Love me, and tell me so sometimes.

When you reach the doors crack, you peek in to make sure Peter is okay. And, holy shit. The sight sends bolts of fire throughout your body. Your eyes go wide, and your mouth goes dry as it hangs open.

Peter is sitting on the toilet seat, a polaroid photo in one hand and his dick in the other. He pumps himself slowly, eyes glued on the photo. From this angle you can just make out a figure. One that looks staggeringly similar to you. It's a photo of you. 

You squint your eyes, trying to get a better look at it. From what you can tell, it's one Peter took a few weeks ago. A photo of you in bed just before you fell asleep. You never got to see them until now.

In the photo, he had caught you mid-yawn, arm stretched out, head tilted back; your shirt was riding up your torso. Your bra was off so you could see the outline of your boob and hardened nipples through the thin shirt.

You now understand why he said what he had all those weeks ago. He had smiled sheepishly at you, laughed, and said, “Now you can go to sleep, honey. I'll just keep this one for myself.” You had assumed he said it, implying the state of your hair was not something you wished to see. 

Peter's hand speeds up just in the slightest. His whining gets louder as his finger brushes hit your slit teasingly. It made your legs shaky to hear him so clear and uninterrupted. Usually your own noises drown him out, or his praise and teases throw his whines and moans out the door. 

Peter moans out your name, his head thrown back in pure bliss as his pumps become messier. Pre cum leaks from his swollen tip, and his thumb swipes it up to act as more lubricant. It makes your mouth water.

You can see his eyes travel back down to the photo. He pleads with an imaginary you through his shallow breaths. You suddenly feel very uncomfortable in your panties as they become hot and wet. You want to step inside, sink to your knees without a word, and start sucking him off right there. But the opportunities this predicament leaves you in are far too enticing.

You can tell Peter is getting close by how the pumping of his erection quickens. His breathing gets shorter and faster with each swipe of the wrist. He pants out your name and a mantra of curses. You can see him struggling to keep his head from rolling back so he can keep his eye trained on your photo. Peter's grip on the photo tightens, the material beginning to crumple up.

You take it as an opportunity to push the door open slowly. At the sound of the door squeaking, you tut and step in just slightly. Peter inhales sharply and pauses his motions. His head turns to you at the noise. You smirk at him, arms folded over your chest as you watch shame flood his system. 

“What do we have here?” You ask teasingly. You take a step forward, and Peter gulps.

“I didn’t— uh,” he gulps, “know you’d be home so early.” At this point, he has pulled the hem of the shirt he is wearing down to attempt to cover himself up.

“Mhm,” You hum and chuckle at the sight of him so embarrassed and pathetic.

You both just sit there for a moment staring back at each other. Peter, absolutely guilt-ridden, just wallows in his shame as you watch him. You purse your lips in thought, coming to a rather pleasing idea.

“By all means, continue.” You say, gesturing to his painfully hard dick poorly hidden under his shirt. He looks at you, confused, like he's unsure if you’re testing him.

“Go on.” You poke at him, lifting a brow. “What? Are you shy now that I'm watching?” You cock your head to the side.

You see his jaw clench and his fist squeeze himself in anticipation. He shakes his head, trying to gain back even a shred of confidence.

“Then go on.” You say as you settle against the door frame. He looks to you and then down to the picture, skeptical. 

“I—Can—can I—“ He begins stuttering his way around what he actually wants.

“Go for it.” You nod. Peter then pulls the picture out in front of him again. His cheeks are still hot and flush with embarrassment, but he starts up his movements again anyway. Peter shudders as his index finger brushes along a vein at the bottom of his shaft.

He picks up his pace, not as fast as before, but still a steady one. You pay close attention to his eyes; at first his gaze is fixed on the picture, then the next second it's on you. He's getting off to the fact that he got caught masturbating.

He grunts lowly and pumps his cock faster. You can't help but admire the sight before you, Peter sweaty and panting with an alluring look in his eyes, his glorious hands working himself so well. You hum out a noise dangerously close to a moan.

“You know,” You start with a dark look in your eyes. Peter slows down his pace to listen to you better. “Photos are great. But the real thing is always better.” You bite your lip, chest fluttering with excitement.

Peter stops his movements altogether. “W—What do you mean?” He gapes, a small smile growing on his face that says he knows what you're getting at.

“I mean, I'm right here. And I am better than some stupid photo.” You flirt before turning on your heel and heading back into the bedroom. Peter says nothing, sitting dumbly on the toilet seat.

“Well? Come on,” You usher him over, and Peter quickly stands and stumbles after you, leaving the photo on the edge of the bathroom sink. You begin to slowly peel off your clothes as you head towards the bed.

Now in only your underwear, you climb to sit at the top of the bed near the headboard. Peter climbs on after you, quickly tugging off his shirt to reveal his toned muscles in the dim light. 

“Stop.” You order, and he stops right where he is. Peter just sits there completely bare in front of you, obediently waiting for your next instructions. “I want you to watch me first, and then, when I say, you can finish what you started.”

You can see the neediness pool in his eyes at the idea, but you shush him as you begin to slowly pull down your panties from where they rest on your hips. You tug them down past your knees, and stop just above your ankles. The cool air of the room hits you, and you shudder. Peter watches your every reaction as if to memorize them. His eyes trail from your wet heat to your face and back down again, making sure to take his time trailing his eyes over your breast and stomach. He whimpers and shuffles in his position to try to relieve some tension.

“Pull them off,” And he does. You watch as Peter greedily raises your panties to his nose. You only smirk as his eyes flutter close and his dick twitches against his abdomen. "Hmm," You moan while taking him in. "Good boy.” Peter's eyes flutter open at your words, and he lets out a quiet unintentional whimper. 

God, he loved you. He loved the way you told him what to do and looked so hot while doing it. As much as he wanted to touch you and make you feel good, he could always get behind being your pretty, well-behaved, loser boyfriend. After all, it is his favorite thing to be: yours.

Peter watches desperately as you spread your legs for him and he chokes on his own saliva. You’re dripping with arousal, all because of him. He whines pathetically, his eyes watching hungrily as you reach down to gingerly spread your arousal over your pretty pussy. You watch as he holds his breath, trying his best to just watch as you asked. You chuckle when you see his fingers twitch, needing to reach out.

You trail your fingers from your entrance up to your swollen clit. You message the nerve endings gently, keeping your movements slow and calculated. Then you gently push on your clit, and it pulses against your fingertips, begging for more attention. Your head falls back as a moan escapes your lips and you continue the motions. Peter can only dream of doing it to you himself while his dick pulses painfully as it's left unattended per your instructions.

After a while, you stop your circling and move your fingers down to scissor your entrance before slowly pressing a finger into yourself. You pump your finger in and out tauntingly, keeping your eyes focused on Peter's reactions. You watch his sharp intakes and how he shifts his weight between his legs, trying miserably to keep his own arousal at bay. He looks almost like he's being hypnotized by your leaking cunt, and you can't help but want to torture him even more. Another second finger pushes into you, and Peter has to close his eyes to keep from losing his composure. He's been thinking about you all day, and now here you are bare in front of him, but he can't even touch you. Briskly, you find a new rhythm, working your digits faster and curling them up to hit that soft spot that makes your legs quake. He hears every push and pull through your wetness, and it's maddening.

“Please, please, let me touch myself,” Peter whines, having to bite his lip to hold back the humiliating sounds trying to leave him. His eyes flutter open instantly, locking onto your dripping hole. “Oh baby, you’re so pretty.” He gasps out, bucking his hips up pathetically. You moan at the sight, eyes heavy-lidded and longing for him.

“‘Course baby. You can touch yourself, but stay at my pace, yeah?” You raise your head to look at him, and he nods eagerly. Without thinking twice, he takes hold of his rock-hard cock and gives it a firm squeeze.

Within a couple of seconds, you are both moaning and moving your hands in tandem. Peter moves with such delicacy, every flick of his wrist calculated and measured to not lose the speed you set. His pre cum helps him glide his hands up and down his shaft swiftly, and you can't help but think how much you wish it was your hand. Similarly, his eyes are glued to your fingers, wanting to see every reaction your body has. You nudge your foot against his leg, signaling for him to move closer, and he does. Not losing any momentum, Peter shuffles to kneel closer to you on the bed. 

The sounds of ragged breathing and blissful sounds of pleasure fill your bedroom. Peter can’t help but reach down with his free hand to grope at his balls, the sight of you making him a humiliating mess. He doesn't care if he looks pathetic because all he can think about is how good you look and how bad he wants to be balls deep inside of you. This angle of him makes you hungry for more, and you attempt to flatten out your hand trying to stimulate your clit with the top of your palm. You can’t quite get it and moan out in frustration.

“Can I help?” Peter asks, desire rushing through his veins. He leans in closer, your legs pressing dangerously close to him. You nod enthusiastically, eyes locking onto his pretty, lustful expression. Without being able to stop yourself, you press a kiss to his cheek, all while his hand moves down between your legs, finding your clit with practiced ease.

