i know i said id do it but between this cultural funeral coming up and doing some personal system work i haven’t gotten around to doing it but i will eventually get to it
life happens but im more so focused on personal matters rather than online stuff
just saw another writer on here say their fics were ‘heavily inspired’ by c.ai…so let me be clear
using c.ai does not make you better or any different than other ai users. using c.ai is just as bad as using any other sort of ai. you cannot be anti generative ai and still use c.ai.
as a writer who has had their work stolen and put through c.ai multiple times, it’s very weird to be using a platform that basically encourages theft to ‘heavily inspire’ your writing
this blog is free from all uses of AI—and I cannot believe this needs to be clarified—but that includes c.ai. i have never and will never use ai to come up with, inspire or god forbid, actually write for me.
there are no ethical uses of generative ai. ai and ai users are not welcome on my page.
-> gn! reader, slight possessiveness, written with re4! leon in mind but could be any version
Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who has basically moved in with you. All of his things are at your place, a toothbrush in your bathroom and his clothes in your closet.
He sleeps better when you’re there, it’s not his fault. Having you curled up in his amrs, the steady hum of your breathing, just makes it so much easier for him to fight through the nightmares and drift off peacefully
Overprotective boyfriend! Leonwho teaches you how to shoot, who brings you down to the range with him every weekend and isn’t satisfied until you’ve dumped an entire mag into the target.
Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who turns into the clingiest person alive around you. He always has your hand in his, you sitting in his lap, his arms wrapped around you. Something about holding you has become so soothing to him, he can’t help it
Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who knows all of your friends by name, who has their cars and license plates and the name of their partners all written down, just in case It makes it easier for him to keep up with your drama, too.
Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who loves when you wear his clothes, who thinks it’s the cutest thing in the world when he sees you strutting around in one of his old t-shirts, or when you go out for a coffee run in a pair of his sweats.
It’s like staking his claim on you in a way, too. He even encourages it, going as far to leave out some of his clothes for you before he has to head out on a mission, laying them out on the bed with a note.
Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who calls you periodically throughout the day. He says it’s just because he missed you but part of you knows it’s to check in on you, too, like some part of him can’t be reassured you’re okay until he hears your voice
Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who has your location and sometimes just…stares at it. That’s all. He’ll look at the little dot pinging where you are, showing you at home or work or wherever else you frequent and try to reassure himself that you’re okay
Overprotective boyfriend! Leon who your friends adore, who always gets invited on your girls nights out. He’s the designated bag holder, the drink watcher, you name it. Your friends all joke that he’s like your own personal bodyguard, and in some ways, he kind of is.
resident evil masterlist | navigation
thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
-> gn! reader, slight possessiveness, chris being chris, been replaying re5 and he's rotting my brain
Overprotective boyfriend! Chriswho has a million codewords and protocols for everything, shooting you a quick check-in text throughout the day.
Even when he’s gone on missions, he makes sure to check-in when he can, waiting for your “All green” text to come through before he’s able to move on and think about the next thing.
Overprotective boyfriend! Chris who sleeps entirely curled around you, the broadness of his chest swallowing you whole and keeping you tethered to him the entire night. Any tiny shift in your breathing or movement wakes him up, eyes snapping open like he’s been awake the whole night.
And for forbid you have to get up to pee.
He’ll catch you before you even make it to the edge of the bed, blinking tiredly into the night, “where ya going?”
Overprotective boyfriend! Chris who loves the friendship you have with Claire, who’s always encouraging you to make plans with her because if he can’t be there to take care of you guys, he knows damn well you’ll take care of each other
Overprotective boyfriend! Chris who teaches you hand to hand, guiding your body to hit the punching bag, letting you get a few good shots on him before he takes you down to the mat and makes you try again
He’ll have you pinned beneath him, a wrist in either hand, and lean down to kiss you. “Nice try, sweetheart.”
