What recourse do you have but to live?

Grace can only let his head fall back against the headboard of the pilot’s seat; he groans impatiently, with a weathered mumble, “Oh my God…” From beside him, you can see his blonde hair sticking up in all directions. At first, you think it’s best to give him a moment of silence, maybe tilt your head to look up at the plethora of status lights above the three of you.

Then, finally, you decide to pipe up with a very kind, “You’re doing your best, Ry.” It should be a relatively pleasant exchange. Grace is on the verge of thanking you, turning in his seat with his lips curled into a soft smile. But, Rocky can’t help but angle himself toward you in his casing, arms flailing up in what looks like the mimicry of a shrug.

“Grace doing best, question?”

This steals Grace’s attention away instantly. His smile drops and, eyebrows furrowed, Grace grumbles, “Is that supposed to be rhetorical? What am I saying—of course it is.” Grace huffs, snatching his glasses off his face and folding them over the collar of his jumpsuit. “Now, he wants to be funny.” How they love to bicker. With Grace’s back to you, you can only imagine the pout on his face. He fiddles with his sleeves, trying to tighten them down lower on his wrists.

You rub your eyes tiredly. You’ve been sitting in zero grav for hours now, and you’d kill to feel the ground like normal—maybe have a cup of coffee in a mug and not a plastic-sealed pouch. It’s also clear that Grace isn’t getting any better, and Rocky isn’t getting any more patient. “I think it’d be pretty productive to take a break. Don’t you?”

Grace claps his hands together softly, “Break.” He’s just about to unbuckle himself out of the seat when Rocky taps a claw on the glass.

“Longer break means longer Earth, Erid sun dim. Grace need practice, or all die,” Rocky insists. You can see him stamp repetitiously on the xenonite glass a few times. Obviously, he’s being a little bit dramatic—but it still clearly gets under Grace’s skin, because he’s practically squirming in his seat.

“Okay, okay,” you decide, “Why don’t we switch for a bit? I can go over my part with you, and Grace can go strap down downstairs.” It might do you good to go over the post-handoff of controls, even if you’ve already got it all down. If it buys Grace a little bit of rest time, you’re willing to do it. 

But Rocky repeats, “Grace need practice,” this time with more intention. It’s absurd how well the computer modulates his voice so intuitively.

“He’s trying to say that I suck,” Grace affirms. He doesn’t seem to deny the accusation; if you aren’t mistaken, Grace is pretty embarrassed about this whole ordeal of not being able to fly well. You watch as he flattens the decals on his jumpsuit, patches and all, down with his palms.

“Rocky, play nice,” you scorn. Even underneath the glow of the screens, you can see Grace’s cheeks are tinted a light red. You hate to see him so stressed out about this stuff, but admittedly, it looks good on him. It’s probably a bad habit to even think that way about Grace—considering that it’s just the three of you on this ship and you have to sleep a few feet away from him every night. You should decidedly pour more effort into making him less anxious about the mission. So, you tell Grace, “You’ll get the hang of it.”

You reach a hand out to touch Grace, thinking that a soft squeeze of his bicep might send across your genuine feeling on the matter. You do believe in him. As soon as your fingers curl around his arm, brushing the rough fabric of his jumpsuit, Grace’s hand seems to pass over the armrest and, with a slip, collides straight into the joystick. The Mary jerks left in a longer stride across the black space; you’re realizing, as the force throttles your body yet again, that you’re very lucky to have this much open space. Meanwhile, Rocky is grabbing on to his own makeshift seatbelt, claws tight on the strap. “Brake. Brake. Brake. Brake. Brake.”

—

The same thing happens the next go-around two days later, when Grace is trying to train for sample extraction. You’re in your seat, and Rocky’s in his. Between the first practice run and now, the three of you worked handily to rig the collector into a dropping mechanism on the lower portion of the ship. It’s all been programmed up to drop at the click of a button. Rocky has Grace testing the mechanism in a one-to-one simulation.

Now, all three of you are playing pretend, as if you’ve already breached Adrian’s atmosphere and settled into a steady trajectory across the top. Grace is doing a decent job up to this point, having trained his muscle memory and studied the thick paper manual you’d found detailing all the console’s buttons and switches. He mutters under his breath, “Okay, okay. I got it.” It appears to be more self-reassurance than anything else. You’ve been on the ship long enough to know that Grace is a master at talking to himself.

Rocky is counting down from T-minus 10 seconds with a monotonous tone, keeping his attention closed on the texture monitor in front of him. “Ten, nine, eight, seven…” You have your eyes trained on Grace, who’s clearly trying to guide himself through a deep breath in and out. Grace flips up the metal casing on the drop button, sucks in a deep breath—“six, five, four, three…”—and slams it with his thumb. The collector discharges. On the monitors, both Grace’s and Rocky’s, you can see it free-float out of the containment chamber, right out of the open panels. At least, you know the release mechanism works well. But, Rocky is quick to note, “Grace release collector too early.”

Three seconds too early, you shake your head. Grace is already very aware of the mistake, searching for a half-excuse himself: “I was being punctual.”

“Need exact time. Count for reason,” Rocky grips and ungrips his left claw. Then, Rocky rotates to face you, stamping one claw on his seat. “Stare at Grace make Grace bad. Close eyes.” 

Your eyes widen, index finger poking into your own chest. “Me? Close my eyes?” You can’t imagine how that would make things run any more efficiently.

“Woah now,” Grace coughs out, hand running over the back of his head. As he brushes his palm down against his short blonde hair, he seems to tilt his chair away, clearly locked in on the monitor in front of him. He shoves his fingers against a few switches—completely meaningless motions. “What’re you trying to say, pal?”

“Need word,” Rocky deliberates slowly, “For when watching heightens nervous system.” Grace’s hand hovers over the monitor.

You click your fingers: “Performance anxiety.”

Grace twists his seat to face the both of you, palms open and waving in disagreement. “I don’t have performance anxiety.” But, his body says otherwise. He’s practically sweating through his tight white polo—glasses on the verge of fogging up. It’s difficult not to be giddy when he gets like this, all flustered and discombobulated. Grace is having a hard time keeping it together. He must recognize your overt fawning, because he puts up an index finger, lips parted, “Don’t.”

“…Sorry.” You scramble for the vocal software on Rocky’s computer, typing it out hastily: <performance anxiety>. You press your middle finger into the enter-key and Rocky chirps a few times. Too happily, he exclaims, “Is performance anxiety!” Rocky alternates his attention between the two of you, and Grace’s nose is scrunching softly. He’s distressed. Up to this point, you’d thought that Grace was just having a hard time acclimating to the controls. This definitely has to be it.

Grace says, rather grumpily, “For your information, I actually perform great under pressure usually. This is just an… extraneous circumstance.”

Rocky seems to shake his head, but makes a more urgent tap on the glass towards you. “Retrieve collector, question?” The collector’s still floating out there, and somebody needs to lock it back into the release mechanism. Rocky sees you best fit, apparently—no magic words there. Since Grace has been doing the heavy lifting with the captaining, you’re not very motivated to complain.

