Sam Wilson's pretty boy

Silly doodle time ! I spent long enough away from my tablet that I had completely forgotten what I worked on last ! Isn't summer supposed to be the less hectic season? 💀💀 I'm going on 2ork-mandated vacation on friday tho, but then I'll also have to prep for con but also try to get my apartment move-in-ready and.... yeah. No rest for the witcked amirite 🤪🤙

This moment is also inspired by the opening to the PHM performance I may or may not be working on for a future con? We'll see of the thing gets finalized anytime soon or if that'll be a project for next year jjdjdjs

It has been about two weeks since Grace woke up, and things have more or less fallen into place for you two. Sure, your routines are bizarre, sometimes a bit tense, and would on Earth definitely get you a quick appointment with some sort of mental health provider, but whatever works, works. There is no one around to judge you except for Grace, and he has no ground to stand on when it comes to unsafe coping strategies.

After everything went well with reacquainting his body to food, he got your all-clear to upgrade to real food after a week of supplements. He immediately abused that freedom by indulging in the pouches of vodka he found in Dr. Ilyukhina’s luggage.

You didn’t open the personal luggage of your two late crew members while they were still aboard, but Grace hesitantly approached you a couple of days after the funeral, arguing that whatever they had packed, it could be useful for you two.

You agreed with him up until he said that it was what they would have wanted. For that you yelled at him about how he couldn’t possibly know that for ten minutes and then hid in the med bay storage compartment to cry for about an hour. You apologized afterwards and gave him the go-ahead to look through their stuff. You stayed in the med bay while he did, but with your back turned to him, unable to stomach the sight.

He laughed at first when he found the pouches of alcohol, but as soon as he could, he started to go on the first intergalactic bender.

He invited you to join him, and while every cell in your body was itching for the pleasant fuzzy feeling that came with excessive alcohol indulgence—or at least temporarily—the idea of both of you losing control over yourselves was not one you could bare.

Plus, someone needed to keep an eye on Grace, whose motor functions definitely didn’t improve while intoxicated.

So, you watched him stumble around, weep to himself, vomit and then apologize profusely for it, and spend a concerning amount of time just lying around staring at the ceiling.

That phase lasted maybe four days, but it felt like months. You let him indulge as much as he might need, hoping that it would help him somehow, like if he hits rock bottom, he’ll come out on the other side better and brighter.

He did kind of.  

Nowadays, he spends less time crying and more getting ready for the actual mission. Checking the equipment in the lab, reading through the papers on Astrophage and the Petrova Line, coming up with ideas of what to do once you reach Tau Ceti.

You just stand by most of the time. You still don’t like not being in the same room as him, but after two weeks of a semi-functional sleep schedule consisting of him sleeping at night while you monitor his vitals, and in turn you are napping throughout the day with him always close by.   

It’s probably not sustainable long-term, but you only have a couple of months left to live, so who really cares about that.

Right now, you are lying down on the metal grate crossing through the mental health room. It is a roundish room with walls that are all monitors, ready to play whatever scene you want to see. It’s great for both movie nights and contemplating your existence while staring at a foggy beach, which is precisely what Grace is doing while you are reading an e-book on one of the many tablets you have been provided with.

But most of your attention is stuck on Grace and how he hasn’t moved much in quite some time.

“You okay?” You ask, and when he doesn’t answer, you sit up, poking his shoulder. That makes him look at you finally. “Hey, I asked if you were okay.”

“Oh, sorry, yeah.” He chuckles slightly, but his eyes still look far away. “Just weird seeing this. Getting lost in the scenery, y’know.”

You nod, knowing exactly what he’s feeling. “It helps when you remember that we are doing this to save all of this.” You motion towards the screens before you. “We gave up this view so that billions of people don’t have to do the same.”

“That’s very wise,” he says, smiling.

“Took me about a year to come up with. It really does help. Or at least it’s definitely better than disconnecting with reality and staring at screens for hours.” Your smile drops suddenly. “Fuck!”

“What?” Grace looks alarmed at your sudden shift in mood.

“What time is it?”

“What do you mean, what time is it? We’re in space, we no longer live by the regular twenty-four-hour cycle and—”

“How long has it been since you woke up?” You groaned. Making watches work in space is tricky, so you two decided to turn on the stopwatch on Grace’s watch every morning when Mary decides that a new day should start. It was an acceptable way to keep track of time, at best.

Grace looks at his watch. “Almost seven hours.”

“Fuck,” you curse again.

“Hey, langu—” he cuts himself off, throwing you an apologetic look. He is still getting used to your cursing habits, something you have told him very explicitly that you wouldn’t get rid of. He doesn’t even really have a problem with it per se; it’s just that the middle-school teacher's urge to stop students from cursing is deeply rooted inside the man.

You jump up from where you have been sitting, and he does the same.

“Okay, seriously. What is going on?” he asks, alarmed.

“The engine will cut off any second. We’ve reached Tau Ceti.”

“So? Isn’t that good?”

You hurry towards the lab with Grace close behind. “No, if the engine cuts off, we’ll be left without any gravity.”

Behind you Grace swore loudly, or at least his version of it.

The lab looks like it does most of the time. It’s not exactly messy, but there is enough stuff laying around that will become really annoying if it’s not tethered to anything and you switch to zero gravity.

Grace is a bit of a slob when it comes to most things, except for lab equipment apparently, which is lucky for you—loose floating test tubes and chemicals are probably the last thing you need right now.

Most of the stuff laying around are some electronics, papers, and even a few pieces of clothing like lab coats or sweaters. It could be much worse, but it’s also clear that if your calculations are correct, you won’t have time to put everything away before you start floating. Especially, because this is only the lab, you don’t even want to imagine what the med bay looks like. 

