Chapter Text
Fact #1: Humans willingly consume neurotoxins which cause permanent damage to their brains.
Fact #2: They do this ‘for fun’.
Fact #3: Ethanol is a psychoactive and dependence-producing compound, and its consumption is considered a social bonding activity in many human cultures.
I was once foolish enough to think this was one of Grace’s ‘jokes’.
It was not a joke.
The catalyst for this event is–in an ironic twist of fate–my own very vocal complaints pertaining to Grace’s inefficient use of space. I can’t help my need for a minimal amount of order, and my human companion cannot seem to help its messiness.
Does this irritating trait serve any evolutionary purpose? I can’t think of any.
After making myself the greatest annoyance known to man (not my words), Grace finally throws its hands up and yields to my demands. I am happily chittering to myself and tinkering with a prototype thinking-machine preserver (so that I can bring it to my environment without destroying it) while my friend clears out some of the terribly disorganized secondary storage compartments in the dormitory.
And then suddenly, Grace gasps an exclamation of delight and interrupts its routine.
Oh no. This never ends well. (Grace's mind is flighty.)
Now, it's holding a soft bag containing some sort of liquid, which I would have mistaken for water or a similarly harmless compound, had Grace not been so disproportionately excited about its discovery: “No way. Ilyukhna. You’re evil and I love you. Is it my birthday today, I think it’s my birthday, HEY MARY, is it my birthday already?”
«Super awesome don't go crazy birthday countdown for Dr. Ryland Grace: 207 days remaining.»
Grace rolls its eyes at the ceiling, mutters yeah yeah I know, which is when I choose to move into its field of view.
I inquire about the nature of the liquid, and suddenly Grace is evasive, which is another infuriating human trait I have yet to get used to.
“Oh, you know. It’s, uh… It makes you feel good. Alters your mental state. Sort of the opposite of coffee. Ahem. And I haven’t had coffee in six months, so I deserve this.”
“Feel good, how?”
“O-kay,” Grace claps its hands. “So, remember when I told you about …”
♫♩˖࿔
I shouldn’t back down.
This is an incredibly unhealthy and irrational practice. What kind of intelligent organism would knowingly damage itself in such a grievous way?
A human would. This human would. My human would.
“Sure, it isn’t nutritious,” Grace argues, waving its arms animatedly as it paces back and forth, “but it has calories! So it even doubles as a meal! Don't be a buzzkill, please? I'd much rather do this with you than without you, Rock.”
I utter a few irritated clicks.
I should make threats about deleting every copy of Star Trek available on the ship’s thinking machines, or find a way to vent the approximately 500 millilitres of potent ethanol into space without Grace noticing.
I shouldn’t back down, but then I do.
Though I can’t claim to understand human ‘food culture’ (shudder), I know a meal is much more to a human than simply nutrition or survival. Texture and taste are important and contribute greatly to a human’s happiness. Grace has not eaten a ‘real’ meal in 219 ship cycles, and it is sad about this. I want Grace to be less sad. I need Grace to be less sad–and less irritable.
Therefore, after Grace has explained the workings of the toxin and its effects on and interactions with human physiology, I finally arrive at the conclusion that minor (non-recurring) poisoning with a low chance of (notable) long-term impairment of cognitive function is acceptable if this, at least temporarily, increases Grace’s mood.
I don't believe I’m being irrational. I care for my friend’s well-being, and well-being is relative. The laws of our universe dictate that matter can neither be created nor destroyed, so this too is an exchange: Minor brain damage traded for emotional relief.
The beginning is harmless.
Grace says it is ‘in good spirits’. This is funny because, as I have been informed, another name for a potent ethanol concoction is ‘spirit’. Grace is attaching a fiber cord to the pouch and then slings this crude poison satchel across its shoulder. The soft, plastic tube that delivers the liquid is draped around its neck, dangling down its thorax when not in use.
Finally, Grace grasps the end of the tube and raises it into the air ceremonially(?).
“Well, thanks for looking out for me. To you, Ilyukhna.”
Then, it takes its first draw from the liquid and immediately scrunches up its face, skin briefly creasing into folds. Disgust?
“Hoo, jeez, that burns.” Grace whistles, high at first, then dipping low.
Alarmed, I perk up. “What burn? Why burn? Where?”
“Oh, no, not literally. It’s just sharp. The taste. Takes some getting used to.”
