I want to live by myself when I move out of my parent's place but I'm really afraid of money problems? I'm afraid that the only place I can afford will be in the ghetto and it'll all be torn apart and I'll only be allowed to eat one granola bar a week. I'm really stressing out about this. I don't know anything about after school life. I don't know anything about paying bills or how to buy an apartment and it's really scaring me. is there anything you know that can help me?
HI darling,
I’ve actually got a super wonderful masterpost for you to check out:
Home
what the hell is a mortgage?
first apartment essentials checklist
how to care for cacti and succulents
the care and keeping of plants
Getting an apartment
Money
earn rewards by taking polls
how to coupon
what to do when you can’t pay your bills
see if you’re paying too much for your cell phone bill
how to save money
How to Balance a Check Book
How to do Your Own Taxes
Health
how to take care of yourself when you’re sick
things to bring to a doctor’s appointment
how to get free therapy
what to expect from your first gynecologist appointment
how to make a doctor’s appointment
how to pick a health insurance plan
how to avoid a hangover
a list of stress relievers
how to remove a splinter
Emergency
what to do if you get pulled over by a cop
a list of hotlines in a crisis
things to keep in your car in case of an emergency
how to do the heimlich maneuver
Job
time management
create a resume
find the right career
how to pick a major
how to avoid a hangover
how to interview for a job
how to stop procrastinating
How to write cover letters
Travel
ULTIMATE PACKING LIST
Traveling for Cheap
Travel Accessories
The Best Way to Pack a Suitcase
How To Read A Map
How to Apply For A Passport
How to Make A Travel Budget
Better You
read the news
leave your childhood traumas behind
how to quit smoking
how to knit
how to stop biting your nails
how to stop procrastinating
how to stop skipping breakfast
how to stop micromanaging
how to stop avoiding asking for help
how to stop swearing constantly
how to stop being a pushover
learn another language
how to improve your self-esteem
how to sew
learn how to embroider
how to love yourself
100 tips for life
Apartments/Houses/Moving
Moving Out and Getting an Apartment, Part 1: Are You Sure? (The Responsible One)
Moving Out and Getting an Apartment, Part 2: Finding the Damn Apartment (The Responsible One)
Moving Out and Getting an Apartment, Part 3: Questions to Ask about the Damn Apartment (The Responsible One)
Moving Out and Getting an Apartment, Part 4: Packing and Moving All of Your Shit (The Responsible One)
How to Protect Your Home Against Break-Ins (The Responsible One)
Education
How to Find a Fucking College (The Sudden Adult)
How to Find Some Fucking Money for College (The Sudden Adult)
What to Do When You Can’t Afford Your #1 Post-Secondary School (The Sudden Adult)
Stop Shitting on Community College Kids (Why Community College is Fucking Awesome) (The Responsible One)
How to Ask for a Recommendation Letter (The Responsible One)
How to Choose a College Major (The Sudden Adult)
Finances
How to Write a Goddamn Check (The Responsible One)
How to Convince Credit Companies You’re Not a Worthless Bag of Shit (The Responsible One)
Debit vs Credit (The Responsible One)
What to Do if Your Wallet is Stolen/Lost (The Sudden Adult)
Budgeting 101 (The Responsible One)
Important Tax Links to Know (The Responsible One)
How to Choose a Bank Without Screwing Yourself (The Responsible One)
Job Hunting
How to Write a Resume Like a Boss (The Responsible One)
How to Write a Cover Letter Someone Will Actually Read (The Responsible One)
How to Handle a Phone Interview without Fucking Up (The Responsible One)
10 Sites to Start Your Job Search (The Responsible One)
Life Skills
Staying in Touch with Friends/Family (The Sudden Adult)
Bar Etiquette (The Sudden Adult)
What to Do After a Car Accident (The Sudden Adult)
Grow Up and Buy Your Own Groceries (The Responsible One)
How to Survive Plane Trips (The Sudden Adult)
How to Make a List of Goals (The Responsible One)
How to Stop Whining and Make a Damn Appointment (The Responsible One)
Miscellaneous
What to Expect from the Hell that is Jury Duty (The Responsible One)
Relationships
Marriage: What the Fuck Does It Mean and How the Hell Do I Know When I’m Ready? (Guest post - The Northwest Adult)
How Fucked Are You for Moving In with Your Significant Other: An Interview with an Actual Real-Life Couple Living Together™ (mintypineapple and catastrofries)
Travel & Vehicles
How to Winterize Your Piece of Shit Vehicle (The Responsible One)
How to Make Public Transportation Your Bitch (The Responsible One)
Other Blog Features
Apps for Asshats
Harsh Truths & Bitter Reminders
Asks I’ll Probably Need to Refer People to Later
Apartments (or Life Skills) - How Not to Live in Filth (The Sudden Adult)
Finances - Tax Basics (The Responsible One)
Important Documents - How to Get a Copy of Your Birth Certificate (The Responsible One)
Important Documents - How to Get a Replacement ID (The Responsible One)
Health - How to Deal with a Chemical Burn (The Responsible One)
Job Hunting - List of Jobs Based on Social Interaction Levels (The Sudden Adult)
Job Hunting - How to Avoid Falling into a Pit of Despair While Job Hunting (The Responsible One)
Job Hunting - Questions to Ask in an Interview (The Responsible One)
Life Skills - First-Time Flying Tips (The Sudden Adult)
Life Skills - How to Ask a Good Question (The Responsible One)
Life Skills - Reasons to Take a Foreign Language (The Responsible One)
Life Skills - Opening a Bar Tab (The Sudden Adult)
Relationships - Long Distance Relationships: How to Stay in Contact (The Responsible One)
Adult Cheat Sheet:
what to do if your pet gets lost
removing stains from your carpet
how to know if you’re eligible for food stamps
throwing a dinner party
i’m pregnant, now what?
first aid tools to keep in your house
how to keep a clean kitchen
learning how to become independent from your parents
job interview tips
opening your first bank account
what to do if you lose your wallet
tips for cheap furniture
easy ways to cut your spending
selecting the right tires for your car
taking out your first loan
picking out the right credit card
how to get out of parking tickets
how to fix a leaky faucet
get all of your news in one place
getting rid of mice & rats in your house
when to go to the e.r.
buying your first home
how to buy your first stocks
guide to brewing coffee
first apartment essentials checklist
coping with a job you hate
30 books to read before you’re 30
what’s the deal with retirement?
difference between insurances
Once you’ve looked over all those cool links, I have some general advice for you on how you can have some sort of support system going for you:
Reasons to move out of home
You may decide to leave home for many different reasons, including:
wishing to live independently
location difficulties – for example, the need to move closer to university
conflict with your parents
being asked to leave by your parents.
Issues to consider when moving out of home
It’s common to be a little unsure when you make a decision like leaving home. You may choose to move, but find that you face problems you didn’t anticipate, such as:
Unreadiness – you may find you are not quite ready to handle all the responsibilities.
Money worries – bills including rent, utilities like gas and electricity and the cost of groceries may catch you by surprise, especially if you are used to your parents providing for everything. Debt may become an issue.
Flatmate problems – issues such as paying bills on time, sharing housework equally, friends who never pay board, but stay anyway, and lifestyle incompatibilities (such as a non-drug-user flatting with a drug user) may result in hostilities and arguments.
Your parents may be worried
Think about how your parents may be feeling and talk with them if they are worried about you. Most parents want their children to be happy and independent, but they might be concerned about a lot of different things. For example:
They may worry that you are not ready.
They may be sad because they will miss you.
They may think you shouldn’t leave home until you are married or have bought a house.
They may be concerned about the people you have chosen to live with.
Reassure your parents that you will keep in touch and visit regularly. Try to leave on a positive note. Hopefully, they are happy about your plans and support your decision.
Tips for a successful move
Tips include:
Don’t make a rash decision – consider the situation carefully. Are you ready to live independently? Do you make enough money to support yourself? Are you moving out for the right reasons?
Draw up a realistic budget – don’t forget to include ‘hidden’ expenses such as the property’s security deposit or bond (usually four weeks’ rent), connection fees for utilities, and home and contents insurance.
Communicate – avoid misunderstandings, hostilities and arguments by talking openly and respectfully about your concerns with flatmates and parents. Make sure you’re open to their point of view too – getting along is a two-way street.
Keep in touch – talk to your parents about regular home visits: for example, having Sunday night dinner together every week.
Work out acceptable behaviour – if your parents don’t like your flatmate(s), find out why. It is usually the behaviour rather than the person that causes offence (for example, swearing or smoking). Out of respect for your parents, ask your flatmate(s) to be on their best behaviour when your parents visit and do the same for them.
Ask for help – if things are becoming difficult, don’t be too proud to ask your parents for help. They have a lot of life experience.
If your family home does not provide support
Not everyone who leaves home can return home or ask their parents for help in times of trouble. If you have been thrown out of home or left home to escape abuse or conflict, you may be too young or unprepared to cope.
If you are a fostered child, you will have to leave the state-care system when you turn 18, but you may not be ready to make the sudden transition to independence.
If you need support, help is available from a range of community and government organisations. Assistance includes emergency accommodation and food vouchers. If you can’t call your parents or foster parents, call one of the associations below for information, advice and assistance.
Where to get help
Your doctor
Kids Helpline Tel. 1800 55 1800
Lifeline Tel. 13 11 44
Home Ground Services Tel. 1800 048 325
Relationships Australia Tel. 1300 364 277
Centrelink Crisis or Special Help Tel. 13 28 50
Tenants Union of Victoria Tel. (03) 9416 2577
Things to remember
Try to solve any problems before you leave home. Don’t leave because of a fight or other family difficulty if you can possibly avoid it.
Draw up a realistic budget that includes ‘hidden’ expenses, such as bond, connection fees for utilities, and home and contents insurance.
Remember that you can get help from a range of community and government organizations.
summary: it's field trip time! You're freaking out over all the ways things could go wrong, luckily Ryland is there to ease your worries (and provide comic relief).
a/n: writer’s block and executive dysfunction kicks my ass everyday - also ik none of the details of this field trip would be approved at a real school but work with me here
warnings: none, all I write is fluff 😭
w/c: 4.6k - a little longer since you guys waited for so long
The kids were nowhere near as excited as you had hoped.
If anything, they were more confused by the whole idea of the field trip.
You watched their young faces contort in confusion as you explained the bus tour you’d be taking. You handed out the permission slips, still chattering away about all there is to learn on the excursion.
“There will be three main stops,” you explain. “We’ll visit Portsmouth Square in Chinatown, then stop to get pizza for lunch, and end the trip at the Golden Gate Bridge.”
At the tail end of your sentence Parker’s hand shoots up. They don't wait for you to call on them, “But… we already live in San Francisco! Why are we going to all the touristy places?” They groan. “I bet a hundred bucks everyone in here has seen them all already.”
You shake your head slowly. You’re very glad that Parker feels comfortable enough to speak up, as they definitely didn’t at the beginning of the year. They went from the shy kid in the back to the outspoken (maybe a little too outspoken) and opinionated student in the front row. (Everytime they got to pick new seats Parker slowly moved closer. You never questioned it.) You are beyond astounded by how much your the kids grew this year.
That being said, with Parker’s new found confidence, they feel the need to question everything. Sometimes their incredulous nature was engaging to whatever discussion you all were having, especially when it comes to literary analysis. However, they occasionally comment at inopportune moments- like now, when you’re trying to convince your classroom of students that this will definitely not be a boring field trip.
“Parker, I doubt you have a hundred bucks to spare,” you whisper in hushed breath. You sigh, looking down at the permission slip as you make your way back to your desk. You clear your throat and speak more clearly. “Yes, I am aware we all live in San Francisco, and most of you have probably lived here for several years.” You pause. “But just because you’ve been here and seen places does not mean that there isn’t more to see, or even a new perspective that you’ve never considered.”
“All year I’ve been trying to teach you all to draw inspiration from ordinary places; that’s where your best ideas emerge. Think of this trip as just a bigger version of our weekly out-of-class writings. This time instead of wandering around the building, the entirety of San Francisco will be yours to observe and write about,” you say with extra flair, waving your hands broadly. That at least draws a chuckle from a couple of your students, excluding Parker.
You sigh. “Plus, you get to leave the school, have food at a restaurant, and have some free reign, so I know you’re not complaining.” That seems to be a pretty good argument that earns some nods. No matter how boring a field trip will be (not saying this one is!) 9/10 times students would rather be out exploring than doing real work in the classroom. They can at least pretend to be excited for both their sake and yours.
And if the promise of restaurant food wasn’t enough to convince them, then you have something else up your sleeve that surely will.
“One more thing.” You wink. “We’ll have a very special guest joining us.” You turn your body towards the door. An awkward silence engulfs the classroom in a clearly unplanned moment of anticipation. Your widened pupils glance between the children and the door. After what feels like 5 minutes but is really 5 seconds, Ryland turns the doorknob and stumbles through the frame.
“Is that my cue?” The question was supposed to sound timed and charismatic but sounds more like him being genuinely lost.
“Ryland,” you tsk under your breath, running a hand over your forehead.
There’s a spark of chatter amongst the students. Mr. Grace is a well known favorite, so you knew getting him on board would make the trip an easy sell to both the kids and admin.
“Did you plan that? Mr. Grace, were you just standing outside waiting this whole time?” A voice interjects. You can’t quite place who it was but you can identify that it’s from the back of the room.
Ryland snaps his finger. “W-what? No?” He squeaks in a high pitched tone. Yeah, he was waiting outside.
He clears his throat, “I am merely always on time. Call me Einstein, the way I show time is relative.” He finishes off with finger guns.
There’s an equally awkward silence before the room lets out a collective groan. You’ve practically become desensitized to Ryland’s awful humour but it still gets a reaction from the students. “Wasn’t he late to class yesterday?” You hear someone whisper amongst the noise.
“Was that supposed to be a joke?” Parker asks, sarcastically.
Ryland crosses his arms over his chest, chuckling. “Yes, that was a joke and it was very funny.”
“Says you,” you mutter. Ryland shoots you a playfully dirty look, but he can’t help the gentle smile that spreads on his lips. The students share looks that neither of you seem to notice as you get distracted by Ryland’s cool blue gaze. (You always get distracted like this. Like you’re the only ones in the room, even surrounded by so many others.)
You’re slowly able to pull yourself away. “I hope you’re all excited to have Mr. Grace tag along and show him how good your writing has become. Get these permission slips signed by Thursday, May 13th. The field trip will be that Friday. Lunch will be paid for but if you plan on buying any other treats or trinkets you need to bring money to cover that yourself.”
“You may bring a snack or two from home, but nothing crazy guys. I’m looking at you, Tommy.”
Tommy raised his hands as if he had no idea what you were referring to, but he had a knowing smirk on his face. “No backpacks full of snacks. You don’t need three bags of Takis.” You point an accusatory finger.
You let your hand fall back to your side. “There’s a 15 dollar charge for lunch and bus fees. Your parent’s school account will either be charged directly or they can choose to pay cash. If any of you have a problem paying, come to me and we can sort it out, no questions asked. Also if you have any dietary restrictions let me know.”
“Any questions?” Ryland asks, leaning back on your desk. As always, no hands raise.
“Alright then, I hope you guys are pumped!” Silence. Whatever. “Ryland-” cough cough- “Pardon me, Mr. Grace, thank you very much. You are relieved of your duties.” Ryland gives a thumbs up and a final wave to the class. Before departing, he leans over your desk, close to your ear.
“What’s for lunch?” He whispers.
“Leftovers.” You shrug, crossing your arms over your chest. “I thought you were trying to save money on eating out. Did you pack something?”
He returns your shrug. “Sandwhich.”
“Ugh, sad.”
“I know.”
“We can split mine,” you offer.
Ryland grins with devilish excitement, like this was his plan all along. “What’dya have?”
“Uhh buttered chicken, broccoli and rice?”
The man pumps his fist. “Score!” He says at full volume. “Bye, kids! See you later.” He shuts the door without another word.
You shake your head, laughing. For a man who can’t cook and hates trying, he sure is food driven.
“Okay, open your notebooks. Let’s do a writing warm-up.”
“51, 52, 53.” You conclude. Your eyes find Ryland on the other side of the massive line of your students. “How many did you count?” You ask, double, triple checking that everyone is accounted for.
“53 students, 56 plus teachers, and 57 plus our one parent chaperone.” Ryland grins. He can’t help himself when there’s an opportunity to do math. “We’re all ready to go!”
His contagious smile catches you. After weeks of coordinating and prep- and painstakingly reminding the children to get their form signed- the fateful day has arrived. You feel exhausted, having not slept a wink last night, but there is too much to be done in the next 7 ½ hours to dwell on that.
You finish checking off the head count on your clipboard. Because you teach an elective, you have significantly less students than a core class, leaving you with around 60 students in total. And since some of them didn’t sign the form or aren’t at school for whatever reason, you have just over 50 students on the trip… and only 4 chaperones. It isn’t preferable, but you’re going to manage. And you trust your students not to cause a public disturbance or stray too far from the group.
Ryland comes around the line to where you’re standing. He’s holding two large coffees in to-go cups and extends one to you. You raise an eyebrow. “Where’s this from?”
“Kenzie got them for us.” He says, referring to the only parent chaperone. Kenzie Lane is beloved by all teachers and staff at Grover Cleveland. As the president of the PTA, Ms. Lane is the only other person as committed to the school as the people who work there. She runs all the PTA meetings and sends out full summaries and calendar updates to all parents. She single handedly coordinated the talent show two years ago until she was able to rally more parents for help. She also buys the teachers donuts and other treats for holidays and teacher work days. All that to say, she’s a rockstar and everyone loves her.
You take the cup from him with your name written on it in Kenzie’s signature font-worthy handwriting. Honestly, you’d drink a large cup full of straight bitter espresso so long as you get a caffeine boost. Instead you take the cup to your lips and get a smooth sip of coffee, exactly the way you always take it.
You look down at the cup in mild disbelief before chuckling. “How does she even know my coffee order?”
Ryland chuckles alongside you and scratches the back of his neck. “Oh, she uhm, texted me when she went out for coffee- I have her number from when she helped me organize the science fair- and I told her what you normally get.”
You look up at him to see he’s already giving you that sweet smile. You don’t remember ever telling Ryland your coffee order, he just knows. By this point, he knows all of your regular choices for any take-out restaurant in the area. Ryland has that kind of quiet consideration not found in most others.
On another note, you’ve recently been noticing the times that you would really like to cup Ryland’s chin and pull him in for a kiss, especially when he does sweet stuff like this. If you two were together rather than… whatever you are. Colleagues. Just friends, you’d be stealing kisses whenever you had the chance. If only.
