☆･ﾟ✮ Aspen ✮･ﾟ☆

Dante glared at the stack of papers in front of him. Sadly even he wasn’t immune to having paperwork, as much as he puts it off he still had to get it done, Eventually. tho sometimes he Was able to pawn some of it off on someone else. He grumbled as he started to read and scribble things down on notes or documents. Electricity bills, water bills, other bills, fines for property damage from a few recent jobs, and various other random things. it only took a few minutes for him to start developing a headache. God he hated paperwork! he’d give anything for a distraction right now! Morrison coming to give him a late payment or a Last minute job, Lady barging in about his debt, demons braking his door down! Anything!

Well anything other then the distraction he Did get. He heard small whines coming from the other side of the room. Curiously Dante lifted his head up from where he’d slammed it on his desk. When he didn’t hear it again thought he was just hearing things until he Did hear it, this time it was louder and followed by mumbling. it was a string of ‘No’s’ a few ‘get away’s’ and pleases.

He was considering just letting her sleep through it until he heard her say his name. It felt like his heart had dropped to his stomach. she was calling out to him in her sleep and she sounded scared ‘Dammit’ he grumbled making his way over to the couch. once there he sat down on the edge beside her. she’d moved around in her sleep ending up on her back with her hands clutched to her chest. Her face was crunched up in discomfort tears running down her cheeks. Dante placed his hand on her shoulder gently nudging her. ‘Hey. Patty wake up’ he kept his voice quiet as not to startle her- which didn’t work, as she woke up she sat up hiding in the corner of the couch away from him. her breathing was quick and panicked from being woken up from the nightmare and she was staring at Dante with wide eyes full of fear, a hand clutch at her necklace. ‘It’s just me Patty. I’m not gonna hurt you’ his voice was soft, same with features, his eyes slightly lidded, lips drawn into a small worried frown. Her mind still wasn’t fully out of the nightmare. Patty clung to Dante burying her face in his chest ‘Dante!- please Don’t let them get me! Please!’ She cried.

Almost as if he was contemplating something Dante’s hand and arm hovered around her not yet making contact. He seemed to have made up his mind tho, pulling her in to his lap and holding her close. like he wished someone had for him all those years ago when he was young. ‘I won’t Patty. . . I won’t’ He stared into space as Patty cried into his chest he could feel his shirt getting soaked with snot and tears but he didn’t care even if it was a bit uncomfortable. her hands desperately clutched the fabric, he wouldn’t be surprised if her nails were boring hole in it to. Dante layed his head on top of hers. rubbing her arm with one hand the other being ran through her blond curls sorting out the knots that had worked their why in to it as she slept. the cries turned into shaky breathing as she tried to choke back the sobs and speak. ‘why did the demons have to take her away from me. . .’ ‘Their gonna come for me to. Dante. . .’ her voice was shaky and broken, she didn’t try to say anything else afterwards sense it started a new round of tears. ‘I’m right here Patty. No demons gonna hurt you. Alright’ Dante whispered.

thats what her nightmare was about. She’d been in a nice home, just her with her mom when Patty reached out to hold her hand everything had shifted, she was now in a dark void the inky black ground just barely shined revealing a deep red hue. her mom pulled away from her and started to run as demons started to appear some chasing her, she’d called out yelling for her but it didn’t work, she didn’t come back. She’d disappeared in the darkness. she yelled again and again ‘no! No no no-no-no! Please no! Come back! Mommy!’ a demon tried to pounce on her but she somehow managed to get out of its way. Then more and more of them appeared surrounding her. she begged for them to get away from her, for anyone’s help- for Dante. then she woke and Dante was right there. . . . he didn’t know this though, he didn’t know she had similar nightmares to his own. But he knew how much it had to hurt.

Dante adjusted himself to sit more comfortably on the couch, no longer on the edge he sat leaning against it, Patty’s legs were laid across his lap, head resting on his chest as she sniffed and wiped her face with the hem of her sleeve trying to stop her tears. Dante held her in place making sure not to use to much force so he wouldn’t hurt her.

all he could do was think. He’d tried to Shield Patty from the gruesome show that was killing demons, pulling her hat down over her eyes, shooting the ropes holding the stages backdrop up. Shoving her in a closet like he was. but it wasn’t enough, being with him she’d see it no matter what.

Even if she had a Heavy weight on her heart already from her mothers disappearance and being at the orphanage it didn’t compare to what she’d seen since she decided to stick with him. she was just a kid, kids didn’t need to see things get murdered and blood and meat splatter everywhere. They didn’t need to watch as things got ripped to pieces. And they didn’t need to hear their parents be killed either even if they were Demons. Kids didn’t need any of that. Know one did really. Dante hated to admit it but for as annoying as she was, he was found of her. it gave him all the more reasons to push her away and try to get rid of her. she was just a kid.

he didn’t deserve her, he didn’t deserve anyone in his life. not Patty, not Trish, not Morrison, and certainly not Lady. all he did was make their lives worse. He put them in danger constantly. Heck half the people he's known have died because of him. he didn’t want to be responsible if something happened to Patty. the thought alone was enough to make him want to-

He was pulled out of his thought by Patty’s grip on him tightened, tho she’d stopped crying. ‘Dante?’ Her voice was quite, still a bit rough from all the crying ‘Yeah?’ Her face was hidden from his view but he could tell she was debating what to say. ‘Can I stay here?’ she wasn’t talking about in the shop, she wanted to stay here in his arms, it felt safe, No demons could hurt her here. Dante knew this, so he shrugged as best as he could ‘sure’ who was he to deny her thay feeling of protection?

he got a bit more comfortable on the couch, laying his head on top of hers again. he really shouldn’t be this close to her, she was only going to get hurt. He needed to get rid of her push her away but he couldn’t, because just like Lady she’d come right back, he didn’t have the heart to truly try to get rid of her.

I'm pretty sure it's confirmed DMC, RE, and Bayonetta are in the same universe, but I could be wrong though.

Dante and Leon, as both of your partners yummy. Dante is the type to hog the bed Dante would take up 90% of the bed and blankets, leaving you and Leon a fraction of the bed and fighting for a blanket. They both got that dad snore, you know the one get some ear plugs so you can sleep at night.

Dante is team naked when sleeping Leon would either sleep in his boxers or work clothes there's no in between. Missions can be rough and tiring he most likely dosen't think about changing and would just go to bed.

Leon definitely has PTSD, as does Dante. There have been multiple times when one of them woke up due to a nightmare or something, which causes the other two to wake up and comfort the person. I doubt the two would be easy to open up about their trauma and would need some time to open up.

Leon and Dante be dropping one-liners every 5 seconds it would be worse with those two; they constantly would piggyback off each other, it would get annoying. The dad jokes don't even get me started on them.

As your partners, they would be the best, so caring and always protective of you. Dant,e being a demon hunter, and Leon, fighting zombies and other shi,t the things they've seen a regular person couldn't handle,e and they would be looking out for your safety, and each other's, as they don't want to lose you. Leon has had multiple instances where he was infected, and the thought of you and Dante being infected or himself and losing you both, that thought scares him..

Group cuddles are the absolute best. Dante, being half-demon, is naturally a bit warmer. Leon is also a bit warm on a cold day, being squished by both of them = free heater for you. On a hot day, though You'd be pushing them off and they'd pull you closer.

While they both enjoy spending time with the three of you, sometimes that can't always happen. Dante might go on a mission leaving you and Leon, or Leon might be out, leaving you and Dante, heck you might go out leaving Dante and Leon alone together. Nonetheless of who's with who they always make sure to make it up to the person who was left out they make sure that equal time is spent while they do enjoy 1 on 1s somtimes they wouldn't want one person feeling unloved or left out.

Dates would include going out, doing stuff at home, such as making homemade pizza, watching movies, or even just being in the same space, doing different things. Dante would prefer doing stuff at home (broke ass) while Leon does not have a preference.

On the topic of alcohol, Leon is an alcoholic as of RE9 I do believe he is recovered

Leon's alcoholism was pretty bad. Being pretty depressed, which you and Dante both understand. Being there for him and supporting him is the only thing you can really do. There have been times when Leon lashed out at you both. He felt really bad for those times and did apologize, but it was still sucky on his part. He did eventually go to AA, and he started to get better and went to the gym more. Even though times have been rough for him the reminder of you and Dante kept him going to get better.

"let's find somewhere to rest," leon calls over the noise from the roaring downpour. you offer a curt nod in reply, silently following as he wanders out of the makeshift wooden arena.

the castle's corridors are long and winding. they twist in seemingly nonsensical directions, all held together with nothing more than stone and wood. the light from leon's flashlight is the only thing that breaks through the pitch blackness. the silence is interrupted by your heavy footsteps.

it isn't long before you find a small, wooden door amidst the stone. leon pauses for a moment, glancing back at you. silently, you grab your knife, curling your fingers into the leather handle. its weight almost feels comforting in your hand. leon's own hand ghosts against his holster as if to check his gun is still there. then, without a word, he raises his hand, and pushes the door open.

the wood whines in protest with the movement. its hinges have rusted over, corroded by years of solitude. leon persists, however, forcing it until there's enough room for both of your bodies to slip inside.

the room is nothing special. you spot a small wooden notch in the wood, complete with a makeshift candle that has long since burnt out. you quickly holster your knife before using a lighter to ignite the wood. the small fire casts a golden glow across the room.

a large, wooden table rests against the side wall. a large pile of cobblestones spills from the corner. every surface is covered in a thick layer of undisturbed dust. cobwebs dangle from the ceiling. you're not sure if the spiders who made them are still alive. it seems like the room has been left frozen in time.

without a word, leon returns to your side. his body is so close you can hear the soft sound of his breathing. his shoulder skims against your own, almost like a reminder that he's there. the door closes behind you with a loud thud where the wood meets stone once again.

for a moment, time stills. there are no monsters. nothing is coming to hurt you. no one is trying to kill you. for a moment, it's just you and leon. his face is illuminated by the golden glow of the fire. you can see the tired gleam in his eyes - one that matches your own. his hair has started to dry, now, returning to its original dirty blond. his clothes are damp, but the water on his skin has dried.

for a moment, it's peaceful.

but everything comes to an end.

"are you alright?" leon asks. his voice is quiet, though there's an unusual waver behind the words. he swallows - a nervous habit you had noticed. leon had a lot of little ticks when he worked. little mantras that calmed his nerves during hard days. now, all of them seemed to come out in full force.

"i feel okay." there's a beat of silence. leon's gaze never leaves your own. "why?"

his lips part. then, whatever words he wanted to say disappear, buried into a deep recess of his mind once again. leon silently reaches out. he moves slowly, as if you're a feral animal he's worried of scaring off. his gloved hand scratches against your bare skin when he gently tugs the sleeve of your shirt upwards, exposing your forearm to the light.

there, undeniably embedded into your skin, is the beginnings of the las plagas virus. deep, black veins stretch out from the central point. they stretch across your body, already growing at a rapid rate. the edges are raised slightly. they pulse with each beat your heart makes. the skin surrounding it is covered in hues of blue and purple, the same sickly color as the villagers you had fought mere hours ago. the toxins have already begun to make themselves known.

your body freezes. you stare at the injury. leon's hand has fallen down to your wrist. his thumb rubs small circles against your skin as if to soothe you from the pain of the realization. you can't move. can't talk. you can't even blink.

you don't even notice yourself trembling until leon's grip tightens. he takes another step closer to you. his right hand ghosts against your lower back - not enough to be felt, but enough to know that he's there. you can almost feel his hesitation when he pulls back just before touching you, overly cautious to cross any lines.

"you were shaking during the fight," he explains. the beat of silence that follows lasts too long. leon doesn't finish his sentence. he doesn't need to. and then i saw it.

truthfully, your hands had a tendency to tremble after fights. the adrenaline coursing through your body was never a comforting feeling. it would eventually fade into nausea and then a dull ache in your chest, always present and impossible to ignore.

this was different. this knocked the air out of your lungs. it paralyzed you. this was the beginning of the end. the beginning of a slow, painful death. you blink away unshed tears, though your effort does little to prevent them from coming. a lump forms in your throat.

"leon." you're doing your best to remain unaffected, but your voice betrays you. you feel like a child again - desperately trying to escape the nightmare you've found yourself in. his grip tightens around your wrist. his shoes scuff against cobblestone when he shuffles closer, now fully closing the distance between your bodies. you can almost hear the lecture he would give if you tried to pull away. you can't hide from me. i'm your partner.

leon debates offering an answer, but you beat him to it. in a quiet, barely there whisper, your voice fills the night. "i'm scared."

the silence that falls between you feels suffocating. there is nothing leon can say. nothing he can do. so, instead, he wraps his arms around you. his eyes flutter shut as you hide yourself away against his chest. he's sure his rapid heartbeat is enough to rival your own.

your fingers dig into leon's shoulders, gripping into the fabric of his shirt and clawing at his tendons. his own hands rest against your sides in an attempt to hold your shaking body steady. he doesn't say anything about the way a few stray tears drip against his neck. in return, you ignore his unsteady breathing and small sniffle of his own.

leon squeezes his eyes shut, so hard that a few stray tears of his own drip down his cheeks. he bites his tongue, hoping the pain will distract him from the dull ache forming in his chest. anything else would send the dam breaking. leon sends a quiet prayer into the sky, hoping it reaches someone. something.

please give me one more chance.

notes: please leave feedback if you enjoyed!! i know this was requested forever ago but i was checking my reqs again and had an idea so here it is :)) i'll write a part two if people are interested, thank you so much for the request, i hope you like it :)), title from pierce the veil - i don't care if you're contagious

Grace nearly launched himself into the ceiling. “Jesus—!”

The tether uncoiled behind you in loops, its faint clinking traveling up the steel braid and vibrating into the chest plate of your suit. Beneath you, the hull of the Hail Mary stretched out like the white belly of some prehistoric deep-sea leviathan. Overhead, the infinite empty void of space yawned open.

