warnings: Rocky asks uncomfortable questions; Rocky gets acquainted with adult films; Ryland has a crisis; noodles; uncomfortable questions
You and Ryland are eating dinner. Once again, the Hail Mary has decided that noodles are the answer to all of life’s problems. It’s a rare break between experiments, desperate attempts to solve impossible problems, and the usual scientific and moral dilemmas. The only sounds are the occasional exchange of words and the clatter of chopsticks against metal food containers.
Rocky rolls into the room inside his xenonite sphere. “Question.” Ryland looks up at the alien. “I’m scared.” Rocky ignores him completely, and you glance at your companion with curiosity. “When Grace and female Grace were sleeping, I studied the Hail Mary database.” That wasn’t unusual. Rocky did it all the time. But somehow, this announcement immediately filled both of you with a strange sense of dread. “I noticed something interesting. Correlation between pizza delivery and reproductive behavior among humans. Why. Question.”
Ryland nearly chokes on the noodles in his mouth. He coughs violently. You stare at Rocky in complete surprise. “What are you talking about?” Grace finally manages once he can breathe again. “There is connection,” Rocky continues, spreading his arms as if explaining something obvious. “Pizza delivery. Human female pleased. Copulation follows.”
And then you understand. Far too well. Ryland doesn’t even need to look at you. Judging by the increasingly horrified expression on his face, his brain is already producing one terrible possibility after another. The tips of his ears turn red.
“Does it depend on pizza type. Question?” Ryland lets out a pained groan and rubs a hand over his face, nearly knocking his glasses off. “Is this mating ritual. Question?” “Buddy, please...” Grace’s voice is bordering on desperate now.
You try not to laugh, but a quiet snort escapes you anyway. Rocky immediately turns toward you. “Female Grace. Question.” “Ummm… yeah?” “If Grace brings you pizza, will you copulate?” At this point, Ryland’s greatest wish is to open an airlock and throw himself into the endless void of space.
“Please don’t answer that,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Oh. I think that…” “No.” “...if someone managed to deliver pizza all the way out here…” “No.” “...considering how many light-years separate us from the nearest pizzeria…” “Don’t go that way…” “...I might consider it…” “I’m done.” Ryland lifts his head. The expression on his face finally breaks your self-control. You burst out laughing.
He points accusingly at you. “You’re encouraging him. You’re making it easier for him to ask questions like this. You’re making the situation worse.” You raise an eyebrow. “Me? You’re talking like I’m responsible for whatever’s in the Hail Mary database.” “You... Oh. You know exactly what I mean.”
Rocky shifts uneasily. “Grace upset. Bad that Rocky tries to find Grace mate. Question.” Ryland looks at you. His face is the picture of complete helplessness and despair. Maybe there’s a trace of amusement buried somewhere underneath it all, but nothing about the two of you has ever been obvious enough to justify this level of investigation.
Finally, Grace raises a hand. “I hereby declare that we are no longer discussing pizza, copulation, mating rituals, or anything remotely related to any of those topics. Rocky, you’re grounded. I’m putting parental controls on your database access.” Then he points at you. “And you?” You smile slightly. “Think about your behavior.” He storms out, leaving both you and Rocky staring after him in stunned silence.
You set down your container of unfinished noodles and slide onto the floor. “Female Grace.” Rocky turns toward you. “You like pizza. Question.” You shrug. “I do.” “Good. You like Grace. Question.” You pick up both containers and glance down the corridor, smiling to yourself. “Yeah.” “Good. Good. Good. Hard to get pizza here. Sad.” You laugh softly. “Definitely.”
grace calling you in the 3 hours stratt gave for him to think 🚬🚬
"you have three hours." Stratt relented with a thin lipped smile.
grace slumped against his chair, vision unfocused and his palms coarse. he could finally muster up the courage to walk out of the meeting room—leaving a couple pair of expectant eyes behind him.
he stopped in a secluded corner of a hallway and pulled out his phone, shakily so.
