The Fracture

There are two undeniable facts that can be gleaned from working with Dr. Ryland Grace. First: he's a genius, a brilliant mind that shines like a beacon, despite what he'll tell you if asked. Second: he talks way too damn much sometimes.

Ryland talks quite a lot, despite what you might think of someone whose whole face and posture screams, "I have social anxiety!" If he wasn't a toned, muscled hunk with a picture-perfect aura of messy hair? He'd be the definition of a dork that gets shoved into a locker by a school bully on the daily.

You idly think about the analogy as you side-eye the scientist in front of you, heaving a tired sigh as he descends into another tirade that has frankly nothing to do with your current problem. It's an interesting theory, you'll give him that, but the ship's clock states it's two in the morning and there is literally no correlation between "getting an astrophage sample from Tau Ceti-E" and "how everything on Earth somehow has a link to tuberculosis". Especially since you really need him to pay attention right now. Unfortunately, he has a really annoying habit of getting so caught up in whatever he's talking about when he's sleep-deprived that he literally won't hear you unless you yell. And you really don't feel like yelling right now.

Before you can even consider the theory he threw your way, Grace has already moved on to another digression. Your head feels like it's full of lead.

Grace is a nervous talker. Grace is also an excited talker. And a delirious talker. Honestly anything that has to do with anything could send him into a rant; you were around this man on the Earth, and you don't recall any instance of him going off that much. Back then, just looking at him a little funny would make him shrink like a wilted plant. Perhaps being in space and having only two creatures to talk to has that effect on a person.

"Grace." You feign a cough to draw his attention to you and the cargo you're holding, which is growing heavier by the minute. No luck, the man is miles away.

Right now he's articulating wildly, flipping between scribbling on a whiteboard, gesturing with his hands in your general direction, pointing at the mess of a laboratory, then back at you. All the while going on and on about how if you try hard enough- you can classify astrophage as a disease that is also fuel, and algae, and-

"Grace-"

"-and that's how you can basically turn these little buggers into paste. I wouldn't recommend it, though, unstable alien life form and all that-"

"Grace, can you pa-"

"But! Stay with me here. What if we could catch more of them and basically soup-ify them for more storage efficiency? Hypothetically that would solve some of the fuel problem-"

"Doctor Ryland Grace!"

It comes out a little rougher than expected, and Ryland startles, whipping his head to look at you fully at the sound of his full name. Finally he settles those bright blue eyes on your form, a bashful half smile tugging his lips. It's worth noting that his gaze dispelled much of your irritation.  However it did nothing to make the metal box in your hands lighter.

"Right! Sorry, I...kinda forgot what we were talking about there," he chuckles and gestures vaguely in your direction, drawing a broad circle in the air. "What was-OH! Right! Petrova line collector! How is that going?"

"Fine and dandy," you grumble, glancing at the heavy object full of slides that's taking up both your hands. You've asked Ryland to clear the space for it seven minutes ago, trudging into the lab with a solid fear that you'd throw your back out; those seven minutes have already passed and you didn't get any closer to putting the very valuable and very heavy equipment down. "I'd show you but I've got my hands full over here. Do you mind?"

Rocky is currently asleep, so as the resident pilot turned part-time engineer you were given the task of assembling the sampler for Tau Ceti-E's Petrova line. Not to brag, but you think you've done a damn good job, if only this advanced bacterial projector weren't so bulky. It's just a prototype, and the three of you have been racking your brains over how to make it lighter and more efficient (a struggle made even more difficult by Rocky's need for rest, as he's the ship's chief engineering mastermind. Plus, you can't think straight when you haven't slept for 27 hours and Ryland's yapping your ear off when the situation is sort of urgent).

You don't have time to consider the fact that you're probably a little out of shape if you can't balance a metal rectangle weighing roughly 30 kg, because Ryland is scrambling to toss everything that cannot break or shatter off the desk, clearing out the space. You think that you've never seen a man move faster.

"Right! Shucks, sorry, sorry. Just put it down he-" BLAM. You wince, not expecting the sampler to make such a noise when you set it down on the white surface of the table. But you're annoyed and frankly out of damns to give. The way Ryland scrunches his whole face at the noise makes you chuckle. "Ooohkay! Well then! Yeesh, maybe a little gentler next time?"

"Sorry, my hands were in the middle of withering and falling off, I haven't considered that." The groan that escapes you makes Grace shoot you an apologetic look. You're both tired, and you did just haul a container full of microbe capturing slides down to the lab. You stretch, flexing the muscles of your bare arms, trying to restore circulation. Beside you, Grace falls silent, looking from you to the whiteboard. The tips of his ears flush a light shade of red.

"Not to be a Doubting Debbie, but I would reckon you have enough strength in you to snap a piece of rebar clean in half, not just drag a sampler up here." The phrase makes you pause and shoot an inquisitive stare his way, eyebrow raised. Grace is not looking at you though, and you can clearly see a blotch of red spreading from his ears.

"I mean, not that I doubt that you could haul it here! Because you did. It’s right in front of me. Yup." He's gesturing wildly again. Uh oh, the lead scientist of Hail Mary is on his way to go on yet another tangent. "But uh. Well. Honestly, you'd think with your brawn we could drag most of Rocky's heavy equipment in here! Or an extra sampler, just in case. Together, we could even…"

"Grace. You're doing it again." There's a frustrated strain in your voice. For all your unyielding love for this man, Grace can't stop talking when the situation clearly demands it. Just like now: you're extremely annoyed and sleep-deprived, and he all but refuses to go sleep with you or focus on the problem. If you don't stop him now, Ryland will not stop shoving his foot in his mouth.

"Right! Sorry, that was weird. Should have probably not said anything at all. What a strange, strange thing to say...I mean. Sorry. It was meant as a compliment- Didn't mean to imply that I view you as a pack mule or anything! It's ju-" he waves his hands again, and the loose cap of the marker he's been holding flies off and hits you in the forehead. That does it.

The next second is a blur. With a surprising burst of energy, you surge forward, clamping your whole palm against Ryland's mouth. He lets out a startled yelp, but a little too late: you're already shoving him with the momentum of your whole body. The movement is a little more abrupt than intended, and the scientist stumbles backward, hitting his back against the wall with a dull thud. Something clutters to the ground, but you don't care to even look back at whatever it was: in your attempt to pause Grace's rambling you've trapped him between you and the wall, one of your legs slotting between his. You’ve literally pinned the man down with your weight. With brows furrowed and palm firmly pressed against his lips, you stare him down. A frustrated noise leaves you and he gawks back, eyes bigger than saucers.

"Ryland. Stop. Talking." It comes out something between a rumble and a growl. "Or I swear I'll make you."

To your surprise, Grace stills instantly. The silence that sets around you finally allows you to focus more clearly on your surroundings, and you sigh with relief as the headache gradually subsides. Lowering your head forward to take a few breaths of air, you try to calm your nerves after the sudden onset. By the time you look up again-

Grace is bright red. Almost as red as his spacesuit. The blush had spread from the tips of his ears to his neck, visible even in the dim light of the room you were in. You're sure his ears would be steaming if he were any redder. What is that about? Just as you're about to break away from him and apologize, maybe check him over for any bumps or bruises your sudden outburst has dealt, you shift your weight forward and Ryland makes a sound. It's muffled against your fingers, but it's there. Somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, hot breath sending goosebumps against your skin. Pause.

Your head is spinning. The lead scientist of Hail Mary is squished against the wall, pressed firmly against your chest, and he just whimpered. You just slammed a man into the wall, and he whimpered. And not the bad kind by the sound of it, either.

All the exhaustion and mild annoyance at Grace melts away in an instant; now there's a wild cocktail of emotions boiling under your skin.