Back in the control room, Grace’s eyes scrambled over the main console until they finally locked onto the small microphone. “Hello?” he said, quite frantically. “Cap, can you hear me? Hello? Copy?” 

You smiled behind the glass, though your brows furrowed at the obtrusive volume of Grace’s voice. You were using a handrail to orient yourself as you began the slow hand-over-hand crawl along the ship's spine. “I copy. But turn your mic down a notch, you're practically inside my skull.”

“Right! Sorry. Adjusting. Is that better?” 

“Much.” 

“Everything okay out there?” 

“You tell me, Doc. You’re the one on the screens.” Your laugh was accompanied by static. “S’just dark as far as the eye can see over here.” 

“Oh, god. Right. Okay.” You heard him shuffling across the panels. “Okay, everything looks normal. And there’s this radar here with a bunch of little green dots. None of them are near you. Well, there's one, but it's moving away. It’s moving very fast. Wow, space is terrible.” 

“You’re doing great.”

The damage to the Petrova scope's antenna array was exactly as the diagnostic had described. The primary bracket was sheared through, looking like torn foil. The relay coupling, which was the little yellow case's counterpart, was warped. Its ceramic housing cracked open to expose a nest of severed fiber-optic filaments that floated like tiny transparent hairs. 

“I’m onsite,” you reported, hooking your safety tether to the anchor point. “The bracket is compromised. I'm going to have to manually realign the housing before I can seat the new coupler. It's going to take some muscle. My telemetry might spike a bit; don't panic.”

“Copy that,” said Grace. You could hear him impatiently tapping against the console. “Hey, can I tell you something?” 

“Talk to me, Goose.” You unclipped the tool bag from your thigh and pulled out the pneumatic wrench. The work was tedious, frustratingly restricted by the pressurized bulk of your gloves. 

There was a brief crackle of static as Grace took a breath. “I’m terrified of heights.” 

A soft chuckle huffed out of you, echoing inside your helmet. “If it makes you feel any better, there’s no up and down out here. Technically, no such thing as ‘height’ either. There’s no floor to catch you and no floor to fall from. We’ve got a trillion miles of absolute nothing in every direction.” 

It took a while for him to respond. “You seriously thought that would make me feel better?” 

Every action required an equal and opposite reaction; if you turned the wrench too hard without anchoring your hips, your whole body would swing around the bolt like a pendulum. For five agonizing minutes, the only sounds were the rhythmic whir-snap of the tool, the steady hiss-click of your suit's oxygen regulators, and Grace's occasional, anxious updates.

“Debris field is clear,” he said. He’d begun chewing on a Twizzler that he’d found floating over the panels. “Hull pressure is rock solid... You've got a slight temperature spike in your left glove, is that normal?”

“Yeah. Friction from the wrench. Keep watching.”

“Copy.”

You pulled the cracked coupling free. It drifted away on a short wire lanyard until you clipped it to your tool belt, replacing it with the pristine, yellow-housed component Grace had retrieved for you. It slid into the slot with a gratifying mechanical clack.

“Coupler is seated,” you grunted, bracing your knees against the hull as you reached for the locking lever. “Engaging the primary seal now.” 

As you worked, the cause of the damage became clear. The tricky thing about traveling at the speed of light was that any loose debris you met had the calibre of a bullet. The ship's primary defense was its massive sacrificial bumper, designed to absorb the brutal kinetic energy of cosmic dust. But with the ship now in orbit, (or settling into orbit) there was hardly a need to be wary of such dangers. 

Unless of course, instead of the ship propelling towards the debris, the debris was coming at you. 

“Something’s wrong.” Grace sat up from his chair. “I’m getting alarms, Cap. Foreign objects detected? This wasn't here before. What the – Oh, god the green dots in the radar earlier — there’s a cluster of them now. Heading to you!” 

Your head snapped up. You didn't waste time looking at the void; you wouldn’t see projectiles traveling at kilometers per second until they were already tearing through you. “How long?” you barked, having already abandoned the wrench. 

It didn’t make sense to Grace. How was it coming so fast? How had Mary not seen it sooner? “Five seconds! Four—!” 

You unhooked your knees from the cleats and threw your weight downward. You tried to tuck your body behind the thick, reinforced structural rib of the Petrova scope's primary housing. It was the only substantial piece of shielding within arm's reach. You pulled yourself in, curling into a tight, desperate ball against the hull. But you were a fraction of a second too late. A soundless flurry of violence erupted around you. A spray of cosmic gravel shredded the space where you had just been floating. It didn't make a sound in the vacuum, but you felt it — a series of sharp, rhythmic thuds vibrating violently through the metal hull beneath your chest. Bright sparks danced across your visor as particles vaporized against the ship's skin.

Then came the impact.

A blinding spike of agony caught your trailing left arm. One of the larger fragments slammed directly into your sleeve. Your dutiful EVA suit refused to breach, and as a result, trapped the force into your forearm and shattered the bone under your skin. 

The strike spun you against your tether until your helmet snapped against the hull. You couldn’t tell if you were screaming. You were deaf to the world, hearing only the sharp singing of your broken arm. 

You gasped for air, spots dancing in your eyes. You clutched your shoulder and pulled your wrist toward your chest. The pain was a sickening, throbbing white-hot fire radiating towards your entire torso. You forced your eyes to focus on the flashing HUD data overlaying the dark void.

SUIT PRESSURE: 14.7 PSI (STABLE)

O2 SUPPLY: NOMINAL

INTEGRITY: 100%

The ringing in your ears gradually subsided. In its place, came Grace’s frantic calls. 

“Cap! Cap!” He was screaming into the microphone, his voice slightly distorted by the volume. “I lost your vitals — no, wait, your heart rate is at 180! The suit sensors — is there a breach? Tell me there's no breach. Talk to me!”

The multi-layered Kevlar and reinforced polymer weave of the sleeve had held, absorbing the brunt of the hit without puncturing. But the sheer force of the impact had transferred straight through the insulation.  

“No… no breach,” you squeezed through gritted teeth. You pressed your forehead against your visor, sweating profusely. “Suit’s… suit’s whole, Grace.” 

Grace didn’t realize he was already crying. He angrily wiped his tears away with his fist. Now was not the time. “Okay.” He sniffled. “Okay. Come back. Forget the antenna, come back now.” 

“My arm,” you groaned. A choked sound escaped your throat as the throbbing intensified. Inside the rigid, heavy suit, you tried to move your hand and immediately regretted it as a fresh wave of agony made your stomach churn. “My arm's broken. I can’t move it.” 

Grace paled. 

It took everything in you not to vomit. In zero gravity, a broken arm wasn’t a weight-bearing problem, but a physics problem. Every time you hauled your weight forward with your single good hand, the lack of a counter-stabilizing grip sent your lower body swinging. You kept your injury as close to your body as possible, but the shattered bones under your skin felt as though they were grinding together with sickening, wet friction. You had to time each pull, slowly dragging yourself along the handrails, knowing that one missed grip meant hurtling into the void.

“I see you.” Grace’s trembling voice snapped you out of the haze. “I-I see you, Cap. You’re doing great. You’re past the thrusters. Just six meters to the airlock.” He was lying. It was eight meters. But he needed the distance to be shorter, if only to keep his own lungs from seizing up. He felt completely and utterly useless.

“Tell me… tell me about the radar,” you panted, your voice cracking as you reached for the next magnetic cleat. You needed a distraction. You needed him to talk. “Any—Any more debris?” 

Grace snapped his eyes to the screens. He blinked back the tears that blurred his vision. “No. Nothing. It’s clear. You’re safe, I promise.” 

“Good.” You laughed weakly. “Because I don’t think I have another dodge in me, Doc.” 

“Don’t talk, just focus on the rails,” Grace pleaded. His breath shuddered. “You’re almost there. Just come inside. Please, just come inside.” 

When you got closer towards re-entry, Grace abandoned his station and rushed to the nodes to get you. 

The internal airlock door hadn’t finished its depressurization but Grace was already throwing it open. The sudden rush of cabin air swirled around your helmet. You barely registered it. You were slumped against the bulkhead, your right hand locked onto an emergency handle in a death grip while your left arm hung weightless.

​“Oh my god, oh my god, I’ve got you,” Grace lunged into the airlock, his hands trembling so violently he could barely get a purchase on your suit’s latches.

​He didn't bother with the full decompression protocol. With a frantic grunt, he popped the seals on your helmet and yanked it free. The sudden rush of cool, recycled ship air hit your sweat-drenched face, but the relief was instantly swallowed by a wave of vertigo. The cabin was spinning.

​“Can you talk? A-Are you going to pass out?” Grace’s face was inches from yours, his eyes wide and panicked behind his crooked glasses.

​“Don't… don't touch the left sleeve,” you wheezed, your voice a ragged whisper. Every breath felt like inhaling glass. “Just get me… out of the suit.”

​“Right. Okay. Carefully. We’re going carefully.”

​It was anything but careful. In microgravity, maneuvering a dead-weight human body out of a rigid multi-layered EVA suit was an Olympic sport. Doing it while trying not to jostle a shattered forearm was competing in the finals. Grace worked like a man possessed, unclipping the torso restraints and peeling the heavy material down past your hips, steering entirely clear of your left side.

​When your left arm finally slid free of the inner lining, a sharp, ragged gasp tore from your throat. Without the stiff structure of the suit to hold it, the arm deformed — bending at a sickening, unnatural angle between the wrist and the elbow.

​Grace let out a small, horrified squeak, the blood draining from his face. “Oh, Jesus. Okay. Don't look at it. Just look at me.”

​He grabbed your right hand and draped your good arm over his shoulders, anchoring his arm around your waist to keep you from drifting. “We need to get to the lab. The med bay. Hold onto me, okay? Just hold on.”

​The journey through the narrow, cylindrical corridors of the Hail Mary was an exercise in pain. Without gravity to keep you grounded, every movement required momentum. Every shift was an enemy. Grace used his free hand to pull both of your masses along the guide rails, but he wasn’t a trained astronaut; his movements were jerky and frantic.

​With every forward lurch, your lower body drifted, and the momentum transmitted straight up your torso to your dangling left arm. The shattered ends of your bones shifted and ground against each other inside your swollen skin.

​“Wait—Grace, stop, stop,” you choked out, your eyes squeezing shut as a violent wave of nausea hit you. Your stomach convulsed, and you had to swallow down the bitter taste of bile. If you vomited in zero gravity now, you’d choke on it.

​“Stopping! I’m stopping!” Grace slammed his hand onto a handrail, bringing both of you to a sudden, jarring halt.

​The abrupt deceleration sent a searing shock of lightning straight up your arm and into your brain. Your vision completely blew out into a roaring haze of grey static. You felt your knees buckle into the empty air, your chin dropping against Grace’s shoulder as you shivered from deep, systemic shock.

​“Hey, hey! Stay with me!” Grace’s voice sounded like it was underwater, echoing from the end of a long tunnel. He was panicking, his grip tightening around your waist as he began hauling you forward again, much faster now, his breaths coming in ragged, terrified gapes. “We’re almost there. Come on, don't pass out on me yet. I can't do this by myself!”

​You couldn't answer. You could only press your face into the fabric of his jumpsuit. Your right hand clutched his shoulder so hard your fingers cramped, riding out the humming aches as he dragged you through the hatchway of the infirmary. For what it was worth, it felt good to be held. You kept your cheek against Grace's shoulder, relishing in what little relief his presence brought. 

​“Okay, okay.” Grace set you down on one of the cots. Under the infirmary’s fluorescent lights, the unnatural color your arm was turning became impossible to ignore. He did his best not to look at it as he strapped you down. 

Your head lolled as he moved. “Grace,” you called weakly. 

His eyes snapped to you. “Yes? Yes? What's wrong? It's gonna be okay, we're gonna fix this, okay? Hang on. I'll fix it, I promise.” 

You couldn't even remember why you said his name. You supposed you just wanted to see his face. Dazed and weakened by the deafening pain, you sought comfort in having his attention. At least you weren't alone, you thought. You couldn't imagine going through something like this by yourself. 

As the final strap clicked into place, securing you firmly against the cot, a chime sounded overhead. Mary's perfectly modulated voice echoed through the small room.

​“Warning. Biometric anomaly detected. Commanding Officer: heart rate: 178 beats per minute. Respiration: elevated. Severe localized trauma identified in upper left extremity.”

​“Yeah, no kidding!” Grace yelled at the ceiling, using the back of his arm to wipe a mix of sweat and tears from his face. “Uh… Uh, initialize medical assessment protocol!” 

​With a heavy hydraulic hiss, a panel in the bulkhead beside the cot slid open. Out glided Armando, the ship's sleek, segmented contraption of aluminum and white polymer, tipped with a precise multi-jointed hand. 

​Armando didn't have a face, but the way its optical sensors whirred and clicked as they focused on your left arm felt intensely invasive. The robotic hand hovered a mere inch above your swollen, distorted forearm. A thin line of green laser light swept down from your elbow to your wrist, mapping the grotesque S-shape of the fractured bone beneath the skin.

​You hissed through your teeth, flinching away even though the machine hadn't actually touched you.

​“Assessment complete,” Mary reported. “Displaced compound-adjacent fracture of the left radius and ulna. High risk of compartment syndrome. Radial artery compression detected. Peripheral blood flow to left distal extremity is critical. Immediate manual reduction required to prevent permanent tissue necrosis.”

​Grace stared at the diagnostic monitor, his face losing what little color it had left. “Necrosis? No, no, no... Okay, uh, Mary, initiate automated analgesic protocol? Give him the good stuff, knock him out!”

​“Request denied,” Mary responded instantly. “Mechanical failure detected in primary intravenous delivery valve. Fluid line pressure: insufficient. Administered dosage of localized analgesic: 0.05 milligrams. Maximum threshold reached for current capacity.”

