chrrry

“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)

“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst. 

You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.

The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.

“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence. 

“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge. 

“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.

The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.

“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.

“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.

“I’ll get you someday.”

Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.

“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.

“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”

“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.

“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.

“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.

“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”

“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”

“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.

“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.

“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”

“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.

So, let the challenge begin.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”

“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.

“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.

“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”

“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze. 

“Well then, good luck.”

“Won’t need it.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”

Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.

Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.

You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.

“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.

“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”

Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.

Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item. 

Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.

“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.

“359 days left.”

“More than enough.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.

“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”

Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.

“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.” 

Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.

“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.

You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.

Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him. 

“I won.”

Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.

“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”

“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.

“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down. 

Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.

You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.

“Sore loser.”

“Cheater.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.

Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.

The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.

“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”

“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”

You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:

“Done!”

Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.

“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.

Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail. 

Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.

From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again. 

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.

“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior. 

He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.

To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee. 

He simply has always gotten it right.

It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.

“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”

Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.

Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.

His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.

Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.

“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.

“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.

“Maybe.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.

“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”

Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.

“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.

Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches. 

Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.

Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed. 

Why?

His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.

Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.

The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.

And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”

Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement. 

“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”

You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words. 

In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.

“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”

“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”

This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound. 

If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.

Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work. 

With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:

You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.

Both your phones started ringing at the same time.

“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.

“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.

After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.

“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.

“I know.”

A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.

“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.

“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.

“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.

The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.

“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.

Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.

“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.

“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.

By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”

Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly. 

Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.

Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze. 

“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.

The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf. 

The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.

Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:

“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.

“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”

“Nothing.”

Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work. 

Ah, the perks of being a profiler.

“Sure, pretty boy.”

“What was that loo—” 

The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.

Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.

Immediately, his body stiffened.

“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress. 

“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”

Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.

Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.

“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal. 

“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”

“In sickness and in health, as they say.”

Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.

Derek’s brows scrunched at that.

“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.

“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end. 

He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.

“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.

Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.

Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you. 

Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.

It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance. 

Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry. 

For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.

His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.

Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms. 

Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.

That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.

Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength. 

The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.

After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together. 

Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.

Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.

Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him. 

However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.

Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.

It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind. 

So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.

His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed. 

Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.

Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.

A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.

With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task. 

When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.

Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights. 

Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.

Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.

“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”

There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.

There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.

But maybe his probability was not entirely against him. 

“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”

You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.

“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…” 

Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again. 

“You’re my favorite October 12th.”

And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.

It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer. 

And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.

Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.

God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.

One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.

Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.

“Thank you.”

Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness. 

Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing. 

And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.

“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.

Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.

You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.

For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—  

A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.

First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song. 

It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano. 

Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.

Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.

“I thought you only listened to classical?”

“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.

Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.

Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures. 

You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.

You moved on with a quiet murmur.

“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”

“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.” 

“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that. 

“We should head up. It’s getting late.”

You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”

An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.

“Never.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.

“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”

Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.

The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.

This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.

An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.

Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.

“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.

Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event. 

You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.

“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.

“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.

“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.

“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”

You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust. 

The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.

Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.

Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.

You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two. 

“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”

Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.

That was kind of embarrassing. 

The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.

It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—

Oh.

You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong. 

Oh God. 

But were you really surprised though? 

A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.

You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.

And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.

Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.

Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.

The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.

You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.

“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”

“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10 to the power of 120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 10 to the power of 80, to 10 to the power of 82.”

He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.

“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”

“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”

“You’re tired.”

You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.

You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.

For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.

Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”

Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.

Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow. 

Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.

But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose. 

He wanted you to mean it.

You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering. 

You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.

But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.

Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.

One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.

“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.

Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course. 

Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both. 

“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.

“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”

You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:

Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason. 

Well, for no reason but you.

The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace. 

You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.

Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.

Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.

“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone. 

God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face. 

“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different. 

With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.

“I like you.”

Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.

“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.

Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?

You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.

But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer. 

Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.

Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.

Oh…?

Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.

In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.

Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.

His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light. 

You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these. 

You pressed your lips harder against his.

Good lord, Spencer could do this forever. 

He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.

Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch. 

One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.

In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently. 

You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them. 

You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.

Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.

Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.

“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true.  Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”

Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.

“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.

“But?”

“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.

“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”

“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.

“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”

“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.

“When did you figure it out?”

“That you like me? At the orchestra.”

“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.

You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.

As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.

“I’m still gonna get you someday.”

Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.

“I’m counting on that.”

With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.

You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score. 

Day 187 status: unsuccessful. 

But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.

link to: epilogue/bonus bit

・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・

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You shudder awake with a violent twitch, pressing up on your elbow in a split second, prepared to move. You're stopped from moving further by Din's hand on your shoulder. He's knelt beside your cot, visor fixed on you.

You're on a new planet. The foreign atmosphere gives that away in an instant, the chalky taste in your mouth and the swarming heat on your skin. Your jack-rabbiting heart calms a bit.

"Din?"

You know he's only waking you because he must. The momentary calm banishes again as you push yourself up again. Din lets you this time, his gloved hand retreating to his side.

"It's not an emergency." He says, knowing your train of thought already. He tilts his head slightly, gesturing towards the ramp door. "I need to leave the ship. I didn't want you to wake and..."

Your trailing gaze darts back to his visor quickly, swallowing as you fill in the end of his sentence. Din doesn't finish it, but his shoulders readjust in a minuscule motion.

"I'm getting supplies. Watch the kid. Please."

You're nodding before he's finished his sentence. The sleep in your system is already dissipated and you push up, shifting onto your feet and trapping your pained hiss behind gritted teeth as Din rises to his full height.

There's a beep from his valance as he punches a button then a soft hiss as the pressure changes, the ramp door beginning to lower.

It's habit to watch the sliver of the outside grow, the new terrain stretching out before you as the mouth of the ship opens. As expected, a seemingly endless spread of sand greets you. You wrinkle your nose.

Din hadn't indulged the reason or destination of this particular trip. You hadn't asked. A deep slice in your thigh courtesy of a vibroblade and a mouthy Twi'lek had kept you off your feet and eager to rest.

The slice had been by pure luck—or so you thought.

But Din's silence following the patch up in the ship, his quietness suddenly uncanny, left you beginning to wonder if he was questioning your ability to fight. Weighing up your ability to defend.

And if those things were up for debate, certainly so was your position on his ship.

It had just been passed 3 years, almost six cycles if you counted how time passed on your home planet, since you had joined his crusade. Your job had one very simple, very crucial objective.

An objective that was now babbling at your feet, tiny claws reaching out for you.

"Hey, you," You say, reaching down to scoop Grogu up into your arms. He reaches his arms up as he does, making a happy gurgle as you tuck him against your hip.

His round, dark eyes peer up at you, his big ears twitching mischievously and you couldn't help but smile. You turn so he could see the stretch of desert and are surprised to find Din still in the mouth of the ship. He's turned back, his dark visor giving away nothing of his expression.

It's then you get the feeling once more; you're being evaluated. Your usefulness being weighed up. You shift beneath the weight of his gaze, unmoving but still not speaking.

"Did you forget something?" You ask, just to break the silence.

Din finally shifts, his helmet giving a small shake in answer. He doesn't speak, just stares another moment, before he's turning, his cape catching the wind as he strolls down the ramp.

You watch him go, heart in your throat, pondering with an ache of melancholy if your time on the Crest was coming to a close.

Another burbling noise from the little green monster in your arm tugs your attention away. You look down, smile already pulling at your mouth at his clawed hand reaching for you.

"At least I know you still like me," You murmur, letting his cling to one of your fingers. "You wouldn't fire me, would you?"

Grogu makes a noise of agreement, gripping your finger tight. Then he opens his little mouth and tries to direct your finger into it, the clearest declaration of his hunger he can give.

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the ship, mentally tallying up your list of things to do.

—

By the time of Din's return, the sun has dipped low in the sky and the dunes glow a scorching orange in its rays.

You see him coming in the horizon, the only figure out on the desolate landscape. You wonder, for not the first time, if he's burning up beneath all his armour. He never seems to use the fresher to cool off like you do.

It's as he reaches the ship, his footsteps heavier than usual and betraying his tiredness, do you realise he's returned with a bag. Your eyes glue to in instinctively but you bite your tongue and swallow the burning question of what the contents of the bag is.

"Get what you need?" You ask instead, hands laying flat on your knees, avoiding the bandage on your thigh.

You're knelt besides the ship wall, sitting on your feet, one of the panels hanging haphazardly by a single screw and a box of tools beside you.

There's a function for cooler air on the Crest but it's been busted since a gnarly shoot up leaving the atmosphere of Coruscant months ago. You've been trying to fix it for weeks, each time with no avail.

Today is no different.

“You haven’t fixed it.” Din says candidly, instead of answering your question.

That suddenly familiar worry of your usefulness shirks up within you.

“Yet.” you counter, aiming for optimistic. It’s impossible to tell what the immovable expression of Din’s helmet means. “It’s not the same problem as I started with, at least.”

After a moment, he gives a short nod as if he understands — which is mean because there isn’t a single thing you can think of that Din Djarin is bad at. Besides talking to Jawas, of course.

He passes you and you force yourself to keep facing forward, even as you long to trail his broad figure. You squint at the tangle of wires within the panel and sigh. It’s feeling pretty fruitless. You were hardly a mechanic to begin with and—

A loud clatter beside you makes you startle, something heavy dropping into your toolbox.

You jump back and after a quick second, realise that it’s Din who had dropped something purposefully. Trying to calm your racing pulse, you lean forward and peer in.

“This might help.” He says.

You blink down at the new tool he’s given you. It’s the one spanner size that’s missing from your toolbox.

The last one had been lost when you lobbed it at an intruder’s head in a blind panic. Not your proudest moment— even if it did distract the guy enough for Din to put him down.

You swallow your heart in your throat. “Thank you.”

You don’t hear him retreat but the part of you that fizzles like a freshly born star when he’s near dims, a giveaway to his movements. You curl your fingers the new tool and try to tell if this a good sign or not.

Behind you, Din clears his throat.

You peer over your shoulder, your brows knitting together — it’s not often he calls your attention so forwardly, much preferring to stand and wait, staring long enough til you notice and flush.

He’s still standing in the hull, one hand curled around and holding the bag he returned with. You twist fully, letting him know he’s got your attention.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. You stare, waiting patiently and try not to let your eyes roam—especially after the last comment he made when he absolutely caught you staring at the broadness of his shoulders, eyes drinking in the cut of his figure.

You’d be a terrible criminal, cyra’rika.

What’s that supposed to mean? You had retorted, flustering just a bit.

He had turned and fixed you with a tilt of his helmet that meant he was likely smirking underneath it.

You have shifty eyes.

Your face had glowed fiercely at the reminder that just because you couldn’t see his eyes, that didn’t mean he couldn’t see yours.

Across from you in the Crest now, Din coughs awkwardly.

“I,” He starts. One of his hands clenches, the leather crinkling as he does. “I have something. For you.”

Surprise piques up inside you, fiery and delighted. It warms your stomach and there’s no fighting the smile that pulls at your mouth even if you wanted to.

Gifts from a bounty hunter are few and far between and he’d already replaced the spanner. Your bounty hunter in particular doesn't like to spend his credits unwisely.

Even less commonly does he acknowledge that something is a gift—but you've learned to love the quiet hum he gives you when you thank him for something.

"Oh?"

He shifts his weight ever so slightly, the most obvious indication that he's nervous.

You sit up a little straighter. The anxiety from earlier pools in quickly.