Peter circles your clit so perfectly. Your free hand reaches out to grab hold of his arm—of any part of him that you can cramp onto. Already, you can feel the body-wrenching orgasm growing in your core. You thrust your fingers faster and in turn Peter picks up his pace too, both around his shaft and on your bud of nerves.

“Peter, oh my go—“ A moan rips from your throat and Peter grunts in response.

“What is it, baby?” He asks, licking his lips. His breathing gets deeper, and he lets out a deep, low moan.

“Ah—Fuck, I'm so close,” Your stomach twists as your hips buck up, desperate for release, “Cum with me,” You order. Peter nods and shudders violently at your words, his dick throbbing in his hand.

Peter keeps moving his fingers against your bud in tightly drawn circles, trying to pull the orgasm out of you, needing the feeling of you coming against his fingers. Peter thrusts into his hand, trying to hold out for you, not wanting to come before you do. 

When your movements become uncoordinated, and your moans become jumbled, he lets go with you. Peter's brows furrow deeply, twisting into pure bliss and ecstasy. Your body shakes uncontrollably, a wave of pleasure crashing into you as the coil in your core snaps. Both your bodies quake as your orgasms wash over you.

You shudder when finally Peter pulls his fingers from your clit and your breath hitches as you slowly pull your fingers from your still pulsing hole. Peter whimpers as his hand releases its grip on his shaft.

“Fuck—hmm—shit,” you stumble out. “Peter," You sigh, slowly coming down from your high.

As your eyes readjust to the room's dim lighting, you can see the sticky shine of Peter's cum across his abdomen and hand. He's still on his knees, but his body is sagging and swaying slightly with pleasure. It makes your chest seize up, and you smile. You lean in and clumsily press a kiss to his cheek.

“Hmmph—“ Peter moans as he leans in to your kiss. “Please—let me—let me fuck you now?” 

The laugh rumbles through you warmly. “Alright,” you smirk lazily now, “How about you show me what you were thinking about while fucking your hand and staring at my photo?” You say as you spread your legs slowly, tempting him to come closer. You slide down to lay your head against the pillows.

Desire flashes behind Peter's eyes, and he crawls over to you, uncaring about the mess that he's undoubtedly leaving on the sheets. He drops to his hands and knees above you. Peter leans down to your neck and breathes you in, taking his time letting your scent linger, groaning. He then moves his hips to hover above yours. Peter connects his lips to the hot skin of your neck, sucking your dewy skin between his teeth. 

“Fuck,” You hiccup as you feel Peter reach down to line himself up with you. He doesn’t stop nibbling on your neck, even as his tip gently pushes between your legs. The stretch makes you moan and reach up to grasp Peter's shoulders for support. 

"This okay?" Peter asks, moving to kiss the other side of your neck. You nod and hum in response, nails running along his broad shoulders and back. 

“Yeah, that’s it. Keep going, baby,” You pant out. Peter pushes deeper, sinking his length in further. His lips kiss hickey after hickey into your skin. You want to see his face and feel his lips against yours.

“Stop sucking on my neck and kiss me,” You pout while pulling Peter's face up to your awaiting lips. Peter hums and smiles into the kiss. His lips part, allowing you to slip your tongue across his bottom lip before pushing it into his mouth to intertwine with his.

After what feels like forever, Peter pushes to the hilt, his hips brushing against yours beautifully. Peter groans into your mouth, and you whimper as the vibration sends jolts of pleasure through you. 

Peter pulls away from your mouth, breathing heavily. "God, you’re tight.” Peter leans his head against yours, eyes locking with yours as he adjusts to you. It's so vulnerable and intimate you wish you could stay this close to him forever. Your nails trail up to run through his hair, and Peter leans into the sensation. 

“Can—can I move?” Peter moans softly, gazing deeply into your eyes. You let out a shaky breath before nodding. 

“Please,” you just about beg, now tugging on the strands of his hair. Peter says nothing else as he pulls out and roughly thrusts in again. It takes him a couple thrusts of his hips to develop a steady rhythm, but once he gets there it's euphoric.

Peter grunts softly into your ear, his skin slapping yours as your head falls back against the pillows. His hips bump yours with every push of his pelvis, leaving you grasping tightly onto his shoulders. Your arousal begins to seep down your thigh, but you remain blissfully unaware even as Peter glances down, sees it coating his own thigh, and lets out a guttural moan.

Peter speeds up, your previous orgasm helping to slick Peter's erection and make the slide of each thrust easy. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the dimly lit room, and you moan his name, unable to control the moans pouring out of you. Each stretch seems more intense than the last, and you can't help but pant as he ruts into you like an animal.

“I’ve missed you,” Peter admits, and his voice cracks, his neediness more evident than ever. "So—Ahh—hmm—so much." He pushes his head into your neck again, leaving gentle kisses over the skin he made swell. You whimper into his shoulder, unable to form the words you need. Peter understands immediately and just continues his praises into the crook of your neck.

“Nothing compares to you—Shit! Mmm—Not my hand or even a picture of you.” Peter groans, letting his hips rut into you faster, chasing the high desperately calling his name. Your walls pulse around him, pulling him closer to that ledge.

You pull your head up and his along with yours, so you can rest your forehead against his. His eyes are so full of love, even as he pounds him to your weeping slit. As one hand braces him against the bed, the other reaches up to caress your cheek.

"Fuc—hmm," Peter moans, his face twisting into that familiar pent-up expression. "Need to come," He whimpers out. His moans begin to catch up to his thrusts, indicating just how close he is.

Feverishly but still somehow gently, your lips mold against Peter's. They tingle against your own. Peter moves the hand on your face down where your bodies are connected. Without needing to be asked, he begins drawing shapes into your bundle of nerves, helping you chase your orgasm.

“Ahh!” you moan as you buck up into his hips. Peter's movements aren’t calculated anymore; they are animalistic and frantic as he pounds into you.

It takes all but two minutes for your orgasm to shoot through you. Your legs shake helplessly around his frame while you pulsate around his twitching hard-on.

"So perfect—god—Mmm, love you so much," Peter is a whimpering mess as your muscles pump him, essentially begging him to come. "You're so pretty when you come, baby." 

He's right on the edge before he pulls out of your warmth. He uses his hand to pump himself the rest of the way to his orgasm. And you watch blurry-eyed as hot white cum shoots out of him and onto his hand and your awaiting stomach. The sight itself sends another warm bolt of pleasure through you.

Once his cock is emptied out, Peter collapses next to you on the bed, breathing heavily. You both lay there in relative silence, catching your breath in the hot musk of sex before Peter lets out a laugh in his post-orgasm afterglow. You chuckle softly too, turning to catch his eyes.

“Now we burn that photo.” You say, and Peter huffs in agreement. He shifts to rest his head against his arm leaning above you.

“No, never.” He disagrees, eyes instinctually moving towards the bathroom door as if to make sure his Polaroid is safe. “You're beautiful in that photo, and now it's a memory of this, so defiantly not.” You roll your eyes but smile anyway.

"You're a piece of work that's for sure." 

"Says the one who got off to catching me masturbating," Peter argues, his eyes tracing the lines of your face.

"Says the one who was masturbating to a photo of me in the first place and who got off to getting caught. Which is arguably worse." You rebut, and Peter just grins stupidly at you before leaning in and pressing a deep, passionate kiss to your lips.

The quiet of the night sinks into your skin like a warm blanket. You sit on the big, soft, red couch in the library—one that you and Jason had begged Bruce to install, and he did after a drawn-up petition stating why the old stiff leather one wasn't cutting it anymore—with a book sitting open in your lap. Your back is leaning against one of the armrests as your legs recline on the couch cushion. You did try to read the book, but you’re being distracted.

Specifically, the large, warm, calloused hand of your husband that was brushing over your shin was distracting you. A case file rests in his other hand. It seems as though he doesn't even notice what he's doing because when you call his name, he just lets out a grunt.

"Honey." You rest your arm against the top of the couch and lean your head along your arm. He only hums this time, continuing his motions.

You watch him quietly. His dark lashes tilted downwards, the strong bridge of his nose, his sharp jawline, the single strand of hair sitting out of place on his forehead, and the most enamoring part is the subtle rise and fall of his chest. The sight sent a wave of peace through you. Your Bruce is alive and well and sitting next to you. No villains, no crime solving, no danger.

"What are you looking at?" His voice comes out gravely and tired but with a twinge of a tease. You can see the small smirk tugging at the corner of his deep, full lips. The expression pushes the skin at the corners of his mouth in, effectively showcasing his unfairly beautiful dimples.

"Darling?" He calls your name, now turning to face you. His hand stops but doesn't lift from your leg.

"Just admiring you." You admit shamelessly.

"Hmm." He hums and sets down the case file. "Well, I'm flattered."

"You should be." Your smile matches his teasing one. Moving your book to the side, you sit up slightly from your reclined position. Bruce leans forward too, lifting your legs, which are draped over his lap so he can move closer.

