aud

˖˙— ᰋ RYLAND GRACE

⊹₊ ⋆ Love Hypotheticals by @bibigo-lover

⊹₊ ⋆ Detox by @stellanovaatla

⊹₊ ⋆ Red Lips and Hushed Sins by @whoisiriss

⊹₊ ⋆ Fly me To The Moon by @scarletmika

⊹₊ ⋆ Can't Scape Your Grasp by @julepod

⊹₊ ⋆ The Odds by @gosverse

˖˙— ᰋ COLT SEAVERS

⊹₊ ⋆ Quiet on Set by @bibigo-lover

⊹₊ ⋆ Easy Lover by @trophyhusbandism

˖˙— ᰋ HOLLAND MARCH

⊹₊ ⋆ Desperation by @barnes-babydoll

⊹₊ ⋆ Tender Two Fingers by @trophyhusbandism 

⊹₊ ⋆ Jackson's Sister by @gosverse

⊹₊ ⋆ Polaroids by @binchidavinci

He slept a lot when he got back, mostly due to his body being completely exhausted and the medications asking a lot of him. You felt awful watching him, he was behind glass, it felt like he was some animal in a cage, he would be pacing if his body allowed him too. You didn't know him before he launched, no one here did. But you had heard plenty about him. 

Everyone had. 

Earth's saving Grace.

And now it is down to your team to make what he has to live with at least manageable. This team had kind of been haphazardly thrown together, you're heading most of it along with a few other scientists, there to come up with medical miracles that you couldn't quite manage.

The best they could get in the short notice they had. Given the circumstances, you all worked effectively together and after all, he wasn't meant to come back. There was a blip that got bigger and bigger, hurtling towards earth. It was only a few days out when they realised what it was. As soon as he landed a team of fifteen people were on him, he was hooked up to machines, iv's catheters the whole works. 

He was transferred to a small medical facility just outside of San fransisco, home turf for you both apparently. Although with how long he's been gone you're not sure how 'at home' he will feel if he wakes up long enough to be coherent enough for someone to tell him where he is and what's going on.  

 A few days of tests confirmed that he was in the late stages of renal failure, and would need a transplant soon, but he was on dialysis to try and get some of the fluid off of his organs. His legs, femur and hip bones have multiple hair line fractures, you and the other doctors are currently trying to figure out if you need to do a hip replacement for him or if multiple small pieces of metal will do the trick, the running theory is both would be preferable. 

Multiple blood tests show extremely heavy levels of metal in his blood. 

Mercury to be exact.

This is why you had ordered multiple tests, because the levels were nothing like you or anyone had ever seen before. Even text book high didn't cover this, the renal failure and exhaustion make a lot more sense after finding this out. He's started treatment, but the dialysis is cleaning up his blood quite effectively, so it's not on the top of his list of issues. Along with the blood poisoning his white blood cells were absolutely shot and the fact he's alive at all is, frankly, a miracle. 

With his white blood cell count and none of you really knowing how fragile his immune system was, he was being kept in a clean room. Small speakers placed on either side so you can communicate, when he is more conscious. 

You're sure there are issues that are being masked by the more glaringly obvious medical problems, but for now he's stable, which is more than what you could say a few days ago. 

And you weren't worried about him. Not really.

You were worried about the data.

A man surviving sixteen years in deep space was unprecedented. The physiological effects alone would fill journals for decades.

The fact that you checked on him before you checked the latest blood work every morning didn't mean much of anything. It was routine, one that you fell into easily. 

You're a doctor by name, not particularly by nature. Most of your work before this was based around species, petri dishes and test tubes. Having a real tangible human in front of you made you itch, it made you worry. The way bacteria on a slide never could quite manage. 

You had never really fit the mould that the medical field seemed to push. Your bedside manner was never quite up to it. 

You had been marked as "gifted," "promising," "has potential" and "talented in her field" and many other words to avoid the words they really wanted to use. "Obsessive," "challenging to work with" and generally "odd."

It didn't bother you as much any more, your skin got thicker with age. 

"Our boy's really been through the wringer, huh?" a doctor adds next to you. Dr Robert Michales, an expert in rehabilitation sciences. He was here to help with Ryland's recovery plans, he must have written pages and pages worth, and he was still nowhere near finishing. 

