*ੈ✩‧₊˚

rises the moon | 21

[suniix]

☆ NAVIGATION

hi there and welcome to my blog! please have a look around and make yourself feel at home

current concern: summer courses

requests: currently closed

⭑ TAKE A LOOK!

MLIST » BLOG/REQUEST RULES » DNI/BYF » FIC RECOMMENDATIONS » IMPORTANT!

⭑ RECENT FICS

half asleep, halfway home (giyuu tomioka) » sweet treat (sanemi shinazugawa) » ooh, sienna (giyuu tomioka) » war is over (giyuu, samemi, rengoku) » hello (again) (obanai iguro) » crown prince! choso

☆ BLOG TAGS

[💌 mailbox], [💌 signed (username)]. . . used for when people send in asks

[📌 navigation]. . . used to help you navigate around my blog

[📢 announcement]. . . used for important announcements

[📝 sunni writes]. . . used for all my writing

[🖍️ sunni’s nsfw]. . . used for my nsfw writing (block this tag if you’re uncomfortable with nsfw! you are responsible for your own media consumption)

[🗣️ sunni speaks]. . . used for when i ramble

[📒 check this out!]. . . used for art and recommended fics! some of the stuff is queued

[📕 take a look!]. . . used for recommended fics that are nsfw! (block this tag if you’re uncomfortable with nsfw! you are responsible for your own media consumption)

[🖇️ reblog]. . . used for random reblogs, most of the stuff is queued

[📎 reblog game]. . . used for reblog games

[⏳ icymi]. . . used for self reblogs

[girlmostlikely]

Hot summer nights … mid July…

[sentimentalbeing2001]

I can’t wait to keep growing and becoming more Me … but better

[liveleaker-deactivated20250423]

hi any life advice for 21yo

no youre fucked

[aidashakur]

anything for my favorite girl (me)

[scuderiavale]

‘why do you read “various x reader stories?”’

first, i’m a narcissist and will not read it if it’s not about me

second, I love the feeling of people liking me

third, I was ignored as a child

[ivybucky]

Make! Men! Cry! In! Fanfics!

[rockylandphm]

birthday on erid ; ryland grace x reader (0.9k words) — u and rocky keep track of ryland's bday. he knows what bday gift he wants from u

“Rocky, you’re gonna wake him up.”

Your whispers mix together with your giggles as the sound of claws lightly tapping against the floor pulls Ryland from his sleep. There’s a small, curious chirp from beside the bed.

Rocky, he assumes.

He simply buries his face deeper into the pillow in response to the commotion, arm tightening around your waist to keep you in place. 

“Grace awake. Grace pretend to sleep.” 

You laugh at Rocky’s remark, trying to keep your voice down. It’s one of the rare mornings where there’s nothing urgent waiting for the both of you. And Ryland fully intends to spend it in bed all day with you.

“Ryland.” You whisper, running a hand through his hair.

He habitually leans into your warmth, still half-asleep.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Rocky makes another sound from somewhere near the foot of the bed, almost like he’s reminding you both that he is, in fact, also here. “Birthday confirmed. Earth calendar difficult.”

You smile when Ryland cracks an eye open.

“You were keeping track?” He mumbles, a small smile on his face at the sentiment. The words come out fond, albeit still sleepy.

“(Name) make Rocky track. Rocky ask Adrian to confirm.”

Ryland finally turns his head so he’s facing you. Though, he doesn’t think he could have ever prepared himself for the sight he’s subjected to.

The soft glow of Erid’s light filters through the biodome glass, casting your face in the warmth of the artificial light. Your smile mirrors his sleepiness, and your eyes are crinkled in the way he loves. 

“Hi.” Your voice is still quiet, not wanting to pull him too quickly from the comfort of his sleep.

You can see the way his eyes slowly focus, blinking away the sleep. How he’s trying to process the situation. That you and Rocky were here, celebrating his birthday with him.

“Is there anything you want for your birthday?” You ask.

His lips press together as he thinks. He has tells when he’s deep in thought, even after all this time. His eyebrows furrow slightly, eyes drifting away.

His hand moves from being wrapped around your waist in favor of tracing absentminded patterns against your arm.

“I don’t know.”

Rocky leans slightly closer to the both of you. “Grace make no birthday request. Statement.”

“What do you mean, bud?” Ryland turns to look at his best friend, laughing a little at how he mirrors his movement. Rocky doesn’t need to move his carapace, but he does it out of habit.

“Grace has Food. Shelter. Water. (Name). Rocky think list is complete.”

A small smile tugs at Ryland’s mouth because Rocky is right. He has everything he needs. He has a home on Erid that the Eridians have worked hard on. He has his best friend, Rocky. And above all, he has you.

He looks at you for a moment longer than he probably means to.

“I think you’re quite spot on, Rock.”

“Not understand spot on. Explain.”

“You’re correct. I think you’re right.”

“Yes. Rocky correct.”

You laugh, and Ryland can only shake his head a little in fondness.

Because the possibility of this, of spending his birthday lightyears away from Earth still feels unreal. He had thought he was going to die out there with you, but Rocky had given him more time. Had granted moments like these with you.

“I have everything I need already.” Ryland says, a little quieter this time. Because he’s afraid that if he talks a little louder, he might start to cry at the overwhelming gratefulness that’s currently occupying his heart.

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. Soft and romantic. You pull away, a little shy to be doing this in front of Rocky, though unsuccessfully as Ryland follows after you.

“Wait.”

You smile. “Ryland.”

“I wasn’t done.” Your boyfriend whines.

“Disgust.”

You laugh at Rocky’s off-handed remark as your hand moves to his hair, fingers brushing through it. “Later. I promise. If you're patient, you’ll be getting more than just a kiss.”

“What mean more than kiss, question?”

Ryland ignores him, expression immediately switching. It’s almost comedic how quickly he understands what you’re implying.

And sensing what you mean coupled with your shyness and your hesitation, he immediately says, “Rocky, you might have to go.”

“Why, question? Rocky stay. Rocky celebrate Grace birthday.”

“We’ll celebrate later with Adrian later out on the beach. (Name) and I just need privacy… for a moment. Just for now.”

“Human bonding, question?”

“Yes, buddy.” Ryland grimaces, not wanting to have this conversation with his best friend. He hopes Rocky thinks nothing of it.

“Negative. Rocky want join.”

You laugh at their exchange, and Ryland's panicked face at Rocky's request to join. You know the alien doesn't understand what exactly Ryland wants right now.

So, you try and help out.

“Ryland, do you really want it now? A little eager, aren’t we?”

There’s a blush creeping on his cheeks as he chokes out a ‘yes’.

This time, you try to explain to Rocky. “Rocky, we’ll meet with you later, okay? I just need to give Grace my birthday gift. I can only give it if it’s just him and me.”

“Understand. Will come back in one hour Earth time.”

And when he’s out of sight, Ryland wastes no time capturing your lips in his. 

He’s about to make the most out of the hour that Rocky has granted him, and his hand knows immediately where it needs to go.

[cellophanejpeg]

☄︎₊˚⊹☆ success | r. grace

s. Ryland has been hesitant to touch after that night. Unfortunately for him, you miss your husband. wc. 2.9k w. explicit content, domestic bliss, established relationship n. i have a sequel halfway done for this mini series, someone bully me into finishing it please

read on ao3 | m. list | part one

“All right, I’m all done.” Ryland announces, handing you a cup of your favorite tea before pulling the blankets over himself. “I’m officially all yours.”

It’s a rainy, cloudy Saturday and Ryland’s finally done grading papers, which means he can finally join you. You’ve been in bed pretty much all day. After your usual weekend chores, you climbed under the blankets and stayed there, reading more of the book you’ve been obsessed with lately, knitting the scarf you’ve been working on for weeks now, and half-watching your comfort show while he sat at his desk grading papers.

You smile softly at him, gladly taking the tea. “I’m officially jealous of middle schoolers.”

Ryland laughs under his breath and leans over to kiss your cheek. “Don’t be. They’re not worth it.”

You laugh too and turn your attention back to the TV. You can still feel his eyes on you, though.

“What?” you ask, glancing back at him.

Ryland just shakes his head, smiling to himself.

“Nothing.” He grabs the book from his nightstand and cracks it open.

You haven’t had sex ever since that night. Not because things are bad between you. If anything, you and Ryland have been even softer with each other lately. More honest. You’ve always had a healthy relationship, always communicated your needs without little games or guessing. Ryland has always been straightforward with you and you with him, with the exception of that night.

But he won’t touch you.

Ryland has always been the kind of person who needs physical contact, and that hasn’t changed. He kisses you constantly, wraps himself around you whenever you’re on the couch together, reaches for your hand without even thinking about it, like he needs to be touching you somehow. But every time things start drifting toward something more, Ryland pulls back before it can happen.

You first noticed it the day after that night, while making dinner together. You’d been making out lazily in the kitchen, smiling against his mouth when you climbed onto the counter to pull him closer. His hands had settled on your thighs automatically and for a second everything felt normal again.

Then he hesitated.

Ryland pulled away slowly and mumbled something about checking the pasta even though the water hadn’t even started boiling yet.

You sigh softly now, setting your tea on the nightstand before scooting closer to him. Ryland immediately lifts an arm to let you curl against his side, pulling you in without taking his eyes off the book. You wrap your arms around his torso and rest your head against his shoulder.

Your hand slips under his shirt casually, resting against the warm skin of his stomach. When he doesn’t react, you start rubbing absentminded little circles against his skin, hooking your leg over his thigh and inching even closer.

That finally gets his attention. Ryland glances down at you and you pout playfully.

“You don’t like me anymore?” You ask in a fake sad voice.

He knows exactly what you’re doing. Joking about something serious because you’re nervous to actually say it out loud. You’ve always done that. Tease around the truth until you’re brave enough to touch it directly.

“What?” He asks, laughing softly.

“My own husband won’t touch me.” You complain dramatically, pouting harder.

Ryland’s smile fades almost immediately. He sets the book aside and gives you his full attention.

“I miss you.” You admit quietly this time, your voice finally turning serious.

Ryland’s face softens with guilt so quickly it makes your chest ache. “I… I wasn’t sure…”

“I know.” You rub your thumb gently against his stomach under the fabric of his shirt. “But it’s okay. Just because we tried one thing and it didn’t work out doesn’t mean we have to stop having sex.”

Ryland looks down at his lap for a second, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand in that nervous little way he does whenever he feels guilty about something.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I just keep thinking about you crying.”

Your expression softens immediately.

“Ry…”

“I know we talked about it already.” He lets out a breathy little laugh, embarrassed with himself. “I know you said we’re okay, but every time things start heading in that direction, my brain just goes ‘congratulations, man, you traumatized your wife’.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. Ryland groans dramatically. “See? You’re laughing because it sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”

“It does sound ridiculous.” You tilt your head to look up at him properly. “You didn’t traumatize me.”

“I made you cry during sex.”

You move to climb on his lap, legs straddling his hips. His hands automatically find your thighs, but he still has a concerned look on his face.

“You didn’t make me cry, Ry.” You cup his face with your hands. “I should’ve told you…”

Ryland’s face twists a little at that, guilt still sitting heavy in his expression even as he leans into your touch automatically.

“I know, but still.” His thumbs rub absentminded circles against your thighs. “I just keep replaying it in my head and thinking about how I completely missed that you weren’t enjoying yourself.”

“You didn’t miss it.”

“I did.”

“Ryland, I lied to you.” You brush your thumbs on his cheeks. “I said I was okay and I wasn’t. If there’s someone at fault here it’s me.”

He squeezes your thighs immediately, giving you a stern look.

“Don’t say that,” he says firmly. “Don’t ever say that.”

You open your mouth to argue, but Ryland shakes his head before you can.

“No. Absolutely not.” His hands slide up your legs a little. “You were trying to make me happy and I should’ve realized something was wrong way sooner.”

“See how this isn’t going anywhere?” You give him a soft smile before leaning down to brush your lips against his neck.

Ryland gasps quietly, hands immediately settling on your hips.

“Let’s just move on to the part where we’re over it and have hot and messy sex like before.” You murmur against his skin. You drag your hips slowly against his and his breath catches again, fingers tightening instinctively over your waist.

“Sweetheart,” he says weakly, already sounding a little overwhelmed.

You kiss his neck again, softer this time, feeling the way he tilts his head automatically to give you more room. Your hips move on his lap and you can feel him growing between your legs.

“I miss you too.” He admits, slipping his hands under your shirt and getting lost in your mouth and in the way you’re rubbing yourself on him. You smile on his skin and move to whisper in his ear.

“Then fuck your wife, Ryland.”

He groans loudly and pushes you away from his neck just to kiss you hungrily instead. Your teeth clash together a little from how fast he moves and you laugh softly into his mouth, hands tangling in his hair when he pulls you closer against him.

“Finally.” You sigh between kisses.

Ryland answers by kissing you harder, one hand sliding up your spine while the other grips your hip like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he lets go. Days of hesitation seem to snap all at once, all that nervous restraint melting away the second he realizes you really mean it.

He tightens his grip on your hips, slowly guiding your movements against him while he kisses you deeper. He’s already hard beneath you, the pressure of it making heat curl low in your stomach when you grind against him again. A soft whimper slips into his mouth and Ryland groans quietly in response, moving to kiss down your jaw and along your neck, open-mouthed and messy.

His hands trail upward, slipping under your shirt again before he pulls back just enough to tug it over your head. Ryland barely even looks at it when he tosses it somewhere onto the floor, immediately cupping your breasts in both hands like he’s been thinking about touching you for days.

His thumbs brush over your nipples before pinching lightly and you hiss softly through your teeth, gasping a second later when he wraps his mouth around one of them while teasing the other with his fingers.

You moan loudly, breathing hard as he moves to the other nipple.

“Ryland…” You whimper.

Ryland suddenly flips you onto your back, the mattress dipping beneath you as he hovers over your body. He doesn’t waste a second before hooking his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants, tugging them down with a kind of desperation that makes your stomach flutter.

It reminds you of when you first got married, back when neither of you could keep your hands off each other for more than five minutes. Ryland would come home after a stressful day at work and barely even say hello before dropping to his knees between your legs, already pulling your pants down like seeing you was the only thing he’d thought about all day.

He doesn’t settle between your legs, though. Instead, he hovers over you again, leaning on one elbow beside your head while his other hand drifts slowly between your thighs. He watches you through heavy lashes as his fingers glide through your folds and you gasp softly, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers, licking his lips like he’s trying not to lose his mind over it.

Ryland still takes his time, even though you can tell he wants to devour you right now. He watches every little reaction carefully, like he’s trying to memorize them all. The way your thighs twitch when he touches you just right, the way your breathing catches, the way your face softens with pleasure beneath him. There’s something almost reverent in the way he touches you now, like he’s making up for lost time.

His fingers circle your clit lazily and you immediately open your legs wider for him, skin burning beneath his touch. You love the look on his face whenever he slips his fingers inside you, the way his mouth parts slightly every time your body reacts to him.

“Fuck, Ry–” You breathe out, hips shifting against his hand. “Don’t tease.”

Ryland smiles a little at that, curling his fingers slowly inside you until he finds that spot that makes your breath hitch.

“What’s the magic word?” He asks, voice rough and amused.

“Please.” You whisper immediately.

“Please what, sweetheart?”

He leans down to murmur the words against your ear while his free arm slips beneath your shoulders, pulling you closer against him.

“Please…” Your voice breaks into a shaky breath when he strokes that spot again.

Ryland pulls back just enough to look at your face, concern softening his expression immediately.

“Honey?”

You fist the fabric of his shirt and pull him into a messy kiss.

“Please make me come.” You whisper against his mouth.

He curls his fingers inside you again and the movement sends a sharp wave of pleasure through your body so suddenly that your breath catches completely.

Your thighs tense around his hand as you break apart beneath him, a shaky cry leaving your lips while Ryland talks you through it softly, still kissing you between breathless praises.

“There you go.” He says against your mouth, sounding just as overwhelmed as you feel. “That’s it, sweetheart.”