One part of you is screaming that you should immediately let go and apologize profusely, maybe throw yourself out of the airlock for good measure. You did just manhandle Ryland into the wall out of nowhere. Even if you both have been cautiously exploring a more...romantic side of your coexistence, it never went further than a heated kiss or an intentional brush of fingers. Even if the both of you would sneak glances at each other, even if you inched closer with each passing day, this position is compromising every unspoken rule you thought was there.

But another part of you, like a hawk eyeing a particularly plump rabbit, watches the scientist standing before you in fascination. Grace is trying to be deathly still; heart hammering so hard you can feel it through the fabric of his shirt. He's fidgeting ever so slightly in your grasp. So far, he's making no move to shove you off, and to his credit he is being very complacent with the 'be quiet' request. Screw it.

You shift your knee ever so slightly from where it's slotted between his legs, mimicking a movement of pulling away. Your thigh brushes against Ryland's crotch, and the reaction is instant. He lets out a strangled sound, breath hitching and eyelids fluttering shut for a spell. The man is rock hard against your leg. There is a wild excitement pooling in your gut: did your demand affect him? Or was it the fact that you're literally breathing into his face from how close you're standing?

"...did you want me to?" you rumble, fingers easing off his mouth just a little. It's a genuine question, as much as it is an inquiry. You need to know if this is what he wants: after all, he might just be scared mindless of you. Fear and arousal do stand close together in a hormonal mesh of the human's physiology. Grace is silent for a few heartbeats, breathing heavily into your palm. Just as you're about to back away and apologize for going too far, he gathers himself enough to make a sound of approval. A furious nod follows, his tousled blond hair flying in all directions.

There is a cautious, but pleased smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "What's that?"

Ryland strains, licking his lips under your hold. The way his tongue darts against your skin makes you want to sear this moment into your mind forever. "U-uh huuh-"

"Oh, so now you can't utter a sound. How little it takes," You press on, mock-annoyance tinging your voice just enough to make Grace shuffle in anticipation. His eyes are clouded with arousal, but never leave your face, obeying the unspoken command: Stay Still. Shifting again, you give his hard-on an experimental grind with your knee, testing the waters. Grace all but melts, eyes rolling back in his skull. "I'm going to let you speak. And you will use your words proper for once. Was that a 'yes'?"

As you withdraw your hand a little, he makes a pathetic little sound at the loss. To his credit, he does find his voice to answer your demand. "Ye-ah. Yes, that- yeah."

"Nope. Try again, I didn't catch that."

"Yes! Fudging-...y-yes." He pouts, but complies to your demand.

"Hm." You huff, face inching closer to press your lips against the crook of his neck as a reward, feeling Grace relax ever so slightly with a soft gasp. Peppering gentle, barely-there kisses up to the junction right under his ear, you bite down; Ryland's yelp quickly melts into a whimper. So, the man likes it a little rough and is good at following commands when necessary. The thought makes you giddy. "Good boy." The way Grace jolts at the praise is divine.

You spend the next few minutes exploring the hollow of his throat with lips and teeth, still pinning the scientist to the wall with your weight. He's making all sorts of sounds that make your head spin: needy, wanton, muffled against the palm that's pressed snugly against his lips. It's a necessity; you are going to town on the researcher in the middle of the ship’s laboratory, and Rocky can wake up any second. Moreover, the bugger can see through walls, so there are going to be some awkward questions asked about why the only two humans on board are "fighting". Ryland just might die from embarrassment on the spot.

There's not much room for him to go anywhere, between the firm press of your body against his and the grinding of your thigh against his crotch growing more and more insistent. Ryland feels like he's about to explode. His throat is a mess of red bite marks, and you're not letting up your affections for even a fraction, the hand unoccupied with holding his mouth shut palming at his bucking hips. There's a wet patch already where his cock strains against the fabric of his pants.

Your fingers on his mouth feel a little damp from his breath and saliva. The way Grace leans into your touch so eagerly- it makes you wonder if this is the first time in forever since he has been touched like this. Or ever? An idea springs to your head almost instantly.

"Do me a favor, would you?" You slowly peel your hand away from his mouth, capturing his chin and pulling his face just enough to force his half-lidded eyes on you. "Let me see if your mouth is good for anything other than talk."

Before Grace can utter a word, you press a thumb against his lips. They're softer than expected, wet and silky against your touch. Grace keens pathetically, eyes fluttering shut when he understands the assignment. There's barely any resistance when he opens his mouth, letting the digit in with no protest at all. You stare in awe as Ryland presses his tongue flat against your finger, giving it an experimental lap. It's hot, wet, and absolutely obscene. You can't help the breath that hitches in your throat at the sight. So you don't let up, pressing and prodding. Just before he can get accustomed to the feeling of your thumb swiping along his tongue, you shift your hold, slipping the index and the middle finger into his mouth in its stead. The digit that was just in the silky heat of his mouth is now slick with saliva, resting on the man’s stubble as you hold his face.

Grace winces ever so slightly, but welcomes the intrusion with a barely audible groan. Your fingers press deeper, eyes transfixed on how Ryland's dealing with it: face flushed, eyes squeezed shut, hair an even worse mess than before. There's a tiny string of drool coming down the side of his mouth, escaping unnoticed while he's doing such a diligent job of sucking on the digits exploring his mouth. You feel like a rabid animal. You want this man ruined and pleading.

There's an erratic urgency to how Ryland's hips stutter and buck against your touch, grinding down to get whatever friction he can. As much as you want to drag this out for hours, completely obliterating Grace's ability to form a coherent thought or go on another tangent for the next few days, this is but a taste test. And so far Ryland's doing swimmingly. You make an approving sound, fingers hooking the waistband of his pants and underwear, pulling them down just enough to let his cock out of the confines. It springs free, flushed and leaking copious amounts of precome. Grace's whine is loud around the fingers in his mouth.

"Hey. Shush." Despite how crazed you are, you still put on a damn good show of growling at him. Grace starts, thighs trembling, eyes blown wide and unfocused. His glasses are fogged up, hanging on the very tip of his nose. He's so very pliant in your hands, pressed against the wall, completely at your mercy. "Be a good boy, stay quiet. I'll make it worth your while, can you do that for me?"

The poor man is trembling from how hard he is, yet still nods his head furiously. The glasses nearly fly off him in the process, staying on by some sort of miracle. You can't help but feel endeared: now it seems he would bend over backwards to listen to you, when you have his undivided attention.

That's when your fingers finally wrap around his cock, giving it a slow, firm stroke from the base to the tip, thumb smearing the wetness there. Judging by the quiet sob that escaped Ryland's lips, one would think that his soul had been evacuated from this sorry plane of existence. It's a bit of an awkward angle, you're still very much squishing Grace into the wall to keep him from falling. Judging by the shaking of his legs, he would tumble like a ragdoll if you weren't propping him up; in response to your actions, Grace makes a sound that is somewhere between a groan and a whine, barely audible but unapologetically pathetic.

It's a sight to behold, and behold you do, eyes transfixed on his face as you stroke his cock in languid pace. A twist of the wrist here, a circling of your thumb around the overly sensitive head of his cock there, and Grace starts falling apart at the seams. He bites down hard on the index finger in his mouth to keep as quiet as possible, trying to follow the order given to him. You hiss at the delightful pang of pain. There is an undeniable pressure building in your gut: just seeing how Ryland unravels within the constraints he's been put in is enough to kick you into high gear.

Grace's lips are red and slick with spit by the time you withdraw fingers from his mouth with a wet pop, a string of saliva following them. He looks like an absolute wreck. You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, lapping at the line of spit sticking to his skin. His hips are jerking into your hand at mach speed by now, stuttering every time you slow your movements to delay his orgasm; when you hear a broken, barely audible plea fall from his lips- only then you finally decide to pity him.

"Good boy. Doing such a fantastic job," you coo, and Grace seizes up, a broken sob leaving him. "Let go, I've got you, I've got you."