Overprotective boyfriend! Chris who always has a hand on you in public, whether he’s holding your hand or has his on the small of your back. He loves when you grab onto his bicep or link arms with him, tugging him along after you
Overprotective boyfriend! Chris who definitely has your location on his phone, checking on it throughout the day. If you don't answer him for a while, that's the first thing he looks at, usually finding you're just at home (napping, most likely)
Overprotective boyfriend! Chris who doesn’t care about silly things like how you dress or who you talk to—he can fight, after all. It's not a crime for you to look so damn good, anyway, but it is criminal that other people try to stare at you...
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
todays edition of “there’s no canucks hockey for 2 weeks so wtf do we do” is a clip of the sedins being The Sedins™️ and freaking out the guy asking them a tie-breaking trivia question:
hi hello! you’re probably noticing a lack of posts on this blog but don’t worry! i just wasn’t expecting much since the canucks aren’t in playoffs but holy shit.
with the promotion of the sedins to co-presidents, im going to be doing a complete blog retheme. please be patient with me on this journey since there’s a lot of stuff to be posted!
HENRIK SEDIN: You realize how fortunate you are that you’re able to do what you love.
DANIEL SEDIN: I think… giving back has always been the number one thing for us as players.
HENRIK SEDIN: The first time we were apart of this team, I think, we saw the older guys and all that they did throughout the community so I think from day one, you realize that was half the job.
Daniel and Henrik Sedin talk about giving back to the community.
ryland grace and fem reader 𖥧 young prodigy ! reader
Grace barely remembers anything about you, it's all blurred memories that resemble your face. He knows you are part of the project, the fact that you're in the ship is enough proof, but.. you look so.. young. You look like the students he knows, or at least thinks, he taught back at home.
You've survived, unlike the other two people he can barely remember aswell, but you're still asleep. You're in a coma that he doesn't know how to manually wake you from, but at least you're not dead.
He doesn't know anything about you, well, he knows your name and that you look like someone who is just starting out in college, but he desperately needs you to wake up.
He needs you to wake up so he can stop crying his heart out.
content 𖥧 i try to keep reader gn but you might see fem pronouns/afab (lemme know if this happens, it's just what im used to), angst but fluff and a lot of wholesomeness, reader is unrealistically young (but they were short on personnel so its okay).
warnings 𖥧 BOOK canon typical crybaby ryland, blood and injury, mentions of death, mentions of suicide (mission), reader is implied to have sh at some point in their life (just scars gonna be mentioned).
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ chapters
0.5 ─ the introduction (reading rn)
1 ─ awake
2 ─ remember
3 ─ grace
more tba ..
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ taglist
🏷 @lvlyywntr , @rilezra , @kirarisoul , @churchl4dy , @callme-holly , @radioshepard + comment to be added !!
tropes ? found family , father figure who is trying , adopting an alien , amnesia , trauma bonding , hurt-comfort , aroace rep (ryland).
PART OF THE : STOP CRYING YOUR HEART OUT SERIES !!
He doesn't mean to fall asleep.
The crying has exhausted him, left him hollow and wrung out like a rag. His eyes are swollen. His throat is raw. His head aches from dehydration and vodka and the sheer force of his own grief.
He drags blankets from the empty bunks. He drags pillows too. He makes a nest on the floor beside your bed—a pathetic, lumpy nest of stolen comforters and flat pillows and one stuffed animal he found in your bag. He lies down on his side, facing you.
He doesn't mean to fall asleep.
But his body betrays him. His eyes close. His breathing slows. And he slips into darkness.
He's in a room.
Not the ship. Somewhere else. Somewhere with fluorescent lights and folding chairs and a projector screen. A safety lecture. He can tell by the boredom radiating off the other people in the room: scientists, engineers, astronauts, all of them slouched in their seats, doodling on notepads, checking their watches.
He's not sitting. He's standing near the back, leaning against the wall, half-listening. He doesn't feel like part of this. He feels like an observer. Like he's just… hanging around.
The instructor is droning on about stasis protocols. Something about the medically induced coma. Something about the waking process. Ryland's attention drifts. He looks at the ceiling. He looks at the exit sign. He looks at a woman in the front row who's braiding her hair.