“Relieving! Good good good. It only feels like setting your insides on fire,” I warble sarcastically.
This should be disturbing, but Grace seems to find my observation mostly amusing. It does this thing with its face that means it's trying to conceal said amusement.
I chitter in quiet disbelief, and at least half of my exasperation is directed at myself. Why did I agree to this again?
We are at the end of the current day-night cycle, which we established early into our journey and attempt to remain faithful to, with varying degrees of success. The point of failure is always the same: Grace likes to set arbitrary rules for its bedtime. It is then unable to enter a rest state without first, for example, completing a thinking-machine-game, or recovering a lost file which possesses supposedly invaluable information about human culture (the file is a low-quality visual rendition of an Earth animal termed ‘cat’).
The beginning of this night cycle is different only to the degree that I notice the increased perspiration gathering on Grace’s skin and the slight elevation of its heartbeat. Because it is actively producing toxic metabolites.
But. All this is within expected parameters, so I try to disregard the nervous thrum within me.
We engage in our respective ‘pastimes’, and as time progresses and the volume of fluid in the pouch decreases, I begin to understand why socializing and poisoning oneself is, according to the human species, a well-matched pair of activities. Grace changes. It becomes more talkative and emotive, and its voice increases in volume. It laughs and makes attempts at humor and twirls on a spinning lab chair for no other reason than to do so. The worry that attached itself to my friend like a sinking stone sometime in the last year of our journey vanishes into thin air. Grace’s voice climbs out of the slump it has been sitting in most days, inert and lacking energy.
I can’t blame Grace for the symptoms of its distress, of course. It’s subsisting off sub-par nutrition, its needs aren’t being met.
And yet, now that I hear its voice full of enthusiasm and life, inflecting and modulating, sinking and rising, I realize: I've been missing the wholeness of my friend Grace.
♫♩˖࿔
There is more Karaoke. I’m the one who does most of the singing while Grace alternates between wheezing words and wheezing laughter at the strange speech patterns of my computerized human voice.
Grace has been working on making the computer system of the screen-room to talk to the language translator so that it will recognize my real—much more beautiful—singing. However, Grace is working on ten different projects at any given time and I sometimes have to remind it of the existence of some of them.
Yes, the workings of the fickle human mind; I've learned it's sometimes best not to question it. Much more efficient to just course correct when appropriate.
We play what is called ‘Ping-pong’ on the lab table, by which I mean I sit on one end and watch my friend bounce a small, plastic sphere off the face of my ball, using a paddle fashioned from old food containers and a generous helping of rubber-like tape.
From my position, I observe the heightened workload of Grace's circulatory system. Its face and neck are flush with heat. Coordination degrades, movements become more laborious, reactions even slower. Its heightened internal temperature leads it to shed its flight suit, remaining covered by two shorter underlayers which bare most of its long limbs.
Eventually, unable to meet the pace of its own blows, Grace gives up. So much moisture has evaporated from its skin that the cloth coverings seem to stick to it now; the moisture even sits in the fine fibers of its hair, weighing them down. I would like to say that I still have an aversion to Grace in this state, but the truth is that I've become used to the seemingly infinite number of ways in which its body expels moisture.
This is simply a part of it. Or rather: Apart of it. Because of expulsion. (Grace would like this joke.)
I'm also not exposed to Grace's air in the first place, so none of the stray particles will catch me anyway. No direct contact with the mess. (Another truth is that I would bear all of these unfortunate byproducts of Grace's anatomy if it meant we could touch.)
On the way to the dormitory, Grace's walk has become more of a weave. Almost a dance. I find myself enjoying the swing and sway of its movements so much I feel the urge to mimic it— until it trips over the slightly raised seal of the dormitory hatch. It impacts, the air forcefully expelled from its lungs.
Incredible. It has traversed this terrain countless times, and it all but forgot about the very simple act of lifting its foot, an action which before was second nature.
As I rush closer, Grace starts making a creaking sound in its throat and then rolls over onto its back. Based on its face, which is twisted into amusement, I realize this sound must be another, strange type of laugh.
“Grace,” I huff. “This is not amusing.”
Grace disagrees. Grace thinks this is all funny, funny, funny, and my concern somehow makes it even more so.
A daunting possibility emerges. The idea hooks into my innards and doesn't let go of me.
“You lied.” I stomp my fist angrily.
