SHORT FIC - PHM Fic - Waltz in Vienna, Before the world ends #strattland
Commander Eva Stratt does not waste time.
Not on social events.
Not on unnecessary travel.
Certainly not on dancing.
And yet—
For one night in Vienna, she makes an exception.
Rylan Grace almost crosses a line.
Stratt chooses to remember it.
Note: I tried to find the place for strattland nation I wrote this after coming across a post on X where someone mentioned wanting to see Grace and Stratt at a gala together. I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, so I decided to write it and translate it from Thai to English.
I’ve never been to Vienna, but I hope I’ll get the chance to visit someday. If there are any mistakes, I truly apologize. English isn’t my first language.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read this 💛 I posted it on AO3 too. https://archiveofourown.org/works/84145816
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The sea is calmer than usual today.
Another day aboard the research vessel stationed in international waters for Project Hail Mary. Some of the newer researchers, fresh from land, are still dealing with seasickness despite how steady the ocean looks.
Grace barely notices it anymore.
He has adapted to life at sea, or at least something close to it. The ship is large, but everything is regulated. Time, resources, even comfort. The system is designed for efficiency, to keep operations running smoothly without relying too often on supply runs.
Even water is controlled.
Some systems convert seawater into freshwater, but that does not mean freedom. Showers are timed. Usage is monitored. Rules are rules.
Sometimes he goes up to the deck and looks for land out of habit. There is never anything there. They are far beyond the point where the coastline exists.
In the sky. At the stars.
Like some ancient sailor navigating by things he cannot touch.
Today is another day of data.
Grace stares at his screen, already annoyed.
He exhales sharply and refreshes it for the third time this morning, watching it fail in exactly the same way.
“Of course,” he mutters. “Perfect.”
Right as he is deciding whether to restart the entire system or just give up on email as a concept entirely, a voice cuts through the room.
He turns almost immediately.
Eva Stratt stands at the entrance to his lab space, red hair unmistakable, posture as composed as ever. No warning. No preamble.
“You have ten minutes,” she says. “Pack what you need and meet me at the helipad.”
His brain lags behind the words. Too early. Not enough sleep. Possibly both.
Something small arcs through the air toward him. He catches it on instinct.
A bottle of motion sickness pills.
“For the helicopter. And the plane,” she adds, her tone even. “You will need them. You now have eight minutes. Are you coming or not?”
“Wait, wait. Where are we going?”
Then she turns and walks away, as if the explanation is complete.
Grace stands there for half a second longer, staring after her.
He is already moving, grabbing what he can before rushing out of the lab and down the corridor toward his quarters.
At the helipad, the moment the engine starts, the wind from the blades slams into them.
“This is really necessary?” Grace shouts over the noise.
“Yes,” Stratt replies without even looking at him.
Being the head of Project Hail Mary is not just about allocating resources, tracking progress, and reporting outcomes. There are endless documents, constant decisions, and, occasionally, public appearances.
Even with absolute authority, Stratt’s refusal to bend for anyone comes at a cost.
So sometimes, for the sake of the project’s image, Eva Stratt shows her face.
“This isn’t my job,” Grace tries again.
“The world is dying. Everyone has a job to do. Including me,” she says, her voice calm despite the chaos around them. “And yes, even so, we can attend one social event.”
He opens his mouth to argue.
He is very glad he took the pills.
He will never get used to the way this project moves.
Helicopter.
Airfield.
Jet.
And then, suddenly, the tiled spire of St. Stephen's Cathedral appears in his line of sight, unmistakable.
The entire trip feels unreal, like something out of a spy film where distance means nothing and everything happens too fast to process. Their host handles everything. A car and security detail are already waiting when they land, ready to escort Stratt and Grace straight to their destination.
Grace steps inside and looks around.
The suite is enormous, closer to a penthouse than a hotel room. A central living area connects two separate bedrooms. The furniture is elegant, soft-toned, expensive in a way that feels deliberate but not loud.
It is nothing like the places he usually stays for conferences.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Stratt says, setting her bag down as she moves toward the other bedroom. “You have thirty minutes. The team will be here.”
A knock comes at the door.
Stratt answers in German. A group of strangers enters moments later, carrying garment bags and large cases.
After being told to shower, without any time limit for once, Grace stands under the water far longer than necessary until someone knocks to remind him he is not alone here. Then a group of people descends on him, adjusting, fixing, arranging, turning him into something that looks far more put together than he feels.
