summary: you were the second survivor of the Project Hail Mary and, as it turned out, married to your crew mate. your prolonged coma left you often sickly and weak, but your husband was more than happy to help you in whatever way he could.
or
five times Ryland took care of you, and the one time you could finally return the gesture.
pairing: married!ryland grace x gn!reader
word count: 5.9k
tags: 5+1, fluff, a little bit angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, health issues, domestic bliss, no pronouns used for reader, reader is described as having long enough hair to braid in the fifth part but you can skip that if you want to (:
a/n: the title is from the poem 'the daisy follows soft the sun' by Emily Dickinson <3
I wrote parts of this while outside waiting for the solar eclipse, and later when it happened all I could think about was how ryland would be so mad at me because I kept staring into the sun lmao (all the glasses were sold out, what was I supposed to do, not watch the solar eclipse?? yeah right)
based on this request <3<3
masterlist & ryland grace masterlist
Waking up without memories in space was hard. Waking up in space with two dead bodies and one alive but equally confused crew member was even harder. Waking up in space, spending the next months saving the world, only to then remember that actually that one alive crew member was the person you were married to was… well, honestly, that was kind of great.
You had liked Ryland from the second you woke up. It was like there was this invisible tether between you two, but you didn’t have that much time focusing on what that meant while still actively working on trying to solve the Petrova line problem. Furthermore, there had been complications with your coma, leading the medical nanny bot—Armando, as Ryland had nicknamed him—to keep you under for a while longer than Ryland, in hopes of keeping you as stable as possible.
When you woke up, you were halfway to Tau Ceti e. There had been Ryland, who broke down in tears at the sight of you blinking against the bright light, and to your utter surprise, a five-legged stone alien.
Rocky, his name was Rocky.
After that, you thought nothing could ever catch you off guard again. Until one random night a few weeks after you guys saved the world, on the way to Erid, you woke up, chest heaving, eyes falling on the man sleeping on the bottom bunk who, as it turned out, was your husband.
Now that had been like a punch to the gut. You weren’t complaining though; with his messy blond hair, easy smile, and considerable biceps, he was definitely not the worst choice on a purely aesthetic basis. Add to that his charmingly bumbling persona—always tripping over himself to help you, easily flustered, but equally quick in biting back—and you promptly came to terms with the fact that you were married to him, even if a lot of it was still foggy.
Luckily for you, it didn’t take much longer for Ryland to remember you as well. He was less subtle about it than you; one moment you had been talking in the lab, and the next he dropped an entire box of ampules, staring at you with wide, glassy eyes.
After that, everything became a lot smoother; knowing you were never returning to Earth was a lot easier to swallow with the knowledge that your most important person was right next to you. There was only one problem: your health was still acting up, and now that all the adrenaline from having to save the world had vanished, it left you often weak and sickly.
But Ryland was nothing if not persistent in wanting you to be as comfortable as possible, and had no issues with going out of his way to provide whatever you needed.
This is five times Ryland took care of you, and the one time you were finally able to repay the favor.
You had been living on the Hail Mary for almost a year now, and while Ryland had told you that he cleaned up when Rocky first moved in, it clearly hadn’t happened since.
Stuff was strewn all around, clothes hung from the netting along the walls, boxes of stuff blocking most of the floor. It was getting to a point where you had to genuinely fear for Ryland’s safety every time he paced mindlessly around the space, considering he already struggled with staying on his feet when everything was clean and tidy.
So, for lack of anything better to do, one day you decided that you were going to clean up a bit.
Ryland and Rocky were engrossed in some sort of scientific tinkering back in the lab, so you didn’t tell them, and just started by collecting the clothes, folding them semi-neatly. After you had picked up most of the clothes and stored them back in the supplied bags, you began trying to clear the floor so that it would be easier to get through at the very least.
Many of the boxes were quite heavy, holding everything from lab equipment to food provisions—you really should be more careful with those—to random junk you were send to space with, because apparently a space mission to save the world wasn’t complete without an array of theater masks.
While doing all that, you had put on some music, lightly swaying to the sounds of Hozier, Fleetwood Mac, and whatever else came on the shared playlist of you and Ryland, which could range from soft rock of the 70s to 2010 pop.
With the music taking up most of your headspace, you didn’t hear Rocky approach at first. He had gotten a lot better at getting around in his rather large Xenonite ball, but the noise was still unavoidable. When you turned to him, he was already looking at you—or as much as he was capable of looking at anyone, which for the record, was not at all—and he tilted his carapace in a way that communicated his curiosity over what you were doing.
“Hey pal,” you said, momentarily straightening back up from your crouched position, making your back twinge a bit. “You guys done with whatever the hell you were trifling with?”
“Rocky finish creating second third barrier for breeder tanks. Grace mainly watch and talk,” Rocky said, his voice coming through the speakers around the ship—it was easier than always carrying a laptop around to translate his Eridian into English. Both you and Ryland were getting semi-fluent in the foreign language, but it was still helpful to have the instant translation, especially if you weren’t paying that much attention.
“That’s nice,” you said, and then, because you knew he was waiting for you to explain, added, “I’m just cleaning up a little. The last thing we need is Ryland breaking his ankle because he tripped over something.”
“Yes,” Rocky said. “Good idea. Rocky can help, question?”
“Oh no, that’s fine,” you said quickly, waving him off. In truth, you didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but it didn’t really seem like there was much he could do considering he wasn’t able to leave his ball.
You bent down to pick up another box, but when you did, a sharp pain shot through your spine, making you gasp out loud.
“Pain, question? Grace Mate in pain, question? Grace Mate dying again, question? Bad, bad, bad!” Rocky made high, panicky sounds, while you slowly let yourself drop to the floor, wincing when that movement made even more pain spread through your body.
“It’s okay, I’m fine, Rocky.” You tried placating him. The last thing you wanted right now was—
“Sweetheart, is everything okay?” Ryland’s worried voice came from somewhere deeper in the ship, although you could already hear his footsteps coming closer. It wasn’t like you didn’t appreciate his concern, it was just that he tended to turn the smallest concerns into huge issues.
“I’m fine, Ry,” you said, but by that point he had already walked in. His gaze instantly fell on the many boxes you had already partially moved to the side. His eyes moved between them and you, brows coming down in a frown.
“What are you doing?” He asked and stepped closer.
“I’m just cleaning up a bit.”
“Is that…” Ryland hesitated. “Do you think that’s a good idea? Some of these boxes are pretty heavy.”
“It’s fine, Ry,” you answered, caught somewhere between annoyance for his slight overbearing and appreciation because he was truly a good partner to have.
“Is not fine,” Rocky suddenly chimed in. “Grace Mate make ‘ughhh’ sound when lifting box. Is hurt.”
“Rocky,” you hissed, throwing the alien a slight glare. Normally, he was pretty 50/50 when it came to who he’d support in an argument between you and Ryland (mostly depending on who’s side was funnier for him to support) but whenever it came to your health, the two became a bonded pair of reinforcement.
“Is true,” Rocky said, and moved two of his legs in what you could recognize as a shrug.
“Sweetheart?” Ryland looked at you over the rim of his glasses, hands on his hips. It looked a little ridiculous, mostly because it was a pose ripped straight out of the years he spent as a middle-school teacher, but somehow it worked. You sighed heavily, rubbing a hand along your arm.
“It hurt a little,” you said, and when you saw his eyes widen a bit, quickly added, “A little, okay? Just a little, nothing bad.”
Ryland sighed. “A little is still not good. I don’t like a little.”
“I know, but we can’t leave the ship like this any longer,” you said.
That wasn’t true, it was a mess you both made, and you were quite certain he was aware of that and just trying to get you to stop cleaning.
“We’ll do it together.” Ryland opened his mouth, ready to argue, but you cut him off before he could. “That’s final.”
“Bossy,” Ryland scoffed while smiling at you. He stepped over the box before you and gave you a quick kiss on the forehead. “But I’ll lift anything heavy, and afterwards we’ll take a look at your back. That’s final.”
You rolled your eyes a little, but agreed nonetheless. Ultimately, you were glad not to have to keep hurting your back. You spent the next two hours cleaning everything up and finally putting some of the stuff back into the storage compartments. All the while, Rocky kept up a running commentary over whatever song happened to come up, or when he felt like something should be stored differently. When you went to bed that night, and your back only slightly twinged, you were glad that Ryland had offered his help.
It had been about two weeks later when you found yourself faced with another tricky situation—you couldn’t sleep.
Back on Earth, you had been a frequent sufferer of insomnia, but until now, you had been spared of it for the most part while on the Hail Mary. However it seemed like it had returned with vengeance.
You had been tossing and turning for quite some time now, trying to find a comfortable position. But your legs kept on twitching, and while your eyes were heavy with fatigue, your mind was spinning with a million thoughts.
“Friend okay, question?” Rocky asked. He was perched in his ball by the door, watching you sleep the same way he did every night.
You had noticed that he tended to switch around with what to address you, because he had met you while you were still sleeping, he mostly stuck to the descriptors he had come up for you before you could really introduce yourself. You didn’t mind it; it was actually kind of charming.
You turned toward him, careful not to jostle Ryland, who was sleeping next to you. “Yeah, I’m okay, Rock. Just can’t sleep, that’s all.”
“Not sleep, question? How that possible, question? Sleep essential for human maintenance.” Because it came from a computer, Rocky’s voice was quite loud.
You shushed him gently. “Remember what we said about how easy it is for humans to be awakened from their sleep?”
“Apology,” Rocky whispered as best he could, which was not a lot quieter, but at least softer.
“Apology accepted,” Ryland grumbled from next to you.
You turned back toward him, finding him already looking at you. “Shit, sorry, honey. Didn’t wanna wake you.”
“Rocky already apologize,” Rocky said. Ryland rolled his eyes a little and pulled you closer.
“It’s alright.” He sighed sleepily, and his eyelashes fluttered a little. “Why are you awake?”
“Just couldn’t fall asleep,” you said, burying your face a little deeper in his chest. His smell was so familiar and comforting to you that you almost didn’t mind not falling asleep if it meant being able to continue being close to him.
“What?” Ryland asked, and you could feel him stretch his neck to look down at you. “Why didn’t you wake me or something?”
You scoffed. “Ry, I’m not going to wake you just because I can’t fall asleep. That seems a little counterproductive, don’t you think?”
“I just wanna make sure you’re alright, nothing wrong with that.”
“It is, when it means that you don’t get any sleep either,” you said, now looking up at him too. His hair was ruffled, and his eyes were half-lidded. Who knew that ‘sleepy’ was such a handsome look on him.
“S’fine, as long as I’m with you,” Ryland said, voice almost drunk on drowsiness. He began running his hands up and down your back in soothing motions, which automatically loosened your shoulders.
“Why not sleep, question? Friend and Grace ignore Rocky—possibly hate Rocky.” You and Ryland couldn’t help but giggle a little at the offended note in Rocky’s voice. He hated being ignored.
“We don’t hate you, pal,” Ryland said.
“We love you very much,” you added, turning back to him and blowing him a little kiss, which he gratefully accepted by squishing his carapace against his ball. “You know that.”
“Yes, Rocky know. Rocky not know why not sleep.”
“Well, that’s a bit more complicated,” Ryland began. You laid your head back down on his chest, letting the slight vibrations of his voice calm your busy mind. There was not a lot you loved more than listening to Ryland when he started yapping. “There are quite a lot of reasons why people sometimes can’t sleep. It can be outside causes such as loud noises, too much light, or an uncomfortable sleeping environment. Or it can be due to stress, changes in schedules, or if you consumed caffeine before going to sleep.”
“Not know word,” Rocky interrupted.
“It’s a central nervous system stimulant from the methylxanthine class. Y’know how we used to drink coffee while we still had it? Well, that contains caffeine, which keeps you awake,” Ryland explained, and you closed your eyes, letting his voice wash over you.
“Keep awake how, question?”
“I’ll explain tomorrow, okay, pal? My mind can’t really say anything useful right now. Anyway, that can also keep you awake. But all that is mostly short-term. When it comes to long-term sleep problems, there are even more possible reasons, such as hormone changes, or…”
Ryland kept talking while holding you close, caressing you ever so gently. Before you knew it, you had drifted off to sleep, the feeling of his arms around you like the safest weighted blanket.
The second you opened your eyes that morning, the light greeting you felt like a million little laser beams, shooting right into your eyes. You closed your eyes instantly, groaning a little. Your head was pounding, and even without moving, you could already tell that if you tried to get up right now, you’d probably throw up.
Everything was too loud, too bright, too harsh on your slightly sweaty skin—it was all just too much.
You've had bad days before, days where migraines would take over your body, rendering you basically useless for the next couple of hours. It had something to do with complications after your prolonged coma. Ryland had explained it to you at some point, but you had only barely been listening, too busy trying not to let your thoughts drown in the cotton stuffed in your brain. At the end, you didn’t even care that much where it came from—it wasn’t like you could do much in terms of medical interventions up here—all you knew was that it sucked every time.
Next to you, Ryland was slowly getting up. You could hear him sit up in bed, stretching his limbs.
“Ryland,” you said in a quiet voice—even talking hurt.
“G’morning, honey,” he murmured, luckily matching your volume. He turned to you, placing a kiss on your cheek and then on your nose. When you didn’t react the way you normally would, or opened your eyes at all, he paused. “Everything alright?”
“Got a migraine,” you mumbled, and then, because the word migraine just didn’t quite cut it in your opinion, you added a small, “Hurts.”
“Oh, no. Mary, could you please dim the lights in the med bay?” Ryland whispered, and straightaway, Mary complied, turning the light to a level much more comfortable for your eyes, so that you could at least squint a little without too much pain. If you had the energy for it, you would have kissed him silly for the way he immediately knew what to do to help you. Alas, that had to wait for another day. “Stay there, I’ll be right back.”
With that, he tiptoed out of the room.
You could hear him converse with Rocky in a quiet voice, probably telling him to stay out of the med bay for a while. It wasn’t anything against the alien; it’s just that due to the nature of his rather clunky transportation means, he wasn’t necessarily able to be silent.
Ryland returned after a couple of minutes, carrying a pouch of water, some pain meds, a bit of dried fruit, an ice pack, and some of the pillows you usually stored in the Don’t Go Crazy room.
“Here, sweetheart,” he said and placed the things next to you on the bed. He then helped you sit up, placing a pillow behind your back so that you could lean against it.
“Thank you,” you said in a subdued voice.
“It’s fine, you don’t have to talk. I know you’re thankful.” Ryland winked at you, and you couldn’t help but snort at his ridiculous expression. How did you ever get so lucky?
He opened the pouch of water and handed it to you along with two pills. You swallowed them with the water, and then, at his encouragement, emptied the pouch. He placed the ice pack on your forehead, which made you exhale deeply in relief.
“There you go,” he said, running a hand through your hair, pushing it away from your face. “You wanna sleep a bit more?”
You hummed, already feeling the heavy arms of slumber embracing you.
“Can I join you for a bit?” Ryland asked, and when you nodded, he gently moved you to the side so that he could lie down as well. When he was horizontal, he turned to you, placing an arm over your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “Is that all right?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” you said, and gathered all your strength to sleepily blink at him. “But I want to thank you. You’re always so kind to me.”
“Everyone should always be kind to you.” He said it in such an easy way that it made you tear up a little. He laughed gently at that, shushing you and wiping any wetness from your eyes. “C’mon, sleep now. Everything will be better once you wake up.”
When you woke up hours later, Ryland still had his arm around you. Rocky had, unbeknownst to you guys, sneaked in as well, and was now perched next to your bed, watching over you. Your migraine was gone for the most part, but still, you closed your eyes again, wanting to enjoy the moment for just a bit longer.
Your back still hurt.
It had been almost a month now since you cleaned up the Hail Mary a bit, and what you hoped would only be a temporary annoyance turned into a daily frustration.
Your days were filled with back pain—which in your humble opinion was one of the worst kind of pains—and your nights were spend tossing and turning trying to find a position that won’t make you want to claw out your eyes when you woke up the next morning.
You had bent your body in so many positions trying to find that one spot that’ll make the pain suddenly disappear. You could probably create an entire musical only out of the sound of your back cracking.
Now you were lying on the cool floor, eyes fixated on the ceiling, pretending like your back was not making you want to eject yourself into space.
You heard the familiar clatter of Rocky approaching before you saw him. The alien stopped by your head, looking down at you. “What is Friend doing, question?”
“Trying to pretend like I don’t exist,” you replied.
“Friend exist. Why pretend not to, question? Does not make sense.”
“It’s an expression,” you said, waving him off.
Rocky hummed and continued looking at you in a way that made it clear that he was doubting you. After a couple of seconds, he turned around and rolled away without another word.
You scoffed. “Goodbye to you, too, buddy.”
You closed your eyes, only to hear Rocky come back again, this time with Ryland in tow.
“Is not expression,” Rocky said, a distinct note of pride evident in his voice. “Grace say is dramatics.”
“Hey,” you exclaimed and shot up, turning to glare at Ryland. However, the sudden movement made a flash of pain strike through you, making you whine out and sink back down to the floor.
To his credit, Ryland immediately dropped to his knees next to you, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Oh, shoot! I thought you were just teaching Rocky wrong sayings again, I didn’t know you were actually in pain.”
That was fair, you had spent a significant amount of time lying to Rocky about what Earth culture and languages had to offer. When Ryland found out he shut that down quickly, stating that it was both not smart to lie to an alien whose world you guys were going to live on, and a little unethical. You begrudgingly agreed to stop, even though you were certain that Rocky was doing the same to you.
“Yeah,” you sighed, frowning as you adjusted your position on the floor. “It’s my back.”
“It still hurts?” Ryland asked, moving his hand from your shoulder to your face, where his thumb gently stroked your cheek.
“Friend is in pain a lot. Not good. Not good, statement! Bad, bad, bad! What can Rocky and Grace do, question?” Rocky asked, chirping anxiously.
“I don’t know, Rock,” you sighed. “Maybe you should just put me out of my misery.”
Ryland pinched your nose at that, shaking his head, while Rocky asked, “What mean ‘put out of misery’, question?”
“Nothing. It’s—don’t worry about it, pal,” Ryland said, and then turned his attention back to you. “But seriously, is there anything we can do?”
“I don’t know.” You batted your eyelashes up at him. “Maybe I could get some more of those sweet, sweet painkillers?”
Ryland clicked his tongue. “You know it’s not good, sweetheart.”
You had run out of ibuprofen about a week ago, and now the only thing still on board was the heavier medication. It left you very drowsy most of the time, so it really wasn’t something you should just take willy-nilly. Plus, you should probably store it in case something really drastic happened, like one of you loses a limb, or you land on Erid and one of the Eridians decides to shoot the weird aliens, and you need to recover from an extraterrestrial gunshot wound.
“Then I guess I am made to suffer. It’s my lot in life,” you said, sighing dramatically and stretching your arms to run your hands through Ryland’s hair.
“Don’t quote A New Hopeto me,” Ryland said, grinning at you. Then his eyes suddenly lit up, as an idea flashed through them. “You want me to give you a back massage?”
“Yes,” you replied instantly. Why didn’t you think of that? It would involve two of your favorite things: hopefully stopping the pain you were in and getting Ryland’s hands all over your body. “Definitely. One hundred percent.”
You made to turn over, ready to let him work his magic, when he stopped you, chuckling a little. “Not here on the floor, that’ll only make it worse. C’mon.”
He helped you stand up, and then led you toward the med bay, where you sat down on your bed. Rocky had followed you and watched ever curiously as you took off your shirt, leaving you only in a white tank top.
“What doing now, question?” Rocky asked, rolling closer to your bed.
“You don’t know what a massage is?” Ryland replied while gently pushing you to lie down. “I guess that makes sense, can’t really massage a carapace.”
“He’s going to basically press down on my back and shoulders, and knead the skin there,” you answered Rocky’s question, and then closed your eyes when you felt Ryland’s warm hands stroke over your back, pushing up your tank top.
“Sound not nice,” Rocky said slowly.
“It can be a little painful if you’re very tense, but it definitely helps afterwards.” Ryland started massaging your shoulders, and you let out a relaxed little hum.
“And I’ll definitely make sure it’s nice,” Ryland said, and gave you a quick kiss to the nape of your neck.
Rocky watched Ryland massage you for a couple of seconds longer before he rolled back a little. “Is not nice. Is disgust! Human blob very squishy. Rocky work on something away from friends.”
With that, he rolled out of the room. His dramatic exit made you and Ryland giggle a bit, but then Ryland continued massaging you and you practically melted in his hands.
You were sitting in the Don’t Go Crazy room with Ryland and Rocky watching some mindless action flick you were only partially paying attention to. Truthfully, you had only chosen the film because, as it turned out, Rocky absolutely loved action films, and Ryland loved complaining about the impossible physics of them.
(You had watched all the Mission Impossible films, and Rocky spent the next couple of days pointing at random objects and stating that they would self-destruct in five seconds.)
Your head was perched on Ryland’s lap, and he was mindlessly running a hand over your hair, caressing it gently. You loved when he played with your hair, and he loved running his fingers through it, so it was a win-win situation for both of you. Now and then he’d tuck some strands behind your ear or scratch your scalp, which only made you relax into him more.
“Your hair is so soft,” Ryland murmured. “I don’t know how that is still possible up here.”
“Pure luck, I guess,” you answered, which made him chuckle a little. “Your hair is soft too, though.”
“Not as soft as yours,” he argued.
You lifted your hand, touching his blond strands. “I don’t know about that.”
Ryland grabbed your hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing your wedding ring. “Might need to cut it again soon.”
“I like it when it’s a little shaggy.”
“Yeah?” Ryland asked, raising an eyebrow. When you nodded, he continued playing with your hair. “My kids used to bully me every time my hair got too long. It was actually quite a good way to keep track of time—whenever they started calling me Prince Charming, I knew it was time for a trim.”