"I am. Flattered and unbelievably lucky." Bruce says, his signature charm creeping its way into his voice. But unlike the charm he puts on for charity galas or fundraisers, this charm is genuine, slightly timid, and unbelievably hot. It's the same trick he used to get you to go on a date with him.

"Oh?" You amp up your own charm and lean into the tease. Keeping your hands to yourself, you shuffle closer to him effortlessly. "And why's that?"

"My gorgeous wife is looking at me like she did when I was 20." You double over with a quiet laughter that shakes your body. You can't help it. And it makes Bruce smile, a big one, a rare one.

"You still look 20 most days." You shrug after your laughter dies down. When you look up to meet his eyes, he's closer than before.

"Most days?" He challenges, resting his head against his fist.

"It was a long time ago, Honey." You chuckle out. "And we have too many kids to look even remotely young." To that, Bruce shrugs in resignation, his smile easy.

"But still." His voice comes out softly as he leans in even closer. His hand reaches up and ghosts his fingers over your cheek. "Feel young when I have you pressed against me like this." He whispers, eyes falling to your lips.

"Oh, do you?" Your eyebrow raises suggestively. Without thinking, your tongue swipes out to wet your lips. Bruce lets out a hum so deep you swear you can feel the rumble of it.

"Just like our wedding night." Bruce breathes out, his eyes fluttering shut. You let out a noise before he even makes contact with you, your hand lifting to grip the back of his neck. Bruce's lips brush against yours deliciously.

"Oh, get a room!" Tim calls out from the door, followed by a gagging sound. "You two are disgusting." He shakes his head of dark hair. Tim turns on his heel and bolts in the other direction, effectively leaving Damian standing in the doorway alone with a scowl on his face. A scowl you'd make if you just walked past a dumpster with rotten fish.

"Mother, must you really? On the red couch?" Damian sounds both disgusted and disappointed. All you can do is laugh as he slams the door behind him. Bruce lets his head fall to your shoulder with a laugh of his own.

What makes Sherlock's love so unique is that anybody, everybody could tell him he had fallen in deep, and he would simply call the notion absurd and press on as if nothing had been mentioned. And love, for Sherlock, isn't something that can be forced.His love for his mother and brother was something that came as simple as breathing, even if the love itself was anything but. Yet if he tries to love someone, it never works. In the past, he's tried to form that connection, but he always gets lost in the 'what am I supposed to be feeling?' So every interaction came with mind-boggling exhaustion and confusion. By the end of each of those occurrences, he was ready to give up on the prospect of love altogether.

"Where is James?" Your voice rings like church bells in Sherlock's ears. He turns with an expectant smile on his face. His straight posture somehow gets even sharper as his body comes to face you fully.

"In his dormitory, I assume, or some place similar," Sherlock says easily as though it should be obvious to everyone.

"Why? Was he not meeting us here too?" You glance around, almost trying to will him into existence. There is no sign of him, but still the flicker of hope to just peek a glance at his obnoxious grin is shrinking into a breath of smoke.

"Yes, he was. But his obligations to his academic endeavors took priority today." Sherlock answers, brushing the fabric draped over his shoulder straight. "He has an exam in two days that he's studying for."

"Oh, I see." There is no way to hide the disappointment that befalls your expression. Sherlock picks up on it too, and it sends a flaring pulse of annoyance to his temples. He is quick to change the subject away from James, back towards himself and the day he has planned.

"Well, on another note," Sherlock steers your attention toward the carriage awaiting you both at the end of the cobblestone street. "We have much to do, and no time to spare dwelling on James' whereabouts."

"I suppose you're right." You deflate slightly, letting Sherlock lead you away from Oxford's tall, impressively intimidating buildings.

"I'm most always right," Sherlock states, taking the lead toward the brougham. It is nicer than those he usually frequents. But then Sherlock only travels by horse and carriage when with family. 

"Sure you are." You mutter, folding your arms over your chest and trudging after him. The roll of your eyes is not lost on Sherlock, but he pays it no mind as he continues to the end of the street.

Sherlock makes it to the brougham before you do, and he's quick to climb the step to open the door for you. You wonder if his oddly posh manners come from a true place of respect or possibly his upbringing. Though there's no way to tell if both factors have led you to this moment, Sherlock standing above you, hand out to offer help you up, and a warm look passing over his face as you take his hand and he pulls you inside.

You flatten your overskirt while Sherlock climbs in after you. He takes the seat next to you with a soft grunt before leaning out the window and calling to the driver the destination.

"Where are we going? What did you say?" You lean over him as if, when you get closer to the window, someone might say it again so you can hear. Sherlock leans back with a humorous huff as you lean before him.

"Into town. A new book shop has opened, and I think we'd both find it rather interesting to browse."

"Perchance is this bookstore we are headed for the same bookstore that is rumored to be running an underground brothel?"

“What? No.” Sherlock doesn't need to scoff for you to understand that he wants you to think he believes the notion to be ridiculous. 

“And what business does Sherlock Holmes have in a brothel?” You push on anyway, slyly smiling at him from your spot next to him.

“None." He rolls back his shoulders and readjusts his cap. "Aside from a rather inciting missing persons case.” 

"Ahh, I see." You laugh and roll your eyes.

The store smells of old paper and deep oak with fleeting hints of lavender from the open door at the back of the shop. The bell atop the door rings as Sherlock pushes it open for you. Immediately, your eyes are pulled toward the rolling ladder against the far left wall and the beautifully bound books behind it.

Sherlock nods at you to take a closer look as he goes to speak with the man behind the counter on the right wall. The man can't be bothered to look up as Sherlock approaches, much more interested in something resting in his lap. The man can't be older than forty and no younger than thirty. The first thing that catches Sherlock's attention is the wrinkles in the haggard waistcoat and his mustache, far too showy, it's become ineffectual and lost the power that one like Sherlock's brother Mycroft holds.

"Good morning, Sir." Sherlock greets, one of his hands coming up to rest along the wooden countertop. The man still doesn't look up, and now Sherlock can see why. In his lap sits a book marked up like a married woman the morning after her husband leaves town for the weekend. Sherlock clears his throat. But still no response.

Meanwhile, your fingers trace the spines of the books. Some are clearly old, others vibrantly unheard of. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Madame Bovary, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Don Quixote, The Odyssey, Inferno, and an outrageous amount of other selections pull your eyes every which way. But your attention catches as your gaze brushes past a deep green leather binding, horizontal notches along the spine, and gold print reading Hamlet. 

Before you can stop yourself, you let out an audible noise of thrill. Sherlock turns abruptly, and with his gaze, the man behind the counters follows. Sherlock feels the shift behind him, and his head whips around. Irritation growing between his eyes, Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but the man beats him to it.

"Hello, Madame. Do you need any assistance?" His voice is deep and smooth like caramel and chocolate perfectly melted together. His accent was an odd blend of French and English, one that flows past your ear gracefully and sends odd, unwelcome sensations through you.

“Oh, sorry.” Your voice comes out meek, and you unintentionally bump the shelf behind you with surprise at your tone. "I um—" You clear your throat and straighten yourself out in the blink of an eye. "I'm fine, thank you." 

The book on his lap is snapped closed as though two seconds ago it wasn't completely captivating him. Sherlock feels a rush of distaste rise up his throat as the man steps out from behind the counter. 

"Well then, sir, if you please. I have some questions about—" The man discards Sherlock without even the faintest glance of his eye or attention and approaches you with a practiced air of faux benevolence. The sudden unease Sherlock was no doubt expressing physically, if the troubled glance you shoot his way is any indication, begins to also affect his vocal cords. They seem to be temporarily frozen in sheer bewilderment.

"Are you sure you're alright?" He smiles, and it seems to grace his face as easily as James' smirks do his. But there is something about this man that flares your nervous system. "The book did not bite you, did it?"

"I—no—" You look down at the book before moving to quickly put it back on the shelf where you found it.

"I promise they are not snappy with our usual customers." The man moves to stand just in front of you. Not close enough that the proximity, if you were to call it out, would cause a social scandal, but not far enough that the musk of him isn't invading your senses. Sherlock takes a step forward, even if his voice is failing him, his body knows what it can do; James didn't teach him to fight for nothing.

"But then again, you are not the usual customer. We are rarely graced with ladies quite so magnifique as you, madame." The heat that floods your face startles you. You've never had someone you are so unacquainted with speak to you so plainly. 

Before you can think to respond, he steps closer. If you were in your right mind, you would have said something, but the debonair he possesses catches you far too off guard. His hand reaches out to yours, and you can feel the heat of it burning through the fabric of your skirts and brushing against your groin with too much pressure for it to be a mistake. You inhale sharply as it happens, but the moment is over before you can move to speak.

Sherlock catches it and instantly reaches out for the man's wrist. The air stills in the shop as Sherlock's takes a step between you two. Sherlock’s hand makes contact with the man's clothed wrist. In an instant, the man drops his hold on you, and you take a step back.

"Please refrain from touching her again, Sir." Sherlock's tone leaves no room for agreement. The man's eyes flash with both annoyance and unease before he snatches his hand back towards his body.