Clothes. Hair. Details he has never cared about.
At some point, when they finally leave him alone for a minute, he pulls out his phone and opens YouTube.
Search: how to waltz beginner
Stratt told him they would have to dance tonight.
He did not win that argument either.
“Okay… one, two, three… one, two, three…”
“Please stay still,” the makeup artist says.
Grace looks at himself in the mirror once they are done.
The tuxedo fits perfectly. Black, clean, tailored.
“…not terrible.” He squints a little.
“If you squint hard enough,” he mutters to himself, “this is basically Ryan Gosling. Just… the nerd version.”
He nods, as if that settles it.
Contacts were not an option, so the glasses stay.
It is already getting dark outside. He glances toward the door, then heads out to check if Stratt is ready.
The moment he steps into the shared space, the door across from him opens.
A black evening gown, off the shoulder. The line of her collarbone catches the soft light. Her red hair is pinned up, revealing the length of her neck, a diamond necklace resting against her skin.
Everything about this entire day has felt unreal.
Grace forgets whatever he was about to say.
Should he compliment her? Should he say anything at all?
“We’re leaving,” she says, cutting cleanly through the moment.
Flat. Precise. Unchanged.
On one side, Grace is busy worrying about embarrassing himself on the dance floor. On the other hand, Stratt seems almost… distant, her gaze drifting past the window as if she is allowing herself a rare moment of rest.
The limousine slows to a stop in front of the Vienna State Opera.
The building is alive with light.
Crowds gather at the entrance, dressed in full evening wear for the Vienna Waltz charity event. Influential figures, public faces, people who belong in rooms like this.
Inside, everything is brighter.
Voices overlap in German, flowing too quickly for him to catch even a single word. The sound fills the space, layered with music, laughter, and movement.
Stratt changes the moment they step in.
She speaks. Responds. Shakes hands. Smiles, just enough and never too much. She moves through the room as if she has always belonged here.
Sometimes beside her, sometimes a step behind.
He nods. Shakes hands—repeats “nice to meet you” more times than he can keep track of.
And tries very hard not to think about the one thing waiting for him.
After what feels like an endless series of introductions, an announcement cuts through the room.
The performance is about to begin.
Professional dancers enter the floor in formation. The men in formal tuxedos, fresh flowers pinned neatly at their chests—the women in white gowns, square-necked, reminiscent of another era, something almost regal.
When the music starts, they move as one.
Precise. Effortless. Practiced.
Grace watches, trying to memorize patterns that slip away the moment he thinks he understands them.
The performance ends in applause.
And then it is their turn.
The guests begin stepping onto the floor with their partners.
Grace exhales under his breath.
“Do I actually have to dance with you?” he asks quietly.
“I came here with you. Who else would I dance with?” Stratt replies, already stepping forward as others take their places.
“I’m going to embarrass you.”
Before he can argue further, she takes his hand and leads him onto the floor.
Applause rises around them as they join the others.
She positions him with practiced ease.
His right hand at her back. His left holding hers. Her hand comes to rest lightly against his shoulder.
Everything is closer than it should be.
“Step. Step. Turn. Don’t think.”
Around them, couples move in perfect rhythm.
“One, two, three. One, two, three.”
And then he steps on her foot.
“You’re thinking again,” she says.
“I’m a scientist. That’s kind of the problem. If I don’t think, if I don’t count, what am I supposed to do?”
“Stop being a scientist for three minutes. Let yourself follow the music.”
The noise in his head fades.
Her hand is still in his.
And somehow, that makes it easier.
He adjusts. Follows. Moves with her instead of against the pattern.
At some point, as she spins and returns to him, her hand finding his shoulder again, their eyes meet.
Not in a way he can easily define. Not something that fits into equations or categories. Just something he has never seen before.
Something very few people probably ever get to see.
The realization hits him all at once.
His grip tightens just slightly, not enough to be obvious, but enough to say something he cannot put into words.
The woman curtsies. Stratt inclines her head, measured and precise.
Grace mirrors her, a little less graceful but close enough.
He does not let go of her hand.
Not until they have stepped off the floor and the moment has already passed.
Only then does he seem to realize.
“Sorry,” he says. “I mean, sorry, I didn’t… I wasn’t…”
He stops himself before the sentence collapses completely.
But the city is still awake.