“C’mon, maybe we can try to stop the engine from cutting off.” You turn and rush toward the cockpit.

Suddenly, alarms start to blare, and Mary starts to speak, “Approaching Tau Ceti orbit. Prepare for engine cutoff.”

You reach the cockpit just as she starts to count down. “Fourteen, thirteen, twelve…”

“Oh, that’s not good,” you say, staring down at the many blinking lights of the cockpit.

“Eleven, ten…”

“Can’t we ask her to stop?” Grace asks and then looks up. “Mary, stop it. Stop the engine cutoff. Reverse engine cutoff.”

But Mary continues unbothered, “Nine, eight, seven…”

“Help me find something to press, I—” you groan.

“Don’t you know how to do this?” Grace asks, his voice now high-pitched and panicky.

“No, do you?”

“No,” he squeals back. “Should we…” he motions towards the pilot seat.

“Maybe,” you reply, and then turn to the co-pilot seat to sit down.

Grace sits down as well, but the second his body hits the pilot seat, Mary interrupts her countdown to say, “Six. Pilot detected. Five, four…”

“What?” Grace exclaims. “No, I’m not a pilot!”

The systems around you start to shut down, their lights turning off one by one. You buckle your seatbelt.

“Grace, just use the seatbelt,” you tell him, but he seemingly misunderstands what you mean, because instead of sitting down, he just grabs onto it and curls his body into itself as much as possible.

“Three, two…”

“How will it work? Will we just start to float or—”

“One.”

For a second, the two of you are frozen, waiting for something to happen. That’s when you start to feel this weird sensation in your stomach. Like when you drop on a rollercoaster, except it’s much slower, and you don’t drop or fall. In fact, suddenly, your body loses the ability to tell what is up and down. Your limbs turn weightless, and your hair starts to rise from where it previously lay.

“You are now orbiting Tau Ceti.”

Ryland screeches. As in, several-octaves-higher-than-his-usual-voice, little-girl-that-sees-a-spider screech. He should have buckled himself in.

He starts to panic, which makes him flip his body around, still clutching the seatbelt desperately. “What the fudging fudger?”

You can’t help but laugh at his distress. “Calm down, you’re fine.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re sitting there all nice and pretty while I am being pushed around.” He is slightly breathless, his voice still squeaky.

“The only one pushing you is yourself,” you point out, which he evidently doesn’t appreciate much, if the look he throws you is anything to go by.

“I am aware of that.” He is now pointing with his head to the floor, arms somewhere between his legs. “That is not helpful.”

“You have some training with zero gravity, just relax. Pretend like you’re swimming. This is not space; this is just a very large swimming pool.”

“What? That’s—no offense, but that is ridiculous. I am flying, my body wasn’t made for this,” he says it so flippantly, which makes you bite your lip and look away temporarily. He was the one who told you that during training on Earth. It was kind of his motto. This is not space; this is just a very large swimming pool. You mocked him for it back then because it is silly, but hearing him reject his own words like that hurt. “And anyway, I don’t remember any of my training. I didn’t even know I got some.”  

“Yeah, well,” you say, not elaborating further. His memories are coming back at a steady rate, but you still refuse to tell him anything, no matter how much he pesters you. You unbuckle your seatbelt and, carefully with the help of the handles located all around the cockpit, let yourself start to float. “Here.” You offer your arm, which he grabs, and together you get him back upright. (Or what would be upright if you had gravity.)

“Thanks,” he says, running a hand through his hair, only messing it up more.

“Petrovascope operational.”

You gasp, looking at the specially made telescope. “The Doctor.”

“The Doctor?” Grace asks, but you ignore him, instead floating toward The Doctor. “Oh, is that one of the… did you name the Petrovascope as well?” He asks, and you can appreciate how his judgment really is kept to a minimum.

“Yup. I figured, mysterious being on the ship that can look toward other worlds. Who does that remind me of?” You hesitate. “Saying it out loud makes it sound stupid.”

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just…” He grins. “And you call me a nerd.”

“Oh, screw you,” you mutter, and then say in a louder tone, “You wanna take a look?”

“Do I?” Grace asks sarcastically and then pushes himself off from his seat to mimic your easy floating. He fails at that, and barrels past you, grabbing hold of The Doctor while doing so, and hitting the end of the cockpit with his back.

“Are you okay?” You sound a little too panicky considering he just hit a wall a little, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything, just giving you a thumbs up while trying not to grimace.

“Let’s see what Tau Ceti has to offer, hm?” he says sounding slightly pained.

Together you manage to shift the pilot's seat so that you can easily look out of the Petrovascope while lying down. (Well, again, down if there was gravity, which there isn’t.)

Grace offers you to take the first look, but you wave him off by stating that he is the scientist, and that he’s the one who has to come up with a solution, so he might as well get a head start.

Truthfully, you’re not even sure you want to see the Petrova Line. Your whole life revolves around it already. The last thing you need is seeing the literal red string of fate tied from start to star, knowing that it ends at Jupiter and Sol, where it’s slowly but surely killing everyone on Earth.

You watch as Grace looks through the eyepiece—which is the size of a laptop display, very convenient—moving the finderscope until he stops on something. “It’s Tau Ceti,” he says, and then presses the button to change the visibility range of the telescope so that it will show him the Petrova Line, red and clear. “You have a Petrova Line,” he murmurs to himself. “But you’re not dimming. Why?”  

He moves the finderscope even more until he stops. He reaches for the eyepiece and starts wiping with his fingers on it.

“Uh, Grace? What are you doing? Don’t touch the eyepiece like that, isn’t that basically rule number one?”

“No, there is… there is a smudge or something,” he says, still wiping.

