Chapter Text
“Why is Grace so dirtyyy, question??” Rocky complains for what felt like the 30th time that day.
“I’m not dirty, I wiped off this morning. And I smell fine, thank you.” Rocky has been… a lot. Grace tried to convince him to stay on his ship, which got him nowhere. Rocky had practically moved in with Grace and became a little leech.
“Nooo, dirty under Grace’s finger shells.” Rocky rolls towards Grace, nudging his hand.
“Finger shells…- oh, finger nails?”
“Why human call finger shell protection a nail, question? Nail used for keeping together, nail go through not sit on top. Humans bad at naming statement.” Rocky rolls around his ball in frustration. It makes Grace chuckle when Rocky gets so mad at mundane things.
“Yeah… I guess it’s weird, Rock. And my “finger shells” are perfectly cle- oh.” Grace looks down at his hands. There's dirt caked under his nail beds. How has he not noticed before? He sits down at his workbench, pulling out a small knife to wedge the dirt out.
“How did these get so dirty…” He mutters, before stiling. He hasn't encountered dirt the entire time he's been on the Hail Mary. The spaceship has been perfectly clean, and the only time he's been off of it, he was in a suit. This is earth dirt. This is…
“Why Grace's heart fast, question?” Rocky interrupts.
“I’m fine, Rock.” Grace sighs.
“Rocky not ask that.” He rolls over to the table, bumping into its leg. “Why Grace leak, question?”
Grace hadn't even realized he was crying until Rocky pointed it out. The events of his last conscious moments on earth play through his mind. He quickly wipes his eyes. “I’m fine, Rocky. It’s nothin…” Grace repeats.
Rocky stays still for a second, letting out soft clicks the computer didn't pick up. After a few seconds, Rocky rolls his ball closer to Grace, gently touching his leg. He stays there, his ball adding a much-needed present for Grace.
“Dirt from Grace’s home, question?” Rocky chirps softly.
Grace starts to pick the dirt out, jaw clenching as he tries to focus on anything but his last moments on Russian soil.
“Yeah, bud… ‘s from earth.” Grace mumbles, fixating on his nails.
He eventually sets the knife down, table covered in dirt, caked up from being wedged between his fingers for who knows how long.
“Grace wants to save Earth dirt, question? To make special thing?” Rocky chirps, still against Grace’s leg.
Grace stares at the dirt on the table, before sweeping it off the table and onto the floor. “Nah, it’s not a good kind of special.”
Rocky rolls over to the dirt. “Why does Grace make the floor dirty?”
“It’s just a bit of dirt, Rock. It’s fine.” Grace sighs.
“Floor dirty, statement. Grace make floor dirty. Why Grace so dirtyyy-”