"please pick up," he muttered, dialing your number. "please." he pressed the phone against his ear, his eyes darting everywhere to avoid the tears trickling down.
the monotous beeping finally creaked into your voice. "ry? ryland?" you made sure.
may i present 2 u this funny idea that made me giggle and idk it may become a fic at some point
you and ryland just casually talking in his classroom one late afternoon, like maybe you stopped by to just... check on him before leaving for the day and it spirals into a conversation. You're pacing his room with the lava bean bag in your hand, just aimlessly tossing it back and forth and some how some way the conversation turns sort of...... well, it's full of tension. and implications. and you can tell ryland is a nervous wreck
so, to break the tension, you ask him, "when are you going to ask me out?" and toss the bean bag at him but
you throw it too hard
he's not paying attention
it nails him right between his eyes.
his glasses go flying, the bean bag sploots to the floor and you both just look at each other from across his classroom before you burst out into laughter like, "I thought you were going to catch that!"
"Why did you even throw it that hard?" He says at the same time and then it dawns upon him. Like, what you asked him. And what his honest to god answer would be and he's straight back to being a nervous wreck, trying to pick up his glasses from the floor. Once, twice, THREE TIMES it takes him because he keeps dropping them in his shaky hand.
you can hear him mumbling under his breath as he collects the lava, standing up quickly and shuffling to his desk, "Y-you want me to ask you?"
"I... thought that's where this conversation was going, I"m so sorry---"
"Go out with me."
....
"That wasn't a question, I'm s-sorry. Let me try again." And Ryland has to try again like 5 times because he's nervous and can't seem to get it just right lol
a blurb inspired by: josh in this photo holy shit, jud pre-covenant life, crush stripped version
"hey." he hums, sauntering to the bleachers where you sat alone—watching the cheerleading practice on the other end of the field with your hand on your chin. the sky painted a muddy shade of grey in the afterschool hours.
you acknowledge him with a mere eyecontact as he sat next to you, letting him drape his worn maroon adidas tracksuit over your shoulders. it smelled exactly like his musky cologne with smudges of cigarette ashes staining the sleeves.
"got a match t'nite." he leaned in slightly to mutter in a low, conspirational tone. a shit eating grin on his face.
"i dont know, you gonna win?" you decided to humor him this time, a faint smile touching your lips.
"you know i always do." he scoffed, "so youre coming or what?" he cocked his eyebrow—his knuckles were bandaged again, you noticed. traces of dried crimson leaking through the fabric.
"i got calc first thing tommorow." you muttered, seeing that he rolled his eyes from the corner of your eye.
"loser." he remarked, bumping his shoulder with yours playfully.
"...entry fees on me and i'll treat you a slushie." he relented with a reluctant huff, the faint smile tainted on his lips saying otherwise.
'Aboard the research station, the Petrova Taskforce are enjoying some drunken karaoke. Ryland uses this opportunity to serenade you.'
The rec room aboard the orbital training station was buzzing with laughter and terrible singing. It was yet another “crew bonding night” before the Hail Mary mission launch: a slightly forced but genuinely fun tradition. A makeshift karaoke machine had been set up, and the international crew had been going at it for nearly two hours— including Doctor Stratt, who you never would've taken for a Harry Styles girl.
Ryland Grace was on his fourth (or was it fifth?) drink, and feeling dangerously relaxed, like he might make a joke or— heavens forbid— take his glasses off. He knew that he couldn't talk earnestly to you sober, to tell you how he felt about you and how he'd like to take you out once you were off the station. He'd already made enough of a dick of himself during meetings, where you'd make eye contact with him or ask him a question and sending him stuttering and blushing. Boy, did he have a crush on you. And how couldn't he, after nights spent poring over research papers alone with you, or walking round the station (he'd lamely asked if your hands were cold as a means to hold your hands on one such occasion). You were beautiful, clever, and outspoken: he was putty in your little hands, and he was exactly where he wanted to be.