A loud whistling noise echoes through the parking lot. For a moment you think the sleep deprivation is really getting to you and your ears are ringing, but it’s really just the P.E. teacher Coach Teresa Wilson (simply called “Coach” by students and staff alike), blowing her whistle. The older woman had graciously agreed to join for the trip so you and Ryland wouldn’t be completely outnumbered by rabid middle schoolers. She had, also, given all the chaperones whistles. Despite your assurance that it was completely unnecessary and you had no intention of using it, she seemed intent on utilizing it herself.
“Listen up!” Her commanding voice silences all conversation between the students. “Your teacher has gone over the details of the trip many times so I know there won’t be any problems.” She says firmly. “Everyone on the bus! Now!”
Twwweeeett, she blows her whistle again.
That’s enough of the whistle today, you hope, but you already know that’s not true.
It seems pretty ridiculous to ride a school bus to the bus tour stop, but for some reason the open top bus you had rented out refused to go out of their way to the school to pick everyone up. So here you are, crammed in a big sticky yellow bus for a 15 minute ride to the tour starting spot. (You can’t complain that much because the tour company did give the school a discount for the field trip. Ka-ching $$)
Coach Wilson and Mrs. Lane board the bus first, monitoring the students from the back of the vehicle. 53 eager children follow them, pushing and shoving to get the best seats and sit next to their friends. You jam your clipboard into your tote bag and sling it over your shoulder, trailing the line of students. You and Ryland are the last to board. You greet the bus driver with a smile and a soft “good morning.”
Ryland slides into the seat right behind the driver and starts making conversation with the heavily accented (Ukranian maybe?) man. It’s already gotten obnoxiously loud in the bus, kids switching seats and comparing how much money they brought for novelties. You can’t bring yourself to care enough. You’re going to have these kids riding a bus all day while listening to a tour guide, you don’t mind letting them speak to their friends in the morning.
Sitting in the second row is Maya and her two friends Adeola and Juni. Correction- Adeola and Maya are sitting in the seat and Juni is trying to slide her way onto the small (non-existent really) opening at the edge of the seat. You know the trio is tight but this was honestly ridiculous if they can’t spend one 15 minute bus ride without sitting all together.
You point to the open seat at the front, directly in front of Juni and across from where Ryland’s already sitting. “Just sit there, Juni. There’s a perfectly good seat right in your face
The three girls share looks, having that collective mental conversation before any of them answer. Juni pauses. “But then where are you going to sit?”
You cock an eyebrow. You’re too tired for this BS. “In the seat across from you?” You answer. You’re confused on how she could be confused.
Silent looking once again. “Then where’s Mr. Grace going to sit?” Adeola asks.
“In the same- are you all trying to be difficult? Is this some sort of elaborate prank because we really don’t have time for this if we’re going to make it to the tour by 9. Did you plan this with Mr. Grace?”
Ryland looks up at the mention of his name but he has no idea what you’re talking about. He quickly turns back to rambling to the poor bus driver, who seems way too invested in whatever the science teacher’s on about.
“No, no.” Juni shakes her head. She looks down at her white tennis shoes, still standing in the aisle. She struggles for a moment to find the words for what she’s attempting to say.
Maya speaks up to assist her. “It’s just… teachers don’t usually share seats on field trips. Usually they get a seat to themselves.”
Huh. You guess that’s true.
You look towards the back of the bus, where you're barely able to see the other chaperones, both sitting in their own seats.
“Well what do you want us to do? Force you kids to squeeze together, 3 or 4 to a seat?” You say in a light tone.
“Most teachers make us.” Adeola says matter-of-factly.
You bend down a bit to get on level with Juni. “Well, I’m not like most teachers. And neither is Mr. Grace. We don’t mind sharing a seat, do we, Mr. Grace?”
“H-huh?!” Ryland almost jumps out of his seat when you turn to face him. He sits, awkwardly, legs crossed and back straight. His cheeks are dusted pink and his lips are chapped. He pushes his glasses up, a nervous tick you’ve come to recognize. He heard what you asked- the teacher has been passively listening since you first mentioned his name- but says nothing through stammers.
“You’ll let me sit next to you, won’t you?” You ask again anyway with that dangerous smile that makes Ryland weak to your whim.
“O-of course!” He exclaims, moving over even though there’s plenty of room. He presses his side against the window. “Unless you- you want the window seat that is! Then, I could just get up-” he says, already pushing off his spot to stand.
You hold out a hand to stop Ryland before he stands fully. “Aisle is fine, Ry, thank you.”
The use of the nickname that you’ve adopted doesn’t go over Ryland’s head. In fact, he’s kind of giddy about it. He sits happily in his place, waiting for you to join him.
The name doesn’t seem to go over the heads of the girls either; they’re passing looks again. But these looks are accompanied with mischievous eyebrow wiggles that tell you, maybe they aren’t silently communicating about the bus seats anymore.
You turn to them, smile matching Ryland’s. “Great. Glad that’s all sorted out because we really need to get going.”
“Sit, Juni.” You point back to the seat. The young girl sits down and eagerly turns to her friends to brag about “how much leg room she has.”
You toss your tote bag onto the floor before flopping down into your seat while letting out a sigh. Accidentally, you slump against Ryland’s side. Ryland stiffens up a little, but doesn’t move away (not that there’s anywhere for him to go.) You don’t feel rushed to shift away. It feels so comfortable, so right. You might be savoring the feeling for a bit longer than you should, but you eventually find the sense to sit up right. Despite a half attempt to give Ryland some personal space, you end up with your thighs pressed together. It feels nice, even if you’d much rather be sprawled across his lap like a cat.
He appears cozy and warm today, dressed down from his usual business casual attire. Rather, he’s wearing a burnt orange sweater with navy stripes across the chest and simple blue jeans (and his dirty white converse of course). The sweater is ever so slightly too tight and gives you a much better view of his muscles than any suit jacket ever has. You’re silently hoping he gets a little too hot today and has to roll up his sleeves.
Past his thinly rimmed glasses, his head is topped with a white cap with a peacock blue brim. He tilts the hat down and offers you another tight lipped smile. The pink from his cheeks has yet to dissipate and you really hope it stays there forever. He looks cute that way.
“Ready to go?” The bus driver asks over his shoulder.
“O-oh, yeah. All ready.” You say.
The bus rolls out of the parking lot as the kids buzz with anticipation. You yawn, covering your mouth and smacking your lips quietly. This “lack of sleep” thing is making your head spin, and the caffeine from the coffee has yet to kick in.
Ryland turns to you with a soft concerned look. “We have a little time. You could take a nap.” He says, his hand reaching up, only to pause and return to his lap. He had wanted to tuck a loose hair behind your ear, but chickened out. What he really wants is to warp an arm around you and let your head rest on your shoulder as you capture what little sleep you can, though it is far less than what you deserved.
Ryland cares about you a lot. So much. And there are many self-destructive habits that come at the expense of being a teacher. While he definitely does them himself (not sleeping, eating little, overworking, etc.) he hates whenever he catches you doing any of those things. So he tries to do his best to help you in any way he can (because he would do anything for you) but he doesn't want to fall into doting territory.
Yeah he cares about you, but he doesn’t want to overdo it or anything. It’s not like he’s your boyfriend. Haha imagine that… Are you imagining? Because Grace sure is.
Instinctually, you do the action for him, brushing the hair out of your face. “I’m fine.” You lie. “I’ll wake up once I drink some more coffee and we actually get on the tour.”
Ryland simply nods. He leans back against the seat with a sigh on his lips. His horrible posture returns as he looks out the window wistfully. You’re tempted to ask him what he’s thinking about, but you decide against it; there’s a comfortable little bubble surrounding you, despite the ruckus of noise behind your seat. The warmth from Ryland’s thigh seeps into yours, and you find yourself ever so slightly leaning into the feeling.
You spend the next 15 minutes daydreaming (and worrying) mostly. You’re mentally going over the plan for the day for the umpteenth time when the bus screeches to a hault outside the tour stop.
You gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. You stand, giving the students some last instructions. “We’re going to line up outside the tour bus and take attendance. Then we’ll have the chance to meet the tour guide and the field trip will begin!”
A light laugh comes from next to you. Ryland smiles, loving the excitement evident in your expression and tone. The hair on the back of your neck raises, as Ryland stands directly behind you, his breath fanning across your neck. You glance back at him only to find him looking upon you affectionately. But, you refuse to think about the way your heart squeezes.
You’re the first off the bus. Ryland waves to the driver as he steps out. “Thanks, Andrei”. He tosses his coffee cup in the trash, somehow finishing a large in 15 minutes. You’re silently worried about how his stomach will handle that, but that’s his prerogative. And you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t seen him drink more coffee in less time.
You count the students as they walk down the stairs of the bus, knowing you’re going to count them again before they get on the other bus. There’s an almost manic look in your eyes that’s scaring Ryland a little. He knows you’re irrationally scared of losing a child on this trip, despite him explaining how statistically improbable it is.
He places a hand on your shoulder which startles you a bit. He laughs at your reaction, “Are you expecting the kids to multiply or something?”
You scoff. “Nooo…”
“Then I think we can wait at least until we make it to the first stop before we do another head count. We’re not going to lose anyone.”
“I know,” you sigh, “I know.”
Ryland squeezes your shoulder. “We’re all here with you- I’m here with you. Nothing is going to go wrong.”
You take a deep breath, but nod. You believe him, you really do. He has a way of calming the storm in your brain, but causing an even worse storm in your heart. It’s really a conflicting feeling, but you wouldn’t trade his presence for the world.
You herd the students together and walk towards the red topless bus. The tour guide stands by the door and gives you a bright smile and a wave. She cannot be more than 20, so you’re guessing she’s in university. She still has a gleam in her eye that tells you she hasn’t been completely disappointed by adulthood yet. You sort out some information, making sure you’re going to be on the right route and run on time. All your preparation has come in handy as the check in process goes smoothly. Everything is perfectly fine so far.
You place a hand on your hip, doing last checks before the fun begins. “Does everyone have a partner? Remember, it is you and your buddies responsibility to stay together.”
Multiple voices arise from the mass of students. “Can we be a group of-”
“Yes,” you interrupt, “You can have groups of 3, I don’t care. But you all have to stay together so no drama.”
The tour guide waves the kids aboard with a peppy smile. “All aboard!” She says. She sounds like a conductor on one of those baby train rides in the mall. However, she doesn;t seem to notice, or mind, the snickers of the students behind her, who are definitely making fun of her overenthusiasm. Middle schoolers are cruel.
As you have the kids board the bus, you hand out their writing notebooks for them to take notes or write their thoughts in. The events of their trip are all theirs to write about. They’ll have a short reflection writing that’ll be graded afterwards, though it can be in any literary format they want. After months of passing out the same journals, the doodles and cover designs have been engraved in your mind and you can hand out the books without even checking the student’s name on the inside.
You stop Ryland before he boards behind everyone else. “Hey, wait?”
He hums curiously. “What?”
“There’s one more notebook,” you hold out the book to him, “it’s yours if you’d like.”
Ryland notices how the cover has already been decorated with various science pun stickers. It wasn’t just a left over journal, it was one catered personally to him. He raises his head as he runs his thumb over the cover. There’s a shy smile on your face. You feel like a kid giving their crush a valentine.
“You don’t have to write anything in it,” you quickly defend yourself from his possible jeers. “I just- I mean, the children thought you might want one of your own.”
Ryland shakes his head and laughs. Not at you… well kind of at you. He’s more so laughing at how you could think, after all these months, that he wouldn’t see this little gift as anything but heart warming. (The only reason he’s laughing at you is because you tried to put it on the students.)
He interrupts your spiraling thoughts. “I love it… I love it,” he repeats, with a different meaning underneath it: A meaning that he doesn’t want to unpack. He clears his throat, retreating back into the safety of his casual friendly demeanor. “I’ll gladly write. I mean, what else is the trip for! I can finally show you I was born to be a New York Times Bestselling writer.” He boasts.
You laugh, rolling your eyes. “You wish. What would your book be called? Science Jokes for Lame Teachers?”
“Lame?” Ryland gasps, faking offense. “I didn’t know you thought so lowly of me.”
“That’s because you’re too full of yourself,” you tease.
“You know this counts as bullying, right?”
You scoff. You take the first step up into the bus and look over your shoulder at the man behind you. “Shall we board, partner?” You extend a hand.
“Oh, so we’re partners now?” He jokes, but he’s already taking your hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. Your hands fit together nicely, despite his palm being a little sweaty. You catch yourself thinking about this kind of intimacy that you’ve been missing out on this whole time. You squeeze his hand back, playfully.
“Would you rather partner up with one of the students?”
Ryland laughs, but shakes his head in response. “No… No, I wouldn’t have this any other way.”
CHAPTER 4: BIGGER THAN THE WHOLE SKY — RYLAND GRACE X MALE!READER
summary. it's days away before launch day. and somewhere along the way, you don't realize that you had fallen for a certain person.
word count. 4k words.
tags. semi-canon-adjacent, pilot!reader, no mentions of y/n, reader starts out as an english teacher, co-workers to lovers, angst, flashbacks, space dread, hurt no comfort, pre launch to launch day, romantic tension, ryland falls first, reader falls harder, awkward ryland grace, full of microtropes, no happy ending.
a/n. idk if ppl would wanna see the ending of this mini fic. but if u do...... pls let me know bcs honestly idk if ppl actually like this or nah:) ALSO NOT PROOFREAD srry if theres some mistakes!
“You’re staring at that glass of beer like it had wronged you.”
You snap out of your staring, turning to look at the sound of the voice. A familiar brown haired woman sits besides you at the bar. She smiles, her own glass of what looks like vodka on her right hand. You know her name—you scramble inside your exhausted brain. Right, Olesya Ilyukhina. It was a bit of a hard name to remember, so you made a mental note to specifically stash it inside your mind.
You smile. “What if it did?”
She came up to you when it was your first no gravity drill. She had done it dozens of times, and had helped you. And over the weeks? she was good company. Though you never really talked to her that frequently, or to Commander Yáo. Which was… bad, you knew that—you should be getting close to the people you’d be spending years aboard the Hail Mary.
She chuckles, swirling the glass of vodka on her hands. For a moment, you had thought it would spill all over her. But it doesn't. The mini whirlpool slowly stills inside the glass.
“Excited about our little trip?” she wags her brows teasingly.
“Oh, yeah. Tell me about it.” you say, entertaining her sarcasm.
She giggles, and takes a big gulp of the vodka, slamming it on the counter of the bar. “Want to do some karaoke?” she points towards the back, where there was a big screen, and two microphones resting on the microphone stands at the middle.
You shake your head. Your stomach does a flip, just thinking about that.
She shrugs. “Suit yourself.” she says as she pats your back. She stands up, and approaches someone with the same enthusiasm she had when she saw you earlier.
Your gaze averts to the glass of beer infront of you, half full. In all of the hours you had spent inside this party, you had barely touched it. Maybe it was because you wanted to fit in, look like you wanted to get drunk also, like half the people inside this party—if you could even call it that, when you're sending people to their death. Where they'll have to wait for years, living on pure hope and prayers that this will work. This was a shot in the dark, and no one inside the room was willing to admit it. No one will.
It was easy to feel out of place.
You grab the glass of beer, and drink it all down until it was empty. The burning sensation was already starting to present itself.
You couldn't help but instinctively blink, looking around until you focus on a bottle of wine placed on one of the shelves infront of you. The wine splits off into two, and you didn't know if it was because you got drunk off of one glass of beer or if it was because of exhaustion.
“You look like a mess.”
You roll your eyes at that. “Give me a break, Olesya.”
“I’m… not her.”
You quickly look up at that. Your eyes caught that dirty blonde hair, and instantly, you knew who it was. Your heart skips a beat at the thought of knowing someone so well you could identify them just by the color of their hair.
He sits at the stool beside you.
He had his hands clasped together, resting at the wooden counter. His head was tilted, gaze going over your face.
Something like butterflies forms inside your stomach.
“Are you drunk?”
You snort. “God, no.”
“Are you sure?” he raises his brows, eyes going to the glass cup.
A scoff leaves your mouth. “I’m sure, Doctor Grace.”
The tone doesn't go past Ryland. “Jeez, I was just asking.”
“Go ask someone else.”
You immediately bite the inside of your cheek. You look away, as you didn't want to see that stupid sad face he has. The one that would feel like someone had stabbed a knife on your chest—those eyes, and that lips morphed into a subtle frown because he doesn't want to show you that he was affected by it.
Despite the music and chatter, the silence was louder.
You didn't know why you felt so angry, either. Maybe it was the absurdity of the situation—an alien amoeba that blocks sunlight, you—out of all people— going to space again, people pretending to be happy… it was too much. It was weird. Bizarre. No species in the whole, observable universe had probably never encountered this type of problem—if aliens even existed. This was all new. Unknown. And god, that scares you.
“Okay.”
At the corner of your eye, you see his white cardigan move as he stands up. Your heart lurches. Something inside, something deep within told you, that you can't bear seeing him go.
“Wait, I—” you turn to him, lips parted open. No words inside a dictionary could explain what you were feeling. “Stay.” you mutter out.
His gaze immediately softens—you see it beneath those glasses he wore. The urge to push them up his face intensifies, to the point you debated on actually doing it. But he was already moving, sitting back down again. You turn back towards the counter.
“Are you okay?”
You shrug. It was a simple question, but you genuinely see the concern etched on his features.
“Could be better.”
“So… were you drunk?” he asks, once more, just to make sure.
“No.” you blink, “Well, I don't… think so. Who gets drunk over one glass of beer?”
“I don't know, probably you?”
A smile rises up to your lips again. “Yeah, probably.”
You look up, just enough to take a glance at him. It was no surprise to find he was already staring back, leaning his head against his hand. You you see a small smile on his lips.
It felt like a rock was blocking your airways. You convince yourself it was the stuffiness of room. Not because of the person infront of you, right now.
Your eyes go back to his glasses. It was slowly sliding down, and he doesn't even realize it. On instinct, you reach out, and gently push it back towards his face. He slightly jumps, then chuckles.
It was going to fall. That was what your mind had deluded for you to think.
“Thanks for that.”
Your mouth was dry. “Yeah,” you say, voice hoarse, “Wouldn’t want that to fall. Glasses are expensive.”
“I have a spare one back at my apartment, but they won't let me go back.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs. “I don't know. Something about my safety, or something.”
“Who’s going to target a science teacher?”
He chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
A crash echoes through the room. For a millisecond, everyone went silent. Instinctively, you turn towards the source of the sound. Ryland does the same. Thankfully, it was nothing serious—just some random dude who got too drunk, arms wide on the table. Shards of glass that had fallen to the floor glimmer against the ceiling lights.
Ryland turns back to you.
“It’s very loud in here, isn't it?”
Your gaze goes back to him. “I guess so.”
He fiddles with his own fingers that were resting on his lap.
“So— I’m pretty sure… you're really not enjoying this party, I mean—”
You raise your brows. “What is it?”
“I wanted to ask if you want to escape this… party.” he says, followed with a heavy swallow.
You shrug. “Alright,” you sigh, “Lead the way.”
“Right!” he immediately stands up, almost tripping. He plays it off by holding onto the bar counter with one hand. “Sorry— yup, follow me.”
The warmth of the party was replaced with the cold air of the night as you step foot outside. The crunch of the grass under your shoes was the only thing audible at the moment.
“Where are we going?” you ask.
“A secret hangout spot I’ve found.” he turns back, just enough to take a look at you. Your eyes immediately find the smile plastered on his face.
You look away, gaze going to the night sky. He turns back around and continues his pace.
Stars were dotted across the black ocean above. You remember the hours you spent inside a room with a projector at the front, hundreds of information crammed inside your brain in a short amount of time. Routines and drills everyday, followed by lessons all about Astrophages, biology, chemistry and so on. Said you needed to know all of it—you weren't just a pilot, or the right hand of the commander, you’re saving the world itself. They said it was needed.
You wonder, from the dozens of white dots scattered across the sky, that Tau Ceti was one of them. You remember from a random lesson, that the professor had said the star was close enough to be visible in the night sky. Tiny, but there.
You bumped into Ryland’s back without even realizing it.
“Sorry—”
“It’s okay,” he reassures, “Something on your mind?”
You shake your head.
Your gaze focuses on what's behind—a lookout tower. The darkness enveloped the upper half of it.. The stairs were in a spiral shape, and you already feel your stomach clench inside.
“This was what's on your mind?”
“Yeah, isn't it great?” he looks up, marveling at the sheer size of it. “Come on.”
He goes towards the stairs. You follow him, hand holding onto the railing too tightly.
You feel your knuckles going white as you take each step. Ryland looks back, few steps ahead of you. “Something wrong?”
You swallow. “Yeah, of course. Probably just drank a bit too much—”
You make the mistake of looking down. The dark had enveloped the bottom. It reminded you of the accident years ago. Her face flashes inside your mind. Helpless. Falling.
You take another step. The metal step makes a deafening creak, and for a moment, you swore you felt the whole tower sway. The wind howls even louder, the icy cold air biting your knees. It makes it harder to move.
“Are you… scared of heights?” you hear Ryland ask.
“Why the hell would I be scared?” you unintentionally snapped, taking another step. Your vision was splitting into two.
“Here—”
You see a hand reaching out to you at the upper corner of your vision. You feel your heart jump out of your chest, and you don't know if it was because you were so high up, or if it was because the thought of holding his hand was too much to handle. Unbearable.
You take it anyway.
His hand was warm, despite the cold air.
Whether you wanted to admit it or not, Ryland Grace had bewitched you in a way you couldn't explain. Maybe it was the stupid jokes he would tell you when he noticed you were more exhausted than usual from drills and dry runs. Maybe it was the quick smile he would give you when you catch his eye in a meeting room full of people. Or maybe it was the way you could be completely vulnerable around him—the walls you had spent years carefully building, each brick, comes tumbling down when you spend the late nights talking like you two were the only people alive.
As you reach the top, the ledge of the lookout tower was quite spacious. Ryland pulls away first, hands going to hold the safety railings.
Your fingers flex. The chill air felt wrong. Holding him felt so right, like two missing pieces on a massive, incomplete puzzle. But you don't say how you wanted to feel his hand on yours once more. How you loved it how he held your calloused palms so delicately. So you stand there, gazing at the view infront of you.
“The stars are much more visible than normal,” he says.
“It is.” You swallow, throat feeling like sand-paper.
His head moves towards you. You fight the urge to stare back at him, so you stood there, pretending to stargaze the night sky.
“Something’s bothering you,”it wasn't a question. Just a a statement. A tinge of fear goes down your spine, at he could read you like a book.
“I don't know what you mean—”
“You were never a good liar,” he chuckles.
You sigh, leaning your weight against the metal railings. The wind howled once more, feeling your hair ride the wave of icy cold air.
“This mission,” you start, fingers absentmindedly tapping on the cold metal. “I don't know. I mean—”
Your lips were parted open, finding the right words to articulate the feelings bubbling inside. But nothing comes up. Your shoulders slump, defeated.
“What?” he presses further, albeit gently.
You bite your lower lip hard, almost enough to draw blood.
“I don't think I’m the right person for this.”
Ryland doesn't say anything instantly, just stares at you. Like he was looking at something fragile.
“Tell me.”
You look up at him. “What?”
“Tell me why you think that.”
You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m scared I’ll mess up, somehow. Or something goes wrong, that's out of my control. And everyone would—”
“Whoa, hey.” he closes the distance, and puts a hand on your shoulder. The warmth seeps through your shirt.
“Nothing’s going to go wrong. The very best people are working at this project. And I’m sure you won't mess up, you're one of the most amazing people I know here.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I just do.”
You open your mouth to protest, but when you see his face—silently saying that his words were final—you shut them close. You give him a nod instead.
“There’s a reason why Stratt picked you. There's hundreds—thousands, of people, that wanted the job you have. I would know, she told me. But she ultimately ended up choosing you.”
“Why?”
“Because she trusts you. She knows your— I don't know, potential. Talent. How good you are at what you do.”
You smile sadly, nodding at his words.
He sighed, and pulls away, removing his hand on your arm. He takes a step back, and looks out at the grassland view infront. You try to not show the disappointment once more when he pulls away, but a sigh leaves your lips involuntarily. His head turns to you at the sound.
“Whatever high being there is, they're probably laughing at me right now,” you play off, chuckling. “They probably have a kick of watching me act like this.”
“Do you believe in those?” he asks.
“In what?” you turn your head towards him. A mistake. His eyes was more than enough to make you melt. He looked at you in a way no man or woman did.
“In… God. Or… religions, I don't know,” he murmurs.
You click your tongue. “I don't know. I guess I had never thought of that,” your gaze trace the outline of his glasses. The same one you had adjusted earlier. “How about you, Dr. Grace? do you believe in God?”
“I told you to stop calling me that.” His grin was too wide for it to be casual.
“Well I like calling you that.”
He nods, then turns to stare at the view infront of him. You see the way his eyes slightly narrow, the gears visibly turning inside that brain of his.
“I mean, the odds are never zero… right?” he speaks up a moment later.
“I’m asking what you believe in.”
He turns to you once more. He leans against the cold railings sideways, arms crossed. “I haven't… thought about it, either.”
“Oh, really?” you roll your eyes.
He smiles, then shrugs. “I might not believe in God,” he says, “But I do believe in you.”
Despite the windy environment, you couldn't get any air inside your lungs. You give him a smile. “Thanks,” you say, voice gentle. “I— I just… I wish everything will go smoothly this time.”
“What do you mean this time?” his brows raises upwards.
You dry-swallow. All this years, you had carried this burden all alone—the heaviness of it, with no one to share the weight of it. It would visit you in dreams, or even on the most random days. It was like a ghost, constantly following you.
“Years ago,” you start, voice already shaky. “There had been an accident. I… don't know if you’ve heard of it. NASA tried their best to keep it under wraps.” You run a quick hand on your face, but it was just an excuse to wipe the already forming tears on your eyes.
“What accident?”
“It was… I guess it was a secret mission, I suppose. They called it the Hermes project. To test new parts and technology they had developed for space travel.”
You look down, creating small rhythm on the metal railings with your fingers stalling as you try to find the next words. “It was supposed to be simple. Orbit the earth for a week… and go back.”
He nods. You take a peak towards his direction. He was stiff—still leaning sideways, hanging on each word and syllable.
You straighten yourself, letting out a small chuckle, trying to compose yourself.
“And… something went wrong along the way.”
“What went wrong?” he asks carefully, voice quiet.
“It was all brand new,” you say, “The materials they used for the ship—it didn't withstand the vacuum of space. Large hole inside the ship. Some people got sucked out. There were casualties, and you could guess what happened.”
Ryland doesn't say anything for a second or two.
“That’s—” he swallows, “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“It’s fine,” you say, too quickly. “Don’t say that ‘it wasn't my fault’. I know that, already. But I just wish… I could've done more.”
“I’m sure you did everything you could’ve done.” he says, and you could hear the frown on his lips without even turning to look. “I know you said you know it wasn't your fault… But i still want to say it—it wasn't your fault. It never was. It was NASA’s fault for being this careless. They should’ve known better.”
You stay quiet as you take in his words. You knew deep inside that . But hearing it coming from Ryland himself, it felt different.
He shifts uncomfortably, changing his stance. He leans forward against the railings, facing forwards, arms resting on the metal.
“Stratt told me she knew you well before this project,” he says, trying to change the topic.
You let out something between a snort and a chuckle. “Yeah, she helped with the Hermes project. That's where I first met her.”
“Really?” he asks, genuinely interested.
“Mhm, and… well after that catastrophe of a mission. She soon moved to ESA a couple months after I quit myself.”
“Are you two close?”
“You’ll have to ask that herself.”
He groans, with a smile on his face. “Is that your big secret?”
You shrug, shoving your hands inside the pockets of your pants. The warmth of your pockets was very much needed. “Why? are you scared to ask her?”
“I’m not—” he stammers, “I’m not scared of her for god's sake.” he shakes his head, his smile only widening.
He pushes himself off the railings. “We should get some sleep, or no?”
You tilt your head, taking a step back. “Already leaving?”
“What? you want to sleep at this rusty old lookout tower?”
“I didn't say that—”
“I didn't forget the part you’re scared of heights.”
“I’m not.” you roll your eyes again. “Just say you dislike my company,” you say, teasing, “That’s why you want to leave.”
“Never.”
-
The journey down the lookout tower was easier. Ryland went first, and you don't miss the way he looks behind you every five steps, just to make you sure you were doing okay.
He turns to you once more, slowing his walking to a stop once the cabins were both infront of you. “Guess this is me.”
You didn't want the night to end. This was the first time you had wished time was non-linear.
“Goodnight, Grace.” you give him a small salute, a gesture you had gotten used to making when ending a conversation with him.
He watches you fumble for your keys inside your pockets. Watches you unlock the door, rotate the doorknob and push it open. He stands there, watching you when you take that first step inside.
“Wait,” he calls out.
You look back at him, the warm lights inside the cabin flooding out. “What?”
“Uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I was wondering if… you know—”
“For once stop beating around the bush, Grace—”
“I was wondering if you wanted some company for tonight.” His eyes widened underneath the glasses he wore, like he was also surprised by what he was saying right now.
You blink yourself, lips parted mid-way for a response that had quickly disappeared off your mind.
“…What?”
“Not like that! I promise. I can sleep on the couch, I just thought that you needed some, you know— company. As friends.”
He shakes his head quickly, “If you don't want to, then that is a-o-kay with me. I know that was a weird… request, or— I don't know. Have a good night—”
He turns on his heels, ready to go.
“You can… stay.”
He turns towards you at the speed of light.
“Wait, really? I mean— yeah, alright. Sure.” he gives you an awkward thumbs up.
You step inside, leaving the door wide open for Ryland. He steps inside, hands shoved inside the pockets of his pants. He walks like a person that was afraid of breaking artifacts inside a museum. Careful and quiet.
You turn towards the switch, flipping the lights off. The warm hue immediately dissipates, replace by the cold lights of the moon.
You watch him awkwardly sit on the couch. “Are you… sure about this?”
“Yes!” he exclaims too quickly, “I mean— yes. Yes. I’m… sure. Of course.”
You give him a hesitant nod at that. Your hands move up, to nowhere in particular—just stuck mid-air. You play it off, molding your hands to give him two thumbs up. “I’ll be at my bed. Call me if you need anything.”
He gives you a tight smile as he nods, hands going to his knees.
“Goodnight,” he says.
You turn around, walking down the hallway leading to the sleeping quarters of this cabin. The bed was not made—the pillows were wrinkly, pieces of hair amidst the white sheets, and heavy blankets almost drooping down to the floor.
You sit at the edge of it. Immediately, you hear a small creak as it subtly lowers down because of your weight. You turn your eyes down the halls, where Ryland was barely visible.
You see his figure move to lay down, using two pillows to support his head.
You turn your gaze back towards your own bed, biting your inner cheek.
Just friends.
You stand up.
“Hey,” you call out to him, rubbing a quick hand on your face.
Immediately, he sits up. “Something wrong?”
You could hear the concern on his voice, and it makes you smile. It was a good thing the darkness had hidden it.
“You should sleep on the bed with me,” you say it outright. Normally, you wouldn't had been this forward. But maybe it was the exhaustion talking, or maybe it was because the nature of your relationship with this man was something words can't explain. “The couch is uncomfortable,” you follow up.
“Are you… sure?” he asks.
“I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't.”
He stares at you, for a second, before he throws up his hands up in defeat. “Alright, lead the way.”
You don't tell him how fast your heart was beating when he gets on the right side of the bed. You get on the bed opposite of him—and you don't tell him the way your heart skips a beat when you get a waft of his cologne. The same cologne that will linger the morning later.
“Goodnight. This is for real, this time,” he chuckles, taking off his glasses to put it on the bedside counter.
A tired smile forms on your lips. “Goodnight, Dr. Grace.”
And before sleep takes you, you trace the lines of his nose. Then his jaw, and then towards his now messy blonde hair, poking out of the pillows. Your pillows.
PERIAPSIS. ( PART 3 ) — RYLAND GRACE x Male!READER
SUMMARY: Murphy’s Law states that everything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Ryland Grace would like to have a word or two with Murphy.
# # TAGS: Semi-Canon-Adjacent, Longform, Male!Pilot Reader, Eventual Rocky (No Rocky Here Yet), Hurt-Comfort, Caretaking, Injury, Slowburn-ish, There's Only One Med Pod, Part 3 of ??
# # WARNINGS: Canon-typical Space Dread, Graphic Depictions of Pain and Injury, Broken Bones, Mechanical Surgery, Bordering on Medical Gore (?), Medical Trauma, Angst, Strong Language, Inaccurate Space Science, Not Beta Read
NOTES: Thank you thank you thank you! I have no words for all the love and support I've gotten. I am so very grateful. Like, WOW! As an apology for taking so long, this chapter is relatively chunky. I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this fic as much as I enjoy writing it. As always, thank you for your patience! 6.4k words.
PART ONE, PART TWO.
TAGLIST: @screechingphantommaker, @whoislio4
The outer hatch sealed behind you with a heavy thunk. The silence that came after was horrifying to Grace. He'd scrambled to get to the intercom, nearly missing the console as he rushed to a seat. He didn’t bother buckling himself in. He put his glasses on, eyes darting around the monitors as he searched for you on the ship's external feed. Eventually, he landed on a small moving figure on one of the panels. He gripped the console, leaning in.
Telemetry scrolled down the right side of the screen. Suit pressure nominal, oxygen nominal, heart rate slightly elevated. Grace heard himself sigh in relief. “That’s comforting,” he muttered. “You’re only mildly terrified.”
Your voice crackled through the comms. “I heard that.”
Grace nearly launched himself into the ceiling. “Jesus—!”
The tether uncoiled behind you in loops, its faint clinking traveling up the steel braid and vibrating into the chest plate of your suit. Beneath you, the hull of the Hail Mary stretched out like the white belly of some prehistoric deep-sea leviathan. Overhead, the infinite empty void of space yawned open.
Back in the control room, Grace’s eyes scrambled over the main console until they finally locked onto the small microphone. “Hello?” he said, quite frantically. “Cap, can you hear me? Hello? Copy?”
You smiled behind the glass, though your brows furrowed at the obtrusive volume of Grace’s voice. You were using a handrail to orient yourself as you began the slow hand-over-hand crawl along the ship's spine. “I copy. But turn your mic down a notch, you're practically inside my skull.”
“Right! Sorry. Adjusting. Is that better?”
“Much.”
“Everything okay out there?”
“You tell me, Doc. You’re the one on the screens.” Your laugh was accompanied by static. “S’just dark as far as the eye can see over here.”
“Oh, god. Right. Okay.” You heard him shuffling across the panels. “Okay, everything looks normal. And there’s this radar here with a bunch of little green dots. None of them are near you. Well, there's one, but it's moving away. It’s moving very fast. Wow, space is terrible.”
“You’re doing great.”
The damage to the Petrova scope's antenna array was exactly as the diagnostic had described. The primary bracket was sheared through, looking like torn foil. The relay coupling, which was the little yellow case's counterpart, was warped. Its ceramic housing cracked open to expose a nest of severed fiber-optic filaments that floated like tiny transparent hairs.
“I’m onsite,” you reported, hooking your safety tether to the anchor point. “The bracket is compromised. I'm going to have to manually realign the housing before I can seat the new coupler. It's going to take some muscle. My telemetry might spike a bit; don't panic.”
“Copy that,” said Grace. You could hear him impatiently tapping against the console. “Hey, can I tell you something?”
“Talk to me, Goose.” You unclipped the tool bag from your thigh and pulled out the pneumatic wrench. The work was tedious, frustratingly restricted by the pressurized bulk of your gloves.
There was a brief crackle of static as Grace took a breath. “I’m terrified of heights.”
A soft chuckle huffed out of you, echoing inside your helmet. “If it makes you feel any better, there’s no up and down out here. Technically, no such thing as ‘height’ either. There’s no floor to catch you and no floor to fall from. We’ve got a trillion miles of absolute nothing in every direction.”
It took a while for him to respond. “You seriously thought that would make me feel better?”
Every action required an equal and opposite reaction; if you turned the wrench too hard without anchoring your hips, your whole body would swing around the bolt like a pendulum. For five agonizing minutes, the only sounds were the rhythmic whir-snap of the tool, the steady hiss-click of your suit's oxygen regulators, and Grace's occasional, anxious updates.
“Debris field is clear,” he said. He’d begun chewing on a Twizzler that he’d found floating over the panels. “Hull pressure is rock solid... You've got a slight temperature spike in your left glove, is that normal?”
“Yeah. Friction from the wrench. Keep watching.”
“Copy.”