Your fingers tighten desperately in his shirt while the orgasm rolls through you, your body twitching every time he keeps rubbing slow circles against your clit to drag you through it.

“Ry–“ you gasp weakly, half laughing when it becomes too much.

Only then does he finally slow down, kissing the corner of your mouth while you try to catch your breath beneath him. Ryland looks almost dazed when he pulls back enough to look at you properly, his cheeks flushed.

He smiles at you, leaning down to kiss your cheek gently in a way that makes your chest ache with affection. He looks relieved more than anything now that you’ve come apart beneath him, like seeing you enjoy yourself finally quieted something anxious inside his head.

The fact that you’re naked while he’s still fully clothed starts bothering you a little, but more than that, you just want him close again. Want him warm against you, tangled up with you the way he always is after long days apart.

You reach for the waistband of his sweats, teasing your nails lightly against the skin of his lower stomach. Ryland inhales sharply against your neck and lets out the softest little whine when you tug the fabric down enough to wrap your hand around him.

“Jesus,” he breathes, forehead dropping briefly against your shoulder.

He’s already hard in your hand, warm and heavy, and you’re still sensitive and wet from your orgasm. Ryland kisses you again the second you stroke him, messy and distracted now, like he can barely focus on one thing at a time.

“You sure?” he asks quietly against your mouth, even now.

You smile softly and kiss him again before answering.

“Yes, Ryland.”

Ryland rolls onto his side with you, pulling you against his chest until your back is flush against him. One of his arms slips beneath your neck while the other hooks behind your knee, gently lifting your leg higher as he settles between your thighs.

The angle makes you gasp softly when he slides inside you, Ryland groaning quietly against your skin as he presses his face into the crook of your neck.

“Missed this so much,” he mumbles, already kissing your shoulder between slow thrusts.

He thrusts slowly at first, like he’s trying to savor every second of it, getting lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him again. His hand stays hooked behind your knee, holding your leg against him while his mouth presses absentminded kisses against your shoulder and the back of your neck.

You can feel every little breath he lets out against your skin, every quiet sound he tries and fails to hold back.

Your fingers tighten in the sheets when he rolls his hips a little deeper and Ryland groans softly at your reaction, pulling you even closer against his chest.

“Ah, that’s my girl.” He murmurs, voice rough with affection more than anything.

The praise makes warmth spread through your entire body. You turn your head just enough for him to kiss you, messy and slow, and Ryland melts into it instantly, his rhythm faltering for a second when you reach back to tangle your fingers into his hair.

He picks up his pace gradually, like he can’t help himself anymore now that he finally has you like this again. The slow, careful thrusts turn deeper, rougher, making the bed creak softly beneath you while Ryland buries his face against the back of your neck with a shaky groan.

You can feel how hard he’s trying not to lose control too quickly, hips stuttering every time you press back against him.

“Ry…” you gasp softly when he hits deeper at this angle.

“Yeah?” he murmurs instantly, voice rough against your skin. “That feel good?”

You nod quickly and Ryland groans at the motion, one hand slipping from your leg just long enough to lace your fingers together against the mattress before pulling you even closer against his chest again.

“Fuck.” He breathes out. “Fuck, I love you so much. You feel so good, baby, you have no idea.”

A broken little sound leaves your throat as you fist his shirt again, already damp with sweat beneath your fingers. Ryland holds you tighter as his rhythm loses what little composure he had left, every breath against your skin hot and uneven.

The pleasure hits you hard and sudden, making your body tense against his while he whispers your name against your shoulder like he can’t stop himself.

Ryland falls apart right after you do, burying his face against your neck with a wrecked groan as he clings to you tightly through it. For a long moment afterward, neither of you moves.

You just stay there tangled together beneath the blankets, breathing hard while the rain taps softly against the windows and your hearts slowly settle back down.

Your fingers run through his hair as he comes down from his high, both of you breathing hard while the room slowly settles back into silence. When Ryland finally lets you go and slips out of you, you roll over to face him again, your legs sticky with the aftermath of his orgasm.

He kisses you sweetly, forehead damp with sweat and glasses slightly fogged up. You cup his face gently, thumbs brushing over his flushed skin.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, smiling a little.

“I love you.” You whisper, still a little shaky from your orgasm.

Ryland smiles immediately, warm and soft in that way that always makes your chest ache.

“I love you too.”

He wraps his arms around you and pulls you closer against him without hesitation.

“I had just changed these sheets, by the way.” You mumble sleepily, glancing toward the evidence of your husband’s enthusiasm now staining the bed.

Ryland snorts quietly. “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s what you do to me.”

You hum softly, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck while the rain taps gently against the windows.

“Now it’s your turn to change them.” You close your eyes, burying your face in his neck. You feel his laugh vibrating as he hugs you tighter.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

[theworstwolvie]

action!

summary: your kid forces you to go to parent teacher conference to meet her very favorite teacher: dr. grace. how were you supposed to know you'd leave that meeting with an embarrassingly massive crush and a tutoring appointment?

CWs: none! this is fluff! single parent!fem!reader x teacher! grace, no use of y/n, shameless flirting (they're both kinda bad at it), my failed attempt at rom-com humor, grace is a loser (complimentary), some hand holding and a little bit of ogling, but can you blame her? he's hot.

word count: around 5k! (sorry lmao)

author's note: first x reader fic w grace........kinda nervous........but for real thank you so much to @clarkscolumn, my beautiful bestie, for helping me with everything from picking the pictures you see up there at the top of this fic to helping me pick a name for this fictional child AND helping me beta this <3 i promise to be less needy in the future <3

The sheer size of Grover Cleveland Middle never fails to impress you. For a school that’s only focused on 6th through 8th Grade, it’s sure…sizeable. Are there really this many kids in San Francisco? Jeez.

At least you can take comfort in what you’re here for even if the size of the school is intimidating. Parent-teacher conference has always gone smoothly. It’s not like you have anything to worry about. Your kid is great, if you do say so yourself. Clara does all of her work. Never acts up in class. Gets pretty good grades. Sure, she got a C in Algebra, but who can blame her? Adding letters to a bunch of numbers is tough, and math is basically a second language that you never learned, anyway.

Honestly, you don’t even have to come to these because she’s so good in school. Not to mention that she’s getting old enough that you don’t really need to do this anymore. In fact, you almost skipped this one. You really wanted to. You could have spent the day with her instead, but she insisted that you go:

“Pleeeeease?”

Clara’s got her hands clasped together to enhance this begging she’s doing. This definitely wasn’t what you expected when you told her you might not go to parent-teacher conference. You grimace and lean over the kitchen island, a way to get on her eye level where she’s sitting on the other side of it.

“Are you sure? I thought we could have a girls’ day out. It’s our only day off together until Thanksgiving break, y’know.”

She waves your comment away. Even adds a scoff to it. You throw a brow up, because how couldn’t you? Kid’s really developing an attitude. Probably got it from you, though, so it’s not like you can complain.

“Don’t worry about it. We can do that stuff over the weekend. I really want you to go this time!”

“Did you want me to beat up your Algebra teacher or something?”

“I mean, I won’t complain if you do that,” she grumbles. She really doesn’t like that guy. Maybe you should beat him up just for giving her so much grief about her grade. She tried really hard. That guy just has a stick up his ass or something.

“But I want you to meet Dr. Grace. He’s my favorite teacher this year, and I think you’ll like him a lot.”

You press your mouth into a thin line when she says that, but your contemplative look doesn’t last long. It twists and turns, the corners of your lips tilting upward just a bit. She’s never asked you to go to one of these for a specific teacher.

“Really?”

“Yes! He’s super cool!”

“Do you have a crush on him or something?” you tease. Her entire body tenses up when she cringes at your joke. It makes you laugh.

“Oh, God, ew! No!”

“I’m just kidding!” you insist through your laughter. She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. Rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Definitely got her attitude from you.

“Dr. Grace makes science make sense. Not a lot of my science teachers have been good at that.”

You hum after your laughter dies down. Your smile lingers. A couple seconds later, you extend your pinky.

“Fine. I’ll go just to meet Dr. Grace, but you owe me a girls’ day out this Saturday.”

Clara practically starts vibrating with excitement from how you agreed. She throws her pinky out to you and hooks it with yours, grinning so hard you’re worried her face will get stuck like that.

“Yes, I swear! Thanks, Mom!”

Now, here you are, lost in this big ass school, searching for the science wing so you can find the elusive Dr. Grace that your kid’s obsessed with. Before you left this morning, she promoted him to the best teacher she’s ever had. That piqued your interest. She’s usually obsessed with her History teachers.

Is she obsessed with him because he’s weird? Very likely. She’s usually interested in the eclectic teachers. What if he’s some kind of crazy? A psychopath with a teaching certificate? One of those insane wackos who jump on desks and flail around and somehow manage to get incredible test scores?

You let your thoughts run wild as you round the corner and enter the science wing you’ve been looking for for the last 5 minutes. Who fucking knows what you’re about to walk into. Clara’s got a sneaky sense of humor, which means she could totally be setting you up to meet a teacher she knows you’ll hate.

While you’re hesitantly walking down the wing, your eyes fall on each little blue nameplate outside each door. A number and a name on each one, and yet none of them have the name you’re looking for. Clara should have just came with you to show you to the classroom, but you were nice enough to let her sleep in.

So much for your kindness.

If it wasn’t for the final nameplate that said DR. R. GRACE right at the end of the hallway, you’d have left. Classroom number 220. Why the hell is 220 on the first floor? Who designs a school like this?

You peek through one of the big windows embedded in the classroom wall, and shock replaces your irks about the layout of the building. When you see the person sitting at the desk within the classroom, you’re taken aback. Surely, this man isn’t Clara’s teacher.

He’s bent over his desk and scratching red pen marks on the paper in front of him, but you can still see a decent amount of his face. He looks so young for a doctor. Maybe he’s a little older than you, but his messy blonde hair and overall bright facial expression make him look like a picture of youth.

His glasses slip down his nose and force him to push them up, giving you a good look at his arm. At his toned forearm. At his surprisingly large bicep. At the way that his t-shirt is practically strangling that surprisingly large bicep. At the dorky graphic on the t-shirt that you can’t see clear enough from here; one that you can tell is some kind of science joke.

When he straightens at his desk to stretch a little, you get a glimpse at that shirt. Black. Relatively tight. Features a white graphic of ramp with a ball at the bottom of it. Says “I HAD POTENTIAL” at the top of it.

“No fucking way,” you whisper to yourself. You even laugh. Clara’s teacher isn’t this super cute guy with that insanely cheesy t-shirt on. This is some sort of teaching assistant, or…a student teacher, maybe?

But she never mentioned a student teacher or a teaching assistant. Perhaps this is a teacher who lost his way. Or some random guy that snuck in and is cosplaying as a teacher. Concerning for school safety? Yes. More believable than this really attractive man being Clara’s teacher? Also yes.

This is the last door in the hallway. Clara’s teacher’s name is on this classroom’s nameplate. This has to be Dr. Grace.

Yet, when you very timidly take a few steps into the classroom, just beyond the doorway, and pause in it, you find yourself knocking and asking, “Would you happen to know where Dr. Grace is?”

The guy who definitely isn’t Dr. Grace perks up from behind his desk. Snaps out of the little grading trance he was in. He smiles at you, and it’s a beautiful smile. Soft and lacking teeth because it’s just a gentle upward curve of the corner of his lips, but still comforting and gorgeous nonetheless. The corners of his eyes crinkle a little. Their bright blue color is striking, to say the least.

Oh, Christ…are you ogling him? Stop it!

“Yeah,” he answers. His voice is as polite and casual as the smile on his face. “You’re looking at him.”

Okay. This guy who definitely is Dr. Grace perks up a little more. The way he’s keeping his eyes on you isn’t making this any easier on your heart.

“Oh,” you squeak out. Much higher pitched than you wanted it to be. How humiliating.

He stands up, now, and even from your spot at the door, you can tell he’s taller than you. A decent amount taller than you. He rounds his desk and starts toward you. You, on the other hand, can’t move your fucking feet at all. You’re still stuck just a couple steps into the classroom.

“Nice to meet you,” he says while sticking his hand out for you to shake. He got here so quickly. Didn’t give you enough time to recalibrate, or to do a system reset, or to come back down into your body. You clear your throat enough to find your voice again, though, just a few seconds after you take his hand and shake it.

“Nice to meet you, too,” you mumble. You’re reeling over the firmness of his grip while you let out an awkward laugh.

“I wasn’t expecting you to look like this,” you blurt out. Fuck. Why did you say that? And why did he throw his eyebrows up like that when you said it?

“No?” he asks. Crosses his arms over his chest and smiles at you. If God was on your side right now, he’d make Dr. Grace stop finding ways to flex his biceps in front of you.

“What were you expecting?”

“I…well, I thought you’d look like,” you pause and awkwardly laugh again. Really making a good first impression with this one, huh?

“I don’t know. I thought you’d look like Bill Nye, or—or a mad scientist, or something.”

“Bill Nye or a mad scientist,” he repeats.

He laughs. A little wheezy, a little higher pitched than you expected. Just makes him even more attractive, which in turn ends up making you more flustered. Your face floods with an embarrassed heat that’s so hot you could probably melt steel with your skin alone. You look down at the floor between you and force out a chuckle.

“I can’t tell if that means your kid really likes me or really hates me.”

You look back up at him. There’s an incredibly defeated, embarrassed little smile on your face. This is potentially the most humiliated you’ve ever been in your entire life. Can’t get much lower than this, right? Somehow, that thought grants you the ability to speak.

“I’m sorry. Can we restart? I’ll walk out, come back in, and we’ll pretend I never said that,” you softly mumble. It’s a little surprising that you were able to compose yourself enough to say that coherently. Dr. Grace’s brow pinches together. Is that sympathy? Is he trying to not laugh at you? Who knows.

But he nods. Then he smiles at you, devoid of sympathy and full of what you’re pretty sure is genuine kindness.

“Sure. You want me to reset? Go back to my desk?”

“Yeah. Let’s just time travel to…a couple minutes ago?”

“Deal.”

He claps his hands and calls out, “Action!”

Then he skitters back to his desk. A light but quick jog that has you laughing pretty hard as you walk yourself out of his classroom.

When you’re in the hall, in a spot he can’t see you, you shake your hands at your sides. You let out a soft, anxious sigh and run your fingers through your hair. Self soothing, but also a way to tame any potential fly aways. You even jump a few times. Anything to shake the jitters off.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “You can do this. You can talk to him without embarrassing yourself.”

With your jitters mostly shaken off and your self-pep talk not doing much for you, you walk into the classroom again. Dr. Grace is sitting at his desk as if your first introduction never even happened. Same position and everything.

You start the scene by clearing your throat.

“Hi."

He looks up at you with that same gentle smile he flashed you the first time he saw you. Nods his head at you.

“Hi, stranger I’ve definitely never met before.”

“I’m looking for Dr. Grace?” you ask through a giggle. Your question sounded so dorky because of the grin stretching your face. Maybe you're a student instead of a parent.

“You found him!” he excitedly responds, both of his index fingers pointing at himself and eyes widened behind his lenses. “Because that’s me!”

Your giggles turn into a full laugh. Between his stilted use of the word “stranger” and the enthusiastic way he’s currently standing up behind his desk and rounding it to meet you, you were done for. He juts one of his hands out toward you and, for the second time today, you find yourself reeling from Dr. Grace’s palm being pressed against yours.

“Very nice to meet you, Miss.”

When he releases your hand, he gestures toward an empty chair sitting right next to the one he was occupying. “You can have a seat over here if you’d like.”

A typical parent-teacher conference usually maintains some distance. It’s rehearsed, in a way. A performance of good teacher and good parent. It’s got a formulaic parent question about how your kid’s doing and a formulaic positive teacher answer that every parent wants to hear. And it happens over their desk with at least five feet between parent and teacher.

Not this one, though. Dr. Grace is breaking that formula and improvising that performance.