He gives a tiny, almost inaudible huff and then, instead of reaching into the bag, he pushes back his cape and reaches back. His skilled hand unclips something sheathed at his waist. He drops the bag and steps forward, his hand outstretched.

You hold your breath without realising.

It's... a dagger, you realise.

A very beautiful blade by all standards. As you press up to your knees, rising to get a closer look, the details of its intricacy begin to call out to you.

The hilt is twined in a delicate, leathery fabric, not yet moulded to any hand. The pommel holds a promise of a shimmer as though it's embedded with a mineral. And the blade itself... A darker metal curls through the lighter one that encases it, like smoke on a sunlit sky.

It's expert craftsmanship, with a precise balance of two metals — and if you stare a moment too long, you swear the darker one matches the hue of Din's armour. His beskar armour.

"Will you accept it?"

It's with the gravel of Din's voice do you realise you haven't moved. You haven't reached out for it, haven't even blinked since he offered it out to you. You exhale, suddenly feeling a little lightheaded.

It's elegant beyond words. It's too much.

Too much for you, too much as a... a... What was it?

A gift? A reminder of your sole duty on the Crest? Of what you nearly failed at during your last mission together? The wound on your thigh seems to throb painfully as if in response.

He's never got you a gift that's anything less than helpful.

"I," You breath, finally tearing your eyes off the dagger and looking up at the visor fixed on you. "Din, I—"

Your gaze drops back to the blade in his hands. This time, you're certain it's beskar twined within the steel.

"It's very beautiful but..." I'm not worthy of beskar. "I couldn't, it's— it's too much. I can't accept it, Din."

The words come out clumsily and you wonder if in your attempt at being polite, you've gone too far in the other direction and offended him. You wring your hand against your thigh, pressing your knuckles into your wound. The pain dances along your nerves, a welcome distraction as you force yourself to meet his gaze.

The hum of the ship fills the space between you and like almost always, you have no idea how to read his silence.

"I understand."

And then he's stepping back, resheathing the blade into its holster in one fluid motion. He does it so quickly you don't see the tremble in his wrist, his hand just a touch unsteady. Above you both, there's a beep in the cockpit.

This time, you do manage to clock his body language, well aware of the way his guard has suddenly been wrenched up and the anxiety in your veins quickens with a sinister twist. Oh stars. You've definitely made it worse. You should've just accepted the dagger.

He turns and wordlessly heads towards the ladder to the cockpit and you watch him desperately, a dozen words caught in your mouth and none of them the right ones to say aloud.

"I—"

Din pauses, one gloved hand on the rung of the ladder, facing forward. He gives you a moment to speak. Your mouth dries.

When it's clear you aren't going to, you catch the slight sigh he gives, his shoulders dropping an inch.

"Grogu will miss you."

What?

You don't even get a moment to consider what he’s said or to digest the implications before he’s climbing the ladder, deft and quick. By the time you’re on your feet, the swish of his cape is disappearing into the hatch on the ceiling.

You stare at it a moment, all your unsaid words suddenly transforming into confusion. Your mouth opens then closes, your hands held out in front of you in evident bewilderment.

“What—” You begin as you take the rungs twice as fast, following Din’s path up to the cockpit. “—is that supposed to mean?”

You’re halfway up when The Crest suddenly lurches to the side with a rumble, the powering of engines thrumming beneath your feet and you stumble to catch your balance. Below you, you hear the familiar hiss of the ramp closing.

Stars, what is he doing? He hasn’t been this eager to leave a planet since a bounty back on Hoth.

“Where are we going?” You ask, forgoing your unanswered question. You shift forward as the Crest continues to rise with a powerful whirling sound.

Casting an eye at the passenger seat, you’re relieved to find it already occupied by your favourite green friend. Grogu coos in your direction at the sight of you and despite the situation, you can’t help but smile.

“I can take you wherever you wish to go.” Din’s flat response has your smile fading, your head whipping around to face him.

But he doesn’t take his focus off the control in front of him for a moment, stoic and silent as he continues to initiate takeoff. The Crest rises higher, the sandy ground of the planet out the window growing smaller and smaller.

Wherever you wish to go?

Does he— does he think you want to leave?

Your head spins in a tizzy as you try to clue together how the hell he had come to that conclusion. The Crest rocks as it breaks through the atmosphere and you stumble again, struggling to keep your balance.

For whatever reason he’s thinking it, he’s wrong.

Action finally possesses you. You surge forward and slam your hand onto the console, killing the power to the thrusters.

The ship stalls with a loud droning noise, coming to a shuddering stop before it begins to float in the darkness of space. The only light is the glowing orange of the planet and stars beyond the glass.

“Why do you think I want to leave all of a sudden?” You demand hotly.

For a moment, you think Din will continue the silent treatment that he’s all but mastered. His helmet, visor gazing out through the windshield, doesn’t move — until he tilts his head toward you slightly. He sighs quietly.

“I don’t imagine after…” He waves a hand idly and you scan his figure intensely, searching for what he could possibly be referring to.

After…?

It suddenly seems quite obvious.

Even if you had no idea what it had meant to Din, clearly this has to do to you turning down his gift.

“Din,” you say very quietly.

His helmet turns another inch, his chin tilted up to show he’s listening.

You swallow and it feels like your heart in is your throat, burning and bursting all at once. But you have to ask.

“What did the dagger mean?”

Now he averts his gaze, his helmet dipping as he mumbles something, nothing, his voice almost too low for his modulator pick up, a gift, but in the gravel of his murmuring, you hear one unmissable word: courting.

Oh.

Oh.

It was a… courting gift.

A dagger blended with beskar, given as a courting gift from a Mandalorian. It meant you- and him — the hope you had been harvesting, the hope of something more blooming between you two, it had not been unrequited.

Your mind casts back to the exact phrasing as you turned what you believed to simply be a gift too prized for you— it’s too much, I can’t accept.

Maker. No wonder he thought you wanted to leave.

Whatever is crossing your face must be the opposite of subtle because as you grapple to find a response to that, Din’s head tilts back up.

“You didn’t know.”

There's a tiny wobble of relief in his voice.

“No,” You breathe. Blinking hard, suddenly you feel a bit wild because Din all but proposes to you but doesn’t even think to check if you knew the depth of what he was offering? Of the real question behind his gift?

You shake your head. “No, I didn’t know, Din.”

Silence lulls between you, charged and heavy. Even without seeing his face, you know Din must be squirming beneath his helmet — his intentions, his feelings, out in the open and you still staring at him speechless.

You manage to find your voice.

“May I see it once more?”

The request comes out softer than you intend, your courage suddenly quivering in your chest. You will it to rise, to embolden you. Din had been brave — now it's your turn.

Without a word, he shifts and reaches back to release it from its sheathe on his waist. For a split second you see it, the hesitation in his hand.

Then he's holding it out, balancing in his open and trusting palm, held out for you. The thickness in your throat grows.

You swallow tightly and grip your courage, searching within you for that warm, safe feeling that beats like a drum, Din, Din, Din. You seize it tightly.

Eyes fixed on the blade, you ask quietly, "Would you... offer it to me again?"

It's impossible to draw your eyes up, too nervous to see yourself reflected in the darkness of his visor.

"Yes."

Your heart becomes a supernova.

"Will you?" You whisper, finally daring to look up at him.

Your protector, your partner, the man who showed you the softness of his heart and asked for nothing in return. "Will you offer it to me again?"

The subtle motions of Din are something you've come to learn with the years you've spent at his side. Now, staring up at you, the inclination of his armour gives away his surprise.

Then he's rising to his feet only to step before you and sink down, brought to his knees before you. His hand remains steady, the offering held out, and this time the meaning of it cannot be misconstrued in any way.

"Cyare," He murmurs — and it's beloved, it's please, it's don't part from my side for as long as you'll have me.

Something within you trembles and your bottom lip quivers in emotion and then you're moving without thinking, sagging until you're on your knees too.

Equal heights, each of you in a position of devotion, facing toward each other.

Hand reaching out, you clasp your fingers around the hilt of the dagger and say thickly, "I accept."

There's a ragged exhale through the modulator of Din's helmet. He shifts, moving to strip the gloves from his hands and the sight of so much skin from him is enough to make you falter. But there's barely time to recover your stolen breath before his bare hand curls around yours, far larger, the dagger gripped in both of your hands.

His skin pressed against yours burns like starlight. You stutter out a breath, your smile coming so easily at the sight of your joined hands.

Din's other hand raises up and pauses momentarily, halting as if he's unsure if he's allowed before it settles gently on your cheek. You lean into the warmth of his skin and hear another sharp inhale through the modulator.

"I—" He begins, quickly cutting himself off. His thumb on your cheeks begins to wander, soothing over your skin lightly. He urges you forward and you bow your head, forehead pressing to the cool beskar of his armour.

"Thank you."

"You're thanking me?" You chuckle wetly, emotion clinging to your words. His thumb on your face traces another soft circle and you shudder beneath the loving touch, eyes fluttering closed.

“You could have been clearer." You chastise lightly, though your evident joy means your words don't have any real bite.

“I offered you beskar, cyra’ika,” He murmurs, voice warm and full of love. His thumbs draws another delicate circle. “How much clearer could I be?”

His point makes you laugh, eyes opening and seeing your own reflection in his visor. "I don't know," You say, averting your eyes down to your still intertwined hands. You squeeze your hand and feel him echo the motion. Your heart sings.

"Use your words?" You suggest with a cheeky smile, well aware that words were not a strong suit of your Mandalorian.

Din sighs, a faux long suffering one, and the mere familiarity of it makes your heart ache in the best way.

The worries of earlier bubble up within you, the reminder of why you had been so sure the dagger had some other meaning.

“I,” You begin, pulling back lightly and casting your gaze towards Grogu, who had been suspiciously silent as if knowing the significance of the moment before him. “I wasn’t thinking about the beskar, I was being stupid.”

With your free hand, you cover Din’s hand with yours, hiding your face away, which suddenly feels a little warmer. The nudge of your hand against his does nothing to alleviate the glow.

“I thought it was, like,” You mutter quietly, embarrassed. “You were saying I wasn’t doing my job well enough or— or something and I started worrying you were gonna…”

You can’t even finish the sentence with how foolish you feel.

“You thought I wanted you to leave?” Din asks, his voice dubious and warm. Like the mere thought of that is so far from believable that it’s amusing to him.

“Shut up,” you groan, eyes closing as if it can save your from your further flustering.

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to.” You murmur.

His hand in yours tightens, the other on your face coaxing you out of hiding with the gentlest of nudges.

"Never. As long as you want it, I want you with me." He says and in his voice you hear nothing but utter devotion. "Close your eyes."

You follow his command without hesitation, darkness cloaking your vision and you feel his hands retract from yours. The dagger remains in your palm, still cradled in your fingers. Then, there's the tell-tale hiss of his helmet and you inhale sharply.

"Cyare," He says and this time, it's with all the richness and roughness of his natural voice.

The timbre of his voice is like gunpowder sprinkled across your soul and when his hand finds the curve of your cheek once more, it's set alight.

"May I?" He asks. You can feel the soft heat of his breath fan across your lips and feel your heart quiver in response, bursting forward, as if trying to reach him. His thumb soothes across your cheek, full of wanting.

Your nod would be imperceptible if it was anyone other than Din — if his gaze wasn't trained on your face, drinking the details like a starved man, finally with uncloaked eyes.

You'll never forget how it felt to look into his big, brown eyes for the first time. In the middle of a shootout, in fear of your life, you sighed in relief.