Seems the praise, as well as the obscene hell you just pushed him through, finally do their job: Ryland's fingers dig into your forearms hard enough to bruise, head thrown back against the wall in a silent scream as he spills into your fist. The pleasure hits him like a punch to the gut, sweeping him under the current with a blinding flash of heat. Grace is making a mess of your hand and the floor as he comes, but you don't give a single damn; the sight of him, pulled taut like a bowstring in your hold, filthy wet sounds of flesh slapping against flesh...you're pretty sure you've gone irreversibly insane, pumping him through the aftershocks. You don't stop until there is a glisten of tears in his eyes, driving the man up the wall to the point that is bordering on overstimulation.

By the time he softens in your palm, Grace can only be described as a boneless mass. You hold him through it, kissing his bitten neck and blazing-red face, whispering praises to help him come down from his high. You only release him from your tight grasp when his cock is tucked back into his pants and you're sure he won't faceplant the moment you are not leaning your full weight on him. It takes a few good minutes for Grace to come back to you.

"I-...uhm." The scientist's voice is hoarse when he speaks up again, body still wracked with the aftershocks. "That. Thaa-at was-"

His eyes focus enough to take the sight of you in. Now that you are not literally squishing him into the lab wall, Grace can finally admire the sight of you through teary eyes. You're just as disheveled as he is, face blazing with a furious blush, breathing ragged and hands fighting as to not tremble. Like the two of you just ran a marathon instead of humping away in a dark corner of the lab like two lovesick teenagers.

With a steadying sigh, you lean back. Your mind is nearly completely empty, but the mischief of the stunt that you had just pulled is still coursing through your veins like liquid fire. Sneaking a glance at the mess of your hand, you eye the fingers still covered with Grace's release. There is a wild sparkle in your eye that Ryland should honestly fear by now, if only for his ability to feel shame. "Wait. What are y-"

His eyes widen. Breathlessly he gawks at you when you slowly bring up the fingers to your face, the mess that he’s made glistening in the low light of the lab. You put on a show, lapping at the cum staining your hand, mimicking what he did to your fingers not a few moments ago. Staring at your tongue as it sweeps up the streaks of his release, Ryland feels like he is going to either pass out or get another raging boner from the view. Only when you deem the job well done and the molecular biologist flustered sufficiently do you lean forward and kiss him in a slow, hungry motion, letting him taste his own cum on your tongue.

By the time you finally pull away for good, there is a sense of smugness to you that Grace is sure would kill him. He's still squeezing your forearms with a white-knuckled grip.

"You're gonna be the- hff, death of me. Holy cow."

"That's what you get, mister." You huff a laugh, voice strained. "Told you I could make you shut up."

Grace is trying to brush his hair back from where it sticks to his sweat-slicked forehead. He proceeds to make it even worse in the process. "...does that mean you'll, uh. Do that whenever I run my mouth for too long? Or miss out on sleep. This is an important inquiry."

You can't help but roll your eyes, grabbing his shoulder tightly to pull him away from the wall and towards you. There is no protest from Grace this time, only the warmth of his body pressed against your side and his hand resting timidly on your waist. The astrophage sampler is still on the table where you’d left it, long abandoned, and the lab looks like someone ransacked it. That is a problem for tomorrow though. You guide Grace back to the sleeping quarters, helping him find his footing when he wavers and relishing in the way he presses against you, yearning for your touch. You flash him a weary but smug smile whenever he tries to pipe up about how there is still work for him to do; any protests die down when you squeeze his shoulder a little harder in your embrace, a reminder to listen to you when you demand something of him. Seems he got the memo.

"So...that's a yes? Maybe? What are my chances?"

"Focus up, space cowboy.”

There was a hint of humor in your voice, just enough to avoid sounding reproachful. If he hadn't been busy fiddling with his helmet's lock, Grace would have shot you a grin. In fact, he did just that, pausing his ministrations long enough to smile at you. It came out more worried than cheeky.

“I’m serious! You better make it quick, Grace. In and out, limbs intact and collector in hand, got it?" Your fingers were hovering over the primary flight displays, face turned away from him. The blue felt jacket, NASA embroidery and space-themed patches on every surface, stood in stark contrast to the soft green glow of the approaching planet. Your shoulders were set.

Grace thought he'd known you long enough to say that with certainty: beneath the layers of protective walls and professionalism, there was nervousness. For the first time in forever, you resembled the image Grace had pieced together from your brief interactions on Earth. Back then, you were nothing more than an ace pilot on a suicide mission. Always so professional, like you had a stick up your butt, Grace swore he heard you grind your teeth every time someone from the neighboring flight unit asked a stupid question. The scientist only learned that it was a defense mechanism after you confided in him in the bar one evening, aboard the Stratt’s aircraft carrier. You were slightly tipsy and lacking that deadly serious resolve, and he could finally put his guard down after you barked a laugh at one of his awkward jokes.

Granted, that was after you scared the heck out of him just a few days prior. He remembered trying to spark a conversation with you in the halls, and you whipped your head to look at him so violently that Grace tripped on his shoelaces and smacked his face into the metal wall.

"Remember what I told you, you take longer than ten minutes and I'm pulling us out, tether be damned." There it was, the ace pilot in you speaking.

"What, scared for me, pilot-engineer?" he chimes back, checking and re-checking equipment. Rocky whistled something about words of great encouragement. You were still not looking at him. Grace knew you didn’t mean it; it's a defense mechanism. When you get nervous, you make a show of being irritated by his smartass behavior; in turn, he makes a show of being offended by your comments. It’s a good old song and dance, except-

“...Just come back safe, Ryland." It came out so quiet, he had to pause to hear it mid-fiddling with the space suit. In the process, he dropped the helmet straight on his leg and yelped something non-expletive. Before he could call you out- "Approaching Tau Ceti-E. Status: optimal."

Right. He'll ask about that later. Now it's time go fishing.

If you were to recall it, everything was going along swimmingly before. And by "swimmingly”, you meant "teetering on the brink of disaster at every turn." Like all good things are. Frankly, the start had been promising: from Rocky weaving a long enough xenonite chain to launch his taumoeba harvester into Adrian's atmosphere, to you teaching Ryland how to operate most of the ship without breaking anything, just in case. So, most of the plan went along well until the both of you started arguing on who's going outside to collect the "lure". The fool of a man was going to risk his life, a very precious life of the only toot-and-scoot-star-eating-thing scientist, mind you, on going outside into the incredibly dangerous environment to reel in a glorified hexagon full of alien bacteria.

You protested, huffing at Grace's attempts to make it seem like a good idea. Honestly, if it weren't for Rocky's timely encouragement, you'd just stuff the man into the cockpit and go have a refreshing night of fishing yourself. Being the only capable pilot be damned; your stomach began to twist unpleasantly every time you imagined Grace on the hull, and the million things that could go wrong with him. Alas, it was two against one, and you had to relent, drawing out, "Ugh, fine! You win, but if you waste more than ten minutes on this, I'll fly us out without a warning."

The way Grace gasped indignantly and dropped the miniature volleyball he'd been playing with a moment ago had you snickering aloud. He immediately started sputtering something while you tried to explain to the exasperated rock alien that no, you would never just fly off without the scientist you both knew and loved, it's a joke, please stop freaking out. You graciously skipped over the part where a deep sense of dread, perhaps for the first time in a long while, settled into your bones. This plan had no room for error; smallest mistake and Grace gets his puppy-eyed self ejected into the superheated atmosphere, never to be seen again. The humanity would not survive that. Neither you nor Rocky would recover. And in all truth, you wouldn't forgive yourself; so perfection was the only way out of the "fishing" situation.

You really hoped your face didn't betray your thoughts.