You weren’t sure whether that was something you had known back on Earth; not all of your memories had returned yet, so you and Ryland mostly just said everything out loud, even if it was from a time you knew each other already.
“Prince Charming? When it comes to nicknames by middle schoolers, I think it could be a lot worse,” you said.
“They meant the one from Shrek,” Ryland replied in a deadpan voice.
“Oh,” you laughed.
“Friends very loud, statement! Rocky want to watch film but cannot because friends talking. Rude, rude, rude,” Rocky suddenly piped up.
Ryland rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue. “Don’t be dramatic, Rock.”
“Am not,” Rocky said.
He was being a little dramatic. His hearing was too good for your hushed voices to actually drown out the very loud film, and you also watched with subtitles, and you knew Rocky could read basic English.
“Well—” Ryland started, but was cut off by Rocky.
“Shush!” the alien said quite passionately. Ryland looked so put-off for a second, you sat up laughing too hard.
“He got that from you,” you whispered through your giggles, which made Ryland pull you closer, wrapping an arm around your middle and squeezing you.
“You heard Rocky—shush.” He kissed you on the temple, and then moved his mouth a little lower to whisper in your ear, “Do you want me to braid your hair for bed?”
“Please,” you whispered back, shutting up quickly when you noticed Rocky tilting his carapace in your direction.
Behind you, Ryland started separating your hair into three sections. Now and then, he would give you a lingering kiss on your hair or shoulder, making shivers run down your spine every time.
It wasn’t the first time he had braided your hair, so it didn’t take long for him to reach the end, using your hair tie always present on his wrist to secure the braid. He pushed it over your shoulder, and then hugged you from behind, resting his head on your shoulder.
“Thank you,” you said quietly, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “I would have definitely forgotten about it and then gotten annoyed in the morning.”
“I know,” Ryland replied, tilting his head and smiling at you.
Then Rocky made a loud squeaking sound that you were sure was supposed to be him clearing his throat, and you looked back at the screen, trying to pay attention to whatever was happening in the film.
Ryland kept his arms around you, holding you close.
It was finally time for revenge!
Well, revenge was maybe a very strong word for something that was more or less just you trying to spoil your husband, but it made it more fun to think of it that way.
Ryland had been taking care of you almost nonstop, and today you would finally return the gesture. He had woken up looking a little paler than usual, and even after breakfast he still hadn’t regained the color in his face.
It took some probing from you, and some well-meaning (but also a little concerning) threats from Rocky, for Ryland to confess that he had a bit of a headache and generally wasn’t feeling that well.
He insisted that it was probably nothing, just the stress catching up with him late, and while you agreed that seemed the most likely, you also weren’t going to let him pretend that everything was all right. In fact, you were almost giddy at the idea of finally being able to be the one to send him to bed, ready to take care of him.
When you walked into the med bay, Ryland was sitting on your bed with his shoulders slumped and head tilted down. He noticed you and instantly made to get up, probably to take some of the things you were carrying, but you were having none of it.
“Nope,” you said, stopping in your tracks. “Lie down right now.”
“Sweetheart, come on. I’m fine,” he said exasperatedly.
But you just shook your head, otherwise not moving. “Mm-mm. I’m not coming closer until you lie down.”
“That’s just cruel,” Ryland muttered, but he did as you told and lay down. You smiled at him for that, finally joining him by the bed.
“Here,” you handed him some water and a pill.
“What is that?” Ryland asked, taking both and inspecting the pill closer. “Wait, is that…”
“Ibuprofen,” you said proudly. “I kept some for you. It felt unfair that I would use them all, but I knew if I told you there were more, you’d make me take them.”
“That’s… sweetheart, you were in a lot of pain recently and,” he sighed, trying to give you back the pill, but you wouldn’t let him. “You need them more than me. That’s not unfair, that’s just the reality of the situation.”
“Right now, I don’t,” you replied, pushing his hand away. “Either you take it, or I’ll make Rocky roll over it to crush it.”
“What? That’s—that’s ridiculous and a total waste.”
“Exactly, so you better take it.”
Ryland looked at you, trying to figure out whether you were being serious, and instead of answering, Rocky rolled in, saying, “Rocky ready to crush.”
“Alright, alright,” Ryland said. He swallowed the pill along with some of the water and then smiled at you a little embarrassed. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you said, smiling back. “Now let me feed you some soup.” You lifted the bowl of instant soup as if trying to entice him.
“You don’t need to feed me, honey,” Ryland said, chuckling. He tried to reach for the spoon you were holding, but you pulled it back at the last second.
“Nuh-uh. Today I’m taking care of you,” you stated, scooping up some of the soup on the spoon, blowing on it to cool it, and then bringing it to Ryland’s mouth.
He looked down at it skeptically before looking back up at you. “What, is Rocky going to crush the soup if I don’t eat it?”
“If Grace does not eat, Rocky crush Grace,” Rocky said in what you found to be a quite self-satisfied tone.
Ryland looked at you with raised eyebrows.
“You heard the alien,” you said, shrugging.
Ryland sighed before opening his mouth a little, letting you feed him.
“It’s not too hot?” You asked, already ladling up more.
“It’s perfect, thank you,” Ryland said, smiling.
“You don’t have to thank me,” you said, winking at him as you repeated his own words.
Ryland shook his head, eating more of the soup. “How did I ever get so lucky?”
“I’m the lucky one here,” you replied.
“Rocky lucky, too,” Rocky chirped from where he sat on the floor.
You grinned at him. “I guess we’re all pretty lucky here, all things considered. I can’t think of two people I’d rather be stuck in space with.”
When you turned back toward Ryland, he was already looking at you like you had hung the moon, eyes wide, full of sincerity, and maybe even a little glassy—although you couldn’t tell whether that came from his ill health or genuine tears.
“I love you,” he said. It wasn’t the first time he had said it to you—obviously considering your marital status—but it hit you the same way it did the first time. It felt like being struck by lightning, only in the best way possible.
“I love you, too,” you said, and leaned down to press a quick kiss to his lips.
“Rocky love too,” Rocky said.
“And we love you, pal,” you said, leaning down to press a kiss to his Xenonite ball, too. It was a gesture you knew he didn’t love but accepted because he knew it was your way of showing your affection.
You spent the next couple of hours feeding Ryland the soup, running your hands through his hair, and talking in a quiet voice until he finally fell asleep in your arms. You looked down at your husband’s sleeping form, his face so relaxed and unburdened, and held him even closer.
You knew that tomorrow, he’d probably go back to his old ways of fawning over you, but for now he was yours to look after, and you’d treasure every second of it.
Your heartbeat reverberates through the closed suit, and it’s the only thing you can hear except for your own breathing. Before you, darkness stretches, only occasionally interrupted by glowing specks. Seeing it through the windows of the ship was one thing, but now, seeing it in person with nothing separating you from it, feels like being swallowed alive.
You hesitantly start to move forward but stop again at the edge of the ship. You already tethered yourself, so the risk of you just floating away is unwarranted, and still, you can’t stop the shivers running down your spine. It’s like teetering on the top of a rollercoaster, just so tilting over the verge. You can see the drop before you and you know that there is no way around it now; you’re going to fall, it is out of your hands. You have not had control over anything in your life for years now, but for the first time since entering the Hail Mary, it isn’t the engineers and workers of Project Hail Mary who control your life; it’s the cosmos itself.
“Everything okay?” Ryland’s voice comes through the speakers inside your helmet. He must have gone into the cockpit, where there is a speaker system and cameras on which he can follow your movements. Even though it sounds a bit tinny, his voice is grounding like nothing else. The knowledge that Ryland is still with you, even if you can’t see him, helps immensely.
“I’m fine,” you reply, and then slowly push yourself outside of the ship.
The second your legs float over the nothingness of space, your stomach drops, and for a second you fear that you’re going to throw up inside the spacesuit. You aren’t afraid of heights, but this is like nothing you’ve ever seen before.
This is crazy, this is absolutely crazy! Humans aren’t supposed to be in space; they are supposed to spend their lives safely on the ground. Whoever first thought to send humans to space was absolutely crazy, and you hope that their bloodline died out already.
“No, no, nope. Mm-mm. This is insane,” you mutter.
“Hey, you’re fine. Everything is fine,” Ryland says in a placating voice, which makes you want to scream.
“Nothing is fine. I’m in space,” you say. “Ryland, this is crazy.”
“You were in space before. It’s just that now you’re outside of the ship and—”
“If you finish that sentence, I’ll float over to the aliens and we’ll team up and destroy you,” you half-shout. “This is no time to be pedantic.”
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Ryland says, and you could picture the way he is probably raising his hands right now, looking over the brim of his glasses. “Do you want me to tell you where Blip-C will arrive?”
“Please.”
“Okay, you’re doing good, don’t worry. You’re perfectly safe. Can you make your way over to the top of the ship?”
You pull yourself forward, trying your best to ignore your surroundings. There are handles all along the hull of the ship, and bit by bit you make your way up the ship.
It’s a weird sensation, scaling the Hail Mary. Without gravity, it’s both a lot easier and more difficult—every hand placement needs to be precise because if you accidentally slip, your life depends on the tether. You can’t think of many worse deaths than slipping off into space. Ryland would never reach you in time and would only be able to watch you drift off further and further away until you became part of the landscape. The still graveyard, ready to claim its third victim.
Blip-A hovers ominously to your left, but you also try your best to avoid looking at it. The aliens inside it are probably watching you closely, and you don’t really need that kind of performance anxiety right now.
“Hey Ryland,” you say, because the silence is starting to fog your mind in a way that seems disadvantageous while in space.
“Yeah?” he replies instantly.
“What are the chances that the moon landing was actually fake?”
His silence in response to your question is graver than the silence radiating through space. You bite your lip, trying to suppress your grin in case he can make out your face on the camera.
When his voice sounds again, it’s not comically offended as you expected, instead, it holds an almost pensive edge. “You’ve asked me that before,” he says, and then pauses before continuing, voice almost pained now. “In Cologne.”
────────
“You’re kidding,” Ryland said, almost pleading. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“I don’t know,” you replied, facing away from him, because if he saw the grin on your face, he’d know immediately. “I saw a bunch of stuff on TikTok.”
“On TikTok.” Ryland’s voice almost gave out, and he sounded like he was about to faint.
You were standing in a little tourist shop near the Cologne Cathedral, looking at the rows of tiny snow globes, magnets, bottle openers, and keychains, all showcasing local attractions. It was nearing 7 p.m., and you should get something to eat and then make your way back to EAC soon, but you didn’t want to go yet. Spending time with Ryland away from all the ‘the world is ending and we need to save it’-stuff was a nice interval, and you were able to pretend like everything was normal, and you were just a man and a woman on a date.
Because that was what this was—a date.
You weren’t sure if Ryland knew that, but it seemed obvious enough to you.
“What, you’re not a fan of TikTok?” you asked, letting your fingers skim over a line of teddy bears wearing local football tricots.
“I—” Ryland sighed loudly, and you had to suppress a laugh. “I think there is a lot of benefit to global networks connecting people from all walks of life, and I think that social media platforms like TikTok have played a substantial role in stuff like recent activist movements and shaping the new generation; both in a negative and positive sense.”
“But?” you supplied.
“But,” Ryland continued, sounding almost whiny now. “It’s rotting people’s brains. My kids they—gosh, they have trouble focusing for more than fifteen minutes sometimes. And do you know how many hours I have to spend Googling new slang terms to make sure that they’re not like slurs or euphemisms or innuendos?”
He didn’t even let you answer before he started speaking again.
“Too many, let me tell you.” He groaned. “And then during parent-teacher conferences I have to explain to fellow adults that, no science is not made-up leftist baloney, the government does not control the weather, and to please vaccinate their children because even if mRNA vaccines cause autism—which they don’t—that would be better than the child dying.”
You couldn’t help but laugh. “Aww, poor Ryland. So, being part of a mission to save the world is the less stressful job of the two?”
“It has its ups and downs. At least everyone here believes in climate change,” he said. Your back is still turned to him, but you could hear him step closer. “Which brings me back to the original topic: you don’t actually believe that the moon landing is fake, do you?”
You could feel his body heat through the back of your jacket, and you grinned. “No, don’t worry, I don’t. Just wanted to see how you’d react.”
“Evil,” Ryland grumbled before holding something out in front of your face. On closer inspection, it was a pair of dark blue socks with red toes, heels, and cuffs. The ESA logo along with the Earth, moon and some other planets and stars were printed on it, in bright colors. It came as a surprise that they had ESA merch, and you turned to Ryland, who looked at you with a playful glimmer in his eyes. “Do you wanna get matching socks?”
────────
You bought the socks, which are now safely stored in your bag. You wonder whether Ryland also packed his, you haven’t seen him wear them yet. Then again, you don’t wear them either, too afraid to accidentally tear them or something.
Ryland is silent through the comms, and you wonder whether he is also remembering that evening.
“The chances are zero.”
“Hm?”
“For the moon landing to be fake,”Ryland says, his voice low and heavy. “The chances are zero. For the U.S. government to have faked it, they would need technology that wasn’t yet invented in the sixties. They would have needed CGI, but that didn’t exist yet. The way the dust on the moon falls couldn’t be replicated on Earth, and to simulate the low gravity they would have to lower the frame rate of the film, which would leave physical artifacts. Not to mention that over four hundred thousand people worked on the Apollo Program, and none have ever come out and said it was fake.”
You stop when you’re halfway up the ship. You guess that this is about where Blip-C will arrive. For some reason, Ryland’s words echo through your head. You look around at the wide expanse of everything in existence lying before you. How far humanity has come… It’s equally wonderful and grim.
“What do you think, how many people right now back at home think that this is fake?” You ask in a quiet voice, because speaking any louder right now feels weirdly sacrilegious.
Ryland laughs, it’s a quiet sound, as if he too understood the need for stillness. “Too many, I bet,” he says. “You should move about two feet more, Blip-C should hit any minute.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem, you’re doing a lot going out there,” he says, and you are sure you can hear a hint of shame. It makes your stomach twist, he shouldn’t feel that way. It’s not his fault he can’t remember, and you wish he would accept that.
You can see Blip-C clearly now. It comes closer and closer to you, spinning slowly. It’s a weird greyish-brown color, similar to the material their ship is made of. It’s glinting with every spin, the light coming from Tau Ceti reflecting off it.
“I miss sunlight,” you say, taking your eyes off the canister-looking thing coming toward you, and angling your face toward Tau Ceti as if lazing in the hot afternoon sun of a bright summer day.
“What, is Taulight not doing it for you?” You can hear the grin in his voice.
“What the hell is Taulight?” you ask.
“The light coming off Tau Ceti. It’s not sunlight, it’s Taulight.” He actually sounds quite proud of his little invention, which makes you shake your head.
“Ryland,” you say, hoping he can’t hear your grin the way you can his.
“Yes.”
“They’re gonna write history books about this. Do you really want Taulight to be one of your legacies?”
Ryland doesn’t reply for a while, probably taking your joke a little too seriously and thinking about it. When he does talk again, his voice holds no trace of embarrassment, as you expected. “Yes, actually, I do. It sounds nice, a little poetic, even.”
“It does not sound poetic,” you laugh.
“Yes, it does—look out, it’s right in front of you!” The last part is yelled, and it snaps you out of your lighthearted mood quickly. Leave it to Ryland to make you forget that you’re in space about to grab an alien message.
You’re afraid that if you grab the canister too snappily, it’ll bounce off you, and all of this will have been for nothing. (How embarrassing would that be—making the aliens send a third message?)
So, you let Blip-C come to you. You’re positioned perfectly, and Blip-C drifts right into your chest, where you gently close your arms over it until you take it with both hands. Your heart is beating so harshly, you fear that it will somehow beat through your chest and kick the canister back, so you tighten your grasp on it even more.
You stare down at what is the first human-alien message in a bottle ever and whisper, “I’ve got it.” You can hear Ryland cheering in your ear, but all your attention is taken up by the little miracle in your hands. “I’ve got it. I’ve got it!”
You stretch your arms up high and jump a tiny bit, which you regret instantly. Your tether goes taunt, pulling you back down before your knees can lock again and so making you crumple to the hull of the ship, where you quickly grab one of the bars before you bounce back up.
“You alright?” Ryland asks in a slightly panicked voice, and you remember with warming cheeks that he can see you—same goes for the aliens, probably.
Oh, well. You just went out into space and collected alien mail; neither Ryland nor the aliens could say the same for themselves.
“I’m fine,” you say, carefully getting back up. “I’m coming back in.”
“Alright, I’ll wait for you at the airlock.”
With the canister in one hand, you cautiously make your way back to the airlock. It’s a lot easier to get back, whether because you are excited to see Ryland again, or because you already know the best ways to move now, you’re not sure.
Before you know it, you’re back at the ship’s entrance, and when you pull yourself into the airlock, you can see Ryland’s face watching you through the little window in the door still separating the two of you. He looks equally happy to see you again and nervous about what the canister in your hand might hold. His eyes dart between your face and Blip-C, and you can’t help but let out a long sigh of relief—he’s fine, he didn’t accidentally die while you were outside of the ship.
You press a button, and the large door behind you closes. The airlock cycles, and you clumsily tap around on the chest panel of your suit until you find the right button, making the back of the suit pop open. You let go of Blip-C, letting it float freely in the room.
Ryland watches that with a concerned expression and something you can only describe as FOMO. “Don’t open it yet,” he yells through the door, and it’s honestly a wonder you can make out what he’s saying.
“I won’t, I’m just—” you choke on your words the second you leave the suit. You can hear Ryland once again yell, but you’re too busy trying not to throw up (something that would majorly suck in zero gravity!)
The normally clean and sterile air of the Hail Mary smells, for lack of a better word… like piss. The stench is so biting it makes your eyes water, and you automatically hold your breath, trying in vain to keep whatever comes from the capsule out of your lungs. It’s cloying like when you use too much Windex and can’t open a window in time. You cough, and the odor sticks to your gums, turning your mouth dry.
You doubt it’s harmful considering it does not cause you any pain, or actually inhibits your breathing, it’s just unpleasant.
“What’s going on? Are you okay? Say something, talk to me!” Ryland is practically banging against the door, trying to get your attention.
“M’fine,” you say and wrinkle your nose. Your eyes sting, but you’re slowly getting used to the smell. “It’s fine. There's a weird smell coming off the canister.”
“Smell?” Ryland asks, perking up as if the word activated something in him. “What kind of smell? Can you describe it?”
“It’s like… urine? Maybe I don’t know. It’s very pungent,” you answer just as the door stops its soft whirring noise and springs open.
“Urine? That could be am—” Ryland doubles over, the smell having reached him now that the barrier between you is removed. He coughs, and when he looks back up at you, his eyes are watery. “Yup, that’s ammonia.”
“That’s not dangerous, right?”
“No, not in small quantities, we’ll be fine. Even though we might want to put it somewhere for the time being.” He reaches for it, and when he touches it, he jolts back instantly, hissing loudly.
“What, what?” You ask, alarmed. You float closer to him, while Ryland waves his hands around in the air, his face scrunched up. The canister floats away, and you instinctively want to reach for it so that it doesn’t just fly around the ship, but when you try to, Ryland’s hands shoot forward, stopping you.
“It’s hot, you’ll burn yourself,” he says through slightly clenched teeth.
That gets your attention quicker than anything else . “You’re hurt?” You ask and yank his hands toward your face to inspect them closer.
“No, it’s not bad. I let go quickly enough,” he tries to soothe you, but your heart is stuck at beating a thousand miles a minute, and you genuinely start to feel a bit dizzy seeing the red, inflamed skin on his palms. He’s right, it’s not bad, probably not even a first-degree burn—and still, the pang of failure makes you want to crawl up inside the Bishop Airlock and inject yourself with the rest of the trash.
He got hurt under your supervision.
“Hey,” Ryland’s voice is gentle as he tries to coax you out of your mental spiral. “It’s fine, I’m fine. Barely even hurts anymore. Don’t worry about it.”
You’re clutching his hands tightly, running a thumb along the visible red mark.
“It’s not fine, you shouldn’t get hurt. That’s why I’m here,” you say, and even to your own ears your voice sounds faraway.
“No,” Ryland argues, moving his hands so that he is now holding yours, albeit a lot gentler. “Your job is it to look after me when I’m hurt, not to somehow stop me from doing dumb stuff like grabbing an alien canister without thinking about the consequences.”
You look up at him and find him already staring at you. His soft blue eyes are tender, and paired with the lack of gravity, you feel like you’re being tossed around in the ocean, the waves lapping at your body, pulling you up and down and left and right.
His hands holding yours feels like a buoy keeping you anchored to him.
────────
You and Ryland were holding hands, and you were trying really hard not to visibly freak out over that. It wasn’t like this was the first time you and he had made skin contact, but still, for the last half hour while you’ve been strolling through Cologne, your hand had been in his, making your stomachs do flips.
The air was cold, autumn having hit hard—especially with the added circumstance of the sun dimming—and the viscous breeze made your cheeks feel as if they were frozen. But Ryland’s hand was warm, his fingers like small heaters curling around yours.
Neither of you had acknowledged the holding hands part. It felt safer that way, as if admitting to the affection would rip it from you in an instant. Instead, you talked about everything around you: Cologne’s sights, a cute little dog wearing a bow, a German couple busy with what was either a heated argument or a funny conversation (you could never be sure when it came to Germans).
When both of your stomachs started to growl, you picked one of the many kebab shops to eat at. You both ordered, and once you got your food, sat down at a table outside the shop. There were a couple of gas heaters standing around the tables, keeping the chill at bay.
You had to let go of Ryland to eat, which almost made it not worth it in your opinion. Then you both took your first bites of your kebabs, and you changed your mind immediately.
“Fuck, that’s good,” you said, savoring the taste on your tongue.