You had no confirmation that he wasn't the enemy, mind you. It was just... something about him. You felt so comfortable, so safe. He practically wrapped you in his arms and hauled you away, strong muscles protecting you from harm.

Your body felt fuzzy and you snuggled into him on instinct. Pathetic, really.

Unfortunately, others agreed.

For weeks after he took you back to camp, you followed him around like a lost puppy. To be fair, it wasn't that far from the truth.

"Need somethin'?" His deep baritone voice muttered. He didn't ask you that all the time. He understood you. He knew you just needed somebody to hide behind. To feel safe with.

You breathe in, "Oh! uh- erm- Do you?"

He sputters out a breathy chuckle, "Just sit down."

You blush but obey, grateful he's not making fun of you or anything. Thats one reason you lov- cared so much for his friendship. Although... you weren't sure he saw it that way.

You were probably just some annoying little sister that wouldn't leave him alone. He was just too kind, or perhaps too busy, to tell you to leave him be finally.

It's true, the camps gossip was getting to you.

"Got your little chick, mama hen?" Uncle laughed, causing a few snickers from those within earshot.

"Sober up, Uncle. Make yourself useful, like Y/N." Charles' tone was sharp as he said it, like he might've actually cared.

He pushed a knife and rag into your hand, nudging you. He was giving you some easy work. So no one could say anything about you. Your heart warmed at his gesture.

But the day after was worse. Sean, no doubt wasted, wandered over acting like a chicken. Arms akimbo like wings and bawking like a chicken about to lay.

You hid your eyes in embarrassment but looked up in time to see the deathly glare that Charles sent Sean's way. He didn't have to say anything to make the boy back away.

"Grumpy fella' can' even take a joke!" He threw his hands in the air as though you were the strange ones.

You meant to thank Charles, but he was back to his work of cleaning saddles, this time with a frown.

That's it, you really were making things harder for him. In his kindness, he never would've pulled away first. You'd have to bite the bullet, take one for the team.

You didn't sit next to him at the fire to drink your coffee, as you usually did. You didn't follow him from task to task. You went to Grimshaw to ask for chores instead of him. You ate by the girls, sitting on the very hem of the blanket, too afraid to get any closer.

It wasn't the most miserable day of your life, at least. You kept your wandering eyes mainly to yourself, too! You should be proud of yourself.

By day three, your eyes moved of their own accord, watching him chop wood in an unbuttoned shirt, long johns nowhere to be seen. Just him, trousers, and an axe.

Surely, that loose hair is a hazard? You fantasized running your fingers through it, braiding it as he laid in your lap.

"I think it's clean, girly." Abigail said, pointing to the over-scrubbed shirt you were raking over the washboard.

"Oh!" You blinked, "There was a, ahem, stubborn stain..."

"...Right." She smirked.

You sighed obliviously, wringing the shirt out with longing eyes.

Charles' eyes darted over to you as you washed clothes. Bent forward and scrubbing with fervor. He was a respectful man, on the whole, but the angle revealed more of your chest than he'd ever seen. He was grateful for his dark skin, it hid his flush well.

He's man enough to admit that he'd... missed you a bit. He wasn't sure why you weren't with him like usual. Sure, he wants you to get closer to the women. But not at the expense of your time with him. You weren't... avoiding him, right?

He stood, leaning on the handle of the axe, catching his breath.

"Bird left the nest?" Arthur chuckled, pausing next to him with a sack of grain over his shoulder, "Happens to the best of em'. Bet she's glad not to hear them jokes anymore."

He laughed as he walked away, but Charles' eyes widened. Were you embarrassed by what the others had said? He thought that he made it plenty clear he didn't care what they said.

He only shut it down for you.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the loose fabric of his unbuttoned shirt. Your eyes lingered on him until you saw him staring back. You looked back into the wash bin so quickly he was surprised you didn't have whiplash.

So that's how it is.

The next morning he waited around for you to grab your coffee and then followed you to the edge of camp, where you had been awkwardly standing as of late.

"Oh, good morning, Charles." You looked down and tapped the flimsy tin cup with your nail.

"Morning." His voice was raspy with disuse from the night. It sent a shiver down your spine.

"Eh... sleep?" You cleared your throat, "Did you sleep good?"

He smiled, "Yeah. You?"

His smile was contagious. You always mindlessly mimicked it when you saw it, "Mhm. I like this place. The crickets make me sleepy."

Charles reached forward and tucked a stray hair away, behind your ear. He didn't say anything. You felt your heart beat unevenly. Then thud so deeply in your chest you thought you might fall over.

"That's good. I like the crickets too." He smiled softly, sweetly.

You nodded your head, heart eyes staring at him like its the only thing you knew how to do. It kind of felt like that.

"I-I should go ask Grimshaw what she needs." You looked down sheepishly and walked over to her tent.

"I could use your help, if you're up for it."

You didn't expect it, but you turn around anyway, "Oh, really? You're... sure?"

He nodded once, patiently. He was going to get it through your thick skull sooner or later that he liked having you around as much as you did.

"So what do you need?" You sat next to him by the water.

"Need you to braid these real tight." He hands you stripped and dried grass, ready to be turned into bowstrings.

You got to work, happy to be of use to him. He smiled and snuck a look at you now and again. Your focused face charmed him, and he felt himself lean farther into you.

By the end of the day, you felt like he was the one following you. It was simultaneously strange and flattering. What was even stranger is that he kept it up for a few more days.

"Wanna go for a ride?" He said on a particularly warm afternoon.

You shrugged, "You know I haven't got a horse."

He smirked, "Didn't ask if you had a horse. Asked if you wanted to ride."

You blushed and nodded, "Sounds nice."

You were hoisted onto the horse first, Charles climbing behind you. He seemed to know where he was going, hinting at some secluded field he liked. The cool wind whipped around you, making you forget about the heat of summer.

When you arrived, the sun was threatening to set, setting the valley aglow. It was more of a ridge, high on a steep hill, overlooking a vast plain.

"Oh, Charles!" You gasped.

He laughed, "I know. It looks beautiful at this hour." He grabbed you by your waist and pulled you down.

You steadied yourself with your hands on his arm. He made no move to go, but to be fair neither did you. His hands burned into your skin through your dress, forever etching themselves onto your flesh.

He felt the same though, your fingers so much smaller than his, pressing tiny fingerprints into his forearm.

You couldn't handle it any longer, and slid your arms away. He got the hint and let go of you, walking away. He cleared his throat and walked to the edge of the ridge, sitting down.

He held out his hand and you took it, lowering yourself into the grass. A comfortable silence fell for some minutes as you both watched the sun slip away past the horizon.

Then you watched as the moon rose, taking its placing in its milky glory.

"I've gotta say..." You shifted nervously, "I'm a little surprised you asked me to come."

His brows furrowed, "Why?"

"Oh, well... you know..." You laughed and waved your hand dismissively.

"I don't." His expression didn't change.

You curled inward, "I'm just sort of... clingy. Annoying. I know it, it's fine. People joke about it-"

"I thought I told them to stop. Are they still bothering you?"

Your breath hitched, this was not going according to plan, "Well, yeah. It helps that I..."

"Avoided me for days?" He sounded almost... pouty?

You sat straight, "That's not- I wasn't!"

"But you did. You could've told me and I would've shut them up."

You shook your head and looked at your lap, "But they're right, Charles."

His hulking frame shrunk a bit with his slouch, "About what?"

"About me. I... I get in the way and I follow you around. You're just the first person I met so I thought we were friends but I took it too-"

"We are friends. Friends are around each other. I don't see what the issue is." His hand inched toward yours, fingertips brushing, "If you really bothered me, you would've known. Trust me."

His clever smirk made you twist with one of your own, before you bashfully look away.

"I guess..."

His hand fully covered yours, "Stop listening to other people when I'm right here. Listen to... me, instead."

"So you don't mind? When I hang around you?" You picked at your sleeve and hesitantly looked into his eyes. The same brown eyes that captivated you from day one.

"I don't mind." I like it. He wished he could say it but the words died on his tongue. Perhaps he could tell you soon, or maybe you'd understand him anyway. That was one reason he lov- cared so much for your friendship.

"W-Well okay, then. And thank you, for saving me. I know I've said it before, but..."

"Anytime." He leaned over and tucked your hair behind your ear with his free hand, "So I can see your eyes."

It was so fast. Faster than anything you'd ever experienced. You knew bullets were quick, of course. But not like this.

Yet it was slow, too. As though you could see him falling in slow motion, replaying in your head with a maddening constancy.

You felt the wet, stringy flesh of your throat rip and bloom blood as you screamed. As Sean's name clawed its way out of you like a thistle. The words hated you, they burned as you spoke them. Hot tears ran down your face and you barely registered them.

Your one thought - I have to help him. Rushing to his side and frantically searching for the right pulse point on his wrist. You were always terrible at playing nurse- you just couldn't quite find the right place to put your fingers. You just couldn't quite pick up on it. You fidgeted, if you just dig in between the veins here, maybe, you'd feel his heart beat properly-

You switch to his neck, maybe that'd be better. You look at his face, unhappy with that trickle of blood. No matter, you'd all sort it out. Grimshaw could patch up that scratch on his forehead.

But one thing you did know is that someone with a bit more experience should get him back to camp, asap. Your hands flutter over him in a frenzy when you realize that bullets are flying from every direction.

I've got to get him behind something, before he gets shot again. Wouldn't want that.

You feel strong hands grip your biceps in a vice-like hold, hauling you away.

You kick and scream, "No, Sean! Can't leave him! We can't leave him, he needs me!"

Arthur barks at you, "He's dead, kid! You will be too if you don't pick up the pace."

A sliver of your brain recognizes that he's right. That it wasn't a scratch on his forehead, but a hole that pierced right into his brain. The one you always joked he didn't have as you leaned into his body, lazy by the fire.

"Ah, but ya' lov' me! She loves me!" He would shout.

You saw his body catch a few more stray bullets, spilling already useless blood onto the dusty orange ground. Blood that couldn't keep him alive, no matter how much he kept inside.

You needed to stay sharp, needed to stay useful. But you still felt your chest heave and hyperventilate on its own, the corner of your vision prickling with black.

"N-No, Arthur. He's right... He's right there we- if we can just give him to Grimshaw-"

"Quit it!" Arthur shouted, then softened, "I know you- well, you were close. But we gotta get out of here first."

"I don't want to! Not if I'm leaving without him!" You move to run into the open, like an idiot.

Arthur tugs your wrist with little force, your limp muscles following his lead, "He wouldn't want that."

And that was all you needed.

Adrenaline kept you going, even if your eyes were watering without your knowledge. You were on the run, in your mind, long after you were physically.

Then one day you woke up and realized it wasn't a dream. That everything you never said was laying in a heap at your feet. And that everything he did say was merely an echo your brain couldn't properly replicate.

You see a bottle of booze next to the fire, where he always sat. The glass was heavy in your hand as you spun it around.

Now it's on your bedside table. The one you always dreamed of. And you wake every morning, in a bed just a bit too big for one. In a home too empty to have never held anyone but you. In a life with a hole cut out of it. Everyone in this backwater western village doesn't know you're only half of something bigger that can never be whole again. Never be put together again.

Maybe Arthur shouldn't have held you back.

its short but I couldn't bring myself to write anymore

Shopping for ribbons has never been your favorite pastime, and it shows in the way you've been slouching since Mary started pestering you about it.

"Bonding," she said.

"It's what ladies do," she said again.