​“What do you mean threshold reached?!” Grace slammed his fist against the medical console. “Override it! Bypass the valve!”

​“Bypass unavailable. Manual intervention required.”

“Grace,” you choked out. “Something's blocking the valve. It's not gonna work till you fix it.” 

​The infirmary lapsed into a terrifying silence, save for the rhythmic, high-pitched beeping of your spiking heart rate. Armando’s robotic hand retracted slightly, twisting its joints into a waiting posture, as if acknowledging its own inability to fix the mechanical jam.

​Grace turned his head to look at you. “Okay, so I'll fix it. I-I'll fix the valve.” 

“Fix it later,” you told him. “Right now you have to activate the centrifuge. We need gravity for the rest of the infirmary to be operational. C-Can you do that for me?” 

Grace nodded. He asked you to stay still, then he was gone. 

Grace had been out of your sight for no more than two minutes, but it was hard to gauge time with how incessantly your arm was burning. It felt like forever. It felt like he'd never return. You breathed shallowly in your cot as you stared up at the ceiling and did your best to stay conscious. 

Then, the world shifted. You held your breath, thinking it was another wave of vertigo. But then your hair fell over your face and you realized that gravity was making a cautious return. Up and down were re-established in a slow, careful descent. 

It felt good to be oriented, but worse to feel pressure against your broken arm. You let out a strangled, breathless cry, your right hand instantly locking onto the metal frame of the cot as the extra weight crushed you into the mattress. Your vision, already swimming with static, began to fade into darkness.

​“I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Grace yelled, stumbling as his own feet slammed into the newly formed floor. He nearly ran into your bed upon his return. His glasses slid completely off his nose, dangling from one ear. “I did it. Gravity stable. What now?”

“Shit.” You gasped. “Shit, shit, shit.” You inhaled a deep, unhelpful breath. “Grace, you have to set my arm.” 

“What?!” 

“You do. You have to do it. Armando's not going to with that broken valve. You need to set my arm before he can operate.” You held your good hand out as if to stop him from bolting. “You just — i-it's just one big snap into place, okay? Then I'll pass out, then you can fix the valve.” 

“You're insane!” 

“I'm out of options, Grace!” You were hyperventilating by then. The monitors next to you were going haywire. “You can do this.”

Grace tugged on his hair. He was going to be sick. “Can't I just fix the valve first?” 

“No!” you yelled. He hadn't heard you yell that loud before. “No. Please. Set the arm. I want this over with. It hurts. If you take any longer the injury will be irreparable. You have to do it.” 

Grace froze, momentarily shaken by the desperation in your voice. ​He looked at your face, streaked with sweat, pale with shock, twisted in an agony he doubted he could comprehend. He inhaled a deep, steadying breath. This was the least he could do. 

​“Okay,” Grace breathed, his voice suddenly losing its frantic pitch. He swiped his dangling glasses off his ear and shoved them into his jumpsuit pocket. He didn’t want a clear view of this. “Okay. I’m going to do it.”

​He stepped to the side of the cot, his boots slamming heavily against the floor. He positioned himself over your left arm. Up close, under the harsh infirmary lights, the distortion was stomach-turning. The sharp, jagged edge of the radius was pushing so hard against the underside of your skin that the tissue was white and bloodless, a mere breath away from tearing through.

​“Hold onto the rail with your right hand,” Grace commanded, hands hovering over you. “Don't let go. Don’t move.” 

​You locked your right fingers around the cold titanium frame of the medical bed. You closed your eyes, squeezing so hard your face creased. You took one last ragged breath. “Do it.”

​Grace didn't give you a countdown. He knew if he paused, he’d lose his nerve.

​He clamped his left hand firmly just above your elbow, pinning your upper arm against the mattress to anchor it against the crushing centripetal force. With his right hand, he gripped your wrist, his fingers locking tightly over your cold, purple-tinged skin. ​Then, with a guttural grunt of exertion, Grace leaned his entire body weight backward, pulling your wrist down and away from your shoulder with everything he had.

​The universe fractured.

An ungodly wet grinding screech echoed within the flesh of your arm as the overlapping, shattered ends of the radius and ulna were forcefully dragged back past one another. The sharp shards of bone plowed through muscle and fascia. ​A raw, piercing scream tore from your throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated torment that vibrated through the metal frame of the bed. Your spine violently arched off the cot, fighting against the padded restraint straps as every nerve ending in your upper body flared into a blinding nova of pain.

To Grace’s horror, the job didn’t end there. He felt the horrific, structural resistance of the bones, and with one final, agonizing heave, he gave the wrist a sharp, aligning twist.

​SNAP.

​A heavy, sickening thud reverberated through your arm as the two main shafts of the bone finally slid back into their parallel tracks. Instantly, the pressure on the radial artery released, and a hot, throbbing rush of restricted blood surged back into your fingertips.

​At the exact same moment, the automated splint on the counter sensed the alignment. With a sharp hydraulic click, it shot forward, wrapping around your forearm and clamping down to lock the newly straightened limb into place. 

​But you didn't feel the splint. The overload to your nervous system was too much. Your eyes rolled back, your grip on the metal rail went completely slack, and your head fell heavily to the side. The world mercifully went black, plunging you into deep, silent unconsciousness. 

​On the monitor, your heart rate plummeted from its frantic peak, settling into a steady thumping.

​Grace let go of your wrist, stumbling backward until his back hit a wall. He slumped down against it, sliding to the floor, his chest heaving as he stared at his trembling, sweat-slicked hands. He was hyperventilating, crying, tugging on his hair again. He wanted to throw up. But he also wanted to be sure you were alright. 

​Above him, Mary’s voice chimed with a serene indifference. “Vascular occlusion resolved. Distal blood flow restored to 100%. Bone alignment within acceptable parameters.”

​Grace sat there for a moment longer, timing his breaths to the steady beeping of your heart rate. 

​“Right,” he choked out, aggressively wiping his cheeks as he forced himself back up. “Not done.” 

Compared to the horror of setting your bones with his bare hands, fixing the valve was a walk in the park. Mary had been there to guide the repair, and soon enough the rest of the medical systems were operational. More hands protruded from the cot. They snipped your shirt off and injected you with needles and tubes. Armando wore an oxygen mask over your peaceful face. They whirred and hummed and then a scalpel was slicing through your skin. 

Grace did not do well with blood. Back on Earth, he felt dizzy at the sight of a drop. But he could not look away from you. He held himself as he stood over your unconscious body and watched as mechanical arms operated on yours. He didn’t leave until the process was done. It had taken hours, and the balls of his feet had ached and numbed, but he wasn’t satisfied until he had confirmation that you were stable. 

When the tension finally bled out of him, it hit his knees first. Grace sank straight into the floor, head dropping to his hands. He cried into the ground and stayed there until he could cry no longer. His lungs burned with a weariness that felt heavier than any force the ship could pull. 

He didn’t think about going back to his quarters. Instead he dragged his blanket and pillow from his bed and pulled them through the corridors, clumsy in his exhaustion. He laid them out on the floor beside your cot and collapsed there. He wedged himself into the tight gap between your bed and the diagnostic console. The space was cramped and ridiculous for a man of his size, but it was the only place he could bear to be. 

Lying there on his side, his cheek pressed against the rough fabric of his pillow, he stared up at the underside of your cot. The position was devastatingly familiar.

It brought him right back to those terrifying first weeks. The fog of his amnesia had been so thick and suffocating, and you had been nothing more than a stranger with a stable heartbeat on a monitor. He remembered watching you until his eyes could no longer do so. Now, he would do it again. He would wait for you to wake up no matter how long it took. 

The hours blurred into a disjointed montage of isolation.

Grace lost track of the ship's artificial day-and-night cycles. He lived in the increments between your medical readouts. Every three hours, the overhead console would hum, cycling a fresh dosage of targeted analgesics into your IV line. Grace would instantly sit up at the sound, his eyes scanning the data, verifying the diagnostics and checking your skin temperature before allowing his head to drop back onto his pillow.

He tried to pass the time. He brought your navy moleskine notebook into the bay, holding it under the dim tertiary lights. He traced the crude, jagged diagrams of Astrophage membranes and Petrova formulas he had scrawled just days before. He filled the empty margins with frantic sketches and lists — anything to keep his brain moving. But the science felt flat, and the math was useless. He felt as though the universe’s worth had shrunken down to the hitching breaths of the man on the bed next to him. 

He ate his space ramen cold, sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest, his eyes never leaving your resting profile. The plastic mask obscured the lower half of your face, fogging slightly with every exhale you took.

The twenty-two hours of orbital settling had long since passed. Outside, Tau Ceti held the Hail Mary firmly in its gravitational grip, spinning the ship through the silent, perfect curve of its new home. 

It was late. 

The world outside was dark, and cold, but the lab was warm and lit by the steady hum of monitors. 

A desk lamp cast long shadows across the tiled floor. 

There was so much work to be done and so little time to do it. 

The edges of the room were washed out like an overexposed photograph, but the feeling in your chest was heavy and whole. You were focused on a task, hunched over a surface, pen in hand, scrawling something down into your familiar navy-colored notebook. 

Something was distracting you. 

Someone was distracting you. 

Everything sounded far away, but you could hear the unmistakable cadence of Ryland’s voice. He sounded lighter — softer. He had nothing to be afraid of here. 

Since when did you call him Ryland? 

Hands.

Fingertips.

You could feel him breathing on the back of your neck. You could hear the smile in his words. 

That's enough for tonight, Captain. 

How annoying. Couldn't he see that you were busy?

Stay on your side of the lab, Grace. 

Slowly, deliberately, the tips of his fingers trailed an agonizingly gentle line up the sleeve of your shirt, tracing the curve of your bicep, sending a wave of electric heat straight to your spine.

You snapped. With a low laugh bubbling in your throat, you dropped the pen. 

You caught his wrists and surged forward, using your weight to pin Ryland back against the edge of his desk. 

A pile of folders shifted beneath him, but neither of you cared. He let out a breathless, triumphant gasp, his hands instantly wrapping around your neck to pull you down.

A kiss. 

Warm. 

Familiar. 

Secret. 

Beep. 

Beep. 

Beep…

Your eyelids felt like lead. 

You moved your good hand first, fingers twitching against a rough but thin sheet. The sensation of friction jarred your brain further into consciousness. A dull throbbing ache pulsed in your left arm, muted and distant under a heavy blanket of narcotics. 

Slowly, your eyes blinked open. 

You felt good, all things considered. You were sure you had the morphine to thank. The ceiling of the medical bay took shape above you. You sluggishly turned your head. The plastic straps of the oxygen mask shifted against your cheek. Your arm felt like a distant object. Curious, you commanded the limb to move. It rose with a heavy reluctance, floating up into your line of sight. You blinked, attempting to draw your swimming vision into focus. Your forearm was encased in a thick, rigid medical cast. It locked the limb straight, while your exposed fingertips looked slightly pale against the stark white bandages. 

You felt good. Wait, you thought that already. Boy, those meds sure were working. 

You sat up, tugging the oxygen mask from your face. 

Grace was on you in a millisecond. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What do you think you’re doing? Lay back down!” his hands were on your shoulders before your head could even clear the pillow. 

“Narcotics,” you mumbled, your voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. The oxygen mask was dangling uselessly around your neck, puffing a gentle hiss against your collarbone. You had a dazed look in your half-lidded eyes. “These are. Good. You should try.” 

“Okay, that’s nice. Please lay back down.” Grace was crying again. His warm eyes glistened with tears. 

You reached your good hand out to touch his cheek. 

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” he whispered. Despite his emotional state, he was still making sure you weren’t hurting yourself. He let you sit up, but kept a close eye on the needles and thin tubes that poked out of your skin. 

“I’m fine,” you insisted. To prove your point, you craned your neck, which triggered your vision into a slow, dizzying spin. Your hand shifted on Grace’s face, thumb clumsily catching the edge of his crooked glasses and shoving them further up his nose. 

“Don't move, just—please, don’t move,” he begged. He didn't pull away from your hand on his cheek. If anything, he leaned into the touch, verifying that you were actually warm; actually alive.

“It'll take more than just a couple of rocks to keep me down,” you slurred. “How long was I out?”

“Three days,” Grace muttered. The answer broke out of him like a sob. 

The resistance in his posture completely collapsed. His forehead dropped against your mattress, landing next to your good arm. His fingers slid down from your shoulder to lock tightly over your right hand. His shoulders shook as the last 72 hours of terror finally gave way to a wave of relief. His tears soaked wet circles into the sterile sheet of your bed.

“You did good,” you muttered.

You ran your functioning fingers through his hair, petting his messy oil-slicked curls. You didn’t know what else to do to comfort him. The sight of him so thoroughly broken by the thought of losing you was doing funny aching things to your chest. These, the painkillers couldn't numb.

“You’re a terrible patient,” he mumbled into the mattress. “An absolutely terrible patient.”

You hummed out a laugh. 

His hand blindly reached for yours. When he found it, he didn’t let go. He squeezed every time his chest hitched with another shuddering breath. He stayed like that for a long time, letting the weight of the universe bleed out of him onto the edge of your cot. 

“C’mere,” you said. You shifted your torso to the side, wincing slightly as the automated splint on your left arm gave a tiny, protective whir to adjust for the movement. You tugged at your blankets with your right hand. You made space for him on the bed; which was hardly any space at all. 

Grace lifted his head from the sheets, staring at you, bewildered. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. “What?”

“Lay with me.”

He looked at the tiny gap of mattress you’d cleared. “What?” he repeated.

“C’mon, Grace,” you slurred, your eyelids drooping as another wave of warm drowsiness rolled over your brain. You gave his hand a clumsy, insistent tug. “Who’s gonna fuckin’ see? Lay with me here — I’m cold.”