Then the instructor says something that snags his attention.
"-in the event that the automated waking mechanism fails, a manual override code is required. This code is unique to each mission and is stored in the physical safety codes binder, which can be found in the cockpit. The binder is labelled, and the code is listed under 'Medical' and then 'Stasis.' The code format is five numbers followed by three letters. Do not attempt to wake a crew member without this code. Doing so can cause seizures, strokes, permanent brain damage, or death."
"Once the code is entered into the stasis pod's manual interface, the waking process will begin automatically. The crew member will regain consciousness within five to six hours. During this time, their vitals should be monitored closely. Do not remove any tubes or IVs until they are fully awake and the system indicates it is safe to do so."
The instructor clicks to the next slide. A diagram of the stasis pod. Arrows pointing to the manual interface. A list of steps.
Ryland tries to memorize it. He doesn't know why. He doesn't know that he'll need it. He just… files it away. Somewhere deep in his brain. Somewhere the coma couldn't erase.
The dream shifts. The room blurs. The instructor's voice fades.
And then he's somewhere else. A hallway. A door. A voice calling his name—
He wakes up.
His eyes snap open.
For a moment, he doesn't know where he is. The ceiling is wrong. The light is wrong. The humming of the ship is wrong.
Then he sees you.
Still asleep. Still breathing. Still alive.
The dream crashes back into him. The safety lecture. The code. The binder. The manual override.
"Oh my god." he whispers.
He scrambles to his feet. His legs are asleep—pins and needles shooting up from his knees—but he doesn't care. He stumbles, catches himself on the edge of your bed, and nearly falls on top of you.
He catches his breath. He looks at your face. Your closed eyes. Your slack mouth around the breathing tube.
"I'm going to wake you up." he says. His voice is shaking. "I'm going to wake you up. I know how. I remember. I fucking remember."
He checks your vitals first. Obsessively. Heart rate: steady. Blood pressure: good. Oxygen saturation: optimal. You are stable. You are healthy. You are ready.
He runs.
He runs and sprints through the corridors. His bare feet slap against the metal deck plates. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything except the binder.
He reaches the cockpit. Slides to a stop. His hands are shaking so badly he can barely grip the doorframe.
"Binder," he gasps. "Safety codes binder. Where is it?"
He tears through the cockpit. Drawers. Lockers. Shelves. He knocks over a stack of papers. He sends a pen flying. He doesn't care.
And then he sees it.
A black binder. Thick. Labelled in white letters: SAFETY CODES – DO NOT REMOVE FROM COCKPIT.
He grabs it. He almost drops it, his hands are shaking too much, but he catches it against his chest and hugs it like a lifeline.
He flips it open. His fingers are clumsy. He turns pages too quickly, skimming, searching.
"Medical-" he mutters. "Medical, medical, medical…"
He finds the tab. He rips it open and runs his finger down the page.
"Stasis. Stasis. Stasis override…"
There it is.
STASIS MANUAL OVERRIDE CODE – HAIL MARY MISSION
Code: 8472XKJ
He stares at it.
"8472XKJ." he whispers. "8472XKJ. 8472XKJ."
He repeats it over and over. He says it out loud. He says it in his head. He writes it on his palm with his finger, tracing the letters and numbers into his skin.
"8472XKJ. 8472XKJ. 8472XKJ."
He runs back.
When he reaches your compartment he's breathing hard. Sweat drips down his face. He doesn't care.
He kneels beside your bed and finds the manual interface (it's a small screen on the side of your pod, hidden behind a plastic cover). He's never noticed it before. He's never had reason to look.
He pulls off the cover. His fingers fumble. The cover drops to the floor. He doesn't care.
The screen lights up. A keypad appears. Alphanumeric. Five numbers, three letters.
His hand hovers over the keypad.
"8472XKJ." he whispers. "8472XKJ."
He types the first number. 8.
His finger trembles. He almost presses the wrong key. He pulls back, takes a breath, and tries again.
8.
4.
7.
2.
X.
He pauses. His finger hovers over the K.