“How can there be a smudge? You’re the first person to ever operate it.”

“But there is something… What is that?” He presses the other button to get the regular visibility back.  He stares at whatever he found for a couple of seconds. The longer he doesn’t say anything, the antsier you get.

“Grace—”

“Blip-A detected.”

“What’s a Blip-A?” You and Grace ask at the same time. Only his question is directed at you, while yours is directed at Mary. Neither of you gets any answers, and Grace comes out from under the telescope.

There is a small sonar display, showing the Hail Mary and its surroundings. To your horror, another object has made its way onto the radar.

“Blip-A detected,” Mary repeats, and you can feel your stomach sink. (Rise, go sideways—who cares!)

Grace still stares at the sonar display, but you are already staring out of the window where some sort of structure revealed itself slowly to you. 

Your first thought is that it couldn’t be made by humans. Nothing about it even indicates Earth and its current understanding of physics. The thing is long, far longer than the Hail Mary, and wider too. It looks to be made out of hundreds, if not thousands, of brownish metallic rods, with a base in the middle and a round cluster on either side. It isn’t aerodynamic; it isn’t human.   

Your second thought is that Grace is still staring at the sonar display, and you couldn’t continue to be the only one of you two seeing this.

You hit him lightly on the shoulder, and as if snapping out of a trance, he slowly turns toward the window, where you can’t take your eyes off it. Together, the two of you float closer, and the thing does the same, until its base is parallel to the Hail Mary.

You two are paralyzed. Caught in the vision of whatever just revealed itself to you, because one thing is clear: it saw you first, and it chose to approach. That is either very good, or very, very bad.  

Grace must think the same, because suddenly he pushes himself off the window, taking you with him. “No, no. No, no, no. Let’s go, Mary.” He pushes you into your seat and then moves to his. “No, no, no way! Pilot detected,” he yells out, trying desperately to sit down.

You buckle your seatbelt, your hands are shaking, your mouth is dry. You wonder what would happen if you’d throw up in zero gravity.

“Please engage restraint.”

“Pilot detected,” Grace counters, as if he could out-argue a machine.

“Pilot detected,” Mary says.

Huh, I guess he can, you thought, and then continue concentrating on not breaking down. A knock comes from somewhere to your left. You don’t look. You already know there is nothing. You already know there is an alien spaceship possibly about to come and eat you. Your stomach flips.

“We’re getting outta here,” Grace says, turning to you and repeating himself. “We’re getting outta here. I’m getting us out of here.” You’re not sure whether his words are meant to soothe you or himself, but you’re quite certain neither works.

“Engage spin drive.”

“Engage the spin drive,” Grace mutters while frantically starting to press buttons.

“Incorrect.”

“You have to engage the spin drive,” you offer unhelpfully. Your voice is shaky and so quiet, Grace doesn’t even hear it over his own mumblings. Grace continues pushing any buttons and levels he finds, until by sheer dumb luck, he does something right.

“Welcome to the Hail Mary,” Mary says, and the monitors around you start to come back to life.

“Is it this thing?” Grace asks, pointing toward the control column. You nod, and he grabs it. “Alright, it’s fine. I’ll get us out of here now.”

He starts controlling the movement and flight of the Hail Mary, the force pressing you deeper into your seat. Grace’s flying is… well, quite frankly, it’s horrible. His movements are choppy, going in all directions without an actual plan. But it is fine; as long as you put some distance between the Hail Mary and Blip-A, you don’t care about his lack of flight training.

“Erratic movement detected.”

“Yeah,” he says and then steadies his movements a little, bringing you further away from Blip-A. He stops after about a minute, Blip-A nowhere to be seen. “Good,” he sighs, letting his head fall back onto the headrest. “We’re good, it’s done. We’re…” he looks at you, but you are still staring out of the window. Every muscle in your body is tense, and you can feel it in your bones that it isn’t done. There is no way that ship approached you just to back off immediately.

You are right. Blip-A suddenly appears back before you.

Grace groans, throwing his arms in the air. “What do they want?”

“Leave,” you snap, becoming dizzy at the size of the foreign ship alone. “Leave now! We've gotta leave!”

“I’m going, I’m going,” he says, and starts flying again.

“Go to the left,” you yell, eyes focusing on the window.

“The left? Why left—”

“Just do it!”

“Alright!”

He does, but to your dismay, Blip-A follows.

“Right! Go to the right!”

“We’re in space, there is no left or right,” Grace argues back, and you almost start screaming in frustration.

“You know what I mean! Don’t be a contrarian just for the sake of it, Doctor Grace.” You grab a packet of Skittles floating nearby and throw them at him. They bounce off his head and continue floating around the room.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. Alright,” he says.

“Just—come one! It’s still following us!” You only realize you’re crying when the tears start to float around your face. You wipe at your face, trying your best to stop yourself from single-handedly destroying the ship through water damage to its technology.

“It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.” Grace continues with what Mary dubbed ‘erratic movement’, steering the Hail Maryeverywhere as long as it’s away from Blip-A.

But Blip-A, with all its (you assume) famished and vicious aliens, is close by no matter how far you fly. After a couple of minutes of trying and failing to escape, you end up exactly where you started, with Blip-A right next to you.

“What do we…” Grace begins but trails off before finishing his sentence. “Maybe…” He steers the ship slowly, bit by bit, as if hoping that you can escape whoever is following by just being sneaky enough.

“Do you think it’s a Xenomorph?” you whisper.

“What?” Grace exclaims. “No, it’s not—don’t say that. It’s not a Xenomorph.”

“It could be.” You are still whispering, and you’re not even sure why. “Do you think it can hear us?”

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s impossible considering we’re in space and—let’s just get away first, alright?”