His voice pulls you out of your thoughts. You were standing worrying the nail on your thumb as you stare at his resting body through the glass, the lights in there dimmed, you thought the fluorescent light would be too much for him when he wakes up, if he wakes up. 

"Huh? Oh yeah…" you trail off, he certainly had.

 What you wanted to know is where he had been for the sixteen years that he has been gone. You know pods were sent back, that's how the sun is still shining. But on the other hand you know how tight lipped Eva Stratt has been about those pods, apart from the taumoeba, which was shipped off to every continent around the world. And if she wasn't a fugitive you are sure she would have visited your little compound the moment he was shipped here. 

What you've heard from before, he was brilliant. You'd read his paper, and it was absolutely brilliant. Proven wrong by him before he was sent off. But his points were solid and if you didn't know any better you would have believed him that water based life is not the only valid form of evolution. But unfortunately none of that mattered at this present point. 

Currently it was week two since he had gotten back to earth, and Ryland had woken up a total of three times, all extremely brief. His eyes opening for a few moments and then closing again, a slight stir, nothing to write home about. But the general consensus was that he was stable and moods were high that, in time, he would wake. The disagreements around the centre mostly stirred for when the medical procedures should be done.

He needed a new kidney a year ago, and some doctors urged you to do it now. Get it over and done with. Your argument is that he is nowhere near strong enough to survive that level of surgery, and you want to be ethical and explain to him what's going on, he's not stupid, he probably already knows some of the extent of what's going on, but you want to be sure. And you didn't want to be the one who put earth's saviour in the ground because you wanted to jump the gun, and push his body before it was ready. 

______________________

You find yourself fiddling with the sleeve of your cardigan, as you sit in front of the glass of Ryland's room.

Other doctors say that they're never sure if people in this state are aware of others being around them, if they can hear people talking to them, but we should assume that they can. 

So you're choosing to believe that he knows you're there, you're not sure anymore who's benefiting more from the exercise. 

It was late Saturday, or maybe early Sunday. You weren't too sure if it made much of a difference. The building had become dim hours ago. 

The only people that remained on the premises were security and their dogs.  

Your laptop sits on your thighs, eyes occasionally drifting back to the scientist's unconscious form. The machines that whir in here keep a kind of stable white noise that you're able to sink into. Your fingers moved along the keys, typing out yet another update to the American government's elites. Every email you had sent out over the past fifteen days read much along the same lines with the key points being:

Improving.

Not conscious.

Stabilizing.

Not coherent.

They want to be in the know, to be informed, and you can't blame them. But you know why they want him up. They're going to bombard him with questions and interviews from the moment he's able to speak. 

If they can get past you, that is. 

You're in charge of this, you've already had to dodge some press to get back to your apartment. You would stay here if it wasn't for your cat, who you have recently had to hire a pet sitter for. Although he seems less than impressed by the imitation of an owner that they provide. But if you think Ryland isn't stable enough to answer questions then you can skim the state of his coherence, and you will if the time and need arises. 

Your eyes dragged to the digital clock on your computer screen.

Two fifty AM.

You bring the sleeves of your cardigan to wipe the tears that had collected in your eyes, and let out another small yawn. You pulled the laptop screen towards you. Snuffing out the light source.

Your head rests against the cool metal table behind you letting out a heavy breath, pushing yourself up, grabbing your bag from the coat hook and shrugging on your jacket, your hand fishes for your keys.

"Goodnight Ryland" 

______________________

The next week continues much the same. Ryland has dialysis every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. 

He has Chelation therapy on the other remaining days. His blood work is improving, slowly climbing up. 

His bandages on his legs are checked, and then rechecked. Kept elevated to a thirty degree angle, immobilised. Ice applied twice daily to help with the swelling. His hip is less than stable, the question of a replacement becomes less so if, and more when. 

Leading you to be sat in a room, with a laminated 'DO NOT DISTURB' sign quickly tacked to the door. Discussing whether a hip replacement trumps a kidney transplant. 

You look down at the table, and try to focus on anything except the medical professionals surrounding you arguing, again. 

This carries on without any consensus for what feels like forever, but in reality is somewhere near the fifteen minute mark, pushing you to get involved. 

"Enough." 

You say with a more than exasperated sigh.

