For anybody wondering, heres the first chapter of my Ryland Grace/Gen!Reader fic while the 2nd chapter's being beta read! Sorry if the format's iffy i don't post on Tumblr! (active on ao3)
Title: careless, you'll trip. care less, you're free
Summary:
Working alongside the leading engineers for Hail Mary's fuel mechanisms, you grow more and more worried about the fate of the world. And for humanity's sake, the least you can do is to stop avoiding Stratt's adorable lapdog named Grace, even after making a fool of yourself on the first encounter. But the second one is what concerns you. Do you still want to save the world...? Besides, you were the last of the recruits in your team...They'll manage. Those psych reports can run themselves.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/82903621
The aircraft you're in gives out a final roar which swallows the voice calling your name from the outside. Its deafening halt spits you out quickly despite the constant radio chatter. You almost trip, and it takes five eye-blinks to catch your breath. Your eyes narrow into slits, adjusting to the welcoming glare of the sun.
Suddenly, the wind rolls past your sleeves, your pants, and it struts behind a trail of goosebumps all over. You shiver. Your feet tingles out of their numbness in appreciation as you plant them firmly on the ground, but you remain motionless for only half a second. Your lips enclose some stray hairs and you stumble from side-to-side as if you were still traveling along the violent skies. You successfully hack them out, only for them to jump back into your mouth since your tight helmet keeps them stubborn and returning.
A balloon. A balloon is filling your head with helium and you're going to fly back up, get swept by the wind currents, and whizz around like a leaf. Panic will take its place once the helium wears off — You wouldn't have a helmet or a life jacket then, naked and suspended in the air because the helium would tell you to discard your gear. Your knees suddenly lock and you're forced to draw in the air from above. On a top-secret concrete island in the middle of nowhere, chances for the air to be tampered with helium are never zero. Yes, the government wants every heroic to float all the way past the ozone layer, to Tau Ceti, and back to Earth precisely this way so the heroics wouldn't have a choice.
Forget the goddamn sun. Stop breathing in that air!
Sharpness and brain freeze skyrockets to your brow when rigid fingertips grasp at your hand. You shudder, a sorry excuse for a shake. "Doctor," a professional-sounding female voice emerges out of the handshake. You realize she's regarding you. Stratt. The 'shake' breaks after a moment. Your hand falls limp by your side.
"Are you alr—" Stratt starts. "Doctor!" You hear her hollow call behind you. Her voice ebbs out wearily like you've done this before.
You're gonna fucking throw up.
Your arm stretches out to whatever is nearest, something steady, firm—An arm? You unlatch the stranger's bicep, eyes trailing down his forearms and back up to the man bracing head-first into a cone. The others are statues. They track every twitch you make; there’s no chance you’re letting it hit the tile here. You just shiver in your own skin. There there, wet little puppy.
Between you who pulls the cone in and the bespectacled man who just lets you, a tacit pact seals. Your stomach curls inwards; he batters a lethargic Stratt with questions as his thick hand reluctantly pats your back. The smell that finds your nostrils after you hand the cone over to nobody in particular, is of coffee. You appreciate its attempts to block the putrid bitter taste on your tongue.
The back of the man's flight gear is now an anchor thats drifts you into the Petrova Institute, but it turns to you at some point, and introduces itself.
You catch, Ryland Grace. I teach kids in middle school.
"Nice. Nice to meet you. I'm a psychologist." you gesture to an official calling your surname. "I—Well, that's me..."
"Doctor," Stratt tells you, "He'll take you from here."
"Ah, different floors." Grace sends you a thumbs up.
"And you—Don't take it personally, yours is kind of a tough room."
"Oh, I don't need anything fancy. As long as there's a bed and a shower, I'm good." He says. Grace waits for you though, as if blinking would get you to continue. Stratt shoots you a look of urgency before sending Grace the same one, and everything comes back to you in a fluster.
"You're...! I mean, my name's—and I'm...I should be working on the fuel situation, actually. Don't die back there." You nod firmly, and he nods too...How brave. A corny 'for humanity!' in an over-enthusiastic voice crawls back into your throat halfway before it could leave your lips. Your realization and empathy now seem to fully check in a little too late.
You settle a hand on his shoulder. "...Ahem. Good luck, by the way."
Grace simply grins, friendly and wordless. A glint in his eye reflects the image of you sharing the puke cone, however. "Thanks." The chuckle escapes him in a quick puff. Then he glances alarmingly at Stratt. "Wait. Don't die?"
The door bursts open, expelling a great energy of high-brow, world-saving discussions belonging to a great number of people. His feet stumble to find you again, but you're gone and Stratt pushes him forth. He has to die, actually.