Work Text:
There's a gun on the ship. Gun. On the ship. Yao's gun. It's on the ship. Yao's gun is on the ship. Gun on the ship. Gun on the ship. Gun. Gun. Gun. Gun.
It rattles in Grace's mind, leaving him with little room for anything else. He's known about the gun for years. He'd remembered the gun before how he got on the ship in the first place. It's old news. It shouldn't be more than a passing thought when Grace encounters it during his periodic cleans of the storage area. Truth be told, it should have been jettisoned out into space the second he found it, because Grace has no use for a gun.
He's always been squeamish around weapons, a quintessential white liberal. He'd never even held a gun before the Hail Mary and seeing as he's never taken it out of its case, he technically still hasn't held one yet. Grace had no desire to on Earth and even placing the order to have Yao's gun packed on the ship had left him nervous. It should be the last thing on his mind up here, far from any conceivable use but one.
There's a gun on the ship.
Clutched in Grace's hand is a tooth, freshly fallen. He hasn't done anything adventurous or ill advised. He hasn't even hit his head. Just a swipe of his tongue as he tried to choke down his Taumoeba. His mouth is bloody, still oozing out of his gums. And gosh, is it wrong that Grace is savoring the taste? He's relishing in the heat, the salt, the metallic tang. He's like the universe's worst vampire, salivating over his own blood.
There's a gun on the ship.
A gun on the ship for one very specific reason. A reason that Grace has spent years running away from, but one that keeps chasing after him.
He keeps his hand closed around the tooth. He doesn't want to see it. He doesn't want more proof of his rapidly failing body staring him down. Erid is weeks away. A solution to his nutrition is even further, if it ever comes at all. He already feels like a broken shell of the man he used to be, but Grace knows the worst is yet to come. How much of that is Grace prepared for? How does one even prepare for slow, drawn out death by starvation?
There's a gun on the ship.
Grace leaves half his ration uneaten, abandoned on the lab table. He's shaking like a leaf as his body wills itself towards storage. Is it from cold? Fear? Anticipation? He doesn't know. All he knows is he's been hit with a burst of frantic energy, like a prey animal giving escape one last desperate attempt.
There's a gun on the ship.
His feet are unsteady under him. That's nothing new. A few months back, when the coma slurry started to run low, things had started taking a slippery descent from bad to worse. Most of his days are spent sleeping. When he's awake, what little energy he has is spent on maintenance around the ship, monitoring their trajectory, getting ready to dock on Erid's space elevator, anything he can do to make sure Rocky makes it home. Grace would choose this a million times over if it means Rocky will live, but it's a dull existence. Practically a living death.
There's a gun on the ship.
Grace stumbles over a hoodie he's left on the floor. He doesn't fall. It's a mercy. He doesn't need more lost teeth, or broken bones, or worse, Rocky chiding him about keeping the ship clean. But the noise startles Rocky out of his tinkering. He scurries over in the tunnels, tapping incessantly to get a closer look.
"You are bleeding!" Rocky exclaims. He ends up falling into the xenonite walls in his haste to get closer to Grace. "Grace! Grace! Grace!"
Grace walks right past him without a glance. He'll feel bad about that later. Right now, he's entranced, helpless to do anything but follow the call of that gun tucked away in storage. The stairs down the dormitory are tricky, especially when he keeps his fist stubbornly balled around the tooth and Rocky keeps shouting after him, but he makes it down without incident. A small miracle compared to most of his days.
Rocky beats him down to the dormitory, of course, he's faster than Grace, but his ball doesn't fit through the storage area. Once Grace pulls the panel back and wiggles down, there isn't anything for Rocky to do except ram repeatedly against the entrance and call Grace's name. Vaguely, Grace's chest pangs with guilt, but Rocky's nothing but background noise now. His brain, for all it's failed him recently with its endless fog and fatigue, is entirely focused on one thing.
gun gun gun gun gun
The crawl space isn't comfortable. It never was, but now, Grace can practically feel the bruises forming as he drags himself through the space. The ache disappears into the background, joining the long collection of other pains. That's most of Grace's existence these days. Pain, hunger, boredom.