“When I get back, we can try to run it back,” you offer. You unbuckle your seatbelt swiftly, zero gravity making your legs sway upwards.

Rocky hums, “No, no. Collector requires extra yard and half chain according to visual on monitor. Extra links in lab. Make while Rocky Grace reset.”

“Uh… okay,” you snort. The addition of the chain makes you feel a little bit like you’re being sent on an errand. Then again, Rocky’s the expert fabricator, so you decide not to push it. As you start to make your exit out of the cockpit, Grace pulls his glasses off his face to buff the lens on his shirt. Softly, he tells you, “Just radio in if something happens with the rig or the collector. I can put a suit on to come help you.” He throws his glasses back on, and you give him a curt nod. Rocky waves you goodbye with his right claw as you pull yourself towards the corridor.

Once you make it out of the cockpit, in the joint between the airlock and the rest of the Mary, you can hear Grace and Rocky bickering again. Their muffled voices barrel out into the whole ship. First, Rocky, pointedly: “Need re-test.”

Then, Grace, who’s sure to have his arms crossed in a tight lock over his chest: “Re-test what?”

Rocky replies, “If three in cockpit, Grace rate of distraction high. Need to re-test with two.” And Grace can only groan in response.

—

A half hour later, with the collector safely retrieved, your two crewmates set the Hail Mary into centrifuge. You get to work as soon as your feet touch the ground. The chain situation is meticulous and boring and you find it best fit, after linking together that extra yard and a half, to stay bundled up in the patchwork quilt in the lab—coffee in hand. It feels like as soon as you’re able to enjoy being upright, though, the commotion moves to you.

With the rapid sound of thunking on metal, Rocky rolls past you and makes it straight for the crew quarters. You whip around to tell him, “I finished those extra links you asked for, Rock.” It passes through one metaphorical ear out the other.

“Rocky develop breeder tank design,” he relays to you with a general disregard, “Try help Grace. Is impossible.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to be a little more patient,” you shout down the corridor. He doesn’t respond. You can already hear Rocky clinking his daily ball into the larger compartment. With the patchwork quilt clung around your shoulders, you place your mug down on an empty counter and peek in on Grace.

At the other end of the corridor, he’s still getting out of the cockpit—straightening out his polo and stretching his arms. When he finds that you’re standing behind him, he gets slightly more animated. “Hey…” Grace seems to trace his gaze down the individual patches on the quilt hanging off your back. Then, he looks up at you, dark blue eyes peering over his lenses.

You give him a wide grin. “Did Rocky give you a good lecturing while I was out?”

“No,” Grace pauses, pushing the bridge of his glasses up. “Yes.” With a defeated shrug, he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sweats. “He’s right, you know. I am… pretty bad at captaining the ship.” 

“You’re fine at captaining the ship—”

“—I’ve been getting distracted this whole time because you sit too close to me,” he blurts. You draw back a bit, tugging the quilt tighter over your shoulders.

“The cockpit isn’t that cramped, is it?” you laugh. It’s a little bit embarrassing how close together you three have to sit in there. The thought of Grace’s discomfort at the mere proximity makes you sheepish.

“No, I’m saying that when you’re near me, I get, you know…” Grace stammers, “Jittery. I get jittery.” He crosses his arms over his chest, Converse pointed towards your work boots.

“I hope it’s not that I’m putting too much pressure on you. I swear that’s the last thing I want.”

“That isn’t it.” Grace wrings his hands together and then drops them to his sides. “When I get in the cockpit, it feels, well, suffocatingly small, and Rocky’s talking, and you’re just watching, and you’re waiting for me to fly the thing. And I want to fly it well in front of you. For you,” Grace blinks. You’re not even sure he knows what he’s saying. “I’m trying to tell you that I am very attracted to you, and it’s cramping my motor skills.”

You can feel your eyes widen. You’re trying your best to settle with the fact: “You can’t fly ‘cause of me?” You can’t be hearing it right.

Grace struggles to give you a steady “…Yes.” He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, opting next to run his hand over the control panel above you both. He can barely look at you, eyes flashing up to faux-examine the thing.

 “I make you nervous. It’s performance anxiety for an audience of one,” you reiterate. “Are you sure?” It’s a little silly for you to ask, considering that he’s just laid it all out for you. It’s just… impossible. Grace drops his hand back down.

He looks like he’s about to melt into the floor. And still, he rasps, “I think I have about thirty failed test runs and one very upset alien to corroborate my claim.” He’s being serious. One close inspection of Grace and he seems to be blushing from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. The small grin on his face matches your own, but it’s riddled with a hint of unease. He’s dying for you to give him a straight answer.

You have to give him a little bit of slack. “Would it make you fly better if I told you I’m very attracted to you, too?”

Grace tilts his head, brows furrowed. “I think it might make it worse, actually—” The quilt drops off your shoulders and crumples soft on the ground as you launch up to kiss Grace. “Oh.” His surprise doesn’t get far, because you’re running your hands over Grace’s chest, throwing them up into his hair. Grace lets out a contented hum against your lips, his palms only lightly grazing over your jaw. It’s with an accidental bit of force that you guide Grace over and push him up against the side-wall of the corridors, your work boots tucked in between his Converse. You’re maybe too excited to kiss him, hands anchoring on his hips, then toying with the hem of his polo. He’s blushing—you can feel the heat coming off of him—and you’re not much better.

It’s all very heated until Rocky’s voice rings out from the crew quarters: “Crew take Rocky advice. Reject null.” Privacy at a minimum, you remember. You pull away, taking a look over Grace’s face. He’s heaving by this point, with you nearly kissing him to death. His hands finally lay strong on your hips, back still flush to the corridor wall.

You take a few steps back into the middle of the corridor, dragging Grace along with you. With a bit more air, he lets out a shuddered breath. You murmur, “I can think of a few good motivators for you to fly better.” There isn’t any bit of goodwill behind it, just utter anticipation; you’re too eager to get to be with Grace like this.

“Rocky is going to be very disappointed when he finds out you're going to be deeply, deeply unhelpful.”

Decoration aside, there are two very serious, clearly government agents, all suits, who are standing at the foot of Grace’s bed. Then, to his left, one nurse, checking his vitals on the analog screen. To his right, one doctor—pressing a cold, steel stethoscope to either side of his chest beneath the papery texture of his middle gown. It all seems so practiced. Grace squints. “Dr. Grace, do you know where you are?” Grace tilts his head in the direction of the voice beside him. It’s the doctor; she’s withdrawing her stethoscope from his chest, checking his eyes with the narrow beam of a handheld, pocket flashlight. “Hospital?” he rasps out—vocal cords still not acclimated to speaking aloud. She pockets the flashlight. Grace can see swirling blues and greens over his vision in absence of the bright light, a film that fades very slowly as he settles into his consciousness.