"He will have the transplant when he is ready" your fingers come up to pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes screwing shut. They're restless, you understand and try to empathise. 

Try.

"He can live without a hip for a few months" you say, voice staying as steady as you can manage. "if we manage his pain correctly then-" 

"No"

Your head shoots towards the sound, and a scowl unintentionally appears on your face. The interruption comes from a Dr Thomas Shepard, one of the senior doctors leading the surgery team. 

Your eye twitches at the interruption. 

"What?" 

"A hip replacement is standard surgery" he states, shoulders set back, hands already motioning as if to emphasize his point. His mouth pulls taut as he finishes his words with a huff that lands somewhere between a sigh and a humourless laugh. 

"And the recovery is not standard, I'm not arguing with you about this" you state, as you stare at him. 

He looks back apathetically.

Your cheeks heat up slightly, you feel it travel down the back of your neck, the silence rolls off the walls. 

He's not done.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head.

"Do you understand what happens if he loses a hip and a kidney?" he persists and you can't fault his vigor.

"Do you understand what happens if he dies on the table?" you ask, willing your voice to stay measured.

"He's dying now." he states, with a pointed glare. "Youre going against my medical judgement, because you can't see anything that doesn't align with the way you want this to go" Thomas' voice raises this time. His hands coming down on to the desk in front of him.  "If you keep sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, his life won't be the only thing on the line" He continues, and you continue to stare.

"He is my patient as much as he is yours, I want him to survive and I want-" 

"Stop, you don't run this place you're only in charge due to technicalities-"

"He has been unconscious for the better part of a month, I'm not putting him under for eight hours to perform two surgeries, that's the end of this conversation" you say, making the effort to form every word fully, cutting him off before he can go on anymore. You try to open your mouth to continue but your throat tightens.

This isn't about Ryland. 

He doesn't like that you are thinking about recovery time.

He doesn't like that you are treating Ryland as a human. Not some guinea pig that he can see how many surgeries he can do within the space of one scrub in before he's nominated for honorary doctorate or whatever angle he is peddling for. 

You push yourself up away from the table, walking towards the door, feeling eyes scorching down your back you open the door and leave. 

______________________

You sit in an unoccupied lab, running tests, running Rylands blood through the centrifuge again and again. 

Busying yourself until the building goes quiet again, and you can go back downstairs without feeling like an outsider. 

Your notes sit sprawled out in front of you, laid out in a quiet chaos between the microscope and a collection of beakers and funnels.  

The far away lights of San Francisco filter through the small windows. Your hair is tied back, the feeling of it on the back of your neck feels wrong, aggravating you more than it should. Your gloved hands push the button and the centrifuge whirs to life again. 

Last one. You promise yourself. 

You're not sure what you're looking for really.

Any abnormalities? He's been off planet for sixteen years. Every test you've taken has been abnormal. 

Anything more abnormal?

You're reasoning with yourself now, maybe it is time to cut your losses and go home.

You know why you're really here. You got rattled earlier and you're going back to what you know.

Going back to what's safe. 

You shake your glove clad hands out, a small breath making its way past your pursed lips. This is silly, you're being silly.

You start tidying the lab up, slipping off your gloves and discard them into the metal bin. Bundle up your notes, placing them into your note book, bagging up the slim few normalites you found and dispensing the other samples. You gather your apron, placing it in the wash bin as you shut the lights off, the door closes behind you and you instinctively wait for the small click of the lock before making your way through the corridors and down toward the front door.

Grab your bag, grab your coat and leave. 

The lights spark to life around you as you walk towards the viewing lab. You reach down, pulling your jumper sleeve back to check your watch, eleven forty one PM. 

You let out a huff and lace your fingers together, stretching them out in front of you, rolling your neck. 

Your eyes glance over to Grace's room, more out of habit than anything else. Flitting away almost as quickly as they had moved before you stop in your tracks and fully turn.

He's sat up. 

Eyes open, hand spread out over the back of his neck. 

Your eyes widen and you freeze, letting out a small "Ryland?" it sits somewhere between a question and a choke. 

Your body freezes, you don't know what to do. You've imagined this moment, everyone would be here, he would rouse slowly, people would be there to help. In those scenes you are calm, collected. 

Here you are anything but.

Your movements feel sloppy. Your body is not quite catching up with what your brain wants it to do. 