A heavy feeling washed over you then, and you leaned back in the plastic chair, crossing your arms in a quick, habitual motion. The weight hung over your head like an invisible sword of Damocles. Ryland was already busy explaining the finer points of humor to Rocky, thankfully oblivious to your frowning, yearning gaze. Damn it, keep it together! You'll inflate his ego even more, and then where will you be?

Hopefully in a better place than you ended up in.

The situation went from "going along swimmingly" to "oh, we're in deep shhhhi-iiingles", as Grace would have put it if he'd been around and or conscious. Honestly, you would have appreciated his clumsy attempt at humor or definitely-not-nervous chatter right now. Anything but that disorienting, unrelenting ringing in your ears that prevented any other sounds from penetrating its thick wall. Hell, you'd rather have Rocky's hysterics and his translator software screaming, "BAD! BAD! BAD! ROCKY DIE. GRACE ROCKY FRIEND DIE. GRACE DIE."

You know what? Actually, let’s skip over that part. The timeline of events that replayed itself over and over in your oxygen-starved mind was hectic enough without it. You let out a pained groan and tried once more to tear your face away from the cracked displays in front of you. If this is happening to you, imagine what Grace must be going through!

Grace. As Rocky so eloquently put it, the scientist had gone off on his little fishing trip, leaving you alone with the task of keeping the ship afloat in Adrian's atmosphere, eyes glued to the displays. You'd never admit to being nervous, absolutely not. However, you were extremely concerned that Grace would be heading there in a few minutes after your brief chat.

"Come on, old girl, you've gotten us this far." Your hand had caressed the surface of the numerous panels in front of you, trying to calm your nerves and strike up a casual conversation with the Hail Mary. She didn't answer, more's the pity.

Honestly, you were doing pretty good for yourself for a while. Flying the ship backwards was no easy task, but years of training had helped you and your rocky navigator maneuver just low enough to get the samples. That is, until Grace was knocked off his feet by debris and almost fell off the ship trying to get that damn box.

It all went down like a lead balloon. The ship began to lose altitude. You couldn't lift off, despite your earlier reprimands to Grace: there was no way you would do that without risking his life. The thought alone made you want to hurl yourself out of the airlock. Your grip on the manual controls turned your knuckles white with tension as the planet's colorful aurora rose around the burning spaceship. Cursing under your breath, you’d sent Rocky to catch the heavily breathing and concussed molecular biologist as soon as he threw himself back into the airlock with a loud clang.

Space fisherman secured, now came the time to get the hell out of dodge. Your hands pulled the joysticks as Mary groaned and fought its way out of the atmosphere. You were going to tear Ryland a new one after you were done dragging the three of you out of here. You were going to collapse and cry about how you almost lost him right after, if you were allowed that luxury.

Your fingers tapped on the telemetry screens fervently while Rocky was busy bumping his xenonite ball against Grace's wobbly legs in the airlock, urging them both to come back to the helm. Hopefully they were both safe if shaken, because you were too busy scrambling with the controls to ask over the intercom. It didn't matter. The pilot was getting them out of here. You were getting them out of here.

Per aspera ad astra.

In your mind's eye, the next few minutes were a blur, a perfect cocktail of everything that had gone wrong. The briefest moment of weightlessness. A breach in the astrophage tank hull. A sudden, violent change in direction and the pull of gravity as Tau Ceti-E locked you from escaping its atmosphere. The debris, which struck the side of the ship with enough force to send Mary into a downward trajectory despite your best efforts to avoid just that. Both your crewmates plummeted somewhere outside the cockpit and you were flung backward against the communication array. It flashed blindingly white, no doubt breaking something in the intercoms. But you didn't have time to check: the intense pull of the centrifuge yanked brutally at the pilot’s seatbelts and threw you, already concussed and discombobulated, against the panels. The sickening crack of your face coming into contact with them rang out clearly before you could do anything to snap off the artificial gravity.

This was bad. No, this was terrible.

The pull was grueling, its relentless pressure on your body a sign of physics' superiority over man. You reached out once and once again, shaking fingers just short of snapping the final lever. You couldn't take in any oxygen, and it...was starting to look like a futile effort, all things considered. By this point, it was becoming quite clear that you wouldn't escape with just a broken nose.

Your body, normally a well-oiled machine, was failing you in real time. Bits and pieces going numb here and there, like light bulbs exploding in the hallway in one of those cheesy horror movies Ryland insisted you watch. In your delirium, your mind began to imagine pop-up error messages as if mirroring Hail Mary's sorry state. An imaginary robotic voice recited the lines, exacerbating your already dire mental state. Error. Lungs not working. Concussion detected. Broken ribs, detected. Remaining power: 15%. Two minutes until shutdown. It would have been so dramatic if the lives of two other crewmates hadn't weighed on you as heavily as the gravitational pull of a gas planet. Adrian still refused to let go of you with Ryland's catch, like a giant fish ready to drag the fisherman down with it.

Ryland. Somewhere out there, the poor man and your shared interstellar friend were probably dying to your negligence. You needed to get your act together, post-haste.

So you struggled. Against the fatigue, suffocation, and the planet's gravity, struggled trying to reach those damn switches that were still too far away, your fingertips barely touching the smooth, hot plastic. As if you could defy the laws of physics and give them a fat middle finger while at it. It wasn't happening, and your hand was about to fall limply to your side as you resigned yourself to the inevitable.

And then you heard it, through the roar of blood in your ears and the blaring warnings of the onboard computers about a low-altitude signal. A distant, inhuman screech somewhere in the many rooms of the aircraft. It snapped your synapses into focus, zeroing in on Rocky's panicked whistles. Both of them were still out there, the weight of the lives that would save the universe hanging on your shoulders precariously.

Another scared screech rang out through the Hail Mary, computer voice ringing out a loud "GRACE!" that rendered your soul apart.

 Something inside your cracked ribcage tightened like a bowstring, then snapped. Adrenaline surged like a tidal wave, pushing back the darkening haze before your eyes. With a violent push of newfound strength, you threw out your hand one more time, fingers finally coming into contact with the centrifugal controls and slamming them down with a brutal force. Outside, the world still looked like a red-green blur as the damaged parts of the Hail Mary flew off with a hiss, easing off the pull towards the planet. Finally, you were able to tear yourself away from the consoles. The flickering screens before your eyes were now cracked and slick with blood.

There was...quite a lot of it, you now realized. It had pooled up the side of your face, hot crimson strings coming from the very broken nose and split jaw and up your ear. It would be quite disgusting if you weren't busy finally, finally pulling Hail Mary out of hell.

 There was no time to contemplate anything. Adrenaline and unquenchable fire coursed through your veins as you yanked the controls so hard they threatened to tear clean off, a guttural roar escaping your abused lungs. The Hail Mary groaned and creaked, answering your animalistic call, and slingshot itself out in a wide circle.

Nothing tethered you to the seat anymore. You felt like you were in a jar of honey. An insect in amber, only the insect was you, and the amber was the absence of gravity. The world stopped and quieted down to a barely-there ringing; compressed in the claustrophobic space of the red-lit cockpit, the computers were still pointing out all the errors and damage done to the poor hull. At least there was no more awful pull and squash, and no more nausea-inducing nightmare. All that remained was the sound of blood roaring in your head and the deathly silence all around.

You drew in a shaky breath, immediately regretting it as a searing wave of pain washed over you, the adrenaline's work becoming undone. Your body slumped back against the pilot's seat, head lolling to the side from the less-than-graceful movement. Everything felt...heavy. You were tired. So very tired, actually. You were still going to chew out Grace for being so careless, but that could wait for now. He was still out there somewhere in the Hail Mary, hopefully alive.

Poor man. "No, brave man," you corrected yourself as your vision began to darken and blur around the edges, hands no longer clutching the joysticks. “The bravest man out there.”