There is an uncomfortable beat as Sherlock stands defensively in front of you. The meaning behind the croaking sound of you clearing your throat does not go over Sherlock's head. In fact, the sound tied with your anxious posture makes his eyes twitch with anger.

In an instant, the man's demeanor shifts. A smile plasters once again over his face as he takes on his charming disposition as if nothing had happened. But the twitch in his finger as he bows gives away his own uneasiness. He doesn't want to stir up any trouble that might get him into something he can not get himself out of. And he clearly underestimated Sherlock's willingness to defend you.

"Louis de la Rivière, at your pleasure and service." He bows before you, trying to take back an ounce of respectfulness he previously had that he is able to. But it does not ease you or Sherlock at all. "And, your name, Miss?" Your name falls from your lips almost involuntarily, purely out of courtesy. 

"Well, if you need any assistance at all, Miss Willborn, I'm more than happy to oblige." Louis is all smiles as he rises from his bent position, but his voice is laced with undertones of annoyance.

"I'm in no need of any help. Thank you, Mr Rivière." You speak in the most definitive tone you can muster. You can tell that it sets Louis' temper off even more. His charm is something that plain as day seldom fails him. He just lowers his head slightly and glances at Sherlock, whose still unmoving gaze is burning holes into the man's skull.

Louis cautiously steps back from the pair of you, attempting to make the retreat behind the safety of the counter as nonchalantly as he possibly can. His footsteps are dull thuds against the carpeted floor, but they seem to be the only sound you can focus on.

It is not a second later after Louis sits in his chair with the same book open behind the counter that Sherlock is guiding you towards the exit of the shop. His touch is like a breath of relief. And without a thought, you let him walk you out of the shop and down the street out of sight from the peering windows of the book shop.

"Are you alright?" His voice is gentle, cautious. His hand is propped in mid-air. His fingers are itching to brush your arm, comfort you in the way he knows only touch can, but his mind is willing him to mind your boundaries, mind your sensitivities as you mind his. 

After a moment, you nod, reorienting yourself. Sherlock, still unsure of your truthfulness, keeps his focus on you. Your hand, shaking slightly with adrenaline, reaches out toward Sherlock to steady yourself. Your hand meets his forearm, and Sherlock adjusts to your weight without a word. His breath catches slightly as he watches you calm yourself.

"I'm fine." You mutter out, eyes fluttering closed as you take steady inhales. "That was just—uncomfortable." He nods, his eyes now wandering to the street, busy with pedestrians and students alike, bustling with carriages and horse-drawn wagons all rushing off someplace far and important.

"Oh—Sherlock the underground brothel. I'm sorry—"

"No, that doesn't matter. But you do." Sherlock feels an undeniable pit of worry growing in his gut.

"I shouldn't have brought you along with me." Sherlock's voice comes out quiet, but you catch it. You also catch the crease between his brow and the angry tint in his eye. 

"Stop. None of that." You huff out, shaking your head profusely.

"If I had just not listened to my own mind—ooh, how it loves to have ideas, ones that are often so very counterintuitive of what I wish to achieve—none of this would have happened," Sherlock begins to rant. It is only then that Sherlock meets your eyes to argue against his favor. "If James were here, he wouldn't have let that happen—"

"Well, James is busy, remember?" You point out, breaking him out of his own head. "In no situation is that your fault."

"No. No—no. You don't understand. I—" He stumbles over his own words. "James is not busy. He could have been here if I hadn't deliberately neglected to tell him I invited you out today." His tone starts off strong, blazing like a wildfire, but by the time he reaches the last word, it's nothing more than a small flame of passion. You lose his eyes as he grits his teeth and turns his head away.

"You—didn't tell him?" Your brain has yet to reach any point past confusion. Your hand releases its hold on his arm as you try to understand. You can't emotionally wrap your head around it until you intellectually wrap your head around it.

"I thought, childishly, that I could get away with spending the day alone with you." He speaks it as if he were in confession. The bowed head of shame and posture that screams regret.

You aren't sure if you should be angry or flattered. The three of you are infrequently away from each other when on outings. It's not typical for two to split off from the group. Rather, you all seem to do everything together with little complaint about it aside from the occasional snide banter. Though it is not so uncommon an occurrence because the number of them can be counted on one pair of hands.

What strikes you as unusual is Sherlock deliberately keeping information from James about both your whereabouts. It is a possibility that if he had told James, James would have intentionally come along anyway. Which that thought too strikes you as slightly odd. Nevertheless, Sherlock withheld knowledge from James for you. The same James who is one of yours and Sherlock's closest friends. And for that, you conclude that you're flattered, even if a little perplexed.

"Sherlock," You sigh, stepping closer to try and catch his eyes again.

"I never intended for this to happen. I only wanted—" He stops himself mid-sentence, eyes wide, staring off into the distance as though something has dawned on him. He takes a shaky breath in before he turns to face you completely. 

"I only wished that you might enjoy yourself." It passes from his lips as his face twists into the concrete look of acceptance. Acceptance of what? You had no idea. But then again, how could you? How could you know that the flaring anger that arose in him, which was stamped out by crumbling guilt, had made way for tantalizing consciousness of his own psyche? 

The daunting realization of his own feelings for you seemed almost impossible, but somehow, at the same time, unmistakably true. He hadn't noticed them before now, and that was the most astonishing. But now that his brain has latched onto these facts, the signs in front of him couldn't be clearer. He is in love. Deep, all-consuming, faithful, unforgiving, warm, breathtaking, love. 

And it isn't the kind of love he recognizes by putting the pieces of his own subconscious actions together, but it's something he feels deep in his chest. A thudding behind his heart, a ripple beneath his skin at just the brush of your hand against his. No longer is his mind pestered by what love is socially expected to be. Instead, there is an overriding feeling of care and need to know you inside and out. A need to dissect your every thought and be able to read your mind before you've even made up your mind. His love is a gut-wrenching promise of devotion and steadfastness. 

"I apologize." Sherlock consoles as mortified bile crawls up his throat. "Sincerely."

The brief pause of silence scares him more than anything. His fists clench as he prepares for the worst. Curses against his name, a fist to his face, or perhaps the wish to never see him again. Somehow, the ladder feels the most painful to think about.

"And I forgive you, Sherlock." You speak so softly to him that it sends cracks in his stone disposition of taking full responsibility. "I don't blame you for anything that's happened. I couldn't."

"But it is my fault. You don't have to pretend that it's not for my sake." Sherlock rebuts, almost upset that you are not angrier with him. "I can take it. I can take the blame."

"Sherlock." You take hold of his arm now, instantly grabbing all his attention. "If I don't blame you, then there is no one left to blame you, so logically speaking, it's not your fault. Only his."

Sherlock takes a moment to think about it. He knows that if he were to point out the holes in your argument, you'll only get irritable, but he also can't let himself get away without even a little scolding.

"And you can't blame yourself because I forbid it." You add, now moving to sling your arm through his.

"You can't—"

"I additionally forbid any more debate on the matter." You decide, beginning to trek down the cobblestone street, even further away from the book shop. Still a bit frazzled by the whole encounter, you lean against Sherlock, and he holds steady as you both walk.

You both know that it will have to be discussed later. The slight tremor in your walk was evidence enough for Sherlock to see through your feigned unbothered attitude. He tries to continue talking about it, but you cut in before he can and go on a ramble about the book you had found with green leather binding. The topic change really is more of a distraction for you both. But Sherlock can't find it in himself to linger on the subject any longer.

"As you wish," Sherlock replies, his heart fluttering slightly as his side brushes yours just slightly.

The next thing you recall from that day, or perhaps night—the logistics surrounding your wake-up are unclear—was choking. Something is lodged deep in your esophagus and testing the limits of your gag reflex. Your vision was blurry, but you did see the si-if-looking robot arms reaching down toward you. That sent you into an even bigger panic.

By the time the bridge picked up, you were tugging at cords and tubes while simultaneously trying to push the robot arms away. You must have been seriously out of it because all of a sudden you were pushing against fleshy arms. Someone was over you, trying to push you back down. You didn't understand why he was holding you down until he helped one of your shoulders and yanked the tubes out of your throat.

Your memories of the rest of it are hazy, but the next time you woke up, it was without tubes and cords stealing your breath. Instead, you woke to a snoring man beside you. It should have freaked you out, but it was a better wake-up call than robot arms. Of course, what the man had to say after he realized you were awake freaked you out more than any robot arms ever could.

It's been weeks since then, but some nights before you drift off to sleep, you play it back in your head and imagine what would happen if you had woken up in a hospital bed. Because then you would not have to be here, trying to figure out how to open some sort of alien communication sent over from a massive alien ship not a couple of hundred feet away, with a middle school science teacher.

"It says it's xenon." You say, as you point the element detector at the dirt colored cylinder looking object. Its scientific name, the mobile optical emission spectrometer, is something you are not comfortable with not knowing how you know, so the element detector it is. The object is not quite a cylinder because the sides aren't round, so actually it's more like an irregular prism. Except that the sides don’t follow the same shape.