“Huh?” Grace blinks dumbly at me. “Wha’. No.”
“Yes! You said this was a good amount of toxin, not a dangerous amount. And now you're falling over things! You'll hurt yourself!”
“Pfff. Ye of little faith. I am—” It rolls once more and heaves itself onto hands and knees before it slowly climbs back onto its feet, uttering a string of concerning noises such as ghn and umph and oof.
“I am perrrrfectly fine. Peak performance. ‘m basically He-Man. See?”
Grace stretches out its arms, palms facing towards me, and then curls them inwards while flexing its muscles. I assume this is meant to make some sort of point about its physical prowess, or vitality. While it is doing this, however, it is also swaying minutely. Ominously.
“Whatever you say,” I grumble. “Are you done now? I think you should be done now.”
I click my claws together as I ascertain the amount of liquid left in the bag slung around Grace's shoulder. There's almost nothing left, perhaps about 100 milliliters, and Grace seems to be aware, because it lifts the pouch demonstratively.
“You bet’cha, buddy. You bet… your rocky hide. Once I finish this, I am so done.”
Grace bares its teeth and smiles in a way that is much too self-satisfied. Then, it turns and staggers into the dormitory to find less-moist clothing to wear.
I heave a long, weary chuff, and bear my fate.
Nanny robot waves its mechanical arms at me as I enter to supervise Grace, and I can't help but feel a momentary kinship with it.
♫♩˖࿔
I'm not sure how we got here.
Or rather I know how I got here, but I'm not always sure how Grace's brain operates on a regular day, nevermind in this impaired state.
Its moods are erratic, to say the least. It goes from laying flat on the floor, laughing at the Earth creatures (more cats) in the portable thinking-machine, to whining at having to get up and expel waste, to finally collapsing on the floor next to me again and sighing as though— content.
I trill inquisitively, click-clunking my ball a little closer so I bump into Grace's side.
Grace, in turn, twists its torso and bumps the hard(ish) ridge of its nose against the surface of my ball. There is still an unevenly textured stripe of skin there, from where its skin was cut open while we were spinning out in Adrian’s orbit. It doesn't hurt, supposedly, but it is a permanent mark.
Grace sighs and blinks at me. The movement of the thin membrane covering its eyes is more languid than average, comparable to when it is lacking sleep.
And then.
Then Grace angles its head slightly upward and… smushes its fleshy mouthparts against the closest available xenonite panel.
…
What?
I can sense the layer of condensation created by Grace's humid breath on top of the xenonite, though this change is negligible compared to the other sounds. Namely, those sounds produced by the meeting of Grace's mouth and my protective shell. I can hear the swirl of lubricating liquid in its mouth, the rush of oxygen flowing from nose to throat to lungs, the faint scratch of the short hairs framing its mouth. The soothing four-beat rhythm of Grace’s heart is so much more immediate now that there is a direct point of contact.
The intensity is almost overwhelming.
I am lost for words for a moment, maybe two (if I’m being honest, it is probably three), before I manage to stomp one fist in confusion.
“Grace. What are you doing?”
Grace's mouth, still smushed against my xenonite, curves upward: Contentment, happiness, satisfaction. Interesting, that it should be prone to smiling when made stupid by ethanol, but not so much when it gets stupid because of a lack of sleep. (Rather the opposite. Giant Grumpy Grace alert.)
“‘s called a kiss, buddy. I‘m givin’ you. A kiss. ‘cause you're my best friend annnnd I like you. And y’nno what, you're actually pretty nice. When you’re not goin’ outta your way to be mean to me, that is.”
Grace’s speech is now truly impaired. Despite the warnings it had given me in advance, I can’t help but feel alarmed. I try to reassure myself that it would have informed me were this truly dangerous. Although–neurological effects of this scale are disturbing either way. More so if induced deliberately.
For a moment, the memories of my shipmates emerge, staggering around the ship uncoordinated and delirious, but I resolutely banish the memory to the furthest corner of my mind. These events are not the same.
I really dislike that I don't know what the safety margins are. How much of this substance is safe for a human to consume, how does one tell when the limit is exceeded, when does impairment turn to endangerment of self? I chastise myself for not having questioned Grace more thoroughly beforehand, but dwelling on this will do neither of us any good.
“I'm obviously being mean to show affection. You said this is something humans do, yes?” I say, attempting humor to try and manage my own nervousness.