His eyes meet yours, squinting at the lights illuminating the room you're occupying. 

You move quickly to dim them. You fumble with the console on the wall, your fingers finding the dial and rolling it to the left and the bright fluorescents are brought down to a small glow.

You meet his frame again, scanning him by instinct.

Your brain comes up blank, words caught in your throat as he looks at you as though you are some alien creature, and to him you probably are. White lab coat thrown over your arm, messy hair pulled back from your face, tired eyes widening at him. His eyebrows pull together in a mixture of confusion and fear, you think, you can't entirely place it. 

You move forward slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. Your breaths are intentional, coming out in a measured rhythm. 

"Youve been unconscious for twenty three days" 

You pause, biting the inside of your cheek and shaking your head.

"Sorry, thats probably not-" you cut yourself off, straightening your shoulders.

"How are you feeling?" you ask dumbly, placing your note book on the desk. 

He stares at you as a small scoff comes from his lips and his hand moves to comb through his hair "I've been better." 

His voice comes out with a slight slur, his words jumble together but you can make it out, just about.

You nod curtly. Of course he has. Your hands find your lanyard, fingers tangling around the thin fabric that is attached securely at your hip. 

You can see him thinking. Looking around, movements muted but not quite sluggish, 

Your hand raises, fingers spreading out of your chest. You introduce yourself, starting with your name. You explain what's happening and how he got here. 

Pausing.

And then continuing. 

You do this often, you want him to be able to digest what you're telling him, not just hear you.  

He nods every so often, looking at you and urging you to continue. Some of what you're saying seems to surprise him, but most he just nods with a dejected look playing on his features. 

"You have renal failure, neither of your kidneys are working" you mutter out softly, eyes watching him through the glass. 

He nods, a small huff and a "okay." Giving you what you need to continue.

"Mercury poisoning." you add, leaning on the side of one of the rows of elevated desks, hip bumping against it slightly.

"Makes sense" 

His eyes moving to meet yours.

"Does it?" you ask too quickly, leaning forward. "You have enough mercury in your bloodstream to concern several toxicologists, and it 'makes sense'?"  

"Long story" he says, trying to stand, a flash of worry strikes your features. 

"Don't!" it comes out too harshly, too loud. You bring your hand up to your mouth, covering it as you step forward quickly. 

"Don't stand up please, you have fourteen fractures through your legs" you say slow and measured. Hand pressed against the glass, urging him not to move, as a shuddered breath escapes your lips. 

"I don't feel anything" he remarks, moving his legs back onto the bed. You do your best to hide a wince seeing him move so easily.

"Good, that's the point" you say, head nodding towards the infusion pump. 

You peel your fingers away from the glass. Trying not to stare, you don't want him to feel like he's on display, even though for all intents and purposes, he technically is. You only really realise now that the room gives no where for him to go, no where for him to hide from the prying eyes that will undoubtedly be on him tomorrow. You put a mental note to try and do something about that, although until he's able to move around more reliably by himself, you doubt much will come of your endeavour. 

A small breath leaves you after a small beat of silence. 

"I can show you your charts, if you'd like?" 

A tentative question. It might be too much for him right now. But you want him to know what's going on. Or at least have a small idea before the chaos of tomorrow begins when everyone else finds out he's awake. 

He lets out a small nod, eyes searching the room. 

"Are there more people here?" he asks, as you move swiftly around the lab. Picking up his report, the most recent reading, pulling up his charts on your laptop. 

You nod, looking over your shoulder at him "I may be good Dr. Grace, but I'm not that good" you hum, and start rattling off the teams of people in the hospital. 

"Tommorow is going to be a lot, but you'll get through it" you offer with a smile, you see a look you can't decipher play across his features, as you lay out his charts across the floor "I'll be here, if you want anything to stop, just say, and it will stop, promise."

You sit on the floor, legs crossed beneath you, you look up at him to find him peering down, eyes focused on you. 

You begin going through everything. It's more to give him something he can see, something tangible to everything that you've already told him.

Ultra sounds.

X-rays. 

Blood work. 

Toxicology reports. 