“Pupils are responsive,” she affirms to the two agents, and the nurse—who rattles her fingers quickly at the keyboard at his bedside. Then, to Grace: “I’d recommend that you rub your hands together, Dr. Grace. It’ll help kick your blood flow back into action. Though, I’m sure you’re already very wise on the procedure.” Modestly, and almost apologetically, the doctor tells him, “I have to tell you regardless.” She hands him his glasses off the bedside table, and Grace slips them onto his face with a still stirring movement. His arms and legs still feel just as numb as they did the first time.

“You’re currently at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center,” the doctor tells him. “You’ve been here for about three weeks.”

“In Los Angeles,” one of the agents tells him, matter-of-factly. Scully, Grace labels.

“I’m in Los Angeles?” Grace almost chokes out a laugh. The last time Grace had been to L.A. was for an academic conference, and he’d been rather disillusioned by the morning traffic.

“Yes, right by UCLA,” the other agent confirms smoothly. And Mulder, Grace thinks. “They had you air-lifted from around Vancouver after your pod touched down.”

Cedars-Sinai, UCLA, Vancouver. Grace chants the three in sequence over and over in his head. They tell him with such ease. There’s no extra explanation about what’s where, no request for a further meaning. If there’s anything that Grace misses about being around people—human people—it’s the familiarity of living in around the same place. The ability to landmark. There’s nothing remotely confusing about “L.A.” or “freeway” or “smog.”

Scully bends over to open a leather satchel at the foot of Grace’s bed. She pulls out a hefty pile of newspaper clippings and she tosses it plainly onto his lap. At first, he only looks at the headliners, fold-by-fold:

Extraterrestrial Life Declassified by UN Task Force’s Eva Stratt

Sun’s Luminance Recovered By Grace’s Taumoeba

Dr. Ryland Grace To Be Inducted Into U.S. Astronaut Hall of Fame

“This is…” he rasps out. It’s not brain fog. He knows exactly what it is, and what it is is a little bit much. Even after spending all that time in an entirely different planetary system, it’s a little bit much. Grace can feel the tension setting between his brows, and he lets the papers sit heavily in his lap. “Stratt. Eva Stratt—is she around? Can I see her?” 

“I’m not sure if there’s a good way to say this, but… Stratt has been MIA for the past couple of years. She got in a lot of trouble for the project, ethical-environmental reasons, nothing very surprising—”  

Grace raises up his hand to interrupt Mulder, shocked that he’s even able to do so with the speed that he does. Grace echoes, with pure urgency, “But, she’s MIA. As in… nowhere to be found.”

“Yes, that’s correct, Dr. Grace.” The agents are somewhat despondent about the situation—neither here, nor there. 

“Okay. Okay, I’ll take it.” A win: Stratt evades imprisonment indefinitely. She’s on one of the smaller newspaper spreads on Grace’s lap—a front-facing portrait, Stratt at the head of a speaker’s platform, looking as serious as ever. She’s grayer, too. Grace tries not to pay any mind to the thought of how young they were when they first met. 

If there was anything that Grace had made peace with in all those years gone, it was with Stratt. How she’d dragged him around that carrier ship like a dog on a leash. How he’d settled into those small moments of respect for her; Stratt was as faithful to his intellect as she was headstrong. Grace had come to understand her, even after he remembered what she’d done. He has to trust that she’s well now, somewhere on the water near Greenland or somewhere colder.

He’s slow to flip through the flimsy pages, entranced by the number of times his name is written in each column. The newspapers in the pile are years apart from one another, the earliest dated only a month after his initial launch, and the latest just a week after the Mary’s recovery: Dr. Ryland Grace Recovered Off British Columbia Coast. The photograph of his landing pod and its parachute bobbing in the water makes the journey home appear so simple—so small.

In all of his contemplation, Grace pays very little mind to how the room shifts around him. Scully and Mulder—he should really ask for their real names soon—appear to tilt their heads to the doctor and the nurse. The nurse hurries to double check Grace’s IV lines before stepping outside. The doctor follows closely behind her. Scully clicks her tongue: “The Hail Mary was captured on satellite imaging at the start of last year. We’ve been anticipating your arrival for a while now—so we ask that you forgive us if we’re a little… antsy. There’s something else for you.”

Scully pulls a flatter box out of the satchel and comes closer to Grace’s side, while Mulder goes to sit in the visitor chair in the corner. As he sits down, semi-slouched in the seat, she opens the box. Black leather, Grace realizes. He sits up a little bit more in his hospital bed, gown shifting uncomfortably against the sheets. He makes sure to tidy the newspapers as best as he can, before placing them weakly onto the bedside table beside the books and the cards.

Scully opens the box gingerly, rotates it towards Grace, and gently hands it over to him. Grace blinks. “Wow. This is… a medal.”

“It’s a Nobel Prize, Dr. Grace.” It says it there, Alfr-Nobel, and has the profile of a gentleman's face across it. There’s Mr. Nobel, Grace thinks, Obviously. It’s real gold, heavy in Grace’s hands. He doesn’t know if he should say thank you or not; it seems as if it’s about to come out of his mouth—but he simply gulps it back down.

“You were awarded it a month after they photographed the Hail Mary on satellite,” Mulder explains—when they found out Grace wasn’t dead. “Word traveled fast, and the Committee was very intent on awarding it to you. For the longest time, they were storing it in the Kennedy Space Center, but they made sure to ship it out to Pasadena last week in preparation for your arrival.”

Scully clasps her hands together, “Every laureate also receives a cash award with it. Eleven million krona—that’s about a million U.S. dollars, and some change.” “Oh.” Grace is baffled. In his head, he can picture himself being handed a giant check on a stage, with a handshake and the flutter of a bunch of camera flashes. He hadn’t really needed money on Erid. He’s not sure what he’s going to do with it all—besides, maybe squander a small amount on real food. No burgers. Maybe salmon?

Scully lays a soft hand on Grace’s left shoulder that startles him into attention. “You’re a historical figure, Dr. Grace. Congratulations.”

—

Grace finds out that Scully and Mulder are actually Agents Franklin and Lineham—though, in the end, the discovery is ultimately pointless. They seem to recede into the background within his first week of being back on Earth, replaced, to Grace’s disappointment, by a series of politicians, scientists, and journalists. Despite great promises to “take things slow,” Grace is launched—yes, launched—into a flurry of press conferences with a plethora of national governments.

Grace knows what it’s like to be the center of attention, to an extent. In his twenties, it was the bad sort of attention, the kind that made people flee from the sight of him in a Hyatt lobby during academic conferences. It’s a good thing in the classroom, because it means that he’s doing his job correctly—the sign of a good lesson plan. Attention now, in the celebrity sense, is a whole other beast—the kind that makes Grace want to shrink inside himself. He’s not sure whether it’s modesty or shyness. Both are likely. They have him holed up in a secured location, still, a nice studio flat in the middle of the hills—not so far from civilization that the conspiracy theorists can somehow reach him. He’s still around people, of course, but it’s not the most preferable thing, either. A year in, and Grace can hardly go to the grocery store without someone asking to have a picture with him. Or, to ask him some half-unique question about Eridian biology.