Grace's mouth immediately splits in two, revealing its teeth as it bellows a loud, choppy sound: More laughter. The first time I heard this noise, it sounded so ugly and unrefined I thought it must indicate pain, or something or other going wrong. Now, as the dense muscle tissue around Grace's lower torso contracts, the violently fluctuating amplitude of its unrestrained delight rattles through my core and leaves me warm and buoyant in a peculiar way.
Intrigued, I sit with this feeling for a moment. I like to see my friend happy; I like whatever this is. I don’t think it needs to be examined any further right now.
When the waves of its laughter calm, Grace leans in again, and rests its brow ridge against the xenonite panel it had kissed before. There are trace amounts of moisture there, transferred from its lips, which now intermingle with the somewhat oily secretions of its skin. Messy, messy, messy.
My human is smiling. Again. Still.
Something in me sags with relief, or rather plummets to the floor with the suddenness of Erid’s gravity. These last months, Grace has been tense, often grumpy and snippish. Its sleep has been fitful. Now, its happiness comes easy and stays for longer. In certain respects, I'm becoming rather fond of the effects of ethanol on the human brain.
Grace's smile creates a fan of bumpy lines, originating at the outer corners of its eyes. This is good. This is a true smile.
Sometimes, strangely, humans will smile when they are in fact sad or in distress. Grace smiles when it is crying. To differentiate between true and false smiles, one must note the minute details, such as the exposure of teeth, mouth tilt, angular acuteness, and then one must cross-reference this with other indicators, such as brow position, body posture and tone of voice. Human expressions are so complex, I’m certain they could be their own field of study. Some Eridians might care to pursue this.
I, for my part, am mostly interested in the minutia of Grace's expressions. They are unique, and I want to know all there is to know about them.
The more familiar I've become with Grace's… non-verbal vocabulary, the easier it has become to deduce its feelings. It isn't very adept at suppressing the urge to project its emotions outward, though sometimes it makes attempts to that effect. Most of the time, this is very ineffective and only makes communication more inefficient and laborious. But it is, as Grace has repeatedly assured me, just a human thing.
Humans are often afraid, I find. Afraid of others knowing their truth, their pain, their needs. I have yet to make sense of this. To any Eridian, isolating oneself in this way would be a horridly depressing existence. Yet Grace’s kin—despite being social creatures themselves—don’t bear this because they have to, but because they desire this pretend distance. It makes them, somehow, more at ease with themselves. Perhaps they believe isolation is better than judgment.
Interestingly, Grace doesn't seem to desire any distance now.
It’s still hugging my ball and its mouth is still brushing the surface of my xenonite. Unreasonably, I want to press closer.
“We don’t have a word for this,” I say. Joining of mouthparts is necessarily sexual for Eridians, but I know humans are different in this regard, therefore the act requires a different term. “I will call it ♫♩˖࿔. What is its purpose?”
I’ve observed this ‘kiss’ behavior in human movies before. Although I hadn't thought much of it then, except that I hated observing it. The kissing was—at least in the stories Grace had shown me—usually exchanged between mates, or humans engaging in sexual relations. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, however. It may be similarly acceptable between friends.
Either way, I only care for Grace's interpretation. In our short time together, most of my general curiosity about humans has narrowed down to curiosity about this human. The more I learn about the species, the more it seems apparent to me that Grace is the most interesting of its kind.
“‘s to show someone you like ‘em. Y'know, uh… bonding behavior, personal attachment, that kinda thing.”
I do feel attached. Painfully so. I didn't enjoy our separation–and not only because I was once more forced to sleep unwatched and then the Taumoeba began consuming my ship. My whole being sang when I heard Grace’s utterly strange, utterly familiar, utterly comforting human speech again.
I wish I could reciprocate the sentiment of the kiss properly, but none of the things that come to mind are quite… equivocal.
“Sorry. I can’t kiss Grace to show attachment in turn.”
An acute sadness grips me at the realization. I lower my carapace, quietly wailing my disappointment. Adrian would say I’m being dramatic, and maybe I am. Adrian would find a way to make this feel less devastating, but it will be a little while yet until I can consult my mate on the matter of my human-related yearnings. 563 cycles, to be exact. (A click in time, compared to the 46 years I spent alone before the Hail Mary's arrival.)