Ryland agreed, nodding his head enthusiastically. “Definitely better than whatever they’re serving in the cafeteria.”
That was another of the major downsides of working on the project (besides the suicide part, of course) the food sucked. You couldn’t blame the cooks obviously, preparing food for several hundred people was probably a nightmare, and prioritizing quantity over quality just made sense. But god, you did not miss starchy potatoes and reheated patties with Brown Sauce™.
You ate in silence. The sun had already set hours ago, leaving you with a peculiar empty feeling in your chest. Knowing that your time left with the sun was so limited, whenever it vanished, you felt a bit of homesickness.
You wished you had appreciated it more when you had the chance. You had always loved the moon, so beautiful and romantic high in the sky, but the sun had only ever just been there. Important, of course, but not striking like the moon, or breathtaking like the stars—how stupid you had been. Now the sun was dying, and you would give your life to stop that from happening.
“What’re you thinking about?” Ryland asked after you both had finished your food. You turned to him to find him already looking at you, head propped on his hand, eyes tender as they took you in. It occurred to you that while you had been staring at the night sky, Ryland had been looking at you.
“I don’t know,” you said, because truthfully, you feel too much to put into words. “I guess about what I’m going to leave behind here. No one has ever gone anywhere where they wouldn’t ever be able to see our sky again. Isn’t that weird?”
Ryland looked between you and the night sky, brows sloping in thought. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it like that yet. No one has ever gone as far as you guys will.”
“The distance isn’t what scares me though,” you said, also turning back to the night sky. “It’s more so the leaving behind everything I know, all I have. My sun, my moon, my stars, my… everything,” you whispered the last word, and still, it hung heavier between you than anything else.
You knew Ryland had turned back toward you—you could practically feel his eyes burn against the side of your face—but you didn’t dare do the same.
Ryland’s presence beside you felt like a gravitational force you were being pulled toward, but you dug your feet into the ground trying to resist. Soon you wouldn’t even orbit the same star anymore; what’s a little misguided gravity to do against the force of the cosmos.
“You’ll get a whole new sun,” Ryland said, and his tone was enough to make you actually look at him again. You couldn’t read the expression on his face; the closest you could match it to was the homesickness spreading in your stomach, although you didn’t know what he could currently be missing. “And a new moon, and new stars, and… and I don’t know about new everything, but at least you’ll still have the sky.”
“I don’t want new, though. I want this—” you swallowed and blinked against the sudden feeling of tears gathering in your eyes. “I want this here. The sun, moon, stars, and… everything else. I want this sky.”
“It’s still the same sky,” Ryland said, and you could have sworn there were tears pooling in his eyes too. “It’s still the same, just a little further away. You know, in two thousand eight there was a gamma-ray burst that flared so brightly that for thirty seconds, humans could see it from Earth, without any equipment. It happened seven point five billion light-years away. That’s the furthest humans have ever been able to see into the universe with the naked eye. You’re only flying a measly twelve light-years; that’s nothing. In fact,” Ryland squinted a little as if thinking over something deeply for a moment. Then his eyes cleared, now holding a trace of excitement. “I could show it to you if you want to.”
“Show me what?” You asked.
“Your new sun—Tau Ceti.”
────────
You blink, trying to clear your mind. Ryland is standing before you, looking at you expectantly, but you don’t know what for. You didn’t listen to him, thoughts stuck on that evening, that night. It’s probably one of your favorite memories from back home, and also the one that makes your heart hurt so much it is almost unbearable.
“Everything okay?” Ryland asks.
“Yeah, sorry,” you mumble and gently remove your hands from his grasp. He looks a bit put out by the gesture, but you can’t think about that right now. “What did you say?”
“I said let’s put the canister in the fume hood so that I can cool down a bit and hopefully smell less horrible.” He pauses and then grins at you in that stupid way you know will haunt you until you die. “It’s been a very bad canister, and deserves a time-out, don’t you think?”
You just nod, lacking the energy to indulge him and his stupidly charming humor. He must sense your lack of focus, because his smile drops a bit. He doesn’t pry, though, which you’re more than happy about.
Ryland grabs a pair of thick gloves stored nearby and puts them on, so as not to burn himself again. With them, he grabs Blip-C, and together you make your way to the lab.
You stop at the large porthole, as if the sight before you seized your heart, stopping it in its tracks.
Ryland pauses as well, looking out with you. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
You stare at Tau Ceti, still so far away and yet so much closer than you’ve ever been to it. The star looks different up-close than it did on Earth. Larger, more beautiful, and suddenly, the homesickness you last felt on Earth thinking about the sun hit you harder than ever before. You almost double over from the sheer force of it, knocking the air out of your lungs.
“It’s everything,” you say, letting the word, which means nothing to Ryland and so much to you, linger in the air between you. Letting it die there as Ryland moves to go to the lab and you follow him wordlessly.
a/n: omg they make me sickkkk
also I'm so sorry that this story is moving so slow. turns out I'm incapable of not dragging everything out to the max but I promise I'll try to work on my pacing (I want rocky and I want him now!)
hope everyone will have a great weekend mwahhhh
taglist: @theworstwolvie @qardasngan @maddyamidala @vexerieart @lialilalo @firefly--bright (comment to be added)
The gun pressing against your skin was a bleak reminder of the decisions you still needed to make. You had strapped your holster to your thigh without thinking, and now, on your way to March’s home, you weren’t sure whether it was for offense or defense.
The streets seemed to stretch out infinitely in front of you, and still you took the longer route, not wanting to arrive just yet. Your mind was spinning, and it was like you hadn’t been able to form a cohesive thought since you had unintentionally run into March and Healy at Tiger’s bar yesterday.
It was now evening, the sun slowly setting, turning the LA landscape into a watercolor painting. You wondered whether this would be the last sunset you’d ever see—you also wondered whether it was March’s last.
You arrived at the cul-de-sac where his house was located, and with relief you noticed that Holly’s bike was not leaning against the garage anymore. You hoped that meant that the girl was somewhere else for the night; you didn’t want an innocent child around for whatever would happen next.
You parked your motorbike and stared at the house for a while, just taking in the sight—so normal, so easy. The kind of life you never had and never would be able to get. You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to ten. When you opened them again, you got off your bike and made your way toward the front door.
The doorknob was cold under your grasp, and when you turned it, you were surprised to find that the door was unlocked. You pushed it open slowly, a low creak announcing your arrival. It was dark inside, the only light coming from somewhere to your right, presumably the living room, which you couldn’t see yet.
You hadn’t been in the house before, only observed through the windows. It was a nice home, if a bit messy, with comfortable-looking settees and mismatched furniture scattered around. There were a couple of potted plants standing against the walls, which Holly must water regularly, because their green was lush and healthy—March didn’t seem like the kind of person to remember watering his plants.
You took a couple of steps inside, the door falling shut behind you. Your platform heels clacked on the parquet, marking the seconds going by as you crept forward.
You weren’t even sure what you were doing here. Your hand was ghosting over your gun, but you didn’t yet remove it from the holster.
“I was wonderin’ whether you’d come.”
You gasped at the sudden voice and spun around quickly. Your gun was in your hand immediately, and before you knew it, you were pointing it at March’s chest.
The man was sitting—no, slouching—in one of the armchairs scattered around. His dark green suit was rumpled, and his tie was almost completely loosened around his neck. There was a half-full glass dangling from his left hand, and an almost empty bottle standing by his feet. He was too far away to see the look in his eyes, but if the way his head was swaying was any indication, you’d guess that they were glassy and unfocused.
March was drunk, and you were once again pointing a gun at him, only this time there was no way you’d miss.
“March,” you said, not knowing what else there was. You didn’t lower the gun until he raised an eyebrow and scoffed into his drink. When you did, it felt like surrender, only you weren’t sure what you were yielding to.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, his voice heavy against the low ambience around you. “How was your day?”
“March,” you said again.
He let out a muffled sigh. “You say it so pretty.” His eyes drank you in like you were the liquor in his glass, and for a second, the blood flowing through your veins might as well have been. Your head spun, and you wanted his hands on you. “You are so pretty. You know that? You probably do, look at you.”
“Mar—”
“No, say Holland. Say my name, sweetheart, say Holland.” When you didn’t immediately do it, he sat up a little, leaning forward, making a lock of his hair fall over his forehead. “C’mon, please. I’ll call you baby, and you’ll call me Holland.”
Hearing your handle fall so freely from his mouth felt like being dragged through barbed wire—the little barbs digging into your skin, slicing you open. Death by a thousand cuts, but it was your karma for everything you had done, everything that brought you here this evening.
“C’mon, baby,” he said slowly, his eyes piercing into you.
“Holland,” you said.
“Thank you,” he said and smiled pleased. “Wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
“Holland, I—” you swallowed and clenched your hands by your side. There had to be more words floating around your brain other than his name, but somehow seeing him like that now, all your secrets laid bare before him, all you could do—all you wanted to do—was keep saying his name. Maybe as a prayer, maybe as a plea for forgiveness, whatever it was, you wanted to say it, and you wanted him to hear it.
“What were you doing at that bar? With him?” Holland asked, and his tone took on a more somber note. “Because you know who that was, right? And I—I need to know what you were doing there, because I’m gonna be honest here, my head is spinning with possibilities, and I don’t like any of ‘em.”
“Yeah, I know who he is,” you admitted. Holland didn’t look surprised at that, nodding his head sluggishly.
“Okay, then… are you in trouble? Is there—are they keeping you somehow? Are you one of the girls we’ve been looking for?” The ring on his pinky made a light clinking sound every time he tapped his fingers against his glass. He seemed pained, but kept looking at you with tender eyes. “Do you need help?”
The words were enough to bring you to your knees. You dropped down slowly, the coarse carpet uncomfortable against your skin, which only made you sink into it deeper.
“I don’t need help, Holland,” you whispered, and then laughed a little, the sound forlorn and lonely between the two of you . The distance wasn’t enough to stop you from noticing the deep crease between his brows, or the way he tightened his fingers around his glass.
“You sure? Would be a hell of a lot easier if you did,” he said. “I could help you, get you out of there.”
“You wanna save me?” you asked plainly.
“Yeah, I do.” He shrugged as if that was a normal thing to drop on you. “Healy thinks I’m crazy for that, but I do.”
“What does he say about me?” you asked.
“Healy?” you nodded. “Well, he was the one who made me understand what was going on in the first place. After I saw you, I got pretty panicky. It took him maybe an hour to make me understand what was actually going on… that I had been messed with.” He took another sip, emptying his glass and looked at you over the rim of it. “That you had been messin’ with me, sweetheart.”
You didn’t apologize, even though you were sure you should.
“Hurt my feelings there,” Holland mumbled, and refilled his glass. The scent of whiskey turned your stomach, and you wished he would stop drinking. “I actually thought you liked me.”
“I do,” you said, too quickly for your liking. Holland paused, and when he looked at you, his head was tilted, his eyes roaming over you like he were studying a text written in an ancient language. “It’s complicated.”
He scoffed at that. “Everything is complicated in this world. The birds are dying, governments are corrupt, pretty girls come to my house wielding guns. Y’know I’ve got one too.” He started rummaging between the cushions of the armchair before he pulled out a small handgun, presenting it like a nice chunk of jewelry. Your shoulders tensed at the reveal, and your hand came to brush against your own gun, lying next to you on the floor. Holland noticed that and rolled his eyes.
“M’not gonna use it on you.” He paused and looked up at the ceiling as if deep in thought. “Actually, I think I would if I had to. I’ve got Holly, you understand, but I really don’t want to, so just, y’know, fingers off your piece.”
“It’d be fair if you wanted to kill me,” you said, placing your hand back in your lap.
“Jesus, I don’t wanna kill you.”
“Then what do you want, Holland?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and it came out whiny. “I guess, for starters, I’d like to know why you want to kill me.”
You already knew he knew, but it still landed heavily hearing him say it out loud. You cleared your throat, mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He offered you the bottle of whiskey, and you gladly took a sip. When you handed it back to him, he slowly brought the bottle to his own lips—even though there was still liquor in his glass—staring at you intently. Afterward, he put the now-empty bottle back down on the floor and licked his lips.
“Your lip-gloss tastes good.”
“Jesus fuck, Holland,” you said, eyes fixated on where his lips were glistening with a mixture of alcohol, saliva, and your favorite strawberry gloss.
He chuckled at that, delighting in having caught you off guard.
You blinked a couple of times, eyes moving around the room in an effort to clear your mind a bit. “It’s my job,” you started speaking, and Holland’s grin slipped from his lips. “I take care of people for—”
“You kill ‘em, you mean,” Holland cut you off.
“Yes,” you sighed. “I kill people. Not all the time, but mostly. For a while I did it freelance, word of mouth, y’know, but then like two years ago I got mixed up in some stuff, killed the wrong person and was hunted down like a dog for a couple of weeks.”
You didn’t like thinking of that time. You had always lived a dangerous life, but to know that there was a hit on your head, and most of LA’s gangs were chasing you was terrifying. You still woke up sometimes with tears running down your cheeks, whole body trembling.
“To kill you?” Holland asked lowly, eyebrows raised high.
You scoffed, digging your nails into the palm of your hand. The stinging helped. “Eventually.”
Holland’s gaze darkened.
“Anyway, Tiger found me then. It was really just dumb luck on his part, and stupidity on mine. I was so hungry after spending days having barricaded myself in the basement of this old pawnshop, and I went outside to find something—anything to eat. He basically plucked me out of a dumpster.”
That had always dictated how your relationship would be. From the second he first saw you, you had been covered in trash and dirt, cowering at his feet. It made you sick to think about it.
“Back then his gang was more or less just a couple of guys running from the police for the thrill of it and trying their hands at pushing drugs. Tiger knew of my reputation—knew I was good at what I do—and decided to keep me more or less. He framed someone else, staged this whole shootout scenario, and then told me I worked for him now. I told him it didn’t work like that, and he basically laughed in my face. If I didn’t do what he said, he’d snitch on me, tell everyone that it actually had been me.”
“Wouldn’t he have made himself guilty then as well, having lied to everyone for so long?” Holland asked.
You nodded. “It was always more of a ‘if I go down, you go down with me’ situation. I could push back a little, because I knew the chances of him actually airing it all out were slim, but there was always the possibility that he would be that stupid and actually do it.”
“Was he the one to call you ‘baby’?”
“Yeah.”
“And he had his arm around you in the bar.”
It wasn’t a question; you knew what Holland was getting at.
“Like I said, I could push back a little.”
“A little?” He asked.
“Enough,” you said, which clearly soothed Holland, who had grown tense.
“So, you went after me because he told you to?”
“Yes. Actually, I was supposed to bump off both you and Healy. You two were sniffin’ around Tiger, and he didn’t like that,” you said.
“Oh, fuck. Healy too?” You hummed in agreement, and Holland ran a hand through his hair, groaning. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, that is a lot to take in.” He let his hand fall back down into his lap and looked at you as intently as possible, considering he was pretty sloshed. “What now? You here to go through with it?”
“No, I’m not,” you said, but the hesitation in your tone was obvious. Holland scoffed. “I’m sorry, I—I won’t, but I also really don’t know what to do next.”
Holland slowly got off the armchair, groaning a bit while stretching his limbs. He made his way over to the kitchen, stumbling a little on his way there. You noticed that he had left his gun on the armchair, and a wave of emotions rushed through you—relief, sadness, and anger all at once, because how could he be so stupid and trust you not to attack him while he has his back turned?
He clattered around in the kitchen, opened the fridge and then closed it again, mumbling something about having run out of beer. He stood in the kitchen for another moment, just staring ahead, before he suddenly bent down, pressing his forehead to the counter before him. He groaned again, loudly.
“Are you okay?” you asked. You weren’t sure if it was a good idea to go over to him; you didn’t know whether he would want you near him.
“No,” he slurred into the counter, and then turned his head so that he was looking at you. “No, I’m not okay. Of course I’m not okay. This is so messed up.” He pointed at you, arm outstretched, hand trembling slightly. “You’re—you’re… I dunno, but you’re something.”
“Evil?” you offered.
Holland scoffed, standing up straight. “You’re not evil.”
At that, you had to scoff. “I make a living killing people.”
“Nobody is perfect. Who hasn’t killed someone before?”
“Have you?”
“Well, no,” he said and took a couple of steps back in your direction. “But Healy has, and I guess I would if I had to.”
You sincerely doubted that. Or at least you really hoped he’d never have to. Holland didn’t seem like the kind of person who would do well with actually killing someone.
“I tried to kill you multiple times,” you reminded him while watching him come closer. He stopped when he was only a couple of feet away from you, towering over you.
You stayed on the floor, digging your fingers into the carpet.
Holland gulped, and then squeezed his eyes together, his hands clenching at his side. “Get up,” he said in a low voice. “Shouldn’t be sittin’ on the floor like that. S’not right.”
You got up, leaving the two of you standing in front of each other. Holland lifted his arm and slowly reached for your face. He took your chin in his hand and tilted your head from side to side, inspecting you closely. His eyes were burning into you, but you didn’t stop him. His thumb brushing against your jawline was soothing, and for a second it felt like your skin was molding to his touch.
Holland clicked his tongue and then shook his head. “How can you look like a freakin’ angel, and then do stuff like that?” He mumbled. “Thought you were a nice girl.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, you know, I’m a nice guy, you’re a nice girl.” He shrugged, grinning crookedly.
“Jesus, Holland, that was bad,” you said and rolled your eyes, which made him tighten his fingers a little. Where he had been holding your chin before, he was more so cradling it now.
His fingers were digging into your cheeks a bit, and when he pulled you toward him, you followed willingly. His lips were ghosting over yours, his warm, whiskey breath hitting your tongue, as your mouth was slightly agape. When there were only millimeters separating your mouths from one another, he pulled away again.
“You were right, it would have been messed up of you to kiss me,” he said, his voice quiet and solemn, as if he himself regretted the words he was saying. Then, he groaned, stepping back, almost stumbling over his own feet. “But I reallywant to.”
“Still?” You asked, pretending like your heart wasn’t racing. “After all I’ve done?”
“I know,” he grumbled.
“You’re outta your mind, Holland,” you said.
“Tell me something I don’t know, sweetheart.” He scrunched up his face, and then suddenly started taking off his jacket, throwing it against the nearest wall in frustration. You watched the little act of irritation in silence.
Better than the men who start throwing bottles, you thought, which might be the bare minimum, but then again, you tried to kill him several times, so it was probably fair of Holland to let out a bit of steam.
“This is—” he stopped and turned back to you, narrowing his eyes. “Did you come here tonight to kill me?”
You could lie—in fact, you probably should—but for some reason, the idea of lying to him right now crossed some kind of moral line drawn in your brain.
“I don’t know,” you said.
“You don’t know?”
You shook your head, sighing deeply.
“Wha—” Holland scoffed, throwing his arms in the air. “Well, if you don’t know, then who does?”
“I didn’t wanna hurt you anymore,” you said. “That’s why I was at the bar last night. I told Tiger that you shouldn’t be killed, tried to get him to back off of you two.”
“Did it work?” he asked in a nervous tone.
“Not really. I don’t have to do it anymore, but I’m sure he’ll send someone else.”
“That’s bad, that’s really bad,” he said and started pacing the living room. “I have a daughter. What about Holly? She can’t get caught in the middle of this. I—I can’t lose her.”
You bit your lip, training your eyes on the floor. You hated seeing him like that, so frantic, so scared. You had no idea when exactly you had gotten so… smitten with Holland, but right now, all you want is to pull him close. You weren’t used to feeling like this, you doubted you had ever really loved anyone—hell, it’s been a while since you liked anyone—and while you didn’t love Holland, you felt something deep in your chest tumbling down in your stomach and spreading from there through your entire body.
It was kind of horrible, actually, and extremely inconvenient.
“It’s—it’s okay, Holland. We’ll find a solution. I won’t let anything happen to you,” you said. He stared at you then, with wide, glassy eyes, and you quickly added, “And Holly and Healy, of course.”
“You really mean that, don’t you?” he asked, but it sounded like he was talking more to himself. Still, you nodded.
He sighed deeply. Then, without warning, he strode toward you with long steps and took your face into his head, pressing his lips to yours.
For a second, you just melted into the kiss, relishing in the feeling of his large hands and soft lips against you, but then your arms found their way around his neck, and you opened your mouth slightly to deepen the kiss. Holland made an appreciative sound at that, pressing your body even closer to his.
He tasted of liquor and smoke, and he kissed you as if you were going to disappear at any second, and he wanted to engrave the shape of your lips onto his own.
When you pulled apart, his gaze lingered on your lips, and he trailed his thumb over the lip-gloss now somewhat messy around your mouth. His pupils were blown, leaving his eyes dark and hungry. You swallowed, and he watched intently the way your throat moved at that.
“Why’d you do that?” You asked, slightly breathless.
Holland shrugged, letting his hand fall back to his side. “Wanted to. God, I wanted to for so long.”
“There’s something really wrong with you, Holland,” you said, chuckling a little.
“If you say so,” he replied, licking his lips. “Just to clarify, you’re not gonna kill me, yeah? You’re done with that.”
You shook your head at his ridiculous phrasing. “Yeah, I’m done with that.”
“Good, good.” He smiled a little, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. “Then there is no reason why I can’t take you out sometime soon.”
“You are so fucking strange, man. And way too forgiving,” you said.
He hummed. “And you’re really stunning, a total stone fox.”
“What?” You laughed, hoping he didn’t see the way the compliment was affecting you.
“Stone fox,” he said, and scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. “S’a compliment.”
“I know what it means.”
“Heard Holly say it,” he mumbled, avoiding your eyes.
“Stick to what you know.”
“Got it,” he said, and then grinned at you.
You stood there like that for a while, letting the moment and everything that had happened sink in. You wanted to kiss Holland again—you wanted to do so much more than just kiss him. But there was still the blade swinging over his head, threatening to drop any second. You were going to get him out of this mess, that much was clear in your head. The question was just how. And then, of course, how you yourself could also leave The Stripes while you were at it.
