Will

he/him | audhd | 18 | currect obsession = anything emo | pagan omnist witch & interested in reality shifting | cuckoo for cocoa puffs | recovery is key 🙏🏻😝

[imsobiplshelp]

i need a car to get to college in August pls help me

nobody has donated since i made the GoFundMe and ive shared it a lot and its been months pls help

Donate to Support Will's Journey to College with a Car, organized by Will Courtney

Hi, I'm Will. I start college in August as a first generation student, and … Will Courtney needs your support for Support Will's Journey to

[bibigo-lover]

pine and scotch.

summary: you spend the night over at the march house after tasking yourself with babysitting. your feelings, holly's gossip, and holland's drinking are a worrying combination.

pairing: holland march x gn!reader

word count: 3.8k

tags: tw for alcoholism/implied alchol abuse, drunk!holland, not actually unrequited love, fluff and humor, holly is an instigator, healy mentioned, mutual pining, drunken flirting, reader wears holland's clothes, domestic fluff (if you squint), they make up and make out, pet name (baby) used once, gn!reader

cross-posted to ao3

The light few knocks on your screen door have you hot in the face. Through the grate, you can see him: Holland is on the porch, leaning with one strong arm flush against your front doorway. “Here to pick up Goldilocks, makin’ sure she doesn’t hog your time.” He shoves off so you can twist the knob and let the screen door fall open. Once it’s clear, with you and Holland no longer divided by the metal gap, you’re very, very perturbed.

You hate Holland—or, you like him quite a lot, but hate the way that he makes you feel. Like right now, when he’s leaning too close into your personal space and you’re able to get a whiff of definitely too much cologne. It’s a dizzying amount of pine, he has no clue, and still, he’s perfectly packaged the way that he is. His dark blonde hair is pushed-back, save for a rogue strand that’s hanging over his forehead. The way his arms are crossed, chest puffed out under his suit and tie, makes you want to shut the door back on him. All this mixed into the L.A. summer heat…

It’s too much. You really shouldn’t be able to think these things about Holland. He’s your neighbor and his kid always calls to ask if she can come over. Which always leads to this—the occasional pickup, when you have to see him face-to-face. There’s something unavoidable about it all. Holland’s handsome and he’s always around.

You turn your head over your shoulder and yell a pointed: “Holly, your dad’s here!” You can hear her gathering up her school backpack, a rattling of gel pens and notebooks, perhaps as she swipes it all off of your dining table in a hurry. When you look back at Holland, you catch him looking down at your shoes and slowly all the way back up. “I mean…” you manage, flustered and hand coming up to tuck your hair back,” I don’t mind hanging out with her for the evening if you need to work overtime with Healy.”

“No, you don’t have to do that. She can just go to, uh, Jen, Je…” Holland scratches at the scruff on his neck. He never gets it right.

“Jessica,” Holly shouts unabashedly from behind you. You’re very sure that she’s done packing her things—just delaying the inevitable that is leaving your place.

Holland nods, “Jessica’s house. No need for you to waste your night when you could be going out on the town, hitting a bar, or whatever you usually do with whoever you usually do those things with.” He’s rambling again, and you have to hover your hand over the center of his chest to get him to stop. Your fingertips practically brush the fabric of his button-down before you pull back. Holland’s eyes seem to glance down at your hand as you retract it, tracking the movement of your palm.

“I’ll hang with Holly at your place while you work,” you volunteer, “Doesn’t do me any difference besides having a bit of more company than usual.” The implication being, of course, that you don’t ever have company at all. You’re not trying to be any certain way about it—a tease, that’s the last thing that you want—but the overshare comes too easily past your lips.

You’ve let Holland in more than anticipated, and he’s pleased with it. You can tell that much from the way Holland’s eyebrows jerk up and his mouth tugs into a grin. He doesn’t seem to question it at all, even if he clearly wants to know more. Instead, he settles for, “Maybe, I could slip you a twenty for your troubles.”

“That’s too much, and I’m not babysitting.” The trope is practically writing itself, you think. “It’s a neighborly favor,” you tell Holland, “And, if you want to know so badly, I would’ve just watched Wheel of Fortune over a TV dinner. Not so clubby on the weekends.” What are you, eighty?

But, Holland insists, “I’ll slip you fifteen and you can use it to buy takeout for the both of you. Would’ve spent the same amount if I wasn’t working tonight.” God, it’s terribly perfect the way he scrambles to find his wallet on his person. He pats his hands from the  front of his trousers to the back, before finally retrieving the folded brown-leather out of its usual spot in the inner-pocket of his suit. You watch as his fingers delve in to count his own cash.

“You don’t spend fifteen dollars on takeout. That’s absurd.” He takes out twenty—two ten-dollar bills—taking your hand up from your side, pressing the crisp bills into your palm, and closing your fingers over them.

“Would’ve been six bucks on the takeout, plus another two—I tip well. And the rest would get squandered on booze and cigarettes,” he reasons. The sheer size of his callused hand makes your own feel small in comparison, and the math, you’re sure, is still not adding up. So, you try to fork the bills back over to him by force, shoving both of your hands closer to his chest.

The insistence gets you nowhere except slightly closer to him. “It’s too much,” you tell Holland, “I can’t take it.”

He pressed your hand back. “Once the money comes out of the wallet, it can’t go back in. Personal rule,” he shakes his head. “You’re doing me a big favor with Holly, and I know you’ll spend it better than I will.” It comes out more earnest than even Holland himself could’ve expected, but he seems to mean it. Meek smile and a shrug. Oh, you despise him.

—

So, your evening has a bit of an unexpected detour, seeing as you’re in the March house doing the same thing that you would’ve at your own place. Chinese takeout and Wheel of Fortune, plus Holly. You’re shocked that she hasn’t asked you to change channels yet. You’re watching some snotty, East Coast elementary school teacher spin the Wheel with ardor, collared blouse high and tight on her neck. It lands on $200, she guesses “S” successfully, and then “B” unsuccessfully. You think, Bad luck and also wonder why Holly’s so damn quiet. It takes you a moment to brave it out and look over at her.

Holly’s large blue eyes distort with a clouded kind of look that you haven’t quite seen before—something between contemplation and amusement. Terrifying. You try to look back at the cable TV, maybe focus on the fried rice that you’ve got in the takeout box in your hand. But, Holly’s already noticed and ready to strike. “My dad has a crush on you, you know.”

Your chopsticks halt in the box. “No, he doesn’t,” you blurt. “Eat your lo mein.” Wheel of Fortune keeps playing on, with the tick-tack spin of the wheel, the letters, Susan Stafford turning the letters. Holly shuts up, taking her fork up to shovel a fried shrimp and a generous scoop of noodles into her mouth. Then, after scarfing that all down, she asks you, “Do you want to know how I know?”

“No.” Of course, that’s not true. You totally do want to know what Holland thinks of you, if he thinks of you, and if it’s with just as much perversion with which you think of him. You shouldn’t call it that. Perversion. But it’s true that you think of Holland too much and in too many ways.

Holly places her takeout box onto the coffee table with a soft thud. You have a feeling that she wants to teach you to death, and only somewhat regretfully, you decide to endure it. Holly squeaks out, uncrossing and recrossing her legs on the couch, “He stares too much. Totally checks you out when he thinks you’re not looking. It’s kind of gross. Like, he wants to X-ray your clothes.” Like Superman, you think sardonically. Skepticism aside, the thought of Holland being unable to keep his eyes off you has you thrilled. “He also has your number up on our fridge under his ad clipping, which he says is for emergencies for me, but I don’t really buy it.” 

“Compelling points, Holly.” Dismissively, you begin to close up the empty takeout boxes and throw them straight back into the crinkly plastic bag that they came out of.

She’s relentless. “Also, he’s always asking me about what you like. Flowers and colors and if you have a boyfriend. I told him you don’t have one and then he got all preach-y.”