Grace finally detaches its face from the surface of my ball and expels a short breath through its nose. The corners of its mouth twitch up, down, then up again.
“Would be… uhh, pretty weird for you, anyway. Right? Mouth… stuff?”
Grace sticks the flexible tube connected to the pouch of ethanol into its mouth again, and puckers its lips. It continues to face me as it drinks. Does it know how intimate this is? It should. We spoke about this. Multiple times.
I can hear the last remnants of liquid travel up and into the small cavern of its mouth; I hear the spasms of the cylindrical muscle which connects its mouth to its stomach as it works the liquid down; I hear the manifold of almost-soothing, almost-melodic gurgles of its digestive system.
This is all objectively disgusting. By Eridian standards.
We don't watch one another eat. There are certainly some mated Eridians who will engage in shared food-consumption in private, but even they won't flaunt this fact to others. And thanks to the dense shield of our carapaces, we can’t properly listen to the workings of the soft insides of one another's bodies—but if we did, I'm certain it would be taboo to do so as well.
When the liquid finally runs out, Grace continues to suckle at the tube for a few more seconds before extracting the end from its mouth and dropping it to the floor. It looks down at the empty bag with pursed lips and a lowered brow: Something akin to regret, or resignation.
“Welp.” Grace pops the last letter, spit flies, and my innards clench a little with revulsion.
Some things are—harder to get used to than others. Fluid being propelled is one of them.
“Thus concludesss… the last hurrah.”
Grace's shoulders rise and fall as it sucks in a deep breath and expels it. I’m still amazed by the many ways its mind is in direct control of the body’s complex inputs and outputs. The many fluids in circulation, the lengths of blood vessels and capillaries pulsing in tandem, the layers upon layers of variably dense tissue that shift, stretch, shrink. It's so very alien, this constant transformation, and yet all the more enchanting for it.
I think even if I were to spend the entire journey back to my homeworld simply watching Grace, simply trying to perceive the countless mysteries folded into its impossible being, I would never cease to make new discoveries.
“Grace,” I chime, noting the flatness in its affect. Sadness-resignation, I assume, now that it has consumed its remaining feel-good toxin. “You did not finish explaining the cultural significance of human kissing.”
I don't really believe Grace intended to continue this conversation, but I want to know. The kiss seemed to have been a whim, and I want to know which kind of whim.
Were I any other Eridian, I would have spoken my thanks to the core and happily left the topic alone. But I am not any other Eridian, not anymore.
My Eridian standards have… eroded somewhat, as a result of my continued close exchange with Grace. They have ‘taken a beating’, to put this in one of Grace’s charmingly physical terms. We have affected each other's definitions of normality in more ways than I care to admit. The most egregious may be my lack of healthy disgust at mouth-related intimacies, but even beyond this, Grace's mere existence has forced me to re-evaluate my instinctive reaction to a number of things pertaining to biology. We couldn't have cooperated properly had I continued to be so squeamish about its squishy, leaky, fragile body.
Grace turns to direct its eyes at me, which means I have its full attention again. And it is smiling again, though the smile is asymmetrical, skin bunching around one corner of its mouth while the other remains flat.
“Well, uh, it can have different meanings. Depends who’s doin’ it, and what… part of someone you’re kissing. Uh. Where I’m from, parents might kiss their children on the cheek or the forehead, buuut, a kiss on the mouth… you might wanna reserve that for your mate. Or uh, mates? I guess.”
Ah, it remembered about Eridians’ mating practices!
Again, objectively speaking, this conversation should be off-putting, but I’m not objective about this. I haven’t been objective about Grace since… the very beginning. How could I be? Grace saved me. I owe it my life. My entire species’ survival. We will save all of Erid, together. There is no song I know that can express the depth of affection and gratitude I feel for this being.
Thus, confronted with yet more strange and intimate ways in which humans use their mouthparts, I can't muster up anything but intrigue and an almost unbearable desire to understand. I want to understand everything about Grace.
“Interesting. Humans do so many things with their mouths. You miss kissing?”
Grace's mouth opens, just the smallest fraction, exposing the soft tissue inside. Then it snaps shut again, teeth clacking together. I hear its throat contracting as it swallows nothing but saliva.
“I dunno.” It pulls its shoulders up and releases them again—a shrug. “I never really, uh… cared much for it, if I'm honest, but. It can be– nice. Under the right circumstances.”