"XKJ," he mutters. "X, then K, then J."
He types K.
J.
He stares at the screen. The code is entered. The display reads: CONFIRM MANUAL OVERRIDE? YES / NO
He doesn't press yes. Not yet.
He reads the code again. He compares it to the binder. He reads it three times. Four times. Five times.
"8472XKJ. 8472XKJ. 8472XKJ."
It matches.
He presses YES.
The screen changes. A progress bar appears. MANUAL WAKE SEQUENCE INITIATED. ESTIMATED TIME TO CONSCIOUSNESS: 5-6 HOURS.
He stares at the screen.
"Five to six hours.." he whispers to himself.
He looks at you.
"Five to six hours," he says again. Louder this time. "You're going to wake up. In five to six hours, you're going to wake up."
His eyes fill with tears.
"I'm going to be here." he says. "I'm going to be right here when you open your eyes. I'm not leaving. I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to be the first thing you see."
He takes your hand. He settles onto the floor beside your bed. And he waits.
The first hour is agony.
He watches the clock. He watches your vitals. He watches your face for any sign of change. Every beep of the heart monitor makes him jump. Every flicker of your eyelids makes him hold his breath.
Nothing happens. Not yet. The manual override is working, the screen says so, but the changes are internal. Chemical. Neurological. Things he can't see.
He talks to you. He can't stop talking.
"You're going to be confused when you wake up." he says. "I was confused. I didn't know where I was or who I was or why I was here. I panicked. I screamed. I broke things. I hit things. I had a tantrum like a fucking toddler. Glad you weren't awake to see that.."
He laughs. It's a nervous, shaky sound.
"You probably won't do that. You seem calmer than me. More together. Even in a coma, you're more together than me."
He squeezes your hand.
"But if you do panic, that's okay. That's so okay. I'm here. I'm not going to let you hurt yourself. I'm going to talk you through it. I'm going to be the calm one. For once in my life, I'm going to be the calm one."
The second hour passes. Then the third.
He's dozing. Not sleeping (he couldn't sleep now, not when you're so close to waking) but drifting. His eyes are half-closed. His head is resting on the edge of your bed. His hand is still holding yours.
And then—
Your fingers twitch.
It's small. Barely noticeable. A slight contraction of the muscles in your hand. But he feels it. He feels it because his hand is wrapped around yours, because he's been holding on for hours, because he hasn't let go even to eat or drink or use the bathroom.
His eyes snap open.
"Hey." he says. "Hey, can you hear me? I'm here. I'm right here."
Your eyelids flutter. Not open—not yet—but flutter. Your breathing changes. The ventilator is still doing most of the work, but he can see your chest rising and falling with more effort now. Your body is trying. Your body is fighting.
"That's it," he says. "That's it. You're almost there. You're doing so good. You're doing so good, kid."
He sits up straighter. He moves to kneel beside your head, close to your face. He wants you to see him. He wants to be the first thing you see.
"I'm here. I'm right here. When you open your eyes, I'm going to be right here. You're not alone. You're never going to be alone again."
It happens slowly.
Your eyes open. Just a crack at first. Then wider. Then wider still.
You are looking at him.
His breath catches in his throat. His heart slams against his ribs. He has never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.
"Hey-" he whispers. His voice breaks and cracks like a teenager's. "Hey there- hey. Welcome back."
You blink. Your eyes are unfocused. Confused. You don't understand where you are or what's happening or who this strange man is, leaning over you with tears in his eyes and a smile that's trying so hard to be brave.
Your mouth opens. The breathing tube is still there. You try to speak and nothing comes out: just a choked, garbled sound around the plastic in your throat.
Your eyes go wide.
"Hey, hey, hey." he says, standing up quickly. "Don't try to talk. There's- there's a- a tube in your throat. Don't panic, it's just helping you breathe. I'm going to take it out, okay? I'm going to take it out and then you can breathe on your own. But you have to stay calm. Can you stay calm for me?"
You don't answer. You can't answer. Your breathing quickens—too fast, too shallow. The heart monitor starts beeping faster. The ventilator wheezes as you fight against it.