You take the filled plastic bag and Holly’s empty coke bottle over to the trash. “What does that even mean? Preach-y,” you echo.

“He got on his knees and started putting his hands in the air. Like this.” Holly raises her hands up in the air and clasps them together they lift over her head. As she looks up—presumably, to God—she seems to configure her expression into a caricature of desperation. The thought of Holland in this exact positioning on the ground of this house makes you cackle insubordinately. Holly laughs, too. “I’m telling the truth, you know. I even heard Mr. Healy and Dad talking about you just last week.”

Up until this point, you had been taking her claims without an ounce of seriousness. “And what did Mr. Healy say?” Your chuckling reduces down to a sweaty smile, eyes narrowed as you await her response. Holly, the tormentor that she is, cups her palms on her knees, shrugs, and rolls her eyes. She knows she’s got you hooked.

“Mr. Healy said Dad needs to quit trying to date up and stay in his own league. ‘Cause every time Mr. Healy watches Dad talk to you, it’s like watching Sisyphus eat shit.” Well, it sure sounds like Healy. Holly beams, “Dad wouldn’t listen to him, though—said he just couldn’t help it.”

—

You’re sleeping on your side on the March’s couch, arms crossed and tight to your chest. By now, Holly’s tucked in bed behind her little curtained alcove, and you’re fulfilling your promise to keep her company well into the night. The couch isn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world; it’s just the March’s lack of central heating in this otherwise perfect rental that has you folding into your own body.

It’s a decent enough rest until about two in the morning. You wake up to the sound of keys jingling just outside the front door, the crack of the door open and close, and a stumbling upon the runner. A heavy body thuds onto the ground.  The streetlight pooling in through window slats gives you enough visibility to see him in there, keeled over right by the opposite end of the couch. You hiss, “Holland? Holland.” He rushes like a snail to his feet, shirt buttoned low, white undershirt exposed, yellow tie hanging undone over his chest. You can see his ring dancing on its silver chain helplessly as he gets back on his feet.

“Don’t look. M’stuck.” And it seems that Holland’s suit jacket is caught halfway off, locking his arms in a tight tangle behind his back. In your just-now-conscious state, it’s really very pleasing to see him straining to get out. You cup your hand over your mouth in a choked laugh. Holland murmurs to himself, still trying to thrash the suit jacket off himself. Finally, after a fair amount of struggle, he gets the sleeves tugged off his arms—you’re sure you’ve heard some kind of rip from the inner-fabric—and he throws it on the side chair across from you. “You’re still here. Thought you’d go home,” he rasps.

By now, you’ve sat up on the couch and let your socked feet touch the ground. You blink slowly at Holland, trying to rouse yourself awake. “Did you drink a whole bar? Jesus.”

“I didn’t drink a whole bar. I drank three-quarters of a bar. Healy had the rest.” Holland stumbles into the hall. Holly’s certainly still fast-asleep in her room, you remember, and you have to get up from your resting place on the couch to try and quiet him down. There’s a thud. Holland stumbles back, colliding with your front. Drudgingly, he turns to face you with his hands cupped over his face. Guilty.

“What are you doing?” you whisper pointedly at him. He doesn’t know how to be any less quiet right now. 

“I was trying to find you a blanket or something warm. There’s a spare comforter in the hallway closet, but closet’s missing. Just my luck.” You peer over his shoulder in the barely lit hall. The closet is another six feet down from the flat wall that Holland tried to “open.”

You shake your head. “Just come back to the living room. And be quieter, please. Holly’s still asleep and I wanna keep it that way.” Holland stumbles along as you drag him by the sleeve back towards the living room. His fingers seem to wander on their own accord, brushing at your wrist with an unsteady touch.

“Are you cold? You seem cold,” he notes, “Maybe I could warm you up. Don’t need a comforter for that.” Holland’s drunk, you remind yourself. He’s not thinking straight, and you’re too flustered to think up something witty to say back. So, you merely sit him on the couch with a mild bit of force. He seems to slump over in defeat as you drop him down, whining as you draw away from him, “Where are you going?”

You pad into the kitchen, grabbing a tall glass from the high cupboard—right past the rather strong brigade of tequila glasses. Then, straight to the faucet: you crank the cold water on and fill it halfway. It shouldn’t take you nearly as long as it does to grab the water for Holland, but you really need a second to think. What are you doing, taking care of him? Just this afternoon, you signed up to watch his kid, and you’re now babysitting the man himself. Then again, Holland is a handsome mess—and sweet on you, too. You shut the faucet off with your head hung.

When you return to him with the glass, he’s quick to take it out of your hands and chug it down with a grumbled “thank you.” You have to look away from the water that drips onto his stubble down his neck. It makes uneven splotches on his shirt. Once he lowers the glass down onto the coffee table with an unstable hand, he edges his body towards you. Determinedly, Holland says, words slurring into one another, “It’s not safe for you to walk back this late. You might as well stay here.”

You want to scold him, but you can only impart a firm and patient, “I was already staying here, March. You woke me up.”

But, Holland’s stuck on it now. The mere thought of you walking home, a measly block and a half away, tortures him.  “I don’t want you to walk home,” he insists in his plastered state, “You’re too pretty to walk home. You could get nabbed or something.”

“Too pretty?” you laugh, “Where’s this coming from?” Oh, it feels almost cruel to ask this to Holland when he’s so far gone—but selfishly, you’d like to see how he’ll respond, especially without the usual, lightly veiled filter.

“Oh, you already know I say it all the time behind your back. Everybody’s tired of it,” Holland admits, “Healy wants to sock me every time I talk about you. He’s almost done it once or twice.” You blink in rapid succession. So, Holly had been telling the truth all along.

Holland leans straight into the back cushion of the couch, exasperated, and his head thuds loudly against the back frame. Holland barely leaves enough room for you on the couch, his arms and legs sloppily spread out. Taking up the most surface area possible seems the most comfortable for his inebriated self; he’s practically melting into the seat. Meanwhile, you’re only minimally avoiding the fall of his hand close to your thigh. He’s not even looking at you now, just throwing his hand over his eyes. Holland mumbles, “Just sleep here in my room and, uh, don’t look under my bed. Playboys…” And, he’s out like a light. Holland’s chest rises and falls with the pattern of his snores. You let yourself watch over him for another moment, before lifting off the couch and walking tentatively towards his room.

—

The next time you see Holland, he’s shockingly upright—in the kitchen, changed into a similar dress-shirt to yesterday and slacks to go with them. It’s a little impossible how quickly he’s recovered from his state the night before. The whole house is concentrated with the scent of something sweet, and by the looks of it, he’s slinging something on the stove. Once you’re in his sight line, Holland’s eyes drift down, then up, then down again. He’s practically drooling at the sight of you with your sleep-mussed hair and your tight pajamas—bare legs and all, he doesn’t know what to do. He practically burns his hand accidentally touching the panhandle too close to the burner. “Shit—morning.”

“Good morning to you, too,” you say, neck cocking out to see what he has cooking up.

Holland is quick to serve a plate and urge it towards you—a short stack of pancakes. “March special. Sorry-Thank-You Breakfast.” You take it from him with an air of hesitance. You’ve heard about this kind of breakfast by word of mouth before, from Holly, of course. The recognition must read on your face and the way you turn your head over your shoulder to search for the blonde little girl; Holland is quick to tell you, “She’s down the street at the old place, reading that book you lent her.” He looks down to serve his own plate, shuts off the stove with a click.

You’re quick to turn your back to him, placing your serving on the dark-wood surface of the dining table. He’s still carrying on behind you; you can hear the spatula grating against the pan, then the glass plate, the click-off of the stove… Holland notes, only half-serious, “Seems like she likes you more than she does me, lately. Not a good sign—means I should maybe sit you down sometime and fish for a couple of tips.”