“Like before. I am the right circumstance?”
I'm teasing on purpose. I can't help myself.
Predictably, I get exactly what I wanted: Grace blinks at me as it waits for an answer to appear out of thin, oxygenated air. Sometimes it's so wonderfully easy to overwhelm the human brain. (Even more so when it is under the influence of a neurotoxin.)
I am enjoying this more than I should.
I chitter quietly, amused, and then Grace joins in, shoulders jumping as it laughs. We sit, being delighted by each other and the strangeness of ourselves and the universe. And once we're done doing that, we sit in silence for a while.
♫♩˖࿔
“Hey, Rock.”
Grace presses the soft side of its face against the xenonite panel to one side of me. I shift closer.
“Yes, friend Grace?”
“I–”
Suddenly, the large muscle in Grace’s midsection contracts and it utters a sound that I can only describe as a loud, clipped chirp. Much higher compared to its usual register.
And then it happens again. I’ve never heard this sound before; I would remember if I had. I remember all of Grace’s sounds, and the (sometimes distasteful) things its body does to produce these sounds. This has never happened.
“I– hic–”
“What– What is happening? I don’t like this. Grace?”
Grace starts laughing, except the laughter is different from before. Its face is scrunching up in the same way, but the sound is much quieter, almost entirely muted. And then it starts alternating between puffing these small small laughs and making that strange noise and gasping for air, and—I really don’t like this.
A minor panic welling up within me, I scramble halfway up the side of my ball to observe even more closely, pressing as tightly into Grace's side as I dare. But nothing seems obviously amiss and I can’t figure out why my friend’s stupid human body is breaking.
“Is something wrong with the oxygen supply? Can you not breathe? Grace! Is there a leak in your lungs? Grace, if you do not talk to me I cannot fix it–”
“‘m fine, ‘s just a– ˈhɪk.ʌp. Involuntary– hic— contraction of the daɪ.ə.fræm. Not dangerous, just– hic– annoying.”
Grace seems unconcerned. So unconcerned, in fact, that it seems to think my distress is funny. Involuntary contractions don’t sound harmless at all. What if this is such a rare side effect of the neurotoxin, Grace was not aware of it? Is this permanent? What if Grace runs out of air because the spasms prevent it from breathing properly? This could be bad, bad, bad.
“When will it stop? Can you make it stop? Grace stop laughing. Make it stop.”
My friend just continues making stupid sounds with its clearly broken body, and I'm afraid this may continue indefinitely. What do I do then? Grace's face is screwed up as though in pain, and it is curling its entire body inwards, clutching its midsection with one hand. It MUST be hurt, somehow.
I! Do! Not! Like! This!
The nervous energy curls and writhes within me. I spin and pace in my xenonite prison, helpless to do anything but wait and observe.
I'm doomed to wallow in dread until—mercifully—the strange noise finally abates. Only now, with some of the cacophony having faded and my mind clearing up, I notice the drying liquid on Grace’s cheeks. It was LEAKING, too!
“You are crying. You’re in pain? You were in pain!”
Grace turns toward me and wipes at its face with the back of its hand, swiping at the remaining moisture as though that will make me forget this incident. As though the pulse of its heart isn’t elevated and its lungs aren’t still heaving with the strain.
This is infuriating.
“Ooooh.” Grace’s eyes are wide, its brows are dancing(?) and its smile has grown impossibly wider. “Rock. Rocky. So concerned for lil’ ol’ me! ‘s almost like you care ‘bout me. I’m…flattered. Really.”
Did I say infuriating? I meant intolerable. Is it too late to send this unbelievable creature back to Earth? I cannot be expected to deal with this.
I stomp the ground and puff angrily through my radiator, “Of course I care! Stupid stupid stupid.”
In response, Grace swiftly rotates its whole body toward me, or rather attempts swiftness. Instead, it almost tips over onto its back before catching itself with a flailing arm. Then, it splays out its legs so that I, in my ball, am bracketed by them.
I chirp in question.
Grace simply lets its head fall forward until the bridge of its nose thunks, once more, against the closest flat surface. It is smiling at me, very stupidly. Very humanly. Very Grace-like. (Not to be confused with grace-ful.)
It mutters fragmented sounds that are too jumbled for me to extract any meaning from, and then its eyes slip shut. With its primary sensory organ on standby, it just sits there.