He’s maybe more charmed by the tributes to Rocky than he is the ones for himself. It’s not that Grace doesn’t like murals. Or statues. These things are all valid works of art; he can tell the amount of effort that’s been exerted into each of them, and he doesn’t discount the meaning that they hold for a surviving humanity. It’s more… strange than anything else to see a giant bronze version of himself presiding next to bridges and parks.

In an ideal world, he’d be able to send a transmission up to his old friend—Look, pal, Grace would write, Everybody loves you down here. Thought you should know. Is it weird for you, too?—and age for long enough to see a response.

—

Nobody tells you that Dr. Ryland Grace is coming to your museum on a random Monday in the middle of April. Usually, there’s some sort of warning about celebrity visits—non-disclosure agreements and photo release forms and security guards up and down the place. You hate it when they happen, and they happen at least once every exhibit rotation. But, when Grace comes, there’s a simplicity to his visit.

You’re in the middle of talking with your assistant curator when he comes in through the front entrance. He goes straight into the ticketing line, pays in full. Gives the appearance of really any usual guest. What really causes you to float out of your conversation is the sight of him dropping a folded-up $20 bill into the see-through donations box near the restroom. The assistant curator is talking logistics to you about the incoming dino fossils, and some suggestions about where to position stanchions. But, the sight of this generous and unsuspecting guest causes your attention to flee elsewhere. “It all sounds good,” you say blankly, “Just…”

The assistant curator doesn’t seem too phased—merely turning their head over their shoulder to trace your gaze. They spot it as quickly as you do, and jut their thumb out sideways: “Is that—?”

You nod briskly, “Yeah. That’s definitely a twenty. Would you mind if we finish later?” They nod. It doesn’t take much more for you to sidle away, in search of the mystery donor. You wonder only for a second if it’s weird to tail him. The other, more desperate side of you tells you that this is definitely a potential patron with a lot of money to hand over to your workplace. Local history museum meets funding—an unusual feat. So, you dedicate yourself toward trying to search for him. He seems to disappear a bit, shrouded by seniors and young couples wandering about the lobby. But, his trajectory is clear: the Hail Mary exhibit.

There’s a ton of goodies there—really, some of the museum’s best work. The last curator had worked immensely hard trying to acquire a set of items from a lot at an auction, including printed mission reports, photographs of the astronauts, and donated personal items. The real jewel of the exhibit is one of four “beetles” sent back down to Earth. It’s an empty shell now, though it once held a vat of taumoeba packed up straight from Tau Ceti. Across, a tape-label reads: Ringo. John, Paul, and George are all scattered across other larger institutions across the country. You’re very lucky to have Ringo. He’s a real crowd-pleaser.

There are various, different swaths of kids dividing you and your generous visitor, some from the local after-school program and some on family trips. A young boy skids on the floor right at his feet—can’t be older than eight. At once, he takes his hands out of his pockets and rushes to help the boy up onto his feet. Once he turns to guide the boy back towards his parents, you can get a better look at his face. A couple of initial thoughts: kind, handsome, and too familiar. You pretend to tidy up a stack of maps in a nearby information kiosk. But… you realize, eyes darting between Ringo and the generous guest, that there’s something particularly striking about the frames of his glasses. Thin, silver rectangles.

You know who he is. Even if he wears a black NY baseball cap and the plainest of windbreakers and he’s just a little bit grayer than the pictures, you know who he is. You try to suppress the memory of you unpacking the photos of him down in the archives when the museum first received them, fingers grasping the corners, a fluster on your face. From memory, you can recall that in half of the photos, Grace has a sideways grin and a dorky little thumbs-up.

Dr. Ryland Grace is standing in the middle of his own exhibit. There are things you should do—tell the museum director, for starters, that the world’s most known public figure is standing in the middle of your institution. At the least, you should introduce yourself, offer up a guided tour, make a good impression. But, seeing as Dr. Grace looks like he’s about to cry at the sight of his own photographs, you’re not at liberty to bother.

Instead, you watch as Grace walks into a partitioned room—a clean black box with a wide bench in the middle. On the projector, there’s a looped one-hour compilation of various different interviews related to the project. The one on now shows a Chinese man in his mid-forties, sitting on a high stool with one leg crossed over the other. He has a cool sort of look to him, comfortable—not averse to the camera. The speakers echo out: “Your name for the tape?” An interviewer.

The man responds: “Connor Yao.” From behind, you can see Grace’s posture straighten out. Recognition. Maybe you should walk away now, try to give him space. But, you don’t feel right in leaving him be, either. Perhaps, because you know the contents of the interviews, you feel a little guilty in leaving Grace to his own devices. You have a quiet, disconcerting need to watch over him, like some kind of guardian spirit. Half-guilty, you watch the video with him from the hall.

“And can you tell us about your father?” the interviewer asks.

“Sure,” Connor nods, “My father was Yao Li-Jie. He was the assigned commander of the Hail Mary. I was, think, three years old when the Petrova Line was discovered. Eight when the Hail Mary launched.”

“And what do you remember about him?”

“He liked to laugh. A lot. He liked to sing along to the radio when he drove—which my mom only pretended to hate. She was always telling me about how he’d always try to serenade her when they were first going out. I think it was more fun for him than it was for her.” Connor makes himself laugh, makes the interviewer laugh. And, somewhere in between them, you can hear Grace laughing, too. It’s a sweet anecdote. With it, you decide to leave him be.

—

When you return at the end of your shift, you find Grace on the opposite side of the exhibit at another video station. He has his windbreaker off now, revealing the navy-blue knit sweater underneath. Here, there’s an older woman on-camera, tucking her hair back behind her ears. The interviewer tells her: “You can ignore the lens. Treat this like it’s just you and me.” Sara seems to shrug the tension off her shoulders, trying to appear more relaxed. Only half of her nervousness is skimmed off. The interview continues. “Could you tell us a little bit about yourself—your name and why you’re here?”

She responds, “My name is Sara Carter-Yuito. Formerly just Sara Carter.”

“And, Sara, can you tell us what you recall about Dr. Ryland Grace?” You can see Grace straighten up as she speaks, head tilted at the mention of his own name.

On-screen, Sara smiles. “Right. Yeah. I went to Grover Cleveland Middle, so I took Mr. G—Mr. Grace—for Science in the eighth grade. He would do all these really great lesson plans about atoms, thermodynamics, plate tectonics. You know, eighth-grade material. But, he’d always do this really great job of making sure we weren’t zoning out. I’m pretty sure I owe him my PhDs.”

You’ve seen this interview as many times as you have the others. It’s probably one of the most charming of the bunch. Sara Carter-Yuito, Professor of Physics at Whitman College in Washington. Graduated from University of Washington with a B.S. in Biophysics. Then, two PhD’s in Biophysics and Biochemistry. She was born and raised in San Francisco, attended Grover Cleveland Middle and then the high school next door. You wonder if Grace remembers her face—or, at least the youthful, base features of her face that still remain.

Sara continues, “There was this thing he’d do with a hacky sack? Kind of like hot-potato—” Yes, you think, Grace must remember. While Yao had his son, Connor, Grace had a plethora of kids at Grover Cleveland. His kids—all grown up.

