called me that?” Grace asks. “Must’ve been a while. I didn’t notice it change.”

No one asked him to be there. But there he was. He often bemoaned the fact the three of them no longer lived together. And it was true, he did not have a bedroom in their apartment. But he did not make himself scarce. 

“Don’t be disgusting.” Roy picked a bottle and stood up. “Anyway, it’s my fucking shop and I can do what I want including telling people to shut up or leave.” 

“Our shop. You know, angel, my love. My own heart. My boy Roy. I’m curious.” He stared at the ceiling.  “Have you ever wondered what happens when someone gets sick of being yelled at for no reason and decides to smack you clean across the jaw? ” 

It was a discussion about Roy’s occasional poor temper, bad attitude, its interaction with Pride week’s noise, and Hughes’ desire for deep-fried onions, that finally broke Hawkeye. She was taking her laundry out of the back, carefully going over what she was going to wear. A tie and dress shirt seemed too formal, like she was trying too hard. But a t-shirt made it look like she wasn’t trying at all, and she didn’t want anyone to think she didn’t try. A polo shirt? Was that the middle ground? 

“Easy.  I’ll explain, I can’t help it, I have PTSD.” He leaned on the kitchen counter and batted sad eyes, whining, “You can’t hiiiiit me. Checkmate.”

“And they’ll say: Oh sorry, I didn’t know you had trauma you can keep being mean to me now. Also, “ Hughes sat up, “No you won’t. You got mad at me for telling Gracia things she could see with her eyes, and we were going to get married.” 

“Well.” Roy shrugged, ”You’re more online than me, but I assume I flash it like a police badge. An argument’s coup de grâce. Otherwise, what’s the point of all this diagnosis? Conversation starter?” He gestured broadly, “I’m entering my era of disclosure. It’s inspiring.”  

“I’m inspired by your recent decision to shirk responsibility for your actions.” he chuckled. “You know, I don’t think you can even cut to the front of the line at Disneyland anymore. If that affects your era.” 

No, not a polo shirt. That was an excel spreadsheet in clothing form. She was good at spreadsheets, but that was not sexy. Was she trying to to be sexy? Or, maybe she was trying to be girlfriend material? Was that flannel? 

“How quickly we forget my multituidous sacrifices for God and country. The MVD won’t give me the parking plate. Would you believe, making me park in the back. More horrifically for you, did you know Outback Steakhouse discontinued the free Bloomin’ Onion?” 

Hughes’ eyes grew wide, horrors he had not contemplated suddenly made flesh. “Oh shit, for real?” 

Hawkeye looked down in her laundry basket with a twist of mild despair. Why was everything she owned black and navy? She looked like a pallbearer. No, pallbearers were dressed nicer. Didn’t she own a shirt that was purple? Did she look nice in purple? 

“Devastating news for the veterans who eat garbage community. You and Gracia will have to find another date spot, but, to soothe your tortured soul, I think you get ten percent off at Buffalo Wild Wings. So cancel the hemlock.” 

How did she own so little clothing? Who did she even think was going to talk to her? They had to, but they’d be staring at the timer the whole time--

“At least I eat.” He touched his stomach. “I wonder if I’d get some pity-wings if I showed them my scar.” 

--and Roy was right, she had no idea how to make small talk, she never had--she was only friends with Roy and Hughes because they had talked to her,  and how had she let anyone convince her--

“Well. You could have gotten that anywhere.” 

--this was so stupid--

“A bullet wound?”

--how could she not just be happy with the life she had? It was a miracle, and here she was--

“Could be a lawn dart. You’ll have to bring in the--” 

Hawkeye slammed down the laundry basket. “Will you two SHUT UP??” 

Hughes stopped talking, which she meant to do, and Roy jumped, which she hadn’t, but both of them looked at her, mouths half open. She was not sure how to follow up on this. 

It was not supposed to go like this. She’d been so sure of herself that morning. It had started like aunty other, up until the moment she remembered it was her night to make dinner. 

“You need to feed yourself tonight.” 

Hawkeye began putting the mugs up on the shelf behind the counter, and Roy watched her do it, listening to the wordless clinking of each mug as it delicately bumped the others, settling into its seat. When the quiet produced no further elucidation, he decided to pursue it himself. She didn’t want to talk about it, or she would have told him when he shut up for a solid thirty seconds. Which of course meant Roy decided he needed to know about it. 