“Those were not human words,” I point out, still huffy.
I tip-tap nervously and scramble closer against the surface separating us, just in case it utters something marginally intelligible. The proximity might give me an advantage.
“M-hmmm…”
So much for that plan.
Grace cracks open one of its eyes, slowly, as though this were taking tremendous effort. That is how it usually wakes from sleep.
I always know of Grace's imminent return to the waking, even before it is fully conscious. I can tell from the break in its deep, rhythmic breathing and the tensing of muscles. I like observing these moments of gentle disorientation, and Grace is never any the wiser. I soak the impressions up, make them part of myself.
Grace is never as vulnerable in sleep as an Eridian would be, but I have observed it start awake from night-time hallucinations (nightmares, dreams—humans brains are fascinating and horrifying) more than once. There’s a different vulnerability to Grace's sleep that I will never quite understand, a different loss of control. I try to find comfort in the fact that, although I can't influence the things Grace's brain chooses to construct, I've found I can interrupt its sleep and be present for it upon waking. Even if Grace often doesn't remember its dreams. It’s usually unaware of its own twisting and gasping and whimpering, and at least 58% of the time, it'll grumble sullenly at me for rousing it from sleep, and roll its body so its back will be facing toward me. A universal human sign: Leave me alone.
Too bad I am not human and therefore don’t grasp these mystifying codes.
“You are tired. You go sleep in bed,” I decide.
And because I'm helpful, sometimes, I point at the sleeping pad sitting just on the other side of the dormitory, next to the wall of my personal dome.
Surprisingly, Grace’s eyes follow the direction of my extended claw. Its eyelids pinch together almost all the way, and it does something strange with its mouth—twisting it this way and that—before taking a breath.
“Mhh-kay, deal. G’nna trade you… One more for good luck.”
And then—
This shouldn't come as a surprise, should it?
Grace puckers its lips and places another kiss on the thin sheet separating us, and its mouth happens to be very close to where my carapace is pressed against the upper section of the ball. This is— I am— I don't even know. Grace smears its terrible, disgusting, lovely mouth-fluids onto my xenonite, and I feel, somehow, both beautifully sullied and impossibly loved.
I try not to wallow in the emotion this very human expression of affection elicits in me, and pretend to quiver in disgust.
“I endured this for you. Grace goes to sleep now,” I remind it, stomping once for emphasis.
This is not about me; I am helping Grace. I can mull the rest over later.
It takes another 792 seconds for me to coax Grace to its sleeping pad. Humans are rather gangly and awkward, and therefore not ideally balanced even when their mental faculties are fully operational. And as of this moment, Grace is anything but fully operational. My friend sways, tumbles and then—with a yelp—trips over a loose storage cube.
A storage cube it was supposed to clean up before all of this began.
After a moment of deliberation, Grace chooses to crawl the rest of the way, none the wiser to my annoyed chittering. I suppose it doesn't matter whether it crawls or walks. At least it isn't sleeping on the floor; even its bones are sensitive to less-than-ideal resting conditions. I don't think I will ever stop marveling at this being. What a strange and convoluted path for evolution to take.
Grace comes to rest with a thump, the air pressed out of its lungs as it falls onto its front and lays there, spread out and deflated. Then, it rumbles a deep noise, something half pained and half annoyed, and rolls onto its side. It stays like this, with both its arms and legs pulled just so toward its chest, sighing softly.
I stay by its side, perched beside its head in my sphere. It’s the closest I can get.
“Hey, Rock?”
Grace's voice is muted and somehow blurry. Strangely soft as though the harsh edges of the syllables were rubbed together and sanded down. Perfectly smooth gemstones, I will keep them safely tucked away under my carapace.
“Yes, friend Grace?”
“Kiss people t'say you love’m,” Grace mutters, breath deepening and heartbeat slowing. “‘n I l’ve you.”
I knew this already, of course.
Grace falls asleep before I can return the sentiment.
As so many cycles before, I keep vigil over its leaky, impossible body and its brilliant, stupid mind.
I listen to it suck grating breaths through its open mouthparts and I observe its drool soaking into the soft cushion beneath. Somehow, there is nowhere else I would rather be. Our ship hums its reliable song and Grace is messy/beautiful and a terribly human part of me imagines being kissed.
I am forever altered, and I can't wait to give Grace a home.