But just as you left Blip-A behind, it follows you again, lining up with your ship perfectly.

Grace swallows loudly. “Alright,” he says, his voice reaching an all-time high. “It seems that they want to establish contact or something. That’s nice.”

“Do you think they’ll kill and eat us?” Grace looks at you distressed, but you ignore him. “Or maybe they’ll eat us while we’re still alive.”

“Don’t say that. It’s probably fine, they are probably… friendly aliens. Just wanting to have a nice chat about… space and stuff.”

“Nice aliens?” You shake your head erratically. “Name one nice alien.”

“E.T.,” Grace says, and it comes at a speed that makes it clear he has already thought about that—laying out the answer in hopes that it might calm you both down. 

“Oh, a kid’s film, how realistic.”

“There is no need to get so sarcastic,” he says. “We’re fine, everything will be—what’s that?”

“Huh?” You look at where Grace is staring, bringing your seat closer to his. It’s a transmission from one of the many cameras mounted along the ship’s hull. Something is happening with Blip-A. Some sort of robot is moving along the exterior. It’s too far away to see what it s doing.

Grace unbuckles his seatbelt, momentarily struggling without gravity. You do the same, and together you move closer to the display, hoping to see what is going on. Grace pulls out his glasses, putting them on.

“Blip-B detected.”

You flinch at Mary’s sudden voice, too caught up in finding out what is happening on the screen.

“What’s a Blip—” Mary cuts Grace off.

“Blip-B detected. Current distance fromHail Maryis 300 meters.”

The robot threw something toward you, and whatever it is, it’s approaching fast.

“It’s sending us something,” Grace says anxiously.

“But what?” You ask. Together you float back toward the window, watching a capsule get closer and closer to your ship.

“It could be a message,” Grace says, and for a second, seems satisfied with that answer. Then his face falls. “It could be a bomb.”

“You think it’s a bomb? What happened to E.T.?” you stare at him, and he stares back, eyes just as wide as yours must be.

“I don’t know. That was before it started throwing stuff at us,” he is gesticulating wildly. “We—we gotta prepare for the worst, right?” he looks up the way he always does when addressing Mary. “Is it a bomb?”

“How would she know?” You’re both yelling again at that point. “It’s coming closer!”

“I know! Um, let’s maybe… shields up,” he shouts.

“We don’t have shields!”

“There are no shields on board theHail Mary.”

“Why not?” Grace cries out. You can only shrug, your mind is spinning—you might be about to die. All of it was for nothing.

“Thirty meters.”

“Ryland,” you utter. You reach for him instinctively, and he does the same, pulling you toward him.

“It’s fine, you’re fine, we’re fine.” He wraps his arms around you, pressing you into his chest, while his legs enclose yours.

“Twenty meters.”

You push your face into his neck, closing your eyes. You can hear him murmur into your hair, and his hands are shaking where they are clutching onto you. “We’ll be okay. I’ve got you. It’s fine. It’s just an E.T., not a Xenomorph.”

“Ten meters.”

You both tense up, holding onto one another as tightly as possible. If these are your last seconds alive, you’re at least glad it is with him. Everything you felt back on Earth comes rushing into you, leaving you breathless.  

────────

You ran across the grass, desperately looking for him. He couldn’t be far; he wasn’t stupid enough to run into the Kazakh Steppe alone and without any supplies. You looked around yourself, at all the buildings blocking your view. If there was one thing you had learned about Ryland over the last year, it was that he needed space when he was overwhelmed. He needed to be able to see without a hundred things getting in the way.

You spotted a ladder running up one of the maintenance buildings. “Oh, Ryland,” you whispered, and started climbing.

Once you reached the peak, you saw him. He was sitting in the middle of the roof, legs pulled toward his chest, and face buried in his hands. He didn’t notice you approach.

“Ryland,” you said hesitantly. He jolted upwards, his gaze finding yours. His eyes were bloodshot, tear tracks running down his cheeks. He sniffled, running a hand through his hair.

“Hey,” he said, his voice cracked before he could finish. He cleared his throat. “So, how’s it going with you today? We didn’t have much time to catch up.” He tried to joke, but you couldn’t even pretend to laugh for his sake. Your own eyes were burning, seeing him like that.

You haven’t felt this powerless in… maybe ever.

“Ryland,” you said again, and it’s enough to break your resolve. A hot tear ran down your cheek. Ryland pulled you down so that you sat next to him and then put his arm around you.

“Don’t cry. You’ll make me cry.”

“You’re already crying,” you pointed out.

“Well, you’re not helping.” He grinned halfheartedly, but you couldn’t return it. His face fell, and he teared up again. “What do I do?”

Something in your chest seized at that. “You can’t ask me that,” you mumbled.   

“Please,” he said your name so softly, you felt nauseous. “Please tell me what you think. Tell me what I should do.”

“No, no, Ryland, that’s not fair.”

“Nothing about this is fair,” he snapped, and then immediately looked apologetic. “I just—I don’t know what to do. Just tell me what you think.”  

That was the last thing you wanted to do. He wouldn’t like what you would say, because you already knew what he wanted to do. And you also knew what you wanted him to do, but it was so wrong and selfish that you couldn’t bring yourself to say it.

You knew Ryland. If you told him to stay, he would. He was banking on you doing that. He didn’t want to make that decision, but he also didn’t want to go. If you told him to stay, it would be the perfect excuse he needed.

Everything in you screamed at you to do that. Tell him to stay, keep him safe so that when you saved the world, he could live a long, happy life. 

But you couldn’t do it.

When you didn’t say anything, his face crumpled. “You think Stratt is right.” He looked away, staring toward the setting sun. “Of course you agree with her.”

