Chapter Text
I tell myself I’ll go to the membrane later.
That’s the lie I use when I strap into the workstation for the third extended burn window in a row and don’t move my bedding back to the aft corridor. Later. After this set of calculations. After I make the numbers behave.
We’re under constant thrust now, it’s enough that my boots stay planted and my knees complain if I stand too long. The ship feels… heavier. Like everything has decided it’s serious about direction. Which is good, because direction is currently my whole life.
We’re inbound to Erid, and that means continuous correction. You don’t just point at a star and hope for the best. You thread gravity wells, manage fuel margins down to the decimal, and pray your math holds up better than your sanity.
I’m hunched over the main console, fingers flying, eyes flicking between radiation exposure models and thrust efficiency curves. If I shave too much fuel, we don’t decelerate properly. If I play it safe, I cook myself slowly on cosmic rays. Space is very rude like that.
So yes. I’m busy.
I haven’t gone to the membrane tonight.
I haven’t gone the last two nights either.
I don’t tell Rocky I’m skipping it. I just… don’t initiate. Which is cowardly, but efficient. If I don’t frame it as a decision, it doesn’t feel like one.
I’m on my fourth pass through a correction matrix when Rocky’s voice comes through the comm.
“Grace.”
I sigh, already smiling despite myself. “Yeah?”
“You have been working for a long time.” he says.
“That’s what heroes do.” I rub my eyes. “We work until our brains leak out our ears.”
“You are less efficient when fatigued.” Rocky says.
“Also what heroes do.”
“I can assist.” he adds, immediate as ever.
I hesitate. Not because I don’t trust him -I do- but because accepting help feels like conceding something. Time. Space. Attention.
“Unless you’ve secretly become an expert in relativistic transfer orbits,” I say, “this is mostly just human-flavored suffering.”
“I have not secretly become an expert.” Rocky interrupts. “I have openly become one.”
I blink.
“…You have?”
“Yes.” he says. “I learned while you slept.”
Of course he did. Of course the alien spider genius spent his free time casually becoming an expert in orbital mechanics like it’s a Duolingo course.
“Okay.” I say slowly. “That’s… impressive.”
“I am impressive.” Rocky agrees, without a hint of ego.
I smile despite myself. “All right."
A few minutes later he appears on in his side of the barrier.
“Okay. What do you think about this burn window?” I flick the tablet toward the shared display so he can see with his tool.
There’s a pause. A real one. Longer than a data lookup.
“This solution is acceptable.” Rocky says carefully. “But not optimal.”
“Nothing ever is.” I mutter. “What’s your issue?”
“You are minimizing fuel expenditure.” he says. “But increasing radiation exposure.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Tradeoff. The universe is rude like that.”
“There is an alternative.” Rocky says.
He projects a new trajectory. It’s… clever. More aggressive slingshot, tighter margins, slightly higher fuel cost, but lower cumulative radiation dose.
I stare at it.
“…Huh.” I say. “That’s actually better.”
“Yes.” Rocky says. “I can compute further refinements.”
A warm little spark lights up in my chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else I don’t unpack.
“Nice work!” I say. “You just saved me, like, three hours.”
“I am glad.” Rocky says. Then, after a beat: “You will have more free time.”
My stomach does a weird little flip.
“Free is relative...” I say lightly. “There’s always more work.”
“Yes.” Rocky agrees. “But you usually rest after long work periods.”
I don’t respond.
“I can assist with additional tasks.” Rocky continues. “Calibration checks. Maintenance. Data review.”
“You already helped.” I say. “Go recharge or… whatever it is you do when you’re not saving my ass.”
“I do not need recharge right now.” Rocky says. “I prefer to help.”
Warmth again. Damn it.
“Okay.” I say. “If you’re offering, you can double-check the radiation model assumptions.”
“I will do that now.” Rocky says instantly.
Too instantly. I frown slightly but turn back to my work. We fall into an easy rhythm; me tossing problems over the metaphorical wall, Rocky handing back answers with unsettling speed and accuracy. It’s good. Comfortable. Familiar.
Dangerously so.
An hour passes. Maybe two. Time gets slippery in space.
Eventually, my stomach growls loud enough to be picked up by ship sensors.
“Okay. That’s my cue. Dinner time.”
“I can assist with food preparation.” Rocky offers.
“You can’t eat my food and I can’t eat yours,” I point out.
“I can still assist.”
“With… moral support?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I laugh. “You want to watch me rehydrate pasta?”
“Yes.”
“…You’re a weird little alien.”
“I am a very normal Eridian.” Rocky replies.
As I eat, Rocky keeps talking, not about the food, exactly, but adjacent things. Questions about human meal timing. About why I eat when I’m stressed even if I’m not hungry. About why hot sauce is apparently a lifestyle choice.
“It increases endorphins,” I explain, dousing my rehydrated pasta like I’m trying to put out a fire.
“You intentionally induce discomfort for pleasure.” Rocky says.
“When you say it like that, it sounds like a cry for help.”
“I will note this.”
I check the clock.
Oh.
I hesitate.
“Well.” I say casually, which is how I say things when I’m lying to myself, “I should probably...”
“You have not been sleeping adequately.” Rocky says.
Fuck.
“I’m fine.” I say automatically. “Just busy.”
“Yes.” he agrees. “Busy is distinct from rest.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I know.”
Silence.
Then, very carefully:
“You have not come to the membrane.”
There it is. I exhale slowly.
“Yeah.”
“You usually do.” Rocky says.
Guilt flares, sharp and immediate. I hate that it does. I hate that some small, traitorous part of me is relieved that he noticed.
“I didn’t want to… over-rely on it.” I say. “On you.”
“I do not experience harm from this.” Rocky replies.
I do, I think to myself.
A pause. Longer than usual.
“I have observed a pattern.” Rocky says.
My chest tightens. “What kind of pattern?”
“When you do not rest at the membrane,” he says, choosing his words with precision, “your efficiency decreases. Your sleep quality degrades, you make mistakes. I allocate additional resources to compensate.” Rocky continues. “I increase assistance frequency. I prioritize proximity. This improves outcomes.”
I blink. “Wait. You’re… doing that on purpose?”
“Yes.”
“Because…?” I prompt.
Another pause. Not long. Just careful.
“Because this configuration is effective.” Rocky says. “For mission success.”
Ah. There it is. The plausible deniability. The logic wrapper.
“That sounds like optimization.” I say weakly.
“Yes.”
I nod, even though something warm and complicated is spreading through my chest. “Okay.”
Then he says it.
“You should come to our membrane tonight.”
I freeze.
Our.
My brain short-circuits so hard I almost miss the rest of the sentence.
“You will rest better.” Rocky continues, oblivious to the internal disaster zone he’s just created. “Tomorrow’s calculations will benefit.”
Our membrane.
My heart does that stupid fast thing. My thoughts trip over themselves.
Our. Not the membrane. Not your membrane. Ours. Shared. Mutual. A thing that exists between us.
It’s probably nothing. A linguistic shortcut. Translation artifact. Rocky is not secretly staking emotional claims like some kind of five-legged boyfriend.
Right?
“I...” I clear my throat. “Yeah. Okay. I can do that.”
“I will prepare.” Rocky says.
Of course he will.
I head down the corridor toward my sleeping area, steps heavy against the deck, mind racing faster than the ship ever could. The steady thrust presses me downward, grounding me in a reality that is suddenly a lot more complicated than orbital mechanics.
The word our echoes in my head all the way down the hall.