Now, you're having this one and that explained to you by a woman more patronizing than the word itself.

"Is there really much difference?" you ask the shopkeeper, staring between two that look just about identical, not a single standout thing about them.

"This one is made of fine silk, imported from—"

"And that one?" you point.

She looks scandalized by the sudden interruption, likely used to talking the heads off of her customers in hopes they'll simply take both and be done with it.

But not you. Never you.

She looks between you and Mary, your sister clearing her throat delicately, glancing at you with pleading eyes.

Go easy on her, they beg.

"That would be velvet, Miss Gillis."

You sigh, reaching out to run your fingers along the soft face of it.

"I suppose it'll do. Does it come in green?"

The woman brightens instantly, Mary exhaling a breath of relief as she saunters off. "An excellent choice, indeed," she exclaims, the words clinging to the air where she once stood like dewdrops on a cool morning.

"I'll finish up here," says Mary, coin-purse in hand. "Will you see to the tailor in the meantime?"

You're halfway to denying her when a figure passes just outside, your gaze tracking him until he disappears from view.

Was that...?

You're gone from her side before your absence registers in her mind, no doubt looking every bit as crazy as you feel, chasing ghosts through winding thoroughfares like it'll do you any good.

Only when the road opens wide, the main street a few short steps from your feet, do you falter.

He's a ghost alright—one that was never yours, but you wanted to haunt you all the same.

Arthur Morgan, looking every bit as handsome as the very first day you laid eyes on him.

Older now, broader than you've ever seen him. But the eyes are the same—so is the way he carries himself, the way he stands like the world's heavy on his shoulders and he's managing it just fine.

Your hands move before the rest of you does—fingers patting at your hair, tucking away what doesn't belong and pulling at what does.

You smooth your dress, pat your cheeks just shy of painful to get them red as a summer rose, taking stock of your appearance in a nearby window.

A man passes you by, looking more dumbfounded by the moment as you mutter the possibilities of the exchange to yourself like a common drunkard.

Maybe he won't remember you.

Or he will, but it won't matter.

He only ever saw Mary, after all.

"No," you say vehemently, shake the thought free from your mind, startling the onlooker enough to send him skittering on his way.

You take a deep, steadying breath, wring your fingers, wipe the dampness from your palms on your skirts, and wish yourself all the luck in the world.

Because that's what it'll take to win the affections of a man like him, isn't it?

Luck.

More than you've ever had at least.

Your feet step out ahead of you, closing the distance in a few easy strides.

"Arthur?" you ask, voice wavering slightly.

He turns, catches sight of you, and to your dismay, there's not a flicker of recognition in his gaze.

At least, not until you step that much closer, his eyes flickering across your face with a looming familiarity that warms you to the bone.

Then he makes for his hat, lifting it from his head and pressing it to his chest.

"Miss Gillis."

You smile, exhaling sharply from your nose, pulse stumbling over itself.

"My... it really is you," you say in thinly-veiled awe, looking him over like you've been awarded sunshine for the first time in days.

He nods, making for your elbow as if he can't well help himself, dropping his hand at the last second like he thought better of it.

"Been some time," he utters.

That drawl of his always did have a way of messing with your mind, wrapping itself around your better judgment and casting it aside.

You nod. "That it has."

You rock on your heels gently as the silence settles, interrupted only by the hustle and bustle of Saint Denis at the height of day.

Everyone moving about, carriages filling the roads, chatter in the air that doesn't find you both so readily.

He glances over your shoulder, toward the mercantile, then back to you.

"Mary with you?"

You look at him, hesitation taking the place of the sliver of hope you'd been clinging to.

"She is," you say, face screwing up as you try for amusement. "Seeing about some ribbons."

"Sounds about right."

"Asked if I could see to the tailor," you blurt then.

You glance down the street, in the direction of the discreet shopfront, then back to him. "You mind...?"

"No, ain't a problem," he says gruffly.

You walk ahead, slow down just enough to fall into step beside him, glancing sidelong at that handsome face like there's nowhere else to look.

"So... you talk with Mary much these days?" you ask, trying for casual and missing by a country mile.

It isn't worth it. You don't need to know.

Still, you tilt your head, watching his expression shift just enough for you to notice.

"No, ma'am."

Your back straightens—imperceptibly, you hope, but you know well you haven't an ounce of subtlety in your whole being.

"No? Thought you were sweet on one another."

He sighs, a heavy thing that tells you it's a sore spot you're poking and prodding at.

"Was a long time ago. Ain't much worth talking about now."

"I don't speak with my father anymore, you know," you say calmly, watching a carriage go by, loud laughter spilling out as it passes. "Me and Jamie both, but... Mary's still holding on."

His boots slow, gaze finding you before returning to the road ahead.

"Can't say I blame you. Your father ain't a nice man."

You smile. "Never were fond of him much, were you?"

He huffs, shakes his head. "Fond ain't the word I'd use, no."

In a moment of boldness that surprises even you, you allow yourself to inch closer, your shoulder brushing his.

It's more comfortable than you could've imagined, being by his side. Best of all, he doesn't ask after Mary again—only you. Doesn't pull away much either.

"You still draw?" he asks suddenly.

A quiver of excitement ripples through your stomach, stirring something in you long thought dormant.

He remembered.

And not just any old thing, either—something he taught you as a girl. When he'd guide your hand and pat your head for a job well done, and you'd look at him like he hung the moon.

Much like you are now.

Some things never change.

"Well now," you say, clasping your hands behind your back, a sudden spring in your step. "You taught me everything I know. Wouldn't be right if I didn't."

His laugh—a small exhalation that shakes his chest, crinkles his face—stokes a fire right at the heart of you, the beat of it a thunderous thing in your ears.

"That so?"

"Uh-huh. And I appreciated every lesson," you say in earnest, voice softening impossibly so. "Never did thank you back then, so..."

You look to him, smiling gently. "Thank you."

He doesn't look quite so tough now—not nearly as scary as your father always made him out to be.

His eyes lighten in a way you've never seen, the stiffness in his shoulders lessening until he's just a man, standing beside a woman he's known just about her whole life.

"Wasn't nothin'," he says, his hands fumbling at his sides. "You were a quick study, is all."

"I kept everything you drew for me."

"All of it?" he asks in surprise.

"All of it," you say with certainty, glancing at him. "Especially the deer. Hung it up in my room, I loved it so much."

"You got bad taste, little lady," he says, a hint of a smile on his lips that tells you he isn't at all stricken by the thought.

A brief silence lingers in the air between you, and when curiosity grabs hold of you, you find yourself asking, "You still keep the same company?"

He looks everywhere but you, suddenly more interested in the stones paving the road, then the blue of the sky overhead.

"Yeah... Still with 'em," he says slowly, no doubt waiting to be scolded.

But you're no Mary.

You don't need him to change a thing.

You give him a pat on the arm—a sweet, gentle thing that has him staring openly now.

"Always have been the most loyal man I've ever known."

He doesn't say much else the rest of the way, a thoughtful look on his face all the while. You think you might've said too much, spoken too soon—but then, he's there.

A hand hovering at your lower back to steady you when you lose your footing on a craggy old stone.

A gentle hold around your wrist to pull you in when a drunkard draws too close to where you stand.

His fingers staying put when you brush your own against them, worrying your lip between your teeth in hopes he doesn't notice.

If he does, he doesn't speak a word of it.

Arriving at the tailor, he offers his hand, helps you up the steps. When your eyes find his, you fiddle with the clasp of your reticule, holding it tightly in front of you.

You both speak at the same time, voices overlapping. Heat licks at your cheeks, turning them crimson as you duck your head, gesturing for him to continue.

"Well, it was—" he says slowly, fumbling over his words until he lands on the right ones, shifting his weight.

"It was real nice seein' you. After all this time."

"Yes," you say quietly, a little breathless. "Far too long."

You don't move to leave—neither does he. Instead, you hold his gaze with all the tenderness you can muster as you say, "It was good to see you, Arthur. Really."

His jaw works, tightening just so before he turns to leave.

But you can't bring yourself to leave it like that.

"Arthur—" you call out.

He turns to face you, and the question leaves you like something long overdue. Like it's been waiting there on the tip of your tongue for the day you could utter it aloud, slipping free in a hurried breath.

"If a girl wanted to pay you a visit," you say, "where might she find you?"

He watches you, hands finding his belt as he leans his weight onto one leg.

"'Spose I'd advise her against such a thing," he says after a moment.

You scoff, lips turning up at the corners. "You sound like my father."

His do the same, a barely there grin forming despite himself.

"Well then," you say, before he can get a word in. "Where can I find you?"

He pauses, tips his hat back to see you better. Takes his sweet time answering, like he knows he's starting something with all the momentum of a runaway train.

Finally—

"Just south o' Rhodes for now."

You nod slowly, let his words settle as he explains further.

"You expect to be there this evening?" you ask, tilting your head.

Too soon, you think to yourself, but he says, "Sure... If you're thinkin' of comin' by."

He looks you up and down—at your dress, your shoes. The parts of you that say you aren't made for the life he lives.

"Ain't no place for a lady like yourself."

"I'm a woman grown, Arthur," you say, holding your chin high in defiance. "This evening, then."

"Alright," he relents, watching you disappear inside without another word.

The carriage leaves you at Shady Belle at half past six o'clock, an old plantation house in Lemoyne that looks worse for wear.

Musty old paneling, hollowed out windows, vines crawling their way to the roof like they've got something to prove. It's not a sight for sore eyes, that's for certain.

But you're here for Arthur.

You'd sooner walk headfirst into the swamp itself for an evening in his company. What's a little overgrown grass?

He must not have expected you to make good on your word, because the moment you move to descend, half of his gang has drawn their guns. A proper carriage in the middle of outlaw business must look awful funny.

"Would y'all put those damn things away?" Arthur chides, waving his hand about as he approaches where you sit, waiting to descend.

He offers his hand, warm and steady around yours, helping you to the ground with the care of a man who's got no business being such a gentleman.

"We hostin' tea parties now?" asks one of the men, sitting on an overturned crate, bottle in hand.

"Shut it, Bill—" Arthur begins to say, but you interrupt him before the sentiment can take shape.

"I would hope not, Mister," you say, hands working to smooth your skirts once your feet touch solid ground.

You look him over with a discontent hum. "If we were, you'd most certainly be underdressed."

Another man with two halves of a mustache and a hat that sits just right slaps his knee, barking out a laugh.

"Oh," he says, accent smooth around every syllable. "I like this one, Arthur."

Arthur grunts in what sounds like approval, mutters a quiet, "Jesus..." that makes you bite back a grin.

You give his hand a squeeze before releasing it, subtle enough he may think he imagined it—his eyes wandering along the rouge dusting your cheeks, painted lightly across your lips.

"Well now," says the lead man, smooth as silk, descending the front steps with a theatrical little smile. "And who's come to grace our humble accommodations?"

The man is nothing short of a jackal—you know that much. The name comes to you before you can connect his face to memory, from sheer feeling alone.

"Mr. van der Linde," you say in greeting. "It's been some time."

"This is Miss Gillis," Arthur says, a silence taking hold of the group, like he's just announced the second coming of Christ himself.

You feel his hand brush the small of your back then, his quiet repositioning of himself half between you and the others making something crackle in your chest.

The sounds of the bayou filter in like sunshine through lace curtains—a chorus of frogs croaking, bugs chirping, and swamp dwellers humming low.

"Ah," says Dutch, a wolfish gleam in his eyes. "Mary's sister."

You nod politely.