You pulled the cracked coupling free. It drifted away on a short wire lanyard until you clipped it to your tool belt, replacing it with the pristine, yellow-housed component Grace had retrieved for you. It slid into the slot with a gratifying mechanical clack.
“Coupler is seated,” you grunted, bracing your knees against the hull as you reached for the locking lever. “Engaging the primary seal now.”
As you worked, the cause of the damage became clear. The tricky thing about traveling at the speed of light was that any loose debris you met had the calibre of a bullet. The ship's primary defense was its massive sacrificial bumper, designed to absorb the brutal kinetic energy of cosmic dust. But with the ship now in orbit, (or settling into orbit) there was hardly a need to be wary of such dangers.
Unless of course, instead of the ship propelling towards the debris, the debris was coming at you.
“Something’s wrong.” Grace sat up from his chair. “I’m getting alarms, Cap. Foreign objects detected? This wasn't here before. What the – Oh, god the green dots in the radar earlier — there’s a cluster of them now. Heading to you!”
Your head snapped up. You didn't waste time looking at the void; you wouldn’t see projectiles traveling at kilometers per second until they were already tearing through you. “How long?” you barked, having already abandoned the wrench.
It didn’t make sense to Grace. How was it coming so fast? How had Mary not seen it sooner? “Five seconds! Four—!”
You unhooked your knees from the cleats and threw your weight downward. You tried to tuck your body behind the thick, reinforced structural rib of the Petrova scope's primary housing. It was the only substantial piece of shielding within arm's reach. You pulled yourself in, curling into a tight, desperate ball against the hull. But you were a fraction of a second too late. A soundless flurry of violence erupted around you. A spray of cosmic gravel shredded the space where you had just been floating. It didn't make a sound in the vacuum, but you felt it — a series of sharp, rhythmic thuds vibrating violently through the metal hull beneath your chest. Bright sparks danced across your visor as particles vaporized against the ship's skin.
Then came the impact.
A blinding spike of agony caught your trailing left arm. One of the larger fragments slammed directly into your sleeve. Your dutiful EVA suit refused to breach, and as a result, trapped the force into your forearm and shattered the bone under your skin.
The strike spun you against your tether until your helmet snapped against the hull. You couldn’t tell if you were screaming. You were deaf to the world, hearing only the sharp singing of your broken arm.
You gasped for air, spots dancing in your eyes. You clutched your shoulder and pulled your wrist toward your chest. The pain was a sickening, throbbing white-hot fire radiating towards your entire torso. You forced your eyes to focus on the flashing HUD data overlaying the dark void.
SUIT PRESSURE: 14.7 PSI (STABLE)
O2 SUPPLY: NOMINAL
INTEGRITY: 100%
The ringing in your ears gradually subsided. In its place, came Grace’s frantic calls.
“Cap! Cap!” He was screaming into the microphone, his voice slightly distorted by the volume. “I lost your vitals — no, wait, your heart rate is at 180! The suit sensors — is there a breach? Tell me there's no breach. Talk to me!”
The multi-layered Kevlar and reinforced polymer weave of the sleeve had held, absorbing the brunt of the hit without puncturing. But the sheer force of the impact had transferred straight through the insulation.
“No… no breach,” you squeezed through gritted teeth. You pressed your forehead against your visor, sweating profusely. “Suit’s… suit’s whole, Grace.”
Grace didn’t realize he was already crying. He angrily wiped his tears away with his fist. Now was not the time. “Okay.” He sniffled. “Okay. Come back. Forget the antenna, come back now.”
“My arm,” you groaned. A choked sound escaped your throat as the throbbing intensified. Inside the rigid, heavy suit, you tried to move your hand and immediately regretted it as a fresh wave of agony made your stomach churn. “My arm's broken. I can’t move it.”
Grace paled.
It took everything in you not to vomit. In zero gravity, a broken arm wasn’t a weight-bearing problem, but a physics problem. Every time you hauled your weight forward with your single good hand, the lack of a counter-stabilizing grip sent your lower body swinging. You kept your injury as close to your body as possible, but the shattered bones under your skin felt as though they were grinding together with sickening, wet friction. You had to time each pull, slowly dragging yourself along the handrails, knowing that one missed grip meant hurtling into the void.
“I see you.” Grace’s trembling voice snapped you out of the haze. “I-I see you, Cap. You’re doing great. You’re past the thrusters. Just six meters to the airlock.” He was lying. It was eight meters. But he needed the distance to be shorter, if only to keep his own lungs from seizing up. He felt completely and utterly useless.
“Tell me… tell me about the radar,” you panted, your voice cracking as you reached for the next magnetic cleat. You needed a distraction. You needed him to talk. “Any—Any more debris?”
Grace snapped his eyes to the screens. He blinked back the tears that blurred his vision. “No. Nothing. It’s clear. You’re safe, I promise.”
“Good.” You laughed weakly. “Because I don’t think I have another dodge in me, Doc.”
“Don’t talk, just focus on the rails,” Grace pleaded. His breath shuddered. “You’re almost there. Just come inside. Please, just come inside.”
When you got closer towards re-entry, Grace abandoned his station and rushed to the nodes to get you.
The internal airlock door hadn’t finished its depressurization but Grace was already throwing it open. The sudden rush of cabin air swirled around your helmet. You barely registered it. You were slumped against the bulkhead, your right hand locked onto an emergency handle in a death grip while your left arm hung weightless.
“Oh my god, oh my god, I’ve got you,” Grace lunged into the airlock, his hands trembling so violently he could barely get a purchase on your suit’s latches.
He didn't bother with the full decompression protocol. With a frantic grunt, he popped the seals on your helmet and yanked it free. The sudden rush of cool, recycled ship air hit your sweat-drenched face, but the relief was instantly swallowed by a wave of vertigo. The cabin was spinning.
“Can you talk? A-Are you going to pass out?” Grace’s face was inches from yours, his eyes wide and panicked behind his crooked glasses.
“Don't… don't touch the left sleeve,” you wheezed, your voice a ragged whisper. Every breath felt like inhaling glass. “Just get me… out of the suit.”
“Right. Okay. Carefully. We’re going carefully.”
It was anything but careful. In microgravity, maneuvering a dead-weight human body out of a rigid multi-layered EVA suit was an Olympic sport. Doing it while trying not to jostle a shattered forearm was competing in the finals. Grace worked like a man possessed, unclipping the torso restraints and peeling the heavy material down past your hips, steering entirely clear of your left side.
When your left arm finally slid free of the inner lining, a sharp, ragged gasp tore from your throat. Without the stiff structure of the suit to hold it, the arm deformed — bending at a sickening, unnatural angle between the wrist and the elbow.
Grace let out a small, horrified squeak, the blood draining from his face. “Oh, Jesus. Okay. Don't look at it. Just look at me.”
He grabbed your right hand and draped your good arm over his shoulders, anchoring his arm around your waist to keep you from drifting. “We need to get to the lab. The med bay. Hold onto me, okay? Just hold on.”
The journey through the narrow, cylindrical corridors of the Hail Mary was an exercise in pain. Without gravity to keep you grounded, every movement required momentum. Every shift was an enemy. Grace used his free hand to pull both of your masses along the guide rails, but he wasn’t a trained astronaut; his movements were jerky and frantic.
With every forward lurch, your lower body drifted, and the momentum transmitted straight up your torso to your dangling left arm. The shattered ends of your bones shifted and ground against each other inside your swollen skin.
“Wait—Grace, stop, stop,” you choked out, your eyes squeezing shut as a violent wave of nausea hit you. Your stomach convulsed, and you had to swallow down the bitter taste of bile. If you vomited in zero gravity now, you’d choke on it.
“Stopping! I’m stopping!” Grace slammed his hand onto a handrail, bringing both of you to a sudden, jarring halt.
The abrupt deceleration sent a searing shock of lightning straight up your arm and into your brain. Your vision completely blew out into a roaring haze of grey static. You felt your knees buckle into the empty air, your chin dropping against Grace’s shoulder as you shivered from deep, systemic shock.
“Hey, hey! Stay with me!” Grace’s voice sounded like it was underwater, echoing from the end of a long tunnel. He was panicking, his grip tightening around your waist as he began hauling you forward again, much faster now, his breaths coming in ragged, terrified gapes. “We’re almost there. Come on, don't pass out on me yet. I can't do this by myself!”
You couldn't answer. You could only press your face into the fabric of his jumpsuit. Your right hand clutched his shoulder so hard your fingers cramped, riding out the humming aches as he dragged you through the hatchway of the infirmary. For what it was worth, it felt good to be held. You kept your cheek against Grace's shoulder, relishing in what little relief his presence brought.
“Okay, okay.” Grace set you down on one of the cots. Under the infirmary’s fluorescent lights, the unnatural color your arm was turning became impossible to ignore. He did his best not to look at it as he strapped you down.
Your head lolled as he moved. “Grace,” you called weakly.
His eyes snapped to you. “Yes? Yes? What's wrong? It's gonna be okay, we're gonna fix this, okay? Hang on. I'll fix it, I promise.”
You couldn't even remember why you said his name. You supposed you just wanted to see his face. Dazed and weakened by the deafening pain, you sought comfort in having his attention. At least you weren't alone, you thought. You couldn't imagine going through something like this by yourself.
As the final strap clicked into place, securing you firmly against the cot, a chime sounded overhead. Mary's perfectly modulated voice echoed through the small room.
“Warning. Biometric anomaly detected. Commanding Officer: heart rate: 178 beats per minute. Respiration: elevated. Severe localized trauma identified in upper left extremity.”
“Yeah, no kidding!” Grace yelled at the ceiling, using the back of his arm to wipe a mix of sweat and tears from his face. “Uh… Uh, initialize medical assessment protocol!”
With a heavy hydraulic hiss, a panel in the bulkhead beside the cot slid open. Out glided Armando, the ship's sleek, segmented contraption of aluminum and white polymer, tipped with a precise multi-jointed hand.
Armando didn't have a face, but the way its optical sensors whirred and clicked as they focused on your left arm felt intensely invasive. The robotic hand hovered a mere inch above your swollen, distorted forearm. A thin line of green laser light swept down from your elbow to your wrist, mapping the grotesque S-shape of the fractured bone beneath the skin.
You hissed through your teeth, flinching away even though the machine hadn't actually touched you.
“Assessment complete,” Mary reported. “Displaced compound-adjacent fracture of the left radius and ulna. High risk of compartment syndrome. Radial artery compression detected. Peripheral blood flow to left distal extremity is critical. Immediate manual reduction required to prevent permanent tissue necrosis.”
Grace stared at the diagnostic monitor, his face losing what little color it had left. “Necrosis? No, no, no... Okay, uh, Mary, initiate automated analgesic protocol? Give him the good stuff, knock him out!”
“Request denied,” Mary responded instantly. “Mechanical failure detected in primary intravenous delivery valve. Fluid line pressure: insufficient. Administered dosage of localized analgesic: 0.05 milligrams. Maximum threshold reached for current capacity.”
“What do you mean threshold reached?!” Grace slammed his fist against the medical console. “Override it! Bypass the valve!”
“Grace,” you choked out. “Something's blocking the valve. It's not gonna work till you fix it.”
The infirmary lapsed into a terrifying silence, save for the rhythmic, high-pitched beeping of your spiking heart rate. Armando’s robotic hand retracted slightly, twisting its joints into a waiting posture, as if acknowledging its own inability to fix the mechanical jam.
Grace turned his head to look at you. “Okay, so I'll fix it. I-I'll fix the valve.”
“Fix it later,” you told him. “Right now you have to activate the centrifuge. We need gravity for the rest of the infirmary to be operational. C-Can you do that for me?”
Grace nodded. He asked you to stay still, then he was gone.
Grace had been out of your sight for no more than two minutes, but it was hard to gauge time with how incessantly your arm was burning. It felt like forever. It felt like he'd never return. You breathed shallowly in your cot as you stared up at the ceiling and did your best to stay conscious.
Then, the world shifted. You held your breath, thinking it was another wave of vertigo. But then your hair fell over your face and you realized that gravity was making a cautious return. Up and down were re-established in a slow, careful descent.
It felt good to be oriented, but worse to feel pressure against your broken arm. You let out a strangled, breathless cry, your right hand instantly locking onto the metal frame of the cot as the extra weight crushed you into the mattress. Your vision, already swimming with static, began to fade into darkness.
“I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Grace yelled, stumbling as his own feet slammed into the newly formed floor. He nearly ran into your bed upon his return. His glasses slid completely off his nose, dangling from one ear. “I did it. Gravity stable. What now?”
“Shit.” You gasped. “Shit, shit, shit.” You inhaled a deep, unhelpful breath. “Grace, you have to set my arm.”
“What?!”
“You do. You have to do it. Armando's not going to with that broken valve. You need to set my arm before he can operate.” You held your good hand out as if to stop him from bolting. “You just — i-it's just one big snap into place, okay? Then I'll pass out, then you can fix the valve.”
“You're insane!”
“I'm out of options, Grace!” You were hyperventilating by then. The monitors next to you were going haywire. “You can do this.”
Grace tugged on his hair. He was going to be sick. “Can't I just fix the valve first?”
“No!” you yelled. He hadn't heard you yell that loud before. “No. Please. Set the arm. I want this over with. It hurts. If you take any longer the injury will be irreparable. You have to do it.”
Grace froze, momentarily shaken by the desperation in your voice. He looked at your face, streaked with sweat, pale with shock, twisted in an agony he doubted he could comprehend. He inhaled a deep, steadying breath. This was the least he could do.
“Okay,” Grace breathed, his voice suddenly losing its frantic pitch. He swiped his dangling glasses off his ear and shoved them into his jumpsuit pocket. He didn’t want a clear view of this. “Okay. I’m going to do it.”
He stepped to the side of the cot, his boots slamming heavily against the floor. He positioned himself over your left arm. Up close, under the harsh infirmary lights, the distortion was stomach-turning. The sharp, jagged edge of the radius was pushing so hard against the underside of your skin that the tissue was white and bloodless, a mere breath away from tearing through.
“Hold onto the rail with your right hand,” Grace commanded, hands hovering over you. “Don't let go. Don’t move.”
You locked your right fingers around the cold titanium frame of the medical bed. You closed your eyes, squeezing so hard your face creased. You took one last ragged breath. “Do it.”
Grace didn't give you a countdown. He knew if he paused, he’d lose his nerve.
He clamped his left hand firmly just above your elbow, pinning your upper arm against the mattress to anchor it against the crushing centripetal force. With his right hand, he gripped your wrist, his fingers locking tightly over your cold, purple-tinged skin. Then, with a guttural grunt of exertion, Grace leaned his entire body weight backward, pulling your wrist down and away from your shoulder with everything he had.
The universe fractured.
An ungodly wet grinding screech echoed within the flesh of your arm as the overlapping, shattered ends of the radius and ulna were forcefully dragged back past one another. The sharp shards of bone plowed through muscle and fascia. A raw, piercing scream tore from your throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated torment that vibrated through the metal frame of the bed. Your spine violently arched off the cot, fighting against the padded restraint straps as every nerve ending in your upper body flared into a blinding nova of pain.
To Grace’s horror, the job didn’t end there. He felt the horrific, structural resistance of the bones, and with one final, agonizing heave, he gave the wrist a sharp, aligning twist.
SNAP.
A heavy, sickening thud reverberated through your arm as the two main shafts of the bone finally slid back into their parallel tracks. Instantly, the pressure on the radial artery released, and a hot, throbbing rush of restricted blood surged back into your fingertips.
At the exact same moment, the automated splint on the counter sensed the alignment. With a sharp hydraulic click, it shot forward, wrapping around your forearm and clamping down to lock the newly straightened limb into place.
But you didn't feel the splint. The overload to your nervous system was too much. Your eyes rolled back, your grip on the metal rail went completely slack, and your head fell heavily to the side. The world mercifully went black, plunging you into deep, silent unconsciousness.
On the monitor, your heart rate plummeted from its frantic peak, settling into a steady thumping.
Grace let go of your wrist, stumbling backward until his back hit a wall. He slumped down against it, sliding to the floor, his chest heaving as he stared at his trembling, sweat-slicked hands. He was hyperventilating, crying, tugging on his hair again. He wanted to throw up. But he also wanted to be sure you were alright.
Above him, Mary’s voice chimed with a serene indifference. “Vascular occlusion resolved. Distal blood flow restored to 100%. Bone alignment within acceptable parameters.”
Grace sat there for a moment longer, timing his breaths to the steady beeping of your heart rate.
“Right,” he choked out, aggressively wiping his cheeks as he forced himself back up. “Not done.”
Compared to the horror of setting your bones with his bare hands, fixing the valve was a walk in the park. Mary had been there to guide the repair, and soon enough the rest of the medical systems were operational. More hands protruded from the cot. They snipped your shirt off and injected you with needles and tubes. Armando wore an oxygen mask over your peaceful face. They whirred and hummed and then a scalpel was slicing through your skin.
Grace did not do well with blood. Back on Earth, he felt dizzy at the sight of a drop. But he could not look away from you. He held himself as he stood over your unconscious body and watched as mechanical arms operated on yours. He didn’t leave until the process was done. It had taken hours, and the balls of his feet had ached and numbed, but he wasn’t satisfied until he had confirmation that you were stable.
When the tension finally bled out of him, it hit his knees first. Grace sank straight into the floor, head dropping to his hands. He cried into the ground and stayed there until he could cry no longer. His lungs burned with a weariness that felt heavier than any force the ship could pull.
He didn’t think about going back to his quarters. Instead he dragged his blanket and pillow from his bed and pulled them through the corridors, clumsy in his exhaustion. He laid them out on the floor beside your cot and collapsed there. He wedged himself into the tight gap between your bed and the diagnostic console. The space was cramped and ridiculous for a man of his size, but it was the only place he could bear to be.
Lying there on his side, his cheek pressed against the rough fabric of his pillow, he stared up at the underside of your cot. The position was devastatingly familiar.
It brought him right back to those terrifying first weeks. The fog of his amnesia had been so thick and suffocating, and you had been nothing more than a stranger with a stable heartbeat on a monitor. He remembered watching you until his eyes could no longer do so. Now, he would do it again. He would wait for you to wake up no matter how long it took.
The hours blurred into a disjointed montage of isolation.
Grace lost track of the ship's artificial day-and-night cycles. He lived in the increments between your medical readouts. Every three hours, the overhead console would hum, cycling a fresh dosage of targeted analgesics into your IV line. Grace would instantly sit up at the sound, his eyes scanning the data, verifying the diagnostics and checking your skin temperature before allowing his head to drop back onto his pillow.