“Any particular reason you’d like to give, or just general disinterest in taco night?” 

Hawkeye finished putting up the mugs and looked at them for a few seconds. The shop was quiet, in the ten-thirty lull before lunch began. Even a mediocre wrap seemed fine if the coffee was good enough, and Ed’s sandwiches had garnered a little more attention then that. So they got a little bit of a rush. 

At ten-thirty, there was no such rush to protect her. 

She allowed a decisive nod. “I have an event.” 

Roy finished the last of his coffee--the current cup, as it was only number three and the day was yet young--and set his mug down on the counter. 

“Cryptic.” He leaned in close to her, “Is this, say, the sort of event where you dress up, are you digging out a…outhouse, or whatever you do? It can’t be that, you would have told me earlier. So it’s something you’re hiding. Inexpertly.” 

In a perfect world, she would have had some sort of rebuttal to that, but she had often observed she did not live in a perfect world, so all she did was attempt to ignore him, which worked about as well as it ever did. 

“Hawkeye, let’s save ourselves some time. We’re busy people. I’m not going to leave you alone, and you live with me. I’m going to find out. I always do. Consider me the clavis aurea to the interior life of one Riza Hawkeye. Let’s simply incorporate the struggle by reference, which will allow us both to move on with our lives.” 

She looked at him with her fixed, focused gaze. Most people responded to that, and pulled away. But Roy’s dark eyes just kept peering into hers, waiting to be told that he was right--which, infuriatingly, he was--until, after a handful of seconds, he lifted his brows just a little, just enough to let her know he was perfectly ready to keep up the pursuit. He was so sharp when he was sharp. It never seemed to benefit her. A groan pulled from deep within Hawkeye’s chest, and she was the one to look away. 

“It’s--” Hawkeye picked up the dishwashing rack and headed toward the back, half-mumbling “just a, speed dating, thing.” She glared at him. “Don’t laugh.” 

Roy followed after her, ready with something like reassurance, or as close as he was reasonably able, but both Hawkeye’s quick feet and Roy’s quick mouth were beaten by Hughes’ head poking out of the office. 

“Hawkeye has a date?” His eyes were practically saucers behind his glasses, smile wide. 

Speed dating,” Roy answered, “So she has a chance to get a date. Who knew there was such a thing here?” 

Hawkeye shook her head and headed into the small kitchen, where Ed was wrapping the last of the sandwiches for lunch in checkered paper. She tossed the dishwashing rack on top of the empty stack and turned around, her boys like dogs on a fox. 

“Lesbians from miles around, a virtual buffet.” Roy gestured into the kitchen, “Pride week should bring most of them out of the woodwork.” 

“Don’t be phobic,” Hughes snorted at Roy, “There’s bisexual women too.” 

“Possibly she could meet one and you could swap tips on sucking dick. Bonding.” 

“Hey.” Ed took another sheet of paper out of the holder. “Can I work here?” 

 “I don’t know, “ Roy turned around, “do you have tips on sucking dick? Maes is out of practice.” 

“No! I--” Ed scowled and almost dropped the sandwich he was wrapping--turkey with cranberry mustard on marble rye--but managed to bat it back onto the counter with what was left of his right arm. “ Can I fucking--It’s almost lunch!” 

Hawkeye huffed heavily and burst through the two of them, which did very little to stop anything that was happening at the present moment. 

“It’s like riding a bicycle,” Hughes continued behind her, “though I can’t imagine ever leaving Gracia. Ah well, there comes a time in every man’s life when he has to let go of one rope so he can grab another one.” 

“You’re a poet,” he reached out for Hawkeye, “So. Let me help you pick out something to wear. God knows you have no particular sense of style outside of what can be obtained at the army surplus.” 

“Be nice!” Hughes shoved him toward the wall, which, being a little harder than he’d meant, led Roy to a collision with a flyer for piano lessons while Hughes drew his arm around Hawkeye. “He’s a prick, but what he means is: You’re really cute! He has a good eye for that sort of thing! We’ll both help!” 

Roy was barely slowed by the sudden collision with Pam Chaffinch, who takes both adult and child learners and offers a relaxed, encouraging atmosphere for the joy of piano. 