Dr Grace pushes off the far wall to get to where you are. He's already shaking his head as he lands next to you, reaching out to grab the lab table next to you to keep from drifting. You let go of the prism, and it floats in the space in front of you. Fighting the simmering irritation, you angle the element detector so he can see the black text that says Xe.

"Xenon is a gas." Grace blurts out, creases running deep across his face. He is still in part of his EVA suit. Or at least the undergarments that keep him cool while he is in his EVA suit, and he looks incredibly stupid, you can't take him seriously. Especially now with his lab goggles on. Somehow, even with the strap that wraps all the way around his head, they are still sitting askew on his face.

"Well, yes, I know that, but that doesn't change that it's xenon and a solid." You huff, moving to now lift your own goggles to sit on top of your head. "Now what?"

"We open it." Grace reaches out for the prism. First, he shakes it, but no sound is made. He then begins to examine the xenon’s surface, looking for any buttons or notches that could be the key to opening it. He presses down on every part of it, but he's met with silence and stillness.

"God, let me try," You sigh, shaking your head in exasperation. Grace lets it go, and you take it from him. You twist the top of the prism, but nothing happens. After a grunt of annoyance, you try again, this time with more force. Still nothing.

"I have an idea," Grace says, gently taking it from your gloved hands. He tilts his head as he grabs hold of the top of the prism just as you did. But this time he twists to the left, not the right, and with little to no force, the seal breaks. Grace smirks at the prism like he just beat the hardest level robot in an online chess game. He then, without pulling the top off of the xenon case, looks up at you.

"That was what I was going to try next." You dismiss his eyes, clearly seeking some sort of praise as you fold your arms over your chess and turn away.

"Obviously." Grace laughs softly. It makes you angrier. You know he's just trying to lighten you up, but it only serves to irritate you more. You don't like feeling stupid. Especially with people you don't know well.

Sure, you and Dr Grace have been on the ship together now for close to two months, but not much conversation has happened. You didn't know him on a personal level, and he didn't really know you on a surface level. Every day, it seemed like you were someone new. It was as if you woke up from the coma with a crumbled wall around you, broken shards and rubble littering your mind and heart. But just as fast as Grace had noticed them in the first few days awake, noticed the quiet pauses that seemed to bring you to dark places, the flinching from him just speaking, you had hidden them again. You took the piece of the crumbled wall and built as fast as you could. You built so fast that Ryland has to question why. He figured that shutting down was the only way you knew how to protect yourself.

Grace has been awake for nearly five months now. When he first found out that he wasn’t the only living organism on the ship, Grace cried. When you eventually woke up three months later, and Grace saw how old you were, he was glad you had missed the first couple of months. You didn’t have to help carry Ilyukhina and Commander Yáo or have to see every breakdown Ryland had. Instead, you woke up to a steadier Grace, one who, when he saw you were just a kid, took it upon himself to be a steady foundation for you. He saw his kids in you, someone who needs help, guidance, and support. Grace decided that when he saw you choking on tubes with nothing but terror in your eyes, he would be the support for you that he had needed when he woke up alone floating in space.

Grace now pulls the top of the prism off. He peers into the new opening before leaning in to take a whiff. His body goes rigid as his eyebrows shoot up. He moves quickly, pushing his way towards the far wall.

"Oh no!" He exclaims in a deep, almost comical voice, well, it would be if it weren't for the fact that he looks just slightly terrified. He uses all sorts of things to pull himself over to the glove box currently located near the ceiling. You follow after him just as fast, concern driving your every move.

Grace knocks over a container of test tubes, and they go flying in all sorts of directions. When he reaches for the glove box, he somehow he trips mid air and misses the handle and stumbles away from it. After an embarrassingly and horrifyingly long time, Grace gets the xenon prism in the box.

He shuts it with a loud thud and springs back like it's already killed him. You jump too, and once the chaos settles into the quiet hum of Mary, your temper grows.

"Grace! You fucking scared me!" You shriek out as Grace runs a hand over his face. You can see the tension in his jaw, pulled tight.

"Can we stop it with the cursing?" Grace calls over to you, halfheartedly.

"Alright. Sorry." You mutter out, now feeling a little guilty at the stressed look on his face, but still annoyed at him. "And can we please get gravity in here? If you had floated over here any slower, we could both be dead. Admittedly, we should have started with it in there, but still. I'd really prefer it if I didn't die two months after waking up." You shake your head and rub the bridge of your nose with your index finger and thumb.

"Also, aren't you a science teacher? Isn't it the first thing you teach students during labs? To never directly sniff anything? Waft not sniff?" You continue your irritated ramblings, and Grace swears this is the most he's heard you talk consecutively in a row; it somehow eases the tension in his jaw.

Grace had figured out he was a teacher before you woke up, but when he actually got to interact with you, even if you were closed off, the belief had solidified. The way you asked questions or proposed ideas was astounding because you were so young yet incredibly bright, and it had ignited this spark in him that he had seemed to forget about. Like now, he almost forgot how powerful passion is, especially in kids. You recovered memories he never thought he’d get back. Memories of his students, of a field trip his class had gone on to a science museum, and even some memories of the lesson plans of activities he never got to do with his students. But right now your fire brings him back to heated discussions in his classroom on weather of not aliens existed. Now he wishes he could tell all his students he had the answer literally sitting in front of him. He wished you could have been one of his students in those types of discussions. You would have been a hassle, but the best kind.

"I'm pretty sure toddlers know to waft and not sniff. It's like—like look, don't touch! It's essentially the first lesson every kid learns. But for some reason, you broke the simplest rule in the book!" You finish exasperated before folding your arms over your chest. The force of the movement, mixed with the zero gravity of the ship, pushed your body to spin slightly. You quickly reach out for the wall to stop it when you see Grace's hint of a smile.

"Okay, so in hindsight I shouldn't have done that, yes." Grace starts, and slight amusement begins to bubble under his defensive stance. "But look, we're both alive. And just because I implement rules doesn't mean I always follow them."

"What, so you're a hypocrite?" You bluntly question, a brow lifting quizzically.

"I meant as a teacher. As a teacher, I don't follow all the rules I implement." Grace clarifies, pushing one of the still-moving test tubes away from his face as it floats towards him.

"That's worse, you're a hypocrite to impressionable children. A hypocritical teacher." You shake your head in mock disappointment.

"Most people would just call us teachers." He attempts with a glint of amusement in his eye. A smile begins to break onto your lips, but you quickly close your eyes to compose yourself. You let out a scoff to cover your chuckle, trying to seem unaffected.

It is moments when he sees you happy that keep Grace fighting. If he could see you smile at least once a day, it would be enough to get him to the next. Even with your anger, even with your unwillingness to let him in, Ryland tries his best to give you grace. If he were in your position, stuck in space light-years away from Earth with a strange man, cursed to die before you could legally drink, and with no recollection of how you got here, he would be pretty irritable too. Even having had the chance he did to live a good portion of his life on Earth, he was still devastated at the realization that the last thing he would live to see would be one of the many white walls of this ship.

The gravity is a welcome change. During your journey here, Mary had assumed the essence of gravity because of the force of the forward motion of the ship. But ever since you stopped moving,  the gravity has also stopped. But now that you actually have both your feet on the ground, you feel somewhat calmer.

You walk back into the lab from the cockpit, Grace following after you to the glove box. You look through the glass and down at the prism that is now sitting on the floor of the box. The top has fallen to the side while the prism itself lies on its side.

"Now, let's take a peek at what’s inside you," Grace says, speaking to the inanimate object. You give him a look that he ignores.

"Be careful this time. No sniffing without thinking, take precaution."

"Wouldn't do that to you again, promise," Grace says as he puts his hands in the gloves. Now, as his quiet concentration fills the room, you see it for the first time. The slight tremor in his hand. The twitch of his eye as he carefully begins to pull something out of the xenon casing. You want to ask him whats wrong, but you know the answer. He is scared, and he has been scared for a long time. But whenever you're around, he doesn't let himself show it. If he could,

He would stop shaking, but there are some things out of his control.

Unsure what to do or say, you simply step closer and gaze through the glass over his shoulder. You don't talk about his unsteady grip on the metal tongs. You just watch as he pulls from the container a hollow sphere with very thin, long, leg-like xenon wires curving down and out of it. Your gaze lingers on the object longer than Grace gives it his attention, because before you can even speak on it, Ryland flips the prism casing around to attempt to open the other side.

"Hey—wait, that kind of looks familiar." You mutter out, eyes fixed on the sphere with the lines. You stare at it for a moment, racking your brain. You know you recognize it, the image seems to be in graves in your head, but the words are lost on you. You tap your finger against your crossed arms as you think. "I swear I—oh!" You call out as your body steps back with excitement. "I remember! It's why we're frickin' here!" You step back, trying to remember the name that goes with the memory. "The Pa—Pat—Par," You keep thinking aloud, but Grace ignores you as he screws the top off the other end of the prism.