You blink a few times, but you round that desk and follow him. You both sit down at the same time, and he turns his chair toward you to continue giving you his full attention. He leans back a little. Leaves his arms uncrossed, now, because he wants to remain open to you. Although, the smile on his face and the interest in his eyes was enough to tell you that he’s an open book.

It’s nice to break that formula. It’s nicer to improvise.

“I didn’t catch your name earlier,” he mutters. There’s a little apologetic lilt in his voice. A sheepish quality to it that’s quite heartwarming.

“Because we’ve never met before, so how would you have caught it?” you counter while you point back and forth between him and yourself. He snaps his fingers, then gently smacks his own forehead.

“That’s true,” he confesses.

“What’s your name, stranger?”

You give it to him. He smiles. Repeats it with some sort of reverence and leans into you just a pinch.

“That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you, Dr. Grace.”

Have you ever sounded so timid in your entire life? Probably not. But it’s hard not to be when he refuses to break eye contact with you while he’s complimenting you so sincerely.

“You don’t have to call me that. Most of the kids just call me Mr. Grace,” he mumbles. Basically blows off his fancy title that definitely took him years to achieve.

“But you’re not 13, so…please call me Ryland.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I really like that. It’s unique.”

He scoffs. “You think mine’s unique? You should hear my brother’s.”

He waves off that murmured comment and laughs at himself.

“That’s a story for another day, though,” he says, “because I’m pretty sure you’re here to see me instead of hear about my brother.”

What a rambler. A really, really attractive rambler. Is the rambling only bearable because he’s so cute?

Maybe.

“You’d be right,” you respond, muddled a bit by the smile you can’t wipe off of your face.

“I figured. So, who do you belong to?” he asks while he picks up a packet from his desk. It’s full of names. Some kind of roll sheet, you guess. Only a few have been checked off. Maybe that’s why he’s so excited about how you’re here. Another parent to perform for.

You know he’s asking that question about Clara. If he wasn’t her teacher, you’d have made some kind of feisty quip. Something like:

“Are you asking me about my kid or my relationship status?”

Shit. Did you say that out loud?

Ryland’s eyes widen. His face flushes pink and he laughs really, really hard while he tears his gaze off of you. Even though he clearly wants to keep looking at you, he’s seemingly unable to; he opts for gluing his eyes to his hands as they clutch that roll sheet like grim death.

Nice to know you’re not the only one getting flustered here—and, boy, are you flustered. You’re so tensed up that you’re starting to worry about the way your muscles are squeezing your own bones. You’re so embarrassed that you could throw up.

He glances up at you from behind those cute glasses and shoots you a crooked smile. A fleeting glance that makes you feel good about yourself. He still wants to look at you despite the way that you humiliated the shit out of yourself so badly that you might have to excommunicate.

“I was asking about your kid.”

“I’m so sorry. Just a stupid joke,” you mumble. You clear your throat and shake your head to try and rid yourself of the terrible thoughts in it. Then you point at the roll sheet in his hands. You found Clara’s name the moment he clutched that paper.

It called out to you. That kid’s your everything even though she’s just unknowingly tossed you into the most embarrassing moment of your life.

“I belong to that one,” you say, trying your very hardest to get this conversation back on the right track.

Ryland perks up. His smile from earlier grows. It’s not crooked anymore, but it’s still just as genuine as it was when he tossed it your way.

“Oh, you’re Clara’s mom!” he exclaims. “She’s great! Super bright. Takes a little while to get her out of her shell and speak up, but she’s a perfect addition to third period because of it. I never have to get on her case.”

Your face might split in half if you grin any harder.

“Yeah, that sounds like my girl,” you proudly confirm. “Can you believe she never stops talking back at home?”

“I can, actually. All the good ones are like that,” Ryland says through a chuckle. He checks her name off then passes you the roll and a pen. While you’re in the process of signing in the little blank next to Clara’s name, things take a tiny turn for the worse.

“You and Dad did an incredible job.”

Ouch. At least you’re not the only one saying the wrong shit today.

You must have visibly winced when he said it, because he looks like he wants to die now. You didn’t think it was possible for a person to look this mortified. He’s pushing the boundaries of just how red a person’s face can get. He drops his mouth open, likely so he can apologize, but you hold one hand up between you to stop him before he can get a single syllable out.

“Don’t worry about it. I know he’s on here,” you mumble while you gesture toward the roll sheet. A wistful little sigh falls from your lips, then an awkward giggle. One you force out to make things not so tense. He still has the ghastly appearance of, “man, I wish I could throw myself into oncoming traffic right now" plastered on his face.

So you reach out and lay your free hand over his. Give it a gentle pat and squeeze before you pull away and let it settle in your own lap. His fingers twitch. For a second, they appear to have been chasing after yours.

Maybe. A lot of things are weird right now. That was probably just in your head.

“At least now you know not to call him if you ever need anything,” you continue. A bit of a joke, albeit too realistic. Pulls on a taut, aching string in your heart—that same one that always gets pulled when you have to think of that idiot. You’re not sure if it’ll ever snap and relieve you of that pain.

You’re in the process of handing the roll sheet back to him when Ryland finally says something.

“Can we restart one more time?”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to bite back a grin when you look up at him again. His face isn’t as red, but there’s some pink lingering over the bridge of his nose and bleeding into his cheeks. You’re not sure it’ll go away after that massive fuck up, but…at least it’s cute on him.

“Should we go a couple minutes back again?”

“That—Yeah, maybe,” he stumbles over himself, grimacing a little before he finishes, “just as long as we can forget what I just said.”

You pinch your eyebrows together and let out a confused huff.

“What do you mean?”

He’s confused, now, too. Laughs to himself as he begins, “When I said that you and—”

You decide to cut him off with a little clap and a whispered, “Action!”

Then you straighten in your chair.

“You’re losing it, I think.” You gently tap your temple a couple times while you laugh, too. “Because all I remember is you saying my kid’s pretty good in your class.”

Then it clicks for him. You can see it. The sparkle in his eyes and the way he has to suck in a deep breath so he doesn’t blow the next interaction you have. He decides on simply shooting you a thumbs up.

He settles back into that casual routine you had both been nurturing. The tension in his shoulders—his broad shoulders—melts away. He looks almost relaxed as he drops his hands into his lap. When he rubs his palms up and down his thighs for whatever reason someone would do that for, you have to force yourself to not think about the veins on the back of his hands. And how soft his hands look. And how big his hands are.

You're not really doing a great job at it.

Your tongue runs over your bottom lip and you force your eyes to meet his when he speaks up.

"Clara really is a great kid."

"She'd die if she knew I told you this," you begin before you lean forward just a little. Enough to get closer to him. To get a hint of that woodsy cologne he's wearing and fuck yourself up pretty badly. Can't help but wonder if that scent would transfer onto your skin if you got close enough to him.

Jesus. What the hell is going on with you today? Best to continue your actual conversation before you melt into a puddle.

"But she begged me to come to this because she wanted me to meet you. She said you were her favorite teacher ever."

Ryland smiles. Then he laughs. You like how much he does both of those things.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously!" you exclaim. He clutches his heart. Quite dramatic. Quite hilarious. Man, he's interesting. One of the most interesting men you've ever met.

"No way!"

Through a giggle, you tell him, "Yes way! She likes you a lot, actually."

He huffs. "I find that hard to believe. She's got such a good History teacher this year."

"Oh, yeah? You wanna bet?" you question, smirk on your face and a twinge of mischief hidden in your tone.

"Word for word, she told me that 'Dr. Grace makes science make sense.' So…on behalf of her, thanks for that. You're making my kid's life a lot easier."

There's a twinkle in both of his eyes, now. You might even say they're misty. Your heart aches; this was fun until you stoked the fire of his tender-hearted ways. It might just be a hallucination, but you're pretty sure his bottom lip trembled a little for a second there before he cooked up a response for you. Makes you want to reach out and give the poor guy a hug.

"That's so sweet. Means a lot," is that response he cooked up, accompanied by a hint of a cracking voice that makes him clear his throat. You nod and try not to stare at him when he brings one hand up to his face and rubs a lash line. To lighten the situation a bit, you lean back in your chair and cross your arms over your chest.

"She also said she thought I'd like you."

He blinks a few times and snaps up to look at you again, quick and surprised by your sudden pivot. Throws an eyebrow up. A corner of his lips quirks up to match it.

"Yeah?" he asks. His fingers toy with a loose thread on his jeans while he keeps his eyes on you. Clearly, he's got no idea what to do with those pretty hands of his.

You can think of a few things. But maybe you shouldn't right now.

"Was she right?"

You punch out a hum; might as well let him steep in the suspense of waiting on your answer.

Your gaze, exhibiting some sort of mind of its own, sweep up and down his face and body. Over his widened, seemingly hopeful eyes. His pronounced jaw and the stubble dusting over it. The broad expanse of his shoulders, the tightness of his shirt around his arms and the way it hugs his torso just right.

Then you see a flash of his smile in your mind, and you replay that tiny wheeze hidden behind his laugh when you first walked in, and you think about the genuine kindness that's always hidden in his voice no matter how silly he's trying to be.

"Yeah. I think she was."

Ryland's response? A very relieved sigh and a very dramatic loosening of his shoulders. He even hangs his head for a moment to breathe out a laugh. You hadn't noticed he was tensed up. Too busy thinking about the prominence of his nose. Can you be blamed for that, though? It's really nice.

"That's good to hear."

"Do you usually want your students' parents to like you this badly?"

He blushes. Bright pink, all over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose and creeping down to his neck and up to his ears.

"Well, I—"

He gets cut off by someone rapping at his classroom door. When he sits up and snaps his head toward the door to look at the person waiting there for him, you realize just how close you actually were to each other. You practically could have crawled into his lap without him noticing.

"Hi! We're just finishing up here, so I'll, uh—I'll be with you in a moment!" he calls out. His voice cracks a little when he raises it. You bite back a snicker while you lean back in your chair. The person who you presume is a parent nods and backs out of the classroom. It leaves a slightly awkward air sitting between you and Ryland, but it's oddly comfortable.

"I guess that's my cue to go."

You didn't mean to sound as sad as you did. It's like all the wind has been taken from your sails. If you could spend all day with him, you'd do it in a heartbeat. Why the hell did that parent have to show up?

You reluctantly stand from your spot. Ryland shoots up to follow you. His chest bumps against yours, causing him to roughly pull back and frantically apologize beneath his breath. He almost falls backward, so you lunge forward and grab onto his hand to keep it from happening. His fingers intertwine with yours and he steadies himself when he presses his free hand down onto the flat surface of his desk.

He doesn't let your hand go, though. He's still apologizing for bumping into you, but he's giving your hand a squeeze at the same time. Firm yet gentle. The most comfortable grip you've ever felt, maybe.

Safe to say you're frozen. Eyes wide, breath caught in your chest, face burning like he's set it on fire. You've got no idea where to move and where to go because, if you were being honest, you'd say you wanted this the entire time you've been in here. How on Earth has he managed to wrap you around his finger so quickly?

He releases your hand right and mutters another apology. An unnecessary one. If anything, he should be apologizing for letting you go. For taking the welcoming firmness of his grip away from you.

"It was really great to meet you," he softly coos. You return his sweet little comment with a tiny head nod and a bright smile, then you round his desk and start for the classroom door. He follows you, because…well, of course he does. Did you honestly expect anything else?

"You're good company, Dr. Grace," you tease. A tiny, mischievous lilt added to the title you know he doesn't care for. Something that makes him roll his eyes. You saw that smirk on his face, though.

"And I'm really glad that you're my kid's teacher."

"Ah, well," he pauses and waves off your comment. "She's great. I'm happy to be her teacher."

He clears his throat to stop you just before you walk out the door. A frantic comment follows.

"But if she ever needs a tutor or something, don't be a stranger. Reach out!"

You spin on your heel and send him a sympathetic little smile.

"I don't know. She's got a pretty good grade in here. I don't think she needs a tutor."

He deflates almost immediately. A frown's on his lips while he rubs the back of his neck. Then a little bit of hope flickers in his eyes, and he cheekily adds, "Well, I'm good at other subjects too."

You laugh.

"I'm sure you are."

He sighs. Perches his hands on his hips and presses his lips into a thin line. It's a cute way to feign disappointment.

"But," you begin, heat welling beneath your cheeks and playfulness laced in your tone, "science was my worst subject in school. Maybe you could tutor me instead?"

"Yes!" he frantically replies. A little louder than you were expecting. A little quicker, too. Almost a garbled yelp because of the smile on his face. You're a little surprised he isn't jumping for joy.

He clears his throat again. His face burns bright red again. Then, in the most embarrassingly fake non-chalant way possible, he tells you, "Yes. I can definitely be your tutor."

taglist: @clarkscolumn @thceseus @clarknsun @sparklingsin @notebookmixup @frivolousimagination @qardasngan @aerixae @snoopysupe

[cloudytimelapse]

Rocky thought that a hickey was the human equivalent of a mating mark. So, one day when the purplish bruise on your neck finally faded, Rocky panics.

“Grace and (YLN) not mates anymore. Question?” Frantic chords vibrate from him. Both you and Ryland look confused as to where he got this idea. “Huh? No, buddy. No way. We’re still very much together” Ryland answered, reaching up to push his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, “why did you think we weren't?”

The verbal confirmation that his favourite humans haven’t split up, calms Rocky down. He lets out a slower series of notes, “Mating mark not there on (YLN) anymore”. Ryland’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Mating mark?” He blinked, tracking Rocky’s pointed claw, which was pointed at you. Ryland turned his head toward you, only to find you already touching the exact spot at the base of your neck where the hickey had been. Ryland’s eyebrows shot upward, his lips parting as he breathed a faint, horrified, “Oh”.

Immediately, he flushes. “Rocky, no!” his voice cracking slightly. “Uhm, that’s completely…that’s not…” He trailed off helplessly, his eyes darting to you in a plea for backup. You offered absolutely none. Instead, you bit down hard on your lower lip, shoulders shaking as you held back your laughter.

“That is absolutely not a mating mark, bud" Ryland attempted to tap back to his teacher-voice, though it was currently a full octave higher than normal, "humans don’t carry permanent biological indicators of…of pair-bonding”. Rocky’s form tilts, “But Grace give that mark during mating, yes. Question?” Letting out series of curious chords.

Whatever composure Ryland had left shattered. His shoulders slumped forward. At that exact moment, he looked like he would gladly float into the scary, infinite dark space rather than spend another second explaining his sexual choreography to a five-legged alien. “Grace not answer Rocky" the Eridian says, his tones shifting into a disapproving hum. "Grace not good mate to (YLN). Statement”. That was your breaking point, finally letting yourself laugh.

Ryland buried his face entirely in his hands, letting out a groan. “Oh my God, stop laughing, baby” Ryland mumbled into his palms, his voice muffled. He looks up at Rocky again, “Rocky, It’s just…a pressure mark. Uhm, kind of a bite. It has nothing to do with our relationship status”.

Rocky lifted two claws, mimicking a pinching motion, “Grace bite (YLN) for science. Question?”You leaned against a table, wiping a tear from your eye. “Yes, Dr Grace” you managed to breathe out, “please tell our Eridian friend. Was it for science?”

Ryland dropped his hands, glaring at you with a mixture of betrayal and embarrassment, though a tiny smile threatened to crack through his flushed state. “You are evil” he muttered to you, before turning back to Rocky, “No, Rocky. Not for science. Just…human biology is weird. Can we talk about actual science now? Please?”

Rocky let out an amused tune “Humans weird weird weird. Grace more weird”. Ryland suddenly felt the same helplessness he felt back on Earth, being a middle school science teacher trapped in a classroom full of giggling preteens.

[carpecaelo]

11 days, 3 hours, and 14 minutes || ryland grace

2662 words

warning/s: unedited

a/n: fem!reader btw, wrote this in like an hour.

11 days, 3 hours, and 14 minutes.

Certainly the most amount of free time you had on the Hail Mary. Well, excluding the time you first reached consciousness. That was less free time, more existential crisis.