"Your daddy know you're out here?" asks Bill, glancing at Arthur in mild disbelief.

"Don't know. Didn't much care to ask," you say calmly.

Arthur's voice comes low then, a warning laced in every word.

"If you'll excuse us, thought I'd show the Miss around."

"Oh, don't let us bother you, Arthur. We were only saying hello," Dutch counters, hands going up in surrender.

Arthur leads you up the steps, showing you inside until the door shuts heavily behind you, punctuating the quiet.

Your gaze sweeps the room at once as you step in further, seeing the deep cracks in the plaster, the tired lines etched into the wooden bannisters.

Your fingers trace them neatly, expression unreadable when he speaks.

His hand finds his nape, rubbing there like the gang took all the life right out of him.

"They ain't exactly known for their manners," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder like they might be listening in.

"They were just curious, that's all," you say, turning to him. "I ain't bothered."

He visibly relaxes, calm easing its way back into his eyes as he gestures at the state of the entryway.

"Place ain't in the best o' shape," he adds gruffly, looking more and more like he wishes the floor would give way and take it with him.

"It's plenty fine," you defend.

"Oh, you don't mean that," he disagrees. "Paint's peelin' up, ceiling's got holes in it. We get a little rain, whole place—"

You hesitate only briefly before your hand finds his chest, pressing it to his heart, relishing it thumping something awful beneath your palm.

You pat once, twice, then drop it back to your side.

"It's where you stay," you reassure. "I like it plenty."

You see something ease in him then—watch it give way for a softness you don't think he's shown in ages. It makes you smile, watching him fondly.

"Show me," you say, catching his gaze. "I wanna see the house."

He exhales slow, scratches his jaw in that unsettled way of his.

"...Ain't much to see."

You simply shrug, like it doesn't take much out of you to hear. Not much at all.

"Then it won't take long."

He shows you the first floor—the kitchen, the empty saloon save for a dusty old grand piano, the living room you can almost picture filled with opulent furniture, now scattered with the gang's belongings.

He mutters in disapproval all the while, eyes cutting to you more than once to read your expression, expecting disgust at the rickety state of it—

Only to see you bright-eyed, finding beauty where it might have once existed.

In the fireplace that kept the room warm in the coldest of winters, the evening light spilling into what must have been a sprawling kitchen, and in the grooves worn smooth along the bannister by hands long gone.

The bones are sturdy despite the wear, reminding you more and more of the man at your side—still standing, somehow, in spite of everything.

Halfway to the stairs, you glance back at him. He's wavering now, coming to a stop beside them, something conflicted in the slight furrow of his brow.

"Where do you sleep?" you ask, cheeks warming at the subtle implication in your words.

He watches you, your feet already ascending the steps in earnest.

His fingers carefully catch your wrist, his thumb brushing along it just firmly enough to send your heartbeat lurching against your stays.

"You don't wanna see that," he says, releasing you quickly like the touch singed his skin. He averts his gaze, busies himself with adjusting his gun belt, already sitting perfectly at his hips.

"I do."

The silence is a heady thing, swallowing up the air and leaving you both short of breath in its stead.

"I'm here, ain't I," you say, tilting your head as you regard him, eyes warm.

He breathes, slow and deep, stares at you like there's nowhere else to look.

"Well..."

He relents.

"Alright. Just for a minute."

He opens his door with a quiet sigh, stepping aside to let you enter before he does.

You don't move quickly, hands clasped as you take in the sight—the smell of him mingling with damp earth from the swamp beyond, spare boots arranged neatly beside his bed, boxes of bullets resting untouched atop an old barrel.

Sparse, but practical.

So very him it sends an ache from the pit of your stomach, up past your lungs until it settles heavily in your throat.

Your attention catches on a small cluster of photographs, nestled in a worn hutch just beside the window—edges softened with age, corners curled from years of being moved and handled, again and again.

Drifting toward them without thinking, you look them over.

The first you reach for is older than the others, image slightly blurred with the passage of time.

A woman stares back at you—dark hair pinned neatly, gentleness etched into her features, and eyes so familiar, they stop you cold.

You pick it up carefully, fingers just barely tracing the shape of her face.

"Your mother?"

Arthur clears his throat, shuffles on his feet. "Yeah."

Your gaze lifts to him, really looks, then drops back to the photograph in your hands. A soft smile touches your mouth as your thumb brushes its worn edge.

"You've got her eyes."

He doesn't answer straight away, but you don't need him to say a thing.

You set it back down where you found it, already moving to the next, stopping still when you see her.

Mary.

Pretty as always, staring off like she hadn't a clue the man she left behind would preserve this image of her for years to come.

Something in you gives way for the pesky green-eyed monster to take root, a cold hurt flooding your chest until your mouth goes dry.

He shifts on his feet, looks at the ground like he can't bring himself to see what it did to you.

Then, choosing kindness—or cowardice, you can't quite tell which—you leave it untouched, crossing the space to sit on his bed.

It's a rickety thing, one that boasts the same level of comfort as a bed of nails—but it's his. And with that thought alone, you find you don't mind it.

It creaks beneath your weight, shifts and settles to accommodate you.

He doesn't move, doesn't make to join you. Just remains where he stands, like he can't tell where you want him to go after that.

"Arthur," you say softly, patting the bed beside you. "Sit with me."

Lifting his head, he looks at you, brows drawn up tight.

"...Don't think I should," he says hoarsely.

"Please?" you ask then.

Not a hint of anger in your eyes—only the gentle pleading of a woman asking something impossible of an honest man.

He stands there another moment, shoulders tense, every line in him a lesson in restraint as he plucks the hat from his head and sets it aside.

Then something in him finally gives, and he crosses the room slowly, unhurried, the bed dipping under him when he finally settles in beside you.

You don't rush to touch him. Don't dare to break the delicate thing that hangs between you, fragile as a thread.

Instead, you allow the quiet to stretch, thick with the sounds of evening beyond the walls—the low hum of voices around the fire, a sudden burst of laughter from below, crickets beginning their ballad in the bayou.

But you never were very good at self-control, and your hand moves before you can help yourself.

The backs of your fingers brush his where they rest against his thigh—a barely there touch that sends jolts up your arm and right to the stubborn heart of you.

He goes still, gaze tracking the movement. But he doesn't dare pull away, doesn't tell you this isn't what you think it is.

So you gather what little courage you can muster and turn his hand, sliding your fingers into his—lacing them slow enough he can stop you if he truly wishes to.

He doesn't.

Your thumb traces along the rough ridge of a scar near his knuckle, memorizing the shape of it, and the words are out before you can tell yourself they're too foolish to give voice to.

"I know I ain't Mary."

Arthur exhales heavy through his nose, stare fixed somewhere along the floor at your feet.

"No."

You swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat.

"Just..." you murmur, voice catching. "Hope I'm enough as I am."

He turns to look at you—roving across your hair, your face, the stubborn set of your lips as you fight a pout—and something in his expression changes then.

Raw and aching, nearly wounded in its intensity.

"Ain't askin' for Mary," he says roughly, free hand rising to tuck a strand behind your ear, thumb brushing the shell of it before falling away.

Your heart is a traitorous thing, pounding incessantly against your chest, breaths catching in your throat.

You stare at him, lips parted, searching his eyes desperately for any hint of insincerity—only to find a sweet truth looking back at you.

"Then ask for me," you whisper, your thumb stroking over his knuckles once more. "And I'll answer."

"Can't ask that of you, darlin'," he murmurs, his forehead dropping to yours, voice harsh on the way out. "Ain't right."

Your free hand rises to cup his jaw, brushing along the rough stubble there, eyes assessing every detail of him like a picture you want to memorize.

"If I got a chance at you, I want it," you argue, soft but certain.

Your fingers tighten around his as you lean in and press a lingering kiss to his cheek—not teasing, not chaste, either. Something quieter, more profound than either of you know to do with.

Intimate in a way you've never known how to be—and if the way Arthur stills beneath your touch is any indication, perhaps in a way he hasn't known much, either.

His eyes slip shut like a man who's been starved for being wanted all his life, a surrender that makes warmth unfurl in the pit of your stomach.

You linger there for a heartbeat longer than you ought to, the feel of his skin beneath your lips, the sight of him this close near dizzying.

When you pull back just barely, your noses brush, and you notice then the change in his breathing—the change in yours.

"Arthur," you whisper, hovering there only a second longer before you press your lips to his.

His free hand finds your waist with hesitation, fingers curling around you like he still means to stop this if he can.

But the dam's been broken since the moment he caught sight of you in Saint Denis, and he knows as well as you do that there will never be a world in which you don't want him.

Before doubt can take hold, his hand is at your jaw, thumb at the hinge beneath your ear, tilting your face up to meet his.

When you don't make to pull away—your arms slipping around his neck, head angling just right to deepen the kiss—he pulls you closer with a sound in his throat that steals the breath from you.

Moments later, you're half in his lap as his mouth moves against yours, taking every little thing you offer, quiet sighs of pleasure filling the empty room.

It isn't until laughter sounds from outside that you finally part—lips swollen and red, cheeks burning bright.

He brushes along your jaw, still pressing kisses to your face as you begin to pull away.

You giggle, chiding him with a gentle swat to his chest. "Anymore of that and we'll be at it all night."

He huffs, "Wouldn't hear any complainin' outta you."

"Well," you rise, gathering yourself before offering him your hand. "I think we ought to be polite and join 'em."

"That what ya want?" he asks, staring up at you with affection, plain as day.

"Mhm," you nod, wagging your fingers at him. "Come on."

Stepping out of the front door, you're greeted by the smell of woodsmoke and Arthur's people sitting around, drinking and chattering amongst themselves.

A few of them stop to stare as you and Arthur approach, their watchful eyes taking note of how his hand holds yours.

Like you're his woman, and they all can see that now.

The gentleman you learn is named Javier holds out a bottle for you to take, a foul smelling swill sloshing inside that makes your nose turn up.

"Hey," he laughs, "Don't knock it till you try it, amiga."

"You don't gotta drink that," Arthur says, voice low as he moves to take it from you. You pull it away at the last second, looking up at him with a sly smile as you take a sip.

You regret it as soon as the liquor hits your tongue—like fire, harsh and mean all the way down.

Your face twists before you can stop it, Javier snickering in amusement as you cough, dignity abandoning you halfway through the endeavor.

And then Arthur laughs.

Not just a huff, that little breath through his nose that tells you when something landed with enough humor to coax it from him.

A real laugh—hearty and warm and gone too quickly, but there all the same. You stare at him like you've just witnessed a miracle, the sound hitting you square in the chest.

A thing you think you might fight wars to hear again.

He shakes his head, reaching to pry the bottle from your fingers before you poison yourself proper.

"Now what'd I tell ya?"

When the gang returns to their conversations and the novelty has faded, paying the two of you no mind, you pop a kiss to his lips—there for a moment, then gone again.

"What was that for?" he asks, stunned still.

You laugh, leading him to an empty seat, his eyes not leaving you for a second.

"Best get used to it," you say simply, kissing his cheek without a care in the world who sees it.

Arthur offered to take you home.

No fancy carriage, he warned—just his horse and a rough leather saddle the whole way back.

As if you'd mind this.

He's at your back, strong arms around you to keep hold of the reins, and you're giddy with drunkenness, leaning into it like there's nowhere else you'd rather be.

You sigh, a content little sound as you rest against his chest—smelling him all the while as the night air cools your skin.

His scent is pine and tobacco, worn leather and musk, and something so indiscriminately Arthur it warms you clean through.