He could’ve gotten you another blanket. But he had to be numb to reject the offer to be held. Tired and sleepless himself, Grace crawled into your cot. He was hesitant and careful not to touch your broken arm, but he was also embarrassed at how little convincing it had taken him to lie down next to you. 

The rest was automatic. Grace somehow knew that he laid with his back to your chest, and you somehow knew that your good arm went over his waist. Your chin rested above his head. The mattress was entirely too small for the both of you, but it was impossible to feel uncomfortable when the warmth of another body was there to cushion your every ache. 

You slotted against each other like you'd done it a hundred times before. Grace was too exhausted to have realized this. And before he knew it, he felt himself drifting closer to proper slumber. 

“How did you figure out how to activate the centrifuge?” Your voice had gone low and sleepy. It made Grace’s stomach flip. 

“It just came to me,” he whispered. 

You smiled. “That’s good.” 

“I did this to you,” he muttered, now loopy from his own sleep depravity. His fingertips traced idle shapes on your good arm. “I didn't watch the monitors. I should've been able to tell you there was incoming debris.” 

“Wrong.” You nuzzled into his hair. “The Petrova scope wasn’t the only thing damaged. The housing sits right over the main radar antenna — the ship’s main computer couldn't see the debris because the broken scope was blocking its eyes.” 

You felt Grace curl into himself. 

“Mary couldn't have known,” you insisted. “The radar itself was broken. Didn’t even transmit to my suit. You didn't mess up. You gave me four seconds of warning in a total blind spot. If you hadn't been there, I’d be dead.”

Grace went entirely still against you. 

“You saved my life,” you whispered, your eyelids feeling heavier by the second. The morphine was pulling you back under. “Don't do it again. Bad for your heart.”

A tiny, breathless huff of a laugh shook Grace’s chest. 

Grace drifted the rest of the way down until his cheek was against your pillow. His breathing fell into a slow rhythm, matching the steady beeping of your heart monitor. One of his hands remained loosely tangled in your right fingers. You were a protective dead-weight anchor that kept you both pinned to the bed.

The medical bay faded around the edges. The harsh fluorescent lights dimmed in your consciousness, replaced by a thick, safe silence. You didn't think about the four light-years you had traveled, or the memories yet to return, or the dying suns, or the extent of your new injury, or the difficulty it would add to succeeding in your mission. You held onto the warm man beside you and let the momentum of the Hail Mary carry you both into a deep dreamless sleep.

…

The room itself was sparse but functional. He had a narrow bed, a desk, a small bathroom, and the viewport that looked like a prison window. There was a cabinet for him to keep his clothes in; which would have been nice, if he had any clothes at all. But as he wasn’t expecting to be forced to stay within government lines over the course of one meeting, he only had a few things. Eva Stratt promised they’d sort the matter of his new living situation the following morning. 

It was ridiculously easy to feel like he didn’t belong. Grace felt like a sock in a glove drawer. Though he was certain his exhaustion was mostly due to the afternoon he spent speaking to the most powerful people of the world. There was a lot of work to do. He'd had a very long day. He rubbed his face with both hands and let out a long, tired breath. 

“Fudge,” Grace muttered. “What am I doing here?”

A soft knock at the door made him flinch.

He turned, heart already kicking up. “Wh– Yeah?”

The door slid open with a quiet hydraulic hiss. He heard a voice before he saw the person it belonged to. “Dr. Grace,” it said. Familiar. He'd heard that before. The door remained ajar, but his visitor didn't step in. 

Grace clumsily stumbled on some empty boxes as he crossed the room. He was a ball of anxious energy, as eager as he was reluctant to be useful to the team. Did they need him working on something this early? He caught himself on the entryway with a huff. 

“Yes?” He said. “Dr. Grace, that's — that's me.” 

The familiar voice was accompanied by an unfamiliar face. Grace's eyes met a stranger's. They blinked at each other for a while, saying nothing in the time it took for Grace to place where he might have seen them before. He didn't have much luck. 

You stood at his door, dressed in a dark flight suit with a helmet tucked under your arm. A jet pilot. But Grace had seen plenty of jet pilots around; there were quite a lot of them there. The makeshift base for the Taskforce was, after all, a naval plane hangar. This was a jet pilot's natural habitat. 

“Good evening,” you said, when the silence stretched on too long. 

Grace flinched out of his thoughts. “Hello.” 

You shifted your grip on your helmet a little. “I wanted to check if you needed anything before lights out.”

“Um.” Grace wasn't aware that there would be a ‘lights out’, or that him needing anything was a matter of importance. “I don't really…” He trailed off, squinting his eyes at your face, still trying to place you in the myriad of people he'd seen that day. “Sorry, have we met?” 

Your head tilted a little. “We have. This morning. I flew you.” 

Flew him? Oh. OH! It hit him like a slap. 

When Stratt informed him that he would be picked up via jet, Grace’s mind conjured up the image of a private jet. The fancy ones with champagne bottles and shrimp cocktails. It would have been nice, and was greatly preferred. Instead, there was you, and the wildest ride of his meager life.  

The mere memory made him feel as though his guts were bubbling again. He got here on a high-speed jet; not to be confused with the boat they used to cross the River of Styx. Grace spent the first 20 minutes of that flight white-knuckling the straps and wondering if he'd left the stove on. Some of the pills they'd given him never made it to his mouth. The roar of the engine had been so loud he thought he blew an eardrum. Then, he passed out. At least, he was sure he passed out — for there was a sizable gap in his memory between being in the flight and being half-dragged out of the cockpit on shaky legs, knees buckling the second his shoes hit the tarmac. 

He didn't recognize you because of the helmet, and because he'd been too busy rekindling his relationship with God to have noticed who was driving him to his doom. 

“You!” exclaimed Grace, brows now raised in recognition. 

“Me.” You nodded your head. “Now that I'm here, I also wanted to apologize for the intensity of our flight. The Madame Director wanted you on the base by 9 AM and I received the assignment 8 AM, so.” You offered him a forced but apologetic smile. “I had quite a deadline.” 

Grace was grinning at you then, somewhat giddy to see your face. “It's fine. Not the worst ride I've been taken on.” He laughed, loud and awkward. “Sorry. Uh, you said you came to see if I needed anything?” 

You nodded again. “Yes, sir. I’ve been assigned as your personal attaché for the duration of the mission. My quarters are two doors down if you need anything.”

Woah. Okay, lotta’ interesting words there. 

“What?” Grace pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sorry, what does that mean? Attaché? Like the briefcase?” 

“No. It means I work for you. Officially. Whatever you need — transportation, resources, security clearance — I can make it happen. Ms. Stratt put me under your direct command. My priority is keeping you effective and on schedule.”

Grace blinked slowly, as if the words were yet to compute. “You work for me?” He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That can’t be right.” 

You shrugged. 

“I'm a middle school science teacher,” Grace insisted. “You’re a naval jet pilot who shoots down planes. And you’re telling me I’m your boss?”

You had an unfazed, casual air about you. It was an odd thing to see alongside your intimidating stature. Your uniform was a damn good fit and it made you look like you should be telling Grace what to do. 

“If I might correct you,” you said, leaning in. “You’re not a middle school teacher here. You’re one of the valued scientists that’ll figure out how to keep the sun from dying. A guy like that deserves a bit of privilege, don’t you think?”

Grace opened his mouth only to close it again. He ran a hand through his messy hair. “I mean, surely they've got more important things for you to do.” 

“Yes, plenty.” You nodded. “We’re in the middle of the Pacific, hundreds of miles from the nearest port. If anyone needs something from the mainland, I’m usually the fastest way to get it here. Supplies, equipment, medical samples. This and that.” 

Grace's brows climbed higher with every word. “So you're like, the base's Uber,” he said with a snort. 

You didn't like that. Grace's smile fell upon seeing your jaw flex. He cleared his throat, weakly mumbling an apology. 

“Yes,” you agreed anyway. You sighed a breath out your nose. “If there's a way to do something without the paperwork, Stratt will take it. Most days that means I’m running errands for the whole facility. But for the duration of this mission,” you steadily met his eyes, “my primary responsibility is you.”

Grace gulped. “Why?” 

Your shoulders hiked up in an innocent manner. “In case you bolt.” 

He laughed again, nervous. “I don't see how I'd be able to do that.” 

“You seem creative enough. I'd be wrong to underestimate you.” 

There was a brief silence between the two of you. Grace didn't need to strain his ears to hear the soft creaking of the hull. The slow movement of the hangar was barely noticeable, but with nothing left to say, it was all he could feel. 

“Which reminds me —” You reached into one of the pockets of your flight suit and pulled out a compact military-grade radio. A walkie-talkie. It had a sleek design, reminding Grace of the ones he’d seen in movies. There was a single red marker already set. You held it out to him. “I might not always be available. Channel nine is direct to me. If you need anything — day or night — you use this. I’ll answer.” 

Grace held his fingers out at the device like it might bite him. After hesitating for a moment, he took it in his hand and gave it a closer look. His thumb brushed the smooth plastic as his eyes flicked upwards to glance at you. He tentatively clicked the protruding button on the side, and a matching radio from your utility belt crackled to life.

Without breaking his gaze, you took your radio and brought it up to your lips. “Read you loud and clear, sir.” 

Grace smiled and felt the tips of his ears turn warm. 

The overhead lights stuttered. One by one, each bulb down the corridor flickered shut, until the only illumination left was the soft blue emergency strip lighting along the floor and the faint glow from Grace’s viewport-slash-prison window.

Grace startled, glancing up at the darkened ceiling. “Power failure?” he asked, already tense.

“Lights out,” you replied calmly. “As I’d mentioned. Facility-wide curfew. The seabase runs on strict power conservation protocols after 2100. Non-essential lighting is killed to save the generators for critical systems.”

Grace looked around the suddenly dim hallway, then back at you, the emergency lights casting long shadows across his face.“So we just sit in the dark now?”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “Either you go to bed, or you head to the east wing. Most of the energy we’re conserving is for the labs. Is there anything else you need, sir?” 

“I don’t think you have to call me ‘sir’.” Grace fidgeted with his radio. There was that nervous laugh again. 

You seemed mildly endeared by it. “Two doors down,” you reminded. “Channel nine. Good night, Dr. Grace.” 

He nodded his head, looking a little dumbfounded. He watched you leave his doorstep and walk further down the hallway — only a mere two doors, as you had promised. Grace was about to return to his own room when he flinched upon realizing that he didn’t even know your name. He clumsily grabbed at his walkie-talkie, but it leapt from his hands like it was a live fish. He caught it before it could hit the ground. 

“Wait!” he said, squeezing the button. 

His voice echoed down the corridor and bounced off your device. You hadn’t been far enough for him to have needed the radio. You were standing right there. Grace felt like an idiot. 

You stopped, your back to him. You didn’t turn. You raised your radio to your lips and spoke. “Sir?” 

“I-I didn’t get your name,” Grace whispered into the feed. 

You told him your name, and your rank. Lieutenant Commander. 

“Sounds fancy,” Grace chuckled. 

“It’s alright.” 

“Do you have a callsign? Like in Topgun?” 

“I was waiting for you to bring up Topgun.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“You seemed like the type.” Grace watched your shoulders drop as you sighed. From down the hallway, you turned to look at him. You raised the helmet you’d been holding between your arm and your hip. A name was stencilled in bold white letters. 

Grace was smiling like an idiot. “Booker,” he read. 

“At your service.” 

“Why Booker?” 

“I read a lot. Anything else, Dr. Grace?” 

He shook his head, biting his lower lip. “That’s it for tonight, Booker. Will I see you tomorrow?” 

“Actually, yes. We have an early-morning flight. We’ll be retrieving the rest of your things from your apartment.” 

Grace felt his heart skip. He could go back to the city! And here he thought he was trapped here for the rest of his days. He gave you a firm nod and a small salute. He pulled himself back into his room and pushed the heavy hydraulic door shut. 

“Okay,” he said into the radio. “Uh, good night.” 

He didn't think he'd get another reply. There was silence on the other line. He was about to put the walkie away when he heard it fizzle. There was a soft beep.

“Good night, sir.” 

Grace realized that he didn’t actually hate flying. Turns out, it can be pretty cool when you're not fading in and out of consciousness. He spent most of the trip pressed to the canopy, eyes wide behind his borrowed visor, soft “whoa”s and quiet exclamations crackling over the intercom for every time the clouds parted, or the coastline slid into view below. You could hear the boyish wonder in his voice. 

Flying was better the second time around. Rather, when there was no desperate need to sprint from point A to point B. Stratt had given Grace the entire day to sort his things — he'd return to the city to pack for an undetermined amount of time. He'd file an official leave from his teaching at Grover Middle. He'd say his goodbyes. He wasn’t expected to return to the base until evening, therefore the deadline wasn't as tight. You were gentler with the plane, still hair-raisingly fast, but not as abrupt. At least now Grace had a moment (and the cognitive ability) to look out at the view. 

“Hey,” he called. “How long have you been flying this thing?” 

You adjusted your grip on the stick. You figured he'd like a look at the ocean. The jet eased into a gentle bank, tilting towards the glittering water. As you'd expected, Grace went, “Woaahh.” 

“Twelve years,” you replied. “Got my wings as a lieutenant junior grade.”

Grace made a low whistle. “Twelve years. Do you ever get tired of this view?” 

You looked out over the endless blue stretching beneath you. The water seemed as though it was scattered with diamonds, shining under the early morning sun. There was a thin white line of surf tracing the distant shore, clouds casting slow-moving shadows across the Pacific. It was the same view you’d seen a thousand times, yet it never failed to pull something from your chest. 

“It's like the first time every time,” you said softly. You looked over your shoulder. “World looks small from up here, doesn't it, sir?” 

Grace laughed his giddy agreement. 

Later, the jet touched down on a quiet auxiliary runway at Oakland International. The civilian side of the airport was mostly empty. You’d arranged clearance in advance as one of the privileges and responsibilities that came with your role. You landed smooth and received a small sound of approval from your passenger. 