"It starts with a 'p,' I know that. It was named after the woman who—oh yes! Petrova! It's the Petrova line!" You call, and that finally gets Grace's attention. "It's a 3d model of the Petrova line." You nod along to yourself, not getting close to the glass of the glove box again to look at it.

Grace now turns his focus back toward the object he had set down. He picks it up with the tongs and holds it closer to the glass. He nods, agreeing with your statement. "Yeah, I think you're right. That must be the star out there. Tau Ceti." You glance toward one of the thick windows of the ship and watch as the star comes into view as the ship orbits itself to keep the gravity.

"Which means that whoever is over in that ship," Grace gestures toward the window as Mary spins, and you can for a moment see the alien ship. "Must be here for the same reasons as us."

"Take out the rest of it." You encourage, hitting his arm slightly to get him to move. Grace sets down the Petrova line model and turns the xenon prism around. From the second opening, he uses the tongs to pull out another object made of the same material as everything else. This object, like the last, has long thin arm like wires sprouting out of it, but this time the hollow sphere at the bottom is much smaller, and the wires are not curved. Along with the non-curving wires, there are circular tips at the end of each strand of xenon. Just as Grace pulls the entire piece of xenon out, it springs open, making you both jump back.

"Jesus!" You exclaim, holding your chest. "Fuck," you breathe out, turning around to catch your breath. This time Grace doesn't scold your curses.

"Whoa," Grace quickly bounces back from his momentary surprise and presses both hands against the glass as he peers down at it. The object now sits like a sphere of spikes, but the spikes aren't sharp, and they are all different lengths. You look now between it and the Petrova line model.

"It has to be another 3d model." You voice quickly, moving over to the computer and the monitors sitting in the corner of the lab. You take a seat on the swivel chair as you turn on the monitor. "We need to take it out. I have to get a better look at it." You pull up a map of Tau Ceti to see if there are any similarities to the new model and the previous one.

"First, we have to make sure it won't kill us," Grace says.

"Yeah, good plan." You nod, looking over your shoulder at him. "Um, how do we do that?" You ask ask after moment.

"Good question," Grace draws out the good before stepping back from the glove box with his hands on his hips. "Maybe we just—open it a tiny bit and see if anything happens." He purses his lips in thought. "Unless, of course, you had a better idea."

"No, yeah, that—let's just do that." You agree, now swinging around on the chair to face him.

Turns out, the xenon is not toxic. After a very careless inspection, Grace and you come to conclude that the element, which should be a gas but is somehow a solid, is harmless. Even better, you found out that the xenon object was another 3d model.

"That's Tau Ceti," You point to the center of the model where all the wires are sticking out. On the monitor, you have pulled up a map of the star system the Xenon is modeling.

"Which means that this," Grace rolls the table the model is sitting on in front of the monitor and points to the end of one of the legs where a tiny 3d planet sits. But unlike all the other planets, this one has more than just a circle at the end of the wire. "Must be where they are from." He says, referring to the ship as it passes through the line of sight of the window.

"Forty Eridiani," You read aloud from the screen. "It's further from here than Earth," You observe, typing something into the computer to zoom in on where Earth is relative to Tau Ceti.

"You're a long way from home," Grace says softly under his breathe, eyes locked on the tiny planet. For once, his glasses sit straight on his face as he takes a second to grapple with this new information. You can see again now the slight tremble of his hand. He's still scared, still worried.

"We should add Earth onto the model and send it back." Your voice, breaking the quiet. "It seems like we're here for the same reasons, and we're both far from home."

Grace clears his throat as he stands from his crouching position. He shoots you a determined smile, heading for the station in the lab with building equipment. "Let's go make the first human contact with aliens."

The next message you received is housed in the same oddly shaped casing. And this time, instead of Grace having to jump off the side of the ship to get it, it arrives through the door of the airlock. You catch it this time, in your own red EVA suit, and over the coms, triumphantly brag about how easily you caught it. Grace doesn't point out the fact that it was literally shot out directly into your open hands while his wasn't, but you both know he wants to. Rather, he focuses on setting up a rope system to get around more easily in zero gravity as you come back inside.

"So, they want to connect our ships?" You question aloud, quietly watching as Grace flips the new xenon contraption in his hands. After inspection—or flipping it over—you notice the lines of xenon line up to create an image of both EVA ships. But one strip of xenon stands out starker than the rest; the strip connected to both the ships like a bridge.

"I think so," Grace breathes out, his tone dropping its normal cadence of curiosity and playfulness. You can feel the dread radiating from him and crawling up your skin.

There's a brief moment of serious contemplation that passed over you. Sure, this is a massive leap toward progress in your mission. But at the same time, you can't help but worry about what could go wrong. You can't help the endless, consuming fears that this could go deadly wrong.

"Can we stop it?"

Grace slowly halts his fiddling with the xenon. He doesn't want to scare you, but he knows that this is best. He would love not to need to face the unknown to keep you safe, but your situation doesn't allow it. The Earth's future is at stake, and if even one more alien planet is at risk, then that doubles the urgency of action. Grace wants to protect you, and he knows the best and scariest way to do that is to make contact.

"I don't think we should," Grace admits, turning slightly to look over his shoulder at you. You take another beat, trying to suppress your own doubts in order to think clearly. You know what's at stake, and you know you need to start acting like it.

"It's—we need to be careful. I mean, what if all those messages were just some scheme to get us close so they can take all our stuff and leave us for dead? I'm not saying that's what's happening, but we should be prepared." You question out, now pacing back and forth behind Grace, who is seated at a lab table near the window, deep in thought. If he wasn't so stressed, Grace might have taken the time to appreciate your unusual amount of speaking today.

"I doubt that's the case. They are here for the same reasons as we are. We need to be able to communicate better. And an hour ago you were all for alien contact, what's with the change?" Grace asks, setting down the xenon and spinning around in his chair to face you.

"I never said I was against it. All I mean is we have to be smart. Let's put aside the fact that they could be tricking us, I guarantee you our climates will be deadly to each other. I mean solid xenon, come on. " You scoff, having stopped your pacing, you lean against the wall opposite him. Grace lets out a soft laugh at your words, his posture easing up a bit.

"Okay, yes, we will be careful." He nods, a hint of a smile threatening to spread across his lips.

"Good." You respond quickly. You tap your fingers against your folded arms for a second before blurting out, "And if they try to eat us, don't expect me to hold back the I told you so."

"I wouldn't dream of taking that away from you." Grace rolls his eyes sarcastically and turns back to the lab table.

It doesn't take long after you slow the spinning ship to a stop for the other ship to start moving. You watch from the lab window, slightly terrified as a wire of xenon stretches from the edge of the larger vessel out to Mary. An elevator-like contraption shoots out from the other ship and across the shaft that the xenon arms created.

As soon as the gravity is shut off again, Grace busies himself elsewhere. He starts preparation for contact by getting his suit ready to go, making sure all of Mary's systems are functioning properly, and once that's all done, he meticulously starts cleaning up around the ship. He steers clear of the central hub where the lab is located to leave you your alone time. Instead, he focuses on the medical bay slash dormitory and the Don't go Crazy room.

While he works, you attempt to lounge about the lab. Grace had settled most of your worries, but there is still a nagging feeling in the back of your mind. You try not to think about the fact that an alien organism is mere minutes away from either befriending you or tearing you and the only other human you know limb from limb. You pull yourself over to the computer using the rope system Ryland set up and click through applications until you land on a large file named 'Music'. Whoever had created the ships database was an angel. Thousands of tracks were attached to the file. Songs as old as the 1920's all the way up until November of 2023.

Ironically, the song you currently have on loop whenever Grace lets you play music is the same song you woke up to all those two months ago. Hello by Martin Solveig & Draggonette is the only thing you know will be able to distract you as the bridge between ships is made. So you open the file eagerly and press play.

The opening drums instantly call to your attention, making you tap your fingers to the beat against your leg. Next comes the guitar, which starts a subtle movement in your upper body that directly follows the movement of your fingers. But the second the piano's electrifying cords cut through the noise, you're a goner.

It takes all but two lyrics for you to be singing along with the recording, clapping, and moving your body in accordance with the music.

Before you know it, you're somewhere else completely. You're in the back of a car, leather seats cool against the bare skin of your calf. Your hair is blowing around you like a halo as the wind whips in from the lowered windows of the car. The vibrations of the drums rattle through your tiny body as you sing along. The lyrics that come out of your mouth sound right but make close to no sense, but your heart is fully in it. You hear a laugh come from the front seat like a ray of light. It's deep and comforting, a voice of someone trustworthy and safe. His voice is one you seem to recognize deep in your bones because when he turns around from the driver's seat, his silhouette blocks the illuminating sun behind him, you feel a laugh bubble up within you, matching his. It feels like the easiest thing ever. He says something to you, but before you can place what it is, the final "Hey" echoes out from the speaker and pulls you back to reality.