"You smell nice," you mumble, eyes shut as you tuck your face into the crook of his neck.

You nose at him, peppering kisses that make a shudder wrack through him, the rumble of it felt against your back.

"Stop distractin' me," he mutters gruffly, all while arching into every kiss like his body disagrees with him.

"Mm," you hum, eyes blinking open to gaze at him, his own fixed on the dark road ahead. "Can't help it."

He looks down at you for a moment, searching your face, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

"Look tired," he comments, voice the gentlest you've heard it.

He tucks his chin over your head, holds you closer.

"I'll wake you when we arrive."

You pout, groaning softly. "But I wanna keep you company—"

Your yawn overtakes you then, exhaustion settling in before you can force it away.

"Reckon I'll survive, darlin'," he says quietly. "Sleep."

You nod, lying back into him, his arms keeping you steady the whole way home.

You wake just as he's rearing the horse to a stop, not but a few feet from the front steps.

"Made it in one piece," he remarks, a hint of amusement lacing his words. Enough to make you smile back, anyway.

He helps you dismount, hands lingering at your waist longer than propriety allows.

And you—adoring every second of his attention—press adamant kisses to whatever skin you can reach, giggling at the way the tips of his ears turn rosy in the moonlight.

"Alright, up you go," he mutters, helping you to the door, one firm hand around your hip to keep you from stumbling.

"Oh, I had a real great time, Arthur," you say softly, the drink finally leaving your system long enough to not have you slurring over every other word.

The swill was horrible, but the wine Dutch offered you was just right.

Arthur is silent for a moment, running a hand across his hair as he looks you over.

He lingers on your flushed cheeks, the dazed look in your eyes, your kiss-swollen lips that have yet to return to their original state.

But beyond that, he sees nothing but fondness and warmth—the kind that says you've found the one thing you've been missing all this time.

He grunts, nods his head, unable to hold your gaze much longer. "Glad to hear it."

You beam, reaching up to caress his cheek before dropping your hand away.

"Don't be a stranger now..." you murmur, tugging lightly at his shirt. "You gotta promise."

He softens, shoulders dropping slightly.

"Yeah... I promise."

You pause, biting at your cheek.

"Supper?"

He frowns in confusion.

"Come to supper tomorrow," you blurt, the words leaving you in a rush. "I'll cook—make you somethin' nice."

Then, because you've always been too honest for your own good, and the drink isn't helping none, you add, "Just wanna see you again."

He hesitates, looks around for a minute before he speaks, hands tightening where they grasp your waist.

"Don't wanna impose."

"It isn't imposing if I'm offering, now is it?" you say, chin lifting, lips pursed like there'll be no arguing the matter.

A sharp exhale leaves him as he glances back at his horse, its tail swishing where it stands, then back to you.

"What time?"

You, not expecting such open acceptance, stand a bit straighter, eyes going round as a doe's.

"'Round noon?"

He nods, mulls it over in his mind.

"Tomorrow, 'round noon... but don't trouble yourself with cookin'—"

"Gonna make you a whole damn potluck," you say, your smile the biggest he's seen from you all day, your breathless giggle catching in the wind, echoing softly in the breeze.

"Jesus, woman," he chides, lips curling at the edges, head tipping toward the house. "Go on up to bed."

You just stare, look at him like you'll never get the chance to memorize his face like this again—head tilted, lingering on every line etched into his skin, every fleck of blue you can see in his eyes, the sheer sturdiness of him.

"Goodnight, Arthur," you whisper affectionately.

To your surprise, he leans in—lips to your hair—and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"And to you, Miss Gillis."

So while he talks, explaining his stupid discovery in his own stupid way, you aren’t really listening. Just staring at him blankly, Stratt next to him.

Did she bring him onto this? How did she find out about him? Was it through you? You had helped him publish his life ruining paper, did she see your name attached? You had been smart enough to call it quits when you did, resulting in the end of your relationship in Denmark. 

Your career survived because you knew when to call it quits. 

Ryland didn’t.

Stratt had found you due to your specialization in extraterrestrial lifeforms. Had dragged you on as an expertise, and recruited you as an astronaut for Project Hail Mary. It’s not like you had anything to lose, you stopped the whole “relationships” thing when Ryland ran. 

Fate is cruel, you think. Whatever God that’s there is cruel, only a cruel one would bring your ex-fiance to your glorified funeral. 

You had already imagined the last time you would hear from Ryland, he’d see you on the news and realize you were going up into space to save everyone. He'd say something stupid, and thank you for what you were doing, maybe apologize for what happened. You’d send a thumbs up back and that’d be that.

Instead, while looking out at the sea, you feel someone stand next to you, staring at you with sad eyes. You don’t have to turn your head, you don’t even need to think twice.

“Seeing a ghost?”

You can almost imagine his frown worsening, and if you didn’t spend months crying into pillows about him, you’d feel bad.

“I didn’t think you’d be here. Stratt… recruited me, due to our-... my paper. Which, I’m sure you know, is still useless, but I uh… was able to learn some stuff anyways. Stratt has kinda made me an expert in Astrophage. So… I guess we’ll be working together.”

Great. You’ll be working together.

You keep your eyes on the water, it’s calmer than you feel. There’s jealousy in your chest.

Ryland shifts beside you, hands fidgeting, tapping against his thighs, like his body can’t keep up with his brain. Some habits don’t change, apparently.

“Look...”

You beat him to it. “If this is an apology, you’re several years too late.”

He exhales, a soft, wrecked sound. “Yeah. I know.”

Silence again. It’s the kind that used to be comfortable, that used to mean everything was understood without saying it. Now it just feels wrong.

“You left,” you say finally, still not looking at him. “Not just the apartment… or me. You left everything. Your research, your colleagues, your life.”

“I didn’t leave my research,” he says quietly. “That was the problem.”

That gets you to look at him. He looks… older. Not in a dramatic way. Just worn down around the edges. Like someone sanded him a little too hard. There are lines you don’t remember, a tightness in his jaw that never used to be there on his soft features. If you were a stupider person you’d try to smooth it out.

“You blew everything up.”

“Yeah.” A humorless huff. “That too.”

You shake your head, turning back to the ocean. “You didn’t even fight for us. You just decided you were right, and that was it. You were done- with me and your job. No discussion. No compromise. Just… gone. You just left.”

“I thought if I stayed, I’d drag you down with me.”

That wasn’t the answer you expected.

“I was already going down,” he continues, words coming faster now, like he’s been holding them in for years. “The paper, the backlash- I knew it was going to get worse. And you… your career was just starting to take off. You were getting cited, invited places, people actually respected you. I couldn’t-” He breaks off, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I couldn’t be the reason you lost that. The reason you lost what you always told me you wanted so badly.”

“So your solution was to make that decision for me?”

“I thought I was protecting you.”

“Well, congratulations,” you snap. “You did a great job. Really. Nothing says ‘protection’ like running away without a real conversation and letting me find out you moved across the country through facebook like a coward.”

He flinches. Good.

“You don’t get to rewrite it now, you don’t get to turn it into some noble sacrifice.”

“I’m not trying to,” he says. “I screwed up. I know that. I’ve known that for a long time.”

“Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

That lands harder than anything else. You can see it in the way he freezes.

“I wrote… letters,” he admits after a moment. “A lot of them. I just… never sent them.”

You stare at him. “That’s not better, Ryland.”

“I know.”

God, you hate how easily he says that now. Like he’s had years to practice admitting fault, just never to your face. Another wave crashes against the vat below. The wind picks up, tugging at your clothes, your hair, filling the space where words should be.

“You don’t get to fix this,” you say eventually. “Not now. Not here.”

“I’m not trying to fix it,” he replies. “I just-” He hesitates. “You deserve an explanation. I didn’t expect to see you again. Not like this.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Funny how that worked out.”

A humorless almost-smile flickers across his face. “Yeah. End-of-the-world reunion tour.”

You huff despite yourself. It’s brief and involuntary. You hate that it feels right.

For a second, something like the old Ryland is there… lighter, softer, the one who used to make you laugh in the middle of arguments just to break the tension. It’s gone just as quickly.

“I didn’t know you were on the project either. Not until I got here.”

You believe him. You’re not sure why. Maybe because lying was never his problem.

Being *right* was.

Another long pause settles in.

“You’re really doing it?” he asks softly. “Going up there?”

You shrug, like it doesn’t matter. Like you didn’t already say yes to a one-way trip into the dark. “Someone has to.”

He nods, eyes dropping to the ground. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You study him for a moment.

“You?” you ask. “Are you volunteering too, or are you sticking to ruining things on Earth?”

He lets out a quiet breath. “They haven’t asked me to go.”

“Would you?”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

And for a second, it feels like being seen again in a way you haven’t let yourself be seen since he left.

“…I don’t know,” he admits.

Honest. At least that hasn’t changed.

“Figures,” you say, turning back to the ocean. “You always ran when it mattered.”

That one hits.

You know it does.

But instead of snapping back, he just nods slowly, like he’s accepting the blow.

“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”

The wind carries the words away before you can decide what to do with them.

You cross your arms, staring out at the endless stretch of gray-blue water, and wish, just for a second, that this was any other reunion. But it isn’t.

It’s this one, and he’s here, and before you know it, you won’t be.

Years pass faster than they have any right to. It’s not because time is kinder here, quite the opposite actually. It’s harsher, measured in simulations failed, candidates lost, bodies that couldn’t adapt, minds that couldn’t hold. But routine has a way of dulling sharp edges, and proximity has a way of wearing people down into something… softer. Or at least something quieter.

You and Ryland have not fixed things.

You have schedules that never quite overlap unless Stratt forces it, meetings where you both speak, but never to each other, papers passed back and forth with clinical notes, stripped of any kind of personality.

Then one day, somethings different.

He makes a mistake in a calculation, something simple, something old Ryland would’ve caught instantly. You point it out without thinking, scribbling over his work with a muttered, “You dropped a factor here.”

When he stiffens you expect defensiveness, maybe an argument. 

Instead, he just says, “Oh. Yeah. You’re right. Thanks.”

And it feels like how you both used to work together, what brought you together and then tore you apart. It feels right, which is all too wrong.

And it happens again, and again. Conversations become less like landmines and more like… negotiations. You’ll still snap sometimes. He still shuts down sometimes, but neither of you runs anymore. You’re figuring out how to know the new versions of each other, and something about it makes your heart ache. 

It’s months before launch now, and you find yourselves alone in the lab at 2 a.m., surrounded by equipment and the dim glow of samples pulsing like captured starlight. You both are exhausted, which is probably why you fall into conversation.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he says, nodding at your setup.

You don’t even look up. “I’m not.”

“You are. The thermal gradient-”

“I accounted for it.”

“For the old model,” he replies, stepping closer. “We updated the parameters after-”

You shove the tablet at him. “Then show me where I’m wrong.”

If this were a year ago, you’d argue, he’d give up on the conversation and you two would call it a day. But he just… takes the tablet, leaning in beside you, though not quite crowding you. Your shoulders brush, which should make you feel nothing.

Apparently nothing is right today.

He scrolls, frowning in concentration. “Here. This assumption… see? It doesn’t hold if the replication rate spikes under radiation stress.”

You follow where he’s pointing, and… he’s right.

“That’s new.”

“Yeah.”

“...Good catch. Thank you.”

He glances at you, checking for sarcasm that isn’t there.

“…You’re welcome,” he says.

You fix the model together, movements syncing in that old, familiar rhythm you swore you’d buried. Passing tools without asking. Finishing each other’s thoughts before they’re fully formed.