You can’t avoid the subject—as much as he clearely wants to. With a spin around, you rub your palms together. “About last night—”

“What I said—”

You interject, “You have a problem and a half, Holland,” and he seems to stop in his tracks. He’s seemingly shocked that your primary concern is him. But, you’re clearly more riled up than you’d expected yourself to be. “You can’t just stumble in at two in the morning drunk off your ass. You’re lucky you even get home. And God knows what happens when I’m not here.”

Holland places his plate down on the stove, diagonal to the pan. Then, he juts his palm across the scruff on his neck. “I don’t think I wanna say.” You can picture it clearly enough—him, ending up in all sorts of odd resting places, on the living room floor, in the tub, maybe even the bushes outside. All options are rather morose, and they worry you beyond your minid.

“You have to get your shit fixed,” you lecture.

Holland approaches you now, with earnestness. “I can do that.” It’s loaded. I can do that for you. His eyes beg for forgiveness, and his hands are almost close to coming up to your hips. It’s a surprise that he manages to lower them down to his sides as soon as they threaten to come up. Holland’s sorry, he wants to atone, he clearly wants your forgiveness. You wonder how quickly he scrambled this morning to get everything in the kitchen ready for you, and with how much intention he’d gotten dressed. Now that he’s this close to you, you can certainly tell that he shaved up, combed his hair rather meticulously. His clothed knees practically bump against your bare ones.

“I won’t let you date me if it’s an empty promise,” you murmur. It’s there in the open, now—the gap that Holland had been waiting for you to bridge. He remembered what he said last night, you remember what he said last night, and the two of you have merely been waiting for the inevitable to hit.

Now that he knows you’re on the same page, Holland seems to be renewed with a new kind of vigor. “…You’ll let me date you?” It’s almost taunting. He’s clearly feeling more self-assured, smirk and all, and you want to wipe it clean off.

With a shrug, you say, “I’m considering it.”

It’s as unconvincing as it can be, and Holland seems to huff out a soft sigh. He has you—and still, he plays along. “Oh, consider it. Seriously consider it.” He seems to lower his gaze down to your lips, slowly but surely urging you back against the wooden table. You can feel the edge of it hit the back of your thighs.

You tilt your head, a fit of heat filtering through your body. He’s terrible—too good at getting you like this. He reaches one arm up behind you to push your plate aside. It skids on the table slow. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you, and you have to push out a soft, “What’re you doing, March?”

“Trying to kiss you,” he mutters. “That okay?” As soon as you get the slightest movement of a nod, Holland acts. His hands come up to your hips with a strong squeeze, and he’s quick to smash his lips into yours. It’s almost risque, the way he kisses you with so much force. You can hear him grumbling, pleased to be feeling you all over with his large hands. It takes another minute of this before Holland scoops you up off the ground and onto the table—stronger than you’d expected. He drags his lips downward; you can feel his mustache drag roughly down your neck with each hard kiss.

Then, as soon as he reaches the neckline of your shirt—his shirt—he makes sure to pull back. Again, the scent of pine lingers on your senses. You hadn’t noticed, in the rush, how easily Holland had settled in between your legs. He’s too happy about this development, clearly, because he has a stupid grin on his face. You scoff, and it only grows wider. “First date. No drinks,” you decide, “And you’ve got to dial it back on the cologne. Like, half of whatever you’ve been putting on.”

Holland nods, sure to help you quick off the dining table—lest Holly comes back and flees at the sight of both of you. With a tug of your hips closer to him, he hums, “Whatever you want from me, baby.”

[scissorsaint]

Dan, look out

[squirreltailcat]

Convo I had with my girlfriend yesterday:

Me: Yeah I just wish I looked as slutty as Holland March, but also dumb fuck sweet like Colt, or science nerdy guy cute like Ryland

Her: Could it be that you just want to look like Ryan Gosling?

Me: Oh... 🏳️‍⚧️

[the-gayngel]

the thing about holland march is i've always just seen a gay man there. i can totally see him being bi as well because of the whole backstory with his wife. but at the same time it's tragically scrumptious to imagine a holland that has to juggle his grief with his identity and somehow reconcile the two. i think he would have a hard time ever coming to terms with being gay because he would feel like it's a betrayal to his wife and the life they had together. and he already did that by not smelling the gas before the house burnt down. he already holds so much guilt and he's not sure if he can add another dimension to it all. if he's gay, does that mean he's a horrible person? that his wife died for nothing? if he lets himself act on it, if he accepts another love into his life, would that mean moving on from that chapter of his life? he doesn't deserve to move on, he thinks. so he punishes himself every day for it by being reckless, drinking nonstop, and not acting on his desires

[macabro]

If eridians had ao3 this one would go crazy.

[pnglove]

WHIMSICAL MUGS ♡

[itsbeen8bitteryears]

PUT THE EYELINER BACK ON THAT EMO BOY

[doctor-ryland-grace]

i just had this thought and needed to like ask someone so feel free to ignore this but… what happens to ryan gosling’s movies in phm??? are they recast? is he a distant cousin to ryland? is ryland just a weird doppelgänger that mentions his not-twin as a fun party trick? does ryan gosling even exist in project hail mary’s earth.

- brought to you at 3:10am when i have stuff to do at 11am

You caught me at such a good time because I was just thinking about this lmao. I headcanon the movies exist and everyone thinks Ryland looks like him he just. Can't see it because it could be taken as a compliment so he adamantly denies it lmao

Title: I'm Just Ryland. ( And I'm a Scientist!) Pairing: ( Sort of kinda if you squint implied ) Ryland Grace x Reader. Rating: K. ( Fluffy, slice of life babey. ) Words: 1.9 K. Summary: It's movie night on Board the Hail Mary! Your choice? Barbie. Ryland's choice was ignored. It was Stargate. ☆Ryland Grace Masterlist☆

You were curled up in the Don’t Go Crazy room on what felt like a Friday evening, so it was decided to be so. You were curled up on the floor, piles of blankets and pillows from the dormitory making it comfortable enough for you to rest, the warm patch-work blanket in your lap as you leaned into Rocky’s xenonite ball. 

The Eridian was fully locked in. There’s a vaguely funny idea that in some ways, the movie playing was a sort of archival documentary on Human civilization. Even if it was just Barbie in its full, glitterly, pink and existential dread glory.

“Oberservation.” You don’t look away from the screen, a small smile playing at your lips as you let Rocky continue with his commentary that came up every five or so minutes. Mostly just little comments, sometimes it instilled an hour long conversation and the movie had to be paused. “Male counterpart seems to contribute minimal function value to plot.” You tilted your head and let a small snort of laughter out, “That’s the point of Ken’s character, Rock.”

And that’s where you thought the conversation would end. Plain and simple, just a comment-throw away that is explained in a matter of moments without too much depth put behind it. You watch as the bleach-blonde man appears again, dramatic as the character is intended, doing entirely too much as you let your eyes linger on his face, down his body and then back. “Okay but like. He is kinda hot.”

And that was a fatal mistake to say out loud. From the other side of the room, propped up on his own set of pillows, a worn punny science t-shirt and a pair of navy mission sweatpants on his body for comfort during movie night, Ryland continued the train of fatality. He’d been pretending to not watch and was failing terribly at it as a scoff left his mouth. You blinked, turning your head slowly as if you had forgotten he decided to join you and Rocky. Rocky physically shifted his carapace as if bracing for something worse than the centrifugal event after the Adrian event. 

Ryland’s arms are crossed almost defensively across his broad chest, the movie scenes bouncing off the taut muscles for a moment. “I guess if you like that. The big, strong dumb blonde guy with wash-board abs, a pretty face and a decent singing voice who does nothing but pine for the girl.”

You and Rocky just stare at him as the movie continues on in the background. Ryland, oblivious, kept going. “I mean, I guess I get it--- From a checklist stand point, Ken is objectively---” “Grace.” The blonde stops talking, his blue eyes drifting from the screen to you and Rocky, snuggled up together. “Yeah?”