You were supposed to meet Tiger today at the bar, but you hadn’t gone yet. If you were lucky, he had forgotten about it anyway, too high on whatever he was currently snorting to remember your conversation.
Then again, he did always have an uncanny ability to remember everything you wished he’d forget when it came to you. You could probably make an excuse for why you ditched him tonight, but you would have to see him tomorrow at the latest—and if you didn’t want to sleep with him, you needed a way out quick.
You took a step away from Holland, which he frowned at, instantly closing the gap between you again. You pressed a hand against his chest to stop him, which distracted both of you for a second. His chest felt nice under your hand, and you could feel his heart beating rapidly.
You snapped out of it before he did, taking your hand from his chest, which made an almost pained sound leave his mouth.
“I think you and Holly should book it out of the city for a couple of days, maybe weeks,” you said, putting on a mask of what you hoped came across as professionalism and not cold indifference.
“What? No, why would we do that?” he asked, reaching for you again.
“I’ll find a way to deal with Tiger, it’d be saver for both of you to not be around for that,” you said. “You should probably take Healy with you, too.”
“M’not gonna leave you here like that,” he protested, which was cute but stupid—his forte. “I can help. We can help. Healy and I, that is, not Holly.”
“Holland, this is serious,” you said. “These are dangerous criminals.”
“Don’t talk down to me,” Holland scoffed indignantly. “I’ve been doing this job for a hell of a lot longer than you, I’m sure. I know criminals and how they act.”
“I’m trying to keep you safe here,” you said. You idiot.
“Yeah, well, I don’t need that, sweetheart.”
“You very clearly do, though,” you said, not understanding how he was still arguing about this. “You very, very clearly do. Holland, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re like extremely killable.”
“Well,” he said, in a tone used by rich assholes who were just about to explain to you how their wealth was because of their own hard work and not their huge trust fund. “I think if anything, the last couple of days proved how it’s the exact opposite. I’m basically invincible.”
“You are not invincible, Holland,” you groaned.
“Oh yeah, let’s see about that.” He walked over to his armchair and grabbed his gun. You watched him closely as he examined it and then walked back to you.
It wasn’t as if you actually believed he would shoot you now, but you didn’t come this far by just blindly trusting anyone. Holland, evidently, disagreed with that mindset because, like the absolute airhead he was, he handed you the gun eagerly.
“Here, shoot me,” he said, grinning.
“What?” you exclaimed. “No, I’m not doing that. What the fuck is wrong with you, seriously?”
“It’s fine, it won’t work, I’m sure,” he just said, like it were normal to request that of someone.
“You’re sure?” You opened the cylinder to check the chambers. When you saw the bullets, you quickly closed it again. “It’s loaded.”
“I mean, of course it is, wouldn’t be very useful if it wasn’t. Now, c’mon.”
“I’m not going to shoot you,” you said exasperatedly. You were starting to worry that there actually was something really wrong with him. “You’re not invincible.”
“Then how do you explain how I survived until now?” he asked.
You shook your head slowly. “I have no idea.”
“I meant your attempts to kill me,” he said, now slightly put out.
“Dumb luck,” you answered easily.
Just as you were about to place the gun back down on the table, the trigger clicked and with a loud bang a single shot fired. The bullet lodged in the floor mere inches away from Holland‘s foot and the man shrieked loudly, jumping away.
You both stared at each other speechlessly for a couple of seconds, neither able to comprehend what just happened.
“I didn’t do that on purpose,” you said, staring at the mark in the parquet.
“Invincible,” Holland whispered, eyes darting between you and his foot.
Maybe there is something to this whole invincibility thing, you thought and then immediately discarded that thought. This is ridiculous.
You carefully placed his gun on the nearest table. “This is serious, Holland, okay? Tiger is an awful fuckin’ person, and he won’t care whether you think you're invincible or have a kid or whatever, he’ll just pump you full of lead and then leave you choking on your own blood for Holly to find.”
And that was still the better option, because if Holly was also there while Tiger sent someone… you didn’t even wanna imagine what they’d do to her.
Holland had paled significantly at the mention of his daughter. He walked over to his dining table, where, to your surprise, there was another half-empty glass of whiskey. He picked it up and emptied it with one quick movement, throwing it back like it were water.
He grimaced at the taste, smacking his lips. “Don’t know how old that was.”
“That’s disgusting,” you said. Holland shrugged, and you got the distinct impression that this wasn’t the first time he had made that mistake.
“Anyway,” he said, “I’m not just gonna leave you here alone to deal with this.”
You sighed. “What about Holly?”
“She’s with Healy, she’ll be fine, he can keep her safe. Probably better than me.” It was a sad thing to hear, but you also weren’t going to argue with him about that.
“Wait,” you said. “Why’s she with Healy?”
“I sent her over to him, didn’t want her in the house if you came over.”
You froze, staring at the man before you as if he had suddenly grown a couple of extra limbs. “You knew I was coming over?”
“I mean, yeah, I figured,” he said nonchalantly. “I was waiting for you.”
“You—” you cut yourself off, turning around and running a hand over your face.
“What?” Holland asked, confused, behind you, but you couldn’t look at his face right now, too afraid you might slap him out of pure infuriation.
“What the fuck,” you mumbled, and then louder again. “What the fuck, Holland? There is something deeply, deeply wrong with you, y’know that?”
“I love it when you say that,” he drawled.
You turned back toward him. He was standing in the middle of the room, a lovesick smile on his face, and you were certain that if you asked him to, he’d jump out of the window, or run a marathon, or rob a bank. Your mouth ran dry at the look he gave you, and it was only your deep irritation for the man that kept you from jumping his bones right then, right there.
“If you think that someone means you harm,” you said slowly, so that it would hopefully get through his thick fucking skull. “You do not just wait for them to come to you.”
“It all worked out alright, though,” he said. You groaned loudly, which made Holland smirk. “C’mon, I didn’t actually think you were gonna hurt me, doll.”
“That’s not true, you didn’t know that,” you replied, pressing your hands to your eyes until you saw static. You couldn’t believe his audacity.
“I was pretty sure, like ninety percent sure.” He picked up the glass again and brought it to his lips, only then realizing it was empty. Disappointed, he put it back down. The movement drew your attention back to the table, and you noticed that there was more than just one glass standing around. There was another on the other side. The more you looked, the more glasses you found, most already empty, but some still holding traces of whatever drink was in them.
“What?” he asked, noticing your attention had strayed from him to his surroundings.
You narrowed your eyes, chewing on your lip before looking back up at Holland.
“I think I might have an idea.”
────────
As always, Tiger’s office was sticky and smelly, and you really hoped that this would be the last time you’d be sitting in it, waiting for him to walk through the door. You weren’t looking forward to this conversation—you were never looking forward to any interaction with the man—but you couldn’t help but feel a prickle of excitement in your chest this time.
No matter what happened, this would end now.
When you heard his heavy steps striding into the room, and the door got slammed into the lock, you sat up straight.
Showtime, baby.
“There she is,” he said. Instead of sitting down across from you as he normally did, he stopped next to you, his meaty hand landing on your bare shoulder. “When you didn’t show up yesterday, I was gettin’ a little nervous, to be honest. Thought you’d gone and tried to do something stupid, like trying to bail.” His hand moved to your chin, jerking it toward him. His fingers were clammy against your face, and you could smell the sweat on them. “You are a bit of a flat leaver.”
“M’sorry,” you said, giving your voice a bit of a sultry slur. You pouted, blinking up at him. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
He scoffed, letting go of your face and finally moving to his chair, so that his desk was separating you. “You didn’t scare me. Don’t be fucking ridiculous.”
“Sorry,” you mumbled again, doing your best not to rub the feeling of his fingers off your face. “I just lost track of time yesterday.”
“You lost track of time?” Tiger scoffed. It was a stupid excuse, but you didn’t really need him to believe you, you just needed to stall him.
“Mhm. I was buying some new stuff, y’know,” you said suggestively. “For my new job.”
Tiger hummed, leaning forward. His arms propping him up on his desk. “Anything particular you’d like to show me, baby?”
“Well,” you bit your lip, averting your eyes, blushing. Who can blush on command? Maybe I should try my luck at being an actress after this is all done. “I was looking for something with… an animal pattern.” Tiger just looked at you, clearly not picking up what you were putting down, and it took everything in you not to roll your eyes. “Something with tiger stripes, maybe.”
“Oh,” he said, and shifted in his seat, his hand disappearing under the desk to adjust his pants.
I’m gonna vomit.
“That’s uh,” his voice broke, and he cleared his throat. He reached for the glass next to him and emptied it in one large gulp.
You sat up even straighter, staring at him intently.
“You’re gonna have to show that to me, babygirl. Y’know, so that I can inspect the merchandise, and all.”
“Of course,” you said, although the sultry edge had vanished, leaving behind only smugness. “Just name the time and place.”
Tiger seemed undisturbed by your shift in moods. “What about right now? You wearin’ anything pretty?”
“Yeah, actually, I am,” you said, smiling. “Something real pretty, to celebrate, y’know.”
“Celebrate what, baby?” he asked, and cleared his throat again.
“Just life, I guess. Finding a nice man, maybe.”
Tiger smirked, although he started shifting in his seat again. “I’m not a nice man, baby.”
“No,” you laughed, tilting your head and smirking right back. “You’re not.”
“What are you—” he started, coughing. “What do you—”
You hummed, satisfied as you watched him bang his fist against his chest. “Everything alright?”
“You bitch,” he choked out. “What did you do?”
“What needed to be done.” You smiled. “How’re you feeling, baby? Hurts? Are you in pain?” Tiger fell forward against his desk, weak hands frantically fluttering around his chest and throat. “Aww, poor baby boy.”
He shot you one last scathing glare, but with the tears rolling down his cheeks and his eyes practically bugging out, it was more laughable than anything. Then, finally, after years of having to put up with him and his disgusting behavior, Tiger took one last rattling breath before his hands dropped next to him and his entire body slackened.
The sight of your now former boss dead before you left you cold. It was by far not the first corpse you’ve seen, and he was definitely the one you were most glad for. “Rot in hell, you fucking piece of shit,” you whispered, getting up from your chair to walk around his desk.
You hurried as you went through the myriads of papers and files lying around his office. Stuffing whatever looked interesting enough into your satchel. You didn’t want to linger around any longer than you had to. Being found with his dead body would not be preferable right now. You doubted there was a lot of love lost between Tiger and his man, but still, loyalty ran deep, and it wasn’t like you were going to stop after killing him. No, you were going to tear this place down.
Once you were done, you went over to the small window in his office. You pushed the blackout curtains aside, opened the window, and then squeezed yourself through the opening, dropping down into the alleyway behind the building. Being greeted by the smell of fresh air felt heavenly, and you enjoyed the breeze on your face for a second before a short whistle snapped you out of it.
Holland leaned against his car further down the alleyway, smoking.
You strode toward him. “I told you not to wait so closely.”
“Did everything work? Are you alright?” He asked, eyeing you up and down.
“I’m fine—Tiger’s not.” When you reached him, he pulled you close, kissing you.
“Good,” he said, smiling. “You got the papers?”
“Whatever I could find,” you replied, lifting the satchel. Holland hummed, and with one hand took the satchel from you, while the other placed his lit cigarette between your lips.
“Perfect, now get in, and let’s get outta here.”
You both entered the car, and Holland started driving, leaving the club with Tiger’s corpse behind you.
“Still can’t believe you tried to poison me with the same shit,” Holland muttered, shaking his head. When you had explained him your plan on how to best get rid of Tiger, you had also admitted that trying to shoot him hadn’t been the only attempt at his live. He reacted strangely casual to it, but at that point it wasn’t really a surprise to you anymore. Holland was clearly a bit fucked in the head, and he had a very weird sense of what was good for him, but you wouldn’t complain. If that meant you could stay here, with him, you didn’t care.
“I can’t believe you vomited up a cyanide pill,” you said, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Maybe you really are invincible.”
“Well, next time we go out please don’t do it again,” he said winking at you.
“We’ll see,” you said, bringing his cigarette back to his mouth, letting him take a drag.
His hand found your thigh, resting on it while he kept driving. You weren’t sure if he had a destination in mind or just wanted to get you as far away from it all as possible. You’d go along with him wherever he took you.
You didn’t know what would happen next with The Stripes, or how Holland and Healy were planning to take them down, but you were happy to watch it happen. For the first time in years, you had something to look forward to, and you were ready to do whatever it took to keep Holland exactly where he was right now. As if he had read your mind, his hand on your thigh tightened, and you knew that he felt the same way.
From your bag, you grabbed a Tootsie Pop, unwrapped it, and placed it between your lips.
You drove into the LA night surrounded by the smell of car exhaust, smoke, and the irresistible feeling of freedom filling your lungs, mind, and heart.
A/N: ahhh okay I really hope you all enjoyed this little story, I definitely had fun writing it!!
they are lowkey so freak4freak like good for them but also PSA do not fall in love with someone who previously tried to kill you. it only worked out well for holland because he is lowkey built different
let me know your thoughts, feelings etc
love y'all!!!
Okay another poll for what I should write next because I have so many WIP’s and I next to prioritize somehow…
A) Ryland grace x reader — Ryland comes to your home completely wasted and has zero ability to keep his drunk mouth shut and finally confesses his feelings to you (friends to lovers, teacher!ryland x teacher!reader, so much fluff, a little bit sickfic (drunk/hangover)) based on this request
B) Ryland grace x reader — you are Ryland’s wife and the second survivor on the Hail Mary. Your coma was a little bit more difficult for your body so you’re a bit more sickly/weak and Ryland frets over you a lot (established relationship, married, fluff, hurt/comfort, a little angst, rocky is there) based on this request
C) Lars lindstrom x reader — this is the first time writing for him but I have this really cute idea and it’s kind of difficult to explain but it’s basically mapping (?) each others bodies to see how far he could go… idk trust that it’s adorable and a little… suggestive perhaps (established relationship, both touch starvation and aversion, fluff, a little hint of something more)
D) k x reader — follow up to my other k oneshot —After you help him get better he keeps hanging around you wanting to be close to you but also not knowing how or if he even should. (strangers to something, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, k tries to flirt, touch starvation, dystopian world) based on this request
(There is also a secret option that would be me writing smut for the first time and I ummm I’ve got ideas let’s just say😼)
two fun facts about Who Loves Ya, Baby because I just started writing the fourth and final part and I keep forgetting to put this in my author notes lol (spoilers for part three)
while in canon the nice guys takes place in 1977 in my universe it's set a couple years earlier because the fashion aesthetic I chose for reader was already outdated at the end of the 70s. like glam/glitter rock was more mid 70s so the story is now sometime around 74/75
reader was originally going to try to kill holland a third time after the talk in the diner but after I wrote the scene I realized that there was no way she'd do that now lmao
the way she was going to kill him is by putting a bomb underneath his car (and it was going to target both him and Healy, and they would escape because holland would just keep on dropping stuff and talking to people so the timer went off just before they entered the car and it explodes in their faces)
I thought about then putting it before she tries to shoot him, but then the way he escapes death was a bit too similar and it just didn't work with the flow of the chapter.
rip car bomb scene but happy for holland that his car survived
I have been thinking about Officer K going through the motions of trying to live post canon. Maybe reader finds him and tends to his wounds. Like a stray animal, he leaves out of guilt and finds himself crawling back to her. Desperate for connection, he tries to court her in a distinctly confusing "K" way. I imagine him fumbling his way through small talk and eventually giving up when reader realizes he's using lines from a rom-com. Or maybe they never even address the relationship, one day she starts grabbing dinner for the both of them. I think I just like the idea of K being able to feel joy for once.
Sorry for the rambles I don't write, I draw😭😭😭 anyway ily plz ignore if this makes no sense 🙏🫶
first of all thank you so much!!! and no I love love love this!!! K as this kind of 'feral' but also shy mistreated kitten who struggles with his feelings in general but also specifically toward you omg like he is overwhelmed and doesn't know what to do and his entire world has come down around him but you are there and you're kind of the only thing that makes sense to him even tho at the same time you as a human don't make sense to him at all and he is insecure and sad and ahhhchhvbjvhjhf
I already wrote a sort of fix it post canon of his wounds being fixed here but I can definitely write a sort of follow up because I love this so much and now my mind is burninggggggg
Hii! If it’s okay, can I please request a Ryland Grace x wife!reader where she’s the second survivor on Hail Mary and it makes Ry feel so protective of his wife because he could’ve lost her (as the other crew members died) so he very much does everything he can to take care of her. Like she’s super overwhelmed and exhausted from the terrifying reality of their mission and also how overworked they are and he insists that she rests and he is just so sweet and such a good husband so she lets her hubby dote on her 🥺
That’s so sweet I love it!! It’s definitely going on my to-write list!! <<3
The countdown has stopped. Blip-B has arrived and presumably hit the hull of the Hail Mary, and nothing happened. No explosion, no immediate death, not even a tremor. You open your eyes and see Blip-B float past the window, having bounced off your ship.
You lift your head from where it has been buried in Grace’s neck. He slowly lets go of your frame, his eyes darting around the cockpit as if checking for any damage. Your eyes meet, and you can see your relief reflected in his.
You nod to yourself while Grace lets his head fall back, exhaling deeply. “Well, I guess there’s egg on all our faces, huh?” He elbows you, momentarily forgetting that there is no gravity, and making you drift away from him. You grip onto the pilot seat so as not to end up on the other side of the ship.
“Blip-C detected.”
“What?”
“What’s that?”
You both look to the sonar display again, which is now showing another object coming from Blip-A toward the Hail Mary, however, this one comes at a much slower speed.
You exchange a glance with Grace.
“Do you think this one is a bomb?” you ask.
“I mean… the last one wasn’t,” he replies.
“Yeah, but maybe it didn’t work, so now they're sending a bigger one, or a better one.”
Grace doesn’t look convinced, but he is looking closely at the display, frowning. “I don’t know, I don’t think so,” he says, and then narrows his eyes. “Why is it moving so much slower than the last one?”
“Slower bomb,” you whisper, and Grace shoots you a small glare.
He moves closer to the display, blinking a couple of times, and it’s like you can hear the gears in his brain turn. You look out of the window, where the capsule is approaching you, slowly but surely. It’s coming straight at you, and in that moment it kind of reminds you of a message in a bottle, or a carrier pigeon.
“Oh,” you say, pursing your lips. “They’re giving us more time.”
Grace looks at you and starts nodding, seemingly having come to the same conclusion. The aliens aren’t sending a bomb; they are sending a message.
“They think we’re dumb,” he says, and screws up his face as if both unhappy and offended by the thought of an alien doubting his intelligence—actually, knowing him, he very well could be. He never did react well to anyone questioning him.
The capsule is still a long way away from you, but now that you know it isn’t a bomb, you can’t say that you aren’t curious about its insides.
“Should we…?”
“Get it?” Grace asks, and you nod. He tilts his head. “Probably, right? But how?”
Everything in you screams at you not to tell him, but realistically there is only one way to get to whatever Blip-C is.
“Someone needs to go outside,” you say, and then swallow. “I need to go outside.”
“You? Why you?” Grace asks.
“I’m trained for this.” You shrug as if your insides aren’t currently twisting into one big ball of anxiety.
You’re not trained for this! Sure, you can theoretically do a spacewalk and have spent a lot of time learning how to best behave without gravity, but all of that was less about actually going outside into the great abyss that is space, and more about ‘just in case’. Your part of the mission isn’t to go on space adventures but to fix any ailment that might happen to the other crew members while they go and do their things.
And nothing about your training ever had anything to do with catching extraterrestrial bombs/messages (because there is still a chance that it is a bomb. Grace might not believe it, but he hasn’t spent the last years watching sci-fi films; you have.)
Grace lifts his finger, pointing between you two. “No, no. You just said that I also had training, so I could also go.”
He’s nervous, and clearly doesn’t really want to do it, but it seems that the idea of you doing it also isn’t what he wants to hear.
“You don’t remember your training, though,” you point out.
He clicks his tongue, opening his mouth before closing it again. He then shakes his head, “How difficult could it be?”
“Seriously?” You raise your eyebrows. “Do you want to go outside?”
He falters. “Well… not really, but—I mean… do you?”
No, you want to say—you want to scream. The only thing you want less than to go outside is for him to do it. The thought of Grace not only leaving the semi-safe environment of the spaceship, but going outside into an environment that is completely deadly at the slightest mistake, turns your own fears into nothing but background noise.
“Sure,” you say faintly, and then push yourself off to float toward the EVA room. It’s right next to the cockpit, but still, Grace struggles quite a bit with the one corner he has to take, which only supports your decision to be the one to get Blip-C. Seeing him spin around helplessly, throwing his arms around trying to stop himself from barreling into the equipment, is equally comical and grim.
There are four red EVA suits waiting for you before the airlock. They are arranged along the wall, mounted next to each other. Looking at them makes your stomach flip uncomfortably. The EVA suits were some of the first objects you gravitated toward when the loneliness set in. After all, they did look like people.
The first standing nearest to the corridor is Marty McFly—the material of the suits reminded you of the jacket he wore in the second Back to the Future, and your imagination ran with it. Next to him is Dr. Raymond Stantz (Ghostbusters), then Ripley (Aliens), and Murph (Interstellar). Every crew member has their own suit specifically tailored to them—except for Grace, who after his unplanned addition has been given Dubois’s.
You don’t introduce Ryland to them; you don’t want to see his reaction. No matter how nicely he reacted in the past, it seems inevitable that he at some point gets enough of your craziness. You don’t want to lose him just yet, especially not with an alien invasion right outside of your… front door?
Speaking of aliens: you unhook Ripley your EVA suit from the wall—if not her for First Contact, then who?