The lights of Vienna glow beyond the tall windows as they step back into the suite. Stratt enters the living area first. Grace follows, closing the door behind him.
The silence between them feels heavier than it should after a night filled with music and carefully negotiated alliances.
He fumbles with his bow tie, fingers clumsy.
“I hate this thing,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
She walks past the furniture and stops by the window, looking out over the city. Her reflection lingers faintly in the glass. Still. Controlled. Unreadable.
Grace glances at her, then finally manages to loosen the knot.
“You did well tonight,” he says.
“I had to,” she replies, her voice even, her gaze still fixed outside.
“They don’t like me,” she says after a moment.
“Anyone with power. The kind of people who can make my work… difficult.” She pauses. “No one likes being told what to do. When this project is over, the ones who resent me might decide I’m a problem worth removing.”
Her tone does not change. It is not anger. Not bitterness. Just fact.
“Tonight was performance,” she continues. “A reminder of that.”
Grace does not answer immediately.
He steps closer, but not too close. The same careful distance as before. Close enough to stay, far enough not to cross a line.
“They think you’re a problem,” he says slowly, “because you don’t play their game.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs lightly. “That too.”
“But from where I’m standing… that just means you’re doing the right thing.”
The silence that follows is different this time.
Not heavy. Not uncomfortable.
Stratt turns to face him fully, studying him a little longer than usual, as if weighing something that has nothing to do with politics, or the project, or the world.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she says.
“Because it makes me want to believe you.”
Grace smiles, just a little.
“Then maybe you should. Just for tonight.”
The space between them feels smaller now.
“Go get some rest, Doctor Grace,” she says, her voice returning to its usual sharp clarity.
He nods, even though she is no longer looking at him.
He walks to his room, stopping at the door.
She does not turn, but she listens.
“I know,” she replies, softer this time.
For the first time in years, Eva Stratt does not feel entirely alone.
The city lights stretch below, gold threading through the streets of Vienna. The music has long since ended, but the rhythm lingers in her mind.
One, two, three.One, two, three.
There is no space in her schedule for things like this. Leaving the ship. Attending events. Dancing.
None of it helps save the world.
The thought comes easily, as it always does.
She should go back. Back to work. Back to control. Back to where everything makes sense.
Below, the city continues as if nothing is ending. People walk the streets. Cars pass. Life moves forward, unchanged, even with the knowledge of what is coming.
She remembers the rhythm.
At first, he counted. She heard it clearly, even when he tried not to let anyone notice.
Careful. Precise. Like a student trying to get everything right.
Then he stopped. And somehow, he got better.
Her fingers shift slightly, as if recalling the exact placement. His hand on her back. Steady. Certain.
Of course he did. He always does.
She knew that before she brought him here.
She knew everything she needed to know.
She closes her eyes for a moment.
Too long for what it was.
Too close for what it should be.
When she opens her eyes again, her expression is calm once more.
Controlled. Categorized. Contained.
Not something she needs to keep.
The thought comes quietly. She does not push it away.
The memory of his hand. The rhythm they shared. The music that has already faded.
Stratt inhales slowly, steadying herself the way she always does before making a decision.
He will not remember this the way I do.
It should not weigh on him. It should not interfere with what matters.
She turns away from the window.
Pain flickers through her feet, a reminder of the heels she has worn for too long. It pulls her back to the present. She slips them off and leaves them there before walking toward her room.
The silence returns, swallowing everything.
The door closes with a soft thud.
Grace runs a hand through his hair.
His heartbeat is too loud.
Or maybe the room is just too quiet.
He exhales, pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto the bed.
She is still there, in his mind.
The black dress. The movement. The way she followed the music. The way she looked at him.
Stratt like that is not the Stratt he knows.
Not the one who gives orders.
Something he should not spend time trying to define.
“Get it together,” he mutters, pressing a hand to the back of his neck.
Another step, and he might have said something he should not. Done something worse.
The architecture. The lights. The music that refuses to leave his head.
“Yeah, right. Blame the atmosphere,” he scoffs softly.
He falls back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling for a long time before sleep finally takes him, still fully dressed.
By morning, everything is back to normal.
Or as close to normal as it gets on this ship.
Grace finishes catching up on the work he missed and eventually retreats to the common area. There is a new ice cream machine. He notices it just as shouting echoes down the corridor.
“Grace! This is what you call souvenirs?”
