Nights on Mars were quiet and cool—being the kind of Martian who rarely slept, Croach was familiar with them.
He had been turning the events of the afternoon over in his mind for some time now. The satisfaction of onus was, to use the human designation, a "very big deal," not to be declared lightly, and deserving of careful thought.
He had almost reached a conclusion when the sounds of… he could only designate them as sounds of distress from down the hall—specifically, from Sparks Nevada's rooms.
As a general rule, they agreed to keep these parts of their shared accommodations separate; now was something of a personally ethical dilemma—was entering them now improper, given the circumstances (not the least of which their last conversation)? A second cry of distress answered the question for him, and he stepped into the hall, pausing outside the marshal's door. Following the appropriate human custom, he knocked twice before pushing the door open.
The room was dimly lit, but not so much that he couldn't observe. The marshal, despite being asleep, was in obvious distress. The situation left Croach feeling deeply conflicted—on the one hand, he was still uncertain if his onus to Sparks Nevada was fulfilled or not. On the other, it seemed almost… cruel to leave him to the mercy of whatever was tormenting his sleep.
Ultimately, he never had to make a decision one way or the other. Sparks sat upright, looking vaguely disoriented and breathing heavily.
Croach knocked again, this time to announce his presence. (Standing and watching in silence, especially when he couldn't be seen, seemed unusually cruel.) "What happened, Sparks Nevada?" It was a curious thing to ask, given that he knew exactly what happened and the fact that his tribe was known to not be capable of deceit. However, one could justify it as sparing the human's dignity.
Sparks directed his unseeing gaze toward the doorframe in which the tracker stood. "Croach. I, uh…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I thought you were going back to your tribe."
"I am still considering it." A truth to balance everything.
Sparks nodded slowly before gesturing vaguely to the foot of the bed. "I know you're standin' there, you can… sit down if you want, I guess."
Croach stepped inside and settled, almost stiffly, on the edge of the bed. "I will do so for a brief time. What troubles you, Sparks Nevada?"
He huffed softly, averting his gaze for a moment. "Nightmares," he finally admitted. "Real bad. Kinda surprised me is all."
He nodded once, slowly, before verbally confirming that he was listening, as well. "Do you wish to discuss them?"
Spark's hesitated, running a hand through his hair before speaking. "Something… big was happening. I don't know what exactly it was, just that… we're talkin' life and death type stuff here. People are getting hurt and everything's getting destroyed—and there's me. Right in the middle of it." His hands clenched into tight fists amid the bedclothes for a moment. "Not doin' anything to stop it."
Croach nodded again. "This is the fourth most troubling description of a dream I have ever heard."
Sparks chuckled humorlessly at the quantification. "Imagine what it felt like to be in it."
"If you know it is not real, why does it trouble you so profoundly?"
It was a hell of a loaded question, but it deserved an answer—given that they were being honest and whatnot. "My job is to protect the people on this planet—knowing I can't do that is…" The silence hung heavy in the air between them.
"Your silence communicates that which your limited human emotions cannot express," Croach replied, the words cold but somehow sounding understanding.
"Thanks, Croach," Sparks mumbled.
They were silent for several minutes—Sparks picking at a loose thread he'd discovered on the blanket, Croach staring out the window. Finally, the latter broke the silence. "...We have known each other for many years, Sparks Nevada."
"Yeah, guess we have…" he agreed.
"Today was the first time I have heard you use a slur against my tribe," he noted, the words straightforward but with an undeniable undercurrent of pain.
"Yeah, I'm…" Sparks rubbed the back of his neck again, shame making the tops of his ears turn pink. "'m sorry I called you a blue-skin, Croach."
Croach looked down at his hands, thinking very carefully about his opinion on the subject and the words he wanted to use, before sighing (a habit he'd somehow picked up from his human companion but had yet to break himself of). "Your apology is accepted, Sparks Nevada. Your words came from a place of anger—I am aware that you respect myself and our friendship, and would not have said it otherwise."
"Thanks," he mumbled, relief obvious in his voice. After several moments, he spoke again, the relief long gone. "...Croach what if I'm blinded for good?"
"I do not think that will be the case," he replied.
"You think I can salvage…" He waved his hand vaguely in front of his face. "All this?"
"I believe that if you follow the instructions given to you," he began, "your recovery will be faster."
Sparks nodded slowly, going back to picking at the bedclothes. "…That includes wearin' the glasses, huh?" he murmured.
"It would be an adequate start," Croach confirmed.
"Guess that'll start tomorrow," he said slowly. "Listen, I'm beat, so—"
"I will leave you to return to your sleep cycle," the tracker replied, moving to stand.
"Croach—" Spark's hand slid along the quilt, patting awkwardly until he found Croach's, then slid his hand up to rest on his shoulder. "I've been… I've been a real jackass to you all week, and you've been nothin' but patient. Thank you."
There was something incredibly intimate about the gesture that transcended their numerous differences. Croach rested his hand on top of the marshal's for a moment before they withdrew their hands. "You are welcome, Sparks Nevada."