Tonight, you were sitting beside him, laughing as one of the Russian cosmonauts finished a dramatic rendition of Sweet Caroline. Ryland had been watching you the whole night: the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, how relaxed you looked not wearing your jumpsuit with your hair down, how you might react when he asked you out. He loved the way you looked in your research gear, but he liked being able to see your eyes clearly without the reflection of his own face clouding them; even after a month of spending time with you, it sent a thrill down his spine to be brushing elbows with you.
So, Ryland needed some liquid courage, and courageous he was feeling after a couple of drinks. Still, the question of how to ask you out, how to show you he wanted to be more than your "favourite lab partner" (as you'd called him, one day) played on Ryland's mind.
Suddenly, he stood up. Fuck it, he thought. He figured that he'd be off of this station in a few weeks, and some of these people would be shot into space before they could truly grasp what he'd done. The world might even end, soon: now was not the time to play coy.
“Alright, my turn,” he announced, a little too confidently. He glanced over at you as you raised your eyebrows.
"Really?"
"Yeah! I'm a—" he paused to hiccup, " a fun guy, actually."
"Not all just brains then, huh?" you smiled. He just shot you a wink— more of a blink, really— and you laughed adoringly into your cup.
His colleagues cheered and whistled as he made his way to the makeshift stage.
Ryland almost never volunteered for stuff like this, but you weren't complaining: any reason to ogle him in his unreasonably snug shirts was a good time, as far as you were concerned. So what song would it be? You'd been egging him on to perform Whoomp! There It Is since his first consultation disaster, but you were surprised to hear the familiar slow notes of Leonard Cohen’s I’m Your Man begin playing through the speakers. A few people whooped at the song choice, pleased to hear something a little more old-school: the median age in this room was probably fifty, after all.
Ryland adjusted the microphone, swaying slightly, and looked straight at you across the room.
“This one’s for you,” he said dramatically, pointing with the mic. “Yeah… you know who you are,” he smiled toothily at you.
Your eyes widened as you began to laugh. The rest of the crew turned to look at you with amused, knowing grins.
Then, Ryland started singing.
“If you want a lover… I’ll do anything you ask me to…”
He kept his eyes on you the entire time, occasionally gesturing with his free hand for emphasis. Your colleagues were grinning like idiots; someone wolf-whistled. You cheered him on, so pleased to see him coming out of his shell.
“If you want a partner… Take my hand, or take my arm…”
At the chorus, Ryland closed his eyes and really committed, pouring far too much feeling into it. You buried your face into your hands, amazed and embarrassed, as he pointed unwaveringly at you, slow-dancing with the mic.
“I’m your man…”
Li-Jie laughed so hard he snorted his drink; Ilyukhina nudged your shoulder with a smirk.
"He's cute, no?" she cooed to you, her Russian accent thick as ever.
"Yeah," you replied. "He's cute."
When the song finally ended, the room erupted in applause and teasing cheers. Ryland gave a slightly wobbly bow before walking straight back to you, ignoring the playful jabs from the crew as they went off to get another drink from the bar.
He dropped into the seat beside you, cheeks flushed, glasses slightly fogged and askew on his face.
“So?” he whispered, "Your... evaluation?” He propped his elbow on the table and it slipped immediately; he readjusted so your heads were close, a sort of secret meeting taking place between the two of you.
“What am I evaluating, exactly, Doctor Grace?" you giggled, tilting your head.
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy despite the alcohol.
“Well," he began, "I’ve been thinking about it for... since we met. Figured if I was gonna embarrass myself, I might as well do it properly." He paused. "With Leonard Cohen, that is."
You threw your head back to laugh, then leaned back into him, your foreheads almost brushing.
"I don't think you embarrassed yourself, Ryland," you smiled. "Quite the opposite, actually."
“Yeah? 'Cause I meant every word,” he said, unusually excited. "I mean, obviously we should probably start with a coffee, or something. But that's less romantic than 'I'm your man', right?"
"Right," you laughed. He exhaled in relief, grinning like a proud child.
“Get a room!” One of the engineers shouted from across the room.
Ryland flipped him off without looking away from you, a dumb smile on his face. He reached under the table with his spare hand, and gently interlaced your fingers with his, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
"Sooo... what are you gonna serenade me with?"
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