“You still need the cooling suit,” Grace says from beside you. He has settled somewhere along the wall parallel to the suits, hooking his limbs into the net used for storage containment.
You pause. “You’re right. Did you just remember that?”
He nods, almost throwing his glasses off his face. “The basics of how to put them on—or at least I remember having worn one before, although I cannot say when.”
You try to hide your chuckle, thinking about the first time Grace put on one of the suits.
────────
Ryland looked like a big marshmallow. The white mock EVA suit already made him appear almost double his size, but with the weights fastened to his shins, chest, shoulders and arms, it only bulked him up even more.
He didn’t wear the helmet yet, so you could see the moment he spotted you among the group of people who had just entered the room. His face lit up, his lips pulling into a smile which made little adorable crow’s feet appear by his eyes. When he saw the way you were pressing your hand to your mouth, his smile fell, and his shoulders sagged. He shook his head as if disappointed in your reaction, which only made you laugh more.
You hadn’t seen each other in four weeks—which was the longest time apart since you met a couple of months ago—and now that he was standing only twenty feet away from you, it hit you hard just how much you had missed him.
When you had left Baikonur to fly to the US, Ryland had accompanied you to the private military flight field, and you had seen him wave to you as the hatch closed, sealing you in the plane. It had made a funny feeling spread through your chest, knowing that he was out there but not being able to see him—not knowing when you would see him again.
It was a problem, you knew that. You shouldn’t feel that way. Takeoff to Tau Ceti was in less than five months, and there was no coming back from that, literally. You were stuck between the knowledge that starting anything with him was a doomed endeavor and would only lead to heartbreak, and using the remaining time you had with him because everything in you wanted to be near him.
During the four weeks away from him you hadn’t found an answer for your problem, but now that he was standing in front of you, you could at least acknowledge to yourself that there was no way you would not continue spending time with him.
The woman who had been leading you through the building was still talking, but you were only half-listening. She had introduced herself as Dr. Julia Neuengrab, Head of EAC and the director of…something. She wore a smart suit, had a pleasant smile, and was certainly very important, but honestly, you couldn’t care less. You already knew what she was saying anyway: raving about their facilities, saying how honored they are to host you, and stating over and over how proud they are about taking over parts of your training. It was the same spiel as you had already heard at the GCTC in Russia and the NBL in the US.
You were heroes. You were so brave. It was an honor. Please let us take a million pictures of you shaking the hands of all these people.
There was already a small group of Germans trailing behind your group—all wearing impeccable suits, and most introduced as some sort of director or something for the different divisions of ESA—practically salivating thinking about the upcoming photo op.
When the woman started talking about what sights you should visit while in Cologne, you cautiously straggled away from the group—it wasn’t like you were in charge of what the next two weeks would entail, anyway. If someone was planning to put you on a bus and show you the city, you were in no position to deny it.
You made your way over to Ryland. When your group entered, most workers around the room had gravitated towards you, leaving Ryland standing there in the suit, like a child waiting to be picked up from school.
“Hey, Mister Stay-Puft. Didn’t expect to see you in Germany,” you said, grinning.
“Funny,” Ryland groaned, although the smile on his face was bright. “Don’t tell the Ghostbusters, please.”
“We are the Ghostbusters.” Olesya appeared next to you suddenly, smirking widely at Ryland. “Be careful, Grace, or we’ll shoot you, pew-pew.”
“The Ghostbusters didn’t use guns,” Ryland said.
“I don’t know. Never watched it,” Olesya replied, and then subsequently got distracted by one of the technicians walking past you, checking some of the equipment hanging over the pool. “Good to see you again, Grace. She was like cat with separation anxiety without you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Olesya left before you could hit her.
Your face was burning, and when you looked back at Ryland, he looked way too smug for someone looking like a snowman. You were sure that if he could, he’d cross his arms in some sort of stupid faux-nonchalant act. But with the puffy suit he couldn’t, so he just stood there, eyebrows raised, and a disgustingly sweet/infuriating smile on his face.
“She’s lying,” you said, nodding as if that would somehow make him believe you over the annoyingly chatty cosmonaut. “She’s crazy.”
“Yeah?” Grace asked smugly.
“Yeah,” you said, crossing your arms just because you could and he couldn’t, and it seemed like a good way to one-up him. “Being in Texas didn’t help. She asked basically every person we met whether they owned a gun. Y’know I was kind of critical of this whole internationally switching around thing, but maybe it was a good idea. I think Lesya alone could have restarted the Cold War if she had spent any more time in America.”
Ryland laughed at that, leaning a bit too far backward. That turned out to be a big mistake as he stumbled, and before you knew it, he toppled into the pool, arms waving wildly around. Immediately, the whole room was on high alert—several commands were yelled out in German, and the divers, who were luckily already in the pool, swam toward where Ryland was slowly but surely sinking.
You watched wide-eyed as they dove toward him and then heaved him back up. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds, but it felt like an eternity until he finally breached the surface, coughing violently. You felt your heart lurch as if forcing you toward him.
You kneeled down next to where he was hoisted up on the edge of the pool. “What the fuck, Ryland,” you said, reaching out toward him. His glasses had somehow stayed on his face, and you removed them gently to wipe the water off them.
“That was—” Ryland coughed, and you, along with two of the safety instructors who had sat down on his other side, helped him sit up. “Do you think anyone noticed?”
You groaned at his stupid attempt at a joke and handed him back his glasses. He put them on, blinking up at you. He wore a crooked smile, his wet hair hanging all along his face, framing his cheeks which had taken on a rosy hue. His eyes moved from you to something behind him, and when you turned around, you saw that Dr. Neuengrab had joined you as well, looking down at the soaking wet Ryland with an expression of bewilderment.
“Are you okay, Doctor Grace?” she asked after a couple of seconds. Ryland nodded, tucking his head back like a turtle trying to disappear into its shell. “That was… an unfortunate accident,” the woman continued, her voice carried by a soft German accent. “The suit isn’t supposed to get wet from the inside.”
“Ich habe Sie gewarnt, das sie Ersatzanzüge bereit haben sollten.” Eva Stratt stepped forward, talking to Dr. Neuengrab. Upon seeing her, Ryland blushed even more, and you were a bit afraid that he would throw himself back into the pool just to escape the situation. “Doktor Grace ist hervorragend wenn es um Biologie geht, aber er ist nicht gerade für sein Geschick bekannt.”
“Wir haben genug Anzüge, aber bis wir den neuen fertig gemacht haben, ist es quasi schon Feierabend. Ist es okay, wenn er morgen mit der restlichen Crew Training anfängt?”
“Ich denke tatsächlich dass das die beste Lösung ist.”Stratt sent you two a long glance before sighing.“Ich bin mir sicher, dass er damit kein Problem hat.”
You and Ryland looked between Stratt and Dr. Neuengrab. You knew some German—having picked it up through your years of travelling the world—but not enough to really understand what was going on.
“What are they talking about?” Ryland whispered, leaning closer to you.
“Stratt just called you a moron, and I think they’ll deport you out of Germany now because of your destruction of state property,” you whispered back, earning yourself a halfhearted glare from Ryland.
“Doctor Grace,” Stratt addressed Ryland, now making you both sit up straighter. “Your training has been postponed until tomorrow, when you’ll join the rest of the crew. Please try not to ruin any of the multi-million-euro equipment. Nice to see you again.” With that, she turned and left—probably to take over as chancellor of Germany or whatever the woman did in her free time.
You turned to Ryland, where people had already begun taking the suit off him.
Seeing him sitting there, with his shoulders dropped, an idea came to you. One which you were sure could get you into trouble under normal circumstances, but you were about to give up your life for the rest of the world, so you thought you deserved a night out.
You leaned in close to him until the wet strands of his hair brushed against your cheeks, and when you were sure no one was listening, you whispered, “Do you wanna sneak out tonight?”
────────
You are snapped out of the memory when Grace clears his throat. You blink a couple of times, trying to ignore all that has happened, only focusing on what is going to happen next. You reach for the liquid cooling and ventilation garment—or LCVG, a white unitard with tubing sewn onto it—and let it float next to you as you start to take off your clothes.
Grace makes a choking sound before turning around. The only problem is that he does it with such fervor that he just spins right back around. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles as he tries again, and holds onto the netting so that the same thing doesn’t happen again.
Putting on the LCVG without the help of gravity is difficult, to say the least. How to best put on clothes wasn’t on the agenda during training, which now seems like a major oversight. You could just ask Ryland for help, but that suddenly seems way too domestic.
The fabric is flexible and tight against your body, melting to you like a second layer of skin. During your time outside, the suit will keep your core body temperature at a comfortable level by cycling chilled water through the tubes along the suit. It was explained to you at length back on Earth, but now the thought of relying on a simple (okay, not that simple) piece of fabric to maintain a healthy temperature while out in space is rather intimidating.
Once you’re done putting on the suit, you take a soothing breath, releasing it slowly. “You can turn back around.”
When he does, there is a resolute look on his face which makes you nervous—that look always means trouble. “I’m coming out with you,” he says, sounding like he rehearsed that sentence over and over in his head.
“What? No, you’re not.” You stare at him like he’s gone crazy, but he just stares back. “Grace, it doesn’t make sense for both of us to go outside. Plus—”
“Can you call me Ryland?” He says, cutting you off. Your mouth is still half open, as he wiggles his body a bit until he is in a semi-stable parallel position to you. “You called me Ryland back on Earth, and you did in the cockpit as well. I—I can understand why you did it at first here, but I think I’d like it more if you switched back to my first name. If that’s okay with you, of course.” He adds that last sentence hastily, and then when you don’t immediately answer, also adds a little, “Please.”
“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” you ask exasperatedly. You are about to receive a message from a fucking alien, and this guy wants to argue about how to address each other. You feel a very strong urge to chuck something at him.
“No, no,” he argues back, putting a hand on his hip and seemingly regretting it the second he starts to float off the wall. “It’s just that you called me Grace again, so it came up.”
“I…” you sigh. “Sure, I can call you Ryland,” you say, although your voice is noticeably smaller. It’s not that you don’t want to rehash the friendship you had back on Earth, but the thought of somehow losing him again is already taking up most of your brain—and having to go through that again… you doubt you could bear it.
Ryland must notice your weird mood, but he doesn’t mention it, just nods like he just finished a task he put off for a while, and smiles at you. “Thank you. So,” he raises his eyebrows, “can I come with you?”
“No,” you say, and turn to your spacesuit.
“Oh, come on,” Ryland says, grabbing your shoulder and turning you back around. “It’s safer for both of us to do it.”
“No, it’s not,” you argue back. “You don’t remember your training that is not save at all.”
“I remember parts of it…” he says hesitantly. “I remember Cologne.”
You stop your movement. “You remember Cologne?”
“Parts of it.” He runs a hand through his hair, only messing it up more. “I remember falling into the pool, and then the evening with you.”
You try not to let it show how much that sentence affects you. “So, you don’t remember the actual training.”
Ryland scoffs irritably. “Well, no, I guess. Except for the pre-pool theoretical preparations. But that counts for something. Also,” he hesitates, his eyes darting everywhere but at you. “That evening. Was that a—”
“As long as you have zero practical training, you’re not leaving this spaceship,” you cut him off, leaving the unfinished sentence like a loaded bomb in the room. For once in your life, you're glad for Ryland’s aversion to discussing any interpersonal connections, because he doesn’t ask about Cologne again. Instead, he lets his head fall back (as much as that action is possible in your current situation) and sighs.
After a second, he looks at you again, although this time he seems a lot more detached. “We’re gonna miss the second message too if we don’t hurry up.”
“You’re right,” you say. “Can you help me with the suit?”
“Sure,” he says.
Because it is part of the Orlan series, the suit is one big piece, into which you just need to crawl through a hatch in the back. Ryland holds out the arms so that you can enter it more easily and together, you both manage to stuff you into the EVA suit in less than five minutes, neither of you saying anything. You press the Autoseal button on the chest panel of the suit, and with a couple of clicks and whirring noises, the hatch on the back locks. A green light signals to you that everything is ready for you to leave the ship.
What a horrifying thought.
You push yourself off the wall and float toward the airlock. Ryland stops before entering the sector. His fingers tap rapidly against his thighs, and he reaches for your helmet, patting it as if checking for any faults.
“I need to close the door now, Ryland,” you say, the words coming out thin and unstable.
He nods, but his fingers continue to trace the glass of your helmet in a motion that almost seems like him caressing your face. “Just… you know, come back alright, please. If anything seems weird, just come back.” He ends the sentence abruptly, as if he wants to keep talking but stopped himself.
You feel the urge to say something—anything—but when you open your mouth, all that you want to do is tell him everything that is going through your mind. About what happened on Earth, about what happened on the roof when you thought you’d never see him again. About the evening in Cologne, and that you still have the napkin, buried deep in your luggage.
So, you don’t say anything and just close the door, initiating the cycling sequence. For the first time in four years, you’re about to leave the Hail Mary.
────────
It felt like you had been stuck in this meeting for years, and you were sure that anytime now, your brain would liquefy and pour out of your ears. This wasn’t even the first meeting; no, sadly, in the last couple of weeks, you had so many of these, you could almost recite them in your sleep.
You knew that an international project of this scale would be politically… well, let’s call it difficult. Hell, that had been why you even ended it up as part of it. But it did surprise you every time you were reminded that saving the world was only second to the massive dick-measuring contest between some of the world’s leaders.
When it came to deciding where the four people who would save the world would be trained, basically every nation in the world raised their hands, hoping to get some of the good publicity that followed wherever you four went. Most were immediately declined because they didn’t have the infrastructure needed, leaving the nations where regular astronauts were trained. But that was where it got complicated, because Russia and the USA both defended their right to train their astronauts—Olesya being Russian, and Dubois being American—to a ridiculous point.
China tried to get you to train with CSNA in Beijing at first, but considering the aircraft carrier you had operated from for months was Chinese, they were satisfied with that.
Your nationality evidently mattered less to everyone. Sure, you were one of the four people who would save the world, but you were also just the nurse. That was seemingly not quite as heroic (which you thought was bullshit—and perhaps a tiny bit misogynistic—but okay!)
At the end, everyone had decided on you training two weeks in the USA at NASA’s NBL in Houston, then two weeks in Russia at Roscosmos’s GCTC in Star City, and now the next two weeks in Germany at ESA’s ATC in Cologne.
(If you’d never see an acronym again, it would be too soon.)
Everyone—especially the German government—had made a big deal about the delightful irony of Germany being the neutral country between the US and Russia, but in truth it had more to do with the fact that ESA’s neutral buoyancy lab just happened to be located there.
The training was quite fun for the most part, but all the bureaucracy surrounding it was driving you crazy. You were sure that you were supposed to listen to what the man at the front of the room was saying, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. The only thing getting you through the meeting without melting into a puddle was knowing that in only a couple of minutes, you could leave this place with Ryland by your side.
You were so caught up in your daydreams that you didn’t even realize when the meeting wrapped up. It took Olesya shoving your face onto the table for you to notice the people around you get up and leave.
“Ow,” you muttered, rubbing your forehead. “That was unnecessary.”
“You have been dreaming about your doctor. I only woke you up,” Olesya tutted, gathering the papers before her.
“I wasn’t…” you mumbled but didn’t dare continue when you saw the look Olesya shot you. You’d rather not argue with her about this again; she somehow always won. Instead, you decided to switch topics: “Are you ready for the final round of training?”
“I am ready to be shot to the moon and never have to sit in a stuffy room full of stuffy men,” Olesya grumbled.
“You can say that again,” you said, and then, because after spending almost every day with her for the last couple of months added, “But don’t actually, please.” Olesya closed her mouth, rolling her eyes, and you grinned at her.
You got up and slowly made your way over to the exit. Olesya was right next to you, her ponytail hanging over her left shoulder, a pen placed behind her ear. She held open the door for you while asking, “So, you wanna find out where to get dinner now?”
Before you could think of an excuse for why you couldn’t, your gaze fell on Ryland, who was leaning against the opposite wall, clearly waiting for you if the way he perked up upon seeing you was any indication.
Olesya followed your gaze, and a knowing smile spread across her face. “Well then, have fun with your little scientist.”
You watched her go, and when you looked back at Ryland, he was standing right before you.
There was a twitchy nervousness about him, a little more than was normal, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable. He looked at you with an easy grin, shifting from foot to foot. “So, where do you want to go?”
next
A/N: I just wanna clarify that when it comes to any flashbacks they won't really be chronologically. I'll try to make it obvious when generally they take place in the pre launch timeline but yeah it's mostly split between on the aircraft carrier and Baikonur (and the traveling they sometimes do lol)
i also decided that having someone else there with him kind of messes with the way he gets his memories back as in emotions over facts as in he might not remember how or why he is in cologne but he remembers her yk.
also I'm not a stupid coward (said with a little love but mostly contempt) so I won't pull an Andy Weir and pretend like art isn't political and that an international project like phm wouldn't be a big thing. (but also at the same time I cannot say whether the international implications of something like phm is interesting to anyone outside of me so let me know whether I should expand on my 'worldbuilding')
hope you liked this and I promise the next chapter will come quicker <3<3 I'd appreciate any likes/reblogs/comments <3<3<3
Which rygos character would be best with a partner that suffers from depression/anxiety (or any mental illness tbh) what do we think??
Like let’s just say times have been tough for me recently and now all I can focus on is projecting these feelings on these fictional characters (that’s very healthy!! yes yes🙂↕️)
And how do we think would they react to it/deal with it (both positive and negative)
Anyway I might write about it some if y’all are interested. As someone who has been suffering with mental health issues ever since I was a teen the topic is obviously pretty close to my heart.
reader x driver. your shift just ended later than you thought so it was dark by the time you started the walk back home. it wasn’t far and you were used to it so it was no bother. somewhere along the way you start getting catcalled and followed by a drunk guy who doesn’t know when to stop. enters driver who comes in. but how do you know you can trust him after being shaken up
summary: after being harassed on your way home, your boyfriend becomes even more protective than normal. lines blur between what's right and what needs to happen to keep you safe.
pairing: fem!reader x driver
word count: 4.1k
tags: angst, hurt/comfort, sexual harassment, graphic violence, murder, lowkey stalker!driver and possessive!driver, english is not author's first language
based on this request <3
You knew someone was following you. At first, it was just that almost animalistic understanding—a shiver running down your back, your heart speeding up, adrenaline starting to flood your system.
But then you heard footsteps coming closer and closer. Shoes on gravel in the distinct way people walked when they tried not to catch someone’s attention. Just a little too fast, a little too continuously.
You picked up your pace as well, but in doing so only alerted whoever was behind you that you knew of their existence. Their footsteps sped up as well, keeping the same distance to you as before, which was definitely less than it had been only a couple of minutes ago.
Your hands were beginning to shake, but when you tried to reach for your phone, your heart dropped at the realization that you had forgotten it that morning at home. You had only noticed once you were on the bus, and then it had been too late to turn around for it. A minor difficulty throughout most of the day, but now it was coming to bite you.
It was late, the sun having set hours ago, and the streets were almost completely abandoned. While you knew the area you were in well enough—having taken these exact streets dozens of times to get to your boyfriend’s workplace—at night the streets turned longer, and the buildings higher, twisting the familiar image into one of confusion and in this case isolated terror.
Whoever was following you was now close enough that you could hear their hurried breathing. Some part of you screamed to start running, drop your purse if you had to, and then flee the last couple of blocks to where you knew you would be safe. But there was another part in you, keeping you walking at only a slightly elevated pace, whispering to you how you were overreacting, and how it was probably just some other poor overworked person, getting home after a long shift—just like you, just like thousands of people in this city.
But then, before you could make up your mind over whether to flee, a strong hand wrapped itself around your elbow and yanked you to a stop.
You whirled around, coming face to face with the person—the man—who had been following you for the last 20 minutes. He looked normal, like any other man might, dark brown hair and beard, middle-aged, crooked tie, but there was this look in his eyes, that separated him from his normal appearance, like a window to a different world. His eyes were filled with glee upon seeing your terror.
“Let go of me,” you said, instinctively trying to pull your arm away from the man, but he wouldn’t let you, instead tightening his grip, a wide grin spreading on his lips.
“That’s not very nice. I just wanted to say hello,” he spoke in a way that made your skin crawl. His tone was light, as if he knew you knew he didn’t just want to say hello, and he didn’t care, because for him it was already a done deal.
“Hello,” you said, and then tried again to pull your arm away. His grip was starting to hurt, and the longer you stood there, the more it felt like accepting whatever would come next.
“Hi,” he said. “I saw you just now, and I wondered what a nice girl like you was doing wandering these streets at this hour. You know, it can get quite dangerous in these parts of town, especially for someone so,” his gaze slowly leered up and down your body, settling somewhere along your cleavage. “Appealing.”
“I’m fine,” you said, your jaw clenched.
You knew, theoretically, what to do in situations like that. Not only was this not the first time you had unpleasant contact with men and had enough talks with other women about how to best get rid of these creeps, but your boyfriend also made more than sure that you knew at least the basics on how to defend yourself. It had been his requirement after you told him he couldn’t always drop everything to pick you up, and that you had no problem with walking.
But right now, it was as if your entire brain had been turned upside down, with all the helpful advice landing somewhere in the dirt. All you could focus on was that you wanted—no, that you needed to leave.
“Why don’t I just walk you home, hm, sweetie? Make sure no boogeyman is waiting for you somewhere in the dark.”
“No, thank you,” you said in a light tone. Maybe if you just refused and stayed quiet and let him pass you by, everything would be okay.
But of course, that was not how these things went.
Instead of taking the hint and leaving you alone, the man took a step closer, towering over you. His easy grin turned into a sneer. His other arm slowly came forward. “That’s not very nice of you. I’m offering you my precious time, and in turn you play the little princess, who—”
Before he could grab you with his other arm too, you kicked him in the genitals. The man doubled over, letting you go in the process, and the second you’re free, you bolted.