There’s a moment of flabbergasted silence between all three of you. You take a minute to just…. Look at your scientist counterpart, the crease between his eyebrows, the propping of his pink lips, slightly open and inviting, the shadows of his beard against his face and the shine of his glasses as he shifted a bit under your gaze. Without looking away from him, you pointed towards the screens. 

“You do realize,” This was uncharted ground you were treading very carefully. “Ken is literally played by Ryan Gosling.” “Okay? What’s your point?”

That caused something in you to stir as you shifted a bit to look at Ryland more head on. So he really had no idea? Oh, this was going to be fun. “And you,” You continued and brought your hand down to point at him. “Look exactly like him.”

The silence that followed was stifling, you could almost imagine it crushing you like the vacuum of space as Rocky swiveled beside you to turn his carapace towards Ryland who finally processed enough to frown deeply. “I do not--- What? No, no I don’t.” You deadpanned, Ryland’s mouth began moving with no sentient words actually coming to the surface before he broke the sound barrier with another defensive string of nonsense. “No, that--- No. That’s a movie star.”

“Yeah,” You agreed with a nod but just wanted to press the scientist's buttons as he was slowly unraveling, “And you’re like what… His long-lost twin or something?”

“I am not!” He squeaked, looking at the screen as Ken gave Barbie a rather charming grin. One of his hands came up as he gestured towards it, his face contorting into something complicated. Disbelief, for sure, but you could also vaguely make out the red tinge of his cheeks. “It’s circumstantial!” “Same hair, albeit Ken’s is a little more… Blonde.” Ryland scoffed that away, “Same face, same whole…” You bit your bottom lip and waved your hand indicating a full body gesture of Ryland. “Everything.” “I do not have his everything.”

Rocky tilted and shifted on his claws. “No understand. Define ‘everything’.” You opened your mouth, obviously prepared for that question but were cut off. “Rock, you’re not helping.” Ryland muttered, bringing a hand to his face, lifting his glasses just enough so he could pinch the bridge of his nose before dragging it down slowly as he groaned. 

Parallel, on the screen, Ken was now being aggressively dramatic about something completely unnecessary. You looked up at it with a glint in your eyes before trailing them back to Ryland right as he tilted his head back with a bonk against the metal wall he had been leaning on. “See? Same dramatic flare.”

“I do NOT have dramatic flare!” “You absolutely do.” You laughed as Rocky clicked in agreement with one of his claws. Ryland looked at him like he’d been personally offended by every important person in his life. “I am a rational, science-driven individual---” “Who likes the Beach.” Your counter was smooth, a grin of intense satisfaction on your face as he kept digging himself into the ground. “Wha--- What----” “Ken’s job is ‘beach’.” Rocky made a pleased noise at that as the computer chimed in, unemotional but in there somewhere, Ryland swore he could hear smug sarcasm. “Parallel behavior observed. (Last Name) argument correct.”

“Rocky,” Ryland’s voice was stricken. “You’re supposed to be on my side.” “Rocky on side of observable truth.” “Great, that’s…” The blonde sighed, slumping his broad shoulders as Ken did something similar on the screen. “That’s great. Awesome.”

“So, just to be clear,” Ryland looked up at you slowly at the sound of your voice, noticing how you were now leaning towards him and not paying much mind to the screen anymore. He shifted, almost subconsciously to straighten his back under your gaze. He swallowed softly. “You were about to judge me for thinking Ken’s attractive.” “Hey, I was not judgin---”

“While conveniently forgetting you happen to look just like the actor who plays him.”

That fried him long enough for there to be another silence. He moved his head, the shine of his glasses hitting your face as you leered towards the screens still playing the movie. He wished you had paused it then he wouldn’t have to face the onslaught of comparisons from the man on the screen. Ryland opened his mouth for a moment and sucked a small breath in before closing it as a hand ran anxiously through his hair. 

There was no running from this, Ryland needed to admit it and roll belly up. “In my defense,” His words are softer than before, “I don’t see it. I’ve never seen it.” “So, you’ve been told this before?”

Ryland froze and not in a subtle, recoverable way. No, no. This was a full system shutdown. Blue screen flashed along his handsome features, fans were whirring in his mind, maybe even a little smoke coming out his ears as there was an existential crisis loading. “That---” Ryland pointed at you weakly all the while, the tone of his voice was of someone who was confirming the suspicion you had. “That is not the point.” Your eyes lit up in acute amusement and Ryland wanted nothing more than to crawl into the EVA room and evac himself. “Oh my god, you have!”

Rocky made an exciting, sharp noise and shifted to be a bit closer to Ryland, his xenonite ball clanging against the floor as that happened but Ryland couldn’t bring himself to look over as his eyes met yours in an almost intense moment of frenzy of implications. You thought Ken was attractive, you thought Ryan Gosling was attractive and down the line, in some weird way, it was a confession of Ryland’s own attractiveness.

“Multiple data points increase validity of (Last Name) argument.” “Rocky,” Ryland shut his eyes tightly and when he re-opened them, he was staring right at the Eridian with nothing short of a disappointed teacher stare. “Stop encouraging this.”

A beat.

“It was like…” Ryland made a dramatic sigh again, shoulders rising and falling with incredible motion. “Once, maybe… twice. Okay three times. On Earth. Thus in space, it doesn’t count.” “That absolutely counts! Maybe even more because I’m the only one in the room who can see you! Rocky is based purely on behavioral patterns. No offense, Rock.” “None offense taken.” Ryland sputtered, when did Rocky learn that?! That had to be from you---

But that was cut short as you came into full view with a very satisfied smile playing on your face as you leaned over to study him in a way that visibly made him more nervous by the second. “So…” You said slowly, collecting all the data points like you were Rocky about to make the epic conclusion. “You’re telling me you don’t see the resemblance… Like, at all?” “No.” “Not even a little?” You pinched your fingers. “Nope.” He put emphasis on the P of that word by popping his mouth. 

Your eyes narrowed. “Not even the ‘big, strong blonde guy with a pretty face and a decent singing voice’ part?”

Ryland just looked at you, eyes wide for a few moments before he shook his head, mouth opening and then closing a few times. “I am… a scientist.” That was contested weakly. “That wasn’t my question, big scientist guy.”

“Avoidance behavior detected.” Ryland pointed at him wildly. “I am going to shut that computer voice off, so help me----”

“Grace all bark. No bite.”

You snorted out a laugh at that, knowing that Rocky had gotten that phrase from you and was now carelessly throwing it to Ryland like it was nothing. 

“This is ridiculous, I’m losing to an alien and a plastic doll.” 

He drew a deep breath in and watched as you propped yourself against Rocky’s xenonite ball again so you could enjoy the rest of the movie. There was still a smile plastered on your face as Ken broke out into dance, and Ryland could just sense the remainder of this conversation once the movie wrapped up and there were no more distractions.

You were just building your case now.

And Ryland feared the results.

Taglist: @strigiform-titan @whats-my-hyperfixation @negativefoursanity @everythingismadeofchaos @gnomebutch @t0nystank @greenlalianime @my-cat-can-slay-dragons @gardenavenve @whore-msc @goslingcore @rivercattail @ambertiger5 @starsbelongtotheworld @emmyishere77 @wayward-avenging @rocktthehouse @unabashednightmarepizza @lowbudgetdoll @lastminutescience @anixszci @lov3lanuage @newagecassandra

@allthelittlethingsssss @sl13-ce @nicassie @emblunt46 @cemeterystardust @ckq-fics @writingforrhys @brunomarzbootylicker @icomewithpeace @theemeraldcorporalnik @kusogeki@starsbelongtotheworld @s4turn3st @astroangel-3000 @electro-elemena@poopoopeepeesupreme @bigsloppycrush @exactlyelectronicstudent @sayadinaa @lorraine-ackerman @sixtiessongs @introvertathome @petersluvbug@moon-trash1507 @romantics-and-eternity @faelvz @reredaydreams @ummilovesidneycrosby87 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @cestlavie03 @matt-murdockk

[ravcnism]

FLIGHT RISK. — RYLAND GRACE x GN!READER

SUMMARY: Your title was different on the Taskforce; you'd gone from Lieutenant Commander to Eva Stratt's most reliable runner — made to look after new recruit, Dr. Ryland Grace. Fly him where he needs to go, keep him fed, keep him supplied, keep him out of trouble.