And you finally build up enough courage to knock on the pitch-black wall with a gently-spoken: “Sir?”

You can see him turn once, then twice, in a double take to look at you. It’s difficult not to feel too self-conscious, and it appears this sentiment rings strong for the both of you. “Uh… yeah,” Grace blinks in rapid succession, trying to suck a couple tears back into his eyes, "Yes?” He’s probably wondering if you’re going to berate him with a question, or ten, while you, seemingly in your natural habitat—at work, like usual—almost definitely feel like an intruder to his space.

“Dr. Grace?” Saying his name aloud is a regretful thing, and you feel it even more so seeing the way his eyes widen maximally in response to it. “The museum closed about fifteen minutes ago.” You give a quick point with your index finger to the museum ID-card hanging on your lanyard. Grace sighs in relief. Thank God you’re an employee, his polite smile screams.

“This thing’s useless,” Grace says, grabbing his NY cap off the top of his head, and inspecting it with a lightly aggravated eye. You have to stifle your laugh. In truth? It wasn’t very difficult for you to spot him out. But, you’re not in the particular mood to tell him that you think exactly that. Your eye catches on the tinges of silver hair amidst the dark blonde.

Shyly, you tell him, “You were also walking around throwing twenties into our donation boxes. Nobody does that.”

“Caught me.” He stands up, hands wringing against one another. He makes sure to swipe up his windbreaker off the bench and hold it to his waist. “I heard the announcement earlier. Sorry. I’m sure you probably want to go home.”

“No, that’s alright. I stay ‘till close regardless,” you say, “There’s a bit more of the exhibit in the archive not open to the public. If you’d like to see it…” Your voice shrivels into itself. You’re not even sure if it’s a good idea—but all things considered, global hero and all, it almost feels like you have a responsibility to offer this to him. He looks uncomfortable, shifting his weight to either foot, hand constricting around his windbreaker. So, you shoot out a: “You don’t have to—”

“No—I’d like to. I’d love to, actually,” Grace nods.

—

When you bring Grace down into the basement, it feels a lot smaller than you remember. The filing cabinets feel tight, and it’s dead quiet under the low-lights. Grace has his arms tucked behind his back as he watches you slide the metal drawer open and wedge gentle fingers in between the yellow folders. “Grover Cleveland and a couple other schools donated these to us about a decade ago to make room for, like, traffic guard uniforms or something. The museum’s committee had them up for the first couple of weeks of the Hail Mary exhibit, but they took it down to make room for the interviews.”

You pull the closest one out. The handwriting—your handwriting—on the lip of the folder reads: 2022, Grover Cleveland. You surrender it over to Grace in a hurry, fingertips brushing against his in a staggered, jumbling attempt to hand him the file. He opens it with raised eyebrows; there’s about fifty pieces of paper in this bunch, some letters, some art—all grades. Before, Grace might have been able to recognize certain students’ handwriting to a T; he can’t be sure now.

“Wow.” There are some good drawings and some bad; regardless, they seem to fill Grace’s chest with some kind of warmth. “Right. That’s me,” he points to the middle of a sheet. It is him, scribbled messily with splotches of beige and yellow. A formulation of misshapen rectangles that look like glasses. There’s plenty in the folder like that. He flips through a couple more. These are better than any sculpture that he’s ever seen.

You point: “I think that’s you in space. That’s Tau Ceti.” And, again: “There’s Rocky holding… a balloon?”

Grace makes sure to slide this particular pastel drawing out of the folder and tilt it right-side up. “Actually,” he hums, matter-of-factly, “I think that is actually supposed to be the Petrova Line. ‘Cause the red.” You look up at him, and back down at the drawing. Upon closer examination… you can only half-see it. “You’re the expert,” you snort. Too loud. Grace tilts his head at you, hearing you laugh. Thus far, you’ve been sort of reserved. Lightly professional, and heavily timid. It seems like he’s almost pleased to see you so comfortable so easily. You have to focus with your greatest efforts not to look at him. Intently, you point at another one—a long, long-legged Rocky presiding over a very vibrant Earth, like some kind of triumphant god. Maybe symbolic enough for you to say, “That’s a really good one, actually,” though it’s very possibly a distraction on your part. Grace is too close and too observant.

He agrees, “It’s superb. Very… Dalí-esque.” Funny. Is he trying to get you to laugh again?

—

And somehow, within the hour, you find yourself eating dinner in the archives with Ryland Grace, takeout sushi delivered to the employee entrance of the museum. Rule bent, you aren’t supposed to even have food down in the basement—but the occasional exception has to be made. You’re cross-legged on your chair, now, table scattered with drawings, letters, and other collected ephemera—all on him. You’re chowing away at the sashimi, his treat, as he looks through all of the materials. Grace looks so amused, mouth tilting up into a small, contemplative smile, and you have to raise an eyebrow at him. What gives?

He shakes his head rapidly, rasping out a soft, “Sorry. It’s nothing.” He takes his glasses off his face and folds them up, before setting them on the table beside his tray of sushi. “It’s just not how anybody’d expect to spend a Monday night. We’re sitting and eating raw fish over the equivalent of a me-shrine. And you’re…” Grace sucks in a deep breath, before letting out a jumbled, “A very, very cool individual with a very big heart.” What? The compliment makes you smile, but it still feels like it’s only half of what Grace actually wanted to say.

The two of you continue sorting through the materials. Clearly, Grace has a preference towards the art; he seems to arrange them very closely to his right side—and leaves the pictures of himself to the sidelines. He slides one small 5x7” print across the table with a couple of taps. “You know, it seems like you would’ve gotten along with this guy.”

You stare at this photo of a pre-Erid Grace—a yearbook photo cutout. He’s young here, a bit out of his element being photographed. A suit jacket and tie over jeans, very pseudo-professorial. His glasses are close to glinting against the flash, and he has his hands shoved into his front pockets. He’d probably take his students to your museum in the fall on a field trip, and, admittedly, you’d probably find him pretty cute. The Grace before you only seems a little bit older, but when you look at him, there’s still the same quality about him that you’d come to pick up on in his photographs. Still boyish, despite time passing. But, you also know what Grace is trying to say: he’s older than you—technically, a lot older than you, with the time dilation taken into account.

Still, you persist: “I think I am getting along with him.”

It takes a moment for Grace to settle with your words. “Right. I guess you are.”

And, silence. He seems fixated on the photo still. “Do you still feel like you’re up there?” you ask him blankly. “I mean, obviously, you’re back on Earth. You’ve been back. But, I’ve always wondered if your head—and your heart, I guess—would still be…” you direct your index finger up above the two of you. In space.

“Well…? Yes and no. Since I’ve been back, I’ve been treated like the patron saint of space, which I don’t think I am. That title belongs to my Eridian friend here.” He points to a couple of stills from his video logs—Grace on his pilot’s chair, and Rocky with his jagged appendages waving right behind him. “Obvious reasons aside, I wanted to make sure I could know everything was okay here,” Grace explains, “I haven’t always been glad about that decision, but right now, it’s not so bad. Today’s been not so bad.” Though he’s shying away from saying it with words, Grace wants to say you’ve made it not so bad.