“You're really good at your job,” said Grace, struggling to remove his helmet. 

You chuckled under your breath. “Don't start clapping.” 

When the canopy finally opened, the ground crew rolled the ladder over. Grace climbed down on shaky legs, resembling a newborn deer. His adrenaline had no use for him on land, other than to make his knees feel like jelly. You stepped out after him, his unbothered counterpart. You held his arm to ease him off the jet. 

“Could we do a barrel roll next time?” Grace beamed at you. 

You gave his back a solid clap, half-distracted by the TSA agent asking you questions. “If you promise not to throw up.” 

Grace didn’t hear your conversation over the loud whirring of the planes. He only managed to make the movement of your mouth. He figured it must have been something important. 

“Let’s go,” you called, ushering him off the runway to walk to a dimly-lit hall. It led to a parking space occupied by only one car; an unsuspecting white Honda with heavily tinted windows sat waiting for you both. 

Grace had no intention of getting in your way and followed whichever direction you nudged him towards. The agents who’d been speaking to you dissipated somewhere back in the airport. By the time he made it to the car, the both of you were alone. You opened the passenger door for him. Grace hurried to get in. You murmured something into your radio before you took your place on the driver’s side. 

“Seatbelts,” you told him. 

Grace nodded, buckling himself in. “Boy, you people mean business.” 

The car started with a soft hum. “Where to?” 

Grace sucked a breath into his teeth. He thought about it for a moment. He had the whole day, but a lot needed to be done. He figured he could leave his apartment last and deal with the faculty first. 

“Grover Cleveland Middle.” It seemed to drain him as he said it. He had to file his indefinite leave. Grace leaned his head against the cool glass. “Just, uh, go ahead and drive. I’ll tell you where it is.” 

The car glided from the airfield. 

The process itself would be easy. He knew that. A formal request to the principal, a quick meeting with HR, some paperwork citing personal reasons or, better yet, a damn letter from the president. It wasn’t complicated, and Grace knew his request wouldn’t be met with resistance. But the thought of actually doing it made his chest ache. He'd already been on leave — but that was of the temporary kind. The implications of the word ‘indefinite’ meant that there was a very real chance that he might never get to be a teacher again. There was no telling when his work on the base would end. It was a race against time, but the execution of the project itself could very well take decades. 

Grace went noticeably quiet, watching the San Francisco skyline unfold beyond the windshield. He’d do it for them, he thought. For those bright-eyed kids. For their future. He’d work for as long as necessary. But, god, would he miss them. He would miss the sound of a room full of twelve-year-olds groaning at an awful science pun; the spark of understanding in their eyes when they finally grasp something they’d been struggling with for weeks. 

Grace tried not to think about it. You didn’t say anything to interrupt his moment. Your eyes were on the road. 

After five minutes of nothing but the soft whirr of tires on asphalt, Grace sighed a very loud sigh and seemed to have taken you from some quiet thoughts of your own. “You ever been to the Bay Area?” he asked.

You nodded. “Passed by it a few times, stayed twice or thrice. I'm not entirely familiar with San Francisco.” 

His head lolled from the headrest, tilting to look at you with a defeated sort of languidness. “Where are you from?” 

You smiled a little. “Not San Francisco.” 

“Mysterious,” Grace grumbled. “Is it like, top secret information? Where you’re from? Is that something the government can’t share?” 

“No, I just don’t feel like saying it.” You glanced at him. “Sir.” 

Grace turned to face the window, pretending to take interest in the bridge, and definitely not so he could hide the dumb grin on his face. Maybe he didn’t entirely mind that you called him ‘sir’. 

The Honda pulled into the mostly empty parking lot of Grover Cleveland Middle School. Morning light filtered softly over the wide, one-story building, its brick facade still familiar and ordinary. A few kids were already milling about near the entrance, laughing and shoving each other like the world wasn’t actively ending. Life went on where life didn’t stop. 

Grace pushed air out of his puffed cheeks. He didn’t move for a while, even with the car parked. You didn’t say anything, watching to see what he’d do; if he’d change his mind. 

“Okay.” He turned to look at you. “Okay. I’m gonna go.” He opened his door, then raised his brows upon seeing that you opened yours too. You stepped out at the same time. “Oh, uh, I’m going alone,” he said over the roof of the car. “You wait here. It’s just a bunch of teachers in there. I’ll have a quick word with the principal.”

You nodded your head. “Copy. I’ll wait.”

Both of Grace's hands raised in an awkward double-thumbs up. He didn't know why he did it, but it was all he had managed. He felt weird and slightly flustered by the idea of having something of a security detail following him around. And the flight suit didn't help. Dark olive green, BOOKER on the name tape, Lieutenant Commander bars at the collar. Combined with your tight posture, you looked every bit the intimidating government operative you were. Against the gray, domestic background of a middle school parking lot, you stuck out like a sore thumb. 

“Okay. Good. I’ll see – I’ll see you in a sec.” He had to get out of there as fast as he could. Grace made a beeline for the entrance. The doors swung shut behind him, and the parking lot went quiet. 

Hardly five seconds later, a kid sped past you. He'd been trailing behind Grace at a distance that suggested he was trying to look like he wasn't following him. His sneakers scuffed against the concrete as he ran towards the stairs. He made it to the top of the front steps before something made him stop. The boy turned around. 

You were leaning against the car, arms loosely crossed. 

He stared. 

Your jaw tightened a little. You watched as he walked back to approach you. 

“Are you a pilot?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

He thought about that. He gave your flight suit a closer look. “My uncle’s in the Air Force.”

“How interesting,” you replied, anything but interested. “I’m in the Navy.” 

His eyes went to the squadron patch on your shoulder, then to the name tape. He pointed at it.  “Which one’s your name, which one’s your callsign?” 

You quirked a brow. “That’s classified.” 

He grinned and revealed a chipped tooth. “Cool.” He took another step closer. “Whose car is that?”

“Government vehicle.” 

“Are you the government?” 

“I work for the government.”

“Is Mr. Grace in trouble?” 

“No.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

“I’m keeping him out of trouble.” 

The boy shifted his weight. He looked at the school doors, then back at you. There was a contemplative expression on his face. It was fleeting, but you caught it. “Is he coming back?” he asked. “Mr. Grace. To school.” 

Something in the question was heavier than the boy intended it to be. You felt your shoulders tense. Your expression (you hoped) shifted into something softer. “I’m not sure.” 

The boy nodded solemnly. 

In the distance, a school bus pulled over. 

His colleagues found him in the hallway afterward. They caught him outside his empty classroom, staring longingly at the seats. Some of them had been surprised to see him and were expecting to have him back. He had to break the news and tell them that he was merely extending his leave. They shook his hand and gave him pats on the shoulder. They wished him luck, for they knew he’d be needing a whole lot of it. 

The paperwork was faster than Grace expected. The whole ordeal was relatively straightforward. Indefinite leave of absence. Effective immediately. Reason: federal appointment, classified. All he had to do was tick some boxes then sign his name around seven times. He figured Stratt had informed his higher-ups beforehand. It was like her to be as impatient as she was efficient. 

His substitute was a younger man named Peter, twenty-seven, fresh from his credential program. Grace found him in the faculty anxiously going through the curriculum binder. He greeted him, sat with him, then told him which students to look out for. Despite his nervousness, Peter had a bright look in his eyes. That eager, go-to fire that assured Grace his kids would be in good hands. When it was time to go, he gave his palm a firm shake. Grace walked back down the corridor without looking at his classroom again. 

Pushing through the door that led back to the parking lot, the first thing Grace heard was laughter; familiar little voices occupying the otherwise lifeless space. He stopped at the top of the steps. 

You were still leaning against the car, arms crossed, brows slightly furrowed. Except now, ten students had gathered into a loose semi-circle around you. Some of them had their backpacks on the ground with no plans of leaving you alone any time soon. You were answering a question, which Grace couldn’t hear. But whatever you had said elicited another chorus of laughter. 

You looked up. You found him in front of the door. “Ah.” Your voice carried across the parking lot without effort. “Now you’re in trouble.” You nodded towards the kids’ science teacher. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Grace?” 

Ten heads turned around simultaneously. 

The sound that followed was difficult to categorize. It was somewhere between a gasp and a shriek in a vocal frequency that middle schoolers — who had just seen something they were not prepared for — were experts in. Several of them were already moving, backpacks abandoned, laces untied. The semicircle dissolved as they surged toward the steps with brand new energy. 

“Mr. Grace!” 

“Where have you been?!”

“Mr. Peter is so boring!” 

“Is it true they got you working on the serious science stuff?!”

Each voice was eager to be heard, and the questions, even more so. Grace came down the steps and into the middle of their commotion. “Hey, hey.” He raised both of his hands. He laughed at their liveliness. “One at a time, guys.” 

And, to their credit, they did speak one at a time. Only they did so in a lightning round and didn’t give Grace a second to answer. “Where are you going?” Marcus’ question was the one he caught. He’d pushed to the front of the group. Grace noticed that his arms were crossed in a manner that was similar to yours. “Like, where actually.” 

He shook his head, smiling tightly. “I can’t tell you. They’re keeping it quiet for now.” 

“Is it dangerous?” Bright-eyed Olivia. 

Grace felt himself hesitate. “Well, it’s — we’re just being precautious.” 

More chatter. They sounded like a council drawing a conclusion. 

“Your friend is super cool,” said Jeff, distracting the group. 

At this, Grace looked up to see you still standing by the car. You shrugged your shoulders at him. 

He spent the next few minutes in the middle of their questions and their noise and their natter, answering what he could and deflecting what he couldn't. Eventually, inevitably, the school bell rang. Grace had half a mind to drop everything and walk into the classroom with them, but he knew he couldn’t do it. Their conversation wound down as the dimming sun inched higher. His students left in ones and twos, backpacks reclaimed, shoelaces tied. Some of them even ran back to give you high fives. Nobody wanted to say goodbye. See you, Mr. Grace. Good luck. Come back soon.

Olivia shook your hand before she left. “Please look after him,” she said. “He’s a really good teacher.”

You gave her a smile so warm, you didn’t realize you were capable of it. 

Marcus was the last one to leave, standing at the bottom of the steps with his hands in his pockets. He had been a difficult kid. He’d been kicked out of his last school and didn’t get his act together until he ended up in Grace’s class. He turned out to be really good at chemistry. 

“You’re gonna do great,” he said. “You’re really smart.” 

Grace nodded. "Thanks, Marcus."

He watched him go, and continued to do so until he disappeared into the hallway, entering his room. Without the kids, the parking lot felt entirely empty. 

Grace walked back to the car.

The drive to Grace’s apartment was quiet. The radio played half-heartedly in the background, filling in for the silence with crackling showtunes and distant commercials. For a long while, the only audible sound was the hum of the engine and the steady monotone of tires against a concrete road. Grace had his head against the window, one foot tapping an idle beat. He'd sigh every once in a while, and you'd glance at him without saying anything. 

The car slowed before pulling up to a stoplight. You took the chance to check your phone for updates. Your brows furrowed at the sight of 4 unread messages. 

“You know, Marcus used to fail every test I gave him,” said Grace. The words left him like he'd been thinking about it for a while. “He didn't like being in school.” 

You turned your head and gave him a nod. “He was very concerned about you.” 

Grace chuckled. “Was he? He's a good kid. He was all over the place during the first semester, but boy is he smart. He just needed a nudge, you know? Most kids do. I try to be the teacher I would've wanted when I was a student.” 

You weren't listening anymore. Something on your phone had taken the last of your attention. Your eyes flickered in all the directions of your screen. You were reading a memo. That can't be right.

Grace didn't notice at first, continuing to talk about the rest of his class. Olivia was his top student. Abby was the second; she was a snappy one, but she was smart as a whip. Larry played guitar, and Jeff was on the football team, Regina liked to crochet. He would have told you about Eli's insane Mario Kart skills had he not realized that you were entirely preoccupied by your phone. The look on your face told him that something was wrong. 

“Everything okay?” asked Grace, tilting his head. 

You were about to answer him when a car horn blared from behind and startled you both. The light had turned green, and the SUV behind you had places to be. Tossing your phone on the dashboard, you grabbed the wheel and drove a small distance until you could pull over somewhere out of the way. 

Grace was still steadying his heart from the horn. “What's going on?” 

You shifted the gear into park. 

“There’s been a development,” you said, taking your phone again. “On the Taskforce.” 

Grace didn’t need to be an expert on reading people to know that you didn’t mean a good sort of development. He watched you scroll through messages and switch from one chatbox to another. The urgency in your movements made him anxious. “What happened?” he asked again. 

“Dr. Yusuf Adeyemi: the taskforce's lead atmospheric chemist. They found him this morning in his hotel room in Oslo.” 

Grace’s brows raised. “Found him? Found him, what? Dead?”

“Killed.”

He felt his stomach sink. “What do you mean killed?” 

“I mean they’re investigating it now and figuring he was killed.” Your brows furrowed as you typed. 

“So what does this mean?” Grace insisted. You’d just told him a man on the mission (in a similar position to his) had been murdered. “A-Are the scientists in danger? Why would anyone be targeting someone who’s actively working on keeping the sun from dying? That’s frickin’ stupid!” 

“Politics, Dr. Grace.” You weren’t looking at him. You were sending reports and updates to the according people. “Men love power and they don’t like sharing it. Eva Stratt has her enemies. Right now there’s talks of the Russian government forming their own Taskforce and opting to start another cold war; a race to see who solves the Petrova Problem first. The project that does gets a lot of credit.” You shook your head. “It’s chatter, but we’re taking it seriously.”

Grace paled in his seat. “You’re kidding me. This is the fate of the world we’re talking about and people are still concerned over who’s better than who.” 

You shrugged your shoulders in a distracted manner. “Men have started wars for dumber reasons.” 