Now in the silence of the lab, you float breathlessly. The feelings that wash over you are ones you can't place with any certainty. There are tears in your eyes, but you are not sure if they are of joy or utter despair. Warmth blooms in your chest as a knot forms in your stomach. It was so rapturous and safe, you could have stayed there forever. But a sinking pit is pulling at your heart. It was gone in an instant, before you could relish it, it was taken from you. Worse, you sink further, as you realize that you'll never again be able to drive in a car with the windows rolled down, blasting music you love with someone you love a seat away.

You love them. It distracts you from everything else. You loved whoever it was that was sitting in the driver's seat. It was as easy as breathing to deduce. There was no hitch of doubt that passed over you as you thought about it. Odd. So you do have someone you love back on Earth. So you aren't alone in the universe after all. You have someone you love and who loves you back on Earth, blasting music and thinking of you too.

The feeling is overwhelming. Both elating and absolutely devastating. Your heart feels bombarded with so many conflicting emotions that it blurs your vision even further. But before you can even try to begin to decipher any of it sensibly, Grace calls out to you. You quickly blink away the water from your eyes as you hear him getting closer.

Later. Later, you'll have to deal with these newfound memories and all the emotional roller coasters that came with them. For now, you have to make contact with an alien without getting eaten alive.

"Is everything ready?" You ask, using the rope to propel you toward the outside of the airlock, where Grace is holding to the wall in his red EVA suit.

"Yep. Checked all systems twice. Everything is good to go." Grace affirms, brushing his gloved hand over his suit to straighten out a nonexistent bump.

"Okay, well." You swallow the lump in your throat while you watch him smile reassuringly at you. "Guess you should head out."

"Yeah," Grace nods gravely, his voice dying in his throat. His fingers aimlessly fiddle with his EVA helmet resting in one of his hands.

You both float there for a while, with no real intention to move. You stay still as if it may change what needs to be done. The truth is, it won't, but the possibilities of losing someone else are too loud for you to let him go without some hesitance. All protests seem to die in your throat the longer you float there.

Grace is no better. He knows what he has to do, but he's also terrified and grossly under qualified. The thought of trekking out into the unknown keeps his body suspended still in the air. Yet some other part of his conscience is urging him forward. If he doesn't take the leap into the depths of space—well, really it's an enclosed tunnel which is equally as terrifying—no one else will. He has to do it for you and for Earth, so he nods firmly, the tremor now in his leg, and takes hold of the tether rope to keep him connected to Mary and a headlight to attach to his helmet.

He clumsily attaches the rope to his suit and the light to his headpiece, and you watch, twiddling your thumbs anxiously. You have to tell yourself he's only fumbling because he's scared too, not because he has no ability and might die. The images of the car come back to you now suddenly and violently. You can't help but feel a pull to stop Grace as he pulls himself into the airlock. You only have him, and if you lose him, like you lost the man in the driver's seat, you don't think you'll be able to complete the mission Earth sent you here to do if he leaves you.

"Wait—" He halts immediately, concern taking over his features like it was already simmering below the surface. "Do you have to go out there? We can't really know what's out there. Maybe we should rethink this whole thing. I don't think I'm—we're ready yet." Your throat tenses as you speak. "We can still call this off and wait it out." You swallow, trying to push the burning sensation away from your eyes.

"I can't—I don't—What happens if you die?" You can't look at him anymore. All you see are flashes of the driver's silhouette blurring with Grace's. "What—what if you get eaten or something. Then I would really be alone—"

"Hey, hey," He calls your name gently, "listen to me." His voice isn't demanding but assertively tender. There is no doubt in your mind that he used this voice on his student. "I'm just as terrified as you, and I could try to lie to you and say everything will be fine, but I know you know better." His walls seem to break down as he speaks, the previous feign of calm for your sake now crumbled at his feet.

"Grace—"

"I don't know how to do this. I really don't. I'm trying to be a strong grown-up in your life, but it's hard when our lives are the plot out of some sci-fi movie." Grace huffs out, shaking his head, still finding this whole situation hard to believe.

"I'm not asking you to be a 'strong grown up' in my life," You scoff, brows furrowing petulantly.

"Doesn't mean I won't be anyway." He looks at you with something you recognize from somewhere but can't place. It's almost a reverent kind of affection reserved for a select few. "I know our memories are hazy, but I—kid I—I feel like I know you. I feel like you meant something to me," he tries to laugh off the gravity of it, but it doesn't work.

"I'm not a kid." Your voice begins to waver.

"Yeah, you are." Grace smiles sympathetically. "Look at you," He says, and he does look at you, like you saved him, like you hung the moon and start. "You're incredible, and smart and talented, but you are still a kid. Can't be older than 20. You really shouldn't be here. But you are. And I can't—I can't fix it, I can't save you from our inevitable doom. I can't." Tears well in Grace's eyes.

"But I can tell you that I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Even if I'm scared shit-less, which I am, believe me. I'm the ultimate scared shit-less guy." You laugh faintly, and it makes him smile

"Quit cursing." You mock him with zero intent to make him stop. Ryland huffs and looks to the floor of the ship. It takes him a moment to collect himself before he continues. More tears threaten to pour as he meets your gaze.

"You are the most important thing to me, I can feel in my bones—in my—my soul. I look at you and—" He chokes on his word. His fist flies up to his mouth to muffle the sound of his sob. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. "And I think, god, I love that kid. And I would rather die in some dark, solid—somehow—xenon tunnel, by getting eaten by aliens than let you die." You let out a wet laugh.

"So please, let's do this together, calmly, so that you won't have to be alone." You nod solemnly, watching him in his red EVA suit. He smiles and reaches out to squeeze your shoulder.

Just before he turns to the air lock, you add, "Just—look, don't touch, and—"

"Waft not sniff." He interjects with a nod, you halfheartedly smile and nod too. Grace then turns to the door, puts on his helmet, and walks down the circular hall to the edge of the ship. You shut the large door behind him, making sure it's locked before nodding at him. Just before you turn to get back to get on coms, he lifts his hand and gives you a lazy grin, thumbs up.

The coms come to life with a static crackle. You quickly pull up the live feed from Grace's EVA suit. Your whole body feels on edge, your ears perk at every tiny sound, and your hand twitches against the metal trackball mouse. You're suddenly very aware of the fact that the sleeve of your EVA ventilation garment is brushing against your wrist. Trying to roll it up your arm only results in further irritation, and pulling it down is of no use due to the fact that it was built perfectly for the length of your arm. You huff out, trying to ignore it as the feed from Grace's suit loads. It's pitch black, nothing but darkness beyond the edge of the airlock.

"Any way you can light this up?" Grace's voice cuts through the coms. He sounds just slightly unsteady as you watch him grip the edge of the ship.

"Let me see." You answer back, clicking away to find a way to turn the outermost lights on. Brows furrowing, your eyes scan the screen for anything. You look to see if there are more lights, because you can run to the control room to turn them on manually, but you would prefer it if you could stay with Grace and do it through Mary's database.

"Anything?" He asks. You glance back at the live video and see Grace's hands gripping the ledge of the airlock. You grumble in frustration, and you reach out to mash down on the button that lets Grace hear you.

"Afraid not." You take a shaky inhale before letting out an audible huff of irritation. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright." You watch as Grace pushes off the ledge of the ship.

"Do you—" You swallow, watching his movements with anticipatory dread. "You can come back inside—"

"No, my head lamp will do fine. Just have to stay near the edge." Grace interjects reassuringly, his tone still soft even as he stands on the very edge of uncharted territory. The push propels him toward the side of the tunnel. He collides into it with a grunt.

"Are you—"

"I'll be okay," Grace says comfortingly. With a heavy sigh, he slowly begins to haul himself along the side of the xenon tunnel.

You watch in silence for a long while as Grace trudges on. What seems like hours go by while you watch with bated breath, even though you know it can not have been more than six minutes. All you can really see is the side of the tunnel, the rope floating to the side of Grace's arm, and the seemingly endless darkness.

"Everything okay?" You ask, watching his feed. You want to hear it from him, not see it from his body cam.

"Everything is swell." His voice comes out strained. You watch as his grip on the wall fumbles slightly. Your posture straightens as you watch. His breathing gets heavier as his hand slips from the wall.

The video from the feed cuts out for just a moment, and when it flashes back on, you can no longer see the wall but just darkness. Your breath catches as it clips out again, and you hear a pained noise before the video cuts in again. Now all you can see is a close-up of the opposite xenon wall.

"What's happening?" Your trembling fingers against the coms button as you speak. He lets out a grunt in response, and the video shows him pushing back away from the wall.

"Just a slip." He replies, continuing his forward motion. It doesn't take long for him to reach the end of the tunnel. "I can see the ship." Is all he says as he approaches a solid wall of xenon.

You watch as Grace runs his gloved fingers along the wall, looking for some sort of opening. No sounds leave you as your heart pounds loudly in your ears. Part of you wishes it were you out there, stumbling over yourself. If anything happens to Grace, you know you won't be able to piece yourself together. And all the people of Earth would die because you couldn't be brave, because of your failure. Another part of you knows that if you had been the one to go out, you probably would have peed yourself already, and after that, very little would get done.