Grace finds the case exactly where he'd last left it. Tucked into the very back corner of the storage area. Ilyukhina's heroin is back here, too, though it doesn't hold the same appeal. Grace doesn't think any amount of drugs would trick him into pleasure. It would only draw out the inevitable.
No, all his brain can fixate on now is something quick, final.
Grace pops the case open. He flinches when he finally sees the gun. He doesn't know why. Did he expect it to have disappeared since he last cleaned down here? Maybe he had hoped it'd be gone, eaten by Taumoeba or flushed out to space during the nitrogen wash so long ago. But no, it's here. Staring him down. Mocking him with its possibilities.
He's not going to do anything. He's only curious. He repeats that to himself over and over, a mantra he's trying to make himself believe. He's not going to do anything. He's only curious. He's not going to do anything. He's only curious. Only curious. Curious what it looks like. Curious what it smells like. Curious what it feels like. Curious what it could do for him if he wasn't so terrified.
It's heavier than Grace expects when he picks it up. Cold sturdy metal against his palm. It's not loaded. Grace sees the bullets - three, for contingency - tucked away neatly in a corner of the case. That fills him with a relief that should be all he needs to put the gun down, close the case, and leave it to be forgotten again.
Instead, he turns it around in his hands. Tries to ground himself with the weight of it. His fingers stay flat on the barrel, far from the trigger, though that probably wouldn't be much of a comfort to anyone. Especially not when Grace presses the end of the gun to his temple, shivering at the what if. If he weren't a coward even now, if he could muster a little bravery for once.
Suddenly, Grace isn't flat on his belly on the Hail Mary's crawl space. He's not hurtling through space, trillions of miles away from Earth. He's not hungry or aching, not inching his way towards a young, painful death. He's at his desk, back in Grover Cleveland Middle. Astrophage hasn't even begun to cross the mind of any Earthly beings.
He still gets old memories sometimes. Not as often. Definitely not now that his body has to put so much energy into simply staying alive. But occasionally, his world will come to a grinding halt and he feels almost like a time traveler, thrown back to be a stranger in his body with no option but to watch.
It's his early days of teaching. Probably sometime in his first year. His classroom is still barren, a mishmash of posters he found on sale and paraphernalia he'd stolen from the university labs on his way out. He feels out of place as a school teacher. Not just because there's still a part of him that stings at spending his days entrenched in middle school science when he knows he could do so much more, but because Grace just doesn't feel like he's qualified to look after a bunch of preteens. He feels like an overgrown kid himself and now he's been handed a classroom full of babies.
He's doing okay, he thinks. His students seem to like him well enough, even if the administration keeps telling him he needs to stop talking to them like adults. Grace already eviscerated swear words from his vocabulary. What else could they expect from him?
Grace is halfway through grading exams, trying to find the patience to wade through the obvious indifference his students feel for the subject. He ends every test in a free write that asks students to tell them their favorite thing from the unit and most of them scribble out a measly sentence or two of basic facts. Next year, he'll have to try instilling a love of science in the kids before he gets into anything else. For now, he'll have to endure.
There's a meek knock at his door and even though it's an hour past the final bell, one of his students from first period shuffles in. Riley, a sweet kid who'd come out as nonbinary over winter break and been the talk of the teacher's lounge ever since. They don't participate much, only when called on and begrudgingly at that, but Grace can see the glimmers of a future scientist in their papers. He tries to be patient at how getting anything out of them can be like pulling teeth. He remembers being young and uncertain once, too.
"Oh. Hey, -" Out of habit, their deadname escapes him. Grace stops short of shoving a fist in his mouth only because he knows overreacting is just as bad. Still, he rubs at his eyes and grimaces. "Riley. Sorry. I mean Riley. Come on in."
"It's okay," Riley mumbles. They hover by his desk, looking younger than twelve in their oversized hoodie that falls past their hands. This close, instead of tucked in the back corner of the classroom, Grace gets a better look at the bags under their eyes. They continue, "You can call me whatever. It's fine."
"It's not fine," Grace insists. His teacher voice - firm but loving is what he's aiming for - is a work in progress, but he hopes that landed somewhere in the general vicinity. "Your name is Riley. It's not okay for people to call you something you're not and I'm sorry I did. I'll do better."