You barely even remember a lot of what happened thanks to the three bags of vodka you and Grace shared.

But here you all were, with nothing else to do as you travelled to Tau Ceti to collect samples. But you three quickly made the most of it, especially in the mental health room.

Showing Rocky different seasons, landscapes and movies was the most fun you had on the Hail Mary, but your favorite was definitely tonight, karaoke night.

"Uptown girl, she's been living in her uptown world," Grace sang, surprisingly well, playfully pointing at you making you laugh.

"Bet she never had a backstreet guy," he sang on, pointing at himself as he continued on doing a silly dance, making use of his lanky legs.

You laughed again, cheeks burning a little as you watched him.

It was easy to fall for him when he acted like this, care free, silly, charming. He was the epitome of all those words. The epitome of all you wanted, besides succeeding on this mission.

If only he felt the same, you thought, a slight hiccup in your throat.

As you continued to watch Grace perform his little number, Rocky's xenonite ball suddenly tapped you, making you turn your head towards the Eridian.

"Friend in distress? Question," Rocky asked, making you raise a brow.

"No, I'm good, what made you think that?" You asked, looking between him and Grace, who was completely lost in song.

"Body emitting heat, and chest sounds erratic, but friend making noise of joy," he explained, in his matter of fact robotic tone.

"Rocky confused, statement."

You sighed at his words, he was right in some way. You were not exactly the distressed he was referring to, but you were definitely distressed at the sudden confrontation.

You thanked whatever god was up there  that humans did not have such Eridian senses. You would've been found out a long time ago if it was so.

You were also grateful for the fact that Grace was so indulged in his song that he could not hear one bit of the conversation.

"I'm fine Rocky," you assured the alien, gently petting his xenonite ball.

"I'm just happy, I'm having fun," you said, not completely lying, but lying nonetheless, it was for the best.

"Oh, Rocky understand," the little thing thrummed in his ball, moving his pincers animatedly.

"Fun, fun, fun," he chirped, making you chuckle and sigh in relief.

"Yes rocky," you smiled, looking back at Grace who was still singing.

"She'll see I'm not so tough, just because I'm in love with an," he sang, doing a big twirl as he reached the chorus.

Once again, you clapped, cheeks ablaze, and heart doing a number on your ribcage.

9 days, 5 hours, and 6 minutes

Grace sighs, looking at himself in the mirror, glasses crooked, but he didn't really mind. What he did mind was the way his hair covered his eyes every so often, most especially when he was looking down and working.

It was an annoyance, and definitely a safety hazard. So he had no other choice but to call you.

Yes he could do it himself, but the last time he tried to cut his hair himself he ended up with a bit of a bald spot, which you laughed at for about a week before it started growing back a little.

Since then, you were in charge of cutting his hair, which you were getting ready to do.

"So, the usual then, Dr. Grace," you teased him, snipping the scissors in the air, laughing as you did so.

"Yes ma'am," he played a long, getting comfortable in his seat as he looked up at you as you stood in front of him, ready to begin.

"You better not move this time," you warned, making him wince as he remembered the time you almost nicked him as he got too animated in whatever conversation you had at the time.

"Yes ma'am," he repeated, this time in a more sheepish tone, making you chuckle before you began.

Grace watched intently as you worked, like he always did.

How your brow would crease in concentration, how your lips parted as you switched up the angle of the scissors, and how you gently adjusted his head.

The last part was what made him go crazy. Sometimes you would touch his cheeks, and he prayed you didn't feel the heat that came off of them.

Other times you would grip his chin, gently lifting his head upwards, smiling as you make an accidental glance at his eyes.

He would smile back of course, if he didn't get lost in your eyes that is.

He looked at your eyes quite a lot. He liked the way they lit up when you have a memory resurface. How they sparkled when you spoke about new things you discovered on the ship. Even how they rolled and glared at him every time he did or said something stupid.

He especially liked the crinkles that formed at the sides of them when you smiled. He thought it added character, made you look sweeter than you already were. Just the thought of you smiling at him again had his heart jump.

Hell, it could've jumped out of his mouth if you didn't stop his thoughts as you spoke.

"And we're done," you said, snipping the scissors in the air again for emphasis.

"Now you won't blind yourself every time you look down," you laughed, the corner of your eyes crinkling, just as he liked it.

And all he could do was stare.

7 days, 9 hours, and 15 minutes

Fuck centrifuge, you thought, as you tried to lift a box of equipment over to the lab. The myriad of gadgets and gizmos making the box nearly impossible to lift in normal gravity.

For you that is.

As you struggled to lift the box, Grace came around the corner, whistling as he passed through the hall. The sound stopped when he saw you, clearly in distress.

"Need some help?" He asked immediately, without even waiting for an answer he quickly took the box from you, lifting with ease.

This had you looking at him with parted lips and wide eyes. Not so much for his strength, although that was a part of it, but the way his arm flexed under the sleeve of his shirt.

You didn't mean to look, stare even, but it was hard to miss the curve of his bicep, supple, yet clearly strong. It got you thinking how a molecular biologist was so well built, but you definitely weren't complaining. It was such a sight to see.

So much so, you completely forgot what you were doing, it took Grace calling your name to take you out of your trance.

"So where do you want these?" He asked, making you quickly close your mouth, shaking your head slightly to snap yourself back into reality.

"Just over there on the shelf," you said, pointing upwards, hoping he didn't catch you staring, and the sudden burning of your cheeks.

"Okie dokie," he said with a smile, following your instructions and walking up to a shelf.

He lifted his arms and you were greeted with another gift, the sliver of skin of his lower abdomen, peaking out the bottom of his shirt, revealing a deep v.

You only saw it for a second, but it was enough to have your cheeks temperature go up another couple degrees.

With the view gone, you tried your hardest not to make your current state note, looking at his forehead as you spoke as to not give anything away. And to not stare at his arms again 

"Thank you, Grace."

4 days, 12 hours, and 2 minutes

"Friend, friend help!" Rocky's distressful calls pulled you away from your book.

"Grace leak," he said, once he was in front of you, pincers moving frantically.

"What do you mean?" You asked, but followed him nevertheless, only to be greeted by the sight of scientists holding his hand as blood dripped from the tip of his pointer finger down to his arm.

You sighed at him as he gave a sheepish smile. Anyone else would be shaking at the one you saw, even Grace was a little bit, but as a medic you knew it was nothing much.

"Put pressure on it dumbass," you sighed, making sure Grace followed your instructions before bending down to Rocky's level.

"Don't worry buddy, he's leaking but it's not that much, he's gonna be okay," you soothed the Eridian who was still rolling back and forth in panic.

"Grace be safe?" He asked, tone still erratic as he thrummed in his little ball.

"Yes Rocky, I'll take care of him," you assured, giving the xenonite ball a gentle pat.

"Would you like to help?"

"Yes, Rocky help," he said, giving you what looked like a nod.

"Okay, head to Armando and tell him Grace cut himself again, he'll know what to do from there," you instructed gently.

"Okay, Rocky help," the Eridian nodded again before rolling off.

With a slight grunt you got up from your kneeling position and walked up to Grace who was still putting pressure on his cut.

"Move over," you instructed, and he did so, already knowing the drill.

As he let go of the cut, you quickly dug into your pocket for the packet of gauze you kept for moments like this, you opened it and gently placed it on the cut with gentle pressure.

It was more sanitary this way.

"What happened this time?"

"Was checking on the samplers, making sure they were sturdy enough,"  he explained.

"Clearly, they're very sturdy," he chuckled, and you looked at him with an unamused look.

"You gotta be more careful Grace," you sighed, removing the gauze ever so slightly to check if it was still bleeding.

It was, and that's when you knew you miscalculated the severity of the cut.

"This is probably gonna need stitches," you said, making him wince at the thought.

"You want me to do them, or Armando?"

"You please, I trust the guy, but I trust you more,"

"Alright, let's go," you sighed again, though chuckling at his admission.

"Keep putting pressure on it," you said, handing the gauze off to him, and he listened, trailing after you as you made your way to the medbay.

Once there, Armando had already prepared what you needed, and you sent Rocky off to check on the samplers Grace was working on. You needed the quiet to work, and you knew he'd be breathing over your shoulder if he stayed.

You both settled into a comfortable silence as you worked, you never liked talking in situations like this, and Grace respected that. He liked to watch you work anyway, although he had to admit his eyes were trained on something else this time.

You were currently wearing a tank top, one that happened to be low cut, and due to your closeness the dip in between your breasts was almost at eye level, all he had to do was shift his head slightly downward.

He tried not to look, he really did, but stating was currently working better than the anesthetic right now,

Yes, he thought. That was it, that's why he was staring, he tried to justify it. But he was staring too long, and you happened to notice.

"My eyes are up here Dr. Grace," you joked, thinking he was simply looking down for convenience.

"I- uh," his eyes snapped upward, being greeted with your smirking lips, only making him more frazzled.

"It's okay," you chuckled

"I know you weren't actually looking, this probably hurts, doesn't it."

He let out a little sigh of relief at your words.

"Yeah, it really does."

1 day,  3 hours, and 18 minutes

After 10 days of running around, practically doing nothing, you were now a day away from reaching Tau Ceti. Tension was thick on the Hail Mary, not so much for the mission surprisingly, but between you and Grace.

The little moments between you and Grace have built up. From lingering stares, soft touches, quiet conversations, the whole romantic comedy formula. You name it, it was there.

Even Rocky, who had no knowledge of such tropes seemed to notice, which is why he decided to sleep early tonight, wanting to give you two some alone time.

So here you and Grace were, drinking some hot cocoa, which you had found at the back of all your shitty rations. It was a welcome refuge in all the tension the night held.

"Worried about tomorrow?" You asked, voice cutting through the silence.

"Yeah, how'd you know?" He said, taking a sip of his drink.

"It's written all over your face Grace," you chuckled, taking a sip of your own drink 

"Hey that rhymed," he said cheerfully, making you chuckle again.

"I didn't notice," you said, and suddenly silence filled the room again, this time being cut by Grace's low tone.

"How about you, are you worried?" He asked.

"A little, but who wouldn't be," you answer with a sigh.

"That's true," he said back.

Silence filled the room once again, and this time you just couldn't take it. You set your mug down, looking at Grace, how the lights haloed his face in a way that made him look so soft. And in that softness you found action.

"Grace," you breathed, inching closer to him, and for some reason he did so too.

"Can I do something," you asked, and he responded with a nod.

You took a deep breath, hoping this wasn't a stupid idea before you closed the distance between you.

It started slow and every small hesitation fell away in that instant. You felt Grace's hand at the back of your neck, anchoring you, and the warmth of his palm sent a steady, electric pulse through your ribs as you followed by placing your hands on his cheeks.

Time compressed, and the ship's steady hum receded until all that remained was the press of breath and you two, finally coming together. 

As the kiss deepened, you tasted hot cocoa and something salty sweet. His fingers traced the line of your jaw, then cupped your face as if memorizing it, and you answered by threading your fingers into his hair. 

When you finally eased apart, your foreheads stayed together as you looked into each other's eyes, completely breathless.

Grace was the first to speak.

"Wow," he said, followed by a low chuckle.

"Yeah,” you agreed

“Wow."

0 days, 0 hours, 0 minutes

You watched quietly as Grace put on his suit, getting ready to collect samples from the Petrova line. You waited till it was only his helmet that needed to be put on before walking up to him.

He caught your moving figure, giving you a smile which you returned.

"Good luck out there, you better get back here in one piece Grace," you said, half joking, but there was a clear and low seriousness in your tone.

"I'll try my best," he said, smiling again and you shook your head, taking hold of his face and pulling him in for a kiss.

He quickly melted into it, smiling into your lips as he pulled you closer by the waist. It felt like second nature, even if you only kissed once before.

The two of you only pulled away at the sound of Rocky's chirping.

"Grace and friend mate!" His robotic voice said as he clipped his pincers playfully, in jazz hands if you will.

The gesture makes you both throw your heads back in laughter.

"Yes Rocky," Grace said with a smile.

And you finished his sentence.

"Grace and friend mate.”

[cloudytimelapse]

“Why are we even together if you can’t even give me some of your time?”

Your words kept ringing in Ryland’s head long after you retreated to the bedroom, leaving Ryland alone in the dark.

He hadn’t defended himself. He couldn’t. When the words left your lips, a wave of déjà vu had hit him. It was the exact flaw that had ruined his last relationship. Head in the clouds. Emotionally unavailable. Not really there. His ex’s parting words had been a harsh reality. But hearing the exact same truth come from you, the person he actually saw a future with, shattered him.

When he had frozen up, you didn't say anything else. You had just let out a defeated sigh that sounded like acceptance, then turned and walked away. He knew the only reason you hadn’t entirely left was because it was too late to go back to your place. You hadn't stayed to fix things, you were just waiting for daylight to leave.

Sitting on the couch, he felt scared. He was too afraid to even look at the bedroom door, terrified that if he walked in, you’d tell him it was over.

Initially, he drowned himself in self depreciating thoughts. Maybe he wasn't built for a real relationship. Maybe he was destined to always pull away, to always lose the people he cared about. Maybe he can never be the person you deserve.

But then, the memories of you began to flash his mind. The simple joy of knowing you’re with him. The way you were always there for him. The peace that came by just being in your presence. He decides that if he’s failing to be your person, he’ll work on fixing it.

His heart races as he steps into the bedroom. In the dim light, he finds you curled on your side, your back turned to him . The mattress dips under his weight as he sits on the edge, his thoughts still a blur. But he knows you aren't asleep.

“I’m sorry” he whispers. When you don’t answer, he gets nervous and starts rambling about how he loves you, how important you are to him, and how he hates the fact that he made you feel invisible.

“I-I didn’t realise I was slipping away" he confesses, he stares at the silhouette of your shoulders, anxiously fiddling with his fingers, "I get so...lost in my head about everything - lesson plans, or grading, or whatever stupid scientific problem is stuck in my head, and I don’t notice I’m getting distant. And that’s completely on me. It’s a terrible habit, and it’s not fair to you. You shouldn’t feel neglected when you’re quite literally the most important person in my life"

His voice cracks as he continues, "I’ll fix it. I swear I will. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you never feel like this again. Just…don’t give up on me yet, baby, please. I'm right here. I'm staying right here”.

The silence stretches for a moment before you slowly shift, turning over to face him, your eyes searching his face in the dim light.

“Okay,” you murmur softly into the fabric of the blanket, “I trust you. Cuddle me to sleep?”

The relief hits him so fast, his eyes prickle with tears. He quickly slides under the covers, wraps himself around you, pulls you against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his shaky breath hitting your skin.

"I mean it" he mutters against your skin, his voice muffled and heavy with emotions. "If you feel like I’m getting lost again, just throw a book at me".

You let out a soft snort, your fingers finding his hand where it rested over your stomach, intertwining your fingers with his, "Good idea. A thick textbook would get definitely get your head out of the clouds". He mockingly gasps, “Not the hard-covered book, please. I might get a concussion, baby”. You let out a hum, “I’ll think about it. Depends on how you behave, Dr Grace”. He laughs, his grip tightening around you.

[bibigo-lover]

marriage talk.

summary: life on erid is good, aside from the occasionally nagging desire to get married. — epilogue to the love hypotheticals series (parts i and ii here!)

pairing: ryland grace x reader

word count: 4.3k

tags: established relationship, domestic fluff, literally just domestic fluff, relationship labels, engagement/marriage, grace teaching science on erid, rocky, adrian mentioned, needy!grace, they kiss n' stuff, references to past chapters !

cross-posted to ao3

Your humble abode on Erid isn’t exactly what you pictured for yourself—but you couldn’t want anything more than what you’ve got. For starters, you like your Eridian cottage. It’s a nice, oaky structure, decorated with a plethora of items salvaged off the Mary. You’ve got enough room for a bedroom and a living room. A writing desk in the corner for you, adjacent to another for Grace, both next to a large circular window to oversee the artificial ocean. Outside, of course, the artificial coast is beyond anything you’d seen in your time on Earth. There’s the granular, multicolored sand, the arch formation, hills matted with mixtures of moss and tall grasses, the fog, Grace’s favorite, and the even-tempered, cold-climate.