“Of course we’ll dress you. We need to make sure you look your absolute best, I’m not sure I think speed dating plays to your strengths.”

Hawkeye’s eyes widened just a little, her cheeks pink, and she pressed her lips together. 

“Thanks.”

This would have chastened most people, but Roy was, in fact, an exceptional specimen, and he and Hawkeye were as an iron fence and a yew tree made one by the years, which dispensed with a number of formalities, some of which were basic politeness.  

 “Well. Do you find that you give a strong elevator pitch? Here’s a few questions: What do you do? What are your hobbies? What will you ask her? First time, like you’re on the gallows? Possibly something as illuminating as “How is online dating treating you?’” 

“Roy.” Hughes grabbed his shoulders. “Shut up.” 

Roy did not play politic with her, or Hughes. That was for people further outside of his circle, outside of his heart, if she wanted to get sentimental. He was telling the truth. There was no manipulation in it, no cruelty. He was frustrating, and stubborn, but…

Barista. I work out. Are you from here?

A hollow sort of fear filled her. She had an eight word conversational bank built up. 

She should at least look nice. Hawkeye nodded her surrender to the invading army, and told them the time. 

It had seemed wise. 

But now she stood in the middle of the room with a basket full of black and navy at her feet, hoping for help in this impossible mission, but forced to listen to Roy and Hughes argue about fried food and Roy’s attitude. They both stared at her, then Roy scratched aimlessly at his wrist and nodded to the basket. 

“Put on the flat front chinos.” 

Hawkeye assumed that was the khakis she bought years ago when she needed something for an interview. It was striking against the stomrcloud palette of the rest of the basket, and she obeyed, pulling them on with it a navy button up with short sleeves that seemed a reasonable midway. Roy slid into the chair at the table, and indicated with a hand for her to sit. Hawkeye plopped down across the table from him. 

She buttoned up the shirt, carefully smoothing the front of it. Roy stretched, gave a little sigh, and leaned in toward her. 

“We’re going to workshop this. Let’s try a few softball questions, and remember, you are trying to attract me. I am the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.  So, what do you do?” 

Hawkeye nodded. “I’m a barista--” 

“No!” He smacked his hand down on the table. “No you aren’t!” 

“Could you please have a proportional reaction for once in your life? To something? ” Hughes chimed in from the couch, where he stroked Razumikhin’s back. “As a treat, for me?”

“How can I help you with phrasing if you can’t get the facts right?” He touched her hand. “You own the shop, Hawkeye. Stop being modest, it profits you exactly none. You are the owner of a reasonably successful small business. Okay, again. So, what do you do?”

“I’m one of the owners of Fireborn.” 

“Now. This is at least factual. Let’s work this out. Okay, so,” He sat back in the chair, “You ask me.” 

“What do you do?” 

“Well,” Roy ran a hand through his hair and took on that shine he had, “After I got out of the Army, I missed the stress of being yelled at, so I decided to open a coffee shop. Worked landscaping mornings and weekends to help get it off the ground, because I also missed heavy labor.” He laughed in a way that sounded genuine, but Hawkeye could out in a sparrow’s heartbeat, “No, I’m very lucky to have some DIY skill, I think that’s helped us get to profitable sooner, but we’ve been there for years so it could be any number of things. Good location, we roast our own beans. Make a lot of our own syrups. It’s Fireborn Coffee, the old Roxy hotel downtown, have you heard of it?” Roy leapt out of his charming persona, “Then, if you like the look of her, you tell her about the--I don’t know, the cortado, the decor, the fucking ceiling, whatever she looks like she’d be into--and suggest she pop in sometime, no pressure, you just love to share about coffee. And ceilings. Simple as.”

It did sound charming, when he said it. It sounded like the kind of thing a woman was likely to say yes to, he made it sound like he was very hardworking, successful but modest, intelligent but approachable. 

But that was a thing he could do. Hawkeye didn’t like to call it lying, because it wasn’t lying, quite. But Roy had access to a second Roy. Someone who was extremely easy to like, interesting to listen to, charismatic. Roy could take all his best qualities and turn them into something he could wear like a jacket. It was heavy after awhile, but he put it on with relative ease. 