But when intelligence reports of Stratt's enemies targeting her key personnel arise, the mission changes. Your orders are clear: protect Grace at all costs.

# # TAGS: Semi-Canon-Adjacent, NavalPilot!Reader, Bodyguard x Charge Dynamic, Gender Neutral Reader, Aura Gap Relationship, Grace's Students are Mentioned, Slow-ish Burn, Longform, Part 1 of ??

# # WARNINGS: Canon-Typical Stakes, Non-Canon-typical Diplomatic Issues, Mentions of Character Death (Off-page), Brief Mention of Motion Sickness, Mild Threat of Violence

NOTE / DISCLAIMER: Decided to make this one gender-neutral! Realized that there wasn't really a plot-significant reason to specify reader's gender. Don't worry, still no use of Y/N. I don't think I mention they/them, either. I've also given you a callsign that will only be mentioned a few times (in case you don't like it.) 5.7k words.

We’re not in Kansas anymore, thought Ryland Grace, staring out the window of his assigned room in the Petrova Headquarters. The sun had set at least two hours prior, and there was only black as far as the eye could see. Already he missed the dusty rectangular windows of his lonely apartment. Those foggy mornings, trashy streets, the promise of an average day. Now, on the floating plane hangar the UN used as a base, looking out the window meant staring into a deep lifeless abyss. Hardly his first night here and he already felt like he was suffocating. 

The room itself was sparse but functional. He had a narrow bed, a desk, a small bathroom, and the viewport that looked like a prison window. There was a cabinet for him to keep his clothes in; which would have been nice, if he had any clothes at all. But as he wasn’t expecting to be forced to stay within government lines over the course of one meeting, he only had a few things. Eva Stratt promised they’d sort the matter of his new living situation the following morning. 

It was ridiculously easy to feel like he didn’t belong. Grace felt like a sock in a glove drawer. Though he was certain his exhaustion was mostly due to the afternoon he spent speaking to the most powerful people of the world. There was a lot of work to do. He'd had a very long day. He rubbed his face with both hands and let out a long, tired breath. 

“Fudge,” Grace muttered. “What am I doing here?”

A soft knock at the door made him flinch.

He turned, heart already kicking up. “Wh– Yeah?”

The door slid open with a quiet hydraulic hiss. He heard a voice before he saw the person it belonged to. “Dr. Grace,” it said. Familiar. He'd heard that before. The door remained ajar, but his visitor didn't step in. 

Grace clumsily stumbled on some empty boxes as he crossed the room. He was a ball of anxious energy, as eager as he was reluctant to be useful to the team. Did they need him working on something this early? He caught himself on the entryway with a huff. 

“Yes?” He said. “Dr. Grace, that's — that's me.” 

The familiar voice was accompanied by an unfamiliar face. Grace's eyes met a stranger's. They blinked at each other for a while, saying nothing in the time it took for Grace to place where he might have seen them before. He didn't have much luck. 

You stood at his door, dressed in a dark flight suit with a helmet tucked under your arm. A jet pilot. But Grace had seen plenty of jet pilots around; there were quite a lot of them there. The makeshift base for the Taskforce was, after all, a naval plane hangar. This was a jet pilot's natural habitat. 

“Good evening,” you said, when the silence stretched on too long. 

Grace flinched out of his thoughts. “Hello.” 

You shifted your grip on your helmet a little. “I wanted to check if you needed anything before lights out.”

“Um.” Grace wasn't aware that there would be a ‘lights out’, or that him needing anything was a matter of importance. “I don't really…” He trailed off, squinting his eyes at your face, still trying to place you in the myriad of people he'd seen that day. “Sorry, have we met?” 

Your head tilted a little. “We have. This morning. I flew you.” 

Flew him? Oh. OH! It hit him like a slap. 

When Stratt informed him that he would be picked up via jet, Grace’s mind conjured up the image of a private jet. The fancy ones with champagne bottles and shrimp cocktails. It would have been nice, and was greatly preferred. Instead, there was you, and the wildest ride of his meager life.  

The mere memory made him feel as though his guts were bubbling again. He got here on a high-speed jet; not to be confused with the boat they used to cross the River of Styx. Grace spent the first 20 minutes of that flight white-knuckling the straps and wondering if he'd left the stove on. Some of the pills they'd given him never made it to his mouth. The roar of the engine had been so loud he thought he blew an eardrum. Then, he passed out. At least, he was sure he passed out — for there was a sizable gap in his memory between being in the flight and being half-dragged out of the cockpit on shaky legs, knees buckling the second his shoes hit the tarmac. 

He didn't recognize you because of the helmet, and because he'd been too busy rekindling his relationship with God to have noticed who was driving him to his doom. 

“You!” exclaimed Grace, brows now raised in recognition. 

“Me.” You nodded your head. “Now that I'm here, I also wanted to apologize for the intensity of our flight. The Madame Director wanted you on the base by 9 AM and I received the assignment 8 AM, so.” You offered him a forced but apologetic smile. “I had quite a deadline.” 

Grace was grinning at you then, somewhat giddy to see your face. “It's fine. Not the worst ride I've been taken on.” He laughed, loud and awkward. “Sorry. Uh, you said you came to see if I needed anything?” 

You nodded again. “Yes, sir. I’ve been assigned as your personal attaché for the duration of the mission. My quarters are two doors down if you need anything.”

Woah. Okay, lotta’ interesting words there. 

“What?” Grace pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sorry, what does that mean? Attaché? Like the briefcase?” 

“No. It means I work for you. Officially. Whatever you need — transportation, resources, security clearance — I can make it happen. Ms. Stratt put me under your direct command. My priority is keeping you effective and on schedule.”

Grace blinked slowly, as if the words were yet to compute. “You work for me?” He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That can’t be right.” 

You shrugged. 

“I'm a middle school science teacher,” Grace insisted. “You’re a naval jet pilot who shoots down planes. And you’re telling me I’m your boss?”

You had an unfazed, casual air about you. It was an odd thing to see alongside your intimidating stature. Your uniform was a damn good fit and it made you look like you should be telling Grace what to do. 

“If I might correct you,” you said, leaning in. “You’re not a middle school teacher here. You’re one of the valued scientists that’ll figure out how to keep the sun from dying. A guy like that deserves a bit of privilege, don’t you think?”

Grace opened his mouth only to close it again. He ran a hand through his messy hair. “I mean, surely they've got more important things for you to do.” 

“Yes, plenty.” You nodded. “We’re in the middle of the Pacific, hundreds of miles from the nearest port. If anyone needs something from the mainland, I’m usually the fastest way to get it here. Supplies, equipment, medical samples. This and that.” 

Grace's brows climbed higher with every word. “So you're like, the base's Uber,” he said with a snort. 

You didn't like that. Grace's smile fell upon seeing your jaw flex. He cleared his throat, weakly mumbling an apology. 

“Yes,” you agreed anyway. You sighed a breath out your nose. “If there's a way to do something without the paperwork, Stratt will take it. Most days that means I’m running errands for the whole facility. But for the duration of this mission,” you steadily met his eyes, “my primary responsibility is you.”

Grace gulped. “Why?” 

Your shoulders hiked up in an innocent manner. “In case you bolt.” 

He laughed again, nervous. “I don't see how I'd be able to do that.” 