After being trapped in a pressurized metal barrel for months, you’re very lucky to wake up to this biodome and all of its fine details. Excluding, of course, the alarm that Grace has insisted tooth and nail for the two of you to keep at his bedside. Like this morning, when you have your legs wedged in between Grace’s and an arm swung around his abdomen, the alarm blares out the same monotonous tone over and over, disturbingly persistent. “Alarm,” you murmur, face buried in the pillows. He stirs only minimally, hand coming up to brush over the back of your head. Ryland runs warm, and he sleeps like a log. Too comfortable. Louder, you let out a groan, “Ry.”

You run your cold-tipped fingers just beneath the hem of black sleep shirt, jutting into the tender surface of his stomach. Reactively, he flinches away from you with a half-intelligible, “Jiminy Jack Frost, you’re cold.”

The alarm’s still blaring; he’s no help. Another minute passes before you bother to reach your arm over Grace’s body to slam it off. And by then, with half your weight pressed down on his chest, he’s already rustled awake. Caught underneath you, Grace has a weary, half-conscious grin on his face. It’s almost enough to make you livid, the way he’s looking up at you, all glimmery, just past his lashes. Barely awake and far too pleased. Stubbornly, you say, “We’re throwing out the alarm clock.”

Your executive decision comes like a punch to the gut. Grace’s grin falls, and he immediately props up on his elbows. “What? Why?”

You have to rub your eyes. “It’s disturbingly loud—like, fire alarm loud. Adrien has the biodome on a regular twenty-four hour Circadian rhythm, which means we can wake up naturally,” you list off, “And it also doesn’t work.”

“It works.” Grace grabs away at his glasses, taking them up off the bedside table and slipping them on just to argue with you more visibly. Plainly, he states, “I’m awake right now.” “But, it doesn’t wake you up. It wakes me up, and then I have to do the dirty work of getting you out of bed.”

“Whatever this is—” Grace makes sure to jut his fingers around your stomach with a bunch of tentative prods, just about the same as you’d done minutes trying to jolt him awake, “—is not getting me out of bed.” You immediately grab for his hands, trying to pry them away from you. Despite your morning bickering, the back and forth of the two of you tousling against one another doesn’t have a single drop of malice to it. When all is said and done, you’re very, very pleased to be stranded in space with him.

—

“Okay, class. Review time. Who wants to tell me about Newton’s Laws of Motion?”  

Your favorite (and very rare pastime) is accompanying Grace to his science classes. The Eridian younglings seem to be extra jumpy every time you decide to help out and watch Mr. G in his element—pressed to the xenonite glass and rattling away at the sight of you sitting on a tall stool beside his setup. There’s a very large makeshift Newton’s Cradle atop the steel table today, and a chorus of loud chirping, each youngling more eager than the next to impress. Each has their own individualized pattern of: Me. Me. Me. 

The enthusiasm is resounding. Grace claps, a grin growing wide on his face, “One at a time, one at a time.” One very small Eridian at the front of the multitiered formation raises their claw particularly high. One of Rocky’s younglings. Grace throws an index-finger up: “Shoot, Junior.”

Junior shrills: If mate, where younglings?

You can practically see Grace’s soul rise up out of his body. His hands are stilled at his sides. Regret sets in on his face. Of all the things. You swallow, hand coming up to pull at the neckline of your sweater; it’s unbearably hot despite the fog. It takes a moment for Grace to fall back into motion. Sternly, he says, “That is so presumptuous of you and not at all appropriate for you to ask me in a classroom setting.” Stubbornly, Junior thuds himself into a slump on the floor. Grace carries on, “Who’s up next?”

It’s clear that Grace wants to get a grip on the detour quickly and try to steer them all back in the right direction. But, it’s too late. This initial question seems to spiral into a very clear trajectory. More chirps and hums: Tired of human Newton. Want learn human courting ritual. Tell us first meet story.

Grace puts both of his hands up. “We’re supposed to be learning about Newton’s Laws. Not scaring our very special guest.” His objections are met, and vastly overpowered, by the repetitive chorus of the younglings, who are increasingly interested in the same thing: First meet. First meet. First meet.

“Okay. You want me to do first meet.” Grace turns to you, finally, a sorry look on his face and a blush tinging his cheeks red just beneath the rims of his glasses. “They want me to do first meet, hon.” He’s exasperated. You can’t help but grin, because this occurrence is nothing new. You’ve told some iteration of “first meet” to the class about a hundred times—detailing, at length, your chance meeting with Grace. All things considered, it isn’t the worst story in the world.

It takes you a very short amount of time to get yourself set up for the retelling. You sit cross-legged in front of the xenonite glass. The younglings make sure to huddle up as close as possible as you speak. Now, Grace has his cardigan shed, hanging on the corner of his whiteboard, and he’s taken your place on the high stool. You talk, and he listens—along with the rest of his Eridian science class. “Mr. Grace and I met on a ship on an ocean just like this one, but bigger, a very, very long time ago. We were both recruited for a very important mission to save the Earth. We all know this part of the story, right?” The younglings sing with agreement. They know Earth’s prior turmoil as much as they know Erid’s.

From behind you, you pull out two identical, xenonite models. You hold up one, “So, here’s me,” and then the other, “And here is Mr. Grace.” They’ve seen these before, and are sure to brighten up at the sight of the little figurines. “When I first met Mr. Grace, I thought he was… handsome.” 

The word choice sets Grace into a fit, all while the younglings chirp along and stamp their claws on the floor. “Oh, good lord,” you hear him grumble. You peer over your shoulder to see that Grace has his hands buried in his face, unable to look you in the eyes.

“We were assigned to work with one another, which meant we had to see each other constantly. This was more difficult than you’d think. When I talked to Mr. Grace, like this…” You dance your little figurine mini-me towards mini-Grace, and you make sure to pull mini-Grace back. “He’d be a little bit surprised, and retreat into his shell a little. An equal and opposite reaction, kind of like…” you trail off, gesturing to the Newton’s Cradle behind you. The younglings seem to murmur with agreement: Third Law. You nod, “And I’d do the same. We kind of danced around each other for a while, but it all worked out in the end.” Junior waves a claw around: Is true?

Grace concedes, pressing his glasses higher up on his face. You can see the bottom half of his lenses beginning to fog up. He’s absolutely flushed and it’s impossible to conceal. He concedes: “It wasn’t that simple, but for the sake of the lesson, yes, it was just like Newton’s Third Law of Motion.” Then, they erupt into further discussion amongst themselves: Now, mates. Human courting very simple. Human courting like physics. Bond is easier than Eridians.

“Alright, alright,” Grace pipes up again, trying to quiet them down. “If you guys can run me through the other two laws, we can do lunch a little bit early.” 

—

The younglings are only half-willing to accept your departure and listen to the rest of Grace’s motion unit. While Grace teaches the rest of his lesson, you’re due to meet with Rocky on the central quarter of the beach. He’s always making sure to monitor the two of you, a good host tending to his human guests.

You’re not sure how the topic comes up. Maybe, it’s the unintended topic of Grace’s physics lesson, or your nearing one year anniversary of being on Erid. Or, it’s the fact that it’s simply been long enough without verbalizing your particular feelings on the matter. Grace was something to you on the carrier, before either of you had been sent up to space. Acquaintance, then crush. Then, sort-of boyfriend. Definitely boyfriend, by the time he’d gotten the greater portion of his memory back.

Now… all the Eridians like to call you mates, which is altogether too biological for either of you. Partner’s probably better. With all this taken into account, there hasn’t been a very good time to iron it out with him. The two of you have been so satisfied on Erid that it seems sort of pointless to do so. You’re happy. And still, you’re being struck with the sudden feeling that you desperately, desperately want to be married to Grace.

So, you bring this up to Rocky. As the two of you have your daily stroll about the biodome, he’s trying his best to understand the minute details of what a “marriage” is. You make sure to trudge along the sand slowly, matching the pace of Rocky rolling along as best as you can. Human ritual is confusing. Mate asks mate to be together forever, but together already. Futile?

There’s no doubt about it that the proposal thing is futile. It’s futile and outdated already on Earth—and so, it should be futile and outdated all the way on the other side of the galaxy on Erid, where its inhabitants bond so easily. “Well, yes. Obviously, we’re already together, together.” It sounds so immature when you say it. “But, it’s an Earth tradition, you know? Beyond the formality and all, it’s… romantic.” 

Rocky dips only slightly into the seafoam as it approaches and recedes with the tide. Need meaning of word. You have to think about this particular word deeply. Romantic? What’s romantic?

Grace is, even if he doesn’t claim to be. Nobody else would be willing to ration out coffee for you, teach the robot-arm to dance to your favorite songs, and take up handicrafts to make you slightly less bored (his favorite: an army of medical glove dolls). His proudest achievement, by far, has been solving your complaints about having zero reading materials. His idea: taking Stratt’s pirated-everything laptop and transcribing books for you by hand on the back of old lab manuals. It takes you a short minute to collect your thoughts together neatly for Rocky’s understanding. “Humans like to express care for their mates. In a marriage, rings are a symbol of a lasting bond. You wear them on your left hand, here.”

You wiggle your ring finger at Rocky. He rolls a bit closer to you, water flicking off the geometric edges of his xenonite shell. Oh. Understand. Like how Adrian name carved on arm? All Eridian mates do this.

“Yeah,” you nod, “It’s exactly like that.”

I know Grace finger circumference. And I know your finger circumference. His claws are raised into the air triumphantly, as if struck by a stroke of genius. Adrien and I fabricate rings for human ritual. You try to breeze over this fact that Rocky has your body measurements stored in his very extensive Eridian brain. What’s more concerning is the fact that he’s serious about the rings. You almost immediately draw back, raising your hands up and waving them rapidly, with a punchy “no.” Rocky seems to slump in his xenonite casing. You’re far too disagreeable. Why not? Rocky provide easy fix.

“Grace and I haven’t had the talk yet, and I don’t want to rush it.” The truth is that you’re shy to ask. When all is said and done, you’re sure that Grace will say yes. There’s no reason for him not to say yes—one, because he adores you, and two, because you’re basically already married. But, the question feels far too serious for your taste, and you’d rather let him bring it up himself.

Rocky seems to tumble on his back and roll over into the water again. No sense. Not difficult to see—you, Grace, good life. Unnecessary complication. You don’t have much of an argument against him.

—

Your walk back up to the house after Grace’s class is filled with nothing but high remarks. It’s just the two of you again, the younglings back to their respective clans and Rocky back to work.  As you trudge up the hill with Grace, breeze whipping around your hair, he’s still a little bit caught up by the thought of you handling his students earlier in the morning. “Maybe, you can take my job and I can take up something more solitary. Like fishing.”

“It’s not a big deal, Ry.” You have to stifle your amusement. “You short-circuited. It happens.”

Grace tilts his head, blinking intermittently, “Would you really call that short-circuiting? I’d consider it more strategic than anything else.” Grace shoves his hands into his pockets, more mortified than anything else at the thought of his own flustered shock. He doesn’t believe what he’s saying himself, and still, he’s far too prideful to admit otherwise. As the two of you reach the front door, Grace makes sure to skip in front of you eagerly to open it and let you both in. 

“Right. We can definitely classify it as a strategic, intentional lapse in speech,” you tease. While Grace bends over to untie his Converses and kick them off, he seems to hang his head particularly low.

“You’re not allowed in the classroom for the rest of this month,” he tells you. Two and a half weeks. It’s more for his sake than it is his students’. You nod, placing your work boots on the rack right by Grace’s sneakers. 

“In any case, they’re just curious. It isn’t an inherently bad thing.” He doesn’t try to contest that point. Curiosity is never a bad thing, and it’s palpable how much his new class of younglings adores learning from him. What he doesn’t like, admittedly, is how their curiosity extends into your shared dating history. He’s very lucky you haven’t retold how you sacrificially launched yourself into space with him; it would no doubt cause a coup.

It’s clear that Grace is at least overall pleased with your storyelling—because as soon as you shut the door behind you, he seems to stoop down to try and kiss you. His blonde hair tickles at your forehead with the action, glasses slightly askew. It’s with much regret that you have to stop him. Grace comes upon an impasse. He’s kissing the front of your palm, not your lips, and he’s deeply confused. He retracts. “What?” You make sure to duck out the way and keep a straight path towards your writing desk. Grace trails behind you like some kind of lost puppy, “Wait, wait.”

“It’s Friday.” Since the start of Project Hail Mary, you’d been assigned to documentation, and so, on Erid, you thought it would be best to carry on with the work. Fridays—you and Grace had agreed upon sticking to as close as Earth time as possible—were for your weekly log, an ongoing tracker of your settlement on Erid. You tell Grace, dragging your chair back and seating yourself onto it, “It’ll take ten minutes just to type something up.” More like twenty. You’re very thorough, and he knows that. “I’ll make it quick, and then we can do dinner.”

You’re dancing around the fact that Grace very clearly does not want dinner. He nearly keels over at your despondence towards him. “I’ve been waiting all day to get you to myself,” he confesses. Much to his protest, you open the old laptop and click into the usual file. Grace tries again, throwing his cardigan over the back of your chair: “Maybe we can circle back to the log in an hour or so, and work productively on our oxytocin output.” The corporate-scientist talk really kills you.

“Fifteen minutes,” you wager. Grace groans. You know exactly where this tends to go. He gets needy, distracts you from your work, makes it near-impossible to return to. Secretly, you adore when he gets like this—all restless and slightly irritable. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere,” you chuckle, “I mean, physically, I cannot leave the dome.”

“One smooch and I’ll get out of your hair?” he rasps back. You tilt your head to look up at him with a very empty look of exasperation. Grace takes both of his hands and cups them onto your cheeks, before holding you still to plant his lips onto yours. Still seated at your desk, you have to twist your neck oddly to better face him, and when you finally find a comfortable enough way to turn, you make sure to brush Grace’s forearm with your hand. You can feel him smiling into you. It’s almost juvenile, the way he evolves the quick peck into a deeper and more intimate kiss.

You tug on the side-loop of his jeans, and he pulls off of you with a labored breath. “O-kay,” you punch out, “Quota reached. You go work on lesson plans over there, and I’ll do my logging over here.” He lets out another belligerent grumble, and reluctantly obeys. Grace makes sure to press a kiss to your temple, before padding over to the living room to give you space.

Though, you can hear Grace mumbling, out of sight, “Armando, do you see what I have to deal with?” It sounds as if Grace drags a chair out at the dining table and slides himself onto it. Then, silence.

Alone, now, you have ample time to consider what your writings will be made up of. Your log from last Friday reads briefly about improvements to the biodome—perfection of water temperature thanks to Adrian and your attempts to germinate soybeans from the Hail Mary. You’re not exactly sure what to write about for this week. There’s Grace’s lessons with the Eridian younglings, your ongoing efforts to create an English-Eridian dictionary, and today’s extensive talk with Rocky about marriage. The last option, of course, needs to be omitted from the record, on the off chance that your other half checks the file. All things considered, you could be happily un-married to Grace.

—

But you’re pleased, of course, finding that he thinks otherwise.

Only a few weeks pass when the subject crops up again. You’re busy hanging up laundry, while Grace sweeps the floor. It’s one of those more productive weekends in the biodome, and he’s whistling along to The Beatles. The clothesline reaches from one edge of the bedroom to a corner of the dining room on the opposite side. You’ve got a good momentum going, a rhythmic tug and fold of clothes off the line, until Grace asks—or, rather, stumbles into—“Do you remember when I thought we were married? I mean, I thought I was married to you, but I didn’t know that you were you. What am I saying?”