“No, Ryland, don’t do this now. Not now,” you argued, your gaze still locked on his face. There could be a unicorn flying by and you’d continue staring at him. You only had three days left.

“It’s true, though, isn’t it?” he asked, and you could hear the disappointment in his voice.

You sighed, scrunching up your brows. “You know she’s right, too. It makes the most sense. I’ve seen the numbers, she’s right, it’s worse if we can’t launch on Friday. It’s logical—”

“Logical,” Ryland scoffed, and then got up.

“Hey, where are you going?” you asked, standing up as well. He was on his way to the ladder.

“I don’t know, but I need to be alone.”

“No, stop!” you grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop. “Don’t run away now just because I’m not telling you what you want to hear.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” You sighed, still holding onto his yellow rain jacket, too afraid that if you let go for even a second, he’d leave and you’d never see him again. “You are, please, please, stay.”

He suddenly stepped closer, grasping your shoulders, his eyes finding yours and don’t let go. “She’s asking me to die. You—you all are asking me to do that.” His voice was unstable, and tears were still streaming down his face. “And I know that you guys are doing that too, but I’m just not you. I’m not made for this, I’m not brave, I’m not a hero. I can’t even ask you what you would do if you were in my position because I already know what you would do, because you’re incredible and so good and courageous. But that’s just not me.”

You stared at him, speechless.

He stepped even closer until his coat brushed against your sweater. His hand found its way to your jaw, where he gently tilted your face up. Your heart was racing, and he was staring at you so intently that it sent shivers down your spine.

“If you can’t tell me what I should do, then give me a reason to come with you,” he said lowly.

“No,” you recoiled back. “Ryland, that’s not—you can’t just… we can’t…”

“I know, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.” He reached for you again, and you moved closer again, letting him pull you into a hug. His shoulders were shaking as sobs racked through him, and you could feel your own tears soak his sweater.

You breathed in deeply, knowing that it was probably one of the last times you’d be able to be so close to him.

“I can’t go,” he said after some time. His voice was quiet and resigned. His arms tightened around you, as if he were trying to pull you into the safety of his ribcage. “I can’t do it.”

You gasped upon hearing him say that. It was like a boulder dropped from your heart, leaving you woozy with relief. You pulled away from him, and he looked like he was getting ready to apologize again.

Before he could open his mouth, you surged forward, pressing your lips to his.  

He stumbled back a little at the sudden shift in weight, but he quickly stabilized himself. His one hand landed on your face again, and his other on your waist, pulling you even closer.

The kiss wasn’t soft or sweet. It was frantic, lips pressing against each other hard enough to bruise. Your time was running out, but you didn’t care. You twisted your fingers into his soft hair. He was kissing you as if trying to swallow you whole, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth. You did the same, trying to burn everything about this moment into your brain.

Ryland would stay here on Earth, and you’d fly up into space. In three days, you would say goodbye forever, but right now, you could do this, knowing that it was your only chance, your last chance to give yourself over to the other person—to thank each other.

There were tears still streaming down your face, and you could feel that his cheeks were wet too. But you both ignore it, only grasping onto one another more frantically.

This was it. 

A/N: soooo how is everyone feeling... lol btw that doesn't mean anything. one of them is repressed as hell and the other one doesn't even remember hehehe also I have some beef with phm because tell me why it says that Blip-A is 800 meters away from the Hail Mary... EXCUSE ME?? no it isn't! That has been bothering me since I first saw the film. 800 meters is ridiculous right? grace's part of the tunnel is at most like 50 meters, and while it is fair to say that rocky probably built the wall closer to grace's ship 750 more meters is absurd. I did some makeshift experimenting to try to guess a better distance considering Blip-A is ca. 140 meters but I am not a scientist and I only used a measuring tape and my desk lmao anyway omg I can't wait to write rocky, my favorite freaky nudist alien we <3 you

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The first time, you could probably play it off as a heat of a moment sort of thing.

Adrenaline gets you going. You can't help it, so why fight it? Your ears were still ringing from the gunshots earlier. You'd gotten into a skirmish with some guys that were looking for the same perp as you, March, and Healy, getting out by the skin of your teeth.

Healy had been furious with March for almost getting everyone killed, and insisted on calling it quits. The passenger door of March's car slammed shut behind Healy as he stormed back to his apartment, and then March had met your gaze in the rearview mirror, an odd look in his eyes.

"I need a drink," he'd said, and it sounded more like an invitation than a statement.

"Okay," you'd said. You got out of the car and slid into where Healy had been sitting moments before, and March drove the both of you home, the Los Angeles night coasting by.

And that had been that.

You try not to make a habit out of it. Both running with the "Nice Guys" and sleeping with Holland March. You like to work alone, and March is too much of a mess for you. He drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney, with no intention of slowing down, and it affects his work. Sometimes you worry he'll get himself killed, but he always comes out mostly unscathed. Besides, it's not any of your business.

Sometimes your paths will cross, hunting the same person or chasing the same lead. This city is big, but it's not that big. And, without fail, you and Holland March fall into bed together every time you run into each other. You're pretty sure Healy knows, but he never mentions it in front of you, which you're thankful for. It's already embarrassing enough.

You don't have a similar excuse for the second, third, or fourth time. And so on. You have to be somewhere close to twenty now, after the last two years, and pushing forward steadily.

"Hey, you."

You glance up from where you'd been digging around in your purse for your keys. March is in front of you, leaning against your car. His suit is a dark green, a white tie—or is it beige? You can't tell in this lighting—sits snug against his throat. One hand is shoved in his pocket, the other ashes a cigarette onto the asphalt. He looks so obnoxiously smug that you consider slapping it off of him.

"Why are you here?" You look around the empty parking lot with no small amount of suspicion.

