Work Text:
I'm synthesizing the flexible form of xenonite. It's tricky, there's a stage where the metal alloy has to be added drop by drop until the xenonite cures, and my workspace is severely limited inside my (rigid) xenonite walls, but I'm doing it. Because tired, un-sleeping Grace is not good. Not good for the mission because it makes small mistakes and has to redo work. Not good for it because this is unhealthy for its body, it gets in weird (not always bad, just weird) moods, and is generally unhappy. Not good for me because…well, because I don't like when Grace is unhappy. Or unhealthy. It should be excited to do space science, and instead it's moping around being bored and stressed and restless. It's just wrong.
Therefore, I'm making a flexible panel that's so thin it's like a membrane. Grace said its body needs touch to go to sleep, so we're going to see if this is adequate. There will still be a barrier between us, but I'm hopeful this will at least help a little. I don't think it's going to help with whatever it's keeping from me, the distress that is non-physical, but if this is the part I can fix, I'm going to try. Honestly it's been a nice diversion from all the wiring I've been working on lately, we're trying to connect some of my controllers to the ship so I could pilot it in case of emergency. But humans create tiny, intricately detailed little components and I've literally had to design new tools to increase my dexterity.
When I'm done installing the membrane, Grace seems hesitant. It speaks quietly and its heart goes fast, like it's stressed or scared. But it proceeds, cautious and curious. Presses its hand against the membrane, pushing as if it could puncture it with its miniscule strength.
"Oh”, it whispers, the pitch wiggling around a bit. It's leaning towards the wall, shoulders relaxing. Ah, it likes it.
“Feels right, question?"
"Yes. I. Yeah. It does”. Mmm. Not often that it gets monosyllabic like this. There's definitely a sensory aspect to this that I don't understand yet. I reach up carefully (it's so tall!) and put my claw against its hand, pushing back gently. The xenonite gives slightly, and I can feel the force of Grace's hand, and hear so clearly all the tiny bones, all the rushing liquid and the stretching fibers inside. I've never heard it like this. Even when it's pressed itself up against the xenonite in a tight hug, it wasn't like this. I can hear the slight difference in timing between its heart beating and the liquid moving in its hand. Grace starts to shake, which I point out. It tries to reassure me it's okay, but starts leaking instead. It worked. It worked.
I feel my own limbs relax as it slides down to the floor. It seems so small and fragile, leaking profusely from its eyes and struggling to take full breaths. I want to protect it from its difficult brain - well, its difficult life, really - and I do my best through the membrane. The sustained contact lets me hear so much more of Grace; it explained what “hair" is but now I can actually differentiate between the minute structures. I touch the part of its head where the hair starts, and press a bit harder when it leans into my claw.
It likes this.
I mean, I knew that. It's obvious. But there's something instinctual and human about this, almost base like an animal. It is thrilling to see Grace like this, not a scientist, not an alien, but a being who has gotten the comfort and security it needed. I'm having an emotion I can't quite explain to myself yet, it's a mix of pride and love, and while I'm experiencing that, it's been talking - "please don't stop”.
“I will not," I reply. It's an easy promise. I'm rapidly becoming quite relaxed and content myself. And satisfied. I helped. In what seems to be a significant way. And now I can really hear it. Eridians don't sound like this, the fleshy parts of us are more internal and not so… active? There's just so much to hear, with it in my arms like this. The textures of its skin, the lines where the skin folds out of habit. The burn where I touched it, really touched it.
I'm still stroking the top of its head where the hair starts, but there's so much detail on the rest of its face that I want to feel. I skip over the eyes, and touch the side of its face near the mouth. Its body is so dynamic!
“You deform easily," I say. I'm trying to be so gentle, and even still its body gives way under my claw. It is so fragile. It makes me nervous and bold at the same time, which is confusing. I don't want to hurt it, and I also want to press, to understand, to feel. I want to understand its reactions, and do what feels good to Grace. In an extreme understatement, I say to it, "I like this.”
I move my claw over its face and shoulders. I press against it with different pressures and rhythms, guided by the sound of its muscle fibers relaxing and its lungs shifting. I don't think it would quite grasp what it means to hear it like this, how deeply personal it feels to know exactly what its body is, what it's doing, the living and dynamic sound of it being alive. The tiny resonances and harmonic frequencies reverberating in it. To know what notes its heart beats. This feels affirming, life-affirming. Like I am more alive because of Grace, because of what we're doing.
-
In the days following, Grace doesn't come to our membrane for as long as the first time, but comes over occasionally to press hands or sit side-by-side and chat. I really like hearing its voice through its body and the membrane instead of through the atmospheres. But its sleep doesn't get better. Which was, of course, the whole point. I convince Grace to try sleeping next to our membrane and the conversation adds a new word - “cuddling" - to our vocabulary. Touching to offer and receive comfort and warmth. Being a frigidly cold being, Grace is not giving me any warmth, but the comfort part - I'm happy when it feels comforted. I'm comforted by being able to comfort it, Grace is so important to me and I just want it to feel well. And also to stop forgetting to put the test slides in the Taumoeba at lunchtime.
Grace lays down next to the membrane in a nest of soft fabrics. I wish I was soft for it. I drape an arm over it, giving the pressure that Grace seems to respond to best. Another arm takes up the gentle stroking on its face, and Grace curls its whole body closer to the membrane. I tilt my carapace in satisfaction and hum. I can hear the muscles between its ribs extend and contract with each breath. This being is made of beautiful rhythms and I want to hear every last one. I tell it I will watch as it falls asleep. The whoosh of air in and out of its lungs becomes a meditation, a mantra, a most precious sound. Two of my other claws take up my latest wiring component, moving in time with Grace's breathing. For now, I have two hands just like Grace, which amuses me. Even once it falls deeply asleep, I do not take back my other arms.