He tried to pass the time. He brought your navy moleskine notebook into the bay, holding it under the dim tertiary lights. He traced the crude, jagged diagrams of Astrophage membranes and Petrova formulas he had scrawled just days before. He filled the empty margins with frantic sketches and lists — anything to keep his brain moving. But the science felt flat, and the math was useless. He felt as though the universe’s worth had shrunken down to the hitching breaths of the man on the bed next to him.
He ate his space ramen cold, sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest, his eyes never leaving your resting profile. The plastic mask obscured the lower half of your face, fogging slightly with every exhale you took.
The twenty-two hours of orbital settling had long since passed. Outside, Tau Ceti held the Hail Mary firmly in its gravitational grip, spinning the ship through the silent, perfect curve of its new home.
It was late.
The world outside was dark, and cold, but the lab was warm and lit by the steady hum of monitors.
A desk lamp cast long shadows across the tiled floor.
There was so much work to be done and so little time to do it.
The edges of the room were washed out like an overexposed photograph, but the feeling in your chest was heavy and whole. You were focused on a task, hunched over a surface, pen in hand, scrawling something down into your familiar navy-colored notebook.
Something was distracting you.
Someone was distracting you.
Everything sounded far away, but you could hear the unmistakable cadence of Ryland’s voice. He sounded lighter — softer. He had nothing to be afraid of here.
Since when did you call him Ryland?
Hands.
Fingertips.
You could feel him breathing on the back of your neck. You could hear the smile in his words.
That's enough for tonight, Captain.
How annoying. Couldn't he see that you were busy?
Stay on your side of the lab, Grace.
Slowly, deliberately, the tips of his fingers trailed an agonizingly gentle line up the sleeve of your shirt, tracing the curve of your bicep, sending a wave of electric heat straight to your spine.
You snapped. With a low laugh bubbling in your throat, you dropped the pen.
You caught his wrists and surged forward, using your weight to pin Ryland back against the edge of his desk.
A pile of folders shifted beneath him, but neither of you cared. He let out a breathless, triumphant gasp, his hands instantly wrapping around your neck to pull you down.
A kiss.
Warm.
Familiar.
Secret.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep…
Your eyelids felt like lead.
You moved your good hand first, fingers twitching against a rough but thin sheet. The sensation of friction jarred your brain further into consciousness. A dull throbbing ache pulsed in your left arm, muted and distant under a heavy blanket of narcotics.
Slowly, your eyes blinked open.
You felt good, all things considered. You were sure you had the morphine to thank. The ceiling of the medical bay took shape above you. You sluggishly turned your head. The plastic straps of the oxygen mask shifted against your cheek. Your arm felt like a distant object. Curious, you commanded the limb to move. It rose with a heavy reluctance, floating up into your line of sight. You blinked, attempting to draw your swimming vision into focus. Your forearm was encased in a thick, rigid medical cast. It locked the limb straight, while your exposed fingertips looked slightly pale against the stark white bandages.
You felt good. Wait, you thought that already. Boy, those meds sure were working.
You sat up, tugging the oxygen mask from your face.
Grace was on you in a millisecond. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What do you think you’re doing? Lay back down!” his hands were on your shoulders before your head could even clear the pillow.
“Narcotics,” you mumbled, your voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. The oxygen mask was dangling uselessly around your neck, puffing a gentle hiss against your collarbone. You had a dazed look in your half-lidded eyes. “These are. Good. You should try.”
“Okay, that’s nice. Please lay back down.” Grace was crying again. His warm eyes glistened with tears.
You reached your good hand out to touch his cheek.
“I’m so glad you’re awake,” he whispered. Despite his emotional state, he was still making sure you weren’t hurting yourself. He let you sit up, but kept a close eye on the needles and thin tubes that poked out of your skin.
“I’m fine,” you insisted. To prove your point, you craned your neck, which triggered your vision into a slow, dizzying spin. Your hand shifted on Grace’s face, thumb clumsily catching the edge of his crooked glasses and shoving them further up his nose.
“Don't move, just—please, don’t move,” he begged. He didn't pull away from your hand on his cheek. If anything, he leaned into the touch, verifying that you were actually warm; actually alive.
“It'll take more than just a couple of rocks to keep me down,” you slurred. “How long was I out?”
“Three days,” Grace muttered. The answer broke out of him like a sob.
The resistance in his posture completely collapsed. His forehead dropped against your mattress, landing next to your good arm. His fingers slid down from your shoulder to lock tightly over your right hand. His shoulders shook as the last 72 hours of terror finally gave way to a wave of relief. His tears soaked wet circles into the sterile sheet of your bed.
“You did good,” you muttered.
You ran your functioning fingers through his hair, petting his messy oil-slicked curls. You didn’t know what else to do to comfort him. The sight of him so thoroughly broken by the thought of losing you was doing funny aching things to your chest. These, the painkillers couldn't numb.
“You’re a terrible patient,” he mumbled into the mattress. “An absolutely terrible patient.”
You hummed out a laugh.
His hand blindly reached for yours. When he found it, he didn’t let go. He squeezed every time his chest hitched with another shuddering breath. He stayed like that for a long time, letting the weight of the universe bleed out of him onto the edge of your cot.
“C’mere,” you said. You shifted your torso to the side, wincing slightly as the automated splint on your left arm gave a tiny, protective whir to adjust for the movement. You tugged at your blankets with your right hand. You made space for him on the bed; which was hardly any space at all.
Grace lifted his head from the sheets, staring at you, bewildered. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. “What?”
“Lay with me.”
He looked at the tiny gap of mattress you’d cleared. “What?” he repeated.
“C’mon, Grace,” you slurred, your eyelids drooping as another wave of warm drowsiness rolled over your brain. You gave his hand a clumsy, insistent tug. “Who’s gonna fuckin’ see? Lay with me here — I’m cold.”
He could’ve gotten you another blanket. But he had to be numb to reject the offer to be held. Tired and sleepless himself, Grace crawled into your cot. He was hesitant and careful not to touch your broken arm, but he was also embarrassed at how little convincing it had taken him to lie down next to you.
The rest was automatic. Grace somehow knew that he laid with his back to your chest, and you somehow knew that your good arm went over his waist. Your chin rested above his head. The mattress was entirely too small for the both of you, but it was impossible to feel uncomfortable when the warmth of another body was there to cushion your every ache.
You slotted against each other like you'd done it a hundred times before. Grace was too exhausted to have realized this. And before he knew it, he felt himself drifting closer to proper slumber.
“How did you figure out how to activate the centrifuge?” Your voice had gone low and sleepy. It made Grace’s stomach flip.
“It just came to me,” he whispered.
You smiled. “That’s good.”
“I did this to you,” he muttered, now loopy from his own sleep depravity. His fingertips traced idle shapes on your good arm. “I didn't watch the monitors. I should've been able to tell you there was incoming debris.”
“Wrong.” You nuzzled into his hair. “The Petrova scope wasn’t the only thing damaged. The housing sits right over the main radar antenna — the ship’s main computer couldn't see the debris because the broken scope was blocking its eyes.”
You felt Grace curl into himself.
“Mary couldn't have known,” you insisted. “The radar itself was broken. Didn’t even transmit to my suit. You didn't mess up. You gave me four seconds of warning in a total blind spot. If you hadn't been there, I’d be dead.”
Grace went entirely still against you.
“You saved my life,” you whispered, your eyelids feeling heavier by the second. The morphine was pulling you back under. “Don't do it again. Bad for your heart.”
A tiny, breathless huff of a laugh shook Grace’s chest.
Grace drifted the rest of the way down until his cheek was against your pillow. His breathing fell into a slow rhythm, matching the steady beeping of your heart monitor. One of his hands remained loosely tangled in your right fingers. You were a protective dead-weight anchor that kept you both pinned to the bed.
The medical bay faded around the edges. The harsh fluorescent lights dimmed in your consciousness, replaced by a thick, safe silence. You didn't think about the four light-years you had traveled, or the memories yet to return, or the dying suns, or the extent of your new injury, or the difficulty it would add to succeeding in your mission. You held onto the warm man beside you and let the momentum of the Hail Mary carry you both into a deep dreamless sleep.
PERIAPSIS. ( PART 2 ) — RYLAND GRACE x Male!READER
SUMMARY: Twenty-two hours is a long time for a ship to settle into orbit, and enough time for your thoughts on a man to change. Ryland Grace is terrible at zero gravity and annoyingly good at getting under your skin.
# # TAGS: Semi-Canon-Adjacent, Long Form, Male!Pilot Reader, Eventual Rocky (No Rocky Here Yet), Ryland Falls First, Reader Falls Harder, Developing Feelings, More Zero Gravity Tension, Pining, Slowburn-ish, Part 2 of ??
# # WARNINGS: Canon-typical Space Dread, Mentions of Dead Bodies, Mentions of Isolation, Inaccurate Space Science, Mature Language, Brief Mentions of Grief.
NOTE: Thank you all so much for the love and patience! I did a thing in the first part to lengthen the gap between arriving to Tau Ceti and meeting Rocky. I needed Ryland and the reader to have more time together. And for… things to transpire. No specifications of reader's height nor form. Reader's pronouns are he/him. No use of Y/N. 5.1k words. I am not an astrophysicist and I am literally just making this up. Enjoy.
The engine had been the loudest thing on the ship for four straight years. Now, there was only silence.
Though the technical term is ‘orbital insertion’, what it actually was, was a controlled fall. The Hail Mary was settling into the curve of its new path, thrusters firing in small automatic bursts as the system learned a gravitational field it had spent four years approaching and was only now touching.
You'd explained it to Grace as best as you could. It was like acclimating a fish to a new tank, you'd told him. The engine wasn't broken and the ship merely needed some time to adjust.
Grace frowned as he thought. You glanced at him without moving your head and tried not to smirk at the little face he pulled when he was running numbers in his mind. “Ah.” His eyes lit up. They did that when something clicked. “So the waiting period is for the mechanisms. Otherwise the lab, the readings, every output's just–”
“Noise,” you agreed.
Grace exhaled through his nose. “So we wait.”
“So we wait.”
“For how long?”
“Twenty-two hours, give or take.”
Grace nodded.
It was like riding a bike, Grace thought. If the bike had no seat, or handlebars, or wheels, or a road to bike on. Up and down were no longer facts but opinions. And surely it was his own fault for naively relying on the Lilliputian laws of Earthly physics. But it was impressive, he supposed, that even in the absence of gravity, he still managed to find plenty of different ways to fall on his ass.
He didn't notice you watching.
“You're fighting it,” you said from the doorway.
“Jeez!” Grace flinched so violently you'd think he got shot. “How long have you been standing there? Well– floating there.”
You were on your side, arms crossed over your chest, completely unbothered by the fact that there was nothing beneath you. A socked foot was idly hooked to one of the handrails on the wall — an effortless measure to keep you from drifting away. Your head tilted to look at Grace, hair sticking out in odd (but charming) angles.
You were smiling at him, amused. “Watch,” you said. You pushed yourself towards him with one toe. “A little goes a long way. If you're kicking and flailing like that, you're bound to slam into things.”
Grace's eyes followed as you crossed the room on your back, then righted yourself to hover next to him. Like a superhero, he thought.
“Easy for you to say,” Grace grumbled. As if on cue, he started tilting backwards. His arms shot out for something to grab, but as nothing was there, the force only made him spin faster. “Mother-fudging frick!”
Grace was fully upside down then, feet to the ceiling, eyes leveled to your chest, cheeks flushed with an embarrassed pink. You chuckled quietly. With your arms still crossed, you pushed off the ground and spun yourself to match his orientation. Now you were both upside down, floating face-to-face, the floor above your heads. Grace held his breath. He'd been panting and the last thing he wanted to do was breathe on you.
You smiled. “Havin’ trouble, Doc?”
“Gee, I wonder,” he strained.
Grace's heart sank when he felt himself drifting closer. His hand flailed to try and move himself away, but then his nose was only inches from yours. “Oh, god–”
Chuckling, you pushed him off with a finger to his chest.
Grace floated away with a pout. “I'm glad my suffering is entertaining to you, Captain.”
“I can't help it. Your vocabulary is very colorful.” Deciding you'd had your fun, you drifted towards him to take his wrist and help him upright. “Stop fighting it.”
Grace's jaw tightened. “I'm not fighting it.”
“You are. Every time you start to drift you grab for something.” You let go of his wrist. He immediately began to tilt sideways. His hand shot out. You caught it before it could find a wall. “See?”
He made a face. “Okay well sorry if my survival instincts start kicking in to — I don't know — survive.”
You laughed. “Yeah, but you're not surviving. You're making it worse.” You repositioned his arm, returning it to his side. “Your body will want to correct. Don't let it.”
“That doesn't make any sense.”
“It will.” You drifted back a few feet and crossed your arms again. Watching him. “Okay. Let go.”
Grace looked at his hands. He was gripping his own jumpsuit at the hem, knuckles slightly white. He hadn't noticed he was doing it. He let go, slowly, like releasing the edge of a swimming pool. He drifted, marginally. Then there was a slow, lazy lean to the left. His hand twitched.
“Don't,” you said.
He didn't. It took visible effort, but he held himself still against the urge to correct. The drift slowed, then stopped. Grace blinked. “Oh.”
“There you go.”
“I’m not spinning.”
“Yeah, when you're not freaking out. You just have to tell your body you're not falling.”
Grace nodded, pleased with himself.
“Now come to me,” you said. You'd positioned yourself at the end of the corridor. Not too far; seven feet, maybe eight.
Grace looked at the distance between you like it was the distance between the Earth and the moon. "And how exactly do I do that."
“Pick a surface. Push off it. Gently."
The floor would have been tricky; if he didn't angle his body right, it would only push him up. His next option was the wall. He carefully planted his feet to the closest one, knees bent, eyes watching your face for any sign of a mistake. When you smiled and indicated there were none, Grace pushed off. Too hard.
He tried to warn you, but he came at you fast; arms out, eyes wide with terror. You had about a second to brace yourself before you collided chest to chest, his hands catching your shoulders. Your back took the momentum and carried you both into the wall behind you with a dull thud. It was the cockpit all over again; but worse.
Grace went still. His face was hardly a few inches away from yours. Other than his grip on your shoulders, his knee had also managed to slot between your legs. Your arms had come up to catch him on impact, one hand at his back, the other at his arm. Somewhere in the collision your foot had found the handrail and stopped you both from bouncing off it. Which meant you were now pinned between Grace and the wall, with nowhere else to go.
Awkward silence in space was worse than awkward silence on Earth, Grace thought. There was an extra layer of quiet that made room for twice the amount of shame. “Shit,” he whispered. Why was he whispering?
Your brows raised. You whispered back. “So you can swear.”
Grace steadied himself with a breath. “Miscalculated.”
“Did you?”
He nodded, helpless. “I think I’m getting the hang of it, though.”
“I said, gently, Grace. Was that gentle to you?”
He shook his head.
You smiled. You took his hand and pulled him away from your chest. And when you let go, Grace needed to flex his fingers to get rid of the burning feeling your touch had left.
“Again,” you said, your back still pressed to the wall. The look in your eyes made him nervous. “Less touching this time. Think you can do that?”
Grace swallowed hard.
To Grace’s relief, you left when you saw that he was getting it. You told him to call you if he died and he waved you off with a weak and embarrassed laugh. He held his hands to his face and thrashed around the moment you were out of earshot. ‘What was that? What the hell was that?!’
Without you in the room, he spent the next thirty minutes ensuring it would never happen again. Well — he spent the next thirty minutes subconsciously replaying it in his mind, but he also learned the difference between enough and too much somewhere around the twentieth attempt. With his efforts, his body eventually stopped treating every surface like a threat and started treating it like a tool.
He pushed off the far wall and drifted toward the center. And then, because he had nothing else to do, his mind returned to the same place it had been wandering to. The thud of the impact. Your back against the wall. The way you hadn't moved as you stared at him from two inches away with those calm, unreadable eyes. Your hand on his spine, the warmth of it through the jumpsuit. Why didn’t you move? You could have avoided the collision. Why hadn’t you shoved him off? Why did you hold on? Why did you hold him at all?
“Miscalculated.”
“Did you?”
Ryland’s face went warm.
It was nothing. Obviously it was nothing. He was a grown man and a respectable scientist. He had a PhD, for cripes' sake. It was nothing. It was three months of isolation and the biological imperative to be near another human being — that was all. The human body craved proximity. It was textbook. He could name six studies off the top of his head. It was all biology and psychology and every other ology in between.
Grace lasted precisely thirty minutes without seeing you.
He told himself he was hungry. The mess hall was a perfectly reasonable destination and had nothing to do with the fact that you were in it.
You were at the far end of the table, legs crossed at the ankle and floating slightly off the bench, stability so ingrained you probably didn't notice it anymore. You had a food pouch in one hand and your navy moleskine open in the other. There was a pen tucked behind your ear. Your eyes moved across whatever was on the page.
Grace pulled himself through the doorway and went to the food stores. The mess hall wasn't really a hall but another small room made to conserve space. It did the job, there was no reason to complain. He took his time selecting his meal, which wasn't much time at all as the selection wasn't broad. Even if it was the bagged version he had to eat due to microgravity, he settled on ramen. He always settled on ramen. He was beginning to suspect he'd liked ramen before all of this and simply couldn't remember.
The heating unit beeped. He collected his pouch and made his way to the table, hovering to the seat across from you, bearing the careful poise of a man who had spent the last half hour practicing exactly this. He did not bump into anything, which he considered a victory.
You looked up from your notebook. “Well, aren't you a fast learner?”
Grace tried to come up with something proud and snarky, but all he managed was a scoff. It didn't seem like your earlier moment bothered you as much as it bothered him. All the more reason to let it go, he thought.
He ate his space ramen. You read. The ship hummed around you; it sounded better than it had that morning. Acclimating, as you had called it.
There were still twenty hours left to kill.
“Hey,” you said.
Ryland's response was immediate. He whipped his head up. “Yes?”
“What do you miss most about Earth?”
He blinked at your question, not knowing what prompted it; or what to respond. “Miss? About Earth?”
A laugh sounded from your throat. “Yeah. You asked me last night.”
Grace's brows raised. “I did?”
“In the lab.” You tilted your head at him, grinning. “Well, you were half asleep.”
He stared at you. The memory wasn't there. He searched for it and found nothing, which was either a worrying side effect of the amnesia or he really was just semi-conscious at that point. “What did you say?”
“Nothing. I told you to go to bed.”
“Ah.” Grace nodded slowly. “Right.” He squeezed at his ramen bag. “Sorry about that.”