Your shoes hit the asphalt hard, and you could hear the man cursing behind you, but you didn’t slow down or look back. All your focus now was fixated on getting to the literal beacon in the dark. The only place where you knew you’d feel safe now.
The wind was cold against your face, and you realized there were tears streaming down your face. Your breathing was uneven as you tried to choke down the sobs threatening to break out. You just needed to reach him, and then you could fall apart as much as you wanted to.
When you finally saw the yellow lights coming from the auto shop, it was like a knot in your throat loosened, but it was only when you spotted him stand among the cars that you found it in yourself to slow down. It was like you didn’t need to consciously keep on moving your legs, everything in you pulling you toward him as if he were a magnet.
Driver looked up when he heard you approaching, but upon seeing your distressed appearance, he stiffened. He threw down the rag he was holding and jogged toward you, meeting you outside the auto shop, just where the light stopped.
He automatically reached for your face with one hand, the other one coming to your shoulder. You tried to step closer to him, but he gently pushed you away a bit so that he could look at all of you, studying every part of you closely. You knew he was looking for whatever was wrong, but all you wanted was his arms around you, holding you and making you forget this night.
Once he was satisfied that you weren’t visibly injured, he looked back into your eyes. His thumb, which had previously laid still against your cheek, began wiping the tears away. “What happened?” he asked in a low voice. He rarely raised his voice, and never toward you; still, his gaze was intense enough to keep your attention fixed on him.
“Nothing, it’s fine,” you said. You didn’t want to make it into a big thing, after all, nothing happened, and you were fine. You just wanted to sink into his warm embrace and let his familiar scent of motor oil and something uniquely him fill your senses.
But when you tried to step closer, he stopped you, tilting his head down, not letting your eyes escape his gaze. “Don’t lie, something happened, you’re upset. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I…” you shifted on your feet. His hand on your face kept it upright, but his fingers were warm and soft against your cheek. “Can’t we just go home, please?”
“Afterwards.”
You sighed, trying to blink any oncoming tears away. Driver saw it, and the hand on your shoulder drifted down to your waist, where he squeezed it.
“I was on my way here and there was this man and he—” your voice broke. His grasp on you tightened as his expression darkened. You cleared your throat. “I don’t know, he stopped me—grabbed me. And he was just really weird and held on to me and wouldn’t let go.”
“What did you do?” Driver asked carefully.
“I, um, I kicked him in the balls and then ran here,” you replied.
“Good,” he said, but he didn’t look satisfied. Instead, he looked furious. His eyes had darkened, and his breathing had picked up. He swallowed before continuing to speak, “Where was that?”
“What?”
“Where did it happen?”
“What are you talking about? Why does that matter?”
“Just tell me.” His voice still held his telltale monotonous tone, but underneath it, you could hear it quiver in barely contained rage.
“No, not if you don’t tell me what you’re gonna do.”
He didn’t answer, just looked at you. His eyes, which were normally so gentle, were practically burning into you, making you shiver. You knew of the violence he was capable of, but also knew that it wasn’t who he was.
He wasn’t a violent person, but you also had never met anyone who could snap the way he did. He was like a bullet being fired out of a gun; point him in the right direction, and he was lethally destructive to everything around him.
Currently, you were holding the gun and, without your knowledge, had given Driver a new target.
“No,” you shook your head. “Please, it’s fine. I’m fine.”
“You’re upset.”
“I just want to go home,” you pleaded, your hands coming up to lay on his chest. You could feel the wild beating of his heart.
There was a clear struggle happening behind his eyes. His hands on you flexed, and he pulled you closer in such a way that you weren’t even sure he was aware that he had done it. His shoulders rose and fell, and you could feel his muscles move beneath your hands. He was looking behind you toward the dark streets you had just come from, before looking back down into your imploring eyes.
“No one gets to hurt you,” he said, but you knew that he was slowly calming down, finding composure with your hands on him. You knew that having you like this before him—in his embrace—calmed him more than anything else. His moods were quick and intense, but with you by his side, he had something to focus on that wasn’t his thoughts, which tended to overpower any consciousness he had.
“I know, I promise you, I’m fine. It just kind of scared me.”
At that, he finally drew you toward him, letting you sink into his body heat. He held you in a tight grip, both arms slung around your waist and back, but it felt good—it felt safe.
You stayed like that for a while, letting yourself soak into the safety he radiated, and letting him have the time he needed to understand that you were alright as long as he was by your side. When you separated, he took your face in both of his hands and kissed you deeply, the feeling of his lips lingering on yours long after he pulled back.
“Let’s go home,” you said, and he nodded, putting his arm around your shoulder and hooking two fingers into one of the belt loops of your jeans. He walked you to his car, opened the door for you, and then drove you both home in amicable silence.
Neither of you brought what happened up again, and you figured that that would be the end of it.
You should have known better.
────────
You didn’t know he was following you; that much was obvious. With your headphones in and gaze stuck to the pavement, you were an easy target for whoever used the night to prowl around. That fact alone sat heavy in his stomach, making him nauseous. You should be more aware of your surroundings. Did you not understand what monsters were out there? Through his jobs, he had seen the worst of the worst, and the idea of you accidentally stumbling across any of the guys he drove around was enough to make him clutch his steering wheel tighter.
This wasn’t the first time he had been following you. In fact, after what had happened a couple of weeks ago, he had followed you anytime he could, and what he saw made his blood boil.
He knew these streets, knew the kind of people that inhabited them, but he had never considered what you would look like among them. Like a lamb trotting through a slaughterhouse, it seemed you were completely naïve to the danger you willingly put yourself into.
The men leering after you, their eyes running over you, it was as if Driver could see the evidence of it later when you’d arrive home. It made him want to gouge out the eyes of any man who dared try to mark you that way. They thought they deserved to even look your way, which was laughable. If it were possible, he’d keep you in his apartment until he cleaned the streets to his satisfaction.
As far as he was concerned, these were his streets, and you were his girl. You deserved to enjoy the calming night breeze without fearing what might be lurking in the dark, and Driver had already decided that he would do whatever it took to ensure that.
If it meant spending his free time behind the wheel of his car, following you, he was more than happy to do that.
The streetlamps were casting a low yellow light, leaving most of the streets and connecting alleyways in the dark. The sidewalk was almost completely barren, with you being the only person still out, and only the occasional car idled by, softening the darkness you were walking through momentarily.
You looked like an angel, moving through the night, your skin glowing whenever the light touched you. He could have gladly spent the rest of the night admiring you from the shadows, but of course, nothing could ever go the way he intended.
He was idling a couple of dozen feet behind you, far enough so that you wouldn’t spot him, but close enough so that he always had an eye on you. It was when you walked past an alleyway that something in his chest shifted. The dark alley might as well have been the gaping jaws of whatever hunted through these streets at night, the way it made him tense up.
After you had walked past, something moved in the shadows, and before he knew what he was doing, Driver had shut off the engine of his car. He watched as a man crept out of the darkness, and his entire body locked onto the sight.
He should wait and see—if he moved now, it would blow his cover, and he wasn’t sure how you’d react to finding out that he had been following you. But then the image of you crying in his arms, and the way you had looked so small the rest of the night. Whether you realized it or not, it had affected you more than you wanted to admit, and he was not going to let anything like that ever happen to you again.
He got out of the car, clutching a hammer in his right hand. He had a gun stashed on his side of the car, but he hated the idea of you around firearms. You were too good for all that violence.
Another, deeper part of him, that he would never admit to out loud, also figured that he wouldn’t be satisfied with shooting whoever hurt you. He needed to feel their blood on his skin, feel their bones break underneath the brutality he caused.
A bullet was clean, but he craved a mess.
His steps were long but not rushed as he followed the man who was currently following you. The leather of his gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers around the handle of the hammer. He felt like a predator stalking his prey, and knowing that the other man felt the same only made him more ready to strike.
You still had no idea that there were now two hunters lurking behind you; one more dangerous than the other.
Driver slowly but surely gained ground on the other man. When they walked past another alley, he took his chance, and in one swift movement, gripped the man by his arm and pushed him into the darkness. There he bashed the man’s head into the brick wall, holding onto his shirt with one hand so that the man wouldn’t slip to the ground, while his other hand held the hammer, ready to swing.
The man groaned at the impact, but before he could say anything, Driver cut him off, “Don’t say a word.” When the man’s eyes widened as if wanting to argue, Driver lifted the hammer a bit more, making sure that the man understood he was being serious. “Shush.” He didn’t want you to see this and hoped that you would continue walking without noticing anything. So, he waited a couple of seconds until he was sure that you were gone.
His shoulders relaxed at the thought that you were out of danger, but the knowledge that you were now again confronting the streets alone made him antsy. He needed to do this quickly.
“What were you doing?” he asked. The man before him looked sweaty and nervous, his eyes darting from side to side as if hoping someone would come to help him. No one would, he himself had made sure of that, and now Driver was reaping the benefits of that man’s depravities.
“What are you talking about, man? What’s your problem? I was just walking,” the man spluttered pathetically—it disgusted Driver.
“You were following that woman.”
“I—no. No, I wasn’t!”
Driver lifted the hammer a bit more at that, making the man whimper. He had to ignore the way his own hand shook.
“Okay, alright, I was. But I know her, man. She’s—I know her.”
“How?”
“I met her a couple of weeks ago,” he said, stumbling over his words, gaze fixed on where the hammer loomed over him. “We talked, and she was kind of a bitch.”
Driver’s hand snuck from holding the man by his shirt to pinning him to the wall by his throat. “Watch your mouth.”
“Is she—is she yours? I didn’t know, okay? I would have never tried anything if I knew she already belonged to someone.”
His words didn’t calm Driver the way the man had clearly hoped. Yes, you were his, but that wasn’t the reason this man didn’t get to hurt you. Driver spent a lot of time anticipating when you were going to break up with him, because it seemed so inevitable. You were too good for him, too soft, too nice. Once that day came, he would let you go, but even afterward, he would not let anyone hurt you. He’d watch over you, no matter what you thought of him, because that was what he was put on this earth to do.
The man seemingly took Driver’s silence as a good sign and said, “So, are we good?”
Driver looked at him.
“No,” he said, and finally, in a motion that made his insides burn with righteousness, brought the hammer down. Like a judge’s gavel on a sound block, the dull thud echoed through the night.
Blood spurted from the man’s temple, where the hammer had connected with the soft flesh and hard bones of his skull. It misted Driver’s face with freckles of red, but he didn’t care. Instead, the metallic smell filled his senses, spurring on his movements even more.
He turned the hammer so that the claw side was forward. He let the man drop to the floor, where he wormed around, moaning lowly. Driver kneeled before him, grabbing the man’s chin with his left hand.
Hearing the squelching of eyeballs rupturing as he clawed them out with his hammer sent shivers down his spine.
He pretended that it was out of disgust.
Blood ran down the man’s face, and he had gone completely still, but Driver wasn’t done with him yet. Your words rang through his head, how you had said that the man now lying before him had touched you.
Before he could stop himself, he moved down the man’s body, grabbing his hands and bringing them to the floor before him.
He hit and hit and hit down on them until the man’s hands were a mess of shattered bones and torn skin, all covered in his dark red blood.
Once he was done, Driver was gasping for air. It was as if a boulder had lifted from his heart, making it pump blood at twice the normal speed. He would probably regret this in the morning, but right now all he could feel was purity.
The blood. The body. The sickness. Him towering over it.
A startled gasp ripped him out of his daze.
He turned to find you standing at the mouth of the alley, looking between him and the mess he had made with wide eyes. His hands started shaking again, and he dropped the hammer as if the mere thought of you being near such a weapon burned him.
He wanted to explain, but any justification died between his lips. You stepped closer, and he watched as you slowly lowered yourself down. The thought made something flinch in his brain, and he jumped up, stopping you from kneeling down with him. He couldn’t bear seeing you like that—you weren’t made to be in this situation; you were supposed to be safe. No blood was ever supposed to stain your hands, whether your own or anyone else’s.
His gloves dripped with red as he held them out in front of you. His chest was heaving as he stepped between you and the man on the ground. Gradually, he steered you out of the alleyway, leading you back to where the streetlamps flickered.
“Tell me you had a reason.” It was the first thing you had said, and the sound of your voice—shaky and quiet, but so familiar—almost brought him back to his knees.
“He was following you,” he said. You were standing almost chest to chest, but his hands were tense at his sides. “He was the one who approached you a couple of weeks ago.”
Your eyebrows shot up at that, and you tried to get another glimpse of the man’s ruined face. Driver wouldn’t let you, stepping into your line of vision. There was nothing about the man you would still recognize, and he didn’t want that picture burned into your brain, the way it would be in his.
You blinked a couple of times, trying to sort your thoughts. “Have…you been following me?”
Driver flinched at the question. Hearing you ask it right after he exterminated a man for the same crime made him feel like his skin was being pulled from his limbs, leaving him trembling and exposed.
“I had to,” he said.
You waited for more, but nothing came. Were you going to leave him? Was this the moment you had realized the depth of his brutality and would run from him?
Could he blame you?
No, he knew he couldn’t the same way that he knew in his bones that he would let you go but never be the one to leave.
“Okay,” you said, nodding slowly. “I… I believe you.”
Driver stared at you, his blue eyes wide, looking at you as if he needed to or else he’d stop breathing.
“I trust you.”
Driver breathed in loudly, his head dropping down. When he looked back at you, his eyes were glassy. “I don’t know if you should,” he whispered.
You tried to take his hand, but he flinched away from the touch. That didn’t stop you, though. You reached for him again, this time succeeding in grasping his hand. The sticky feeling of blood was uncomfortable between your fingers, but nothing could get you to let go of him.
“I trust you more than anyone else in the world,” you said deliberately.
His hand, which up until then had been almost reluctant in your grasp, tightened at that.
“Let’s go home,” you said.
His eyes never left yours, and he didn’t let go of your hand as he bent down to pick up the hammer. When he was back upright, he pulled you closer to his side.
“C’mon,” he said, motioning with his head down the street. “Car’s that way.”
With blood-stained hand, in blood-stained hand, you made your way back to his car.
The wig you were wearing was scratchy, and your sunglasses were so big, it made you look like an insect. If you lived anywhere else, you were sure people would think you looked ridiculous, but that was the great thing about LA; at worst people would think you were some C-list celebrity pretending not to want any attention.
As long as no one saw the gun you were carrying, you were good.
It had been about a week since you tried (and failed) to kill Holland March, and to be honest, it still kind of stung. Not just because you knew that you were good at your job, and it was kind of humiliating to fail at killing a man as killable as March, but also… your doubts about this job only grew bigger and bigger.
March was clearly a good man. He seemed nice, caring, had a daughter he adored, and did his job out of at least 20% obligation for the well-being of the people, which was more than most could say.
But that wasn’t even it; you had killed good people before. It was also that The Stripes had been going down a darker path than you could support. Back when you had first done a hit for Tiger, he had proudly shown you around his ‘headquarters’, as he called it. It was a shitty bar, with a couple of offices in the back of the house, where most of the shady stuff took place.
The men present had been dumbasses, most who you would gladly bump off, but the general vibe of the gang had been more like ‘a group of guys trying to prove that their dicks were bigger than they actually were’ and not ‘a group of guys selling women to the highest bidder’.
You could live with the knowledge that you were going to hell, but you couldn’t live knowing other women and girls were going through a living hell because of you.
You needed out, that much was clear.
The question was how; you had to be smart about it.
If you just up and left, Tiger would come looking for you. Not even because of your skill-set, but because he was an overgrown man-child who would not take well to his favorite toy gaining sentience and leaving him.
But if you did him one last favor, and then asked—or more likely, begged, because he was that kind of man—to be allowed to leave. There was a chance you’d be able to skip town. Maybe you’d even leave the cops some kind of evidence against The Stripes, hoping that the LAPD would for once do their job and help someone.
So, you would swallow your pride and morals one last time and kill Holland March. It was for the greater good after all—with the ‘greater good’ being… well, you not feeling this crushing guilt every hour of the day.
Which was why you were now hiding in some bushes, eyes trained on the bar sitting downhill, holding a Colt M1911 with a .45 caliber and a silencer already screwed onto it.
You didn’t feel great about this, but it was the only way—or at least that was what you kept on telling yourself.
March had now been in the bar for about two hours, and your legs were starting to cramp from the position you were sitting in. This was the third bar he had visited tonight, so, in a slightly better light, you were helping a clearly struggling man out of his alcoholism. Bright side and all that.
You hadn’t killed him until now, because firstly, you still stuck by your point that if he was going to die, he might as well have one last drink before it (and it wasn’t like he could puke the bullet out). And secondly, the previous bars had been a little too public, and you really didn’t want a bunch of people around for this, even with the silencer.
But this bar was perfect, and if his stumbling while entering it was any indication, March was also already way past tipsy. It was one of those off-the-highway bars, with a group of truckers and motorbikes permanently stationed in the parking lot, and toilets that would make you want to run and hide. That being said, it was the perfect spot for murder.
You tapped the barrel of your gun against your thigh impatiently. Your outfit, consisting of a red silk shirt, leather jacket, and black jeans shorts, had been cute when you left your place around noon, but now the light night-time breeze made goosebumps rise along your skin.
It was shortly after midnight, and the moon was standing bright and high in the sky. It could have been a romantic scene: the silver light shining down on you, the stars twinkling up above, but you were surrounded by empty plastic cups and something that you really, really tried to pretend wasn’t a used condom.
Yep, if he doesn’t walk out of this place in ten minutes, I’ll shoot myself, you thought, sighing.
As if he had heard you, just then March stepped out of the bar. He was moving slowly, nodding his head, throwing his car keys between his hands, and singing a song to himself that you couldn’t hear.
Before you had any chance to rethink it, you lifted your gun, pointing it at his head. He was getting closer to his car, so you took one steady breath, closed one eye, and put your finger on the trigger.
Just as you pulled the trigger, the keys slipped from between his fingers, and March ducked to pick them up. The bullet flew over his head, hitting the gravel about 20 feet behind him.
What the fuck?
March looked behind him, where the sound of the bullet hitting the ground came from, but whether it was his intoxication or him not realizing that it had been a shot fired at him, he didn’t immediately seek shelter. Instead, he got back up—almost falling down in the process—and then stumbled a couple of feet closer to the spot before seemingly changing his mind and turning back around.
He was once again trying to reach his car, so you needed to act quickly. But now your hands were shaking. What kind of cruel trick of the universe was this? Was this a sign not to go through with it?
No, it isn’t. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, taking another breath, albeit this one more shaky, trying to steady your hands. Do it now!
You closed one eye, aimed, and then pulled the trigger.
March hit the ground.
You turned around, walking to your bike.
You drove away with your hands still shaking, and your eyes just a little too glassy.
You did it, you killed Holland March.
────────
In honor of the late Holland March, you started drinking the second you got back to your apartment.
Tiger had gifted you a bottle of scotch a couple of months ago, not remembering—or more likely, caring—that you didn’t much like the taste of it. But tonight you didn’t care about the taste, you just wanted to float in peaceful oblivion for a while, pretending like you weren’t choking on your own guilt. You thought about starting to pack your stuff, but in the end stayed on your red velvet couch, drowning yourself in the malty taste of liquor.
You were about a quarter of the way through the bottle when your phone started ringing. Irritated, you looked at the yellow machine standing on the side table next to the couch. It was about 2 am so whoever was calling better have a damn good reason.
It’s probably Tiger asking me how it went. You reached over to grab the receiver, picking it up slowly and bringing it to your ear. Let’s get this over with.
“Yeah,” you answered the phone, trying your best to hide the slight slurring in your voice—the last thing you needed was Tiger knowing you were drunk.
“Uh, hey sweetheart. It’s Holland.”
Your heart dropped to the floor, and your chin right with it. You blinked, swallowed, and then blinked again.
“Hello?”
“What the fuck?” you yelled, throwing the receiver away from you. It landed on the other side of the couch, and out of the speakers you could hear March’s voice saying something you couldn’t make out over the blood rushing in your ears.
This couldn’t be real, right? Were you being haunted? Was this karma?
“Hello? Hello?” Your hearing came back slowly, and you could hear March’s stressed voice coming from the phone.
You hesitantly reached for the receiver, bringing it to your ear.
“Are you—”
“March?” you asked, cutting him off.
He stilled for a second before answering slowly, “Holland. But yeah, it’s me.”
“H—how are you… I mean,” you swallowed. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Are you? You sound a bit… off,” he said.
“No, yes, I’m fine. I—wait! How did you even get this number?” How are you even alive?
There came some rustling from March’s side, and you could hear him chuckle nervously. “Forgot that I’m a PI, doll?” He sounded a bit incoherent. Can ghosts also be drunk? “I, um, I might have contacted the AAA and bribed them for your contact information.” It appeared like you had underestimated March a bit. He seemed to grow antsy at your silence and cleared his throat. “Whoopsie?”
“It’s fine,” you said feebly. Was it? You weren’t sure. Your heart was still beating fast enough to make the room spin, and the alcohol coursing through your bloodstream certainly didn’t help. “Why are you calling?”
“I—something fucking crazy happened, and I don’t really know what to do now, and I kinda wanted to see you again,” he said in one breath, speaking almost too fast to comprehend.
“Now?” you asked.
“Yes. I know it’s late, but…”
“It’s okay, I’ll meet you.”
“Great,” he sounded relieved. “Good, awesome. You hungry? I know this diner that is open twenty-four hours.”
Not at all, but he could have asked you to meet him before the Hollywood Sign and you would have shown up within the hour. He told you where to meet him, and then you hung up, leaving you with the distinct feeling that something had gone very wrong.
Let’s go eat a late-night snack with a ghost.
────────
You pulled into the parking lot of Astro Family Restaurant and spotted March’s car straightaway. The sight of it left you a bit queasy, and as you got off your bike, you readjusted the gun hidden under your jacket.
