hi!!! idk if ur still taking ryland requests but can you do ryland x mechanic/engineer reader (preferably fem!!) and shes the only other person that wakes up in the hail mary? and they get closer and closer knowing that they will end up dying together
⋆˚꩜｡ Hopelessly Alone In the Heart (Like I’ve Always Been From The Start)
a/n: PLEASEEE forgive me if this is so off & not what you wanted, this is the first fanfic i’ve posted… like for the first time in 5 years but my adoration for Ryland Grace overrides my anxiety
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It wasn’t bravery, far from it actually. It was finally a chance to prove something to yourself, a chance to be able to say, “I’m finally worth something.” Even though you were applauded for doing something so heroic, it constantly felt like you were Sisyphus. Pushing the boulder of your insecurities and doubts that had stuck on you your entire life. Like as if no matter how far you got, it would always roll back down.
Those thoughts clouded your mind, not the fact that you’re hurtling towards your inevitable death in God knows where.
You had woken up a few weeks ago, recovering from the whiplash of being woken however many years later. Nothing soothed you for the first few days; only memories of what once was your past mocked you in photos of your past, like they were fragments of a life you were observing not reminiscing.
It was hard to talk to Ryland at first. The both of you communicated like it was the hardest thing in the universe. Every word had to be dragged out and inspected before it was spoken. But eventually, you both fell into a rhythm of awkward conversation starters turning into something softer, something real, something that lingered just beneath the surface, unspoken but felt like a current neither of you knew how to name yet.
But here you are now, sitting in the command center, staring out into the stars. The tiny specks of light reflected in your eyes, it was a constant that kept you grounded from drifting too far into your thoughts… you didn’t really have the strength to tackle those demons just yet.
Somewhere, Grace is trying to avoid space altogether and currently recovering from a mild hangover. His feet trip over the mess of scattered papers littered with math problems, the scribbles and equations that showed evidence of sleepless nights.
You two soon realized how far you both were from home and, in a moment of quiet surrender, gave in to the loving comfort of alcohol.
His eyes glance around once or twice when he reaches the command center. Desperately looking for the only friend he has, and once he catches sight of you, he releases a breath of relief he didn’t even realize he was holding. Just seeing you there makes things feel a little less out of control.
It’s a thought that comes too easily now. Too naturally. It unsettles him at how steadier everything feels when you’re in the same room.
“You doing good?” His head tilts, his eyes filled with concern, but he softens it with a small and careful smile, like he doesn’t want to push too hard.
Your head whips toward him, startled but not exactly scared. “Jesus, you scared the daylights out of me,” you mutter quickly, voice a little rough. You cover your face with your hands and groan, dragging them down slowly. “Do… you always walk that quietly, or is that just a special skill you use to haunt me?”
“I didn’t want you to start thinking too hard…since uh- we’re out of vodka.” he huffed, leaning a shoulder against the wall. His eyes trace over you, and are more observant than he lets on. He notices how you burrow yourself into that jacket draped across your shoulders, something you’ve worn ever since finding it in your bin of personal belongings.
He’s catalogued that habit without meaning to. After all he was still a scientist, even now annoyingly observing patterns, recording details. Except this isn’t data.
A moment of silence passes that almost reaches awkwardness. Nothing is said, but neither of you have the guts to fill it. You look away, then back out towards the window, a slight furrow clustered in your eyebrow’s as your thought’s begin to wander again.
Ryland steps closer towards the large window. He inhales heavily, like he’s steadying himself, then lowers himself across from you. A small grunt leaves his mouth, he props himself cross-legged.
Close enough that he can feel your presence, but far enough that he can pretend it’s accidental.
“Hey- What do you call a sheep who can sing and dance?” he interrupts suddenly, body angled toward yours as he raises his eyebrows. His voice tinged with mellifluous virtues, clearly attempting to try and break whatever spiral you were slipping into.
And maybe the one he was slipping into too.
“What the hell are you talking about?” you huff, blinking at him, confusion written all over your face but there’s blatant amusement there too.