Panic.
You're panicking.
He sees it in your eyes. The same panic he felt when he woke up alone. The same confusion. The same terror.
But you're not alone.
"Okay-" he says. "Okay- okay, I'm taking it out now. Hold still."
He reaches for the breathing tube. His hands are shaking, but he forces them to be steady. He remembers the medical training, slightly fragmented, fuzzy, but there. He knows how to do this.
He deflates the cuff. He pulls gently. The tube slides out.
You gasp.
It's a horrible sound, a wet, choking, desperate gasp. Your body isn't used to breathing on its own yet. Your throat is raw. Your lungs are burning.
But you're breathing.
You're breathing.
"That's it," he says. "That's it. Just breathe. Slow breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. You can do this. You're doing so good."
You're not doing good. You're hyperventilating. Your chest is heaving. Your hands are clawing at the sheets, at the IV lines, at the tubes still taped to your arms.
"No, no, no," he says. "Don't pull those. Those are keeping you alive- leave them alone. Please, kid, leave them alone."
But you're not listening. You can't hear him. The panic has you. Your hands find the IV in your elbow. Your fingers curl around the tube. You start to pull-
He doesn't think.
He just moves.
He climbs onto the bed—onto your bed, onto the narrow medical cot—and he wraps his arms around you.
It's not gentle. It's not careful. It's desperate. He pins your arms to your sides. He presses you flat against his chest. One arm brackets across your back, holding you so tightly you can barely move. His other hand cups the back of your head, pressing your face against his chest, right over his heart.
"Stop," he says. His voice is low. Firm. Desperate. "Stop. You're okay. You're safe. I've got you. I've got you and I'm not letting go."
You struggle. For a moment, just a moment, you try to push him away. Your hands are trapped between your bodies, but you twist and squirm and try to get free.
He doesn't let go.
"Shhh," he says. "Shhh, shhh, shhh. It's okay. It's okay. You're not alone. I'm here. I'm right here. Just breathe. Just breathe with me."
He rocks you. Slightly. Gently. Back and forth, back and forth. The same motion he vaguely remembers using with his students when they scraped their knees or lost a pet or failed a test they studied for.
And then..
You stop fighting.
Your body goes limp against his. Your hands uncurl from the IV lines. Your breathing slows. The panicked gasping gives way to hiccups, then to soft tears, then to a small, barely-there tremble.
You're crying. Quietly. Softly. Your tears soak into his shirt, right over his heart.
He keeps rocking you. Keeps sushing you. Keeps holding you.
"That's it," he whispers. "That's it. Just let it out. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."
He smells like soap. Like laundry detergent. Like the cheap cologne he found in one of the deceased crew member's lockers and decided to use because he wanted to feel human again.
You press your face into his chest. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. You are so small. So warm. So alive.
He closes his eyes. Tears slide down his cheeks. He doesn't wipe them away. He just holds you.
Eventually, however, hte crying winds down.
It takes a while, but eventually your breathing evens out. Your trembles fade. Your hands stop clutching and start just… resting.
You tilt your head back. Just slightly. Just enough to look up at his face.
Your eyes are red. Your cheeks are wet. Your lips are chapped and raw from the breathing tube.
You open your mouth.
"Grace…?"
Your voice is barely a whisper. Cracked. Rusty. Unused.
But it's there.
And you remember him.
His heart stops.
And before he can say anything—
The world tilts.
He's not on the ship anymore. He's somewhere else. A hallway. Fluorescent lights. The smell of coffee and disinfectant.
He's standing outside a door. His door. His lab door. He recognizes the little plaque: DR. RYLAND GRACE – MOLECULAR BIOLOGY.
There's someone with him. A man. Black. Familiar. Carl. His friend. His colleague. The man from the other flashbacks.
Carl is holding a polaroid camera. He's grinning. He's saying something—the words are muffled, like Ryland is hearing them through water—but he's gesturing excitedly.
And then-
"Grace!"
