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It's difficult to describe, this dream. That's what she'll tell you about it.

He looks the same. A little older, maybe. There's gray at his temple. Faint smile lines, more pronounced than they were on earth.

On earth. That's the second bit. They're not on earth.

Well, they're kind of on earth. It's meant to be like earth. Durset, England, the Man O' War beach stretching to the Durdle door, like a gateway to somewhere quieter, and lighter, and happier— a fae door— but Eva's sure Grace was making it up.

He was good at that. Making things up. Making her laugh. He is good at that.

Eva's so used to mourning the man, the surety of it, the curling up under her desk on launch day and allowing herself to cry— because it was over, God, it was over now, over for the next 26 years, now all she had to do was brace herself as the earth she's killed her humanity for implodes under the weight of certain doom, until the sun shines bright again and she's able to see, in full clarity the blood caked under her fingernails— She's allowed to cry. She's always said she'll cry later. Here's later.

He becomes a distant memory. He becomes the one man on the documentary logs on the aircraft carrier and later the Cosmodrome cracking jokes. He becomes the steam in her coffee, the stars in the sky, the laughter of the children as they make their way through the museum exhibit, the exasperation on the teacher's face.

He becomes the statue outside of Baikonur, with the earth in his hands, the Mary's course a nimbus around his head— Dimitri and Lokken designed that.

She doesn't think of the one she had a hand in. Really, there's hundreds of statues of him around the world, especially in spacefaring nations. The one outside of Cleveland Middle, with the class of middle schoolers trailing behind him, the plaque beside with his favourite books and favourite music and his coffee order and a story he was fond of telling, the one with an open backpack full of letters from batches of students long since middle aged— that's the one thing she's glad to go thankless for. It's the one thing she thinks she should be proud of.

You're murdering me. But living men have no need for memorials.

So it doesn't make sense, this dream.

It always starts with her walking. And walking. And walking. For four or so minutes she's walking, aware of every second, a headache pulsating in the nape of her neck, a figure becoming clearer and clearer with every step. A lighthouse beacon, of sorts. The light at the end of all this walking.

It isn't until she's beside him that she sees him. And her eyes burn, even in the dream when she does.

He's old. Not as old as her, but old. And older than she remembers him. There's gray at his temple. Faint smile lines, more pronounced than they were on earth.

He smiles, and pronounces them even more; joy, a language he was fluent in. Is.

He's in a— in his jumper, the twin foxes, a silly little shirt she bought for him after he was stranded on the Vat, and, suiting him completely, a long skirt, patterned with stars, of all things. Strange jewellery dangles from his earlobes, jagged rocks and pebbles shining where they're draped over his hair and around his neck.

He smiles, and her vision blurs.

"Hey Stratt," He says, and there's an undertone of music underneath it. It's the most beautiful music she's ever heard. "How's hell?"

#project hailmary #eva stratt project hail mary #eva stratt #grace and stratt #strattland #ryland grace #ficlet #I'll make a part two if you want me to #but if it isn't clear #she's dead