You know exactly what he’s trying to say, and it’s enough to make your hands jittery. Just when you thought you’d be able to flee from the overall concept of marriage, he decides to throw you off your game. You hold up a maroon shirt of his—a worthy distraction. It has a crude illustration of an amino acid with downturned eyebrows and fumes puffing out on either side of it. A-mean-o, the shirt reads. Not very funny, but you’re sure that you’ve stolen it from Grace at least once or twice. You try to laugh it off. “Well, I’d say it’s pretty difficult not to remember,” you tell him, “You’re still a pretty long way from living it down.” 

“Well, I don’t think I’d necessarily want to do that,” he hums. You fold the shirt with an all-too-sharp precision and toss it onto the rest of the old shirts piled on your king bed. Does he know what he’s saying? You can’t tell. The next garment that you grab off the line is one of Grace’s red jumpsuits that the two of you have naturally turned into gardening gear. The act of folding this up isn’t nearly as easy, considering that your hands are stiffening with nervousness.

Grace comes right behind you, one hand brushing against the small of your back as he passes you and bends over to rustle around his side of the bed. He’s very determined to obtain whatever’s been stashed there. You can see his hand slip underneath the mattress, and he makes sure to hold the foreign object behind his back as he turns to face you. “Can I give you a hypothetical? Won’t take too much of a setup.”

“Ryland.” You’re as wary as you are delighted. You try to peer around him to see what he’s got tucked behind his back, but he’s very quick to angle himself away from you.

“Okay, just be patient with me.” He chuckles at your eagerness, one hand coming out to hold you still by the shoulder. Then, he retracts it—chest rising and falling as he looks more soberly over your face. “The first time we met.” Grace stalls, then tries again, “Let’s say, hypothetically, the first time we met, I desperately wanted to talk to you.”

“What?”

“Like after my first astrophage meeting, I saw you eating dinner in the cafeteria on the center-left table, but I was too nauseous from the jet ride over to eat that night. So, I sat there the morning after because I thought you might show up. And you did,” Grace rambles through the explanation, before talking a big breath in. “How would you react if I had done that? Hypothetically?”

“I’d probably call you a stalker, hypothetically.” Your lackluster response makes him squirm.  

“Okay, well, that’s what happened,” Grace surrenders. He only seems half-offended—less so when you seem to start laughing at him. “Okay,” he breathes in, “I’m trying to tell you that I’ve always wanted you around me since forever ago. And I want us to do… this.” He takes your hand to place the object onto your palm. You seem to sober up a little bit, hushed. Grace hands you a small, xenonite box, all cross-hatched. It weighs barely anything.

“This isn’t an ammonia bomb, is it?”

Grace snorts. “I have a sneaking suspicion that you know it isn’t that.” You turn the box over in your hand; you’re sure that there’s some sort of Eridian engraving in it that you haven’t quite mastered yet. “I figured that we haven’t done things very linearly. You basically proposed by coming up to space with me, and I proposed by already thinking we were married. So, the real deal’s in there. Sorry for the wait.”

You don’t even care to open it that moment, too preoccupied with him to even think about the box in your hand. You make a sweeping motion to throw your arms over Grace’s shoulders, chin tucking over his shoulder. With just as much ardor, he brings his arms around your waist. There, the two of you embrace there for the next couple of minutes. In your cottage on Erid, in the middle of space, ages away from Earth. Away from Earth might’ve bothered the both of you once before—but now, it doesn’t seem so bad.

—

It’s a warm night in the biodome. Grace has your hand in his lap, and he’s using his index and his thumb to rotate the wedding band on your left hand. It’s a perfect fit on both of you, some kind of dark metal alloy with what you think is xenonite glass embedded into a middle-layer. The hushed sound of the waves echoes out from down the hill, and the two of you sit on the grassy knoll in one another’s company. You’ve been thinking this all night long, and you’ve got to ask: “Did Rocky tattle on me?”

Grace hangs his head with a grin, “Not on purpose. I went and asked if I could get him to fabricate me some wedding bands. You can imagine the look on my face when I found out he already had them done.” Before he can tease you any further, you make sure to take Grace’s face into your hands and kiss him silly. He seems to chuckle into it a bit, caught off guard by the sheer intensity that you seem to want to press your lips into his. By the time you’re done with him, his glasses are practically at a forty-five-degree angle on his face.

You have to reach your hands up to straighten them out for him. Then: “How long d’you think before your class notices these things?”

Grace groans, leaning his forehead straight onto your shoulder. “I can’t even think about that right now… Half a class period, if I’m lucky.”

[bibigo-lover]

odd reunions.

summary: you wake up late on the hail mary, and grace doesn't seem to remember anything about you—or, your relationship. you don't know how to break the news to him. (a continuation of love hypotheticals, but can be read as a standalone! part iii here!)

pairing: ryland grace x reader

word count: 4.7k

tags: established relationship, hurt/comfort, fluff and angst, temporary amnesia, avoidance, close proximity, awkward flirting, avoidance, tending to injuries, ryland grace doesn't know how to be nonchalant — and neither does reader

cross-posted to ao3

The force with which you slam open the door to Stratt’s office echoes down the hall—loud enough to trigger a couple of security detail officers to rush in behind you. They concede only as Stratt raises her hand up and nods for them to shut the door. Her relentless calm against your impatience only urges intensity. “Send me up. I want you to send me up,” you demand, nails digging into your plans. It’s your first time, after all this time working for Stratt, that you’ve ever been upset at her. It’s a foreign feeling, being so incensed with someone so excessively authoritative.

“Sit,” Stratt tells you. Her eyes are wide despite her well-kept composure; she would’ve expected this from anyone but you—her calm-and-cool documentation specialist. Begrudgingly, chest rising and falling rapidly, you sit. It feels a step down from your initial entrance. A part of you wants to. drag all of her files with thrown-out arms onto the floor—but you know that’ll only make her more bewildered with you.

Instead, you repeat: “Send me up with him.” It was clear to everyone but Grace what was going to happen to him after the accident. When DuBois and Shapiro passed, you had wept to him in his bunk—head rested on his chest as he thumbed the muscle of your shoulder. And, he simply hadn’t known that you were crying for him, too. You loved Grace, even though you’d only just gotten to know him. You’d just gotten to know him, and it was going well.

Stratt is quick to reject your request, you can tell, by the way her lips pucker in dissatisfaction. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

“I know what I’m asking and I want you to do it,” you affirm. “You can say that Grace and Yao and Ilyukhina don’t know two cents about documentation,” It’s a good excuse, and you know it is because you’ve spent the past few hours thinking it up. All Stratt needs to do is feed it to the committee. “DuBois would’ve done that job, bless his soul. I can do it in his place. Same job up there as I do down here, and I’m good—you know that. I can be useful.” Utilitarian, first. You know Stratt well enough to cover all your bases.

Decent justifications. You can see Stratt crack just slightly. She shakes her head disapprovingly, “We would have to recalculate for launch to account for your rations and your belongings. It would take an extra week to account for the extra weight. And you’d have to get fitted for a suit.” With an authority as uninhibited as hers, all Stratt needs to do is say yes. All the logistics are not as much of a barrier as she’s making it out to be.

So, you have to be more point-blank: “He might hate you for sending me up, and for a while, he might hate me even more for making you do it.” That part frightens you more than the act of doing it: Grace’s disappointment seeing you on the same suicide mission that he’s been relinquished to. It’s strange, though, that you haven’t felt more sure about something in your whole life. You want to be with Grace. “He has to go up. We all know it, even if he thinks he’s not fit for it.” You glance down at your lap, and back up at Stratt, “You care for him, don’t you?” 

She’s quiet. You push harder, “I know you do, or you wouldn’t go through all the effort to take care of him. I’m asking you to do this for him. Let me do this. He needs me.”

“You’ve only just met,” Stratt counters. For a moment, she sounds like your mother—scolding you for running away, in some juvenile act of defiance. It’s possible that Stratt cares about you even more than she does Grace. You’ve known her for double the time that he has, and worked with her just as closely. Your most generous assumption of her feelings towards you is that of a caring mentorship.

“And it will have been worth it in the end. You have to believe that.” The last thing you’re sure about is that Stratt has seen you and Grace together from the beginning. How you had liked Grace and Grace had liked you. How you’d kept each other company all of those months. How you’d spend all those dull morning meetings passing notes to each other. How, after one of those wistful karaoke nights, you’d been holding hands at the bar seats—Rylan’s cardigan draped over your shoulders.

It’s a set plan. You’ll be missing on the day that Stratt asks him to go up—some excuse about Yao and Ilyukhina needing your informational support after DuBois’ passing. And, inevitably, when she forces him to go up, you’ll be packing your go-box to be loaded onto the Hail Mary. Grace will run out to the field to evade the anesthetic, and you will be nowhere. In the end, he’d have fought harder if he knew you were planning on going up there with him. 

—

When you wake up from the coma, you’re quick to shed yourself of the plastic wrapping, the intubation, and the rest of the IV and tubing with sweaty, frightened palms. It takes you a minute to orient yourself—dead, black air outside the portholes, the bleak whiteness of the ship’s hull. You’re in a bedding unit on the ground floor, accompanied by the automated whirring of a robotic arm. “What is the capital of California?” the computer repeats, “What is the capital of California?” When you look up, the rest of the pods shut, you know clearly what you have to do. 

“Consciousness detected. User 4,” the computer rattles on as you clamber up the ladder, bare in the stark-white underwear they sent you up in. You remember—Stratt, “not enough time to code your information into the ship’s computer”—as glance down the robotic arm spinning on the floor below. When you climb up to slide each of the coma pods open, with no avail—there’s absolutely no one home—you realize that you must’ve woken up a little late. You have to find him. They must be around somewhere, but it’s all eerily quiet.

The hull of the ship is… not exactly what you remember it to be. You’d done only one walkdown with the rest of the crew, and it never once had anything like this. There are these strange crystallized structures mounted up on the walls, lined with dark geometrical frames. “What the hell,” you mutter. You come up to one of the larger structures in the containment room, and tap your hand on the crystalline surface of it. It’s anything but normal, and still, no crew in sight. You feel like you might be sick from the implication.

It’s not before long that you hear a repeated thunking along the floor just outside in the room over. Before long, there’s a smaller version of the structure hurdling in. You feel your stomach drop at the sight. Inside, there’s some kind of spidery thing making its way towards you, appendages rapping closely against the glass shell to wheel along. It feels like something straight out of Alien, and you’re very sure that you need to start running.

“Oh, no. Nope.” You shoot your arms out, looking for anything to throw. If a bunch of these beings have taken over the Hail Mary, and possibly captured the rest of your missing crew of three… it's awfully neat. There’s nothing on the ground, no signs of struggle, and absolutely nothing to throw.

“Grace. Grace. Grace,” an automated voice buzzes out. What? Your jaw goes slack. This thing knows your boyfriend’s—no, you’re not even sure you’d gotten that far—Grace’s name.

There’s a raspy voice echoing down the hall that’s all too familiar: “Rocky, I said I need an extra hand. You’re not still mad at me about the eating thing, are you?” You can already feel the tears welling up in your eyes. You remember clearly how you let Stratt stick you with the syringe. You’d done it for him, and he’s here—and you’re both here. Everything according to plan. Except the alien, of course. Still, he rolls back and forth, back and forth in front of you.

“Grace, friend awake. Grace, come now,” it buzzes again, pressing up flush against the containment of the glass, as if trying to examine you. “Come, come, come, come…” All things considered, it doesn’t appear that this thing wants to eat you.

You have to cough a few good times, massaging at your throat, before yelling out a crackly: “Grace!” There’s a clatter—the sound of something metal dropping onto the floor, glass breaking. Then, rushed steps. He stands in the doorway, hands locked behind his head, eyes wide with his glasses hanging off the edge of his face. You run straight into him, arms shooting around his waist.

“You’re awake,” Grace says. You can feel his arms wrap slowly around you as you press your ear to his chest. Though, for you, it only feels like a long nap since you’ve last seen Grace, you can’t be sure how long it’s been for him.

Rocky, you remember Grace calling him, rolls toward the two of you: “This is hug, question?”

Grace nods, chin coming up against the top of your head. “Yes, Rock—this is a hug,” he looks down at you, astounded, “And… uh, morning. I didn’t think you’d wake up. System advised against taking you out myself, and—”

You can’t be bothered to peel yourself off of him. “Just be quiet a second, Grace. I’m just trying to soak in the fact that you’re okay.” Before they put you under, you’d considered plenty of scenarios about how he’d react to your being on the Hail Mary when you both woke up. His confusion, a possible hint of anger. Now, he’s… rather pacified. You reach up to run your hands through his scruffy blonde hair, nails dragging it on his scalp. He’s watching you check over his face with intent.

“Oh. This is… nice,” he hums, eyebrows knitted together. You must look strange, inspecting him like this—but for you, on that last day you hadn’t been sure that either of you would get up to space safely. Grace is just as handsome as he was when you left him, and the yellow NASA jumpsuit on him reminds you only of his old raincoat.

You have to tilt your head up to kiss him, and as soon as you get remotely close, he seems to straighten up and away from you. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I’m married.” You retract from Grace stiffly. Was he married? No, that doesn’t make sense; he couldn’t have been married, he lived alone—one ex. He had an ex before. And then, he had you. Grace tells you, “I don’t know why I know that, but I’m very certain about it. In here.” He taps his index finger against his right temple. You have to think it over again.

“Right. Sorry,” you say deliberately. It’s a perfect chance to solve it then and there—Are you? or No, you’re not.—but there’s an obstruction, you remember now, Stratt’s words: He won’t remember a single thing about himself. Echoes, if anything. “I’m just… super happy to see that everything’s doing well,” you tell him, “Just got ahead of myself.” Maybe it’s the easy way out, avoiding the truth of your circumstances and his. It’s too immediate, too real. You can see Grace squeeze his hands together in an anxious kind of manner, how you’d seen him do when he had a time crunch on the project and didn’t want Stratt to be pissed with him.

—

Per your lack of actual belongings, Grace lets you borrow a pair of boxers and a t-shirt of his. In the reflection of the windows, black space and your own silhouette, you have to wonder what just the three of you are going to do. No Yao, no Ilyukhina. News of their passing gives you a bout of nausea, to which Grace resolves with a bottled water and an assurance that their burials were nothing but peaceful. Though there’s a lingering sense of urgency for you to be around Grace, you can’t exactly push it. Married? Grace seems flighty around you within the first couple of hours of your waking up from the coma, like he’s frightened to be caught in the same room as you. When you give him your name, he doesn’t seem to react to it in any way. It’s like some odd fever dream.

You figure it all has to be taken in little by little. The two of you agree to have a bit of alone time—if that’s even possible—in the projection room. Together, the two of you settle on a beach ambience, all fog and homely. For a moment, with the digitalized sound bouncing around the enclosed sphere, you can pretend that the two of you are there, sitting on the sand together with your knees pulled up to your chests. Grace starts. “So, your name isn’t on Mary’s manifest. Are you some kind of stowaway?” There’s a commitment to his words, a seriousness just beneath the joke that makes you pull back an immediate answer.

You can’t even comprehend what Grace might think when you tell him—if he’ll be heartbroken that you’re there, if he’ll be made that you martyred yourself for him. So, you keep it vague: “I thought it best fit for the project to be sent up with the three of you. I’m still shocked that I swung it, but I did.”

“They just let you come up?” His skepticism makes you nervous. Maybe, Stratt was right. You aren’t supposed to be on the Hail Mary, and you never were; you were only meant to document and archive and keep track of the information. 

You run your tongue over your teeth. “No, I mean, I really had to sell the idea.”

“Of you joining the suicide mission.” Him and his stupid logical inquiry. You can only give him a sickly sort of nod, and trust that he won’t dig any further into it. After all, if it was as easy as it was for Yao, Ilyukhina, and DuBois to give themselves up for the cause, it’s not out of the realm of possibility for there to be someone else like them. Grace seems to accept this easily. “And, you and I…?”

Would’ve been great together, given time. And now there is time. Instead, you admit a measly: “We knew each other, yeah.”