Your phone rang. Grace flinched so hard he might as well have been shot. The screen lit up and showed Stratt’s name in bold letters. You picked up without thought. 

“Booker,” you said into the line. “Yes, ma’am. I saw it.”

Grace watched you, straining his ears to hear the other end. 

“Understood.” You paused. “How confident is the assessment?” Another pause, longer that time. Your eyes cut briefly to him, then away. “Yes, ma’am. He’s with me now.” 

Grace gulped. 

The call went on for a minute longer. It was mostly just you nodding and confirming that you understood. When it was done, you dropped your phone to your lap and held the wheel. Cars whirred past the rental. You were parked on the freeway. Grace felt like panicking, but as you weren’t panicking, he figured he shouldn’t either. 

“Am I in trouble?” he asked, hesitance in his voice. 

You contemplatively chewed on your lower lip. “Since yesterday, you were dubbed as the leading scientist in Astrophage biology.” You nodded. “I’d say you’re pretty important.” 

Grace held his head in his hands. 

“My directives have been updated,” you continued. “Effective immediately, I now double as your dedicated protection detail.”

He blinked at you. “My what.” 

You sighed a breath out your nose. “We’re short-staffed. Every critical member on the Taskforce gets one assigned. They’re working through the specifics right now.” 

Grace wished he hadn’t filed his leave. These sort of things didn’t happen to middle school teachers. “What do we do?” 

“That’s up to you, sir.” Your hand idly ran through the wheel. “Stratt suggests we return to the base immediately, but I understand that we still need to go to your apartment.” 

He couldn’t bring his thoughts together. His heart was racing in his chest. “W-What do you suggest?” 

You took a moment to reply. You looked out the window and up at the clouds. Your leg bounced in the time it took for you to start speaking again. “I’ll be with you,” you said. “I’ll keep a close eye out. I’ll make sure nothing happens — that’s my job. If you want to go to your apartment, then we can go. But you take everything you need, and we don’t linger. Stratt is right: the sooner we’re back on the base, the better.” 

𝒦𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓉ℴ𝒷ℯ𝓇 2025

𝒥𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝒪'𝒞ℴ𝓃𝓃ℯ𝓁𝓁 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓈

𝒮𝒾𝓃𝓃ℯ𝓇𝓈 (2025)

-ℛℯ𝓂𝓂𝒾𝒸𝓀

𝔉𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔬𝔤𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 (Remmick x male reader series) Vampire smut, angst and fluff.

ℭ𝔞𝔫'𝔱 𝔩𝔢𝔱 𝔶𝔢 𝔤𝔬 (Remmick x male reader). Vampire smut, dark fic.

𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔳𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔥𝔦𝔪 (Remmick x male reader). Vampire smut

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩'𝔰 𝔤𝔯𝔬𝔬𝔪 (Remmick x male reader). Vampire smut. Dark fic

𝔚𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔶 𝔞 𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯 (Remmick x male reader). Vampire smut. Angst. Dark fic

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔣𝔞𝔳𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔥𝔲𝔪𝔞𝔫 (Remmick x male reader). Vampire smut. Dark fic

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔩𝔣 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔣𝔬𝔵 (Remmick x male reader). Smut— 𝔉𝔬𝔵 𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 (Remmick x male reader). Smut. Angst. Dark fic

𝔄 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩'𝔰 𝔞𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 (Remmick x male reader). Smut. Angst. Dark fic

𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔢 𝔊𝔬𝔡 (Remmick x male reader). Smut. Angst

ℜ𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯 (Remmick x male reader). Smut

𝔒𝔟𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔨𝔢𝔡 (Remmick x male reader). Smut

𝔐𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 (Remmick x male reader). Smut

𝔗𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔴𝔞𝔶 (Remmick x male reader). Smut

𝒮𝓂𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒽𝓊𝓂𝒶𝓃 ℛℯ𝓂𝓂𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓈ℯ𝓇𝒾ℯ𝓈 (Remmick x male reader). Fluff and angst

28 𝓎ℯ𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝓁𝒶𝓉ℯ𝓇 (2025)

-𝒮𝒾𝓇 𝒥𝒾𝓂𝓂𝓎 𝒞𝓇𝓎𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓁

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔶 𝔥𝔢 𝔵𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 (Sir Jimmy Crystal x male reader) Smut. Angst. Dark fic

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔤𝔞𝔴𝔰𝔦𝔢 (Sir Jimmy Crystal x male reader) Smut. Dark fic

Devotion / Obsession (Sir Jimmy Crystal x male reader) Smut

𝔖𝔞𝔱𝔞𝔫'𝔰 𝔤𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔟𝔬𝔶 (Sir Jimmy Crystal x male reader) Smut

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔞𝔭𝔬𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔶𝔭𝔰𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰𝔫'𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔰𝔱 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 (Sir Jimmy Crystal x male reader). Smut

𝔈𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔥 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯 (Sir Jimmy Crystal x male reader). Dark Smut

300 - ℛ𝒾𝓈ℯ ℴ𝒻 𝒶𝓃 ℰ𝓂𝓅𝒿𝓇ℯ (2019)

-𝒞𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉ℴ

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔩𝔞𝔳𝔢 (Calisto x male reader). Smut and fluff

ℒ𝒶𝒹𝓎 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓉𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁ℯ𝓎'𝓈 ℒℴ𝓋ℯ𝓇

-𝒪𝓁𝒾𝓋ℯ𝓇 ℳℯ𝓁𝓁ℴ𝓇𝓈

Infidelity (Oliver Mellors x male reader) Smut

𝔑𝔬𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔩𝔦𝔢 (Oliver Mellors x male reader). Smut 𝒮𝒜𝒮 ℛℴℊ𝓊ℯ 𝒽ℯ𝓇ℴℯ𝓈

-𝒫𝒶𝒹𝒹𝓎 ℳ𝒶𝓎𝓃ℯ

Shower sex (Paddy Mayne x male reader) Smut

𝒮𝒜𝒮: 𝔖𝔩𝔞𝔪, 𝔄𝔯𝔰𝔢, 𝔖𝔩𝔲𝔱 (Paddy Mayne x male reader). Smut

𝒥𝓊𝓃ℊ𝓁ℯ𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹 (2019)

-ℒ𝒾ℴ𝓃 𝒦𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓀𝒾

Comfort sex (Lion Kaminski x male reader) Smut

𝒢ℴ𝒹𝓁ℯ𝓈𝓈 -ℛℴ𝓎 𝒢ℴℴ𝒹ℯ𝓈

Slow / Tender sex (Roy Goode x male reader) Smut

ℜ𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔞 𝔠𝔬𝔴𝔟𝔬𝔶 (Roy Goode x male reader). Smut and fluff

𝒯𝒽ℯ 𝒩ℴ𝓇𝓉𝒽 𝒲𝒶𝓉ℯ𝓇 (2021) -𝒫𝒶𝓉𝓇𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓃ℯ𝓇

𝔘𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔟𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 (Patrick Sumner x male reader) Smut

𝒮𝓀𝒾𝓃𝓈

-𝒥𝒶𝓂ℯ𝓈 𝒞ℴℴ𝓀

𝒫𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 (James Cook x male reader). Fluff. Smut

ℬ𝓇ℯ𝓉𝓉 (ℰ𝒹ℯ𝓃 ℒ𝒶𝓀ℯ)

𝔏𝔬𝔬𝓀𝓈 𝔩𝔦𝓀𝔢 𝔞𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩, 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯 (Brett x male reader). Smut

ℳ𝓊𝓁𝓉𝒾𝓅𝓁ℯ 𝓂𝒶𝓁ℯ𝓈 𝓍 𝓂𝒶𝓁ℯ 𝓇ℯ𝒶𝒹ℯ𝓇

𝔇𝔢𝔳𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔭𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔢 (Remmick x Oliver Mellors x Lion Kaminski x Paddy Mayne x male reader) Pure smut

ℛℯ𝓈𝒾𝒹ℯ𝓃𝓉 ℯ𝓋𝒾𝓁

-ℰ𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒲𝒾𝓃𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓈

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔪 𝔐𝔞𝔫-𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 (Ethan Winters x male reader). Fluff. Angst. Dark Fic. Smut. Multi-chapters and completed.

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔡𝔦𝔡𝔫'𝔱 𝔨𝔦𝔩𝔩 (Ethan Winters x male reader). Fluff and smut

Best Friend’s Dad (Ethan Winters x male reader) Fluff and smut

Gun play (Ethan Winters x male reader) Smut

𝔄𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 (Ethan Winters x male reader) Smut and fluff

𝔑𝔢𝔲𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔬𝔵𝔦𝔫 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔱 (Ethan Winters x male reader). Smut

𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔭𝔲𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔲𝔰 𝔱𝔬𝔤𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 (Ethan Winters x male reader). Dark fic. Angst. Smut

𝒴𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔡𝔞𝔡'𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡 (Ethan Winters x male reader). Fluff and smut

-ℒℯℴ𝓃 𝒦ℯ𝓃𝓃ℯ𝒹𝓎

𝔖𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔣𝔶𝔠𝔨 ( Leon Kennedy x male reader). Smut

Praise kink (Leon Kennedy x male reader) Smut

Infected / Intoxicated (Leon Kennedy x male reader) Smut

𝔈𝔩𝔢𝔳𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔭𝔲𝔱 (Leon Kennedy x male reader) Smut

𝒫𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔱𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔫𝔬 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔢𝔩𝔰𝔢 (Leon Kennedy x male reader). Dark series

𝔗𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔱 (Leon Kennedy x male reader). Angst. Smut

𝔗𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔞𝔩 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔱 (multiple Leon Kennedy x male reader). Smut and fluff

𝔏𝔬𝔠𝔨𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫 (Leon Kennedy x male reader. Smut

-𝒞𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈 ℛℯ𝒹𝒻𝒾ℯ𝓁𝒹

𝔄𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔩𝔢𝔣𝔱 (Chris Redfield x male reader). Dark Fic. Smut

-𝒞𝒶𝓇𝓁ℴ𝓈 𝒪𝓁𝒾𝓋ℯ𝒾𝓇𝒶

𝔐𝔢𝔯𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔯𝔶'𝔰 𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔪 (Carlos Oliveira x male reader) Dark fic. Angst. Smut

-ℳ𝓊𝓁𝓉𝒾𝓅𝓁ℯ 𝓂𝒶𝓁ℯ𝓈 𝓍 𝓂𝒶𝓁ℯ 𝓇ℯ𝒶𝒹ℯ𝓇

𝔊𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪 (Chris Redfield x Ethan Winters x Leon Kennedy x male reader). Foursome smut

Gangbang | Chris Redfield + Leon S. Kennedy

𝒮𝒾𝓁ℯ𝓃𝓉 ℋ𝒾𝓁𝓁 2 𝓇ℯ𝓂𝒶𝓀ℯ

-𝒥𝒶𝓂ℯ𝓈 𝒮𝓊𝓃𝒹ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹

ℌ𝔲𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔡 (James Sunderland x male reader) Smut

-𝒞ℯ𝓁ℯ𝒷𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒾ℯ𝓈

𝒥𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝒪'𝒞ℴ𝓃𝓃ℯ𝓁𝓁

𝔐𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔶 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰 (Jack O’Connell x male reader). Fluff and smut

𝔒𝔫𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢 (Jack O’Connell x male reader). Fluff and smut

𝒥ℴ𝓈𝒽 𝒪'𝒞ℴ𝓃𝓃ℴ𝓇' 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓈

-𝒥𝓊𝒹 𝒟𝓊𝓅𝓁ℯ𝓃𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓎

𝔉𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯, ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔡 (Jud Duplenticy x male reader). Fluff and smut - 𝔉𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯, 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔬𝔬 𝔱𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 (Jud Duplenticy x male reader). Fluff, Smut, Angst

𝒥ℴ𝓈𝒽 𝒽𝓊𝓉𝒸𝒽ℯ𝓇𝓈ℴ𝓃' 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓈

-𝓜𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓼𝓬𝓱𝓶𝓳𝓭𝓽 (𝓯𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓽 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓭𝓭𝔂'𝓼)

𝒮ℯ𝓇𝒾ℯ𝓈 ℴ𝒻 ℳ𝒾𝓀ℯ 𝒮𝒸𝒽𝓂𝒾𝒹𝓉 𝓍 ℳ𝒶𝓁ℯ 𝓇ℯ𝒶𝒹ℯ𝓇

𝒰𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝒟𝒶𝓌𝓃

-ℳ𝒾𝓀ℯ ℳ𝓊𝓃𝓇ℴℯ

𝔄 𝔱𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢 (Mike munroe x male reader). Fluff and smut.

ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲 (Mike Munroe x male reader). Angst and happy ending.

𝔍𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔶 𝔞𝔱 𝔅𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨𝔴𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔐𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫 (Mike Munroe x male reader). Angst and smut

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔭𝔞𝔱𝔥 (Mike munroe x male reader). Angst and smut

𝔅𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔶 𝔰𝔲𝔭𝔭𝔬𝔯𝔱 (Mike Munroe x male reader). Fluff

ℑ𝔱 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞 𝔭𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔨 (Mike Munroe x male reader). Angst and smut

𝔉𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔘𝔫𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔥𝔢𝔡 (Mike Munroe x male reader). Smut and angst

-ℬ𝓇ℯ𝓉𝓉 𝒟𝒶𝓁𝓉ℴ𝓃’ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓈

𝔅𝔢𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔴𝔬 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔨𝔰 (Mike Munroe x male reader x Grant Ward). Angst, fluff and smut

𝔄 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔡 (Grant Ward x male reader). Angst and smut

𝒯𝒽ℯ ℒ𝒶𝓈𝓉 ℴ𝒻 𝒰𝓈

-𝒥ℴℯ𝓁 ℳ𝒾𝓁𝓁ℯ𝓇

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 (Joel Miller x male reader). Angst and smut

ℑ'𝔡𝔬 𝔦𝔱 𝔞𝔤𝔞𝔦𝔫 (Joel Miller x male reader) Fluff and smut

𝔘𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔴 𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔢𝔡 (Joel Miller x male reader) Smut

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔡𝔦𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔦𝔪 (Joel Miller x male reader). Smut

𝔖𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱 (Joel Miller x male reader). Smut

-𝓓𝓮𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓲𝓽 𝓫𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓱𝓾𝓶𝓪𝓷

𝒞ℴ𝓃𝓃ℴ𝓇

The room itself was sparse but functional. He had a narrow bed, a desk, a small bathroom, and the viewport that looked like a prison window. There was a cabinet for him to keep his clothes in; which would have been nice, if he had any clothes at all. But as he wasn’t expecting to be forced to stay within government lines over the course of one meeting, he only had a few things. Eva Stratt promised they’d sort the matter of his new living situation the following morning. 