It frightened you that Grace was in no hurry to return here; he didn't even let you know he was okay, didn't freak out like a deer in headlights, and didn't try to pull you out of your seat with a shriek louder than the roar of the engines.

Damn it, you were tired. Too tired, and it wasn't doing you or your teammates any good. Your glance came up to the screen, still very much damaged by your whole face and chest striking it. Beneath all the pixels, glitches, and sticky crimson film covering the display, a digital image of Mary was visible. Shit, you'd left a significant dent in the metal and glass, something to ask Rocky if he could fix after you pull yourself out of the pilot's chair and come congratulate them both on mission success. As if you didn't almost doom the whole mission. Was it you who did that? Probably.

Somewhere on the peripheral, you could hear Rocky frantically rushing toward the cockpit in his glorified hamster ball. With a considerable effort, you tried to call out to him, but only a wheeze came out. Rocky must have been through so much already. He and Grace deserved better, you thought to yourself, sliding forward like a puppet with its strings cut. Teetering on the edge for only a moment, you fell off the chair with a dull thud, abused face and body connecting with the ground. Grace was still out there, probably hurt. You needed to get up and stop kissing the floor. Your limbs didn't get the memo.

Attempting recalibration. Error. Status: very bad. Lungs damaged. Head damaged. Ribs damaged. Feeling in legs: not detected. Residual power: 1%. ??? before shutdown.

 Could this be less dramatic? Apparently your imagination runs on the same software that Hail Mary does.

The clinking of rock legs against the xenonite floors of Rocky's enclosure keeps you anchored in this state just long enough to try and raise yourself from the ground. You need to get up. You need to congratulate Rocky on his plan working. You need to ask how Grace is. You need to check on Grace. He's out there, and you need to check if he's okay. This torment of guilt wracking your unruly body is doing nothing to soothe you.

"GRACE SECURE THE PREDATOR. WE GET OUT HERE, NOW-..." A pause, then confused clicks. You manage to crack your eyes open to sneak a glance down the hallway from your less than comfortable spot on the floor, the silent question ‘What’s the holdup?’ playing in your head. If you focused…there. A strange shimmer where there shouldn't have been anything, as if the air in the hallway had blocked Rocky from reaching the helm. You frowned: this flight deck never had a door-

Then it clicked. Shit, the entrance to the cockpit must have been blocked by the parts of the xenonite panes. You distinctly remember leaving some of them behind earlier. You and Grace were trying to extend Rocky's tunnel to the panels so he could more easily access the payload control system. You never did finish it, leaving the steel-hard panel hanging haphazardly in the hallway. It must have crashed into the entrance and trapped you inside the flight deck when the centrifuge started. Great, just great.

Frantic clink-clink-clink outside of your field of vision. Come on, get up, you sorry sack of-

Error. Body functions insufficient. Damage too severe. Shutting down.

Your eyelids snapped open at the sound of Rocky's desperate shrieks. You must have momentarily lost consciousness, but you weren't sure. Stone claws were banging on the side of the glassy interior, chirps and whistles suddenly incomprehensible to your ears. Maybe you were just too tired to understand him by now, or maybe the translation program had broken down. You'd fix it after a brief rest, just-

Rocky is already slamming his whole body against the walls of his sphere, trying to dismantle the obstacle. Two planes of glossy material separate you, blurring the eridian's outline slightly. Unfortunately for you, even in this addled state, your hearing clearly picked up the distinctive sound of your name on his tongue - melodic and tinged with fear.

"Hey-" your voice stops his freak-out dead in its tracks. "Is...is Mr. 'I Go Fish' okay?" A chirp, and then a twirl serves as an answer from Rocky. You know the eridian won't leave his side if the situation becomes critical. Or maybe he did leave and rushed to get your help for Ryland. Poor Grace, maybe he's hurt somewhere out there. A nasty thought of ‘yet another person you've failed, great job’ surfaces and torments your rapidly fading mind, guilt digging sharp claws into the broken frame of the machine that is you.

Another frantic screech, another round of banging from the eridian. Error. Error. Shutdown imminent. Your vision blurs with unshed tears, making Rocky's silhouette even blurrier. He sings your and Grace's names in his melodic language. It tears you apart.

“...save him.” Your voice is barely audible as you look at your dear rock-spider-thing friend, losing the last of your strength. Poor Rocky lets out a distressed hum, three claws extended and pounding the wall as if trying to grab you from where you're sprawled on the ground. You press on, losing light and feeling all over. "Promise me, please?"

Rocky makes a series of whistles and shifts closer to the blockage, like he's contemplating hauling his frantic self back from where he came, turning what was supposed to be his face back and forth between you and the dark hall behind him.

"I jus’...need a lil shut-eye, youknow?" You were already slurring your words, though really you didn't need to speak clearly around such a perceptive, ‘I-see-through-walls’ crew member. "It's been a long day. You watch?" A low chirping hum and a nod. Good. Good. You make the tiniest of efforts, pulling yourself just enough to curl up against the cool surface of the wall behind you. Rocky bumps heavily against the wall separating you with, pressing in as close as he could.

His frantic song pipes up again as you finally close your eyes, exhaling the air along with that languid feeling that has been lingering within you for so long.

Somewhere on Erid, years after a moment forever etched in the amber of consciousness, Ryland Grace still sat on the shore of his biodome, absentmindedly fiddling with a tiny plastic object he brought with him. The thing in his fingers seemed unfazed by these manipulations, mercifully oblivious to the way its surface was smoothed again and again by human touch. Whatever initial had once been on it was no longer visible, worn down to the smoothness of the pebbles that littered the beach where Grace sat. Truly a miracle of eridian engineering.

Grace didn't even glance at the flimsy piece of plastic he was fiddling with, instead staring out at the seemingly endless expanse of ocean. He didn't need to see it to know what it was. Just an ordinary key from one of the Hail Mary’s laptops. Heck, he still remembered how it came into his possession. Five years ago, when their merry band was stranded in space, it had simply flown into his temple. Not even an intentional happening! Grace knew that by the "Oh god DAMN it, not again!"  that resonated in the lab as the suddenly airborne object clinked against the side of his face, making him do an exaggerated "ow" when it bounced off and cluttered to the ground.

"Oh that did NOT hurt and you know it," came the reply from across the room. The owner of that voice was both amused and slightly annoyed by what had just happened. Pausing their work on the laptop that housed Rocky's speech translator, they rose from their seat with a slight creak of the joints to pick up the keycap-turned-projectile.

"Oh good! It's great to know that my well-being is the least of your worries!" Grace joked back to the pilot-engineer, earning himself a disgruntled sigh. “Looks like the taumoeba research will fall on your shoulders, oh bother…”

"Want me to kiss it better?" The answer hit him like a punch in the face, causing Grace to cough just as he drew in a breath and immediately choked on it. Real smooth. The engineer-pilot-comedian was now looking directly at him, eyes crinkled with amusement as they searched his suddenly frozen expression.

"Well? C'mere then, cowboy."

"WOAH NELLY. PAUSE. WH-"

"Then pull your punches, Grace." If he wasn’t busy being flustered at the deadpan offer, he would have elbowed his lab partner in the ribs. Not too hard, of course, he wasn't that mean. And he was fond of the owner of those ribs. Besides, Rocky might notice and try to replicate that and then both of the humans on board would be in trouble. "Help me look, would you?"

Grace then had to pretend to look for the keycap for five or ten minutes in very close proximity to his search buddy. After bumping into each other with an apologetic hiss a few times, the pilot give up on the idea altogether. With a sigh of annoyance, they reached out and placed their hand on Grace's shoulder, patting it with an overly warm palm, before returning to their laptop and trying to improvise something to accommodate for the loss of a keycap. (“Do you think Rocky can wait a bit for me to come up with something? Or is he gonna be calling us ‘Grac and Grac Frind’ for the next few days? Ugh, don't answer, that's awful.”)