“And you know about me. Who I am,” he affirms. Grace isn’t quite sure how to ask you how you know him, what you were to each other—friends, coworkers, or otherwise. 

You shoot for as-vague-as-possible: “I mean, as much as you do. We only knew each other for a very short amount of time.” He looks unsatisfied by your answer, but doesn’t seem to prod any further. To him, you appear just as clueless an agent as he is. Guiltily, you hope that he’ll stay that way until you can figure out how to tell him anything different.

—

You decide to put on a puppet show, laying supine in the little pod with little figurines in your hand. Rocky’s doing: he’s made one little miniature of you and one little miniature of Grace. In front of your face, you dance them along with one another, two geometrical forms moving in unison but unable to join together. You can hear Rocky rolling into the room far before he even enters the room, the bulkiness of his xenonite shell knocking across the ground of the hall. When you tilt your head to look out at him, he’s already well jutting into your sleeping pods.

He asks, “Why hide while Grace working, question?” Right about now, Grace should be doing a couple of extra checks on the Taumoeba, and making sure that the Hail Mary’s trajectory towards Rocky’s ship is still on-point. Which means he’s busy. And you can escape for a generous forty-five minutes before he needs a spare hand.

You have to lock the miniatures away in your closed palm, and slide them just beneath the pillow. You scoff: “I’m not hiding. Where’d you get that from?” You click a button off the side of the pod, letting it extend the bed outwards; as you get up, legs dangling off the side, you can see Rocky roll back slightly. 

He insists: “In bed. Make little noise in corner of ship.” It’s all very matter-of-fact.

“I just needed to take a breather,” you correct. In truth, you are very patently hiding from Grace. It’s a terrible habit now that you know that Grace is a pin drop away from recalling who you are.

Rocky pushes again, “Need meaning of word.”

“Breather, like… there’s a lot happening, and I need to rest for a second and think.” It’s the most clean-cut definition you can think up for Rocky. Though, it omits the obvious: you’re terrified to tell Grace and are perpetually delaying the inevitable.

“Think what, question?” As flatly as his programmed voice seems to ring out, Rocky shows a genuine sort of care that you’d find rare among most humans. You can’t exactly reject his attempts. They’re nothing but good-willed.

It takes you another minute or so of silent deliberation before you can figure out how to seek Rocky’s help without giving away too much. Finally, you offer up a decent, analogous-enough hypothetical: “If your mate—if Adrien had come up with you, left Erid, would you be angry with them?”

Disjointed and with much urgency, he responds: “Not angry. Sad. Very sad. Adrien stay on Erid. Stay home. Journey is too high risk.” His response can only send you into a further state of despondency. Rocky and Grace are more alike than either of them would like to admit. Rocky only affirms what you already expect of his response, and by extension, of Grace’s. He must be able to gauge your panicked reaction in the laborious sound of your breathing and the well-engrained frown adorning your face. “Are you sad, question? Thinking of mate.”

“Something like that.” You smile faintly. The thought of calling Grace that—given your absolute lack of time together—amuses you. Still, it’s an endearing thought. You wonder if he’d be as entertained by it as you are.

“Not familiar with Earth mating traditions,” Rocky reminds you. “If talk with Grace, maybe feel better, question?” Rocky has absolutely no clue.

—

Out of the three of you, you happen to have the least painful injuries after Tau Ceti-E—a couple of tender bruises on your back, and a sprained ankle. As you’re still very much in love with Grace, it feels absolutely excruciating to act casually around him. Him flinging himself out of the ship for the bacteria collector was enough to send you into a panic. And, now that everyone’s safe enough—injuries aside—you fall back into an easy enough routine.

And, it’s not as if he’s a blank slate. He’s still plenty identical to how he was when you first met—intelligent, sometimes klutzy, and prone to curiosity. You flock to him like you did then, on the carrier ship. There’s some instances, you think, that Grace must feel it, too—despite how much he strays away from you.

Like now, as you insist on cleaning his wounds up. Though it’s an easy enough job for the robotic aide, both you and Grace have unanimously agreed to let the system cool down after the obvious intensities of your near crash. So, you’re in the lab, Grace is seated on one of the tall stools, whining as you peel off the old patch off his cheek. “Ow. Ow. Ow.”

“This isn’t going to go any faster with you squirming like that,” you say, discarding the papery adhesive on the counter. The gash on Grace doesn’t look terrible, just scabby around the edges. You take up supplies from the open medical kit on the counter beside you both. Your hand grips his chin as you drag an antiseptic-saturated cotton swab across his cheek. His scruff is rough against your fingertips. “Just stay still and let me disinfect it. You’re worse than a kid.”

“You know, I don’t think you’re wrong,” he responds with gritted teeth. You can tell he’s trying, out of embarrassment, to hold in any further disgruntled noises. “Have you been icing your ankle?”

“As much as I can,” you mumble. You can tell that he’s trying to distract himself, hands gripping the seat of the stool.

Grace hums, “Well, if you need to be off your feet for the next couple of days, I’m pretty sure Mary isn’t going to get any worse.”

You lift the swab off his cheek a moment. “Are you asking me to take a break, or are you telling me to?”

“Whatever you’ll agree to more easily?” Grace grins softly. His insistence is so familiar that you almost forget that the half of him that knows you is missing.

You return the swab back against his wound, and he flinches less intensely than before. Softly, you tell Grace, “I’ll think about being off my feet. Don’t want Rocky waking up to a dumpster fire of a ship—you know how he hates messes.”

It isn’t until the new bandage is on his cheekbone that the two of you, at once, recognize the sort of position you’re in. Grace with his hands grasped tightly around either side of your waist, and you wedged in between his parted legs. You must have failed to notice, and clearly he hadn’t either. You swallow soft, face hot. You can see Grace’s eyes flash down to your lips and back up.

“Thanks,” he coughs out, red-faced, “I better go check on Rock now.” As soon as his glasses are shoved back onto his face, Grace dismisses himself with a beeline towards Rocky. You make sure to step aside, making sure to toss the used supplies into the nearest waste bin, before closing up the kit and tossing it back into its usual drawer. Now, the ship feels exceptionally tiny. You can see Grace press his face closer to the xenonite glass of Rocky’s container. His glasses are fogging up, and you can see through the glass that he’s trying his best not to glance up at your direction.

—

While Grace is occupied with taking care of Rocky, you’ve dedicated yourself to restoring the Hail Mary to her prior state. The cleaning is a decent distraction, and gives you a good chance to survey the ship’s inventory. The cockpit has the worst of it, manuals scattered and screens cracked from the interior pressure. You try your best to order everything back into place.

There's a whiteboard discarded in the flight deck lodged behind the chairs, bent in the middle but still largely recoverable. You pick it up gently, as if recovering some kind of ancient artifact. There’s a couple of phrases at a time scribbled neatly in columns: San Francisco? Good with cilantro. I’m a teacher. You can’t imagine what it must be like to be him—bits and pieces of who he was before the launch, trying to sew themselves into something meaningful. Another column: Notebooks? Sweet coffee, no exceptions. Gorgeous.

There are a couple more identifiable things that sell the understanding that it’s all you. Hometown. The names of cafes and restaurants you liked to go to before the project started. That sells it: this side of the board is all about you—detailing in fragments all the time that you’d spent being together all that time on Project Hail Mary before the launch. How you’d like each other from the start over breakfasts in the carrier ship’s cafeteria. How you’d pass notes across the table during those five o’ clock committee meetings.

Open windows. How you’d kissed for that first time before dinner with the team, in your crammed bunk room. You’d had the windows propped open that night to let the open air and sea mist in; he remembered that. He remembered sentiments about you—but he still can’t quite place your name or your face. It’s you who’s clouding Grace’s brain, and he doesn’t even know it. He thinks you’re married. It’s an educated guess that he’s reiterated enough times to think it’s real.

—

It takes quite a bit of thinking over when you decide to confess. While Rocky shows Grace his ship, you’ve decided to stay back and make sure the Hail Mary is in top shape to get refueled. You come up with the courage while he’s gone, and it’s all plotted out thoroughly in your head:

Grace, I haven’t been honest with you. I need to tell you that I knew you more than I said that I did, before this. I need you to forgive me for what I’ve done, and know that it was the best possible choice I could’ve made—even if you might not agree. And anyway, we’re here now and we won’t be going back, so there’s nothing to be done but be together. 

When Grace makes it back in, suit shedded, he doesn’t think twice to collapse onto the ground of the main hull. You find him like that, knees pulled up to his chest, heavy-lidded eyes swollen from crying. He must know now, somehow, how he got there. And, he must have a sneaking suspicion about how you got there, too. The need for your drawn-out confession has evaded the both of you.

There’s the chirps and ticks of the ship’s machinations, the low hum of the Hail Mary cutting through space, and there’s the sound of his muffled sniffling. Oh, Grace. You’re quite aware of the fact that he can see the soles of your shoes right next to his. Your voice falls lower than a whisper: “Are you upset with me?”

“It’s you. Of course not,” Grace grumbles. You let out a little bit of a sigh—seating yourself onto the ground beside him. He hangs his head, “We’re so not married.”

“In your head, I guess we were.”

“That’s so embarrassing,” Grace groans, palm coming up to cover his face. You have to nudge his shoulder with your own. Not that embarrassing, you want to say—but all too shy to do it aloud. He murmurs, “Why did you do it?”

“It was this or slow death. Living with the fact that I wouldn’t ever see you again.” This is a confession in and of itself—admitting to Grace that you cared about him crazily enough for you to leave the planet. “I convinced Stratt before she sent you up, made sure you wouldn’t find out about it. I knew you wouldn’t want me to do it, and I knew you didn’t have a choice.”

“You knew she was going to send me, and you volunteered yourself up to keep me company,” he repeats back to you. He nods with a sturdy, rasped out “huh.” It’s clear that he’s still trying to settle with the fact that he’s known you this whole time—more than known. Grace rubs his fingers gingerly against his forehead.

“Sure you’re not mad?”

To that, he eagerly shakes his head. “I should be. Selfishly, I’m kind of stoked. I mean, I get you all to myself. That’s, like, the dream. I win.” Grace throws a weak, celebratory fist into the air. You have to stifle a giggle. Yes, this is the Grace you knew. “Obviously,” he says, “you get the short end of the stick.”

“Don’t,” you tell him, index finger pointed. “I’m one-hundred percent where I want to be. It’s you and me, Dr. Grace.”

“You and me,” he repeats. He makes a quick swipe at your hand, lips brushing over your knuckles in a quick kiss. Grace makes sure to hold your hand hostage in his own, and the two of you sit there a while, your head leaning on his shoulder. There isn’t a single bit of assurance that the two of you will be making it back to Earth in due time, and still, you don’t feel much of a need to rush.

[bibigo-lover]

love hypotheticals.

summary: after stratt hires you on as a documentation specialist for project hail mary, you find yourself being more and more drawn to one dr. ryland grace. (part ii here and part iii here!)

pairing: ryland grace x reader

word count: 4.5k

tags: (set on stratt's vat, pre-tau ceti) meet-cute, strangers-to-lovers, forced proximity, workplace relationship, idiots in love, fluff, will they/won't they, documentation specialist!reader

cross-posted to ao3

What would you do if the apocalypse started?

It’s a stupid hypothetical that you make up when you’re trying to get to know somebody. Something you say at two in the morning at a sleepover, or at work in the break room with absolutely nothing to do. It isn’t serious—never that—until the Petrova line. Until the pending death of the Sun. Until Eva Stratt comes knocking on the door of your high-rise apartment, asking you—really, telling you—to abandon your day job and leave for overseas.

She has you document everything. You take notes on all the major classified meetings. You transcribe conversations between officials, especially the particularly tense ones. When you’re not writing, she has you in front of a printer-scanner, making copies for the bi-weekly organizational debriefings. You went to school for technical writing, and now, it appears that you’ve been placed into the absolute life-or-death version of a dream job. It could be worse. You could be at home, knowing that the next thirty years will spiral into world crises and war over rations. At least you’re doing something.

Her latest project for you—and, allegedly, the most important—is technical writing regarding astrophage. For the past few weeks, you’ve done nothing but compile information from Stratt’s several global microbiologists. It isn’t until the big breakthrough—the “great American scientist” who figured out how to breed the little things—that the ball starts rolling. You’ve been hearing all about him, no matter how unwillingly. There’s plenty of reserved comments from Stratt about how reclusive he seems to make himself. From the scientists, who praise his findings. From the agents, too—a schoolteacher, he’s a schoolteacher, and he dresses like one, too. 

The first time you meet him truly is ultimately… gratifying. Dr. Grace lives up to expectations. You’re at the other end of the table when Stratt leads him in: a mousy, blonde-haired thirty-year-old man. Glasses askew, and dark-blue eyes blown wide. It takes a lot of will for you not to tilt your head at the sight of him—the way his eyes dart around the room, his unsuccessful attempt to back himself out of it. It’s… amusing–like watching a baby bird get coaxed out of the nest. What comes next is rather productive. You type fast on your laptop: astrophage, single-celled, Venus, high-CO2, breeding, replication by mitosis. You aren’t able to focus much on him, per say. It’s more his words, his cadence when he talks about the discovery—and the following queries that come with debriefing him on Project Hail Mary. He’s cute. And there isn’t enough time in the world for you to think that.

—

The next time you see him is in the mess hall a couple days after. Clearly, Stratt has him settled in—probably placed him in a nice bunk with another one of the old scientists. He sits mulling over a bowl of cereal, looking almost identical to the way that he did in the meeting room. The greatest change, clearly, is his choice in clothing. He’s got a knit cardigan on, over some punny science t-shirt that you can only vaguely read. Dr. Ryland Grace sits alone. And, he’s in your spot.

Your imagination runs its course. Maybe, he likes solitude. Maybe, he’s still facing the fact that this ship is filled with some kind of Sisyphean effort to try and save the planet. You’re very sure, looking at him stirring his spoon pointlessly in the bowl, that this situation is too big for him. He wants to go home. You’ve got your own tray of breakfast—oats and bottled juice. Clearly, you’re not used to the barrack-like quality of the ship quite yet, or else you’d be able to sit down with just about anyone else. The only downside of your job is that you don’t have very much time to talk—buried in screens and stacks of files. You sit alone, too, most of the time, in this very spot that Grace has decided to occupy for himself.

You approach him slowly, waiting for him to notice your presence on the other end of the table. It’s regrettable that he doesn’t, so caught up on the swirling quality of his cereal. You have to knock your knuckle on the edge of the tabletop. “Dr. Grace,” you hum. He retracts his hand from his spoon like it’s red-hot and stands up to greet you.

“Hi,” he says, pulling his own tray back to make room for yours. “Please, please sit down.” You wonder if he’s going to try and reach out to shake your hand—but he’s back down as soon as you swing your leg over the bench. You follow suit, giving him a polite, tight-lipped smile. Grace hums, eyes squinting as he taps his fingers across the tabletop. “I recognize you,” he says, “You had the, uh, fast hands.” The observation comes out of his mouth disjointed and awkward—but, straight to the point.

“Stratt hired me on as a documentation specialist. Fancy title for making sure that everything gets dated and down on paper,” you tell him. You almost want to light up at the thought of him picking you out in that stuff-full room—but you’ve got to keep your cool. “I’ve been assigned to record all research regarding the astrophage.” Which means you’re going to spend a lot more time together.

“Important work. Historians will love you if everything turns out how it’s supposed to,” Grace nods. In truth, you’d never considered your job in that light. In your head, Stratt had simply wanted documentation as a contingency. If all Hell broke loose, there’d still be the logs that you maintained of all the work of the scientists, the engineers, the researchers… You hadn’t been able, in the rush of it all, to consider what it meant long-term.

“Right,” you chuckle, “And molecular biology’ll make a pretty shrine for you, too.” It’s a silly thought—Father of the Astrophage, on a platinum plaque. The flattery makes him shift in his seat, index finger coming up to push up his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. You have to soak it in a little bit, his nervousness up-close. It’s charming.