“You should take the ones you want. The drawings and the letters, I mean. They’re really yours, when you think about it. They belong to you,” you tell Grace.

He looks apprehensive. “Are you even allowed to give them to me?”

“I can figure something out.” Obviously, you aren’t supposed to just give away archival materials willy-nilly. “Maybe you could… volunteer here. Teach a couple science lessons to the students on weekends. I’m sure the director would consider it a fair trade—and we’d probably get more out of the exchange, qualitatively.” You stand up to gather everything together, hands reaching across the table to collect up the papers and stack them neatly into the closest open folder. 

“I beg to differ,” Grace says, “These are priceless. And, teaching is like breathing for me. I’ve basically been hypoxic for the last year.” He huffs, realizing that he might have to cease speaking in code. He corrects, “I’m trying to say that I miss having students, and I think I might take you up on the offer.”

“Okay. Good,” you nod. Mission success.

“Great,” Grace echoes back to you. You come around the short table to hand them to Grace with both hands. His eyes soften as you surrender over the folder to him. You’re trying not to light up at the thought of him swinging by again. It’s not at all for the benefit of the museum programming, even if that is a big bonus. Selfishly, you want to see more of him. Even when gray, he has a sort of undeniable charm to him.

An endless string of loud whimpers accompanied by curses leaves his lips with every drag of his cock against your walls that hug him perfectly.

“Nngh—Oh, fuck. Holy shit. Baby, don’t stop…” His hands are anchored to your waist, his hips thrust up as you bounce on his length.

His eyes close in ecstasy and his head tilts back while his jaw goes slack. His hands travel up to your torso, finding anything to hold onto while your hole seems to suck his soul out from his cock.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” His moans reverberate against the walls at the delicious sound of squelching and slapping of your skin. He opens his eyes to watch how he disappears into you.

At first, you gently shush him when his moans grow louder the closer he gets to finishing. Your silent plea to avoid an eviction is drowned out by his whimpering.

“Yeah, you’re so good…just like that…” he remains unaware of your concerns, selfishly careless in letting the neighbors know how good your walls feel around him as your hips roll against his.

Your hand acts before your mind comprehends—the smack of your hand across his cheek resounds with the slapping of your hips, which stops once you realize what you did, though not without noticing the rut of his hips once the pain registers.

He moans before you can think to apologize. His pelvis juts up into you when you seize your movements and he starts to beg, “Do that again, please. Harder. Please, please, please, baby.”

His blue puppy dog eyes look up at you as if anticipating a treat while soft groans leave his lips as your hips begin to move again.

Your pace slowly increases again. Faster—harder. Soon, he’s left a blubbering mess again, practically melting onto the sheets as his nails dig into your sides.

Your hand lands on his cheek, harder this time. A loud moan escapes his lips and his hips thrust to bury himself at the hilt. His chest quickly rises and falls, his tongue darting out his open mouth to lick his lips.

He eventually comes with red, flushed cheeks, his hips snug against yours and a long, deep groan relieved from his throat. He lets out a series of soft whimpers as he descends from his high.

Sure enough, your landlord knocks on your door the next day with the concerns of your neighbors.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

You don’t even know where Colt is right now. Probably taking a nap in his trailer, or grabbing a bite to eat off-set. You can’t think about that now, because you need to focus on talking over Ryder. “That’s insane,” you counter. “It’s too expensive to reshoot the stunt, and it’s already perfect as-is. It doesn’t take a whole lot of work to recreate the scene you just did.” It’s really not. All he has to do is wave his stupid prop-gun around and run his mouth.

“Pain in the fuckin’ ass,” Ryder mutters indiscreetly. You can only scribble away on your script, unamused. The makeup artist that comes to touch up the highlighter on his cheeks looks half-scared to death. You can tell that she’s in a quick rush to dab the brush at his face and scurry away as fast as possible.

“Tom, bear with us for a minute. We’ve got this scene left, and then it’s press time. You love the press,” the director exclaims, all too sporadically. “We’ll redo the scene really quick, bud. Just go with the flow.”

—

You’ve been keeping your eye on Colt for the last week and a half of production. It’s not that you can control it. Whenever he’s substituting in for Ryder for the fight scenes or the pyro or the vehicular stunts, he’s always front and center. You’ve got to keep your eye on the script and Colt simultaneously; it’s your job—tracking the consistency. In any case, you’d have to do just the same for Ryder. Except, when Colt’s not needed for the shot, you, on occasion, still keep your eye on him.

So, you might have an inkling of a crush on the senior stunt double on your set. The reason, you’ve tried to deduce, is that he’s relatively much nicer than Ryder, which means you’re so much more likely to like him. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t attracted to him, with his blonde highlights and all the movie quotes he spews out between takes.

Usually, you’ll find him at the catering table, on his third cup of your shared fourteen-hour day. It’s under these usual circumstances that he comes to thank you. You feel a tap on your shoulder—and Colt’s there, right beside you, mug in hand. You give him a nod and a smile, trying not to come off too jumpy. He still has his costume on, grayish blue suit and a slightly darker tie to match—topped with a brimmed cowboy hat. It’s the same as Ryder’s. You drop your thermos down on the folding table, trying to figure out what pastry might tie you over for the rest of the day.

“So, I heard you did me a big favor,” Colt murmurs. Word travels fast on-set, clearly. He takes the white little espresso mug up to his lips, taking a sip of the hot brew as he leans back against the catering table. He lowers it just a little to say, “You should’ve just let him make us reshoot.”

You shake your head, picking a scone off one of the trays and placing it onto your flimsy styrofoam tray. “It’s good to get him worked up early during production, so he might ease off the bitching later. It’s like an advanced payment.”

Colt snorts. “Nice,” he says, “I’m pretty sure he’s trying to get Gail to get you fired. Obviously, you didn’t hear it from me.” It barely fazes you. Ryder’s always dying to get somebody fired, and it alternates based on his particular moods. His targeting you is no different than usual.

“She can’t fire me,” you chuckle. After four blockbuster films of you on script with the bigwigs, you’re convinced that you’re invincible. It’s naive, maybe, but you’re good at what you do. You’re credible. And, on this particular contemporary Western at least—with crunch time now, in the middle of spring—you’re safe. You digress, “I know the film inside out, and it’d be a killer to replace me at this point in production.” 

“Right,” Colt nods. He doesn’t seem to believe you too much, but it is what it is. He seems to lower his voice as crew, largely lighting and sound in all-black, whizz past you to set up for the next scene. Intently, he tells you, “I wouldn’t mind reshooting if it means Ryder won’t give you as hard of a time.”

Your eyebrows crease. It’s not that you don’t appreciate his efforts to make your life easier. It’s just so simple the way Colt thinks he can be tossed around; you wish he’d be more careful with himself. “Kind offer. Thanks.” You’re brushing him off; he can tell.