"Thanks, Mr. Grace." Riley's staring down at their shoes, so Grace can't be sure if he really spotted a tear there or not, but he does hear a sniffle.
They make no move to sit or get any closer or even to voice what they've come in here for. Grace supposes that as the alleged adult in the room, he should take charge. He caps his pen and pushes the pile of exams a little further, wanting to be sure Riley knows they have his full attention.
"Did you, uh, did you come in for something? Or just looking for somewhere to hang out until your parents come pick you up?" Grace asks. "I actually just finished grading your test a few minutes ago. You'll get it back tomorrow, but spoiler alert, it's a perfect score. Again. You're good at this, Riley. Really good."
"Can I ask you for help with something, Mr. Grace?" Riley asks.
They look up, finally, and yeah. There's tears. Grace is subtle as he can be as he takes a deep breath to center himself. Crying middle schoolers is part of the gig. He knew that when he signed up. He can do this. Better a crying middle schooler than whiny academics, right? No big deal. He's an adult. He can deal with 7th grade issues.
"Of course, Riley. Whatever you need," he says, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels.
Riley tugs at the end of their sleeves and jumps anxiously from foot to foot for a long minute before they take a long, shaking breath and finally confess, "I, um, don't really know if I want to be here anymore."
"Here?" Grace takes a confused look around his classroom. "Like in the honors placement? I mean, it's a little late in the year, but we can talk to admin about it and see if we can figure something out. I'd hate to see you in a class that doesn't challenge you, though."
"No, Mr. Grace. I don't mean here like class, I mean, like, here here." Riley vaguely gestures all around them.
"Oh." Grace gulps. A barrage of trainings he only half paid attention to flash through his head. Immediately, his palms break into a clammy sweat. He looks at the door, wondering if someone more qualified than him might walk in and save them both. But no. Hastily, before Riley can continue, he says, "Before you say anything else, and, um, I'm sorry to interrupt, like really, really sorry, but I just want to be sure you understand that, well, you know, I'm a mandated reporter and there's certain things I can't keep secret. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to listen, so happy to, but I don't want you caught off guard."
"I know. I just, I dunno how to ask for help. I didn't know who else to go to. Because I don't want to be here anymore, but I do, and I don't know. I don't know. And you know everything, Mr. Grace."
They're crying now, full on tears streaming down their face and shoulders shaking from the effort. Grace has been scolded a few times for being too casual with the kids, but who could possibly just sit here and keep a professional distance. He comes out from behind his desk and pulls Riley into a hug. He doesn't know where to begin. Is this a social worker question? Guidance counselor? A call home? He really should have paid more attention to his trainings. At the very least, he knows that a hug isn't a bad place to start.
"I don't know about everything, kiddo, but we'll get it figured out," Grace promises.
"I don't want people to think I'm being dramatic," Riley warbles. "Or stupid."
"No one will think you're stupid. In fact, I think what you're doing now, asking for help, I think that's very, very brave."
Grace does not feel brave holding this gun. He doesn't feel brave imagining what his brains would look like painting the inside of the ship. He doesn't feel brave wondering if dying in a few months is any better than dying today. He doesn't feel brave ignoring his best friend yelling for him at the entrance of the storage space.
The gun falls from his hands, landing on the padded floor with a dull thud. He should put it away, back in its case and back to its corner. Better yet, he should throw it out the airlock and let it drift for the rest of time. Grace can't bring himself to do either of those things, so he makes peace with leaving it where it fell, a problem for another day.
Wiggling out of storage is more difficult than wiggling in. He has to turn around in the space, already a tight fit in the best of circumstances. Given how sore and aching every part of his body is, he has to stop several times just to catch his breath. The crazed adrenaline that got him here in the first place is long gone. In its place is simply a bone deep exhaustion. He jostles what feels like every bone in his body as he drags himself back up to the dormitory, but the important thing is he does emerge again, alive and as whole as anyone can be while starving to death in the emptiness of space.
Rocky is furious. Grace has spent enough time with Rocky to see it clear as day. He's basically shaking and his vents are flared out, something Grace has come to recognize as a glare. If Grace could hear Rocky's entire range, he suspects he's currently being berated with a whole slew of the Eridian words he refuses to translate.