A voice. Young. Excited. Familiar in a way that makes his chest ache.
He turns.
And there you are.
You're running toward him. Your face is flushed. Your eyes are sparkling. You're holding a piece of paper covered in calculations and you're so excited you can barely contain yourself.
You collide with his side. Not hard, you're not trying to hurt him, but with enough force that he has to lift his arm to accommodate you. His arm settles around your shoulders automatically, like it's done this a hundred times before.
You wrap both arms around his waist. You press your cheek against his chest, right over his heart. You look up at him with eyes so bright, so full of joy, so desperate for his approval.
"I got it!" you say. Your voice is clearer now. Less muffled. "I finally got it! The calculus! I've been working on it for two days and I finally got it right!"
He looks down at you. His face softens. He smiles.
"Yeah? I'm so proud of you, kid." he says. And he means it. He means it so much it hurts.
"Smile!" Carl's voice cuts through. Muffled, but recognizable. "Smile for the flash!"
Ryland barely has time to look up. He sees Carl raising the polaroid camera. He sees the lens pointing at them.
He looks back at you. You're still pressed against his side. Still beaming up at him.
He smiles. He gives a clumsy thumbs up with his free hand.
And then the flash.
White. Blinding. Bright.
And then he's back.
He's on the ship. He's holding you. You're looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, waiting for an answer.
The memory is still burning in his chest. The hallway. The lab. The polaroid. The way you looked at him like he was the only person whose opinion mattered.
"Dr. Grace?" you say again, using his title this time, as if afraid of having overstepped some invisible boundary. Quieter this time. Nervous. "Are you… are you okay?"
He stares at you.
And then he pulls back. Just enough to cup your face in his hands. His thumbs brush your cheeks, wiping away the tears.
"Yeah-" he says. His voice is thick. "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm- better than okay, actually. I'm…"
He laughs. It's a wet, broken, beautiful sound.
"I remember you, kid." he says. "I don't remember your name. I'm sorry. I don't remember your name. But I remember you. I remember holding you. I remember you running up to me with your calculations. I remember how excited you were. I remember how proud I was."
Your eyes widen.
"I remember too, bits and pieces. But we were- are, friends, right?"
He nods, now just holding your face in his hands, looking at you like you're the only thing in the universe.
"Do you remember who you are?" he asks.
You hesitate. Your brow furrows. You're trying. He can see you trying.
"I…" you start. Then stop. Your face crumples. "I don't… I don't remember my.. name. I don't remember…"
"Hey," he says quickly. "Hey, it's okay. I didn't remember my name either. I didn't remember anything at first. It comes back. Slowly. In pieces. But it comes back."
He sees the panic rising in your eyes. The same panic he felt when he woke up and didn't know who he was.
"Okay, different look at the question." he says. "Do you remember who you ARE? Not your name. Not the details. Just… who you are. As a person. What you like.. what you don't- um, your favourite food, maybe?"
You pause. You think.
And then you nod. Slowly. Tentatively.
"I think so.." you whisper. "I remember… I remember being smart. I remember that i like working hard. I remember…"
You look at him.
"I remember you," you say. "I remember trusting you. I remember feeling safe when you were around."
His heart cracks open.
"That's enough," he says. "That's more than enough, gosh. Your name will come back. The details will come back. But you know who you are. That's the important part."
He pulls you into his chest again. He can't help it. He needs to hold you. He needs to feel you. He needs to know you're real.
He doesn't let go.
He can't.
He holds you like a child holds a stuffed animal—desperately, needily, like you're the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His arms are wrapped around you so tightly you probably can't breathe, but you don't complain. You just press your face into his chest and let him hold you.
He strokes your hair. The back of your head. Slow, gentle strokes, the way you might pet a cat or soothe a crying baby.
"I was so scared." he whispers into your hair. "I was so fucking scared when I woke up. I thought I was alone. I thought I was the only one. I was screaming and crying and throwing tantrums like a child and I thought I was going to die alone and no one would ever know."
His voice breaks.