“Even if you won’t take me up on it,” Colt tilts his head, “I’m around whenever you need me. What is this, our third film together?” He’s flashing you a grin, back to the table. He must think he’s real cool; you hate that it’s working on you.

“Fourth,” you correct. You’re not sure if it comes out short or timid; regrettably, it feels more like the latter. Colt lowers his mug down onto the table, faltering just slightly.

Briskly, he repeats, “Fourth.” Colt makes an extended effort to turn around and pick your thermos up off the table. You have to suppress a yelped “hey.” Despite your protests, thermos his hand, Colt practically bodyguards the whole setup—the Keurig and the metal basket of espresso pods adjacent to it. Your hip bumps against his as he puts his forearm to fend you off. You’d try to grab for it if you weren’t at work, PAs and DPs flitting around you both. “You don’t have to—”

And, like a flash, Colt tosses your thermos onto the bottom plate, whips the pod into the canister, punches the lid down, and clicks double-shot. “My first installment for you screwing over Ryder on my behalf.” While you’re both waiting for the machine to pour down coffee, he’s humming something like ABBA. “How pissed was he to reshoot?”

“Practically frothing at the mouth,” you tell him, “I’m surprised they didn’t prep a bib.” Colt’s perfectly satisfied with this answer, nodding curtly. Respect. Not many people are capable of talking down on Ryder so openly.

The thermos gets filled halfway, and Colt offers it back up to you, “Here.” You take the thermos back, in steady avoidance of his callused fingertips. He admits, “I don’t know how you like your coffee yet.” Yet? You narrow your eyes. You’re not sure that Colt has ever been so attentive talking to you, and you’re trying not to feel the way your breath hitches in your chest in response.

If there’s anything you’re able to bond about with Colt, it’s the damn on-set coffee. He’s practically running on the stuff, probably ten times worse than you are. His little mug finds its way back into his hands again. Colt fails to speak for a moment, too occupied by… something on your face. You’re trying not to crumple beneath his observation, but Colt’s smiling and he’s searching over your features for something.

Finally, after a few seconds, he lets up. “I’ll get your order down sometime this week. I’m, uh, quick to learn,” he tells you. Then, he raises up his little cup toward you. “Cheers. To you disturbing the peace.” You raise your thermos, and Colt’s ceramic clinks against your metal. A little victory.

—

You could care less about Ryder’s peace, really; but, you’re partially grateful in the fact that it’s allowed you to catch Colt’s attention. Colt sticks to his word about the coffee, because he seems to keep his attention fixed whenever you’re at that catering table with him. And when you’re not at the catering table, he’s still somehow around, holding open doors for you and keeping spare pencils tucked on his person for you to use to mark scripts. You don’t want to mistake it for anything that it’s not, but it feels almost vaguely like Colt Seavers is trying to court you.

All the fuss that he’s been making to please you culminates into a really unnecessary scene on-set. You’re right off camera, next to the director, camera op, Gail, and… Colt. It’s one of those classic getaway car scenes, set in a downtown street; they’ve got Ryder in the motions of hopping into a great Oldsmobile Toronado, while two security guards are trying to hop and skip after him in the facade of a nameless bank. All the action—Ryder yelling “Really, it ain’t personal,” in a vaguely East Coast accent—culminates into him jumping down a set of stairs and whipping the door open. He clambers in, slams the door shut, and throws a big duffel into the backseat. The open zipper of the bag makes for a great effect of bills being scattered all in the closed containment of the car.

The director yells cut and the crew runs round to reset. Ryder runs his nails into his scalp, pushing back his curls; it all comes very easily to him, these things. As terrible as he is a person, he still can’t help but be great at his craft. It’s insufferable. One of the PAs guides him out of the car and off-camera to a tall chair with a glass of water and a tray of fruit. He pops a green grape into his mouth, before staring off in your direction, bored. “Can somebody tell Colt to stop eye-fucking the scripty?”

The notes that you’re taking down in red ink have to wait. You slap your script down onto your lap. “He’s not,” you spit out, gawking most of all at the choice of words. In front of the entire set—oh, you want to kill Ryder; there’s nothing in the world you’d want more.

“I’m not—” Colt scoffs. “I’m trying to gauge if the camera needs to get pulled back. It’s gonna be a killer if I crack the lens.” You look over your shoulder to check Colt’s conviction. There’s zero of it. He’s looking down at you and back at Ryder, hands propped on his hips. You can see his chest rise and fall. Colt wants to look tough, and his composure is doing absolutely to help you.

Ryder laughs, really guffaws. He makes sure to crunch down another green grape, before he shoos the whole arrangement away with a “Thanks, honey.” The PA by Ryder’s side makes sure to make themselves sparse, taking away the fruit and leaving him with the water. Ryder keeps his eye locked on Colt, already quite entertained. “You’re a shitty liar, dude.”

“There’s a reason why one’s the lead and the other’s the double,” Gail says heartily, smacking her gum with a shrug. When she finds that you haven’t agreed with her, or at least laughed alongside the two of them, she gives you an eyeroll under her wide glasses. It’s all wide and clear: Gail thinks you’re no fun. She should really adjust her priorities.

The director groans, “Jesus, Colt, just go get in the car.” The talk is getting you all further behind schedule. Colt’s meant to crash into a storefront window. Amidst the arguing, everything’s all in place—an Oldsmobile replica driven up in place of the real deal, door open for Colt to jump in. You can feel him hand tap the back of your chair as he straightens out his costume and grabs for his crash helmet. A wordless sorry. You try not to jump at the feeling of Colt’s suit brushing against your shoulder as he passes by you.

“You got it, boss,” Colt calls out, exclamation muffled. He throws out a big thumbs up as he makes it over to the car. You have a feeling that Colt is going to grovel later about Ryder making a scene of the two of you, but really, it isn’t the worst thing in the world—at least, until Colt slams the car door shut and Ryder decides to speak up again.

Leaned over in his tall chair, he asks slovenly, “Seriously, are you sleeping with Seavers? If it’s because he’s my stuntman and it’s a power thing—” 

“No! No, I’m not sleeping with Colt and even if I was, you would have absolutely nothing to do with you,” you hiss. The ego on Ryder makes your head thrum. You try to keep to your script—taking up the clipboard in your lap to write notes down on your log on the last couple of shots.

“It would make sense ‘cause he looks like me, you hate my guts. It’s like that psychosexual shit that Freud talks about… uh…” Ryder taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair, then clicks his fingers: “Displacement.” Smartass. He probably only knows the term having prepped it for an interview on one of his psychological thrillers. Ryder is about to continue harping on about how flattered he is, but the 1st AD calls quiet on set; he shuts it.

—

You’re stationed at your new spot on the opposite side of the backlot, five feet behind the secondary camera setup—where Colt is meant to swing the car through a large glass window. Luckily, Ryder and Gail have decided amongst themselves to depart elsewhere to talk about the next big film. This way, you’ll be able to worry about this stunt in peace.