After a short search, Grace's camera shows a small window near the bottom of the tunnel. The shoulder-width, trapezoid-shaped window is only visible for a split second before his camera is pressed against the wall and your visibility goes to black.

"What do you see?" The question goes unanswered, and your heart rate picks up. "Grace? Are you okay? Whats—"

"Fine. Good, everything—everything's fine." Grace's voice trails off, and you have to assume he sees something. You hear two thumps through his intercoms before he speaks again. "It's just more darkness. If it weren't for the messages we got, I'd think the ship was abandoned."

"There has to be something there, right? Shine your light through—"

A flash of light is the first thing you see to cause alarm, followed by a bang and a yell. Grace's distinct voice ripples through the speaker of the coms like an earthquake. You watch helplessly while the feed flashes as he spins. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, and you're calling for him again the second your brain catches up with what's happening.

"Grace?" You press down on the coms. "What's out there? Are you okay?"

The camera feed stabilizes before his breathing can be heard again. Now, fuzzy, you see Grace approaching the xenon wall once more. His voice comes in breathless as he speaks into the intercoms.

"It was—there was a claw—"

"Grace? Please, tell me what's happening. Are you alright? Are you hurt?" The desperation in your voice catches his attention. His movements stop momentarily for him to respond.

"I'm fine. I just saw—something. I'm not sure, I think it's—it's a—"

Once again, the camera presses up against the xenon wall, blocking your view of what's happening. Two more thumps come in through the speaker, and you remain quiet, listening for anything to help you understand what's happening. Grace lets out a noise, close to disbelief and relief. Through the coms, his voice cracks, and his words sound somewhat terrified but also a hundred percent certain.

"It's a rock!"

Notes:

This post will be updated as more is revealed in the fic. Be patient with me Im human. Comments, asks, and likes are highly encouraged!

This story starts when they first meet Rocky.

This fic is loosely tied to actual events in the movie. Meaning I will include important plot points but not exclusively that.

Reader age is as of now unstated, but she is in her late teens early twenties. (I know it’s crazy but bare with me)

CHAPTER ONE: Hello

CHAPTER TWO: …(coming eventually)…

And James feels it happen; The switch in his behaviors, the drift of his attention, the second you walked into a room. And of course, because his love is so unsuspecting, it's only fitting that it makes itself known at such a vulnerable moment.

You’ve been irritable all day. That’s how James knew something was going on. Sherlock had made a joke, and you didn’t laugh. That was odd. James made a snide remark, wanting simply to make you smile. But instead, you blow up in his face and storm off to your dormitory.

James hasn’t known you long, but thus far he has never seen you so aggravated for seemingly no observable reason. Of course, you had called him a cock sucker before, but it had been with an eye roll or a smile you attempted to hide, but he still saw. Never had you been so serious or cruel with your intentions when you said it before. If it weren’t for the way you stormed off after you’d said it, James would have taken earnest offense. But as you ran, he thought he saw tears welling up in your eyes, and instantly all hostilities were dropped before they began. Sherlock hadn’t noticed, too busy giving all his attention to some inconsistencies he found in what Mycroft had told him earlier.

James is quick to follow after you, leaving Sherlock with some made-up excuse he'd be too preoccupied to question. He follows after you through halls and down corridors, calling out your name. You just keep on until you finally make it to your room, where you shut the door in James' face.

With a huff, he calls your name through the door. "Come on. I did not mean what I said. You know I didn't mean it." James his head against your door, catching his breath.

"Please just go, James." His breath catches as you speak.

"Not until this is settled," James says definitively, trying the doorknob. It's locked.

"I forgive you. There it is settled." You utter through the wood. But James can hear the sniffle you let out, so he presses on.

"If you forgive me, why is it that you still sound upset?" He tries, leaning into the door as if that will somehow get him closer to you. "Was it really me? Or did someone else do something?"

"James—"

"Because, as you know, I am not above getting my hands dirty."

"James, stop." You announce, cutting through his words. There is a stillness where neither of you speak; all that can be heard is shuffling from your side of the door. The sound of a key sliding into a keyhole pulls James to step away from the door.

The door is pulled open tentatively. When you finally come into view, you look somewhat disheveled. It pulls at James' heartstrings uncomfortably. Your eyes are red and puffy. Clearly, you've been crying more than he initially saw. James' nonchalant persona cracks just slightly under the weight of the sight.

"It has nothing to do with you." Your voice quietly. Like every syllable claws at your throat as it comes out.

"Then what is it?" James dips his head down to meet your gaze. You shift your weight from foot to foot in hesitant contemplation. James holds his gaze steady.

Reluctantly, you step aside to let James in. He steps through the threshold of your room and gazes around. Lying across your desk, which sits near the door, he sees letters scattering the surface. Some are unfinished letters, a couple are crumpled up, but in the center of your desk is a letter clearly not in your distinct penmanship. On this letter are creased wrinkles left in shapes only tears could make.

"Tell me what’s wrong." James tears his eyes away before you notice. He faces you now, concealing his anguish behind furrowed brows of curiosity.

It takes you a minute to gather the courage to tell the truth. You trust James, but you also know that behind his facade of charm and quips, he holds so much weight. He doesn't need yours. But his stance is unwavering. He holds his ground as he waits for you, ever the gentleman.

“It’s my father.” You divulge. You say it as though if you say it too loudly, your father himself will hear you from across the Atlantic.

"Ah," James voices solemnly. That must be what the letters have been about. He takes a moment to mull over his words.

“You’ve never mentioned him before,” James decides. No connotations as to not upset you more. He is not sure of your own opinions on him yet.

“I don’t like even thinking about him.” You let out a self deprecating noise that leaves James with a familiar understanding and distaste. One thing he feels often when thinking about his own father.

Your mind runs a million miles a minute, trying to compose itself. The mere thought of him brought feelings that, if you could, you would have killed and buried and never spoken of again.

“Why’s that?” James' eyes don't leave you for even a second. His gentleness is so exposing, so stripped down and bare, it makes you curl in on yourself. You’ve never been one to get much attention unless you explicitly put yourself in the spotlight. No one had ever looked at you without you predetermining it and deciding it would happen. That is, until you met Sherlock and James. They both look at you without you having to grab their attention with some big gesture or loud character trait. They see you even when you don't want them to. And even worse, James can read you even when you wish he couldn't.

James knows you in some impossible way. In the short time he has known you, he has learned almost everything about you. Your tells, the way you cower ever so slightly when someone makes you upset, how you fight tooth and nail to be tolerated even though you are so easily loved. He knows that just about everything you do is calculated to push you higher and get you further. He knows you as if he has known you his whole life, and you see it. And it excites you, it terrifies you.

"He's like an insect," You being. "He crawls into the weakest parts of you and terrorizes and taunts and calls it love." You don't elaborate, but it seems to you that James understands. He always does. As grateful as you are, a part of you aches for him. You would never wish your pain onto him, but he seems to always already possess it.

“I seem to always be doing something wrong. I can never make him happy." You continue. James's presence is a welcome anchor that seems to be calming the waters of your mind.

"The only reason I’m here is that I thought that if I agreed to go to Oxford, he would finally let me be. But I was sorely mistaken." More tears well up in your eyes as you take a seat at the foot of your bed. James takes a step closer.

"Is the letter from him?" James cautiously asks, but it only seems to bring more tears and a grave nod.

"If I do not improve my marks, all familial ties will be cut." A sob leaves your throat as you sink into the mattress. "I will be estranged and left destitute to fend for myself in a country that I do not belong to. I may never see my mother again." James sits with you now, warmth and comfort radiating from him.

"No. I will not let that happen," James affirms, jaw set tight. You struggle to control your uneven breathing.

"I promise you this," He says, your name as though it is a vow never to be broken, and takes your hand in his. "He will not hurt you again." Your breath hitches at the stubborn crease of his brow.

"Even if you fail out of Oxford, you will see your mother again." His words are resolute. He says them as if they are fact rather than simple hopes. "His threats are empty. You have me, you have Sherlock. You will never be on your own again."

The damn collapses, and you slam into James' sturdy frame. You cry freely now, no longer able to hold back your fears. James is startled only for a moment before he sinks into the feeling of you in his hold. He holds you securely and lets you set the weight of them down. He lets you come apart with the knowledge that he will be there to help build you up again.

And that's when he feels it. Sitting in your bed on an unsuspecting Sunday afternoon, he feels it. That ache deep in his chest, the pulsing in his veins, the confirmation in his heart. He loves you. And because he loves you, he will never let you go.

Notes:

I honestly have no end in sight I just play the game because the game is fun.

Reader is American!

I know because of the time period this show is set that reader could realistically only be a white woman but for the sake of the fic that history is non aplicable. Reader’s race is not specified and if there is anything that insinuates it let a girl know so I can edit it out.

PART 1: Let the Games Begin

PART 2: Unsuspecting Love (James) | Undiscovered Love (Sherlock)