Their touch stayed with him for a few hours after, and he had to make sure his glasses didn't fog up whenever he replayed the gentle moment in his head. And to think, this was the same person who had scared the bejesus out of him back on Earth. The same one that looked at him with hidden adoration whenever Grace sneaked glances in turn. Not to brag, but the scientist was very proud of the fact that he had been the one to break through the protective shell of his pilot (who, by necessity, had become a pilot-engineer). And Rocky, of course. Rocky also helped a ton.

The little rascal of a key was later pointed out by Rocky, lying among the taumoeba test tubes. Grace decided to keep it for whatever reason. Not like the laptop needed it anymore, since Rocky made a new key for it right after the incident. And now this piece of plastic has turned into something like an anti-stress toy in Grace’s cold fingers.

Ryland froze, closed his eyes, and shook his blonde head. It’s far too early for that. The artificial sun hasn't even risen yet to warm the air around him, and memories of the past made Grace either want to hurl the innocent plastic rectangle into the water or double over and have a much-deserved ugly cry. It had been several years since the Hail Mary mission had succeeded, and perhaps a little while since Grace had settled into his new life on Erid with Rocky's help.

He needed to come to terms with what happened, if only for his own sake. Grace has (to some extent) come to terms with everything that came before, heck! He's finally made peace with the fact that he was essentially drugged and sent on a suicide mission against his will.

So why did every time he stopped and glanced back at the spare jacket in his closet, his eyes still stung like hell and his breath caught in his throat? The very same one that was now hugging his frame?

He knew the answer. And so did Rocky, who came to visit him every day at Grace's wonderful new home. He'd skitter in, delighted to see his beloved leaky space blob, and then tense up when he ran past Armando's little station.

There, neatly folded, it lay on the dresser. Out of the way but never truly hidden. The faded blue piece of clothing that Ryland couldn't bring himself to wear, NASA's embroidery still on the front like a tiny glimpse of the past. Even the silly patch of Snoopy in an astronaut suit was still there. Grace couldn't muster any strength to wear it. He couldn't bring himself to hide it somewhere no one could reach, either.

It didn’t belong to him. But his selfish past self had kept it, and now his current self had to live with the consequences. Thanks, brain.

His wobbly legs carried him toward the cockpit. Only a few seconds had passed since he'd woken up in med bay, but Grace was already feeling like he’d throw up from anxiety. Rocky rested in the same room as him when he came to, mournful even in his sleep. But you weren’t there. Where are you? Where the heck are you?

 The ship's hallways flickered with the same ominous red light, and Grace stumbled through the spilled mercury that Rocky had left behind. Back to the cockpit. Where are you? He called your name, your rank. Nothing. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the cockpit entrance. Shattered xenonite, mercury- that's where Rocky had climbed out of his sphere to save him, nearly dying in the process. But why in the cockpit, why not in the airlock…

 Terror settled firmly in the molecular biologist's stomach as he was forced to crouch through a hole in the glossy material. His eyes took a long time to adjust to the darkness and the flickering red light. Where are-

On the floor. A blue felt jacket, stained with dark red-

The scream that tore from Grace's chest echoed throughout the ship.

Ryland’s eyes stung.

By now it wasn't a mystery why he was currently fighting ugly tears. Not while twirling around the discarded keycap in his fingers. Not when your jacket hung on his shoulders like a long-forgotten embrace, flapping ever so slightly in the wind.

Grace couldn't stop long enough to properly mourn. Everything was too heavy at the time, too much responsibility. He'd spent too much time on the taumoeba, sending it back to Earth, rescuing Rocky, flying to Erid, nearly starving in the process and establishing a new home here. He hadn't stopped to think about anything but survival and logistics. It was no surprise that it all came flooding back to him now that he'd stopped running and found this new happiness. He has grieved Ilyukhina and Yáo, however briefly he knew them for. Even all his previous life, now lost. But he has not grieved you. Not fully. Not beyond the cold numbness and fat silent tears as he took your bag with him from the living quarters. Surprising, because Grace knew himself to get hit with emotion at the most inopportune times.

He muses that this is just like you. Hitting him in the metaphorical gut with the punctuality of an aircraft pilot. Not in the middle of very important work. Not in the middle of slowly going insane in the aptly named "Don't Go Crazy" room. Or even mid-conversation with Rocky about the nature of all life.

No, you were always the ticking clock out of the last two humans on Hail Mary. A calculated calm against Grace’s chaos. Like a swinging pendulum, you politely waited for the right moment when he was all alone, finally off his legs and having room to breathe. Grace would have been grateful if he hadn't felt like bursting into tears.

With a quiet, sad groan, he ran a hand over his face, knocking his glasses off his nose and letting them hang dangerously low on his neck. He wanted this wound to heal. You deserved to be remembered for more than just his grief, or because your last moments with him were spent in a small argument. Or because Grace never had the chance to ask you what you meant when he was struck by how soft those words sounded when you asked him to come back safely.

Your sacrifice in rescuing both of your charges from Adrian's atmosphere was subsequently honored by all eridians, and Rocky threw himself headfirst into doing just that after everything was set and done. Poor fella missed you something fierce. It was noble, sickeningly so, and Grace knew that if you were still there- you'd scoff and throw a humorous quip to rebuke any compliment coming your way. Crap, if he tried hard enough- he could hear your voice still, clear as day.

"...I can't believe you held onto this sorry thing for all these years."

The impression in Ryland's mind was...frighteningly accurate. Right down to your accent, down to the tired notes of your voice, which he'd last heard when he'd sent his and your logs to Stratt and Earth. He did not dare open his eyes, still burying his face in his hand, lost in the memory of the voice of his late engineer-pilot-lab partner.

"No, seriously. I'm-...uhm? Hello? Erid to Grace? Do you copy?"

Okay. The voice in his head was too accurate. It was bordering on madness now; Grace could almost picture you standing next to him, arms crossed, brow furrowed, staring into the distance. The wind flinging strands of your hair all over the place, the exhaustion of the past fifteen or so years softened by the newfound peace here, on Erid. Maybe you'd kick a stone into the water, leaving ripples on the bluish-gray surface. Maybe you'd shoot him that charming, slightly crooked smile you gave him every time he and Rocky had a breakthrough.

Grace groaned and mumbled something about going crazy before even being fifty, bracing himself to get up from the frankly cold shore. He didn't risk opening his eyes yet, squeezing the faded plastic of the Hail Mary laptop's keycap between his thumb and a pointer finger.

"...I think you’d really like it here. I remembered that you loved the sea; you always had such a calm expression on your face when you were out in the fresh air. Made your jaw clench less," he muttered under his breath, straightening up to stand. He had a busy day of school to prepare for, and melancholy in the middle of a beautiful morning was not exactly part of his plans.

“...I do love it here. You still won't answer the question, Doctor-Captain Ryland Grace."

With that, he fell on his ass rather disgracefully (hah), eyelids flying open in an instant. His poor glasses dropped down from his ear and into the saltwater with a tiny plop, and Grace had to spend a few awkward seconds retrieving them with a couple of non-curses dropped haphazardly here and there. When he finally retrieved and put the still-damp lenses back on, he was sure he had a crazed look on his face. Going insane in space was nothing he didn't know of. However, such vivid auditory hallucinations were something new, so he had to blink away the tears and fatigue from his eyes before he could make out the figure standing a few steps away.

There you were. Half-turned, just as he'd imagined you. The embroidered NASA jacket was missing from your shoulders, draped over Ryland's back instead, though you didn't seem to mind. In fact, you weren't even looking at him. Arms crossed over your chest, standing there, scanning the biodome's horizon, bathed in the soft, muted light filtering through the early fog. You wore the same calm expression you had whenever you stepped onto the deck of an aircraft carrier to look out to sea, or when you paused to admire the endless ocean of stars beyond the portholes of your spaceship. Calm, collected, but not a stone-serious pilot that you were once; no, something softer, something only Grace knew. You looked so real.