Rocky's anger dissolves as soon as he sees him. His body stills except for one anxious claw tapping endlessly to get a closer look at Grace as he approaches. Grace wishes Rocky would just be angry. Somehow, Grace thinks it might feel better than this. The only semi-rational part of his brain tells him that he's just trying to externalize his desire to self-harm. He doubts Rocky will fall for the bait as easily as academics back on Earth, no matter how upset he is.
"Grace?" Rocky trills softly, sounding more scared than Grace has heard since back on Adrian.
His whole body feels like it's on the verge of collapse, just as emotionally drained as malnourished, but Grace crawls the last few feet to Rocky and throws himself over Rocky's ball. It gets less and less satisfying as a hug as the trip goes on, but it's the closest he has these days. Grace doesn't know when he started crying, but he's a mess now, covered in tears and spit-diluted blood still dribbling out of his mouth.
Rocky seems unconcerned as he leans in close on his end of the xenonite barrier. Gone are the days when Rocky would mock him for being a leaky space blob. The disgust was long ago replaced by an endless stream of concern. Grace misses the mockery, misses being well enough to give as good as he got.
He hiccups around a sob. Against Rocky's ball, he mumbles, "I'm sick, Rock. Really sick, I think."
This can't possibly be new information, but Rocky still lights up with concern. "Shouldn't hide when sick. I can't help when you hide. Lots of leaking from mouth. Blood?"
"Oh. Yeah." Grace almost forgot what set him down this spiral in the first place. It had quickly joined the rest of the horrors. He finally uncurls his fist, revealing the tooth he'd lost. It's left an imprint on his palm from how tightly it's been clutched. He runs his tongue along the newly emptied spot in his mouth. It's a lower canine, in a spot he might be able to hide even when he smiles. Is it stupid to worry about a vanity like that when he'll be lucky to last more than a few weeks on a planet with no vision? Probably. It's easier to fuss over this than the alternatives, though.
"Bad bad bad," Rocky agrees. He's silent for a while, save for the soothing hums he continues to let out. He hasn't said as much, but Grace is pretty sure these are lullabies back on Erid. When Rocky is certain Grace won't elaborate on his own, he asks, "Why did you run, Grace?"
Asking for help is brave. Asking for help is brave. Asking for help is brave. Grace could probably repeat it to himself the whole rest of the way to Erid and still not bring himself to believe that could apply to himself. The anxiety sends a wave of nausea through him. He grimaces and holds on tighter to Rocky.
"I'm sick here." Grace taps his forehead with one trembling finger.
"Head pain? From injury or nutrients?" Rocky asks.
He's being obtuse. Grace knows he is. They haven't gone too deep into the topic, but they've talked about the intricacies of the human brain before. It had come up when Grace explained autism to help Rocky understand why he was so married to his routines, even when there was nothing left to accomplish but making it to Erid safely and, more importantly, why it was so difficult for him to just shut his eyes and down the Taumoeba. It had led them down a messy path of exploring other mental illnesses.
Even if Rocky didn't have perfect memory, he'd told Grace about Eridian equivalents. There often wasn't a direct comparison, of course, but they have their own illnesses. Certainly, Eridians are no strangers to what would probably be called depression back on Earth. Suicide is different. As difficult as Eridians are to kill with their armored bodies and closed systems, it's far more rare an occurrence than on Earth. Still, Grace knows Rocky can put together what Grace is getting at.
The words fight him, trying to crawl back inside and choking him on the way out to make their displeasure known. "Not physical sick, Rocky. My, I don't now, my heart, my soul is sick. I'm hungry and I'm hurting and things are getting worse and I'm just, just so tired of it, Rocky."
Even Rocky's taps sound anxious now. "We'll be in Erid soon. You will get better there. Only have to be patient little while longer. Your body will get better, your head will get better, your heart will get better."
Grace lets himself slide off Rocky's ball. He backs up against the wall and buries his face in his hands. His palms press into eyes, just short of painful, his body rocks back and forth. How do you center yourself on an interstellar ship careening you further than any human's ever been? Grace is still trying to figure that out.
"I don't know that Erid is soon enough, pal," Grace says. "I've been fighting a losing battle for months."
