my little things

It was dumb– so incredibly dumb. He had seen the researchers' reactions, their wild expressions of disbelief when his outburst became much bolder than could reasonably be considered even the most outlandish banter. Actually, he didn't have to look at them all that closely to know he had stepped far out of line. One look at Stratt was all he needed to understand. And he had understood, quite quickly, really, but the motivation to stop himself still seemed to elude him until he had been physically pulled into the nearest office to allow his fellow scientists to continue working in peace.

“Doctor Grace, I need you to start explaining yourself. Your threshold for tolerance is becoming smaller by the day; you are ever more frequently in no state to be reasonable.”

“My tolerance abilities are just fine,” Grace replied through gritted teeth, and he can see Stratt raise an unconvinced eyebrow at him, “and being reasonable is very subjective. And frankly none of this should even concern you—”

“Oh yes, it very much should, especially when it is affecting your ability to work with your team effectively,” Stratt retorts with that certain amount of poise she tends to maintain even while arguing.

“I am working with my team just fine–” Grace began but was promptly cut off once again. 

“You snapped at a lab technician two nights ago for doing evening ramp-down procedures. Would you consider that working just fine?” 

How did she even–? Nope. He knew much better than to question how Eva Stratt, current Queen of the World and master of all, knew about his little spat with a clueless lab tech in the middle of the night. 

“He has since been moved to a different shift with no qualms from my other researchers, if you had been wondering.” 

Ah, that was a jab at him and his lowered tolerance of others as of late. As an empath, he could tell. 

“Okay– I’m sorry, this won’t happen again, alright? I apologise, Ms Stratt.” Grace tried his best to keep it sincere, but the title came out with just a touch of condescension that nullified his entire apology. Dang it. Maybe she didn’t notice. “Are we done here?” 

“No, Dr Grace, we cannot be finished here until we find a solution to the chronic negligence of your biological needs.” She always seemed to have the right way of phrasing things that he didn’t want to hear. Or, rather, phrasing statements that actually made no sense with enough conviction that they sounded like they made enough sense to raise an answer out of him.  

“My biological needs? Eva, I’m a Neutral, I don’t have any biological needs that I need to fulfil.” If Grace were to slip, his chin would hit the top of Stratt's desk with how far he was leaning forward in disbelief. Stratt should know these things! She already knew he was a Neutral— that was probably one of the first things she knew about him!

While not exactly a taboo to bring up, designations did not often come up in day-to-day conversation on the ship. A majority of the crew and researchers were either Neutrals or Caregivers, that was generally the case outside of the Vat as well. Most Littles did not pursue the types of high-stress, finely tuned positions of science and engineering. And unless a person of that designation was highly specialised or sought after, they generally weren’t found in the military either. 

Stratt tried her hardest to avoid recruiting Littles for the very reason that they are most discriminated for— they were unreliable. Not in the sense of responsibility but rather in that they cannot put their own needs aside the same way other designations can. It will catch up to them eventually, and their body will force a drop, meetings and deadlines be damned. 

Of course, the more progressive consensus in the real world is that Littles could work any job given the correct accommodations and tools for self-regulation; any normal employer could face some serious trouble if it got out that they were hiring with the same mindset as Stratt. 

But nothing about this project was normal, and Stratt was not bound to any tedious HR handbook or equal employment laws. 

This wasn't to say she didn’t hire Littles. She only wanted the best of the best, and that meant occasionally going against her own personal guideline. A handful of the lower-ranking researchers were Littles, lab techs and runners and even some of the health staff. And, as much as she had avoided it, ultimately some of the best scientists she could find were Littles, and she placed them in lead roles with the caveat that they would do their very best to take care of themselves to avoid unexpected drops. 

Imperatively, however, Ryland Grace was not a Little. Or a Caregiver. Baseline is what his designation report officially says, but he is one of the last batch of people whose paperwork used the old naming conventions. Parent-type, Baseline, and Child-type were what professionals of the time thought up in the fifties. However, Caregiver, Neutral, and Little were adopted in the early 2000s. Though Little is still being debated as an appropriate title for a person, and everyone seems to have an opinion on the implication of Neutral still implying “Normal” just as much as Baseline did. 

All it meant was that Ryland Grace did not have a deep-seated need to take care of others nor have periods of time where cognitive function or fine or gross motor skills declined. Yes, he cared, very much so, for his students when he had them, just as much as any teacher cared for their students. He’d owned both a cat and a dog in the past, but never found that connection that others seemed to enjoy about them. 

And… he just wasn’t a Little. His pincer grasp never turned into a palmar mid-writing, nor did he feel the need to crawl around on the floor. He’s been living by himself longer than the amount of time his parents were around in his childhood, if he had any cognitive declines, he surely would’ve done something horribly dangerous to himself by now. 

Grace knew that, and if Grace knew it, there was no way Stratt didn’t. 

“I only meant I am concerned for your well-being as a whole— You don’t eat in the cafe, your dorm entry hits are inconsistent. It is affecting your work.” 