You'd been working a case tonight, talking up some patrons of a bar your client's missing brother went to sometimes, but came up frustratingly empty handed. You haven't seen March or Healy in a couple months, not since June, at least, and you have no idea what his business could possibly be, tracking you down like this.

Well… you have some ideas.

"I'm a detective, baby," he says, making a vague gesture with the hand holding his cigarette. "It's my job."

"You're washed up," you say, but you're smiling. "And don't call me that."

"I know you like it," he says, and now he's smiling, too. "Seriously, what are you doing tonight?"

"Nothing involving you. Move."

He pushes himself off of where he was resting against the driver side door with a dramatic flourish. You unlock your front door and he opens it for you, allowing you to get in but stopping you from closing the door, a hand wrapped around the frame.

"Woah, woah, woah," he says. He places the cigarette back in his mouth, smoke curling around his face, and you pause where you were about to jam your keys in the ignition. "Where are you goin'?"

"I'm going home, March," you say, unimpressed.

"Without me?"

You wrinkle your nose. "Why would you come with me?"

You know why. You know exactly why. And March knows you know, too, because his grin widens, and he raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"Can't a guy just wanna see a girl he misses?"

"Not if it's you," you say, "and not if it's me."

"That's too bad, baby, 'cause it is me, and it is you."

You roll your eyes. "I hate you."

"Can I get in?"

"Fine."

March lets out a triumphant whoop and skirts around the hood of your car. You lean over to unlock the passenger door from the inside to let him in, and before you know it he's buckling himself in beside you and you're driving back to your apartment.

He's the same as he always is, moronic and charming and irritatingly handsome. He messes with your stereo and turns the music up, rolls down your window to flick his cigarette out and thumps his hand against the door in time with the beat of whatever's playing. You think if you got into a fatal car crash you wouldn't be too upset about it, but a part of you knows you can't say no to him even if you try your hardest.

This is the first time either of you have seen each other outside of work bringing you together. You wonder what made him want to seek you out—if he'd been thinking about it, or if it was a spontaneous itch he wanted to scratch. You also wonder how he found you, and how he got to you without his car. Stupid bastard.

The ride to your place is short, less than ten minutes, and the moment you've closed your front door behind you, March is on you.

His hands are everywhere, at your waist, your back, sliding down to squeeze your ass, the other tangling in your hair, pulling you in to press your mouths together. You want to tease him for being so desperate, but you're just as bad.

You kick your heels off without breaking away, grabbing him by the tie to keep him close. His mouth is warm and wet, tongue sliding against yours with familiar ease. He tastes like cigarette smoke and cheap beer and mint, and you wonder for a moment if he brushed his teeth before coming to see you.

You both stumble backward in the vague direction of your room. March fumbles with the zipper on the back of your dress, managing to tug it down so it loosens around your chest, the straps slipping down your shoulders. You get him to slide his suit jacket off, and it falls to the floor, forgotten.

"Been wantin' this so bad, baby," he murmurs against your lips. "Missed you so much."

"Missed you, too," you breathe against him, and the noise he makes at your words is worth the admission, even if you know he'll never let it go.

Despite having semi-regular sex and your obvious interest in him, March is always chasing your praise. Any compliment, encouragement, any notion of flattery, whether it be sexual or work-related, has him eating out of the palm of your hand. It's a bit pathetic, but you like it that way.

March wants to be good for you, and who are you to deny him?

He pushes your door open and walks you backward until your legs hit the bed. You sit, pulling him down into another kiss, teeth clacking painfully with the force of it. You thread your fingers in his hair and your other hand smooths over his shoulder, nails digging into the muscle of his back through his dress shirt. When you pull away, he gives a small sound of protest, his mouth chasing yours.

"March," you say, and you're nauseated at how wrecked you sound, scratchy and needy.

"'M sorry," he mumbles, and you know he has no clue what he's apologizing for. He mouths at your neck, moving down to nip at your collarbones, leaving bruises for you to deal with tomorrow.

You don't respond, instead opting to flatten your hand over his shoulder, pushing him down gently.

You regret any time you thought, or told him to his face, that March is an idiot. Right now, he's a very, very smart man. He kneels on the floor, positioned between your legs, and looks up at you with big, glassy eyes. His irises are slivers, pupils blown wide with want, and a thrill crawls down your spine, landing right in your core.

"This what you wanted, hm?" he asks, his words slightly muffled by your skin as he peppers kisses along the inside of your knee.

"Yes," you say, swallowing hard.

He doesn't waste any time shoving the material of your dress up above your waist, exposing your underwear and the damp patch over your center that tells him exactly how much you want him. His mouth trails from your inner thighs to hovering over where you need him most, and he waits.

"March," you complain. You dig the heel of your foot into his back to urge him forward, but he doesn't budge.

"Holland," he says. His breath is warm against you and you're aching, aching so badly for something, anything. His mouth or his hands or his cock—you don't care. And he's not giving it to you.

"What?" you ask, and it comes out as more of an impatient growl than an actual question.

"C'mon, sweetheart." An unhurried kiss is pressed to the space just above your clit. For a man that could hardly wait to touch you earlier, he sure seems to be perfectly happy taking his sweet time when it comes to devouring your cunt. "You know what I want."

"Are you fucking with me?" March hasn't once given you any indication that he cares what you call him. Before, if you'd told him you wanted a dog, he would have gotten on his knees and barked. Now, you're not so sure.

"I wish I was," he says wistfully. He yanks your panties to one side before you can respond, a thumb swiping through your embarrassingly wet folds. You shudder and let out a small, shaky exhale, your hips jolting.