"And then the ship said there were two living organisms. Two. And I ran. I ran so fast. I didn't even know who you were but I ran because I couldn't be alone. I couldn't. I would have done anything. I would have sold my soul for a rat. For a cockroach. For anything alive that wasn't me."
You chuckle, wetly. He rocks you. Gently. Slightly. Back and forth, back and forth.
"And then I saw you. And you were so young. So small. You looked like my students. Like the kids I left behind. And I thought, 'How could they do this? How could they send a child?'"
He presses his cheek against the top of your head.
"And then I found our picture. The one Carl took. The one where you're wrapped around me like a koala and I'm giving a thumbs up like an idiot. And I…"
He stops. His throat closes up.
"mnhm?"
"I threw up." he admits. "I wasn't even drunk. I just looked at your face and I threw up because I couldn't handle how much I cared about you and I didn't even remember you."
You shift in his arms. Your hand comes up to rest on his chest, over his heart.
"Really?" you whisper.
"Oh, really." he says. "I've been talking to you for days. I've been holding your hand. I've been reading to you. I've been crying over you. I've been praying to a god I don't believe in to please please please let you wake up."
He pulls back. Just enough to look at your face.
"You're not alone." he says. "You're never going to be alone. I don't care what happens. I don't care if we die out here. I don't care if we save the world or if we fail. We're going to do it together. You and me. That's the deal. That's the only deal."
Your eyes fill with tears.
"Okay." you whisper.
"'kay." he echoes.
He pulls you back into his chest. He holds you tighter. He rocks you slower.
He is not alone.
He is not alone.
He is not alone.
He doesn't realize he's doing it.
He doesn't realize that he's using you to regulate himself—that every stroke of your hair, every gentle rock, every whispered reassurance is as much for him as it is for you. He is soothing himself through you. He is holding onto you because if he lets go, he might shatter.
His heart rate is slowing. His breathing is evening out. The panic that has been living in his chest since he woke up. The constant, low-grade terror that he is alone in the universe. Is finally, finally starting to quiet.
Because you're here.
Because you're warm.
Because you're alive.
He presses his nose into your hair. You smell like hospital soap and sleep and something else.. something young and clean and human.
"'m sorry." he murmurs. "I'm being so needy. I'm probably crushing you. I should let go."
He doesn't let go.
"You don't have to let go.." you say. Your voice is muffled against his chest.
"I'm getting snott all over y'r hair, kiddo."
"I don't mind."
He laughs. It's a wet, shaky sound.
"You're too nice to me." he says.
"You were way too nice to me, too, back on earth." you say. "So now i'm giving it back."
He stops breathing.
"Who told you that..?" he whispers.
"no one.." you say. "I just… know. I remember that."
He closes his eyes.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, okay."
He holds onto you as the adrenaline fades.
As his body remembers that he hasn't slept properly in days. That he's been surviving on vodka and protein bars and sheer desperation. That he's cried so much he's probably dehydrated.
His arms loosen around you. Not because he wants to let go, he never wants to let go, but because his muscles are giving out.
"I'm tired.." he admits.
"Then sleep." you say.
"I can't. What if you…"
"I'm not going anywhere." you say. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving."
He looks down at you. At your young, tired, tear-stained face. At your red eyes and chapped lips and the small smile you're trying to give him.
"You promise?" he asks. And he hates how small his voice sounds. How childlike.
"I promise." you say.
He nods. He settles back against the medical mattress. He pulls you with him carefully, gently, minding the IV lines and the monitors, until you're both lying on the bed.
He wraps his arms around you again. You curl into his side, your head on his shoulder, your hand resting on his chest.
"Is this okay?" he asks.
"This is okay." you say.
He closes his eyes.
"Goodnight, kid." he whispers.
"Goodnight, Dr. Grace."
He wants to correct you. Wants to tell you to call him Ryland. But he's too tired. Too wrung out. Too overwhelmed by the simple miracle of you being here, being awake, being alive.
He falls asleep with you in his arms.
And for the first time since he woke up on this ship, he doesn't dream of being alone.