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, making ample use of your food by using it to keep quiet. Grace has his cereal, and you your oats. It’s easy. You feel like a little kid again, trying to make a friend in the cafeteria; you’re sure that’s what it looks like, too. You take a moment to crack open the lid of your juice, and Grace takes the opening. “Is this where you would’ve wanted it to end up?” he asks, “When… everything, you know—”

“Went to shit? No, not at all,” you huff. It comes up again. What would you do if the apocalypse started? Except, this time, it’s very clear that neither of you have much of a choice. Yes, it’s definitive now. Grace doesn’t know how he got here, still, despite the briefings. He’s in the middle of the ocean, and so are you; he wants advice. “I think most people hope for a conservationist sort of end. Like, in the middle of the redwoods, in a tiny cabin with a stone chimney, or something.”

He lets out a dry chuckle and stifles it quickly with the back of his hand. “Is that what you wanted?”

“No. I mean, I think I’m where I’m supposed to be now. It’s this or slow, slow death.” For an unquantifiable amount of people, you could add. You find it better not to.

“And, your family—?”

“—knows I’m here, if you can believe it. Stratt’s act of kindness. They think I’m doing administrative work for the U.N., which isn’t a complete lie,” you murmur under your breath. He can only nod solemnly. Carefully, you recall: “She told me that you didn’t… have anyone to contact.”

He doesn’t seem phased at all by the inquiry. “No, no. My parents passed away before I finished doing my doctorate. They were older. I moved to the Bay for my tenure track after that. It was the easiest decision I could’ve made, considering—” He doesn’t have to spell it out for you: he bombed his own career with a single dissertation—it was teaching or nothing at all. And, all things considered, Grace really loved to teach. “I lived alone in the end. No dog, one ex.”

Ex. You think it’s probably too soon—and, too much pressure—to tell him that you don’t have anyone else waiting for you at home, either. In some twisted way, you might want him to be curious about it. To wonder if there’s someone waiting for you at the shore, or if you’re hooking up with one of the pilots on-deck. It’s all a bit of harmless fun. Vaguely, you explain, “I had an apartment, too. Nice place. Took forever to hunt for it, lock down the lease, decorate—and then, nothing. Had to surrender the keys after Stratt made it clear she wanted me on-board.”

—

It’s all been a little bit less lonely since Grace’s boarded the ship. You practically have to be glued together on account of Stratt’s orders. “He should rarely leave your sight,” she tells you over dinner one night, in a cleared navigational deck, “It’s imperative that you have his calculations recorded down to the decimal and uploaded to the database.”  Really, it isn’t the hardest task. After that first breakfast, he seems generally comfortable in your company. He floats towards you, seemingly, more than you do him. The greatest tell is his punctuality. Grace makes it early enough to morning meetings so that he can position himself right beside you.

When there’s much more dull conversation being held about different nations providing staff or material, you notice that he has the tendency to get more… distractable. Beneath the table, you can feel his knee brush against yours as he bounces his leg—sole of his sneaker scuffing against the floor. Of course, he doesn’t have nearly as much reason to listen when the conversations turn more diplomatic and less scientific. And, while you’re supposed to pay attention heartily and take your extensive notes, Grace is on the less helpful end of the spectrum.

He likes to pass notes. They vary in topic and seriousness. There’s one particular morning when he chooses to be heavy-handed with them. It starts as soon as the representatives begin to argue. With nimble fingers, Grace slips the note right next to the trackpad of your laptop. Britain is a tool. Britain being the politician from Britain, an older man with too-tight trousers who dissented to almost everything Stratt had to offer. You take the card and slip it between the front cover and the first page of your notebook.

More chatter, and you can already see him scribbling out the next one behind his walled-up hand. You peek over, and he slides it determinedly towards you. Hope they do something other than eggs today at caf. Yes, they’d served it five days in a row. You decided to keep your complaints about it in for the first three days, and broke on the fourth. Grace had heard the bulk of your argument—the grittiness of powdered eggs, and how you’d kill for a stack of pancakes. This note, you slide back over to him. It’s not nearly as taboo as the first, which means he can have it back.

The last one Grace has for you comes a whopping ten minutes later, after he gets pulled into a conversation about laser tech for the breeding tanks. Once that devolves into yet another disagreement, he turns his attention back over to you. This new note, he makes sure to fold in half before lodging it beneath the keyboard of your computer. It takes you another five minutes of conversation lulling for you to open it. You pry the two edges open to read it: What do you do with sick chemists? Helium. What do you do if they die? Barium.

This one makes you snort to yourself too loud for your liking. You brush the index card into your lap with your nose scrunched in realization of how much of a slacker you must look like. This routine of yours is beginning to set itself in most morning meetings, and you’re beginning to wonder if you should start giving him the silent treatment. Grace appears rather proud to have made you laugh, chest puffed out; he tries to hide his smirk by looking down at his lap. If Stratt has an opinion about it, she doesn’t say anything. 

—

You’re staring, and you really can’t help it. Grace has his cardigan shedded and strewn across the nearest lab chair. He’s doing an awful lot of calculations, something on astrophage power output that you’ll have to ask him to spell out for you later. The graphic, of course, is no better than the rest of the shirts he’s worn all week. But, the real kicker is the way that the fabric of his short-sleeves are hugging around his biceps. You couldn't have guessed that Grace would be so… fit. 

You can’t take your eyes off him now, as he takes a black Expo marker to the surface of the whiteboard. The shirt’s tight. You’re checking him out. It isn’t until he peeks over his shoulder at you that you become all the more conscious of it. It’s a fleeting moment; unwillingly, you peel your eyes off of his and onto your laptop on the desk in front of you. You’re supposed to be compiling a folder to send out to the Payload Systems team. Not… this.

“Sorry,” you shoot out mindlessly. You make an exerted effort to examine the inventory list on your screen and cross-check it with another spreadsheet on the tab over. Busywork. It’s better to look like you’re doing literally anything else.

Grace doesn’t take his eyes off the board as he continues scribbling across it. He lifts the marker off the board a moment: “What for?”

You suck in a deep breath. An apology implies that you’ve got something to be sorry about.  You want to leave now—but there’s really no good excuse to. Stratt is off-site, which means that you’re only doing busywork ‘till she’s back with new news. So, you elaborate with an empty “…Nothing.”

“O-kay,” he enunciates. You can’t do anything but return back to your screen with an attempt at dutifulness. Grace stays at the board, head tilted to write some undecipherable combination of greek-letters at the upper-right corner, and you can go back to your previously abandoned work. It’s almost machine-like, the way in which he scrawls the information from left to right, without any hesitation. You write several lines down on the notepad to your left: Hermle centrifuge machine needs replacement. Polypropylene for containment units — CNPC bulk load. And, messily, at the corner of your page, In love with Grace?

It’s difficult to tell. You’re together ninety-percent of the time. You’re clearly attracted to him and his square frames and his dad clothes. He makes you laugh, lets you use his old iPod to listen to Oasis. And maybe it’s  the close proximity speaking, but you feel deeply about Grace in a way that you aren’t sure how to describe. Like now, as he caps the white board marker and slides it into his back pocket, before coming over to check on you with quick steps.

“On a scale of one to ten, how illegible is that?” he asks you. You try not to cave as he rests both of his hands on the edge of your desk, toned arms straining right beside you. You squint as you stare at the board, trying to make sense of the numbers.

“I think I can get everything down except for that bottom-half. It’s not your handwriting, just the formulas,” you admit. You’d never been one for complex mathematics, and you need to make sure you can get the equations recorded exactly as they are.

He hums, “That isn’t bad at all. For now, just note the biomass—circled and labeled it wet weight, in tons. If you need to, you can send the number out to DuBois, see if I got the match right, and I…” Grace trails off, picking up the mug that he has set on the desk next to you. He makes an additional effort to peer into your own empty mug, before picking it up with his other free hand. “Will be right back.” He carries them out of the room without another word. Another plus: he fetches you drinks without any asking.

It’s more quiet when he’s out of the room, presumably at the espresso machine just down the hall. In Grace’s absence, you can actually think more clearly about the situation. You know that Shapiro and DuBois have their own version of a relationship—albeit, more or less casual. At the end of the world, nobody really bats an eye about it. All things considered, it’s actually better for morale. You have to wonder if that’s in the cards for the two of you.

It isn’t long before he comes back with the two mugs. First, he places his a safe couple of inches away from your computer. Then, he makes a slow gesture for you to take your mug out of his hands. “Careful. It’s hot,” he tells you softly, running his hand beneath the bottom of the cup to swipe off the possibility of a wet ring. As he gingerly passes the handle into your hands, your fingers brush against one another comfortably. You note, eyes glancing up from the steaming cup, that there’s a faint blush littering his cheeks. But, he’s too intent on the handoff to take his eyes off the coffee to look up at you. Yes, you think, In love with Grace.

—

Once you figure out that fundamental fact, you start to think it over too much. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with your finding. It’s natural, and probably inevitable, for you to have fallen for him. What’s more anxiety-inducing is what you’re supposed to do about it. Under any other circumstances, you’d be okay keeping your mouth shut and letting the opportunity pass you up. But, considering the timeline of the Earth at present, it seems like there’s no time to waste. At the end of the world, it isn’t the sort of thing you should keep to yourself. You should tell him. And still, you’ve been sitting on the idea of it for weeks.

You really hope that Grace hasn’t figured it out, as observant as he is—but it’s really very clear to everyone else on Project Hail Mary. You can tell by the way they watch you both, like it's morning television. Grace rambles on about astrophysics, and you listen. He goes off on tangents about old and wrong college professors, and you laugh. You talk about your life before the project, and he listens with his chin resting on his hand. He asks you questions about what you used to do, where you used to go—like you’re another thing to learn. And everyone fawns.

It’s a good night when you hole yourself in your bunk room. All the engineers and specialists and to-be cosmonauts are all gathered together for drinks and a movie. The simple act of slipping away, letting people assume that you’ve got a migraine or an extra load of paperwork, is easy. It’s in the comfort of your tiny twin bed that you get to listen to the ocean and wailing ship creaks, window propped open to let in the fresh air. It’s strange to think that this room has been yours for so many months; the gunmetal ceiling of it is familiar now.

You get to enjoy this for upwards of an hour, until footsteps come clunking down the hall. You’re sure you know who they belong to. There’s a couple of soft, metal knocks on your door. “Hey, buddy. You sleeping?” It’s Grace’s muddled voice on the other side of the door. “Dinner’s up and everybody’s wondering where you’re at.”

You raise your head off of your pillow, “Door's unlocked. Just come in.” It’s a quick scramble for you to sit up and toss your legs over the side of the bed. As soon as Grace makes it through the doorway, you give him a sheepish smile and a wave.

“Jeez, it’s freezing in here.” Grace’s cardigan is hanging on his right hand. Another tight tee tonight, vintage tour shirt for The Beach Boys. You have to look away as he tosses it on the desk chair adjacent to your bed and as he comes up to sit right beside you. “You know,” he starts, lowering onto the hard mattress, “If you’ve been feeling overworked, I already told you I’d tell Stratt I could handle my own documentation for a week. It’s lab standard, anyway—”

He’s not making it any easier for you. “No, it’s fine,” you insist. It isn’t very easy to tell him that you’re not overworked, that you just have stupid feelings for him. Your refusal only makes him work harder.

Dismissively, he continues, “You can just sit there and watch me work. Read a book or something. A little bit of downtime isn’t going to be the end of the world. And, yes, I know how it sounds given the current circumstanes—but I think you definitely deserve it with the amount of running around that you do.” He’s getting rather impassioned about you resting, so much so that when you mumble out his name—a soft-spoken “Grace”—he doesn’t even pick up on it. He only marches on, “When you think about it, it’d help my research, too. Because if you’re stressed, I’m stressed. And that’s just no good.”

“Ryland,” you blurt. He halts, lips parting and closing. You never call him that, and now he seems very, very dazed. You explain, “I’m not overworked. I just needed a bit of time to think. Alone.”

“Right,” he cedes. “I’m sorry.” You can see his shoulders slump in the slightest, all guilt-ridden about having disturbed you. Grace leans weight onto his sneakers, clearly in an attempt to get off your bed and dismiss himself. Too easily, you reach for his arm to hold him in place.

“No, I want you,” you retract it just as quickly with a blurted, “Here. I want you here.” Grace looks more puzzled than before, but sits himself more comfortably on the end of your bed. Open to listen. You clasp your hands together, “Okay. I’m going to give you a hypothetical… Say, you have a decent life, nothing crazy. Good job at a library. It’s modest, and you’re happy with it. Go You have a good place, good friends. No… partner.” Maybe, the two of you are more similar than you realize. “And that’s okay,” you add, paying no mind to the way Grace’s eyes soften behind the lens of his glasses.

You carry on: “You’ve been okay with that for a decent amount of time. Then… apocalypse starts. You find somebody by chance, who you’d probably never cross paths with otherwise, and you realize that you like being with them. And, suddenly, because the apocalypse has started, you probably won’t have another opportunity to like another person like you do this one. And you really like the one.” You can feel your palms clam up at the confrontation of it all, the vulnerability.

He blinks slowly once. Then, twice. Grace raises a slow index finger up towards himself, eyes peering just over the frame of his glasses, “That’s me.” He states it out like an educated guess, cut-and-dry.

“No, it’s Yao,” you shoot back. “Yes, it’s you, obviously. Who else would it be?”

“Okay,” he says, hand reaching up to take his glasses off. Grace stands up with a deep breath, hand ruffling through his spiky-blonde hair as he walks further away from your bunk. Again, he mutters out a soft, “Yeah, okay,” not far off from how he looks trying to expand out a calculation. Grace taps his foot on the floor, paces left, then right, rubs his palm over the scruff on his face. A torturous lack of response. Then, finally, he turns around. “So, the whole time you weren’t just really into microbiology?”

You have to gawk at him. “Are you being serious?” He looks completely serious, glasses hanging off of his chin, blue eyes inspecting the irked look on your face with doe-like curiosity.

“Well, can you blame me? You’re gorgeous, and you’re also impossible to read.” Gorgeous? He thinks you’re gorgeous. That’s nice. You can feel the warmth bloom in your chest at the implication—but you can’t help but scoff out of pure offense. He puts his hands up in a haphazard shrug. “I mean, now that I know, it makes a lot more sense why you look at me like… that. I wasn’t totally sure.” Now, it seems that he’s making a bit of a game out of it. You don’t care to ask him to elaborate on what “that” looks like.

Stubbornly, you tut, “I’m taking it back. I’m taking it back, and it was completely hypothetical!” You stand up from your spot on the bunk, walking narrowly past Grace to your desk. Briskly, you pick up his cardigan—disposed of on your desk chair—before bunching it up and shoving it towards him. 

“No, no, no—you can’t take it back. Cat’s out the bag,” Grace insists teasingly, hands clinging to the cardigan. Before you can completely let go of the woollen fabric, he makes sure, next, to grasp his hands over yours. They’re significantly larger and warm, too warm; with your hands plastered to his chest, there isn’t really anywhere for you to go. You think he must feel the nervousness practically radiating out of you, because he seems to slow down: “Okay, I’m being difficult. I can grovel if you want me to.” Grace’s voice lowers down into a rasp.

There’s a cockiness about it that you haven’t exactly seen from him before. You can’t tell if it’s making you flustered or annoyed—both, likely—and in some bout of courage, you get on your tiptoes to press your lips against his. The cold, metal frame of his glasses nudges against your face as the two of you kiss. Grace takes one hand up to cradle your jaw, and you can hear a quiet, satisfied hum come out of him. It does live up to hypothetical expectation, the way his body melds against yours clumsily around the barrier of the cardigan. It’s very him, and it’s very you. 

Grace can barely be convinced, with your hands pushing back against his chest, to let you take a breath of air. Once the two of you split, Grace has a sideways smirk. “I really like you, too. Not sure if I made that clear,” he murmurs. “So, would you come grab dinner with me?”

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

MAY YOU NEVER LOSE YOUR HYPERFIXATION