 Ryland's throat felt dry as a desert. "Oh, goody. I finally lost my mind, huh? Darn, I was hoping to teach the kids about the first law of thermodynamics today." Grace forced out a joke, hoping the hallucination of you would disappear once he addressed it directly. No luck. Instead, the version of you before him turned its head. You narrowed your eyes at him, and an all-too-familiar smile spread across your lips.

“I know that one. Energy cannot be created or destroyed. Do I get a sticker?” It was a small smartass moment from you, meant to lighten the mood, but Grace was too busy hyperventilating to point out that you were taking the spotlight of the resident nerd away from him.

"Hoo boy. Apparently not. Damn, here goes my streak," you huffed, voice thick with worry and so much endearment that Grace thought it would drown him. "Honesty though, you look like you've seen a ghost. So let me repeat myself. Erid to Ryland Grace, do you copy?"

The sound that escaped Grace was...well. It could be best described as "pathetic", maybe a little bit "like a squashed seagull". For a few heartbeats, he just sat there, gawking up at your form in the morning fog. The sight of the humanity's savior, gasping like a fish out of water at something so simple as a conversation partner? Now that was amusing. Amusing enough for you to let out a weary, if hearty chuckle. Ryland felt a sharp pang in his chest at the long-forgotten sound enveloping him.

"How...wh-. What? How are you here?" He waved his hand in a wild gesture, pointing at your amused figure, then at the house he'd left, and then back at you.

“Don’t exactly know.” Your shoulders slumped a little, but weariness didn’t replace the humor fully. It’s like you truly were supposed to be there, standing alongside Grace as the cold water soaked the hems of your spacesuit, because... well, you literally were standing nearly knee-deep in the sea, not joining Ryland on the shore. Yet, you were incredibly close, and he was about to jump in after you if you didn't press on. "Not sure? Somehow, that feels right. And you know me; I don’t deal in hypotheticals.”

“No, no you di-…don’t. Don’t deal in them. Yes. I knew that." The wind picked up, and Grace shuddered, his unsteady hands coming up to keep your coat in place on his shoulders. Your gaze softened at that, surveying his form, and within a few heartbeats you inched closer. Water sloshed around your ankles as you slowly, gently approached your molecular biologist, as if he were a ghost who would vanish if you moved too quickly. Like a startled fox that would give chase at the slightest sudden movement, Grace sat down in front of you. Incredibly still, the man didn't dare breathe as you knelt in the water at his eye level. None of you moved. Just two humans staring each other down in shock and indecision. You break the silence first, voice low and thick with emotion as you pointed at the jacket with a nod of your head.

“Can’t believe you kept it. Looks good on you.”

Grace sobbed. The dam had broken, and now the ugly tears he'd held back for so long poured out, rolling unabashedly down his cheeks. The sight broke your heart: the bravest man you'd ever known, doubled over and sobbing, the discarded piece of plastic he'd been fiddling with all this time being washed away by the waves now that it had slipped from his fingers.

For an agonizing moment, you sat there, helpless. Frozen. You always did this when you encountered something that was completely outside your area of ​​expertise. You knew what you were doing when it came to technology and aircraft; you understood the language of calculations and rigorous logic. On Earth, you were the voice of reason among your motley crew of pilots working for Stratt, and more than once you heard whispers behind your back about how you were a ‘fucking robot and not a human being’. Years later, locked in a tin can with Ryland, you thought wistfully to yourself that he must have felt the same way. Seriously, at first glance you were polar opposites. And then you got to know him better. And with that came a terrifying realization: you didn't know how to deal with your emotions.

Of the two of you, Grace was the bright flame that mirrored your cold water: he experienced every emotion known to man and did that unapologetically; he didn't shy away from the ugly and loud sides of human nature, and was open when you were hidden. He cried, laughed, danced, joked, tripped over everything that existed and didn't exist, acted like a charming idiot and was the bravest man in the world, and you were enchanted. You were very different from each other, and yet, like two opposing magnets, you became inseparable. He fell first, but you fell hard. And when you finally realized it? It scared you so bad that you locked yourself in the sleeping quarters and heaved there for an hour while your head spun. You had to ask Armando for anything that would stop your hyperventilating, it was that dire.

So no, you've never been the kind of person who handles emotions well. Even after Grace chipped down your defenses with jokes and conversation, helping you see that you weren't so different; after you tentatively took his arms to allow yourself to feel like something more than the sum of your parts... even after all that, the sight of Grace crying still sent you into a panic. Logic and reason were your forte, and it’s not like you didn’t know how to console a person. However, any time Grace’s eyes glistened with unshed moisture? Oh, you short-circuited alright. It made your chest tight and knocked your whole feigned balance off kilter. You felt so helpless, so clumsy, trying to comfort him. He'd once said it was kind of cute the way you looked: like there was a wild animal before you and you didn't know if it'd appreciate a pat on the head or if it would lunge for your throat. You would have smacked him upside the head for that if he hadn't pressed his tear-stained face flush against your neck, hugging you so tightly, as if your body were a lifeline. The way your mind was racing and your heart was pounding you thought you were having a heart attack. You managed back then, clumsily running your fingers through Grace's wild hair and soothing him with all the gentle words one could muster up. But that wouldn't fly now, would it?

The hypothetical says ghosts can’t touch anything, that’s their whole shtick. That’s what you probably were, right? Certainly no better explanation on your end, and so you watched with silent horror as humanity’s savior doubled over and broke down because of you. You never wanted this. You never wanted him to hurt, but fate had decreed this for both of you.

“Hey…come on now, space cowboy-“ Suddenly, something clicked. Not in your mind, but in your chest, and it had you settling where you knelt. Clenching and unclenching your fists, you cursed out the hypotheticals and slowly extended your arms forward, fingers outstretched. The movement was anything but calculated, but stopping now would mean failure. For a moment, you feared the worst: that you would simply pass right through Grace's heaving body and make things even worse. But then…

Your fingers brushed the frame of his glasses. Your eyes were probably bigger than saucers, and Grace was too busy to notice two things: first, he'd stained the lenses of his glasses with tears, and they were about to fall off his nose once again. Second, you caught them just before they could do so, fingers holding them in place in a silent awe. Okay, whatever you meant to do, you needed to keep doing it. So you pressed on, gently prying the tear-stained spectacles off of Grace's face and carefully folding them, not believing yourself for a second as you placed them on the sand.

Finally you found the resolve you’d been missing. Take that, hypotheticals, to hell with them all. To hell with logic, ghosts don't exist, and if they do, and if you're one of them? You had just touched something real, and you intended to continue doing just that. With a gentle, feather-light motion, your palms settled on Grace’s face, cupping his cheeks. His skin was so warm to your touch, hot and wet with tears, but you didn’t mind. His stubble scratched your fingertips where they rested against his face. It was the first real sensation in a long time, and it was glorious. Grace flinched, finally focusing his hazy gaze on you. It seemed that he finally realized the palms on his cheeks weren't his. His throat twitched as he swallowed, and you, overcome with emotion, mimicked the movement. Once again, you were the first to break the silence.

“…Hey.”

“H-hey.” Ryland’s voice was a little wet and strained from all the crying. He leaned into your touch as if transfixed, shuddering as your cold thumbs swiped the salt off his face. “Is this…is this real?” His fingers circled around your wrists, testing the waters, holding them tentatively yet firmly in place against his face. You were going to cry.