Ilyukhina appears, holding up a bag filled with neatly packed chocolates, her expression dramatically betrayed.
“You went all the way to Vienna. City of art, culture, history. And this is what you bring back?” She pulls out a box from the bottom. “Cocoa blocks?”
“It’s called Sachertorte.”
“It’s chocolate cake,” she shoots back immediately. “Where’s everything else?”
He removes his glasses and rubs his temples.
“I went there to work. Not shop.”
“But you went to Vienna.”
She emphasizes the name like it is an argument in itself.
He glances around, then reaches into another bag beside him and pulls out a glass bottle, amber liquid catching the light.
“…Okay. That’s interesting.”
She takes it immediately, far too quickly to be subtle.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about, Doctor Grace.”
“In exchange, you stop spreading weird rumors about me.”
A small laugh escapes her as she turns the bottle in her hand.
“But you really went with her, right?”
Grace closes his eyes slowly. The tips of his ears turn red.
“Okay, okay. I surrender.”
She raises both hands, still grinning.
Across the room, unnoticed, Stratt watches.
When Grace pulls out the bottle, when he tries to bargain, when his composure slips just slightly, something in her expression softens.
Not enough for anyone else to see.
She turns and walks away before anyone can notice her.
Faster than light, it feels like.
They begin as whispers in the lab.
“…Is it true?”“I heard that…”“In Vienna…”
Grace looks up from his screen.
That is never a good start.
He tries to ignore it. Focus on the data. Numbers. Models. Things that make sense.
“…they danced all night.”
“…Okay. That is getting very specific.”
Within half a day, the rumors evolve.
Version one. He attended the ball with Stratt.Version two. He was forced to go.Version three. He volunteered.Version four. He is an excellent dancer.Version five. He stepped on her foot three times.Version six. He could not stop staring at her.Version seven. She stared back.Version eight. They disappeared together after the event.
Grace sets his tablet down very slowly.
“I stepped on her foot once.”
This is getting out of hand.
Which means it is time to deal with the source.
Grace heads straight for the astronaut training section. Ilyukhina is exactly where he expects her to be, lounging on a couch, far too relaxed, idly swirling an amber drink in her glass.
He does not ease into it.
She does not even look at him. Just watches the liquid in her glass.
“You already got your payment.”
“Yes. And it’s excellent.” She lifts the glass, admiring the light through it. “Very distinct oak notes.”
“Then why are the rumors still—”
“Oh please, I didn’t start them,” she cuts in, far too quickly, her tone suspiciously innocent.
“I just… didn’t deny them.”
“That’s the same thing as spreading them.”
“Not quite.” She shrugs. “I call it strategic ambiguity.”
Grace squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head.
“…You just made that up.”
“And yet, it works.” She smiles.
He looks increasingly stressed.
“Listen.” He leans forward, pressing his fingers to his temple. “Nothing happened.”
“I just went to the event with her.”
“And we danced. Briefly.”
She sets her glass down gently.
“Doctor Grace, you’re really bad at lying.”
A small smile forms at the corner of her lips.
“I didn’t say you were. Rumors aren’t about truth,” she says lightly.
“They’re about what people want to believe.”
Grace opens his mouth, then hesitates.
“…No one wants to believe that.”
“Oh, on the contrary.” She leans back against the couch.
“Brilliant scientist plus intimidating commander plus one of the most romantic cities in the world.”
She counts on her fingers.
“It practically writes itself.”
“I’m taking the alcohol back.”
She freezes for half a second.
He reaches for her glass. She pulls it away immediately.
“Okay, okay! I’ll help reduce the rumors.”
By evening, the rumors evolve again.
“He went to Vienna with her but tried to hide it.”“There was alcohol involved.”“That means there’s something to hide.”
Grace stares at the screen.
Then slowly lets his forehead drop onto the table.
Down the corridor, Stratt pauses mid-conversation.
“…there is nothing to be concerned about. Everything remains under control.”
But her gaze shifts, just slightly.
Toward the lab, Grace just left.
He looks more frustrated than usual.
She is quiet for a moment, long enough for the other person to notice.
“Is there anything else?”
She refocuses immediately.
She turns again, watching the space where he disappeared.
She has heard the rumors.
A faint smile touches her lips.
This time, just a little more visible.
Not because she believes them.
But because she does not intend to deny them either.
That night belongs to only two people.