At action, the Oldsmobile revs. Colt is making sure to kick up some smoke. You can tell now that this is going to be a good take—just from the way he’s handling the car. If you’re not mistaken, you think that he might even be driving with a bit of extra force. The car starts barreling down the set raucously. You’re trying not to grip your script too hard at the sight of him speeding down the road. As Colt’s car approaches, you’re unable to see his expression past the tinted helmet. The flash that you do catch is of his gloved hands gripping the wheel—and the most that you can do is cross your fingers.

The collision is hard. You can’t help but flinch at the sight of him tearing the car through the pane. It shatters loudly, and you can see the motion of the Oldsmobile hitting the crash pad. The director makes sure to hold, so SFX can machine-pump a bit of fog out of the fictitious storefront and make the scene look a little prettier. Then, they call “Cut.” There’s a whole lot of movement towards the car—first, with brooms to sweep away the stray glass, and second, to check on Colt.

The door of the Oldsmobile whips open, and Colt shoots out a thumbs up. You sigh. He’s fine. As soon as he gets out of the car, though, you can’t help but notice that he’s gripping his shoulder and trying to stretch it back. He takes a moment to tug off his helmet and mess with his hair just a bit. The nearest on-set medic tries to approach him with a “If it hurts, I can take a look at it,” but you hear him deny it with an insistent “All good. Don’t worry about it.” The director runs up to give Colt praises—“The shot was perfect, man. Good job.”—calls a thirty-minute break to the crew, and then rushes away.

By the time Colt gets over to you, you’re still locked into your seat trying to look busy. Your fingers are clasping around your script and logs, trying to straighten out the stack as you tap it atop your knee a few times. He comes up and leans one hand on your armrest. As casual as he tries to make it look, Colt’s trying to keep himself steady. You suck in a breath and look straight up at him. “You screwed your shoulder up, didn’t you?”

His brows furrow. “No. I stepped on the gas harder than I should’ve so it’s just a residual, you know, body reaction,” Colt says, coming off your armrest. For once, Ryder’s right: Colt is a shitty liar. “I would know if I screwed my shoulder up,” he says dismissively.

“You,” you say, index fingers pointed up and towards Colt’s chest, “are going to let me take a look at it, and if it’s bad, I’m going to tell them to send you home early.”

He scoffs. “I still have two more stunts tonight.” But somehow, he’s still bending to your whim—because as soon as you hop off your chair and begin to walk off in the opposite direction, Colt’s right on your tail. “It’s my job to get dinged up,” he says, eyes still tracking your expression. He’s trying to tell whether or not you’re mad at him. You aren’t mad, per say—but you’re not very pleased, either.

His trailer is in sight pretty quickly, tucked away in a corner of the exterior set. It’s really just a giant metal box, identical to the rest. “Okay, yes, you’re supposed to get dinged up, but not recklessly,” you tell him, approaching the front door of the trailer. “Or more than you have to. Quality over quantity, Colt.” When you look over, Colt is trying not to wince. You can’t help but frown at him.

“I’m used to it,” he tells you, shaking his head, “I have Extra Strength Advil in there. It’ll work like a miracle—just watch.”

—

You already know that Colt screwed up his shoulder, because he can’t even take the suit jacket off himself. You have to come up behind him and help him shrug it off, trying to pay no mind to the shaky breaths and heavy groans that come with the movement. The pale blue dress shirt he has on is tight around the arms; it’s not your first time seeing how much muscle Colt has on him, but it’s still just as jarring. So, you’ve got to ignore that, too. The tie is easy for Colt to pull off and toss away. Though, he’s having trouble with the buttons on the shirt—too much pull on his shoulder. You swat his hand aside and begin the motions of unbuttoning it for him.

“Okay. I shouldn’t have driven as fast as I did,” Colt admits to you, “It’s on me, obviously—but it’s also on Ryder.” You get to the bottom button slowly but surely, trying to pay close attention to his words. This feels… close. Considering you’d offered the check-up purely out of worry, this is all more intimate than you’d expected.

You tilt your head. “Because he was saying all that stuff about the…”

“Eyefucking, yeah. And I’m sure it was uncomfortable for both of us to get a load of that in front of all of our coworkers. I didn’t wanna make it a thing, so I just… I was driving angry, which is never a good thing,” Colt says, “He has no class.”

“It’s Ryder, you know? It’s not like his words really ever carry any weight,” you say. Your priority still is to make sure Colt’s shoulder isn’t too screwed up, but it also doesn’t hurt to test the waters. You pop the last button off and try to help him shrug off his dress shirt. It’s difficult not to feel a little shifty in your abdomen when your fingertips slide down against Colt’s bicep; you make sure to fold up the shirt semi-nicely before tossing it down with the tie.

When you turn, Colt in his undershirt and the dress pants looks almost boyishly guilty. You narrow your eyes, “Okay, turn around. Lemme see it.” And Colt does as you say, spinning around to show you his back. His shoulder is splotched purple and green, pigmented all across his shoulder blade. “Fuck, Colt.”

“It always looks worse than it actually is. Stunts 101.” He’s trying to make you laugh, but you’re much too focused on the bruising. He steps away as soon as you ghost your fingers over his skin. Colt’s grabbing an ice pack from his mini fridge and bringing it over his shoulder. “And I should probably use right now as an opportunity to reassure you that I wasn’t trying to eye-fuck you,” Colt says. It’s a contradiction: you can see his eyes flashing down and back up.  “Unless, obviously, you wanted me to. Then, it’d be a whole different story. But—”

You kiss Colt, crashing your lips against his, and he practically hurls the ice pack away to hug his arms around your waist. Given the chance, he would’ve gone through a whole spiel of telling you that he respects maintaining a professional relationship. But, now, you’re really laying it all out on the table. Your hands are coming up greedily to cup his face, and he’s sliding his hands up and down your lower back. He tastes like spearmint gum, and his face is burning up the longer you’re close to him.

Colt pulls back only for a moment to look at you; his pupils are dilated beyond repair. “Okay,” he murmurs, “Ryder caught me staring. Good on him for calling me on it.”

“I figured. You’re so easy to read,” you laugh, unable to stifle your amusement. Colt’s not offended at all—only leaning in closer to you. Everything about him seems a little bit lighter after you’ve kissed; he’s standing up straighter, and his hands are coming up to your head. Colt has his nimble, calloused fingers brushing through your hair. It’s a soothing, gentle motion—possibly a distraction—but it’s also romantic enough to placate you. You have to shuffle away a little bit, still locked into Colt’s grasp. “So, can I put in a word with somebody to see if you can get tonight off?”

He drops his hands back down to your waist—the workaholic he is. “If it pleases you, yes. And if it works out, I’ll nap here while you close out, ice my shoulder, and then I can take you out to dinner very, very far away from set. You choose, I pay,” Colt decides, “And we can make out a bit more after dessert. Does that sound good?” He really doesn’t waste any time.

You hum in agreement, hand flattening against Colt’s abs, just under the white wifebeater he’s got on. You can feel his stomach tighten just slightly. Sensitive. “You have me for ten more minutes, and then I’ve gotta go find an AD.”

And cockily, Colt replies, “I’m pretty sure you and I can get a lot done in ten. Don’t you?”