While it was rather unlikely that March had come back as a zombie who was now luring you into a trap to eat you, you weren’t taking any chances. During the drive over, you had come to terms with the fact that the most likely version of events was that you had somehow missed March. It made sense, he didn’t sound shot, and while he wasn’t the brightest person you had ever met, he definitely wasn’t stupid enough not to seek medical attention if there was a bullet in him.
Still, you didn’t like it. You were good at your job. It was the one thing that had been keeping you company ever since you were a teenager. You had felt a gun in your grasp more often than another person’s hand. How could you have missed?
You shook your head and made your way into the diner.
When you opened the door, you were greeted by the smell of coffee and eggs. The sizzling of oil frying and low music hung in the air, lulling you into an almost dreamy state. You loved 24-hour places; they always had this nostalgic feeling about them.
A waitress greeted you from behind the wraparound counter with a quick nod and then pointed toward the many free spots along the counter and booths. You smiled at her halfheartedly, already searching for March.
You found him sitting in one of the bright orange booths, his back to you, head in his hands. You walked over. When he didn’t notice you right away, you knocked on the table next to his head. He jolted upward, hands grabbing for your arm. You let him do it—that only seemed fair after what had happened tonight.
“Jesus, s’just you, sweetheart.” He let go of you and put one hand on his chest, over his—still—beating heart.
“Hi,” you said and sat down on the bench opposite him. The upholstery made squeaky noises, and the table was slightly sticky when you placed your arms on it, but you didn’t care. Your eyes were fixed on Holland.
He looked a little worse for wear—hair ruffled, dark circles under his eyes, and clearly still inebriated—but it was a far cry from being a gory corpse in front of some bar. He had also changed his clothes for something more casual; it was the first time that you saw him wearing something other than a suit. He wore a red and brown striped short-sleeved shirt, half unbuttoned, revealing a white undershirt. There was a chain hanging from around his neck, mostly hidden behind his clothes. From previous investigating you knew that his wedding band was hanging from it. The indent of it was pressing against his shirt.
“Are you drunk?” March asked, shamelessly letting his eyes rove up and down you.
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Takes one to know one.”
He raised his hands. “Fair enough.”
The waitress from before approached your table, the clicking of her heels seamlessly blending into the background ambiance.
You and March both order coffee, and then after a moment of consideration, you also order a strawberry milkshake. You needed sugar. March looked surprised at that, but then asked for a vanilla one. The waitress left after that, leaving you to simmer in whatever both of you were caught up in.
March tapped the table a couple of times, fiddling with a tissue from the dispenser standing to his left. He ripped it into little bits and then looked up at you with wide eyes. “I think someone tried to kill me tonight.”
You had a good poker face—it was kind of a requirement in your line of work—but in that moment you could have sworn your expression froze in unease. You swallowed, hoping he was too drunk to wonder why you suddenly couldn’t meet his eyes. This was new territory; you had never before needed to have a conversation with someone after you tried to kill them.
“What makes you say that?” You asked, and then almost facepalmed because that was not how normal people reacted to someone telling them they were almost killed. “I mean, are you okay? What happened?”
If March was confused about your reaction, he didn’t show it. In fact, he looked ecstatic that you believed him at all. He sat up straighter, leaning forward a bit, lowering his voice. “I was out earlier, and the whole evening I could have sworn someone was following me.” Liar. He had no idea you were stalking him, that much was plainly obvious from his unconcerned behavior. “And then when I left this bar, suddenly I was being shot at.”
He looked at you intently, and you remembered that that was the kind of thing normal people were shocked over. You gasped dramatically, and March nodded gravely. “Yeah. I was able to dodge the first shot, but the second one hit me right in the chest.” He tapped his finger against his chest.
You stared at his finger and its position on his chest and then looked down at your own hands.
Your hands, which had been shaking badly earlier.
You bit down hard on your tongue, trying not to start screaming in frustration or slap yourself across the face. You had missed because your hands had been unsteady… you weren’t 18 anymore, something like that just shouldn’t happen.
This is humiliating, to say the least. If Tiger or any of the others ever found out about it, you’d never live it down.
Then you blinked, looking back at March with narrowed eyes. “Wait, so you were shot in the chest? Doesn’t look like it.”
“Yeah, here’s the fuckin’ twist.” March turned to his jacket, which was lying next to him in the booth, and started cramming in the left breast pocket. He pulled something out, placing it on the table between you.
It looked like a standard silver LAPD badge, the only distinction from a normal one being the harsh dent right in the center of it.
Everything clicked into place, and then immediately scattered again.
“Police badges aren’t bulletproof,” you said. March eyed you, surprised, and you pinched your thigh under the table. You should never have met up with him while drunk, you just couldn’t seem to shut up.
“It’s not a police badge,” March said. “Or, at least not a real one.”
The clicking of her heels announced the waitress before you saw her. She strode to your table, placed down your drinks, and then left, pointedly not looking at the (fake) badge.
March, however, had gone rigid at her sudden arrival. He watched every of her movements closely and only relaxed after she was back behind the counter.
“Everything alright?”
“What if whoever tried to kill me realizes that they haven’t succeeded, and comes to finish the job?”
Yeah, what fucking if?
“You think our waitress is a killer?”
“You never know.” March shrugged. “Don’t underestimate anyone. Women can be killers, too,” he said it like it was some kind of wise life lesson he had already learned. You didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
Instead of answering him, you pulled your milkshake closer, bringing the straw to your mouth. The synthetic taste of strawberries filled your mouth, and you could have sworn it was the best thing you had ever tasted.
“Easy,” March said, chuckling and then reached for his own shake. “You’ll get brain freeze.”
“Hopefully,” you mumbled to yourself. You waited until he had taken his first sip, and then continued in a louder voice, “So, the badge is not real?”
“No, it isn’t. I got it a couple of years ago. It’s pretty helpful sometimes when people get a little prissy with information,” he said and ran a hand through his hair. “Anyway, most badges are made of either silver nickel or brass, but this one isn’t, it’s made of aluminum.”
“Aluminum is bulletproof,” you uttered, eyes fixated on the little silver badge.
“Exactly,” March said, a hint of surprise palpable in his voice.
“Oh my god.” You let your face fall into your hands, copying his earlier position. You should be more careful, but you were too tired and tipsy, and the situation was just too ridiculous. What were the chances that he just happened to own a fake badge made out of bulletproof material, and then carry it at the exact position you would accidentally shoot him?
“I know, right?” March scoffed, taking another sip of his shake. “It’s a fuckin’ miracle I’m still alive.”
You couldn’t do anything but nod sluggishly.
The next couple of minutes were spent in silence, both of you staring into nothing, consuming your drinks leisurely. Once you were done, March paid for both of you—you didn’t have the energy to argue with him about it.
You left the diner, walking side by side. There was a bench next to the parking lot, and without talking about it, you both stopped and sat down. March pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offering you one and then taking one himself. You patted your jacket looking for your lighter, but he had already taken out his, holding it up.
“Pretty ladies shouldn’t have to light their own smokes,” he said through the cigarette tucked between his lips.
You chuckled lightly, and he grinned at your amusement. After lighting both of your cigarettes, he tucked the lighter away. You took a long, slow drag, letting the nicotine stain your lungs for a bit before blowing it back out. The swirls of smoke met up with March’s as they made their way into the night.
“Why’d you call me?” you asked the question that had been burning on your mind ever since you were certain that he wasn’t a ghost, and instead just absurdly lucky.
“Hm?” March didn’t look at you, and you were quite certain he knew what you meant.
“After… what happened to you. Why call me of all people?”
“Will it surprise you if I say there aren’t that many people in my life?” He asked casually.
“You’re avoiding my question,” you said.
March closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, he was looking at you. He sighed, turning his head to the side so that the smoke he exhaled wouldn’t hit you. “Well, I sure as hell am not gonna tell my daughter that someone tried to kill her dad. She acts all tough, but after everything that happened with her mother… with my wife… I don’t ever want her to have to go through that again. I wasn’t very good back then when it happened, didn’t know how to deal with her grief and my own, and I kind of left her to deal with it herself. At least now she’d have Healy. He’s a good man, he loves her and would take care of her, I’m sure, but I don’t think she could bear it again. I’d do anything to make sure she’s alright.”
You didn’t notice that there was a tear running down your cheek until March gently wiped it away with his thumb. You turned away from him, breathing in shakily, and then taking another drag of your cigarette, trying to let the sharp taste numb you.
“Sorry,” you muttered, “It’s just… I lost my parents when I was young.” And now I’m going to inflict that same pain on some little girl.
“Shit, m’sorry.”
“It’s fine, continue. You still haven’t answered my question.”
March hesitated another moment but then started speaking again, “So that’s why I won’t tell Holly. I will tell Healy eventually. If I’m getting targeted, chances are he is too. But he always wants to immediately try to solve everything, and I really didn’t feel like investigating right now.” He shrugged, his intense blue eyes staring right into yours. “Just wanted some company.”
Your lips parted at the way he said it. So earnest, so easy. Your mouth was dry, but even if you could speak, there was nothing on your mind except for how pretty he looked bathed in the yellow light of the streetlamp standing nearby.
Slowly, he leaned in closer, and just as his lips brushed yours, you jolted back, standing up to create some distance between the two of you.
March’s eyebrows shot up, and he stumbled up as well. “Shit, fuck. Sorry, I’m sorry! I thought you wanted—”
“I do,” you said quickly. The last thing you wanted right now was for him to feel guilty. “I do, it’s just… it’s wrong. Fuck, March, it’s so wrong.”
“Wrong?” He tilted his head to the side, studying you. After a couple of seconds, his eyes widened, and he paled dramatically. “Oh my god.” He stumbled a couple of steps backward, and your heart momentarily stopped. He knows. “Oh my god.” He slumped over, hands on his knees, shoulders heaving. For a second, you were afraid that he’d throw up again. “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.” He looked back at you. “You’re a minor.”
“What?” you exclaimed. “No, I’m not!”
“You’re not?” March asked hesitantly, and at your frantic head-shaking, he let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank fuck. I thought—” he put a hand on his chest. “Fuckin’ hell, don’t scare me like that. I was about to call Healy on myself.”
“What the fuck is your issue, Holland?”
“I don’t know,” he said feebly. “I’m not good with ages, and you got all mysterious, sayin’ us kissing would be wrong. What was I supposed to think?”
“Anything but that.”
“Yeah, got it.”
You sighed, running a hand through your hair, and then started laughing. Things would be so much easier if he were a pedophile or a pervert, or if he simply hadn’t backed off when you pulled away but instead continued to try to kiss you. Then you could have killed him without issue. But, of course, he needed to be one of the maybe fifty decent men in LA.
March joined in your laughter hesitantly, clearly not quite understanding why you were laughing, but happy nonetheless.
“You’re a good man, March,” you said, throwing away your cigarette and walking over to your bike.
He followed your movements, confusion playing in his eyes. “Thanks, doll. But I told you to call me Holland.”
“I know,” you said, getting on your bike. You had made a decision and now needed to deal with it. “Goodbye, March.”
You drove off, leaving him behind for the second time in one night. Only this time you knew he was alive and well, and you also knew that it would stay that way.
You wouldn’t kill him.
You couldn’t kill him.
Whatever.
────────
Tiger’s office was—like always—filled with a mixture of embarrassing tiger memorabilia and a thick cloud of whatever aftershave he had talked himself into believing made up for his lack of personal hygiene. You had to try your best not to sneeze while waiting for him.
When he finally entered his office, he closed the door behind him just a little too loud, making sure that you heard it.
“So, baby, what brings you to me? I’m assuming the two dicks are done for,” he said, and sat down on the other side of the desk, on what could rightfully be described as a throne—talk about overcompensation.
You had thought a lot about what to say, ever since you made the decision last night not to kill March (and in turn, Healy). You had realized quickly that the best thing to do would be to try to convince Tiger that neither of them actually needed to be killed. Otherwise, even if you could somehow get out of your agreement, Tiger would just send another person after them.
“No, they’re not,” you said, and Tiger’s face fell. “I don’t think they need to be. If you ask me, they’re harmless, a little stupid. They definitely think they’re investigating something, but they’re far off from anything having to do with us.”
“You think so,” Tiger asked slowly.
“Yes.”
“Well,” Tiger took a heavy sip of his glass. The drink had been standing on his desk like that since before you entered his office, and you didn’t want to know how long it had been there. “Too bad I didn’t hire you to think, hm?”
You clenched your jaw, trying to keep still. He’d enjoy any outward signs that you were upset way too much. “You hired me to look into them and decide whether they were a danger. I did. They aren’t.”
Tiger clicked his tongue. “I disagree. Heard from a couple of my guys that they were sniffing ‘round some of my clubs, and the last thing I need right now is trouble. I want ‘em bumped off, now.”
You took a deep breath. “I get it, but—”
“No!” Tiger yelled, slamming his fist on the desk. “You tryin’ to fake me out, huh? Is that it, baby?”
“No, of course not.” It was only now that you realized how he was trembling, his pupils blown. He was tripping—there was no way he could be reasoned with in this state. His shoulders were heaving, and he looked ready to throw his glass. You needed to leave the room as quickly as possible.
There was one more thing you could do, but your stomach turned even at the thought of it.
You got up slowly, keeping your hands where he could see them. You made your way around the desk until you stood next to him. If you knew how to do one thing other than how to kill a man, it was how to make them putty in your hands.
You bit your lip, looking at Tiger with wide doe eyes. “It’s just… the whole killing thing…” you sighed, looking away timidly.
Tiger took hold of your wrist, and you let him pull you closer. “Yeah, baby?” He had calmed down considerably, now seeming very satisfied with himself.
“It’s kind of messin’ with me, y’know? I wanna be better than that,” you whispered and looked back at him, this time with your eyes shiny.
“You wanna be good?” Tiger asked, and from the way he was talking, you already knew what would come next. “You wanna be my good girl?”
Barf. Vomit. Puke. Eww. Eww. Eww!
You giggled a little, twirling a strand of your hair around your finger. “I mean… I don’t know. You’re just so…” Disgusting. Horrible. A miserable excuse for a human being. “Commanding.”
You weren’t sure if it was just because of whatever drug was making its way through his system, or if he was just genuinely so stupid, but he was eating up your every word, practically preening at your worship.
Your eyes very purposefully didn’t stray further down than his chest; you really didn’t need to know how much he liked this.
“Didn’t know you felt this way, baby,” he said in what he probably considered a sexy voice.
You shrugged one shoulder, your hand starting to caress the side of his face. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want me. After all, you could have anyone.”
“That’s true,” he chuckled, and if possible, his gaze darkened slightly, making shivers run down your spine. His hand landed on your ass, patting it a little too firm. You bit down harshly on your tongue, and the metallic taste of blood filled your mouth. “But you’re a special girl, so I’m sure something can be arranged.” He winked at you. “If you really don’t wanna do the killing thing anymore, then I can certainly find another job for you. Maybe something more fitting for such a pretty girl, if you catch my drift.”
You smiled widely. “That would be awesome.”
“Anything for you, baby.” His hand was still on your ass, and it took every morsel of self-control in you not to break his arm right there and then.
Suddenly, a knock came from the door, making Tiger sit up instinctively, his hand leaving you. Your shoulders dropped, and you closed your eyes momentarily.
“Ey, boss?” a voice came from behind the door, which you recognized as Petrol’s. “There’s some heat in the front.”
Tiger groaned, shooting you an almost apologetic look. “Gotta take care of some things, baby. Let me walk you out, and tomorrow we’ll discuss the more intimate parts of your new gig, alright?”
“Sure, whatever you say.” You tried your best to hide the relief evident in your voice.
Tiger got up, slung his arm around your waist in a possessive grasp, and then you two made your way out of his office. Petrol was waiting behind the door, his gaze instantly falling to where Tiger was holding on to you. Great, by the time you return tomorrow, half the city would know about this.
The hallways were too tight for three people to walk next to each other, so Petrol trailed behind you as you made your way to the front part of the building. Tiger’s bar was a shithole to say the least—just like all his establishments—and his clientele wasn’t much better.
It wasn’t a Friday night without some sort of fight, so it wasn’t unusual that the police would show up every now and then. The two officers stood out quite clearly against the usual scumbags hanging around the bar, but you didn’t pay them much more attention. The last thing you needed now was getting mixed up in whatever had gone down tonight. It was only when you heard a glass shatter that you turned back around.
Holland March and Jackson Healy were standing a couple of feet away from you.
Holland March was standing a couple of feet away from you.
Here.
In the bar.
Looking at you.
Looking at Tiger’s arm slung around you.
Glass shards and a puddle of whiskey at his feet, his hand still positioned as if he were holding onto something.
The room was tilting, the floor moving under your feet.
Tiger looked at March and Healy, unimpressed. “I’ll be with you in a sec, gentlemen.” He squeezed your waist, making you wince, and then continued leading you out of the bar.
Outside he said something to you, but truthfully, you didn’t hear a word. You just nodded, and then when he pressed his face closer to you, you only narrowly avoided his lips on yours.
Tiger then left, but you still couldn’t breathe.
Your mind was stuck on the man on the other side of the door.
Fuck.
next
A/N: well well well if it isn't the consequences of someones actions...
there will be one more part and then we're done but like... I might just continue writing one shots or something about them maybe perhaps if you guys would be interested and had something you would wanna read
anyway, don't drink and drive kids!
let me know what you think <3<3
taglist: @ahfkwnxkgndk @cosmicyeehaw @desiredgosling @qardasngan @gradeaworm @moonlitstair @thiccamousprime (comment to be added)
A/N: past tense while writing in present tense is lowkey beating my ass so pls remember that English is not my first language and I primarily learned it through the internet lol <3
It has been about two weeks since Grace woke up, and things have more or less fallen into place for you two. Sure, your routines are bizarre, sometimes a bit tense, and would on Earth definitely get you a quick appointment with some sort of mental health provider, but whatever works, works. There is no one around to judge you except for Grace, and he has no ground to stand on when it comes to unsafe coping strategies.
After everything went well with reacquainting his body to food, he got your all-clear to upgrade to real food after a week of supplements. He immediately abused that freedom by indulging in the pouches of vodka he found in Dr. Ilyukhina’s luggage.
You didn’t open the personal luggage of your two late crew members while they were still aboard, but Grace hesitantly approached you a couple of days after the funeral, arguing that whatever they had packed, it could be useful for you two.
You agreed with him up until he said that it was what they would have wanted. For that you yelled at him about how he couldn’t possibly know that for ten minutes and then hid in the med bay storage compartment to cry for about an hour. You apologized afterwards and gave him the go-ahead to look through their stuff. You stayed in the med bay while he did, but with your back turned to him, unable to stomach the sight.
He laughed at first when he found the pouches of alcohol, but as soon as he could, he started to go on the first intergalactic bender.
He invited you to join him, and while every cell in your body was itching for the pleasant fuzzy feeling that came with excessive alcohol indulgence—or at least temporarily—the idea of both of you losing control over yourselves was not one you could bare.
Plus, someone needed to keep an eye on Grace, whose motor functions definitely didn’t improve while intoxicated.
So, you watched him stumble around, weep to himself, vomit and then apologize profusely for it, and spend a concerning amount of time just lying around staring at the ceiling.
That phase lasted maybe four days, but it felt like months. You let him indulge as much as he might need, hoping that it would help him somehow, like if he hits rock bottom, he’ll come out on the other side better and brighter.
He did kind of.
Nowadays, he spends less time crying and more getting ready for the actual mission. Checking the equipment in the lab, reading through the papers on Astrophage and the Petrova Line, coming up with ideas of what to do once you reach Tau Ceti.
You just stand by most of the time. You still don’t like not being in the same room as him, but after two weeks of a semi-functional sleep schedule consisting of him sleeping at night while you monitor his vitals, and in turn you are napping throughout the day with him always close by.
It’s probably not sustainable long-term, but you only have a couple of months left to live, so who really cares about that.
Right now, you are lying down on the metal grate crossing through the mental health room. It is a roundish room with walls that are all monitors, ready to play whatever scene you want to see. It’s great for both movie nights and contemplating your existence while staring at a foggy beach, which is precisely what Grace is doing while you are reading an e-book on one of the many tablets you have been provided with.
But most of your attention is stuck on Grace and how he hasn’t moved much in quite some time.
“You okay?” You ask, and when he doesn’t answer, you sit up, poking his shoulder. That makes him look at you finally. “Hey, I asked if you were okay.”
“Oh, sorry, yeah.” He chuckles slightly, but his eyes still look far away. “Just weird seeing this. Getting lost in the scenery, y’know.”
You nod, knowing exactly what he’s feeling. “It helps when you remember that we are doing this to save all of this.” You motion towards the screens before you. “We gave up this view so that billions of people don’t have to do the same.”
“That’s very wise,” he says, smiling.
“Took me about a year to come up with. It really does help. Or at least it’s definitely better than disconnecting with reality and staring at screens for hours.” Your smile drops suddenly. “Fuck!”
“What?” Grace looks alarmed at your sudden shift in mood.
“What time is it?”
“What do you mean, what time is it? We’re in space, we no longer live by the regular twenty-four-hour cycle and—”
“How long has it been since you woke up?” You groaned. Making watches work in space is tricky, so you two decided to turn on the stopwatch on Grace’s watch every morning when Mary decides that a new day should start. It was an acceptable way to keep track of time, at best.
Grace looks at his watch. “Almost seven hours.”
“Fuck,” you curse again.
“Hey, langu—” he cuts himself off, throwing you an apologetic look. He is still getting used to your cursing habits, something you have told him very explicitly that you wouldn’t get rid of. He doesn’t even really have a problem with it per se; it’s just that the middle-school teacher's urge to stop students from cursing is deeply rooted inside the man.
You jump up from where you have been sitting, and he does the same.