"Okay," you say, your voice pitched a bit higher than normal. You gasp as he repeats the motion, this time letting his thumb settle over your clit. Maybe you should be disappointed in yourself for folding so easily, but your desire is a pulsing thing, and you'd do anything to soothe it. "Okay, fuck. Holland, please."

He smiles, victorious, and pulls back slightly in order to tug your panties completely off. "Since you asked so nicely."

He rewards you immediately, lapping at you with poorly contained groans and hums. You fist his hair, thighs tightening around his head. Your head lolls back, a low, throaty moan ripped from you as you feel two of his thick fingers slip inside you with little resistance.

He alternates between licking and suckling your clit as he pumps his fingers, obscene squelching sounds filling your bedroom, his eyelids drooping in self-satisfied pleasure. You think if he went at it long enough he could come just like this, untouched. His free hand digs into the soft skin of your hip, keeping you close even as you writhe underneath him. The scrape of his facial hair against your inner thighs is a pleasant sting, grounding you in the moment.

"Holland," you pant, unable to stop yourself from grinding against his face. "Fuck, yes, that's so—feels so good."

He moans into your cunt, the vibrations sending heat rippling through you, your chest, down to your toes that curl involuntarily. He works you toward the edge with a patience that could be considered cruel. You come with a choked sob, the world dissolving into a white-hot wave of bliss. March lifts his mouth from your clit, the bottom half of his face glistening with your arousal, but he doesn't stop pressing his fingers into you, curling with every plunge until you really are about to cry, dazed and overstimulated.

Your hand shoots down to clamp around his wrist, pausing his motions, and he finally relents. He pulls away, leaving you to clench helplessly around nothing, and holds his sleek digits in front of your mouth. Your lips part and he pushes them inside. You suck eagerly, head spinning, and keep your eyes fixed on his as a loud breath escapes him.

"So pretty, sweetheart," he says, a note of condescension coloring his tone. "Do you like that? You like how you taste?"

Your approving whimper is muffled around his fingers. He takes pity on you, drawing them out, smearing your own saliva over your lips and chin. He sits back on his knees, fumbling to get his tie off and unbutton his shirt. He throws them both on the floor and stands. You find his belt and start unbuckling it for him, hands trembling with impatience. He tugs roughly on your dress so your breasts spill out, then helps you out of it completely, sliding the fabric down your legs.

He kicks his pants off, nearly tripping in his haste to get his boxers to follow, which has you smiling despite the tense, electric atmosphere. As soon as he's steady on his feet, you wrap a hand around the base of his cock. He's so hard that it must hurt, and he's heavy, hot in your hand, precum smeared on the head. You give a few slow, velvety pulls, giving a pleased hum when March's knees nearly buckle under your touch.

"No, baby," he says, and it's his turn, now, his big hand coming to cover yours, making you pause. "Not tonight. C'mon, I wanna fuck you. Let me fuck you, please…"

How romantic. Your brow pinches, and he laughs softly, a bit sheepish, as if reading your mind. He slides from your fingers to encircle your wrist, pulling it away from his erection. He crowds in on you, his free hand pressing against the small of your back, guiding you to lie down on the bed and slotting between your legs once more.

You watch with wide eyes as he grabs your other hand, pinning both your wrists above your head. He rests a bit of weight on them, pressing into the mattress. If you tried to escape, he would be strong enough to force you to stay put. The thought sends goosebumps prickling over your skin, the hair on your arms rising and the back of your neck tingling in anticipation. March would never do something like that, you know in your heart, but the idea that he's even capable of it sends a new flush of arousal cutting through your post-orgasm haze.

Keeping hold of your wrists, his free hand snakes between your bodies. He fists his cock, stroking a few times before dragging the head over your entrance, collecting the slickness gathered there. His head drops, chin tucked to his chest, as if unable to look away from the lewd sight.

"You're so wet," he says reverently, more to himself than anything. "All for me, huh, honey?"

You nod, trying to lift your hips up, hoping his cock would catch and he'd slip inside, or at the very least grind against your clit, but he shakes his head.

"Let me hear you say it," he says.

"March," you grumble, face reddening.

You glance away, prepared to argue, when he releases his hold on himself, delivering a light slap to your pussy. You yelp, jerking in surprise at the sensation. Your eyes snap back to his face and you have a brief moment of clarity in which you wonder what the actual fuck this guy's problem is. The last two years have been full of secretive hook ups, quickies, entirely vanilla sex (though still thoroughly enjoyable), so something must have put him in an exceptionally punishing mood to be acting like this.

Not that you're complaining, if you're honest.

"Holland," he corrects.

"I'm sorry," you plead. "Holland, I'm sorry. Just, please…"

Another slap. Your words break off into a feeble moan. You arch your back, wrists straining against the death grip he keeps you in.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp out, feeling as though the air has been punched from your lungs. Your brain is starting to feel fuzzy, overwhelmed with both verbal and physical stimulation, you can hear it in your voice, the way your words slur together. "It's for you. It's only you, Holland."

Content that you've learned your lesson, Holland lets go of your hands. They fly to touch him as though with a mind of their own, one squeezing his forearm and the other sliding over the muscle of his abdomen, nails ghosting over his skin. He leans down, nipping at the shell of your ear.

"What a smart girl," he coos. He pinches one of your nipples, rolling it between forefinger and thumb until you're crying out, then switches to give the other a similar treatment. "So smart, and beautiful, but you're such a slut, too. Isn't that right?"

You nod. It's like you're floating, somewhere halfway between heaven and earth, in a way that only Holland can make you feel. He knows it—can see the euphoria written on your face—because as you look up at him, eyelashes fluttering, he's wearing a proud smile.

"I know, sweetheart," he says, mockingly sympathetic. "I know. Don't worry, I'll give you what you need."