"You want to lose now?" Rocky asks. His voice is almost too soft for Grace to pick up on. His Eridian is better these days, but he's not fluent. If he hears judgment in Rocky's question, Grace can't be sure who it's coming from. "You want to die now?"
Does he? Grace wishes he could answer. When he went running after that gun, when he held it in his hands and smelled the gun powder and fantasized about what it would be like to end his hunger from one moment to the next, it seemed like he did. Did he want to die or did he just want this to end? Does the difference really matter?
Grace struggles to remember a time when he'd wanted so desperately to live, he'd been willing to risk all of humanity for it.
"Grace cannot die."
Grace spreads his fingers enough to take a peek. Rocky's come closer, just a few inches away, but careful not to touch. He probably recognizes how fragile Grace is right now, how one unexpected touch might send him on a spiral again, perhaps not to kill himself, but certainly a danger. Rocky's whole carapace is angled toward him, showing attention in the most human way he can. Rocky's quieted his tapping somewhat, probably another attempt to keep Grace calm and centered and away from the edge he's lived on for so long now, but he keeps at it, unwilling to let go of his clearer view of Grace.
Grace sniffles. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I've gotta keep us on course, pilot us to Threeworld, dock us at Erid. I know. I'm not gonna let you down, Rocky. I promise. I'll get you home."
"No!" Rocky is shrill enough to make Grace wince and cover his ears. He doesn't apologize, but he does gather himself before continuing at a more Grace-friendly tone. "You don't understand. You cannot die because you are my friend. Because I care for you. Because I love you."
"Oh."
What can he do? He cries. Folds in on himself and sobs with energy he simply doesn't have. Rocky sings his lullabies again, keeping a careful distance. Every inch of Grace feels raw, stripped bare and torn apart and devoured by this journey. Stay alive because Rocky and Erid need you is a calculation he's learned to make sense of. Stay alive because he is loved still needs some work.
His stomach clenches, hurting from more than just hunger for once. Is this the first time Grace has felt true, unconditional love? Have there been other instances, condemned to the amnesia? He doubts it, going off how his insides want to tear themselves apart at the strangeness of this feeling.
He cries until there's nothing left in him to give and then, for good measure, he chokes and gasps and heaves. He cries until he makes himself sick. He has to turn away to vomit. There isn't much in him to throw up, but there's enough. The puddle is a dull Taumoeba gray, sickly yellow bile, ugly bloody red. Grace will have to clean that up later. He'll have to reconcile with the lost calories later.
For now, he just uses all the strength he has left to pull himself closer to Rocky and curl up against his ball. Rocky drops to the floor and tucks himself against the same corner. It's probably the closest to cuddling they'll ever get.
Speaking is difficult now, the words like sludge in his chest, but he manages, "I love you, man. So much."
"Grace will make it to Erid," Rocky says, running a careful leg along the barrier between them like he might be able to break through and pet down Grace's hair. "Grace will heal. Grace will be happy."
He has a hard time believing that right now, hopeless as he is, but Rocky's never been wrong before. He nods weakly. If Rocky can run the numbers in his head and somehow come up with the conclusion that Grace will end up alive and well and whole at the end of this, he'll just have to believe it.
"Sleep. I will watch. And I will watch when you are awake, too," Rocky promises. "Until you're better."
Grace doesn't bother telling him that it might be a long time until then. It's a tough battle, but Rocky's more stubborn than he is. And, if he's being honest, Grace wants to be watched. To be guarded and cared for and have some of the unbearable weight of survival lifted off his shoulders.
He still has so much he should have done today. He hasn't made it up into the control room at all. He hasn't checked the Taumoeba farms. He's left several messes in his wake that should be tended to sooner rather than later. They'll all just have to be ignored for now.
Grace curls in tighter on himself and presses his forehead against Rocky's before closing his eyes. It would be too much to say he's grateful to still be alive. A total lie to pretend he actually sees a future where he makes it to Erid and survives longer than it takes to make sure Rocky makes it home safe. He can't even really bring himself to want to live at all. But he doesn't have to.
He knows he wants to be here with Rocky, knows he loves his best friend, knows he never wants to do anything to hurt him. For now, for as long as it takes, that'll have to be enough.