“You seem creative enough. I'd be wrong to underestimate you.” 

There was a brief silence between the two of you. Grace didn't need to strain his ears to hear the soft creaking of the hull. The slow movement of the hangar was barely noticeable, but with nothing left to say, it was all he could feel. 

“Which reminds me —” You reached into one of the pockets of your flight suit and pulled out a compact military-grade radio. A walkie-talkie. It had a sleek design, reminding Grace of the ones he’d seen in movies. There was a single red marker already set. You held it out to him. “I might not always be available. Channel nine is direct to me. If you need anything — day or night — you use this. I’ll answer.” 

Grace held his fingers out at the device like it might bite him. After hesitating for a moment, he took it in his hand and gave it a closer look. His thumb brushed the smooth plastic as his eyes flicked upwards to glance at you. He tentatively clicked the protruding button on the side, and a matching radio from your utility belt crackled to life.

Without breaking his gaze, you took your radio and brought it up to your lips. “Read you loud and clear, sir.” 

Grace smiled and felt the tips of his ears turn warm. 

The overhead lights stuttered. One by one, each bulb down the corridor flickered shut, until the only illumination left was the soft blue emergency strip lighting along the floor and the faint glow from Grace’s viewport-slash-prison window.

Grace startled, glancing up at the darkened ceiling. “Power failure?” he asked, already tense.

“Lights out,” you replied calmly. “As I’d mentioned. Facility-wide curfew. The seabase runs on strict power conservation protocols after 2100. Non-essential lighting is killed to save the generators for critical systems.”

Grace looked around the suddenly dim hallway, then back at you, the emergency lights casting long shadows across his face.“So we just sit in the dark now?”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “Either you go to bed, or you head to the east wing. Most of the energy we’re conserving is for the labs. Is there anything else you need, sir?” 

“I don’t think you have to call me ‘sir’.” Grace fidgeted with his radio. There was that nervous laugh again. 

You seemed mildly endeared by it. “Two doors down,” you reminded. “Channel nine. Good night, Dr. Grace.” 

He nodded his head, looking a little dumbfounded. He watched you leave his doorstep and walk further down the hallway — only a mere two doors, as you had promised. Grace was about to return to his own room when he flinched upon realizing that he didn’t even know your name. He clumsily grabbed at his walkie-talkie, but it leapt from his hands like it was a live fish. He caught it before it could hit the ground. 

“Wait!” he said, squeezing the button. 

His voice echoed down the corridor and bounced off your device. You hadn’t been far enough for him to have needed the radio. You were standing right there. Grace felt like an idiot. 

You stopped, your back to him. You didn’t turn. You raised your radio to your lips and spoke. “Sir?” 

“I-I didn’t get your name,” Grace whispered into the feed. 

You told him your name, and your rank. Lieutenant Commander. 

“Sounds fancy,” Grace chuckled. 

“It’s alright.” 

“Do you have a callsign? Like in Topgun?” 

“I was waiting for you to bring up Topgun.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“You seemed like the type.” Grace watched your shoulders drop as you sighed. From down the hallway, you turned to look at him. You raised the helmet you’d been holding between your arm and your hip. A name was stencilled in bold white letters. 

Grace was smiling like an idiot. “Booker,” he read. 

“At your service.” 

“Why Booker?” 

“I read a lot. Anything else, Dr. Grace?” 

He shook his head, biting his lower lip. “That’s it for tonight, Booker. Will I see you tomorrow?” 

“Actually, yes. We have an early-morning flight. We’ll be retrieving the rest of your things from your apartment.” 

Grace felt his heart skip. He could go back to the city! And here he thought he was trapped here for the rest of his days. He gave you a firm nod and a small salute. He pulled himself back into his room and pushed the heavy hydraulic door shut. 

“Okay,” he said into the radio. “Uh, good night.” 

He didn't think he'd get another reply. There was silence on the other line. He was about to put the walkie away when he heard it fizzle. There was a soft beep.

“Good night, sir.” 

Grace realized that he didn’t actually hate flying. Turns out, it can be pretty cool when you're not fading in and out of consciousness. He spent most of the trip pressed to the canopy, eyes wide behind his borrowed visor, soft “whoa”s and quiet exclamations crackling over the intercom for every time the clouds parted, or the coastline slid into view below. You could hear the boyish wonder in his voice. 

Flying was better the second time around. Rather, when there was no desperate need to sprint from point A to point B. Stratt had given Grace the entire day to sort his things — he'd return to the city to pack for an undetermined amount of time. He'd file an official leave from his teaching at Grover Middle. He'd say his goodbyes. He wasn’t expected to return to the base until evening, therefore the deadline wasn't as tight. You were gentler with the plane, still hair-raisingly fast, but not as abrupt. At least now Grace had a moment (and the cognitive ability) to look out at the view. 

“Hey,” he called. “How long have you been flying this thing?” 

You adjusted your grip on the stick. You figured he'd like a look at the ocean. The jet eased into a gentle bank, tilting towards the glittering water. As you'd expected, Grace went, “Woaahh.” 

“Twelve years,” you replied. “Got my wings as a lieutenant junior grade.”

Grace made a low whistle. “Twelve years. Do you ever get tired of this view?” 

You looked out over the endless blue stretching beneath you. The water seemed as though it was scattered with diamonds, shining under the early morning sun. There was a thin white line of surf tracing the distant shore, clouds casting slow-moving shadows across the Pacific. It was the same view you’d seen a thousand times, yet it never failed to pull something from your chest. 

“It's like the first time every time,” you said softly. You looked over your shoulder. “World looks small from up here, doesn't it, sir?” 

Grace laughed his giddy agreement. 

Later, the jet touched down on a quiet auxiliary runway at Oakland International. The civilian side of the airport was mostly empty. You’d arranged clearance in advance as one of the privileges and responsibilities that came with your role. You landed smooth and received a small sound of approval from your passenger. 

“You're really good at your job,” said Grace, struggling to remove his helmet. 

You chuckled under your breath. “Don't start clapping.” 

When the canopy finally opened, the ground crew rolled the ladder over. Grace climbed down on shaky legs, resembling a newborn deer. His adrenaline had no use for him on land, other than to make his knees feel like jelly. You stepped out after him, his unbothered counterpart. You held his arm to ease him off the jet. 

“Could we do a barrel roll next time?” Grace beamed at you. 

You gave his back a solid clap, half-distracted by the TSA agent asking you questions. “If you promise not to throw up.” 

Grace didn’t hear your conversation over the loud whirring of the planes. He only managed to make the movement of your mouth. He figured it must have been something important. 

“Let’s go,” you called, ushering him off the runway to walk to a dimly-lit hall. It led to a parking space occupied by only one car; an unsuspecting white Honda with heavily tinted windows sat waiting for you both. 

Grace had no intention of getting in your way and followed whichever direction you nudged him towards. The agents who’d been speaking to you dissipated somewhere back in the airport. By the time he made it to the car, the both of you were alone. You opened the passenger door for him. Grace hurried to get in. You murmured something into your radio before you took your place on the driver’s side. 

“Seatbelts,” you told him. 

Grace nodded, buckling himself in. “Boy, you people mean business.” 

The car started with a soft hum. “Where to?” 

Grace sucked a breath into his teeth. He thought about it for a moment. He had the whole day, but a lot needed to be done. He figured he could leave his apartment last and deal with the faculty first. 

“Grover Cleveland Middle.” It seemed to drain him as he said it. He had to file his indefinite leave. Grace leaned his head against the cool glass. “Just, uh, go ahead and drive. I’ll tell you where it is.” 

The car glided from the airfield. 