It was ridiculously easy to feel like he didn’t belong. Grace felt like a sock in a glove drawer. Though he was certain his exhaustion was mostly due to the afternoon he spent speaking to the most powerful people of the world. There was a lot of work to do. He'd had a very long day. He rubbed his face with both hands and let out a long, tired breath. 

“Fudge,” Grace muttered. “What am I doing here?”

A soft knock at the door made him flinch.

He turned, heart already kicking up. “Wh– Yeah?”

The door slid open with a quiet hydraulic hiss. He heard a voice before he saw the person it belonged to. “Dr. Grace,” it said. Familiar. He'd heard that before. The door remained ajar, but his visitor didn't step in. 

Grace clumsily stumbled on some empty boxes as he crossed the room. He was a ball of anxious energy, as eager as he was reluctant to be useful to the team. Did they need him working on something this early? He caught himself on the entryway with a huff. 

“Yes?” He said. “Dr. Grace, that's — that's me.” 

The familiar voice was accompanied by an unfamiliar face. Grace's eyes met a stranger's. They blinked at each other for a while, saying nothing in the time it took for Grace to place where he might have seen them before. He didn't have much luck. 

You stood at his door, dressed in a dark flight suit with a helmet tucked under your arm. A jet pilot. But Grace had seen plenty of jet pilots around; there were quite a lot of them there. The makeshift base for the Taskforce was, after all, a naval plane hangar. This was a jet pilot's natural habitat. 

“Good evening,” you said, when the silence stretched on too long. 

Grace flinched out of his thoughts. “Hello.” 

You shifted your grip on your helmet a little. “I wanted to check if you needed anything before lights out.”

“Um.” Grace wasn't aware that there would be a ‘lights out’, or that him needing anything was a matter of importance. “I don't really…” He trailed off, squinting his eyes at your face, still trying to place you in the myriad of people he'd seen that day. “Sorry, have we met?” 

Your head tilted a little. “We have. This morning. I flew you.” 

Flew him? Oh. OH! It hit him like a slap. 

When Stratt informed him that he would be picked up via jet, Grace’s mind conjured up the image of a private jet. The fancy ones with champagne bottles and shrimp cocktails. It would have been nice, and was greatly preferred. Instead, there was you, and the wildest ride of his meager life.  

The mere memory made him feel as though his guts were bubbling again. He got here on a high-speed jet; not to be confused with the boat they used to cross the River of Styx. Grace spent the first 20 minutes of that flight white-knuckling the straps and wondering if he'd left the stove on. Some of the pills they'd given him never made it to his mouth. The roar of the engine had been so loud he thought he blew an eardrum. Then, he passed out. At least, he was sure he passed out — for there was a sizable gap in his memory between being in the flight and being half-dragged out of the cockpit on shaky legs, knees buckling the second his shoes hit the tarmac. 

He didn't recognize you because of the helmet, and because he'd been too busy rekindling his relationship with God to have noticed who was driving him to his doom. 

“You!” exclaimed Grace, brows now raised in recognition. 

“Me.” You nodded your head. “Now that I'm here, I also wanted to apologize for the intensity of our flight. The Madame Director wanted you on the base by 9 AM and I received the assignment 8 AM, so.” You offered him a forced but apologetic smile. “I had quite a deadline.” 

Grace was grinning at you then, somewhat giddy to see your face. “It's fine. Not the worst ride I've been taken on.” He laughed, loud and awkward. “Sorry. Uh, you said you came to see if I needed anything?” 

You nodded again. “Yes, sir. I’ve been assigned as your personal attaché for the duration of the mission. My quarters are two doors down if you need anything.”

Woah. Okay, lotta’ interesting words there. 

“What?” Grace pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sorry, what does that mean? Attaché? Like the briefcase?” 

“No. It means I work for you. Officially. Whatever you need — transportation, resources, security clearance — I can make it happen. Ms. Stratt put me under your direct command. My priority is keeping you effective and on schedule.”

Grace blinked slowly, as if the words were yet to compute. “You work for me?” He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That can’t be right.” 

You shrugged. 

“I'm a middle school science teacher,” Grace insisted. “You’re a naval jet pilot who shoots down planes. And you’re telling me I’m your boss?”

You had an unfazed, casual air about you. It was an odd thing to see alongside your intimidating stature. Your uniform was a damn good fit and it made you look like you should be telling Grace what to do. 

“If I might correct you,” you said, leaning in. “You’re not a middle school teacher here. You’re one of the valued scientists that’ll figure out how to keep the sun from dying. A guy like that deserves a bit of privilege, don’t you think?”

Grace opened his mouth only to close it again. He ran a hand through his messy hair. “I mean, surely they've got more important things for you to do.” 

“Yes, plenty.” You nodded. “We’re in the middle of the Pacific, hundreds of miles from the nearest port. If anyone needs something from the mainland, I’m usually the fastest way to get it here. Supplies, equipment, medical samples. This and that.” 

Grace's brows climbed higher with every word. “So you're like, the base's Uber,” he said with a snort. 

You didn't like that. Grace's smile fell upon seeing your jaw flex. He cleared his throat, weakly mumbling an apology. 

“Yes,” you agreed anyway. You sighed a breath out your nose. “If there's a way to do something without the paperwork, Stratt will take it. Most days that means I’m running errands for the whole facility. But for the duration of this mission,” you steadily met his eyes, “my primary responsibility is you.”

Grace gulped. “Why?” 

Your shoulders hiked up in an innocent manner. “In case you bolt.” 

He laughed again, nervous. “I don't see how I'd be able to do that.” 

“You seem creative enough. I'd be wrong to underestimate you.” 

There was a brief silence between the two of you. Grace didn't need to strain his ears to hear the soft creaking of the hull. The slow movement of the hangar was barely noticeable, but with nothing left to say, it was all he could feel. 

“Which reminds me —” You reached into one of the pockets of your flight suit and pulled out a compact military-grade radio. A walkie-talkie. It had a sleek design, reminding Grace of the ones he’d seen in movies. There was a single red marker already set. You held it out to him. “I might not always be available. Channel nine is direct to me. If you need anything — day or night — you use this. I’ll answer.” 

Grace held his fingers out at the device like it might bite him. After hesitating for a moment, he took it in his hand and gave it a closer look. His thumb brushed the smooth plastic as his eyes flicked upwards to glance at you. He tentatively clicked the protruding button on the side, and a matching radio from your utility belt crackled to life.

Without breaking his gaze, you took your radio and brought it up to your lips. “Read you loud and clear, sir.” 

Grace smiled and felt the tips of his ears turn warm. 

The overhead lights stuttered. One by one, each bulb down the corridor flickered shut, until the only illumination left was the soft blue emergency strip lighting along the floor and the faint glow from Grace’s viewport-slash-prison window.

Grace startled, glancing up at the darkened ceiling. “Power failure?” he asked, already tense.

“Lights out,” you replied calmly. “As I’d mentioned. Facility-wide curfew. The seabase runs on strict power conservation protocols after 2100. Non-essential lighting is killed to save the generators for critical systems.”

Grace looked around the suddenly dim hallway, then back at you, the emergency lights casting long shadows across his face.“So we just sit in the dark now?”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “Either you go to bed, or you head to the east wing. Most of the energy we’re conserving is for the labs. Is there anything else you need, sir?” 

“I don’t think you have to call me ‘sir’.” Grace fidgeted with his radio. There was that nervous laugh again. 

You seemed mildly endeared by it. “Two doors down,” you reminded. “Channel nine. Good night, Dr. Grace.” 

He nodded his head, looking a little dumbfounded. He watched you leave his doorstep and walk further down the hallway — only a mere two doors, as you had promised. Grace was about to return to his own room when he flinched upon realizing that he didn’t even know your name. He clumsily grabbed at his walkie-talkie, but it leapt from his hands like it was a live fish. He caught it before it could hit the ground. 

“Wait!” he said, squeezing the button. 

His voice echoed down the corridor and bounced off your device. You hadn’t been far enough for him to have needed the radio. You were standing right there. Grace felt like an idiot. 

You stopped, your back to him. You didn’t turn. You raised your radio to your lips and spoke. “Sir?” 

“I-I didn’t get your name,” Grace whispered into the feed. 

You told him your name, and your rank. Lieutenant Commander. 

“Sounds fancy,” Grace chuckled. 

“It’s alright.” 

“Do you have a callsign? Like in Topgun?” 

“I was waiting for you to bring up Topgun.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“You seemed like the type.” Grace watched your shoulders drop as you sighed. From down the hallway, you turned to look at him. You raised the helmet you’d been holding between your arm and your hip. A name was stencilled in bold white letters. 

Grace was smiling like an idiot. “Booker,” he read. 

“At your service.” 

“Why Booker?” 

“I read a lot. Anything else, Dr. Grace?” 

He shook his head, biting his lower lip. “That’s it for tonight, Booker. Will I see you tomorrow?” 

“Actually, yes. We have an early-morning flight. We’ll be retrieving the rest of your things from your apartment.” 

Grace felt his heart skip. He could go back to the city! And here he thought he was trapped here for the rest of his days. He gave you a firm nod and a small salute. He pulled himself back into his room and pushed the heavy hydraulic door shut. 

“Okay,” he said into the radio. “Uh, good night.” 

He didn't think he'd get another reply. There was silence on the other line. He was about to put the walkie away when he heard it fizzle. There was a soft beep.

“Good night, sir.” 

Grace realized that he didn’t actually hate flying. Turns out, it can be pretty cool when you're not fading in and out of consciousness. He spent most of the trip pressed to the canopy, eyes wide behind his borrowed visor, soft “whoa”s and quiet exclamations crackling over the intercom for every time the clouds parted, or the coastline slid into view below. You could hear the boyish wonder in his voice. 

Flying was better the second time around. Rather, when there was no desperate need to sprint from point A to point B. Stratt had given Grace the entire day to sort his things — he'd return to the city to pack for an undetermined amount of time. He'd file an official leave from his teaching at Grover Middle. He'd say his goodbyes. He wasn’t expected to return to the base until evening, therefore the deadline wasn't as tight. You were gentler with the plane, still hair-raisingly fast, but not as abrupt. At least now Grace had a moment (and the cognitive ability) to look out at the view. 

“Hey,” he called. “How long have you been flying this thing?” 

You adjusted your grip on the stick. You figured he'd like a look at the ocean. The jet eased into a gentle bank, tilting towards the glittering water. As you'd expected, Grace went, “Woaahh.” 

“Twelve years,” you replied. “Got my wings as a lieutenant junior grade.”

Grace made a low whistle. “Twelve years. Do you ever get tired of this view?” 

You looked out over the endless blue stretching beneath you. The water seemed as though it was scattered with diamonds, shining under the early morning sun. There was a thin white line of surf tracing the distant shore, clouds casting slow-moving shadows across the Pacific. It was the same view you’d seen a thousand times, yet it never failed to pull something from your chest. 

“It's like the first time every time,” you said softly. You looked over your shoulder. “World looks small from up here, doesn't it, sir?” 

Grace laughed his giddy agreement. 

Later, the jet touched down on a quiet auxiliary runway at Oakland International. The civilian side of the airport was mostly empty. You’d arranged clearance in advance as one of the privileges and responsibilities that came with your role. You landed smooth and received a small sound of approval from your passenger. 

“You're really good at your job,” said Grace, struggling to remove his helmet. 

You chuckled under your breath. “Don't start clapping.” 

When the canopy finally opened, the ground crew rolled the ladder over. Grace climbed down on shaky legs, resembling a newborn deer. His adrenaline had no use for him on land, other than to make his knees feel like jelly. You stepped out after him, his unbothered counterpart. You held his arm to ease him off the jet. 

“Could we do a barrel roll next time?” Grace beamed at you. 

You gave his back a solid clap, half-distracted by the TSA agent asking you questions. “If you promise not to throw up.” 

Grace didn’t hear your conversation over the loud whirring of the planes. He only managed to make the movement of your mouth. He figured it must have been something important. 

“Let’s go,” you called, ushering him off the runway to walk to a dimly-lit hall. It led to a parking space occupied by only one car; an unsuspecting white Honda with heavily tinted windows sat waiting for you both. 

Grace had no intention of getting in your way and followed whichever direction you nudged him towards. The agents who’d been speaking to you dissipated somewhere back in the airport. By the time he made it to the car, the both of you were alone. You opened the passenger door for him. Grace hurried to get in. You murmured something into your radio before you took your place on the driver’s side. 

“Seatbelts,” you told him. 

Grace nodded, buckling himself in. “Boy, you people mean business.” 

The car started with a soft hum. “Where to?” 

Grace sucked a breath into his teeth. He thought about it for a moment. He had the whole day, but a lot needed to be done. He figured he could leave his apartment last and deal with the faculty first. 

“Grover Cleveland Middle.” It seemed to drain him as he said it. He had to file his indefinite leave. Grace leaned his head against the cool glass. “Just, uh, go ahead and drive. I’ll tell you where it is.” 

The car glided from the airfield. 