He relaxes and reminds himself; you're still here.
“What do you call a sheep who can sing and dance?” he repeats, a little more insistently this time, he’s committed to the bit.
You scoff and nod slowly, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “Uh… I don’t know. What do you call it?” You lean forward just slightly, you’re humoring him more than you want to admit.
He notices the shift immediately.
You leaning closer shouldn’t matter as much as it does.
“Lady Ba Ba.” His delivery is completely flat, but there’s a flicker of pride in his expression when he notices the constrained smile on your face, like he’s just won something small but important.
A scoff escapes you, and suddenly it’s the funniest thing in the world. Maybe you at last you became unhinged from this timeless void they called space. “That’s stupid,” you mutter, closing your eyes as you chuckle, shaking your head. “Jeez- That was genuinely awful.”
“I knew you’d enjoy that,” he says, nudging your shoe with his with a small, grounding gesture.
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “Or I’m finally going insane.”
“Oh—” he pauses, tilting his head like he’s thinking it over, “we’re already past that point.” He shakes his head. “I think that ship sailed the second we woke up.”
You glance back at him, raising an eyebrow. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“It shouldn’t,” he replies easily. “But it does make you less alone in it.” He points at you.
That lands softer than expected.
You don’t respond right away, but your shoulders loosen, and this time when the silence settles, it doesn’t feel quite as heavy “Feels like we skipped right past ‘coping’ and landed straight into ‘barely holding it together.’” You mutter softly.
Ryland hums in agreement and rubs the back of his neck like he’s trying to smooth out thoughts that won’t settle. “That sounds about right.” He glances at you, then quickly away, he doesn’t want to make whatever this into a big moment.
“But hey… we’re doing a pretty decent job for two people who woke up in a metal box with no memories and a dying sun to fix.”
You huff quietly. “When you say it like that, it sounds worse.”
“Oh, it is worse,” he says immediately, deadpan. “I’m just choosing optimism. It’s a survival tactic.” He nudges your foot again, lighter this time.
His chest tightens at that.
There’s a pause, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels… settled.
You pull your jacket tighter around yourself, fingers brushing the worn fabric. “Do you ever feel like…” You hesitate, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Like we’re supposed to remember more? Like something important is just—” You gesture vaguely near your temple. “Right there, but we can’t reach it.”
Ryland’s expression shifts, something quieter, more serious slipping through. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back on his hands, staring out at the same endless stretch of stars.
“All the time,” he finally admits. “It’s like… hearing a song you used to love, but you only remember one line of it.”
You nod slowly, eyes still fixed forward. “Yeah. Exactly that.”
“And I hate that it doesn’t even feel like mine sometimes,” you add. “Like I’m trying to remember someone else’s life.”
Ryland exhales through his nose, a quiet, understanding sound. “Maybe that’s not the worst thing,” he says. “Gives you a chance to decide who you want to be now.” He shrugs one shoulder. “No embarrassing childhood stories. No exes to run into.”
No one to lose, he almost adds again.
You glance at him, eyebrow raising slightly. “You definitely had embarrassing stories.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he says without missing a beat. “I can feel it. Deep in my bones… I was probably the guy who wore corny science t-shirts.”
You let out a real laugh at that, louder than before. “You were definitely that guy.”
The sound hits him harder than it should.
Like something warm spreading through his chest, something he hasn’t felt in a long time.
“Hey,” he points at you, mock offended. “You don’t know that for sure.”
“I don’t need to. It’s obvious.”
He grins, clearly pleased. “Wow. Profiling me already. That’s harsh.”
“Engineer,” you reply simply, tapping your temple. “Pattern recognition.”
“Ah, so I’m just a data point to you now?”
He gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “I thought we had something special.”
Your eyes flicker toward him, just for a second too long.
“We do. It’s just… statistically predictable.”
That does something to him.
He hides it behind a snort, shaking his head but the word special lingers, echoing in a place he doesn’t quite want to examine.
Silence settles again, but it feels warmer now. Lighter.