You both recognize the familiar dance but don’t say anything to break it.

By the time launch is close enough to feel real, the distance between you has changed. It’s a gap now, one you both stand at the edge of, neither quite willing to cross.

You eat in the same room now, almost together. Conversations happen, not about either of you. Never about either of you. Instead, about work, about the mission, about stupid things like whether Stratt has ever slept in her life.

(“She doesn’t blink enough.”

“She blinks.”

“Name one time.”

“…That’s not the point.”)

You almost let yourself think things are like they were. 

The night before final simulations lock, you’re staring out at the water.

“Hey.”

You don’t turn right away. “Hi.”

He comes to stand beside you, closer than he would’ve before. Not touching. Just… within reach. For a while, neither of you speaks, and it’s almost that same comfortable silence it used to be.

“That’s it, huh?” he says eventually. “We’re actually doing this.”

“Looks like it.”

“You’re… ready?”

You shrug. “As I’ll ever be for a suicide mission.”

He exhales softly. “Yeah, that’s… that’s fair.”

Silence settles again. You’re both anxious, you messing with your necklace under your shirt and him twiddling his thumbs.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say,” he adds.

“If this is another apology-”

“It’s not.”

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just out at the water, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I meant what I said back then,” he continues. “About not trying to fix it.”

“Good,” you say. “Because you can’t.”

“I know.” A beat. “But… I also meant that you deserved an explanation. And I gave you one, but-” He hesitates. “It wasn’t the whole truth.”

You sigh, turning fully toward him now. “Ryland-”

“I was scared,” he says, cutting you off, “I told myself it was about your career, about protecting you, and part of that was true, but mostly… I was scared of being wrong.”

You blink.

“That paper, the backlash- everyone looking at me like I’d lost it. I could handle that. What I couldn’t handle was you looking at me the same way.”

“I never-”

“I know,” he says quickly. “You didn’t. But I thought you would eventually. And I didn’t want to watch that happen. So I left first.”

The words hang there.

“…Running away is a terrible strategy,” you finally come up with.

He lets out a quiet, breathy almost-laugh. “Yeah. I’ve had some time to reflect on that.”

“You think?” You stare out at the ocean, before sighing, “So what, now you’re not scared anymore?”

He considers that.

“No,” he says. “I still am. I’d still run. But I feel… I feel like I’m moving in the right direction.”

There’s something in the way he says it that lands differently than anything before. You nod slowly, like you’re filing it away.

“Good,” you say. “That’s… good.”

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“If things were different…”

You shake your head, a small, firm motion. “They’re not.”

“I know.”

Silence.

The kind that says more than words could.

After a while, you let out a breath. “You know, for what it’s worth… you’re not the same person you were. So… if things were different. Yeah.”

__________

It’s been a month on the Hail Mary, and you and Ryland have gotten to know each other pretty well. He’s a bit dorky, kind, and witty. You have to imagine you were friends back on earth from the way you two get along.

It feels like you two were two parts of a puzzle, no wonder you were chosen for this mission together. A team like this? It happens once in a lifetime. 

You’ve managed to be set up pretty well as you approach Tau Ceti, Ryland’s sleeping now, you technically should be too, but you wanted to finally look through your personal things. Ryland had already seen his, including the lone photo of himself. You assume your belongings might be similar, and they are for the most part. The only difference is you have two other photos, one a photo of you grinning next to a woman you remember as Eva Stratt, holding her in a bear hug, and the other…

The other photo.

You and Ryland, with your left hand held up to the camera where a ring is being shown off on your left hand. You two look much younger, and he’s holding you close and staring at you with something in his eyes. 

Like you created the earth itself.

Your hand reaches for the necklace you have on, the ring hanging off it.

Weird. 

Guess you were close friends?

_______________________________

“Hey…” You repeated, softer this time as it drew more into empathy. Maybe he was homesick, like you were. Given your estranged evolutions leading you down the same paths, it made sense to think that Eridians had a similar basis of thought-provoking emotions and attachments.

There was a low chord that answered you this time. It sounded almost… Heavy and was so resonant that the computer didn't bother to even pick it up and offer you a word in response. Something about it made you feel sad, a frown tugging at your face. “You okay?”

There was an intention to pause this time. You could see Rocky moving his carapace so he was facing towards you instead of away which was previously the case. Your eyes softened at that, though, the emotion was imperceptible to the genius engineer. He had to know though, based on the hushed tone of voice you were using what the general consensus was with your expression. 

His fingers clicked together like they so often did when Rocky was searching for the correct words. He was quick witted most of the time, so for him to sit and contemplate was… Mildly concerning. “State not optimal.” You straightened a little once your brain processed the implied meaning. “What’s wrong?”

“Today ♫♩♩♩♪♬♬ with Adrian.” 

You blinked, mouth opening and closing a few times as you looked at the computer to make sure you weren’t mistaken. That was a word that had never come up in any form since your time meeting Rocky. The tonal shifts and riffs used to express it seemed complex, notes layered upon chords and you tilted your head. 

“I don’t… understand that word, Rock. Can you explain it?”

Rocky shifted slightly closer to the wall as if the sounds he was making were going to wake up Ryland. “Time-cycle acknowledgement of mate selection.”

It took you a moment to unravel that one. Sometimes, talking to Rocky was like talking to a philosopher who talked in code. A very specific code and you weren’t allowed to have the legend to decode. Humming softly, you tilted your head against the xenonite and let the coolness seep into your temple. “Is that… important?” 

Your voice hesitated, an idea of the meaning floating around but like the true back and forth of two different life forms communicating, you needed more information before coming to the conclusion. Rocky was faster at it, a point of contention at times when you and Ryland took longer to put puzzle pieces together and Rocky was… Impatient. But… Rocky seemed like he wanted to talk about this, he was just going around it carefully. He went quiet for a moment, his claw motions coming to a languid pace. “Significant marker of continued shared existence.” Smiling more to yourself, you nodded, “Like, a celebration?” “Not celebration.” That was adamant. “Recognition of bond persistence over time.” It finally clicked for you as you leaned over, typing with one finger into the computer. ANNIVERSARY. 

“We call that an anniversary, there’s different types but the basis is the same.” Your voice was intentionally gentle and whether Rocky cared about that or not, you didn't know but you were sharing what you would consider to be a tender moment so the harder vocal tone wouldn’t have felt right. 

“It’s a measure of time, annually for Humans, to mark a significance in their lives that altered their choices and futures. Sometimes it can be as simple as moving jobs, or more complex like the date of birth.” That had its own conversation you’d explain when you had time, but you pressed forward. 

“In the case, it would be…” You hesitated, “A romantic intent.” Rocky clicked before letting out a low chord, something thoughtful but also something a little… Sad. He reached up almost subconsciously and let his claw graze against the beautifully colored dual circular mark on one of his arms. Wedding band, your mind went straight to that conclusion, eyes admiring the chic and gorgeous color even in the dim light. You wished you could touch it without his atmosphere burning you. 

 “Concept aligns. Is anniversary with Adrian.” Rocky concluded.

“That must be hard. Being away for it. From them.” You were hushed, readjusting your shoulders so you could look at him properly. He’d stopped working at this point, setting the chains down on the ground. 

“Yes.”

The computer chimed simply but you could hear the melancholy in the way the sounds were coming from his carapace. He tilted towards you as if seeking some sort of comfort and there was a twist in your stomach at the fact that you were only able to give comfort in the form of words. “Mate bond reinforced at these intervals. Physical presence is preferred.”

You let out a quiet breath, huff of sorts at that. So, your kinds were not so different after all. But, Erdians were still Hermaphrodites and you did wonder if the physical presence indicated the next start of an egg cycle. Not the time and place to ask, you filed it away to ask later when Rocky wasn’t so… blue. “I understand.” 

It got quiet again, the hum of the ship sinking back into the forefront mixed with the continuation of Rocky working xenonite into chains. You found your gaze back towards Ryland, his front side facing you, propped on his side as comfortably as he could in the otherwise uncomfortable plush of the Hail Mary bedding. 

You could see the tuft of his blonde hair peeking out from under the blanket that he had rather cutely tucked over his face to block the light, but honestly? It was more to block Rocky’s gaze even though the echolocation assured no true form of privacy. Ryland had to know that, but still, watching him sleep was… Endearing. Different from Rocky who looked at it as a necessity, a social norm to keep alive. Your heart did another shift in your chest at that thought. About the 23 other Eridians that made their way to Tau Ceti with him but died. The days and nights, all blurring in the concepts of space, he watched them sleep and then not wake up. It felt selfish  to think you were alone when Ryland was with you.

Rocky… Truly was alone for so long until the Hail Mary showed up, and he was missing his anniversary to save his planet. There was something oddly poetic in that and you respected the Eridian that much more for it. 

“Question.” There was a shift in resonance as Rocky moved a bit to get back into your line of view as you had been staring at the scientist across the room. The tone used that mixed with the computer program was changed, back to curiosity but seemed to still carry that quiet weight. “Yeah?”

You whispered, forcing your eyes from intent focus to glance at the alien next to you who was clattering his digits together as if trying to tie together some complex calculation. You smiled at that. Maybe he was, he was able to focus on more things than once so maybe this conversation was just a secondary action. “(Last Name) have mate, question?”

The question should not have surprised you but something about it landed softer than you expected. Deep and cutting without intending. You heard from Ryland a few days ago that, while in the ‘Don’t Go Crazy Room’ he had been asked the same thing.

And while you deeply yearned for the conclusion from Ryland regarding that, you didn't press and kept it tied-up professionally as he explained to you that Rocky did in fact have a mate. Seems like it was a heady topic on board a ship were there was very little gossip.

There was no point in pretending. You shook your head curtly and glanced down at your socked feet, letting one of your hands reach down to fiddle with the extra fabric. You must have grabbed a pair of Ryland’s without thinking, they were a little big. 

“No. Not really.”

“Clarify.”

“I mean I…. Spent time with people, cared about them a lot.” 

The idea of having to explain dating was not on your bingo card for the day so you found yourself tip-toeing around certain phrases that you knew he would understand with implications involved. “But nothing permanent. Nothing like what you have with Adrian.” You turned towards him again with a smile of encouragement at his very long lasting relationship. 

Rocky made a contemplative note as if he were trying to figure out what to say without sounding… Offensive. “No stable pair bond formed.”

“Right.”

“(Last Name) desire one, question?”

That required you to really sit and think. Hesitate wasn’t the word as you rolled the idea through your head over and over again. Obviously, you went on a suicide mission. You weren’t going back to Earth and had to cut ties with the desire that Rocky mentioned, but he was still in the dark about it. You and Ryland agreed to tell him just… Never agreed to a time or place. It was never just a you decision anymore, it was a ‘You and Ryland’, and there was less of a lonely solace in that as you nodded. “Yeah… I think I did. It just never worked out.”

“Unsuccessful attempts?”

You huffed softly, closing your eyes and shrugging your shoulders. Rocky didn't know how he came across sometimes, you couldn’t blame him for moments of brashness. In fact, they were often another source of comfort and kept the mission grounded when it needed to be. 

“That’s one way to put it.”

“You are currently without mate.” Rocky said.

The bluntness should have rubbed you the wrong way, but as you trailed your eyes back towards Ryland and the steady nature of his breathing, one of his hands now curled against his chest, his upper half pointed towards you still, peaceful and so far gone in whatever dreams fluttered behind his eyelids, his lower half somehow contorted and pressed against the mattress.