You explain everything. Absolutely everything, maybe in too much detail but he doesn't stop you. He sits. He nods, he interrupts every now and then with questions. You answer them earnestly, telling him what plans are in the works, the operations, the tests, the medications, but ensuring to keep reminding him that he is coming on every day and his outcome looks good. But you can see the flicker of doubt flash across his eyes. 

You don't blame him.

 He got sent off to space, a mission he was supposed to die on.

Only to come back sixteen years later, to a world he doesn't know. 

"You're a good teacher" he mutters, almost mindlessly,  his hand resting on his chin, legs crossed as you continue going through his charts. 

You stop to glance at him, a smile crossing your face, not quite reaching your eyes. You stare at him for a beat too long, before your eyes rest back on the laptop sitting to the side of you, facing towards Ryland. 

"Thank you" your voice lowers slightly when you say it. 

You take a breath in before speaking again "should we leave it there tonight?" you ask. 

What you really mean is "I can stay, but I don't want to overload you with medical talk." 

You can also see the yawns he's been trying to suppress whilst you've been talking.  

He nods with a sleepy expression "Can you stay?" 

"Yeah, for a little while longer, sure" you mumble, closing the laptop screen and pulling your knees up to your chest. 

You feel your lips press together when you see the way he's looking at you. He's fighting to stay awake, like a child trying to prove they can stay up past their bedtime. The sleepy look on his face only makes your chest swell more, you've been trying to keep his humanity in mind, waiting for him to be able to have his say in the things that will permanently impact his life but when he's in front of you like this it all becomes very real.

He looked so vulnerable sitting there, behind the glass. Needles sticking out from the sleeves of his hospital gown, some attached to small bags of different coloured liquid, others laying flat against his skin. Bruises litter his arms and the back of his hands. 

"Were you on your own?" you ask, almost regretting it as soon as it leaves your mouth "up there?" your head gesturing up. You can't imagine how lonely he must have been. His crew dying before he even woke up, and carrying on despite it. 

With all the eyes on him tomorrow, he won't be feeling lonely anymore. 

So for tonight you can keep him company. 

He shakes his head "no." 

"No?" you repeat, trying to urge him to continue, but with the small conversation you've already had you don't think he's going to let much on. He doesn't trust you, of course. He's woken up in an unusual place with an unusual woman, telling him he's going to be sick for the rest of his life. 

"She didn't share them?" he asks, a flash of worry crosses his face and your head cocks to the side, it's been a long day and it takes you a little longer to clock on than it should. 

"Stratt?" you question, not completely confident in your answer, but luckily enough, he nods. "Oh no, she did" you raise your hand to run a hand through your hair, pulling out your pony tail "The Taumoeba was shipped off to everyone, the sun's still shining" you smile. You expect him to return it, but the look on his face eludes that there's more to this, that you didn't really answer his question. 

His eyes dart to the corner of the room, you can see him rolling the idea around in his head. The idea of telling you a small fraction of what happened up there. Once it's out he can't take it back, and he knows that as well as you do. His eyes go anywhere but to meet yours. From your knowledge of space travel, which is limited, you know he did not spend sixteen years on the Hail Mary.

The space craft itself is a marvel, built to go further than any man made object had before. It was built to last, but there had very obviously been some improvements, some modifications done whilst he was out there. The material looked normal enough at a glance but you'd heard whispers that it was something extraterrestrial. The ship was shipped off almost as quickly as Ryland was. But there must have been something out there, someone intelligent enough to have materials to help fix a space craft. 

"You don't have to tell me" you quip quietly, 

 "I wouldn't trust me either." you say, the humour evident in your voice, looking up at him, chin resting on your knees. 

He throws you a look, "it's not that I don't want to, I don't know where I'd start" he huffs, hands motioning mindlessly. A half truth you think, but you don't want to push him. Not anymore than you already have. 

"Tell you what" you say, pushing yourself up, brushing yourself off before walking up closer towards the glass again. "Get some sleep, if you're still feeling up for it tomorrow, you can tell me then." 

Ryland looks at you with a timid smile "Okay" he replies. You turn to grab your bag, throwing your coat over your arm, the idea of your bed now sounding less appealing. Although you know you'll need your rest for tomorrow. As much of it as you can get, but with the way your head is swimming now you don't know how easily sleep will come. 

"Ill see you tomorrow" he calls to you, as you finish clearing away his paperwork, storing it back in the cabinet.