“Okay, seriously. What is going on?” he asks, alarmed.
“The engine will cut off any second. We’ve reached Tau Ceti.”
“So? Isn’t that good?”
You hurry towards the lab with Grace close behind. “No, if the engine cuts off, we’ll be left without any gravity.”
Behind you Grace swore loudly, or at least his version of it.
The lab looks like it does most of the time. It’s not exactly messy, but there is enough stuff laying around that will become really annoying if it’s not tethered to anything and you switch to zero gravity.
Grace is a bit of a slob when it comes to most things, except for lab equipment apparently, which is lucky for you—loose floating test tubes and chemicals are probably the last thing you need right now.
Most of the stuff laying around are some electronics, papers, and even a few pieces of clothing like lab coats or sweaters. It could be much worse, but it’s also clear that if your calculations are correct, you won’t have time to put everything away before you start floating. Especially, because this is only the lab, you don’t even want to imagine what the med bay looks like.
“C’mon, maybe we can try to stop the engine from cutting off.” You turn and rush toward the cockpit.
Suddenly, alarms start to blare, and Mary starts to speak, “Approaching Tau Ceti orbit. Prepare for engine cutoff.”
You reach the cockpit just as she starts to count down. “Fourteen, thirteen, twelve…”
“Oh, that’s not good,” you say, staring down at the many blinking lights of the cockpit.
“Eleven, ten…”
“Can’t we ask her to stop?” Grace asks and then looks up. “Mary, stop it. Stop the engine cutoff. Reverse engine cutoff.”
But Mary continues unbothered, “Nine, eight, seven…”
“Help me find something to press, I—” you groan.
“Don’t you know how to do this?” Grace asks, his voice now high-pitched and panicky.
“No, do you?”
“No,” he squeals back. “Should we…” he motions towards the pilot seat.
“Maybe,” you reply, and then turn to the co-pilot seat to sit down.
Grace sits down as well, but the second his body hits the pilot seat, Mary interrupts her countdown to say, “Six. Pilot detected. Five, four…”
“What?” Grace exclaims. “No, I’m not a pilot!”
The systems around you start to shut down, their lights turning off one by one. You buckle your seatbelt.
“Grace, just use the seatbelt,” you tell him, but he seemingly misunderstands what you mean, because instead of sitting down, he just grabs onto it and curls his body into itself as much as possible.
“Three, two…”
“How will it work? Will we just start to float or—”
“One.”
For a second, the two of you are frozen, waiting for something to happen. That’s when you start to feel this weird sensation in your stomach. Like when you drop on a rollercoaster, except it’s much slower, and you don’t drop or fall. In fact, suddenly, your body loses the ability to tell what is up and down. Your limbs turn weightless, and your hair starts to rise from where it previously lay.
“You are now orbiting Tau Ceti.”
Ryland screeches. As in, several-octaves-higher-than-his-usual-voice, little-girl-that-sees-a-spider screech. He should have buckled himself in.
He starts to panic, which makes him flip his body around, still clutching the seatbelt desperately. “What the fudging fudger?”
You can’t help but laugh at his distress. “Calm down, you’re fine.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re sitting there all nice and pretty while I am being pushed around.” He is slightly breathless, his voice still squeaky.
“The only one pushing you is yourself,” you point out, which he evidently doesn’t appreciate much, if the look he throws you is anything to go by.
“I am aware of that.” He is now pointing with his head to the floor, arms somewhere between his legs. “That is not helpful.”
“You have some training with zero gravity, just relax. Pretend like you’re swimming. This is not space; this is just a very large swimming pool.”
“What? That’s—no offense, but that is ridiculous. I am flying, my body wasn’t made for this,” he says it so flippantly, which makes you bite your lip and look away temporarily. He was the one who told you that during training on Earth. It was kind of his motto. This is not space; this is just a very large swimming pool. You mocked him for it back then because it is silly, but hearing him reject his own words like that hurt. “And anyway, I don’t remember any of my training. I didn’t even know I got some.”
“Yeah, well,” you say, not elaborating further. His memories are coming back at a steady rate, but you still refuse to tell him anything, no matter how much he pesters you. You unbuckle your seatbelt and, carefully with the help of the handles located all around the cockpit, let yourself start to float. “Here.” You offer your arm, which he grabs, and together you get him back upright. (Or what would be upright if you had gravity.)
“Thanks,” he says, running a hand through his hair, only messing it up more.
“Petrovascope operational.”
You gasp, looking at the specially made telescope. “The Doctor.”
“The Doctor?” Grace asks, but you ignore him, instead floating toward The Doctor. “Oh, is that one of the… did you name the Petrovascope as well?” He asks, and you can appreciate how his judgment really is kept to a minimum.
“Yup. I figured, mysterious being on the ship that can look toward other worlds. Who does that remind me of?” You hesitate. “Saying it out loud makes it sound stupid.”
“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just…” He grins. “And you call me a nerd.”
“Oh, screw you,” you mutter, and then say in a louder tone, “You wanna take a look?”
“Do I?” Grace asks sarcastically and then pushes himself off from his seat to mimic your easy floating. He fails at that, and barrels past you, grabbing hold of The Doctor while doing so, and hitting the end of the cockpit with his back.
“Are you okay?” You sound a little too panicky considering he just hit a wall a little, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything, just giving you a thumbs up while trying not to grimace.
“Let’s see what Tau Ceti has to offer, hm?” he says sounding slightly pained.
Together you manage to shift the pilot's seat so that you can easily look out of the Petrovascope while lying down. (Well, again, down if there was gravity, which there isn’t.)
Grace offers you to take the first look, but you wave him off by stating that he is the scientist, and that he’s the one who has to come up with a solution, so he might as well get a head start.
Truthfully, you’re not even sure you want to see the Petrova Line. Your whole life revolves around it already. The last thing you need is seeing the literal red string of fate tied from start to star, knowing that it ends at Jupiter and Sol, where it’s slowly but surely killing everyone on Earth.
You watch as Grace looks through the eyepiece—which is the size of a laptop display, very convenient—moving the finderscope until he stops on something. “It’s Tau Ceti,” he says, and then presses the button to change the visibility range of the telescope so that it will show him the Petrova Line, red and clear. “You have a Petrova Line,” he murmurs to himself. “But you’re not dimming. Why?”
He moves the finderscope even more until he stops. He reaches for the eyepiece and starts wiping with his fingers on it.
“Uh, Grace? What are you doing? Don’t touch the eyepiece like that, isn’t that basically rule number one?”
“No, there is… there is a smudge or something,” he says, still wiping.
“How can there be a smudge? You’re the first person to ever operate it.”
“But there is something… What is that?” He presses the other button to get the regular visibility back. He stares at whatever he found for a couple of seconds. The longer he doesn’t say anything, the antsier you get.
“Grace—”
“Blip-A detected.”
“What’s a Blip-A?” You and Grace ask at the same time. Only his question is directed at you, while yours is directed at Mary. Neither of you gets any answers, and Grace comes out from under the telescope.
There is a small sonar display, showing the Hail Mary and its surroundings. To your horror, another object has made its way onto the radar.
“Blip-A detected,” Mary repeats, and you can feel your stomach sink. (Rise, go sideways—who cares!)
Grace still stares at the sonar display, but you are already staring out of the window where some sort of structure revealed itself slowly to you.
Your first thought is that it couldn’t be made by humans. Nothing about it even indicates Earth and its current understanding of physics. The thing is long, far longer than the Hail Mary, and wider too. It looks to be made out of hundreds, if not thousands, of brownish metallic rods, with a base in the middle and a round cluster on either side. It isn’t aerodynamic; it isn’t human.
Your second thought is that Grace is still staring at the sonar display, and you couldn’t continue to be the only one of you two seeing this.
You hit him lightly on the shoulder, and as if snapping out of a trance, he slowly turns toward the window, where you can’t take your eyes off it. Together, the two of you float closer, and the thing does the same, until its base is parallel to the Hail Mary.
You two are paralyzed. Caught in the vision of whatever just revealed itself to you, because one thing is clear: it saw you first, and it chose to approach. That is either very good, or very, very bad.
Grace must think the same, because suddenly he pushes himself off the window, taking you with him. “No, no. No, no, no. Let’s go, Mary.” He pushes you into your seat and then moves to his. “No, no, no way! Pilot detected,” he yells out, trying desperately to sit down.
You buckle your seatbelt, your hands are shaking, your mouth is dry. You wonder what would happen if you’d throw up in zero gravity.
“Please engage restraint.”
“Pilot detected,” Grace counters, as if he could out-argue a machine.
“Pilot detected,” Mary says.
Huh, I guess he can, you thought, and then continue concentrating on not breaking down. A knock comes from somewhere to your left. You don’t look. You already know there is nothing. You already know there is an alien spaceship possibly about to come and eat you. Your stomach flips.
“We’re getting outta here,” Grace says, turning to you and repeating himself. “We’re getting outta here. I’m getting us out of here.” You’re not sure whether his words are meant to soothe you or himself, but you’re quite certain neither works.
“Engage spin drive.”
“Engage the spin drive,” Grace mutters while frantically starting to press buttons.
“Incorrect.”
“You have to engage the spin drive,” you offer unhelpfully. Your voice is shaky and so quiet, Grace doesn’t even hear it over his own mumblings. Grace continues pushing any buttons and levels he finds, until by sheer dumb luck, he does something right.
“Welcome to the Hail Mary,” Mary says, and the monitors around you start to come back to life.
“Is it this thing?” Grace asks, pointing toward the control column. You nod, and he grabs it. “Alright, it’s fine. I’ll get us out of here now.”
He starts controlling the movement and flight of the Hail Mary, the force pressing you deeper into your seat. Grace’s flying is… well, quite frankly, it’s horrible. His movements are choppy, going in all directions without an actual plan. But it is fine; as long as you put some distance between the Hail Mary and Blip-A, you don’t care about his lack of flight training.
“Erratic movement detected.”
“Yeah,” he says and then steadies his movements a little, bringing you further away from Blip-A. He stops after about a minute, Blip-A nowhere to be seen. “Good,” he sighs, letting his head fall back onto the headrest. “We’re good, it’s done. We’re…” he looks at you, but you are still staring out of the window. Every muscle in your body is tense, and you can feel it in your bones that it isn’t done. There is no way that ship approached you just to back off immediately.
You are right. Blip-A suddenly appears back before you.
Grace groans, throwing his arms in the air. “What do they want?”
“Leave,” you snap, becoming dizzy at the size of the foreign ship alone. “Leave now! We've gotta leave!”
“I’m going, I’m going,” he says, and starts flying again.
“Go to the left,” you yell, eyes focusing on the window.
“The left? Why left—”
“Just do it!”
“Alright!”
He does, but to your dismay, Blip-A follows.
“Right! Go to the right!”
“We’re in space, there is no left or right,” Grace argues back, and you almost start screaming in frustration.
“You know what I mean! Don’t be a contrarian just for the sake of it, Doctor Grace.” You grab a packet of Skittles floating nearby and throw them at him. They bounce off his head and continue floating around the room.
“Sorry, I’m sorry. Alright,” he says.
“Just—come one! It’s still following us!” You only realize you’re crying when the tears start to float around your face. You wipe at your face, trying your best to stop yourself from single-handedly destroying the ship through water damage to its technology.
“It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.” Grace continues with what Mary dubbed ‘erratic movement’, steering the Hail Maryeverywhere as long as it’s away from Blip-A.
But Blip-A, with all its (you assume) famished and vicious aliens, is close by no matter how far you fly. After a couple of minutes of trying and failing to escape, you end up exactly where you started, with Blip-A right next to you.
“What do we…” Grace begins but trails off before finishing his sentence. “Maybe…” He steers the ship slowly, bit by bit, as if hoping that you can escape whoever is following by just being sneaky enough.
“Do you think it’s a Xenomorph?” you whisper.
“What?” Grace exclaims. “No, it’s not—don’t say that. It’s not a Xenomorph.”
“It could be.” You are still whispering, and you’re not even sure why. “Do you think it can hear us?”
“No, I’m pretty sure that’s impossible considering we’re in space and—let’s just get away first, alright?”
But just as you left Blip-A behind, it follows you again, lining up with your ship perfectly.
Grace swallows loudly. “Alright,” he says, his voice reaching an all-time high. “It seems that they want to establish contact or something. That’s nice.”
“Do you think they’ll kill and eat us?” Grace looks at you distressed, but you ignore him. “Or maybe they’ll eat us while we’re still alive.”
“Don’t say that. It’s probably fine, they are probably… friendly aliens. Just wanting to have a nice chat about… space and stuff.”
“Nice aliens?” You shake your head erratically. “Name one nice alien.”
“E.T.,” Grace says, and it comes at a speed that makes it clear he has already thought about that—laying out the answer in hopes that it might calm you both down.
“Oh, a kid’s film, how realistic.”
“There is no need to get so sarcastic,” he says. “We’re fine, everything will be—what’s that?”
“Huh?” You look at where Grace is staring, bringing your seat closer to his. It’s a transmission from one of the many cameras mounted along the ship’s hull. Something is happening with Blip-A. Some sort of robot is moving along the exterior. It’s too far away to see what it s doing.
Grace unbuckles his seatbelt, momentarily struggling without gravity. You do the same, and together you move closer to the display, hoping to see what is going on. Grace pulls out his glasses, putting them on.
“Blip-B detected.”
You flinch at Mary’s sudden voice, too caught up in finding out what is happening on the screen.
“What’s a Blip—” Mary cuts Grace off.
“Blip-B detected. Current distance fromHail Maryis 300 meters.”
The robot threw something toward you, and whatever it is, it’s approaching fast.
“It’s sending us something,” Grace says anxiously.
“But what?” You ask. Together you float back toward the window, watching a capsule get closer and closer to your ship.
“It could be a message,” Grace says, and for a second, seems satisfied with that answer. Then his face falls. “It could be a bomb.”
“You think it’s a bomb? What happened to E.T.?” you stare at him, and he stares back, eyes just as wide as yours must be.
“I don’t know. That was before it started throwing stuff at us,” he is gesticulating wildly. “We—we gotta prepare for the worst, right?” he looks up the way he always does when addressing Mary. “Is it a bomb?”
“How would she know?” You’re both yelling again at that point. “It’s coming closer!”
“I know! Um, let’s maybe… shields up,” he shouts.
“We don’t have shields!”
“There are no shields on board theHail Mary.”
“Why not?” Grace cries out. You can only shrug, your mind is spinning—you might be about to die. All of it was for nothing.
“Thirty meters.”
“Ryland,” you utter. You reach for him instinctively, and he does the same, pulling you toward him.
“It’s fine, you’re fine, we’re fine.” He wraps his arms around you, pressing you into his chest, while his legs enclose yours.
“Twenty meters.”
You push your face into his neck, closing your eyes. You can hear him murmur into your hair, and his hands are shaking where they are clutching onto you. “We’ll be okay. I’ve got you. It’s fine. It’s just an E.T., not a Xenomorph.”
“Ten meters.”
You both tense up, holding onto one another as tightly as possible. If these are your last seconds alive, you’re at least glad it is with him. Everything you felt back on Earth comes rushing into you, leaving you breathless.
────────
You ran across the grass, desperately looking for him. He couldn’t be far; he wasn’t stupid enough to run into the Kazakh Steppe alone and without any supplies. You looked around yourself, at all the buildings blocking your view. If there was one thing you had learned about Ryland over the last year, it was that he needed space when he was overwhelmed. He needed to be able to see without a hundred things getting in the way.
You spotted a ladder running up one of the maintenance buildings. “Oh, Ryland,” you whispered, and started climbing.
Once you reached the peak, you saw him. He was sitting in the middle of the roof, legs pulled toward his chest, and face buried in his hands. He didn’t notice you approach.
“Ryland,” you said hesitantly. He jolted upwards, his gaze finding yours. His eyes were bloodshot, tear tracks running down his cheeks. He sniffled, running a hand through his hair.
“Hey,” he said, his voice cracked before he could finish. He cleared his throat. “So, how’s it going with you today? We didn’t have much time to catch up.” He tried to joke, but you couldn’t even pretend to laugh for his sake. Your own eyes were burning, seeing him like that.
You haven’t felt this powerless in… maybe ever.
“Ryland,” you said again, and it’s enough to break your resolve. A hot tear ran down your cheek. Ryland pulled you down so that you sat next to him and then put his arm around you.
“Don’t cry. You’ll make me cry.”
“You’re already crying,” you pointed out.
“Well, you’re not helping.” He grinned halfheartedly, but you couldn’t return it. His face fell, and he teared up again. “What do I do?”
Something in your chest seized at that. “You can’t ask me that,” you mumbled.
“Please,” he said your name so softly, you felt nauseous. “Please tell me what you think. Tell me what I should do.”
“No, no, Ryland, that’s not fair.”
“Nothing about this is fair,” he snapped, and then immediately looked apologetic. “I just—I don’t know what to do. Just tell me what you think.”
That was the last thing you wanted to do. He wouldn’t like what you would say, because you already knew what he wanted to do. And you also knew what you wanted him to do, but it was so wrong and selfish that you couldn’t bring yourself to say it.
You knew Ryland. If you told him to stay, he would. He was banking on you doing that. He didn’t want to make that decision, but he also didn’t want to go. If you told him to stay, it would be the perfect excuse he needed.
Everything in you screamed at you to do that. Tell him to stay, keep him safe so that when you saved the world, he could live a long, happy life.
But you couldn’t do it.
When you didn’t say anything, his face crumpled. “You think Stratt is right.” He looked away, staring toward the setting sun. “Of course you agree with her.”
“No, Ryland, don’t do this now. Not now,” you argued, your gaze still locked on his face. There could be a unicorn flying by and you’d continue staring at him. You only had three days left.
“It’s true, though, isn’t it?” he asked, and you could hear the disappointment in his voice.
You sighed, scrunching up your brows. “You know she’s right, too. It makes the most sense. I’ve seen the numbers, she’s right, it’s worse if we can’t launch on Friday. It’s logical—”
“Logical,” Ryland scoffed, and then got up.
“Hey, where are you going?” you asked, standing up as well. He was on his way to the ladder.
“I don’t know, but I need to be alone.”
“No, stop!” you grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop. “Don’t run away now just because I’m not telling you what you want to hear.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.” You sighed, still holding onto his yellow rain jacket, too afraid that if you let go for even a second, he’d leave and you’d never see him again. “You are, please, please, stay.”
He suddenly stepped closer, grasping your shoulders, his eyes finding yours and don’t let go. “She’s asking me to die. You—you all are asking me to do that.” His voice was unstable, and tears were still streaming down his face. “And I know that you guys are doing that too, but I’m just not you. I’m not made for this, I’m not brave, I’m not a hero. I can’t even ask you what you would do if you were in my position because I already know what you would do, because you’re incredible and so good and courageous. But that’s just not me.”
You stared at him, speechless.
He stepped even closer until his coat brushed against your sweater. His hand found its way to your jaw, where he gently tilted your face up. Your heart was racing, and he was staring at you so intently that it sent shivers down your spine.
“If you can’t tell me what I should do, then give me a reason to come with you,” he said lowly.
“No,” you recoiled back. “Ryland, that’s not—you can’t just… we can’t…”
“I know, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.” He reached for you again, and you moved closer again, letting him pull you into a hug. His shoulders were shaking as sobs racked through him, and you could feel your own tears soak his sweater.
You breathed in deeply, knowing that it was probably one of the last times you’d be able to be so close to him.
“I can’t go,” he said after some time. His voice was quiet and resigned. His arms tightened around you, as if he were trying to pull you into the safety of his ribcage. “I can’t do it.”
You gasped upon hearing him say that. It was like a boulder dropped from your heart, leaving you woozy with relief. You pulled away from him, and he looked like he was getting ready to apologize again.
Before he could open his mouth, you surged forward, pressing your lips to his.
He stumbled back a little at the sudden shift in weight, but he quickly stabilized himself. His one hand landed on your face again, and his other on your waist, pulling you even closer.
The kiss wasn’t soft or sweet. It was frantic, lips pressing against each other hard enough to bruise. Your time was running out, but you didn’t care. You twisted your fingers into his soft hair. He was kissing you as if trying to swallow you whole, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth. You did the same, trying to burn everything about this moment into your brain.
Ryland would stay here on Earth, and you’d fly up into space. In three days, you would say goodbye forever, but right now, you could do this, knowing that it was your only chance, your last chance to give yourself over to the other person—to thank each other.
There were tears still streaming down your face, and you could feel that his cheeks were wet too. But you both ignore it, only grasping onto one another more frantically.
This was it.
A/N: soooo how is everyone feeling... lol
btw that doesn't mean anything. one of them is repressed as hell and the other one doesn't even remember hehehe
also I have some beef with phm because tell me why it says that Blip-A is 800 meters away from the Hail Mary... EXCUSE ME?? no it isn't! That has been bothering me since I first saw the film. 800 meters is ridiculous right? grace's part of the tunnel is at most like 50 meters, and while it is fair to say that rocky probably built the wall closer to grace's ship 750 more meters is absurd. I did some makeshift experimenting to try to guess a better distance considering Blip-A is ca. 140 meters but I am not a scientist and I only used a measuring tape and my desk lmao
anyway omg I can't wait to write rocky, my favorite freaky nudist alien we <3 you
taglist: @theworstwolvie @qardasngan @madsfilmjournal @vexerieart @lialilalo @firefly--bright (comment to be added)
HI UNDOXT my queen, may i so humbly request fluffy, dumb-drunk Ryland Grace stumbling back to your place mumbling drunken confessions and being all cuddly and cute completely confessing practically without even thinking twice what hes saying before the words spill out… pretty please with a cherry on top??? 🙏🙏🙏🙏
Ahhhh that is so cuteeee i love it!! Definitely going to write this! I‘ll have to see when I have the time but I promise it’s coming <33333
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