“Don't be. You were very sincere about it.” You watched him suffer for a moment, which you seemed to enjoy. Then you leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, and looked at him evenly. “So,” you said. “What do you miss most about Earth?”
Grace sighed as he thought. He made an offhand gesture, like he wasn't really thinking about it. Then his face stilled. “Teaching,” he heard himself say.
A vivid memory of his classroom brought itself forward. It wasn't a clear picture but a strong cluster of feelings, blurred and warm. When the light came in at that particular angle in the afternoon and turned everything amber, the squeak of marker against the whiteboard, the specific smell of the place — dry-erase ink, old paper, the faint scent of whatever the cafeteria was doing two hallways over. His desk in the front with its perpetual landslide of folders and permission slips, sentinelled by a mug of cooled coffee.
And the kids. He couldn't see their faces, but he could see their hands, small and eager, shooting up before he'd even finished the question. Some of them were so insistent they'd lift themselves half out of their seats, all for the effort of being chosen; of being heard.
Ryland's eyes looked distant. “I miss teaching.”
You watched him regain the thought. “What about it?” you prompted.
He didn't have an answer for that. But the way he smiled told you it wasn't something words could have explained anyway.
"Sounds like a nightmare," you said eventually. "Standing in front of a room full of kids for seven hours a day."
Grace laughed despite himself. "It was," he said. "But it was my nightmare, you know?" The small grin that followed was private. Like he was looking at something only he could see. "I wouldn't have traded it for anything.”
And yet he did.
Your eyes fell from the sentimental look on his face, to the golden patch sewn onto the breast pocket of his jumper. Wings, meant to be silver, already gold. It was standard issue in every way except one. That small, seemingly minuscule alteration made a pit in your stomach. His civilian patch would have been changed upon his return to Earth. But as that wasn’t going to happen, they’d skipped the ceremony and gave him the honor from the start. He was already a martyr; he just had to get on the ship.
Grace would never teach again. You felt yourself resisting the realization. He would never stand in front of a classroom, never sign another permission slip, never pinch the bridge of his nose at a PTA. The mission had taken his life from him. You thought back to the airlock, to Olesya’s funeral, and remembered the feeling of her cold hands. You thought of the photos pressed into her palm, the look on her father’s face as he hugged her with pride. He would never see her again either.
And then there was you — the ever-responsible captain, the ballast against the storm. Where were you in all of this? Why had it been you? Why had it been Ilyukhina; why had it been Grace? Good God, had you asked them? Had you stood in some sterile briefing room and looked them in the eyes as you asked them to die? You wanted to remember. Why couldn’t you remember?
Grace was still talking. He was telling you about an incident in the lab. One of his students’ projects had gone wrong, but the mistake was apparently so ridiculous that it amused the entire class.
You couldn’t name what you felt, but it was eating you whole. Sick, heavy pressure. Like drowning — like water rising in your lungs.
You looked at the golden wings of his patch. Blessed Saint Grace, on his way to his demise. Why did you have all this grief for him? Why were you suffocating in your guilt? Who was he to you? What had you done?
"—and the kid had the nerve to look me dead in the eye and say it was a controlled experiment," Grace finished, shaking his head. He looked at you, awaiting your reaction.
You smiled half a second too late.
Grace was quick to notice. "Hey." His voice shifted. "You alright?"
“Show me,” you heard yourself say.
Ryland tilted his head, confused. “What?”
“Teach me something. The way you used to. Tell me about astrophage; you’re the expert on that.”
Grace laughed. It was still nervous around the edges, but it had been so sweet and so warm that it seemed to light up the room. The aching in your chest eased.
“You’re messing with me,” he said. “You run this whole ship. You’re the pilot-commander — you’re probably leagues smarter than I am.”
You shook your head. “I know how to operate the ship. I got us here, but I’m not the appointed scientist. And everything I know about astrophage is relatively surface-level.”
Ryland smiled, defeated. Worryingly, it seemed that he could not say no to you.
You spent the rest of your afternoon cycle in the mess hall, floating loosely around the narrow table. It was easy for Grace to break through his reservations when he fell into a rhythm. His passion for sharing knowledge was clear, and it took you little to no effort to bring it out. He spoke confidently, eagerly, his hands moving between you to map out diagrams you couldn’t see.
At one point he had borrowed your moleskine notebook, flipping it open to find an empty page. He had moved from across the table to the spot beside you. Your shoulders bumped as you bent yourselves over his equations. He drew crude illustrations with a pencil: jagged cell membranes, looping arrows, energy conversion, rough formulas scrawled in the margins — all written in the chicken-scratch handwriting you now recognized so well. His brows furrowed as he wrote. He was looking at the math but you were looking at him.
He was explaining the specifics of the Petrova Line when he turned to you and paused. “You’re actually listening,” he said, almost surprised, a small, crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
“I am,” you replied quietly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Ryland held your gaze. “Any questions?”
You grinned. “None so far, Mr. Grace.”
You stayed like that for a while, daring not to keep your distance. You’d ask him a thing or two just to keep him talking, and he’d answer despite knowing it.
When he ran out of space to write in, he flipped the page of your notebook, only to be stopped by the familiar polaroid of himself that you had shown him around a week ago. Grace’s brows raised.
“Oh,” he said. “This is still here.”
You tilted your head. “Why wouldn’t it be?” You watched his expression. “It’s where I found it.”
Grace took the photo between his forefinger and thumb. He gave it another study, sighing at the absence of a memory to pair it with. When he looked at you, your eyes met. “What about you?” he asked.
“Me.”
“Yeah. What do you miss the most about Earth?”
You stared at him for a while. You weren’t able to answer him then, and you wondered if you could answer him now. “I don’t know,” you replied. Pencil shavings floated between you. You caught one before it could tangle itself in his hair.
Grace frowned. “No fair, I told you mine.”
You smiled. “No, like seriously. I don’t know. I can’t remember.” You hiked up your shoulders and gave him a look that said, ‘well, what can you do’? “I know the ship inside and out, I know how to run it blindfolded, I know every detail of what needs to be done. But for some reason, I can’t seem to remember anything prior.”
Grace’s eyes softened. “Oh.”
“I don’t have a lot to go with,” you continued. I didn’t seem to pack a lot of things with me. Maybe I’m just not the sentimental type.” You sighed a breath out your nose. “But I mean, I’ve got this letter from some guys back in the task force. They signed it, wished me well. There’s Olesya. I remember her. I don’t remember all of her, but I remember that we were friends.”
Grace turned to face you fully, brows knitted together as he listened.
“Then there’s nothing,” you told him. “If I think back to anything beyond that, there’s a whole lot of empty.” You rubbed the back of your neck, the gesture uncharacteristically uncertain. “Then, there’s you.”
Grace perked up. “Me?”
“I don't have vivid memories of you,” you said carefully. “Nothing concrete. There’s no specific moment I can point to and say — there, that's where we met, that's what we were.” You paused. “But something's there. I know it. Like a word on the tip of your tongue, you know?” Your eyes found his, searching with an expression so earnest that it left him stunned. “Do you… remember me?”
You looked so hopeful that it made Ryland’s stomach hurt. His fingers stilled against the edge of the table. He wanted, very much, to say yes. He searched for it through the fog of recovered memories, through the faces and names and fragments that had been returning to him in pieces. Nothing matched. He couldn’t find your face, nor your name, nor any semblance of a moment that might replicate or explain the way he was beginning to feel for you. He could only remember you from the moment he woke up. He could remember the relief that washed over him when he peered at your monitor and saw that your vital signs were stable. He remembered dragging his blankets and pillows over to your pod and watching you until his eyes grew too heavy to do so. You had brought him comfort since the moment you met. You continued to do so even then.
“I don’t…” He trailed off, choosing his words. “I don’t remember you from before. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” You nodded in a way that told him you’d anticipated his answer. “It’ll come back,” you said. “I know it will.”
And if it didn’t, well, what else was there to lose?
The alert came nineteen hours in. There was a single amber light blinking quietly in the upper left corner of the main panel. You had dozed off in your chair, one foot hooked under the console out of habit. You were awake before the second pulse. You sat up, causing your notebook to fling from your chest and drift away. You caught it without looking, already preoccupied by the alarm. The diagnostic was already running by the time your eyes found the screen. You pulled it up and scrolled through the output.
“What’s wrong, girl?” you mumbled under your breath.
The antenna array. Specifically, the relay coupling on the external mount of the Petrova scope's antenna array. Impact damage. A fragment from the debris field, probably no larger than your fist, had nicked it. The scope itself was fine. You checked if it could protract and retract as instructed, and it could. But without the antenna feeding it signal, it was a very expensive and completely useless piece of equipment.
You pulled up the external camera feed. The damage was visible even at this resolution. There was a clean gouge in the coupling housing, one of the mounting brackets bent at a concerning angle. You zoomed in. The bracket wasn't just bent, it was sheared almost completely through.
You sat back.
Behind you, the sound of someone pulling himself through the corridor hatch.
“Hey.” Grace's voice, careful and still sleep-rough. He'd been in the Immersion Node last time you'd checked. “Mary flagged something.” He floated to the threshold and stopped himself with a hand on the frame, reading your face before he read the screens. “What is it?”
You turned the monitor toward him.
He looked at it for a moment. Then at you. “Is that–?”
“The Petrova scope antenna.” You crossed your arms. “Something came through the debris field.”
Grace pushed off the frame and drifted closer, squinting at the feed. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was seeing it correctly, or if he knew the extent of the damage. He drew a conclusion from your expression. “That’s bad,” he said. “What do we do? It’s an antenna, so, can we reroute the signal or something?”
"No."
He looked at you.
“It's a physical component," you said. "On the exterior of the hull. There's no rerouting it.” You nodded at the screen. “Someone has to go out there and replace the coupler.”
“Someone,” Grace repeated.
“Me,” you clarified.
Grace's jaw tightened. He looked back at the monitor, frowning at the readings still scrolling in the sidebar. You watched him do the math you'd already done.
“Do you really have to–” he started.
“Yes. We need the scope. We didn't fly four light-years to sit in orbit and look at a star we can't measure.” You uncrossed your arms and pushed out of your chair.
“Wait, wait.” Grace followed you out, clumsy in his haste. His heart was pounding in his chest.
You’d pushed your way towards the suit lockers, which were at the forward end of the airlock. There was a narrow compartment lined with equipment mounts, tool bags, and the three EVA suits secured to the wall. Grace had always hated seeing them. He had always hated the fact that there were three. Yours was on the far left.
You pulled your jumpsuit off and stowed it in the designated slot. There was no fear nor urgency in your actions. The sequence was muscle memory by now. Cooling garment first, then the lower torso. One leg, then the other, the waist ring checked and locked in two practiced motions. You didn't think about any of it. Four missions had reduced the whole process to something your hands could do without consulting the rest of you. You'd suited up in worse conditions, worse stakes.
Grace made a worried sound.
You glanced at him.
He had his fist against his mouth, brows knitted together in obvious concern.
You turned back to the suit.
The hard upper torso was mounted to the wall at chest height. There was a rigid fiberglass shell housing the life support backpack, the display and control module, and the environmental systems that would keep you alive for the next several hours. You rose into it from below, threading your arms up through the sleeves, your head through the neck ring. The two halves of the suit came together. You reached back and felt for the closure mechanism and locked it. The suit sealed around you with a definitive click.
“You’ve done this before,” said Grace, which wasn't a question, but a way to reassure himself.
“Hundreds of times,” you confirmed.
“Right.” He uncrossed his arms only to cross them again.
You could see him worrying, still. “Parts inventory,” you said, without looking up from the waist ring. “Forward storage, third panel on the left. Relay coupling for the external antenna mount — it'll be in a flat yellow case.” You checked the seal with two fingers. “Grab it for me.”
Grace blinked, then straightened. “Yeah.” He looked as though he was regaining his composure. “Yeah, okay. Yellow case, third panel.”
“Third panel on the left.”
When he came back, he handed it over to you. You thanked him with a nod. You watched him hover there in the airlock doorway, yellow case delivered, hands now unoccupied and anxiously searching for something else to do. He was trying to keep his face neutral, and failing.
“Grace.”
He looked at you.
“I need you on the monitors while I'm out there.” Your voice was even. “Debris field readings, suit telemetry, hull pressure. If anything spikes, I need someone who can tell me before the suit does.”
He pointed at himself. “You want me watching the screens?”
“I need you watching the screens.” You picked up the helmet and held it between your arm and waist. “You see anything you don't like, you tell me immediately.”
“Right.” He was nodding then. “Yeah, okay. What am I looking for specifically? Like, pressure variance?” His brows raised. He was only then realizing that he knew what those words meant.
“Yeah. Mary will flag the obvious stuff but she's not always fast enough on the debris readings.” You paused. “I trust you to catch what she might miss.”
That last part might not have been necessary, (Mary would not miss,) but it landed where you intended it to.
“Okay.” He nodded once, decisive, a man on a mission. “Okay, yeah. I'll be on the monitors.”
He pushed off the doorframe and disappeared down the corridor toward the control room. You were about to put your helmet on when he came rushing back. He had kicked himself off the wall too hard and accidentally missed the doorway. Clumsily, he returned, hands braced against the frame.
“Be careful, Cap.” There was more than just worry in his eyes. He was looking at you with true, genuine fear. You’d think he was the one about to get out there. You couldn’t blame him; space was already a horrifying concept on its own. You couldn’t imagine how a civilian with no spacewalking experience felt.
You threw him a half-hearted salute. “Watch my six, sailor.”
Grace saluted back. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something more, but decided against it and left.
When he was gone, you wore your helmet and sealed the airlock.
It was, you thought, like handing a child a disconnected Xbox controller and watching them lean into the turns. He knew the ship well enough to read the basic outputs. Whether any of it would matter was another question. But he would be doing something. He would be occupied. And that was worth the small dishonesty of making it sound like a critical assignment rather than what it was — which was you finding him a safe place to put his worry while you went and did the part he couldn't help with.
The outer door opened, and you stepped off the edge.
Summary: When the Hail Mary reaches the halfway point to Tau Ceti, only two crew members remain: you, the mission's pilot-commander, and Ryland Grace, the chief scientist who doesn't remember being appointed chief scientist.
# # TAGS: Semi-Canon-Adjacent, Long Form, Male!Pilot Reader, Eventual Rocky (No Rocky Here Yet), Surprisingly Domestic Space Fluff, Ryland Falls First, Reader Falls Harder, Slowburn-ish, I'm Still Bad at Tags, Part 1 of ???
# # WARNINGS: Canon-typical Space Dread, Mentions of Dead Bodies, Mentions of Isolation, Nothing Too Crazy, Author is Nowhere Near An Astrophysicist And Most of the Science in This Fic was Either Googled or Ripped Directly From the Book
NOTES: A dash of book-canon here and there, some minor divergence from the film timeline. There are no specifications of reader's height nor form. Reader's pronouns are he/him. No use of 'Y/N'. 5.6k words.
“What’s two plus two?”
Thinking shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but the cold feminine voice — once it broke through the ringing in your ears — heralded a throbbing headache and an instant stinging behind your eyes. You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt pain like that. And to your concern, it didn’t seem like you remembered anything at all.
“What’s two plus two?”
You groaned. The second thing you identified was the desert that was your throat. You shifted in place, only to be restrained by both fatigue and what felt to be a myriad of plastic wires and tubes.
“What’s two plus two?” repeated the persistent voice. A machine’s, you deducted.
Though your tongue felt like a dry stone in your mouth, you felt your lips move. The action resulted in a hoarse voice that you later registered to be yours.
“F… Four.”
“Correct.”
You heard a shuffling beside you, like someone was trying to scurry away.
You groaned again. Your face was scrunched up into a pained frown. It took a worrying amount of effort to pry your eyes open. And when you did, it wasn’t much help. White blurriness blinded you and elicited a hiss.
“Eye movement detected. What’s the cube root of eight?” the machine asked.
As your vision and hearing properly adjusted, you caught sight of one robotic arm. It spun and whirred as it attempted to touch and pry at your body. You regained control of your head and neck, which was achieved by your evasion of its metal claw.
“What’s the cube root of eight?”
“Fuck. Off.”
“Incorrect. What’s the cube root of eight?”
After a few harsher blinks, your eyes seemed to return to their functional state. You breathed through your dry mouth as you observed the space around you. LED lights, cameras, more robot arms. A monitor next to your bunk began to beep as your heart rate elevated. You couldn’t recognize anything. And when you searched your mind for some semblance of a name, none made itself known.
The voice kept at it, desperate to know the cube root of eight. You were about to raise your hand to smack it away when another voice said,
“Just try to answer it. It’s not gonna stop until you do.”
Your breath hitched. That voice was no machine. It was entirely human, shy and hesitant and far away. You furrowed your brows. ‘What?’ you wanted to ask. Instead what came out was a confused,
“Huh?”
“What’s the cube root of eight?” The machine again.
You groaned. Though you felt like you’d just been run over by a semi-truck, the answer came easy to you.
“Two.”
The robotic hand backed off. The answer seemed to satisfy both the machine and your disorientation. For all the agonies your body housed, you felt the strength to sit up. It was exhausting to do so, but you managed. You raised your hand to touch your forehead. Tubes followed uncomfortably. You lifted your eyes and took the rest of the room in. It was as foreign as it was familiar.
In the corner, a man was on his knees, hiding behind a desk. You frowned as you made the mess of his sandy blond hair and bespectacled blue eyes. He looked ridiculous, cowering like you might get up and punch him.
“Are… Are you awake?” he asked.
You looked at yourself, at your half-dressed body, the machines and monitors you were hooked up to, then back at him.
“What’d’ythink?” Responding with more than one syllable was apparently difficult. Your words, though clearly sarcastic, came out slurred.
The stranger sighed in relief.
The rest of the process was odd and obtrusive, but you had managed to retain some of your dignity; which was a fragile thing in that cold and sterile room. The robotic arm continued its methodical work, its movements precise and impersonal as it detached the last of the monitoring straps from your chest.
The blond stranger — no longer hiding behind the desk — anxiously waited for the procedures to finish.
“What is your mission designation?” the synthetic voice asked.
You hesitated. The words felt slippery, buried under layers of drug-induced fog. Remembering proved troublesome, but an answer came regardless.
“Hail Mary… Pilot-Commander.”
The blond man gasped. You frowned at him, but returned your attention to the machine.
“Correct. What is the destination star system?”
“Tau… Ceti.” The name came slower that time. You could picture the star charts from training, the long elliptical transfer orbit, the Astrophage-fueled spin drive pushing you to a fraction of lightspeed. But the details felt distant, like someone else’s memory.