The process itself would be easy. He knew that. A formal request to the principal, a quick meeting with HR, some paperwork citing personal reasons or, better yet, a damn letter from the president. It wasn’t complicated, and Grace knew his request wouldn’t be met with resistance. But the thought of actually doing it made his chest ache. He'd already been on leave — but that was of the temporary kind. The implications of the word ‘indefinite’ meant that there was a very real chance that he might never get to be a teacher again. There was no telling when his work on the base would end. It was a race against time, but the execution of the project itself could very well take decades. 

Grace went noticeably quiet, watching the San Francisco skyline unfold beyond the windshield. He’d do it for them, he thought. For those bright-eyed kids. For their future. He’d work for as long as necessary. But, god, would he miss them. He would miss the sound of a room full of twelve-year-olds groaning at an awful science pun; the spark of understanding in their eyes when they finally grasp something they’d been struggling with for weeks. 

Grace tried not to think about it. You didn’t say anything to interrupt his moment. Your eyes were on the road. 

After five minutes of nothing but the soft whirr of tires on asphalt, Grace sighed a very loud sigh and seemed to have taken you from some quiet thoughts of your own. “You ever been to the Bay Area?” he asked.

You nodded. “Passed by it a few times, stayed twice or thrice. I'm not entirely familiar with San Francisco.” 

His head lolled from the headrest, tilting to look at you with a defeated sort of languidness. “Where are you from?” 

You smiled a little. “Not San Francisco.” 

“Mysterious,” Grace grumbled. “Is it like, top secret information? Where you’re from? Is that something the government can’t share?” 

“No, I just don’t feel like saying it.” You glanced at him. “Sir.” 

Grace turned to face the window, pretending to take interest in the bridge, and definitely not so he could hide the dumb grin on his face. Maybe he didn’t entirely mind that you called him ‘sir’. 

The Honda pulled into the mostly empty parking lot of Grover Cleveland Middle School. Morning light filtered softly over the wide, one-story building, its brick facade still familiar and ordinary. A few kids were already milling about near the entrance, laughing and shoving each other like the world wasn’t actively ending. Life went on where life didn’t stop. 

Grace pushed air out of his puffed cheeks. He didn’t move for a while, even with the car parked. You didn’t say anything, watching to see what he’d do; if he’d change his mind. 

“Okay.” He turned to look at you. “Okay. I’m gonna go.” He opened his door, then raised his brows upon seeing that you opened yours too. You stepped out at the same time. “Oh, uh, I’m going alone,” he said over the roof of the car. “You wait here. It’s just a bunch of teachers in there. I’ll have a quick word with the principal.”

You nodded your head. “Copy. I’ll wait.”

Both of Grace's hands raised in an awkward double-thumbs up. He didn't know why he did it, but it was all he had managed. He felt weird and slightly flustered by the idea of having something of a security detail following him around. And the flight suit didn't help. Dark olive green, BOOKER on the name tape, Lieutenant Commander bars at the collar. Combined with your tight posture, you looked every bit the intimidating government operative you were. Against the gray, domestic background of a middle school parking lot, you stuck out like a sore thumb. 

“Okay. Good. I’ll see – I’ll see you in a sec.” He had to get out of there as fast as he could. Grace made a beeline for the entrance. The doors swung shut behind him, and the parking lot went quiet. 

Hardly five seconds later, a kid sped past you. He'd been trailing behind Grace at a distance that suggested he was trying to look like he wasn't following him. His sneakers scuffed against the concrete as he ran towards the stairs. He made it to the top of the front steps before something made him stop. The boy turned around. 

You were leaning against the car, arms loosely crossed. 

He stared. 

Your jaw tightened a little. You watched as he walked back to approach you. 

“Are you a pilot?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

He thought about that. He gave your flight suit a closer look. “My uncle’s in the Air Force.”

“How interesting,” you replied, anything but interested. “I’m in the Navy.” 

His eyes went to the squadron patch on your shoulder, then to the name tape. He pointed at it.  “Which one’s your name, which one’s your callsign?” 

You quirked a brow. “That’s classified.” 

He grinned and revealed a chipped tooth. “Cool.” He took another step closer. “Whose car is that?”

“Government vehicle.” 

“Are you the government?” 

“I work for the government.”

“Is Mr. Grace in trouble?” 

“No.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

“I’m keeping him out of trouble.” 

The boy shifted his weight. He looked at the school doors, then back at you. There was a contemplative expression on his face. It was fleeting, but you caught it. “Is he coming back?” he asked. “Mr. Grace. To school.” 

Something in the question was heavier than the boy intended it to be. You felt your shoulders tense. Your expression (you hoped) shifted into something softer. “I’m not sure.” 

The boy nodded solemnly. 

In the distance, a school bus pulled over. 

His colleagues found him in the hallway afterward. They caught him outside his empty classroom, staring longingly at the seats. Some of them had been surprised to see him and were expecting to have him back. He had to break the news and tell them that he was merely extending his leave. They shook his hand and gave him pats on the shoulder. They wished him luck, for they knew he’d be needing a whole lot of it. 

The paperwork was faster than Grace expected. The whole ordeal was relatively straightforward. Indefinite leave of absence. Effective immediately. Reason: federal appointment, classified. All he had to do was tick some boxes then sign his name around seven times. He figured Stratt had informed his higher-ups beforehand. It was like her to be as impatient as she was efficient. 

His substitute was a younger man named Peter, twenty-seven, fresh from his credential program. Grace found him in the faculty anxiously going through the curriculum binder. He greeted him, sat with him, then told him which students to look out for. Despite his nervousness, Peter had a bright look in his eyes. That eager, go-to fire that assured Grace his kids would be in good hands. When it was time to go, he gave his palm a firm shake. Grace walked back down the corridor without looking at his classroom again. 

Pushing through the door that led back to the parking lot, the first thing Grace heard was laughter; familiar little voices occupying the otherwise lifeless space. He stopped at the top of the steps. 

You were still leaning against the car, arms crossed, brows slightly furrowed. Except now, ten students had gathered into a loose semi-circle around you. Some of them had their backpacks on the ground with no plans of leaving you alone any time soon. You were answering a question, which Grace couldn’t hear. But whatever you had said elicited another chorus of laughter. 

You looked up. You found him in front of the door. “Ah.” Your voice carried across the parking lot without effort. “Now you’re in trouble.” You nodded towards the kids’ science teacher. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Grace?” 

Ten heads turned around simultaneously. 

The sound that followed was difficult to categorize. It was somewhere between a gasp and a shriek in a vocal frequency that middle schoolers — who had just seen something they were not prepared for — were experts in. Several of them were already moving, backpacks abandoned, laces untied. The semicircle dissolved as they surged toward the steps with brand new energy. 

“Mr. Grace!” 

“Where have you been?!”

“Mr. Peter is so boring!” 

“Is it true they got you working on the serious science stuff?!”

Each voice was eager to be heard, and the questions, even more so. Grace came down the steps and into the middle of their commotion. “Hey, hey.” He raised both of his hands. He laughed at their liveliness. “One at a time, guys.” 

And, to their credit, they did speak one at a time. Only they did so in a lightning round and didn’t give Grace a second to answer. “Where are you going?” Marcus’ question was the one he caught. He’d pushed to the front of the group. Grace noticed that his arms were crossed in a manner that was similar to yours. “Like, where actually.” 

He shook his head, smiling tightly. “I can’t tell you. They’re keeping it quiet for now.” 

“Is it dangerous?” Bright-eyed Olivia. 

Grace felt himself hesitate. “Well, it’s — we’re just being precautious.” 

More chatter. They sounded like a council drawing a conclusion. 

“Your friend is super cool,” said Jeff, distracting the group. 

At this, Grace looked up to see you still standing by the car. You shrugged your shoulders at him. 

He spent the next few minutes in the middle of their questions and their noise and their natter, answering what he could and deflecting what he couldn't. Eventually, inevitably, the school bell rang. Grace had half a mind to drop everything and walk into the classroom with them, but he knew he couldn’t do it. Their conversation wound down as the dimming sun inched higher. His students left in ones and twos, backpacks reclaimed, shoelaces tied. Some of them even ran back to give you high fives. Nobody wanted to say goodbye. See you, Mr. Grace. Good luck. Come back soon.

Olivia shook your hand before she left. “Please look after him,” she said. “He’s a really good teacher.”

You gave her a smile so warm, you didn’t realize you were capable of it. 

Marcus was the last one to leave, standing at the bottom of the steps with his hands in his pockets. He had been a difficult kid. He’d been kicked out of his last school and didn’t get his act together until he ended up in Grace’s class. He turned out to be really good at chemistry. 

“You’re gonna do great,” he said. “You’re really smart.” 

Grace nodded. "Thanks, Marcus."

He watched him go, and continued to do so until he disappeared into the hallway, entering his room. Without the kids, the parking lot felt entirely empty. 

Grace walked back to the car.

The drive to Grace’s apartment was quiet. The radio played half-heartedly in the background, filling in for the silence with crackling showtunes and distant commercials. For a long while, the only audible sound was the hum of the engine and the steady monotone of tires against a concrete road. Grace had his head against the window, one foot tapping an idle beat. He'd sigh every once in a while, and you'd glance at him without saying anything. 

The car slowed before pulling up to a stoplight. You took the chance to check your phone for updates. Your brows furrowed at the sight of 4 unread messages. 

“You know, Marcus used to fail every test I gave him,” said Grace. The words left him like he'd been thinking about it for a while. “He didn't like being in school.” 

You turned your head and gave him a nod. “He was very concerned about you.” 

Grace chuckled. “Was he? He's a good kid. He was all over the place during the first semester, but boy is he smart. He just needed a nudge, you know? Most kids do. I try to be the teacher I would've wanted when I was a student.” 

You weren't listening anymore. Something on your phone had taken the last of your attention. Your eyes flickered in all the directions of your screen. You were reading a memo. That can't be right.

Grace didn't notice at first, continuing to talk about the rest of his class. Olivia was his top student. Abby was the second; she was a snappy one, but she was smart as a whip. Larry played guitar, and Jeff was on the football team, Regina liked to crochet. He would have told you about Eli's insane Mario Kart skills had he not realized that you were entirely preoccupied by your phone. The look on your face told him that something was wrong. 

“Everything okay?” asked Grace, tilting his head. 

You were about to answer him when a car horn blared from behind and startled you both. The light had turned green, and the SUV behind you had places to be. Tossing your phone on the dashboard, you grabbed the wheel and drove a small distance until you could pull over somewhere out of the way. 

Grace was still steadying his heart from the horn. “What's going on?” 

You shifted the gear into park. 

“There’s been a development,” you said, taking your phone again. “On the Taskforce.” 

Grace didn’t need to be an expert on reading people to know that you didn’t mean a good sort of development. He watched you scroll through messages and switch from one chatbox to another. The urgency in your movements made him anxious. “What happened?” he asked again. 

“Dr. Yusuf Adeyemi: the taskforce's lead atmospheric chemist. They found him this morning in his hotel room in Oslo.” 

Grace’s brows raised. “Found him? Found him, what? Dead?”

“Killed.”

He felt his stomach sink. “What do you mean killed?” 

“I mean they’re investigating it now and figuring he was killed.” Your brows furrowed as you typed. 

“So what does this mean?” Grace insisted. You’d just told him a man on the mission (in a similar position to his) had been murdered. “A-Are the scientists in danger? Why would anyone be targeting someone who’s actively working on keeping the sun from dying? That’s frickin’ stupid!” 

“Politics, Dr. Grace.” You weren’t looking at him. You were sending reports and updates to the according people. “Men love power and they don’t like sharing it. Eva Stratt has her enemies. Right now there’s talks of the Russian government forming their own Taskforce and opting to start another cold war; a race to see who solves the Petrova Problem first. The project that does gets a lot of credit.” You shook your head. “It’s chatter, but we’re taking it seriously.”

Grace paled in his seat. “You’re kidding me. This is the fate of the world we’re talking about and people are still concerned over who’s better than who.” 

You shrugged your shoulders in a distracted manner. “Men have started wars for dumber reasons.” 

Your phone rang. Grace flinched so hard he might as well have been shot. The screen lit up and showed Stratt’s name in bold letters. You picked up without thought. 

“Booker,” you said into the line. “Yes, ma’am. I saw it.”

Grace watched you, straining his ears to hear the other end. 

“Understood.” You paused. “How confident is the assessment?” Another pause, longer that time. Your eyes cut briefly to him, then away. “Yes, ma’am. He’s with me now.” 

Grace gulped. 

The call went on for a minute longer. It was mostly just you nodding and confirming that you understood. When it was done, you dropped your phone to your lap and held the wheel. Cars whirred past the rental. You were parked on the freeway. Grace felt like panicking, but as you weren’t panicking, he figured he shouldn’t either. 

“Am I in trouble?” he asked, hesitance in his voice. 

You contemplatively chewed on your lower lip. “Since yesterday, you were dubbed as the leading scientist in Astrophage biology.” You nodded. “I’d say you’re pretty important.” 

Grace held his head in his hands. 

“My directives have been updated,” you continued. “Effective immediately, I now double as your dedicated protection detail.”

He blinked at you. “My what.” 

You sighed a breath out your nose. “We’re short-staffed. Every critical member on the Taskforce gets one assigned. They’re working through the specifics right now.” 

Grace wished he hadn’t filed his leave. These sort of things didn’t happen to middle school teachers. “What do we do?” 

“That’s up to you, sir.” Your hand idly ran through the wheel. “Stratt suggests we return to the base immediately, but I understand that we still need to go to your apartment.” 

He couldn’t bring his thoughts together. His heart was racing in his chest. “W-What do you suggest?” 

You took a moment to reply. You looked out the window and up at the clouds. Your leg bounced in the time it took for you to start speaking again. “I’ll be with you,” you said. “I’ll keep a close eye out. I’ll make sure nothing happens — that’s my job. If you want to go to your apartment, then we can go. But you take everything you need, and we don’t linger. Stratt is right: the sooner we’re back on the base, the better.”