After a moment, Ryland glances at you, his voice softer. “You know… for what it’s worth,” he says, a little hesitant, “I think you’re doing better than you think you are.”
You don’t respond right away. Your fingers tighten slightly around your sleeve.
“I mean it,” he adds. “You woke up into… all of this,” he gestures vaguely around the ship, the stars, everything, “and you didn’t shut down. You’re still here. Still trying to figure things out.” He shrugs. “That counts for something.”
Your throat tightens just a little, and you blink a few times, focusing on the distant stars so you don’t have to look at him. “You don’t even know me,” you murmur.
His gaze lingers on you, quieter now. Softer.
“Yeah,” he says. “But I know you now.”
And he means it more than he should. More than he’s ready to admit.
That sits between you. Heavy, but not in a bad way.
You let out a quiet breath, your shoulders dropping in comfort of his presence just a fraction. “You’re not as annoying as I thought you were,” you admit.
He grins immediately. “High praise.”
You shake your head, but there’s no bite to it. Just something softer, something almost… safe.
And that word “safe” feels dangerously close to something else.
After a second, he clears his throat, like he can’t let things stay serious for too long. “Alright, I got another one.”
You groan immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”
“—astronaut break up with his girlfriend?”
You drag your hands down your face. “Ryland—”
You stare at him for a long moment, completely unimpressed.
Then, despite yourself, you let out a quiet laugh.
“Yeah,” he nods proudly. “But you laughed.”
And he watches you as you do.
Memorizes it in a way that feels a little too intentional.
You shake your head, looking back out at the stars, but this time… they don’t feel quite as heavy and for the first time in a while, neither does your thoughts.
After that conversation, things had become easier between you two. Communication became lucid, and you didn’t hesitate to speak your thoughts the more you bantered back and forth, like something in you had finally stopped bracing for the worst. He was like a best friend, but that still didn’t feel like the right word to describe this abnormal bond, it was something quieter and heavier, and it mattered more than either of you were ready to admit.
And it unsettled him more than anything else had from what he can remember.
Because Ryland had always been careful. Methodical. Even when he left molecular biology to teach middle schoolers, it had been a safe decision and was something grounded, something simple.
This situation was unpredictable in all the ways he didn’t know how to prepare for.
He kept finding himself growing closer to you.
Not in big ways or anything he could name out loud. Just… tinier things. He found himself standing a little too close when you worked together. Letting conversations stretch longer than necessary. Choosing to sit beside you instead of across, like proximity itself was something he couldn’t quite stop chasing. His knee grazed yours, fingers lightly nudging against yours when he reached for the same datapad, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. Neither of you pulled away.
He was attractive, in this nerdy way that made you remember a time before this. A couple memories of his face passed by; dumb jokes, the kind that should’ve been unbearable but somehow weren’t, him teaching you about the science of whatever you were heading toward, voice animated, hands moving like he couldn’t help it.
He noticed the way your gaze lingered on his hands when he talked, the way your attention sharpened when he got excited, the way your expression softened when he forgot to filter himself. He noticed the way your shoulder pressed closer to his when you leaned over a console, the way your fingers twitched when his hand brushed yours again. Every accidental brush, every fleeting touch, held weight.
And every time, it made him hesitate like he was standing on the edge of something he didn’t know how to step into.
Because if he named it… if he let himself think about why your attention felt different from anything else, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to go back.
Days passed, stretching into something you didn’t bother to keep track of. The two of you remembered more each night but never reached a full conclusion. It was like trying to hold onto a dream after waking up. You eventually figured out he was a teacher based on the drawings students made for him and a class photo he brought along, edges slightly worn like it had been handled often.
He stared at those drawings longer than he should have. He tried to feel something solid. Tried to anchor himself to the version of him that made sense.
But lately it was you that felt real.
And that scared him in a way he couldn’t explain.
Because familiarity implied history.
And he couldn’t remember a single moment with you but his body kept reacting like he should.
Like he already knew the way you’d respond before you spoke. Like he already knew the rhythm of you.