The arm retracted with a soft whir, leaving you floating in the gel residue. You gripped the edge of the bunk to steady yourself, muscles, which were impressively intact, protesting the sudden demand for coordination.
The stranger bit his fist. “Careful, careful!”
You scowled. “Who the hell are you?” It felt slightly easier to talk then. Your words were cohesive, but the corners of your mouth were still relatively numb.
His name was Ryland Grace, and he had little to no idea who he was, or why he was there.
“I woke up two weeks ago,” he said. “Same coma situation, only Armando wasn't as nice to me. And I didn't wake up as well as you did. God, I thought you were dead.” His voice cracked near the end, like he was on the verge of tears. You looked up at him to realize that he actually was. “I-I was just waiting for you to wake up. Your monitors were looking after your vitals and keeping you in the coma because your body wasn’t ready.” He sniffled. “At least that’s what it told me.”
Ryland Grace wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, clearly embarrassed by the display. His shoulders trembled once before he forced them still. In the dim med-bay lighting, the tears made his sharp features look younger, more vulnerable than the brilliant scientist you were slowly starting to remember from pre-launch briefings. You didn’t intend to look as indifferent as you did, but you felt too exhausted to sympathize, still slightly drowsy from your years of sleep.
Your eyes drifted past him to the floor beside your bunk, where a haphazard pile of spare blankets and a single pillow made for a makeshift bed. A small tablet lay nearby, its screen still glowing faintly with medical readouts. Next to it sat a half-empty water bottle and a crumpled wrapper from one of the emergency ration bars.
He noticed where your gaze had landed. He shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “Oh, that. Yeah… I wanted to make sure I’d be here the second something went wrong with your vitals. I’m not entirely sure what half of the charts mean, but I figured it was smarter to stay close in case the robot glitched or your readings spiked.”
Your brow twitched. “Are you the only one here?”
Grace nodded slowly.
That wasn’t right, you thought. He shouldn’t be the only one. Wasn’t there supposed to be more of you? Four? No, three? You looked at his tired eyes and saw the restless nights he’d spent staring at you, listening to the constant drone of your machines, uncertain if you would ever wake up. He was alone, and lightyears away from home. He must have been so afraid. You knew you would have been. Finally, an emotion other than tired confusion surfaced from your chest; guilt.
“Olesya.” The name left your lips before you could think of it.
Ryland caught his breath. He knew the name, too. Except he didn’t know it because he knew the woman it belonged to— he knew it because it was the name of the corpse he hadn’t yet moved from the airlock.
Sensations flooded you without warning, the sharp sound of her laugh burning the brightest. Olesya Ilyukhina was the chief engineer of the Hail Mary. She’d snuck three bottles of vodka into the ship. You had spent a summer in Russia. She’d attempted to sneak into the Kremlin. You kept her from getting arrested. The sudden wave of grief told you that you knew her well, but you hadn’t the memory to support it. You knew her, and now, she was gone.
You stayed seated on the edge of your bunk for a long time, head bowed, fingers pressed against your temples while the med-bay’s low lights hummed overhead.
“It’ll come back,” Grace told you. “It just takes a while.”
For all his worries, it was clear that he was relieved. He might have been stranded on a ship in space with no clear recollection beyond his name, but at least he was no longer alone.
And what a wonderful thing it was, not to be alone.
Your recovery lasted for a few days. A good percentage of your strength was impressively intact, and it was mostly just a matter of relearning how to have it. You walked (or climbed) the expanse of the ship, familiarizing yourself with the areas, a good exercise for both your mind and body. And when you knew you could move without the numbness in your joints, you set out to give Olesya a proper burial.
Olesya’s body had remained in the airlock since Ryland’s own awakening. The state of her face, the deep circles under her eyes, and the hollowness of her cheeks, told you that she’d been dead for quite some time. Her body could not survive. The experimental hibernation had always been a gamble, even for the rare individuals who carried the gene that made it possible in theory. For years, the ship’s medical system had kept her stable, suppressing her metabolism to a fraction of normal as the Hail Mary burned toward its destination. But somewhere along the way, her body began to fail in ways the automated systems could not correct. There was only fate to blame.
You cycled through the inner door without thought. The airlock was cramped, utilitarian in the way its walls lined with emergency EVA suits and tether lines. Olesya lay secured against the far bulkhead. You had dressed her in her uniform. You took her calloused hands, held them together, and pressed photos of her family into her palm. You kept one to remember her by: a polaroid picture of her 28th birthday. Cake had been smeared across her grinning face, her eyes bright with laughter. You tucked the photo into your breast pocket.
Ryland stood just a little ways beyond the archway, silent, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He feared to intrude, but then you invited him in. “She was your crewmate too,” you said, wiping a tear with your fist.
He took his place beside you, rueful.
You spoke no grand words, for there wasn’t any need to, and Olesya would have mocked you to death for ‘being such a cornball’. The memories of her that returned were enough: her laugh cutting through tension in the ready room, the way she’d sneak alcohol and call you “flyboy” with that sharp Russian edge. She had kept her promise to keep the ship singing if you kept it pointed true. Now it was your turn to send her on.
Together, you positioned her near the outer door. Ryland keyed in the sequence on the control panel. The inner door sealed with a heavy thunk. The airlock’s atmosphere vented in a controlled hiss, the sound fading to nothing as vacuum took hold. Through the small viewport, the stars waited, indifferent and eternal.
You gave the final command. The outer hatch slid open. Olesya drifted out slowly, pushed by the last puff of residual air, her shrouded form turning gently in the void. You watched until she became another point of light against the black.
Not even the worst medical-induced coma could take your intelligence from you, it seemed. While some memories were blurred, your skills came naturally. Instinctual, second-nature.
“This is the Control Room,” said Grace, who’d been trying not to appear obvious in his concerned hovering. He remembered how he felt the first few days since he’d woken up. He couldn’t fathom how you were moving so much.
You glanced at him with a quirked brow. “I know.”
You sat in the chair that was quite obviously yours. The ship lit up in response. ‘Pilot detected,’ it chirped. You leaned back and sighed. Even the arm rests seemed tailored to your size. It felt good to be there. Cohesive, in a way. Like sliding two puzzle pieces together. Finally, something unequivocally, and undeniably right.
And your memories did come back to you; better than Grace’s. It wasn’t perfect or entirely whole, but by the third day of your resurrection, you were showing him around. You walked Ryland through the control room, the lab module, and the narrow corridors, explaining redundancies and emergency procedures mostly just to hear them out loud— as though to check if it sounded right. The relief on Grace’s face was unmistakable. The tension in his shoulders eased with every system you named and every checklist you ran from memory. At least one of you knew what you were doing.
As Olesya was the engineer, you were the pilot; which left the role of scientist to Grace. You would have come to the conclusion regardless. He had an obvious knack for the field. And whenever he stood in the Lab, it felt as right as when you sat in the Control Room. Some things just happened to fit. But it took you a while to understand what to make of him. It felt odd that it appeared easier to regain memories of Olesya than it was of Grace. If the three of you were the designated crew for the Hail Mary, wouldn’t you have spent an ample amount of time pre-launch? The gap felt unsettlingly deliberate, and the thought of it often kept you awake.
There’d been other things you had to explain to him. He didn’t know how to access the ship’s confidential logs. Of course he had a passcode that would get him through, but he’d be damned if he could manage to remember it. The amnesia was normal, you assured him. Though it was slightly troublesome that it was taking him longer to recover. You gave him access to the specifics of the mission, the details of the Petrova Line, the trip to Tau Ceti, the need to understand what makes one star different from the rest. Ryland knew most of what you were telling him, but hearing it from another voice made it seem as though he was digesting it all over again.
“It just doesn’t feel right,” he said. “I’m not– I’m not that kind of scientist.”
You’d eat with him in the mess hall trying to resurrect his life on a small whiteboard. You wanted to remember him as much as he wanted to remember himself.
He told you the helpful details: he knew he was a school teacher, and that he had a PhD in molecular biology. He had bits and pieces of a woman named Eva Stratt. He knew the specifics of Astrophage. He knew the sun was dying, he knew the world was ending. And then there was the less helpful stuff: like his favorite icecream flavor, and why the Marvel Cinematic Universe should have stopped at Endgame, and how he ‘felt like a big Beatles guy’, which he’d topped off with a handful of fun scientific facts.
“Do you remember picking your shirts?” you asked him one simulated morning, ducked beneath one of the consoles and ensuring everything was operational. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around it. It’s the night before liftoff: you’re packing your things. You’re going to spend the next decade saving the universe and you think, hell yeah,these shirts will do.”
Ryland was drinking a cup of warm tea. He was sitting on the threshold that separated the Control Room from the corridor. “I don’t remember packing them,” he said. He looked down at the lame scientific pun printed across his chest. “But sadly, yes, these are very much my shirts.”
He liked having you around. He lingered in your space, finding excuses to sit on that same threshold or lean against the console while you ran diagnostics. His shoulders would loosen whenever you entered a room, like the simple sound of another human voice or another set of footsteps eased something tight in his chest. When a small alarm chirped (for something as minor as fluctuation in the thermal regulator,) he would whip his head toward you like a deer that heard a twig snap. It didn't matter if it was a weird noise, a loose panel, or a faint creak of the hull under deceleration thrust. His eyes would find yours every time. And in them, he'd search for the calm confirmation that it was nothing.
“Do we panic? Is that something we should be panicking over?”
“Even if a hole is blown through our fuel tanks, Dr. Grace, the last thing we should do is panic.”
You found it amusing. You were fairly certain that he was at least a little bit smarter than you. Yet there he was, the man who named and bred the star-eaters, looking to the pilot for reassurance over a rattling bolt.
You had a week before your arrival to Tau Ceti. There was time to kill.
You'd explored and catalogued every nook and cranny of the ship. Which, ideally, you would have recognized from the start. But with the amnesia you were still actively recovering from, you couldn't risk not relearning the Hail Mary like a forgotten mother tongue.
In your efforts, you discovered a couple of things. One: that Eva Stratt had somehow managed to supply the ship with an impossible amount of media. (from music, to films, to games, to electronic novels.) Two: that you had some involvement in the engineering of the ship itself. (Your name was credited on the lower-right portion of the main blueprint.) And three, that you had a polaroid of Ryland Grace wedged between one of your notebooks. The latter, you told him over dinner.
Ryland choked on his ramen, which he’d been having for the third night in a row. “You what?”
“Yeah, right here.” With no elevated emotion, you placed the photo on the metal table. “That’s you, isn’t it?”
Slightly creased in one corner, the polaroid was of a charmingly disheveled Ryland Grace, dressed in a lab coat over a faded university shirt, goggles pushed haphazardly against his hair. His glasses hung in a uniquely awkward way, clinging to his ear and jaw. He wasn’t looking at the camera and was instead beaming at the person behind it. It was candid and blurred in a way that made its edges soft; like it was taken without thought nor warning. He seemed to have been distracted from peering at a microscope. The photo caught him mid-smile.
Ryland’s cheeks turned pink. He had never seen a picture of him like that in his entire life. “W-Where did you say you found it?”
You showed him your notebook, that battered old thing. You raised it up like you were presenting your license to a patrolling officer. It was a navy-blue moleskine with the NASA logo embossed on the cover. It was decorated with a few tattered stickers of your favorite band. There was no one reason you kept it. Some pages had aerodynamic computations while others had your grocery lists. It seemed you had it for anything.
Ryland put his ramen cup down. “And what page was it on?”
You shrugged. You flipped it open, pages fluttering until your thumb pressed to a stop. You turned the notebook towards him to show a spread of what looked like an engine. It was covered in your handwriting, words and numbers scribbled about. It was an early concept of the ship’s cable separation system— which was the mechanism that allowed the upper section to detach from the fuel module and spin on Zylon tethers for centrifugal gravity. But it might as well have been written in Chinese for Ryland. And to his surprise there actually was some Chinese text in there.
“Huh.” Grace sheepishly scratched the back of his head. “So you've got a polaroid of me bookmarked on some sort of astrodynamic floor plan… why?”
You shrugged again, snapping the notebook shut. “Beats me, Doc.”
Grace cleared his throat. “You… don't remember taking the picture?”
“No.”
“Maybe we're closer than we remember.”
“Maybe.” You sat across from him. You tilted your head at his nervous expression. “Maybe you asked me to hold onto it.”
“Hold onto what?”
“The picture.”
“Oh.” He nodded. “Why would I do that?”
You shrugged a third time. “It's a good picture.”
A second whiteboard was born that day. It accompanied Grace's, housing its own questions, bulleted by fragmented facts. It was clear that there were plenty of things you were yet to remember yourself. You knew the flesh of things, the shape of them, but you couldn't see the bones. You'd spend hours staring at the board, chewing on the cap of your marker as though you could will those missing memories to return.
“Any luck over there?” You peered over to Grace's side of the room. His was messier than yours.
He whipped his head around so fast that his chair spun a little. “Huh? Oh. No, just the usual.”
You leaned over to catch a glimpse of his whiteboard. You'd unintentionally grown familiar of his handwriting. He had written questions about who you might be to him. He'd listed the possibilities in red ink:
Friend?
Neighbor?
Labmates?
Hung out with on Taskforce?
Always known as crewmate?
Then, at the very bottom, faint and hidden beneath a thin layer of erased ink, you could make out the ghostly outline of the word:
Boyfriend?
You turned back to your own board and smiled.
“Uh, let's try this.” Grace clapped his hands once. “How ‘bout we just throw rapid-fire questions at each other and see how well we can answer them? Theoretically that should jog our memories.”
You nodded your head. It beat staring at a wall. “Alright.”
Grace grinned. He didn't expect you to agree. “Okay, uh– I'll go first: where'd you grow up?”
You took a slow breath in. Your eyes narrowed like you were trying to see something far away. “Too long ago, can't remember.”
“Oh, sorry.” Grace nodded. “Okay, what about where you lived? Before launch, I mean.”
“I moved around a lot.” The faint image of bags and suitcases fluttered in your mind. Five different house keys, seven different addresses. “I went where the work took me.”
Grace raised his brows. “Okay. Good. That's something.”
You made a sound between a scoff and a laugh. “Alright, MacGyver. Your turn. Where'd you teach?”
He tapped the top of his whiteboard with his pen. “Grover Cleveland Middle School. Remembered that a little while back.”
You whistled. “Not bad.”
“Hold your applause. Where'd you graduate?”
You leaned back, arms crossed over your chest. “You're giving me the hard ones.”
Grace laughed at the accusation. “Am not!”
“I wanna say… MIT.”
“Is that a guess?”
“I'm saying what feels right. Do you play any sports?”
“No, and I don't need to be recovering from amnesia to know that.”
Your questions went on, quick exchanges tossed back and forth while you worked, ate, or sat in the dimmed mess hall. Some were easier to answer than others, some made your head hurt if you thought about it too long. But for what it was worth, it did help. Being prompted to think about things acted as a sort of trigger. It didn't matter how mundane. Were you a morning person or a night person? What was your favorite food? Favorite color? What shows did you like? What books did you read? Were you allergic to anything? Did you like coffee or tea? It went on for days.
“What do you miss most about Earth?” Grace's voice was soft and tired, muffled by the arm he leaned his cheek against. He was slumped over a table. You had accompanied him in the lab. He said he wanted to familiarize himself with the equipment.
You hadn't caught his question right away. You were leaning on the doorway, staring at one of the viewports. It was the night before your arrival to Tau Ceti and you were running calculations in your mind. “What?”
“Miss most about Earth,” he repeated. His eyes were closed.
You smiled. You thought long and hard for an answer, rummaging through memories as though you were searching for a wrench in a tool drawer. None came up.
“I think you should clock out, Grace.”
He hummed and mumbled what might have been a protest, but got up and dragged his feet back to your dormitory anyway.
You didn't have the luxury of getting your own rooms. The shared sleeping area was made to be efficient with space. With Ilyukhina's quarters vacant, you and Grace had three bunks between you. There was some privacy to spare, but it wasn’t often that you were present in your dorm together. The two of you slept in shifts, knowing it would be better if one of you was awake and could easily act on an issue.
“Good night, Captain.”
“Good night, Doctor.”
You spent the rest of the evening in the Immersion Node. It was a room of average size, wrapped in large LED screens that showed you virtually anything you could come up with. Grace had taken upon calling it the Don't Go Crazy Room, which was technically what it was. He spent more time in there than you did. He seemed particularly fond of the beach scene.
But you, you missed the fields.
The screens, in all their artificial brightness, projected a warm rural afternoon. A soft breeze passed over a long expanse of wheat. It didn't look like it would take long before they were ready to harvest. Clouds speckled the bright blue sky, moving in a gentle crawl, obedient to the direction of the wind. Your chest felt heavy. There was a lump in your throat. You took a deep breath. You sat on the ground with one knee propped up, your wrist resting against it.
When you woke, the field was gone. You opened your eyes leaning against one of the screen-walls. There was a sign blinking at you. Warning: Engine Cutoff. Action Needed.
“Cap!” It was Grace's voice. He was shaking you awake. His hair was a tousled mess and it looked like he'd just gotten up, too. “She's counting down!”
You shook your head. “What?”
“Mary! She's counting down! There's something about the engine shutting off? What do we do?!”
His frantic questions did not go well with Mary's cold and mechanical counting. You got up, wiping your eyes with your thumb and forefinger. Grace followed you with clumsy speed. You climbed up to the Control Room, where you sat in your seat, checking the screens.
“Ten, nine, eight… Pilot detected… seven, six…”
Your brows furrowed in focus. Grace anxiously took the seat next to yours, watching your face, waiting for you to give him permission to panic. “What's gonna happen at zero?”
“Calm down, this is supposed to happen. We're approaching Tau Ceti's orbit and the engine is about to stop.”
“W-What do I do?”
“You give me a minute to think is what you do.” You frowned at one of the gauges. “I'm making sure everything's in optimal condition. Sit tight, Grace.”
He did not sit tight. In fact, he had been freaking out so much that he didn't notice you buckle your seatbelt in. “I just feel like we should be–” Mary stopped talking. The counter had finished. There was a noticeable absence in the ship, like a fan had been turned off. The silence only scared him more. “Okay, what's–”
“You are now orbiting Tau Ceti.”
Grace started floating. He squealed an impressively high-pitched scream and started floating. He grabbed the closest thing he could, which had been the backrest of his seat, but his grip loosened and he was wriggling on the ceiling. The Control Room was thankfully small, and there were not many places he could float off to, but there were plenty of buttons for him to accidentally press.