There were a few strands of his blonde hair in his face that you felt your fingers twitch at the desire to brush them aside and let your touch graze against his sharp cheekbones and trace the curve of his dark eyelashes. Worst of all, you… Wanted Ryland to actually let you do that. You dug your fingernails into your thumb and tried to get that out of your mind. 

Rocky shifted slightly, thoughtful as he observed the stagnant air and stare your body was exhibiting towards Ryland. “You experience distress due to this.”

“Sometimes.” You admitted. There was another long pause and for a moment, you thought that Rocky was done and that he had gotten all of the information he needed and came to his own conclusion on things without saying he was done.

It happened sometimes, and life would go back to normal. As normal as it could so far from home, with a five-legged alien who could see through walls. It felt like your skin was a bit prickly at the fact that… Rocky was still pointed towards you, and there seemed to be a minute shift to his carapace towards Ryland. This silence was different, your shoulders drawing in on themselves. It felt heavier, shaped by everything he’d shared with you about Adrian. 

“Suggestion,” Rocky said, cutting the air with a metaphorical knife. “Grace is viable candidate for mate bond.”

The words hit the air and didn’t quite land like Rocky expected, you could tell. Not from his face - Eridians didn't really have expressions in the human way that you were used to, but over time and extreme proximity, you could read him like a book.

It was simple, really based on how his arms moved his carapace, how the shift of rock-like structures at the top shifted and how he twisted himself. It was like a subtle recalibration of sorts, equal to if the ship had briefly lost gravity and then found it again without major consequences.

Something about the way he looked at you told you clearly that he meant what he said and that there was no translation error from the computer system. 

The faint hum of the Hail Mary suddenly felt too loud, too aware of itself. Even Ryland’s steady breathing behind you seemed to pause in your perception, like your mind had decided to listen to everything at once and now it was a loud mess of culmination at what the Eridian just threw scientifically into the air.

You’d say recklessly, but nothing Rocky did was reckless. It was always based on observations… Your eyes widened. What did he observe that drew him to that conclusion?!

“Y…” You scoffed a bit, shaking your head, not too adamantly but enough to get the point across, “I think you’re misunderstanding something, Rocky.”

Rocky didn’t backtrack. He rarely did. He was… Stubborn. 

“Compatibility high. Shared mission. High stress environment. Mutual reliance. Emotional stabilization observed.”

The way your throat tightened at the words felt painful and every breath that came into your lungs was pointed like a knife. “That’s not…”

You began slowly, carefully, but the words died in the air. It was so much easier to deflect than to answer truthfully, you knew, but even deflection came at a cost. “You’re wrong. There’s nothing between Grace and I. I’m a little… Offended you even brought it up.”

“Explain. Rocky made logical assessments from many variables noticed over time. (Last Name) have no assessment mentioned. Stupid debate.”

A quiet breath came out of your nose, almost incredulous, caught on the edge of a laugh but it didn't quite make it there and you sounded like a strangled animal but still remained fragile. You were yelling at yourself not to look at him, if you had even a second’s control over your own thoughts. But of course you did.

Your gaze found Ryland again, drawn to him like it always was, like he was the only thing in the room full of a thousand buttons that did a million different things.

The slow rise and fall of his shoulder beneath the blanket felt almost hypnotic, like a rhythm your body had learned without asking permission to remember. Your eyes lingered longer than they should have and decided to take in the delectations he had to give. 

The way the dim light caught against his tanned skin, the way it played against his beard and captivated hairs to appear more golden than blonde, the subtle shift in his breathing pattern, the… Gravity of his entire presence. Known to you for so long, but you chose to shove it aside. And now? It felt ridiculous really, how easily your brain was about to unravel around the simplest him. How the noises that were in your head became gentler. 

“I do care about him.”

The words come carefully and quietly, like admitting them to anyone but yourself might break something that had been non-spoken for so long. Out of your peripherals, you could see Rocky cease. Not silent, never was, but still in the only way that you imagined he could be. And nothing about his stance yelled at you that he was going to gloat about being right in the first place, or laugh at you for crumbling so easily. That urged you to continue, the lack of judgement, your voice lower now as if the other human in the room would wake up if you spoke too rashly. And yet, there were still flickers of raw fragility around the edges of your chosen words that hurt you more to say than anything. “Ryland, I mean…I--- I care about him a lot. More than I probably should, considering the circumstances of the mission.”

You fingers began anxiously picking at the seam of your sleeve. “He… Makes it easier, you know. Being here. Being… myself.”

A small exhale escaped your lips, shattering into the air. “I guess I… didn't realize how much I needed him..” The words dies in the air but you both know what was to be said. I didn't realize how much I needed him until right now…

You stop talking for a minute and let your eyes trail towards some part of the room where Ryland wasn’t. You couldn’t say what you were going to say looking at him, guilt tearing you apart from the inside as it flashed against your lungs like an ugly whip. “I can’t… Do anything about it.”

Rocky tilted slightly. “Cannot care?”

You shook your head immediately. “That’s not the problem, Rock. I do care.” Your voice caught in your throat, it was barely a whisper but the Eridian detected it without issue.

There was a brief second where you wondered if Rocky would understand the infliction in your voice at that and the undertones of which it implied. You cared for Ryland, that was the problem. 

The confession hung there, suspended between you and the hard xenonite wall behind you. You picked at the sleeve a bit more aggressively, feeling the twinge of string come undone. The truth came out in a steadier thread, your voice collected and even despite the truest desire to scream in confliction. “I think… If we try to define it like that… If I turn it into something like what you have with Adrian…” There was a hush in the air as you drew yourself into a ball, your knees against your chest, leaning against the wall that captivated two atmospheres, “I don’t know if I could survive it going wrong.” Rocky clicked behind you - echolocation markers to check your status, along with Ryland’s though… Something told you this was more about yourself at the time. Your gaze flickered down to the metallic floor and you forced yourself to trace the patterns there, seeking some distraction. “And it would go wrong, Rock. It always does. Especially in cases like Ryland and I. Cases of forced proximity and loneliness. Humans are pack animals, we desire the connection others give us. It wouldn’t be fair to Ryland… To…” You swallowed hard and squeezed your eyes shut. “Force him into something that he wouldn’t even think about on Earth. So I just don’t… Call it that. I don’t call it anything.” Rocky processed your emotional dump in silence. There was no point in him interrupting it, you would have just gone on and words would have gotten tied together. He was trying to do what he did best. Shape the words you shared with him into logical and relatable pieces that he could metaphorically hold and understand that way. There was still no judgement, no harsh resonance from him as if he… Understood the emotional depth of which you were coming from. And maybe he did. 

“Love.” You stiffened at that, glancing your glassy eyes towards the computer to confirm that it was what you heard. You swallowed back a small lump in your throat at the thought that Ryland had a discussion with him and had to go into the deep fundamentals of human nature to even begin to describe that.

You wanted to be in the room when it happened, just to have an excuse of why Ryland even brought it up in the first place. There was a pang in your chest. Probably talking about some old flame, someone he left behind on Earth… That was the cynicism talking. Love itself had so many realms, and you were immature to think it only held true to one type. But this… You squeezed your knees softly. You wanted to think about it. How Ryland would describe that, what examples he would use, if you would come up in any shape. You wanted that personal lesson and for a split second, your irrationality got the best of you and you felt… Jealous of Rocky because he got it instead of you. 

“That is not…” You started reflexively, but it was pointless as the denial felt sour on your tongue. You couldn’t bring yourself to even finish. 

All because your eyes betrayed you again, drifting towards Ryland. Towards the absurd, grounding fact that he was even there at all, alive, real, tangible, asleep two meters away from you in a metal coffin drifting between stars. Earth’s two saviors. A brilliant Molecular Biologist, and a stupid, underqualified fool who couldn’t even keep their emotions in check. You exhaled shakily, comparing the motions to Ryland’s smooth breathing that kept themselves uniform and tight.

“Maybe…” You admitted finally, barely audible. The word felt too big in your mouth like you might gag on it; too dangerous to leave unguarded because it would choke you to death. You forced another round of saliva down your throat, trekking into a mandated steadiness, like your voice was a system you could stabilize with ease. “But I’m not doing anything about it.”

Rocky’s claws resumed their slow tapping, softer than before. Not work this time. Just rhythm. “Why not pursue if (Last Name) feels emotional distress due to adamant denial of complex human desire for mate, question?”

A humorless breath escaped your parted lips. “Because we’re here to save Earth.” 

Your voice was a touch above a whisper, tears threatening to come from the corner of your eyes at the confession that would never see the light of day. “And because I like what we are right now… even if it hurts a little. I don’t want to ruin it trying to turn it into something it might not survive.”

Silence enveloped the ship once again, but this time, it wasn’t empty. It felt like a… Shared understanding between you and Rocky, slowly forming a shape in a language neither of you fully spoke but somehow understood. He shifted once, and then settled against xenonite a little bit closer to you. You followed suit and readjusted yourself to lean against it more purposefully. “Human behavior strange.” You smiled slightly, tired and far away as you brought a hand up and wiping a stray tear off your cheek. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Grace sleep with proximity to (Last Name) often.”

Your face warmed instantly. “Yeah…”

“Behavior suggests trust bonding.”

“I know what it suggests.”

Rocky didn’t reply right away. The faint, rhythmic clicking of his claws continued behind you—soft against metal, precise, almost soothing in its consistency. It echoed just enough in the small space to remind you that you weren’t alone, even as everything else seemed to fall quiet.

“He doesn’t know, and… I’d like to keep it that way.” You explained to the Eridian.

“Would knowing alter mission parameters?”

“Probably.” That hurt. Your voice cracked, “Yeah.” “....Understand….” “Thanks, Rocky.”

And that was the part that scared you the most. Not the possibility of rejection, you’d get over that, or even the prospect of reciprocation, as exciting as that would be. Just… Change. Everything between you and Ryland was supposed to be steady and focused. And you were alive just long enough to matter and to save Earth. End of story. 

Your eyes pulled back to Ryland without permission.

Still on his side, still half-wrapped in that patch-work blanket that never seemed like enough, a relic from home, his shoulder rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. The dim overhead lighting softened everything about him, including your gaze as you silently said goodbye to the idea of ‘what could have been’. 

Your arms tightened slightly around your legs, the fabric of your sleeves bunching under your fingers as you held yourself there. The air felt cooler the longer you sat still, brushing faintly against your face, your hands, the tip of your nose. You barely noticed it compared to the warmth that came from just… looking at him.

“I can live with a little hurt.” That was low enough that it almost blended into the hum of the ship, imperceptible to most everyone, except Rocky. “I can’t live with losing him.”

The words settled into the space between you, heavier than anything Rocky had said, heavier than anything you’d been trying to avoid. For a moment, all you could hear was the ship, your breathing, his breathing—separate, but close enough to blur if you didn’t think about it too much. And for a sweet moment, all you could hear was your breathing intwining with Ryland’s. Separate, but close enough to blur if you didn't think too much about it. And you chose not to. 

Behind you, Rocky’s tapping slowed, then stopped altogether.

There were no more interruptions. No more logic, or questions. Just… Quiet. You swallowed, your throat tight, and let your eyes stay where they wanted—on the steady rise of Ryland’s chest, on the small, unconscious movements that proved he was still there, still within reach, still something real in a place that rarely felt like it.

“I’ll just watch him sleep… That’s enough for me. And hey, Rock?”

“Yes, question?”

You smiled softly, letting your head rest on your knees. “Happy anniversary.”