It was endearing, more than it should’ve been, and it made something in your chest soften in a way that caught you off guard.
Every touch, accidental or not, stayed with you longer than it should have. Every shared laugh drew your shoulders closer. Your fingers brushed over each other, deliberately just slightly longer. The world narrowed to the warmth of each other’s presence. Each small contact was electric, almost impossible to ignore.
When one of your daily conversations occurred, you admitted, “Honestly… I’m scared of dying.”
The words feel heavier once they’re out, like they’ve settled into the space between you. Ryland doesn’t answer right away. You can feel his attention shift toward you, even without looking.
“…Yeah,” he says eventually, quieter than usual. Not joking this time. “I think about it more than I want to admit.”
He hates how exposed that sounds.
Hates that you can see through him so easily.
Hates more that he wants you to.
You glance at him, catching the way his gaze drops to his hands, fingers fidgeting like he doesn’t know where to put them. It’s different seeing him like this, without the humor to soften the darkness, without the easy confidence he usually leaned on.
“You always joke when things get too real,” you say, not unkindly but stated as a matter of fact.
But your voice is softer now.
Like you’re handling something fragile.
Like you’re handling him.
He lets out a small scoff, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah. Occupational hazard, I guess.” He rubs the back of his neck. “If I keep it light, it doesn’t feel like it’s right there, you know?”
If I don’t, I might say too much.
If I don’t, I might say your name like it means something different.
You nod slowly, turning your body just slightly toward him now, close enough that your shoulder brushes his. He doesn’t move away. His hand rests near yours on the console. Neither of you moves it, letting the proximity speak.
“But it still is,” you murmur.
“You don’t have to make it easier for me all the time,” you say softly, head tilted toward him.
You don’t know why it matters so much.
That makes him glance up, a little surprised you had caught on. His eyes linger on yours, pupils dark and attentive. “What?” His voice cracks softly, and you notice a hitch in his breath.
“You do that,” you continue, steady but gentle. “You turn everything into a joke, or you try to make it less heavy for me.” You furrow your eyebrows. “But no one’s doing that for you.”
There’s a slight shift in your posture, closer without meaning to be. His hand inches toward yours, fingertips brushing and lingering like an unspoken invitation. Neither of you move.
“I mean… I’m fine,” he says, though there’s a catch in his voice that betrays him.
You give him a look that's not harsh, just knowing, eyes holding him longer than usual. “Y’know, you’re really bad at lying.”
That earns a faint huff from him, soft, intimate. “Wow. Rude, Okay.”
But he doesn’t look away this time.
“I’m serious, Ryland.” you add, softer now, voice dropping a little. “You don’t have to carry it by yourself.”
His gaze lingers. His fingers brush yours again, holding the contact a heartbeat longer. Your chest tightens.
“I don’t even know what I’d say,” he admits, voice low.
“You don’t have to speak poetry,” you reply. “Just… don’t avoid it, I guess.” You shrug slightly, though your eyes don’t leave his. “Being scared means you still care.”
A moment passes. His fingers graze yours again, this time teasingly. Your breath hitches. His shoulder is almost touching yours. The air between you feels impossibly charged.
“You’re… different,” he says softly, almost breaking.
“And you,” you murmur, letting your shoulder brush his deliberately, “aren’t as indifferent as you pretend.”
He swallows. His hand drifts closer to yours, stopping just shy of touching your palm. Neither move, both aware of the unspoken tension, the unclaimed spark.
“This is new,” he murmurs.
“You being the emotionally responsible one.”
You roll your eyes slightly, but there’s warmth. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late,” he says, a faint smile pulling at his lips.
Your breath catches. Your fingers inch closer, almost touching. The warmth between you is unbearable. Every brush, every glance, a silent question neither dares to answer.
And for a second, the fear doesn’t feel quite as loud; it's quieter, like it’s been pushed away for another day..
Replaced by something warmer.
Something that settles in your chest and refuses to be ignored.
Something that, if you thought about it too long… might start to feel like… something else entirely.
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