He enters you in one smooth thrust, your breath faltering at the sudden intrusion, the sudden fullness. He curses, hissing through his teeth, and when you glance up, you see his eyes screwed shut, reveling in the feeling of you around him. He gives you a moment's reprieve before he slides almost all the way out, driving back into you with a sharp snap of his hips. You claw at his back in an effort to keep him as near as possible. The heat of his chest against yours is comforting, in a way. He feels more real like this, as the head of his cock drags deliciously against your walls, and you think you could stay in this moment forever.

Holland scoops your legs up, hooking your ankles over his shoulders and folding you into a mating press. He braces himself on his hands, caging you under him. He sets a harsh, incessant pace, both of your moans rising in volume at the new, deeper angle.

He whimpers your name into your neck and bites down, firm enough to make you shudder but gentle enough not to break the delicate skin. You clench mindlessly around him, keening a string of words that hardly passes for English. He lifts his head and a droplet of sweat rolls from his hairline down his nose, landing on your mouth. Your tongue glides over your lower lip without thinking, and you're only allowed to relish in the tang of salt for a moment before he's kissing you again.

He stays like that, noses brushing, hips slamming against yours and groaning into your mouth. Every thrust caresses your cervix, pleasure sparking behind your eyelids. You mewl, powerless, unable to do anything but take what he gives you.

You're lucky that Holland is feeling generous tonight.

"Holland," you babble. "Fuck—oh, my god, Holland, yes. Don't stop, please don't stop, I'm so close, I'm so close—"

"Yeah," he rasps, "I know, honey, I've got you. Come for me."

Your orgasm is startling in its intensity, your spine tightening with tension and releasing with pleasure as you convulse. Your walls spasm, squeezing Holland as he moans in response. You're gripping his back so hard you're certain you've drawn blood, but he doesn't seem to mind.

He fucks you through it, unrelenting even as his pace stutters, strokes becoming erratic while he chases his own climax. It feels good, you think, to be used like this. To be used by him. He pulls out at the very last second with a whine, spurts of come coating your stomach and breasts, hot on your skin. When he's ran himself dry, he tilts his head down and leaves absent-minded kisses on your mouth, then your cheeks and your throat. His cock, already beginning to soften, rests on your pubic mound, and he grinds against you once, then twice, as if to savor the feeling.

You don't know how long you linger there, pressed together and breathing heavily. Holland's back is slick with sweat as you run your fingers up and down the ridge of his spine, exhaustion already beginning to lull you from consciousness.

Eventually he pulls himself off of you, leaving you utterly boneless. You can hear the rustle of fabric as he yanks his boxers back on, then the sound of him rummaging around in the closet. He returns to bed quickly, familiar with where you keep your things, a big sleep shirt and a clean towel in hand.

"Hey, baby," he says, settling beside you once more. You don't even have the energy to tell him not to stop calling you that. He cleans you off with tender, reluctant swipes, like he would rather keep you like this, painted in his come as evidence that he had you, at least for a little while.

When he's finished, he tosses the towel away and hands you the shirt. You put it on, running a hand through your hair. It won't fix anything; Holland has affectionately told you before that you get "sex hair" (he claims to be the one that invented this term), but it calms that small, bashful worry in you, so you do it anyway.

It's a wordless exchange, one you're both acquainted with by now—the way he rolls you onto your side, curling up behind you and pulling the sheets over you both. His chest presses against your back, breath tickling your neck, slinging an arm around your waist. He flattens his palm against your stomach as if to bring you closer despite the entire length of your bodies touching, and a warm, fluttering feeling blooms in your chest.

You know, in about ten minutes, Holland will kiss your shoulder and get out of bed. He'll gather his things, say a quick goodbye, and be on his way like someone lit a fire under his ass. You try to stay awake in order to be there when he goes, struggling against the sleep that threatens to overcome you, but you are so, so tired.

It doesn't take long for you to fall asleep in the warmth of his arms, childishly wondering if tonight was so different simply because he's finally planning to stay.

When you open your eyes, the other side of the bed is cold.

Morning light paints your room in stripes, bleeding through the slats of your blinds. You shift, your body sore and protestant, and wipe the bleariness from your vision. Holland must have left without waking you, leaving you to sleep through the night.

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, chiding yourself. Did you really expect him to stay? You're being ridiculous. You and Holland have an arrangement, and it works because neither of you ask for more. You occasionally team up for cases and have casual sex. You're hardly even friends.

But… you do want to ask for more, don't you? And you think you have for a while now. Even then, maybe last night had been a mistake. It's more than likely you had misinterpreted the way he was acting—like you might disappear if he went too long without touching you, like he needed you to breathe, to live—and you're reading too much into things. The only way this will end is with you hurting your own feelings.

You sit up, coming to the unfortunate conclusion that you should probably end things between you and Holland, or at least start going out of your way to avoid him and hope he gets the hint, when something catches your eye on your nightstand.

Propped against the lamp, stark white against the dark wood, is his business card. You pick it up and frown, wondering what the hell you're supposed to do with it. You know Holland's number, have for a while now from working together. Why the hell would he leave it here for you?

You can't chalk it up to the card slipping from his pocket. For one, it was laid out far too neatly to be an accident and secondly, you'd think you'd find something like this on the floor, rather than your nightstand. You run your thumb over the illustration of Holland's face, the big block letters spelling out "THE NICE GUYS AGENCY" and mill it over in your head.

He wants you to call him.

The realization hits you hard, the cold, apprehensive knot that had been building in your stomach melting into an elated heat that pinkens the tips of your ears.

"What a coward," you murmur, turning the card over in your hand. He took the easy way out, using plausible deniability in case you either didn't pick up on his message or rejected it entirely. It's smart, in a stupid way.

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh, and reach for the phone.

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