She did not know how to explain to him she was not a tailor, and could not make a jacket of the same cloth. As beginning, because she would have to explain that she had simply put her romantic aspirations on a shelf. He needed her, and she did not see a world where she could simply leave him unattended. He was very ill. She did not mind. It was an exchange she made freely. 

Then, a miracle happened, the way snow melts off a roof. So slowly, and then seemingly all at once. But by the time she realized, she was sorely out of practice. And it was hard for her to give him space. Fear was like mold, and had spores deep in her. She’d seen it snow in June before. 

Hawkeye could not tell him this, because these things frustrated him and hurt his feelings. Made him upset with himself.  She knew that. He would not say that, but it was true. She did not want that. 

Secondarily, she was not sure how much she could blame Roy’s troubles for her own social ineptitude. It might only have been a reasonable excuse to avoid dating. Hawkeye deeply suspected she had missed out on some essential social lesson, sitting on a dirt hillside looking for rabbits. She was so good at so many things, but she did not know how to even ask what other people seemed to know. 

It wasn’t even true that she was out of practice. That had just been a nice excuse she told herself. It wasn’t Roy’s fault at all. She’d never so much as stepped onto the field. There was a touch on her forearm. 

“Okay, we’re trying again.” Roy smiled, the guise of a kindly woman on his face. “So, what do you do for a living?” 

Hawkeye stood up suddenly. She was not given to panic, and even now she would describe what she felt as ‘a decisive gut feeling’ and not ‘raw, terrified anxiety.’ 

“I’m not going.” She began to take off her shirt. “I don’t even--it’s nothing.” 

“Aw, Hawkeye! No!”  Hughes jumped off the couch, and rushed to her side. “You’re going to do great! Not everyone has to be Roy. I mean, look at Roy’s marriage prospects. No one wants to marry Roy! Because he’s a prick! You’re so sweet, and funny, and dependable! They’ll love you!” 

“Roy also does not pursue or want marriage,” He leaned back, “Hawkeye, don’t be dramatic. You’re not a stupid person. You can do this.” 

Hawkeye tossed the shirt back into the laundry basket. It was just another navy shirt anyway, and now, when she looked at it, it was a little faded at the collar. She needed to refresh it with dye, and she hadn’t done that. It would look like she didn’t even care. Hughes put his hand on her shoulder, but she brushed it off softly. 

“I’m staying home.” 

“Well. Razumikhin and I have plans that don’t include you.” Roy smoothly rose to his feet. “So take yourself to a bar to sulk, but you’re not staying here.” 

“You’re so helpful.” Hughes sneered at him. “ A great friend. We’re blessed to have you in our lives.” 

Roy ignored this. Which did not surprise either Hughes or Hawkeye, but was irritating nonetheless. 

“Hawkeye.” Roy stood in front of her. “Supposedly, you are possessed of uncommon courage and fortitude under fire. There are fancy little letters from men who have never experienced being shot at saying so and everything. From personal experience, I also know--though I’m happy to put this on some textured linen paper if you like--that you are capable of grinding through intense misery and drudgery. Draw on those talents. Go to the stupid speed dating event.” He walked back toward his bedroom. “ But don’t wear that shirt, you look like an electrician.” 

Hughes called after him with affectionate irritation. “Electricians are really well paid, and skilled. There’s nothing wrong with being an electrician, we could use a…he’s not listening to me. Fantastic.” 

Hawkeye sighed heavily and looked back down in the basket. Roy was not wrong, which was one of his many irritating qualities. She was very capable of doing things that were difficult, or frightening. However bad this was, it couldn’t be worse than some of the things she’d faced. It was just drinking a beer and talking to some women. She was awkward. She always had been. It was disappointing, but it wasn’t a crime. There was nothing distinctly unlikeable about her. She could handle this. 

It would just feel better if she had been on a date at least once in the last five years. 

Hughes put an arm around her, and she let it stay this time. “Probably a lot of these women are in the same boat! It’s hard to meet people, and you work so much. And if this doesn’t work out, that’s okay too! We love you, and--you know actually there’s a new gal on Gracia’s floor, and Gracia thinks she might be some kind of queer, we could have her over for dinner, and have you over for dinner--” 

Roy walked quickly back out of his bedroom, narrowly saving Hawkeye from another of Hughes’ attempted matchmaking schemes that she hadn’t ever decided if she wanted or not. 