“As real as I can allow, it seems.” Your facade was crumbling. Saltwater crashed over you in waves, no doubt soaking Ryland's sneakers as well; his ankles were submerged by now, likely because he'd moved closer to you. That couldn’t have been comfortable for him. But he didn't try to retreat, far from it. Instead, he pressed forward. As if he knew the unspoken rule: you wouldn't meet him on the sand, so he took the first step and joined you where you knelt in the water, ever the gentleman. You had to make an effort to keep your voice from wavering as you piped up again, “Real enough for the both of us, for now. God damn it, I…” despite the general heavy feeling of mourning that had settled over you and Ryland, your chest shook with a disbelieving laughter.

“Wh-What’s so funny?” Grace sniffled, those gorgeous blue eyes transfixed on you. “Did I say something funny?”

“No, it’s not that. You know what’s crazy?” You probably looked wild to him: your eyes sad and bright, laughing out of nowhere. “God…this is the worst timing imaginable.”

The man huffed at that, furrowing his brows and sniffling once more. “Oh no you don’t. If I'm hallucinating, then you're explaining!" He pointed an accusatory finger your way. He looked so determined, despite his flushed face. You bit your lower lip harder than necessary to keep yourself from laughing.

“I…fuck. I really want to kiss you.” That probably didn't sound romantic at all. What do you expect from a probably-phantom, sitting with their ass in cold water?

“Say what.” Ryland blinked at you, his expression frozen in eternal stupor. "Okay. That’s, um...What, like right now?"

“Yes, right now. Snot and all.” You huffed in mock annoyance. “Though if you keep questioning me, I’ll settle on disappearing into the fog all mysterious. Never to be s-“

The way Ryland lunged, you’d think the man was an astrophage that sensed carbon dioxide. One moment he was sitting with his converse getting soaked in saltwater, the other? His arms were already balling in your shirt by the time you could utter so much as a gasp. It seemed your time for reflection was over: he yanked you forward, lips locking with yours in an instant. Now, it was your turn to behave like a fish out of water (how fitting, look where both of you are). It only lasted for a few heartbeats before you eased into him, palms still resting against the stubble on his face, relaxing into the death grip and the feeling of searing hot lips against yours. It’s…everything you were denied. Everything you ever wanted.

Grace kissed like a man starved. You’d think the nerd who unironically wore “I had potential” T-shirt would be more reserved in his affections, especially since he was literally busy making out with the person he mourned not ten minutes ago. But the molecular biologist was completely uninterested in bashful eyelid fluttering and oohs and aahs of it all. His nose was pressed slightly uncomfortably against yours, and if you hadn't removed his glasses, they would have definitely poked your eye out by now. And he kissed you, oh God, he kissed you with the fury of a blazing star. You had to make a conscious note of not melting right then and there. Grace would probably catch you anyway, but you didn't want to risk it. What a mood killer that would be.

Neither of you pulled away. This was bliss in its purest form: Ryland's lips on yours, chapped and hot where yours were clammy and cool. A soft, needy sound escaped him as you dared to release one hand from his face, running it down his neck. Your fingers, gliding along the faded blue of the jacket, trailed over his shoulder, down his arm, stopping at his knuckles, which were pressed tightly against your chest. Grace keened, breaking away from his overzealous attempts to map out your lips for a gasp of much-needed air, and squeezed his eyes shut as you gently ran a thumb over his knuckles in soothing circles. The spell was yet to break, so why not allow the briefest moment in the eye of the storm? One of Ryland's hands released its death grip on your shirt and cupped the back of your head. You reciprocated, pressing your forehead to his. You both simply existed like this, frozen and miserable on the shore of the biodome and neither of you gave a damn. Pressed close, claiming back the closeness denied to both of you. In a remarkable display of self-control, you didn't cry. Too busy imprinting every bit of Grace on the hard drive of your mind, mapping out and remembering how he felt. No doubt he was doing the same, enjoying the way your hands wrapped around his. His fingertips were still tangled in the hair at the back of your neck.

"Don't go. Please, whatever you do. Just…" His voice was barely audible, but you heard it so clearly. “Just don’t leave.”

Your lips were pressed into a thin line, heart aching for his plea. It took some effort, but when you spoke, your voice almost didn’t waver. “You strike a hard bargain, Dr. Grace.” You really didn’t want to. Cosmic forces willing, you wanted to climb out of the waves and stay right then and there, reclaim your lost time with the scientist before you and ask so many questions. You wanted so badly to kiss him again. And again, and again. But the fog was dissipating. The artificial sun was rising and bathing you both in gorgeous pink hues. Somehow you knew: time ran short again. Soon you will be gone again, and your starman will be left alone on a cold shore. It painted a sad picture, but your mind was already brewing something. If you could touch him and break this unspoken rule of the universe, no one said you couldn’t break another. “Let me offer you a deal in return. What if…”

“No. No deal. Absolutely not.” Grace pouted, and the sight filled your ribcage with yearning. “I just got you back, you can’t beat that deal. Please?”

“Hey, you didn’t let me finish!” There it is again! That look he gave you whenever you ruined his sweet vibes. Oh, how you’ve missed that. "What if..." you continued, still holding his hand, "What if I come back tomorrow? Same time."

Grace perked up. Granted he still looked miserable, but the prospect of this not being the last time he’d ever see you made him a little hopeful. “Same time? What, you can. Like. Do that?”

You snorted a laugh, something you'd picked up from being around the only other person in space. “Yes. You know me, I’m never late.” In Grace’s eyes, you could see the sparkle of the new dawn. Almost time to go. “Don’t miss it, space cowboy.”

He answers by furiously nodding, blonde hair going all over the place. The smile that played on your lips was bittersweet, but filled with unspoken affection. What a doofus. Nodding at a phantom that haunted him. No wonder you loved this ridiculous man with a fury of the Sun. Ryland opened his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it, leaning forward and pressing your lips against his. This kiss was fleeting, gentle, your way of saying it wasn't goodbye, but ‘see you soon’. And just as Ryland melts into it-

“What Grace doing, question?”

Ryland yelped, shooting up to his feet in an instant. He must have missed Rocky bounding into the dome entirely, transfixed on the reunion that took place in the morning fog. Rocky stood there in his glorious xenonite suit, tilting his whole body in a questioning manner. Right, shoot. Grace was literally knee-deep in cold water, disheveled and red as a tomato, his fist clenched tightly to his chest. The same one you were holding a few moments ago, by the way…

The man whipped around, eyes searching the horizon frantically for any sign of you. Nothing. The fog has dissipated, and you were gone with it, it seems. Just when Grace suddenly had the unpleasant thought that he was actually going crazy, Rocky made a small clicking noise behind him. “Jacket. Grace never talk about it. Never touch it. Is Grace okay, question?”

“Yeah, you know what?” The scientist made no effort to move just yet, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. He finally took the time to take in his surroundings: the sea, the pinkish light dancing on the surface; the wind rustling in his hair; the sun coming up, heralding a new day of endless possibilities. He sighed. “I thought I’d…you know. Take our little friend here for a walk. As one does. The weather is lovely,” he was rambling again, not knowing if he should bring up a very affectionate if sad encounter that might or might have not been real, “I thought they’d appreciate the change of scenery.”

From the shuffling behind him Grace could piece together that Rocky was not entirely convinced. He tapped his claws together, as if contemplating. “Rocky Grace Friend. Think would appreciate the biodome, question?” Ryland barely registered the inquiry though, taking the time to unclench the fist that was still pressed against his own chest. The breath caught in his throat.

On his palm lay the keycap. Wet and very much real. He distinctly remembered losing it in the tide when the late ace-pilot manifested before him. But Ryland definitely hadn't fished it out. So how did it return? Surely it wasn't…

“Don’t miss it, space cowboy.” Same time tomorrow. You sneaky, sneaky bastard.

Grace turned back to stare at Rocky, who still waited patiently for an answer. The wind picked up, flapping the sleeves of the jacket draped over his shoulders. A tentative, yet warm smile finally replaced the worry etched into Ryland’s face. Tomorrow, same time. He won’t miss it.