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:)
“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.
Just friends.