The process itself would be easy. He knew that. A formal request to the principal, a quick meeting with HR, some paperwork citing personal reasons or, better yet, a damn letter from the president. It wasn’t complicated, and Grace knew his request wouldn’t be met with resistance. But the thought of actually doing it made his chest ache. He'd already been on leave — but that was of the temporary kind. The implications of the word ‘indefinite’ meant that there was a very real chance that he might never get to be a teacher again. There was no telling when his work on the base would end. It was a race against time, but the execution of the project itself could very well take decades. 

Grace went noticeably quiet, watching the San Francisco skyline unfold beyond the windshield. He’d do it for them, he thought. For those bright-eyed kids. For their future. He’d work for as long as necessary. But, god, would he miss them. He would miss the sound of a room full of twelve-year-olds groaning at an awful science pun; the spark of understanding in their eyes when they finally grasp something they’d been struggling with for weeks. 

Grace tried not to think about it. You didn’t say anything to interrupt his moment. Your eyes were on the road. 

After five minutes of nothing but the soft whirr of tires on asphalt, Grace sighed a very loud sigh and seemed to have taken you from some quiet thoughts of your own. “You ever been to the Bay Area?” he asked.

You nodded. “Passed by it a few times, stayed twice or thrice. I'm not entirely familiar with San Francisco.” 

His head lolled from the headrest, tilting to look at you with a defeated sort of languidness. “Where are you from?” 

You smiled a little. “Not San Francisco.” 

“Mysterious,” Grace grumbled. “Is it like, top secret information? Where you’re from? Is that something the government can’t share?” 

“No, I just don’t feel like saying it.” You glanced at him. “Sir.” 

Grace turned to face the window, pretending to take interest in the bridge, and definitely not so he could hide the dumb grin on his face. Maybe he didn’t entirely mind that you called him ‘sir’. 

The Honda pulled into the mostly empty parking lot of Grover Cleveland Middle School. Morning light filtered softly over the wide, one-story building, its brick facade still familiar and ordinary. A few kids were already milling about near the entrance, laughing and shoving each other like the world wasn’t actively ending. Life went on where life didn’t stop. 

Grace pushed air out of his puffed cheeks. He didn’t move for a while, even with the car parked. You didn’t say anything, watching to see what he’d do; if he’d change his mind. 

“Okay.” He turned to look at you. “Okay. I’m gonna go.” He opened his door, then raised his brows upon seeing that you opened yours too. You stepped out at the same time. “Oh, uh, I’m going alone,” he said over the roof of the car. “You wait here. It’s just a bunch of teachers in there. I’ll have a quick word with the principal.”

You nodded your head. “Copy. I’ll wait.”

Both of Grace's hands raised in an awkward double-thumbs up. He didn't know why he did it, but it was all he had managed. He felt weird and slightly flustered by the idea of having something of a security detail following him around. And the flight suit didn't help. Dark olive green, BOOKER on the name tape, Lieutenant Commander bars at the collar. Combined with your tight posture, you looked every bit the intimidating government operative you were. Against the gray, domestic background of a middle school parking lot, you stuck out like a sore thumb. 

“Okay. Good. I’ll see – I’ll see you in a sec.” He had to get out of there as fast as he could. Grace made a beeline for the entrance. The doors swung shut behind him, and the parking lot went quiet. 

Hardly five seconds later, a kid sped past you. He'd been trailing behind Grace at a distance that suggested he was trying to look like he wasn't following him. His sneakers scuffed against the concrete as he ran towards the stairs. He made it to the top of the front steps before something made him stop. The boy turned around. 

You were leaning against the car, arms loosely crossed. 

He stared. 

Your jaw tightened a little. You watched as he walked back to approach you. 

“Are you a pilot?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

He thought about that. He gave your flight suit a closer look. “My uncle’s in the Air Force.”

“How interesting,” you replied, anything but interested. “I’m in the Navy.” 

His eyes went to the squadron patch on your shoulder, then to the name tape. He pointed at it.  “Which one’s your name, which one’s your callsign?” 

You quirked a brow. “That’s classified.” 

He grinned and revealed a chipped tooth. “Cool.” He took another step closer. “Whose car is that?”

“Government vehicle.” 

“Are you the government?” 

“I work for the government.”

“Is Mr. Grace in trouble?” 

“No.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

“I’m keeping him out of trouble.” 

The boy shifted his weight. He looked at the school doors, then back at you. There was a contemplative expression on his face. It was fleeting, but you caught it. “Is he coming back?” he asked. “Mr. Grace. To school.” 

Something in the question was heavier than the boy intended it to be. You felt your shoulders tense. Your expression (you hoped) shifted into something softer. “I’m not sure.” 

The boy nodded solemnly. 

In the distance, a school bus pulled over. 

His colleagues found him in the hallway afterward. They caught him outside his empty classroom, staring longingly at the seats. Some of them had been surprised to see him and were expecting to have him back. He had to break the news and tell them that he was merely extending his leave. They shook his hand and gave him pats on the shoulder. They wished him luck, for they knew he’d be needing a whole lot of it. 

The paperwork was faster than Grace expected. The whole ordeal was relatively straightforward. Indefinite leave of absence. Effective immediately. Reason: federal appointment, classified. All he had to do was tick some boxes then sign his name around seven times. He figured Stratt had informed his higher-ups beforehand. It was like her to be as impatient as she was efficient. 

His substitute was a younger man named Peter, twenty-seven, fresh from his credential program. Grace found him in the faculty anxiously going through the curriculum binder. He greeted him, sat with him, then told him which students to look out for. Despite his nervousness, Peter had a bright look in his eyes. That eager, go-to fire that assured Grace his kids would be in good hands. When it was time to go, he gave his palm a firm shake. Grace walked back down the corridor without looking at his classroom again. 

Pushing through the door that led back to the parking lot, the first thing Grace heard was laughter; familiar little voices occupying the otherwise lifeless space. He stopped at the top of the steps. 

You were still leaning against the car, arms crossed, brows slightly furrowed. Except now, ten students had gathered into a loose semi-circle around you. Some of them had their backpacks on the ground with no plans of leaving you alone any time soon. You were answering a question, which Grace couldn’t hear. But whatever you had said elicited another chorus of laughter. 

You looked up. You found him in front of the door. “Ah.” Your voice carried across the parking lot without effort. “Now you’re in trouble.” You nodded towards the kids’ science teacher. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Grace?” 

Ten heads turned around simultaneously. 

The sound that followed was difficult to categorize. It was somewhere between a gasp and a shriek in a vocal frequency that middle schoolers — who had just seen something they were not prepared for — were experts in. Several of them were already moving, backpacks abandoned, laces untied. The semicircle dissolved as they surged toward the steps with brand new energy. 

“Mr. Grace!” 

“Where have you been?!”

“Mr. Peter is so boring!” 

“Is it true they got you working on the serious science stuff?!”

Each voice was eager to be heard, and the questions, even more so. Grace came down the steps and into the middle of their commotion. “Hey, hey.” He raised both of his hands. He laughed at their liveliness. “One at a time, guys.” 

And, to their credit, they did speak one at a time. Only they did so in a lightning round and didn’t give Grace a second to answer. “Where are you going?” Marcus’ question was the one he caught. He’d pushed to the front of the group. Grace noticed that his arms were crossed in a manner that was similar to yours. “Like, where actually.” 

He shook his head, smiling tightly. “I can’t tell you. They’re keeping it quiet for now.” 

“Is it dangerous?” Bright-eyed Olivia. 

Grace felt himself hesitate. “Well, it’s — we’re just being precautious.” 

More chatter. They sounded like a council drawing a conclusion. 

“Your friend is super cool,” said Jeff, distracting the group. 

At this, Grace looked up to see you still standing by the car. You shrugged your shoulders at him. 

He spent the next few minutes in the middle of their questions and their noise and their natter, answering what he could and deflecting what he couldn't. Eventually, inevitably, the school bell rang. Grace had half a mind to drop everything and walk into the classroom with them, but he knew he couldn’t do it. Their conversation wound down as the dimming sun inched higher. His students left in ones and twos, backpacks reclaimed, shoelaces tied. Some of them even ran back to give you high fives. Nobody wanted to say goodbye. See you, Mr. Grace. Good luck. Come back soon.