“Grace. Alright– Grace, calm down.”
“What the heck! What the fudging heck!”
“Give– stop that. Look, breathe. Give me your hand–”
He managed to get himself spinning somehow. He'd kicked a stray pack of peanuts off somewhere and he was hovering further away from you. You clicked your seatbelt off, shaking your head. Grace helplessly called for your name. You pushed off your chair. You caught him, miraculously. But gravity was a tricky thing and the force sent you both spinning for a while. Like a pair of dancers on a music box. Grace clung onto you. He buried his face in your neck as you used your arm to brace yourself against one of the control panels.
“We trained for this,” you grumbled, straining to keep yourselves steady.
“I don't remember that!” His legs were floating up behind him, dragging you both. One of his knees bumped your thigh, then his elbow caught you in the ribs. He immediately tried to apologize and only made it worse by pushing off you too hard, sending both of you drifting sideways in a slow, lazy spin.
“God–” You were getting frustrated. “Grace!”
“I’m sorry, I'm sorry!” He yelped when his back bumped gently against the ceiling. “Mary, turn gravity back on!”
“Request unclear.”
“What? I want down!”
You managed to hook one foot under a handrail and pulled both of you closer to the console. You had bunched up a fistful of his shirt and grabbed him towards you. The motion swung Grace around and he ended up facing you, chest to chest, his nose only inches from yours. His blue eyes went wide.
“You’re doing great,” you said dryly, one arm looped around his waist to keep him from drifting away again.
“I don't appreciate the sarcasm,” he muttered, but his grip on your jumpsuit tightened anyway.
Grace swallowed thickly. There was barely any distance between you by then. He could feel the rising and falling of your chest. Were his ears getting hot? When was the last time he had gotten this close to anyone? It was a jarring feeling and an explosion of sensations. Grace didn't dare name them.
You braced your other arm against the panel and gently pushed off, guiding both of you back toward the pilot’s seat in a slow, drifting arc. Ryland’s legs kept trying to find purchase and only succeeded in tangling with yours. At one point his knee bumped your hip and he apologized so sincerely you almost laughed again.
“I'm gonna sit you down now,” you whispered, for he was so close that there was no need to raise your voice. You were unaware of the chill it sent down his spine.
You turned so that he was beneath you as you floated down. You sat him on his chair, one hand holding his shoulder as the other strapped his seatbelt in. Your eyes were focused on locking the buckles, but Grace was looking directly at your face. Your knee bumped his thigh as you anchored your foot against the deck to keep from drifting away. And when your hands snaked to the back of his waist to secure the strap, his breath hitched.
“Uh.” Grace blinked. He was safe in his seat then, no longer floating. To his horror, he was still holding your shoulders. “Thank you, Captain.”
You laughed. His heart stuttered. “Hopefully that pre-launch training kicks in sometime soon.”
Grace laughed too, but it was soft and nervous. He moved his hands from your shoulders to the armrests of his seat. “Yeah, I hope so.” He cleared his throat. He watched you move to buckle yourself into your chair with ease. “Can we turn the gravity back on?”
Your eyes were on the monitor. Your hands glided across the haptic interface, checking the parameters, one eye on readouts. The ship was still settling into its new path around Tau Ceti, the big main screen showing the slow, graceful curve of the planet below.
“Gravity's not something you turn on,” you said. Your tone was calm again and it soothed him. “We’re in microgravity now because the main drive cut out for orbital insertion. The ship has a centrifuge mechanism, but we only use that when we need stable conditions for lab work. And we need to conserve energy.”
You glanced over at Grace, then threw him a smile. “Besides,” you added, returning your attention to the panel as another status light blinked green, “we’re still adjusting to the new orbit. Spinning the whole section right now would throw off the stabilization thrusters. Give it a few hours. You’ll get used to floating.”
Grace let out a shaky breath and tried to nod, but the motion only made him drift a little in the harness. He caught himself on the armrest, ears flushing darker. “Right. Centrifuge. Cables. Lab work. Got it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think I do remember something about a centrifuge, actually. Did you know they used it to make butter in the Civil War?”
You laughed again, which pleased him. And for the shortest while, he thought dying in space might not be as bad as he thought.
Quick Disclaimer: @dumbbitchenergy17 has a series of Father Figure! Mandalorian that is also called Clan of Three. Our series are not related, but you should totally check her work out! It's super well done, so if you want the masterlist, click here.
Book 1:
Follows the events of Season One
Prologue: The Incident
Chapter One: The Assets
Chapter Two: The Mudhorn
Chapter Three: The Decision
Chapter Four: The Escape
Chapter Five: The Farm
Chapter Six: The AT-ST
Chapter Seven: The Newby
Chapter Eight: The Assassin
Chapter Nine: The Team
Chapter Ten: The Cell
Chapter Eleven: The Scuffle
Chapter Twelve: The Offer
Chapter Thirteen: The Bait
Chapter Fourteen: The Moff
Chapter Fifteen: The Smith
Chapter Sixteen: The Survivor
Book 2:
Follows the events of Season Two and The Book of Boba Fett Season One
Reader insert (trans male) for season 5 episode 3 of Inside No. 9: Love's Greatest Adventure, Trevor and Julia's youngest, (reader), witnesses the events of December 9th and struggles with keeping it to himself.
A/N:
The coastal systems flashcard idea came from Quizlet (shout out to the flashcard creators). This is the first time I’ve written for inside number 9, so hopefully it’s okay :)
Also on AO3 :)
1st of December
The car braked out of nowhere, your Uncle Al hitting the brakes from the passenger seat of his learner car. You feel the impact as the car slams into the one in front. You cough, the collision wasn't hard enough for the airbags to deploy, but hard enough for you to smack into the steering wheel. You look to your uncle when he places a hand on your shoulder.
"You 'lright?" He asked and you give a quick nod.
"Are you?" You ignore the slight shake in your voice.
"I'm alright, kid." He answers. You look back out the windscreen, half of the screen blocked by the crumpled bonnet. Fuck.
You turn back to your uncle, "Uncle Al, I'm so sorry-"
"Don't worry lad," He replies, "It's fixable. Now, what do we need to do?"
Trust your Uncle Al to turn it into a teachable moment. "Oh, um, exchange details. So name, licence number, insurance?"
He nods, "And number plate and car details." He says. "You stay here while I sort that out, okay? I'll only be a few minutes."
"Alright." Your voice is quiet, dread pooling in your stomach. There was no way that this would turn out okay. Either the guy who's car you crashed into would kill you, or your parents would. It was a lose lose situation.
Eventually, your uncle joins you back in the car. "Please don't tell my parents." You say, voice quiet. "I will tell them, I just- maybe not as soon as I get home."
Uncle Al gives a small nod. "Okay, but promise me you will tell them."
"Cross my heart."
9th of December
It was your own fault for bunking and choosing to just skip geography and head back home really. If you weren’t in then you wouldn’t have heard it, wouldn’t have known, and would have been able to live in ignorant bliss. But no, geography was just too painful to sit through. What with Mrs Myers going on about rivers and Daniel from your form sat directly behind you, you would literally rather be anywhere else than there. Normally, you liked Geography, at least enough to do it as an A-Level anyway. But you only had so much will power and today, there was not enough to deal with Daniel. So here you were, at home, in your room trying to at least teach yourself a little bit of geography from your textbook. Praying that your parents wouldn't come home early, or that the neighbours didn't see you come in and snitch on you. Mr Johnson would definitely snitch if he had seen anything.
You made your way through your homework, when that was done (you generally kept on top of it so there wasn't much for you to do), you grabbed your geography textbook and began flicking through that. You take a break when you’ve gone through the chapter, looking around your room. You couldn’t help but be tempted to just take a nap. Instead, you grab your set of flashcards on
At about half two you heard your dad come in and knew you were screwed, now you were going to have to figure out a way to sneak back out and then ‘arrive home’ when you’d usually get back from school. It was a little after that when you heard the back door, and then the shouting began. You recognised your dad's voice instantly, followed by what sounded suspiciously like your brother. You start making your way downstairs, no longer concerned about the grounding you were most likely going to get when your dad realised that you'd bunked. A loud yell sounded through the hall from the kitchen and your eyes widened, your pace quickening to a run.
“Dad?!” You ran into the kitchen, just as your brother dealt a punch to your dad’s face. “Patrick! What the fuck?!” No longer caring about the grounding, you race into the room. Patrick stepped back from your dad, eyes flicking to you briefly before he ran past you and out the back door.
“(Y/N)-” Your head snapped to your dad, immediately trying to help him up.
“Dad? Are you alright?”
“I’m good kid,” His voice was quiet but pain-filled. “I think my arm’s broken.”
You risked a look at his arm, seeing the way it bent unnaturally, before nodding. “Yeah, me too.” You said. “Hospital?”
“Hospital.” Your dad nodded. “How’s your drivin’?”
“Still shit,” You answered, “Uncle Al let me drive for ten minutes last time before he made me pull over though,”
Your dad sighed for a moment, “Alright. Practice makes perfect, come on.”
Half an hour later and the scariest drive of your life, you both arrived at A&E, your dad turned to you when he had been checked in and found seats.
“If your mother asks, I drove home from work with my arm like this and tried to ignore it, saw you bunk, and made you drive me.”
“Dad-”
“Promise me, (Y/N).” His voice firm, “I don’t want your mum knowing about this Or anyone.”
“You mean how Patrick when mental and nearly beat the shit out of you-”
“Oi, that’s enough.”
“He only stopped because I walked into the room-”
“That’s enough.”
You bit your tongue, despite having a lot more to say. It probably wasn’t the time or the place.
“And you're grounded for bunking.”
“But-”
“No, that’s that.”
An hour or so later, your dad’s phone rings. He gives a pointed look before answering it. You knew it was your mum almost instantly. Listening to the story he feeds her you clench your jaw. The call lasts a few minutes before he turns to you.
“Your mum’s picking us up,” He said. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but remember what I said.”
“You always said it’s bad to lie.” You quip and your dad sighs.
“I’m trying to stop her from hurting.”
“She’ll still be hurt. Especially when she eventually finds out.” You said, “Mum always finds out when we lie.”
You dad sighs, giving a nod. “I’m hoping she doesn’t find out until at least after Christmas.”
13th of December
A few days later, your Uncle Al came with Mia after her driving lesson. “How’d it go?” You asked, making her way up the stairs.
“Let’s just say I’m a better driver than you,” Mia laughed as she walked past. You snorted, she wasn’t exactly wrong.
You made your way into the kitchen, all this homework was making you fancy a brew.
“Hey Uncle Al,” You chimed, walking into the kitchen. “Dad told you about his arm yet? He keeps going on about it.”
Your Uncle Al huffed a laugh.
“Oi-” You snort, your dad gently kicking your leg.
“Cheeky git.” He warned with a small smile.
You shot him a grin, “I’m glad you’re alright though dad,” You said, “But you do keep going on about it.”
“Hey, that ladder could have killed me you know-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” You dismissed with a wave of your hand, trying to keep up the pretence that everything was okay. That your brother hadn’t broken your dad’s arm. You wanted to yell at him, tell him that this wasn’t some joke. That clearly Patrick needed some help. “Any of you want a brew?”
“I could go for one,” Uncle Al agreed, your dad nodding along.
“So when’s your next lesson then, (Y/N)?” Your dad turned to you.
“It sounds like you want me to get both me and Uncle Al killed,” You joked.
“You’re getting better.” Uncle Al commented, reaching across to flick the kettle on as you grabbed the cups from the cupboard, whacking a tea bag in each.
“Marginally.” You corrected. “I still drive like an eighty year old woman with no eyesight.”
“You’re still getting better.” Uncle Al replied, “If it helps, from where I am, it looks like a confidence thing.”
“That still doesn’t help me,” You commented.
“But it means that practice will.” Uncle Al commented. There’s a moment of silence, “Your dad mentioned that you’re still having trouble with that Daniel kid.”
“Everyone’s having trouble with Daniel.” You stated, “He’s a dick.”
“Language,” Your dad mumbled half-heartedly.
“It’s true.”
“I know,” Your dad responded, taking a sip from his cup.
15th of December
“Your sister has something important to tell you,” Your mum chimed as you entered the kitchen.
“Yeah?” You asked, heading over to the fridge to rummage for food. While waiting for the news, you nodded at your uncle in greeting.
“I passed my driving test!” Mia exclaimed and you cheered.
“Ay! Well done!” You said, grabbing a chocolate bar from the fridge before turning to your parents. “Does that mean I don’t have to learn to drive now?”
“Er, no.” Your dad huffed a laugh. “It means you get twice as many lessons with your uncle.”
You groaned yet again, “No offence Uncle Al.”
Your uncle rolled his eyes with a small laugh, “None taken.” He replied, "You just need more confidence."
"Or, and hear me out, a free bus pass." You said, "And then, none of us will have this worry."
Mia laughed, grabbing the chocolate bar from your hands, and biting into it. "Stop being a wimp." She said.
"I'm not-"
Your Uncle Al sighed slightly, "He had his confidence knocked back a few lessons ago, but he's getting there."
"Uncle Al-" You saw the frown that immediately covered your parents' faces and knew this wasn't going to go well.
Realisation flashes over your Uncle's face as he turns to you. "You said you told them."
"I was going to." You grumbled, folding your arms against your chest.
"Tell us what?" Your dad asks. Uncle Al turns to his brother.
"We got into a little accident in our lesson last week," When both of your parents go to speak, he raises his hand. "It wasn't bad, but it shook him slightly. Knocked his confidence back a fair chunk."
"Was that why you had to replace the bonnet?" Trevor asked, looking at his younger brother.
Alex sighed, "Yes," He answered, watching as you shrunk into yourself slightly.
16th of December
You huffed a laugh, shifting your weight from foot to foot as you all stood trying to untangle the lights. Hearing Connor’s exclamation of excitement seeing his dad. You couldn’t help but stand up slightly straighter, sobering up. Your dad shot you a look, warning you not to say anything.
“Why didn’t you ring us?” Your dad asked, approaching Patrick.
“I just- I lost my phone dad.” He said, you could hear the regret in his voice and part of you wanted to forgive him for it all, hearing the sorrow. Until the blue of your dad’s cast catches your eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, don’t be daft, I’m glad you’ve come.” Your dad’s voice is soft and you know he’s already forgiven him.
You listen as everyone greets Patrick, as Connor shows him the Christmas card he made, as your mum made a fuss.
“You ‘lright (D/N),” Patrick asked.
“How many times? It’s (Y/N).” You rolled your eyes.
“Sorry, (Y/N), it’s difficult-”
“Yeah ‘cause you’re never fucking here. Too busy shooting up.” You glare, taking your mug and leaving the room.
“(Y/N)-!” Your mum shouted after you.
“It’s alright mum, leave it.” You heard Patrick mumble and you fight the urge to go back and give him what for.
21st of December
Your brother had been home for a few days now and you were torn between ecstatic that your brother was home and fuming that your mum still didn’t know that it was him that broke your dad’s arm. It was strange with Patrick back in the house, it felt like it threw the atmosphere off.
“Go on then,” Uncle Al said, turning to you. “Out with it.”
“Out with what?” You asked, taking a sip of your tea to avoid actually having to speak.
“What’s bothering you?”
You’re silent for a moment, you weren’t supposed to tell anyone, your dad had been crystal clear about that. You were supposed to tell no one. You sigh, shifting in your seat.
“Is that Daniel kid still giving you a hard time?” Your uncle asked, gently lifting his tea from the table.
“Daniel’s a dick, he’s always giving everyone a hard time.” You resort and Uncle Al nods.
“Okay, so not that.” Uncle Al said with a nod. You stared down at your tea, eyes flicking up for a moment of silence. “You can tell me anything you know.”
It was slowly eating you up, keeping this all a secret. You wanted nothing more than to tell someone, it was hard acting as if everything was okay, that your dad had fallen off a ladder, that nothing more had happened.
“It’s about dad,” You said, shifting to turn to your uncle, eyes flicking to the door to make sure no one was around before looking back to your tea.
“What about him?”
“You know he broke his arm?”
“Yeah,” Uncle Al nodded, “I’ve noticed.”
You took a breath, “He didn’t fall off a ladder.”
“What?” Uncle Al shook his head slightly, “What do you mean? Of course he did-”
“No, it happened at home.” You said. “I was bunking and walked back home. And I heard dad come in so I stayed in my room- because he’d ground me for life if he found out I was bunking. And then I heard the backdoor open and then shouting.”
Uncle Al leaned forward, the creases on his forehead becoming pronounced as he frowned. “What happened?”
“I ran downstairs and saw Patrick hitting dad. When he heard me come downstairs he ran off.” You said, “He, er, took the Christmas money mum saved and left, but he broke Dad’s arm and gave him the black eye.”
“What?”
You nodded, “Yeah.” You swallowed. “Don’t tell dad I told you, please?”
You watched your uncle sigh, placing his mug back on the table. “(Y/N)-”
“Uncle Al, please-”
You watched your uncle struggle with this information for a moment, “(Y/N), this is serious.”
“I know.” You replied, “Dad told me not to say anything, he doesn’t want mum knowing.”
Your uncle drags a hand over his face, looking up when footsteps walk into the room. Your eyes widen seeing your dad. “Dad-” You said sat up straight, “I’m sorry, I had to tell someone-”
“It’s alright lad,” Your dad gave a strained smile as he made his way into the room. “The truth always comes out anyway.”
You give a small nod, “Still.”
You bite the inside of your cheek at the silence, waiting for either your uncle or dad to say something.
Your dad turned to Uncle Al, “So Jules and I wanted to know if you were coming round for Christmas?”
“Yeah, go on then,” Uncle Al said.
“You need to be round bright and early then, Connor says he’s waking up at five.”
You groaned, turning to your dad, “Five?” You asked, “God, I’ll die if I wake up that early!”
“You’re just going to have to cope, I’m afraid.” Your dad gave a laugh before looking back to his brother. “You’re more than welcome to stay the night on Christmas Eve if you want.”
Eyes flicking back to Uncle Al, you wait for his answer. “Only if it’s alright with Jules.”
“She suggested it,” Your dad said as he sat down, turning to you. “You need to talk to your brother, to sort this out.” When you go to protest, he continues, “I’ve forgiven him, I’ve moved on. You need to do the same.”
You look at your dad for a moment before sighing. “Fine,” You reluctantly agreed, “But only when Connor’s gone to bed.”
Your dad gave a soft nod. “That’s probably a good idea.”
You leant back against the couch, taking a sip from your tea. You’d just have to find a way to forgive your brother then, it would seem.