“Here.” He put a green shirt in her hands, still on the hanger. “Try this on.” 

She looked him up and and down, her eyebrow arching in the notable dissimilarity of their sizes. 

“I don’t even want it, someone brought it in--who had, apparently, never looked at me-- and it doesn’t fit. Completely thoughtless.”

She slipped it onto her body and began to button it up, the shell buttons sliding easily into the thickly trimmed buttonholes. It fell smoothly down the front of her, and she tucked it neatly into her pants. 

Roy began to work the cork of his wine bottle. “What passes for a men’s small these days. Small.” He snorted. “Everyone belly up to McDonald’s, we’ll just shift everything so no one has to feel responsible for the double quarter pounder with fries. I only kept it because decent linen is hard to come by, I was going to make it into a pillow for Razumikhin, but you may as well have it. One less thing for me to do.” 

He poured himself a small glass of something red, the bottle having finally yielded to him. 

With only a moment of trepidation, she set herself into front of the mirror. It fit her well. She filled out the shoulders nicely, and the cut gave her an attractively straight frame, the odd detailing of the collar giving it a little style that didn’t feel like to much on her. It was nice. Hawkeye had her doubts about the origin of the shirt, but carelessness and complaints functioned as Roy’s wrapping paper half the time, and she accepted this.

“The green sets off your eyes!” Hughes smiled behind her. “I know you’re not supposed to tell women this, but smile. You look really nice when you smile.” 

Roy grabbed her arm and began rolling up the cuff of the sleeve. “I have to do everything around here. They say you take care of me, but I’m not sure I believe it.” 

He tucked both sleeves into a neat cuff at her forearm. The effect was handsome. It made her look muscular in a way she’d didn’t realize she’d been hiding. 

“Okay.” She stared at herself in the mirror. It wasn’t half bad. “Okay.” 

“A rousing endorsement. I’m glad. Get out of here, my Cinnabon is arriving in ten minutes,” he shot a look at Hughes, “You too.” Razumikhin meowed at his feet. “Not you, baby boy, we’re going to watch Rome together. I bought you some new Fancy Feast that claims to be the flavors of Latin America. As translated through cat food.” 

“See?” Hughes clapped her on the shoulder, “You don’t want to be here. You want to go find yourself a nice wife!  You can do it! You know, I really enjoyed planning my own wedding, I would be happy to help you with whatever you need-- ” 

“Hughes.” Roy handed over her worn leather wallet with a nod.  “Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.” 

She took it with a resolved huff, and stuck it in her packet. He was right. She may as well take a swing at it. If literally nothing else, they carried the beer she liked at this place. She could grit her way through this. 

“What he said. Inspirtaional Latin shit. And don’t forget that we love you! No matter what happens. So it’s okay!” 

What was the risk? Hawkeye often thought of things in these terms, that everything in life was a balancing act, and not only how likely the worst outcome was, but how much the worst outcome might affect her life on the whole. Roy was fine to be left alone, in good humor and relaxed. She’d already paid for the event, so it was only the cost a few beers. The worst it could be was embarrassing. If she stuttered over words the whole night, if no one picked her at the end of it. 

She looked back to Hughes and Roy. If it was embarrassing, that was survivable. Hughes was right. She did have them, and they did not care that she was not the first person picked on a social playing field. They liked her anyway. If the worst happened, her life would stay the same as it was. And she mostly was satisfied with her life. So the risk was not too high. 

Hawkeye opened the door, shoring up her courage. As she stepped into the hallway, Roy called after her, leaning against the doorframe.

“You know. If I didn’t think you could find someone, I would just have you marry me. It’s much more legally secure than what we have set up now, even with me considering every angle.” He sighed and scratched at his face. “ Also, I could possibly get more money from the government, but I’m setting that aside, such is the quality of my belief in your ability to find love. I’m very generous. Self-sacrificing, some would say.” 

She did not need to find love, she had it, she did not say, and probably never would. It was only looking to find something extra. Like a child begging for dessert. But all the same, she gave him a decisive nod of agreement. 

Grasping her keys in her hand, she reminded herself that she was part owner of a successful coffee shop, and now that she thought of it, she could make and excellent cortado, and had replaced some of the tin ceiling. There were plenty of benefits to knowing her. She was a good package.