Olivia shook your hand before she left. “Please look after him,” she said. “He’s a really good teacher.”

You gave her a smile so warm, you didn’t realize you were capable of it. 

Marcus was the last one to leave, standing at the bottom of the steps with his hands in his pockets. He had been a difficult kid. He’d been kicked out of his last school and didn’t get his act together until he ended up in Grace’s class. He turned out to be really good at chemistry. 

“You’re gonna do great,” he said. “You’re really smart.” 

Grace nodded. "Thanks, Marcus."

He watched him go, and continued to do so until he disappeared into the hallway, entering his room. Without the kids, the parking lot felt entirely empty. 

Grace walked back to the car.

The drive to Grace’s apartment was quiet. The radio played half-heartedly in the background, filling in for the silence with crackling showtunes and distant commercials. For a long while, the only audible sound was the hum of the engine and the steady monotone of tires against a concrete road. Grace had his head against the window, one foot tapping an idle beat. He'd sigh every once in a while, and you'd glance at him without saying anything. 

The car slowed before pulling up to a stoplight. You took the chance to check your phone for updates. Your brows furrowed at the sight of 4 unread messages. 

“You know, Marcus used to fail every test I gave him,” said Grace. The words left him like he'd been thinking about it for a while. “He didn't like being in school.” 

You turned your head and gave him a nod. “He was very concerned about you.” 

Grace chuckled. “Was he? He's a good kid. He was all over the place during the first semester, but boy is he smart. He just needed a nudge, you know? Most kids do. I try to be the teacher I would've wanted when I was a student.” 

You weren't listening anymore. Something on your phone had taken the last of your attention. Your eyes flickered in all the directions of your screen. You were reading a memo. That can't be right.

Grace didn't notice at first, continuing to talk about the rest of his class. Olivia was his top student. Abby was the second; she was a snappy one, but she was smart as a whip. Larry played guitar, and Jeff was on the football team, Regina liked to crochet. He would have told you about Eli's insane Mario Kart skills had he not realized that you were entirely preoccupied by your phone. The look on your face told him that something was wrong. 

“Everything okay?” asked Grace, tilting his head. 

You were about to answer him when a car horn blared from behind and startled you both. The light had turned green, and the SUV behind you had places to be. Tossing your phone on the dashboard, you grabbed the wheel and drove a small distance until you could pull over somewhere out of the way. 

Grace was still steadying his heart from the horn. “What's going on?” 

You shifted the gear into park. 

“There’s been a development,” you said, taking your phone again. “On the Taskforce.” 

Grace didn’t need to be an expert on reading people to know that you didn’t mean a good sort of development. He watched you scroll through messages and switch from one chatbox to another. The urgency in your movements made him anxious. “What happened?” he asked again. 

“Dr. Yusuf Adeyemi: the taskforce's lead atmospheric chemist. They found him this morning in his hotel room in Oslo.” 

Grace’s brows raised. “Found him? Found him, what? Dead?”

“Killed.”

He felt his stomach sink. “What do you mean killed?” 

“I mean they’re investigating it now and figuring he was killed.” Your brows furrowed as you typed. 

“So what does this mean?” Grace insisted. You’d just told him a man on the mission (in a similar position to his) had been murdered. “A-Are the scientists in danger? Why would anyone be targeting someone who’s actively working on keeping the sun from dying? That’s frickin’ stupid!” 

“Politics, Dr. Grace.” You weren’t looking at him. You were sending reports and updates to the according people. “Men love power and they don’t like sharing it. Eva Stratt has her enemies. Right now there’s talks of the Russian government forming their own Taskforce and opting to start another cold war; a race to see who solves the Petrova Problem first. The project that does gets a lot of credit.” You shook your head. “It’s chatter, but we’re taking it seriously.”

Grace paled in his seat. “You’re kidding me. This is the fate of the world we’re talking about and people are still concerned over who’s better than who.” 

You shrugged your shoulders in a distracted manner. “Men have started wars for dumber reasons.” 

Your phone rang. Grace flinched so hard he might as well have been shot. The screen lit up and showed Stratt’s name in bold letters. You picked up without thought. 

“Booker,” you said into the line. “Yes, ma’am. I saw it.”

Grace watched you, straining his ears to hear the other end. 

“Understood.” You paused. “How confident is the assessment?” Another pause, longer that time. Your eyes cut briefly to him, then away. “Yes, ma’am. He’s with me now.” 

Grace gulped. 

The call went on for a minute longer. It was mostly just you nodding and confirming that you understood. When it was done, you dropped your phone to your lap and held the wheel. Cars whirred past the rental. You were parked on the freeway. Grace felt like panicking, but as you weren’t panicking, he figured he shouldn’t either. 

“Am I in trouble?” he asked, hesitance in his voice. 

You contemplatively chewed on your lower lip. “Since yesterday, you were dubbed as the leading scientist in Astrophage biology.” You nodded. “I’d say you’re pretty important.” 

Grace held his head in his hands. 

“My directives have been updated,” you continued. “Effective immediately, I now double as your dedicated protection detail.”

He blinked at you. “My what.” 

You sighed a breath out your nose. “We’re short-staffed. Every critical member on the Taskforce gets one assigned. They’re working through the specifics right now.” 

Grace wished he hadn’t filed his leave. These sort of things didn’t happen to middle school teachers. “What do we do?” 

“That’s up to you, sir.” Your hand idly ran through the wheel. “Stratt suggests we return to the base immediately, but I understand that we still need to go to your apartment.” 

He couldn’t bring his thoughts together. His heart was racing in his chest. “W-What do you suggest?” 

You took a moment to reply. You looked out the window and up at the clouds. Your leg bounced in the time it took for you to start speaking again. “I’ll be with you,” you said. “I’ll keep a close eye out. I’ll make sure nothing happens — that’s my job. If you want to go to your apartment, then we can go. But you take everything you need, and we don’t linger. Stratt is right: the sooner we’re back on the base, the better.” 

Grace digested your words. You didn’t wait for him to agree. You restarted the car, and before he knew it, you were driving down the road again.

[sharkfiinn]

go white boy go

[morallygrayautisticscientist]

Stratt: Oh no.

Stratt: I don’t have the time or emotional capacity to be sad or stressed about this.

Stratt: GRACE!

Grace: On it!

Grace: *starts sobbing and going into a full panic attack*

[minart-was-taken]

What if Grace's Eridian students learnt the notes to the Happy Birthday Song so they could surprise him on his special day? Y'know, besides making him bawl his eyes out (understandable.)

[duckngk]

slap some healing weight on that guy

ty ryan gosling for getting fat once for a role you didnt get cus i get a reference for grace

[confusedfroggirl]

Its really funny to me how often book grace will beat himself up for using the imperial system measurements or using both imperial and metric at the same time.

He thinks about it so often. My guy, you're talking to an alien how is your attention devoted to thinking "I hate myself for thinking in hybrid units but that's just what my brain came up with"

[bugbeee]

[stealthetrees]

What if human astronauts visit Erid one day and are doing diplomatic things and whatnot and they learn Ryland Grace is sstill alive and is in a terrarium. One of the astronauts jokingly says “you’re not experimenting on him are you” and the Eridians freeze cause yeah, they totally are. They experiment on him all the time. They’re experimenting on him right now in fact. They read about deep sea diving and are now testing the effects of replacing certain gases in Graces atmosphere. Right now they’re testing helium.

They send someone to stop the experiment but Grace refuses cause they’re so far in already and well that would just ruin the data.

The new humans think this is hilarious and insist on joining the experiment as Grace excitedly yaps about all the cool stuff he’s learned about aliens but he’s still got that high pitched helium voice.