Oh. Is that what she meant? Well, in any case, that wasn’t something she could really comment on, was it? Also, why was she checking his dorm hits? The number of times he swipes his keycard to get to his room was his business and his alone! 

“I don’t suppose you eat in the cafeteria very often or sleep a full nine hours every night, do you, director?” He retorts back. This wasn’t supposed to be an argument, based on how Stratt was still keeping herself composed while he was slightly losing it before her. She was concerned. Genuinely concerned. And that wasn’t fair at all considering Grace would really like to storm out of the room to end this conversation, but he couldn’t justify something that dramatic just yet. 

Stratt just watched him, not dignifying him with an answer. And Grace did not press for one, as he already knew the answer, just as much as he understood the concern over his recent life choices. He watched her eyes gently flick about him, taking him in and… analyzing, he supposed. 

”Do you realize that you force a tremor in your hands when you start losing motor function while working?” Stratt asks him gently. Which is unfortunate since that means he can’t not answer her even if the question is confusing. 

“I— I don’t? People who don’t eat or sleep get tremors, why would— why on Earth would I fake a tremor nobody else is paying attention to?” The fact that she added her observation of his motor function so seamlessly made him take several mental steps back in order to process what she had said. Losing motor function? There is an implication there that Grace is very close to placing, but he can feel himself rejecting it. Nope. No, no, no, he already told her he was a Neutral, she has definitely seen the paperwork, she had to respect that. 

“I am not sure, but you certainly do it, even if you do not realize,” Stratt said, nodding slightly, trying to convince him. “You also develop a very real stutter when you are overwhelmed or tired.” 

Grace’s eyes lowered to a scowl. “I am not regressed.” 

“Perhaps not currently, but you are getting there.” She inclined her head toward him, having made her move. 

“I am not a Little, I, physically,” Grace waved both of his hands up and down across his torso, “cannot regress.” 

There is a look that people give Ryland when they don’t believe him. When they don’t believe him and feel bad for him because they think he feels the need to lie to them. 

Their eyes go all soft as they try their best not to judge him. And their heads tilt slightly to the side in order to try and decipher him. And worst of all, they press their lips together, all tight, so they don’t have to verbalize the observations they're making about him. 

The look was given to him when he said he felt fine after his parents died. And when his teachers talked to him in the hallway after a fight that he claimed he didn’t start. And every time his friends tried to ask him about his life and, for some reason, “it’s fine, it's good actually” never seemed to be the right answer. 

“I am not.” Grace felt the need to clarify, even with no possibility that she didn't hear him as the lone speaker in this otherwise silent room. Once again, she chose not to answer him. But one thing was very clear: she didn’t believe him. 

Stratt was the first to break eye contact, finally moving her gaze from him and his little movements and fidgeting that meant absolutely nothing except for the fact that he was having a very uncomfortable conversation with his boss. She looked off to the side, searching for something. The ability to believe him would be a nice find, he thought. Because he wasn’t regressed or regressing, because he couldn’t regress. Because he was a Baseline, god damn it.

And even though his eyes began to burn with that unfortunately familiar feeling of tears welling up in his eyes, he was not little. Because people who weren’t Littles are allowed to cry, that’s what he told his students. Used to tell his students. That’s what he told himself whenever he had to find an empty corridor to rub his face raw trying to will the tears away. He tried not to touch his face now, though, because sometimes, if he waits long enough and calms down, the tears will blink back into his eyes, and he can get away with claiming they’re just irritated. 

“Ryland, you must understand where I am coming from—”

Now, okay, look, Dr Ryland Grace, head astrophage scientist and former middle school science teacher, is not a Little. Even if he was, he wasn’t sure that would make what he is about to do any better. Though the fact that he wasn't makes the next actions he is about to take all the more perplexing and concerning. 

Grace’s foot kicked out against the dark, pristine wood of Stratt’s desk, startling her beginnings of yet another shift in strategy to falter. This was already bad enough; he should have stopped, apologized, or run away and hid somewhere on this god-forsaken ship where nobody could truly be left alone while under the eye of Eva Stratt. His outburst should have ended there, but no, Grace couldn’t help himself from opening his big mouth, taking that extra step that he wouldn’t be able to take back. It was the UNESCO conference all over again and worse. Worse, because he was supposed to have learned his lesson by now, knowing how to rein himself in after receiving the consequences of his actions. 

“I am not regressed! Can you please just listen to me? I am not– this is demeaning, I am not a Little, and you are being wholly unprofessional and patronising–” 

“Enough.” Stratt stood from behind her desk. “Stand up, Dr Grace.” 

Maybe, just maybe, an adult wouldn’t be acting the way he was now. How many times has he defended one of his students after acting inappropriately, only to turn around and gently guide them to the notion that they may be regressing? Of course, those were ten to fourteen year olds who were just beginning to figure out their designations. Grace was an adult. An adult who has spent his whole life coping with the fact that he is the most ill-tempered and childish Neutral he has ever known. He’s the only one he knows that cries as much as he does. 

Trying his best to look past her, Grace rubbed his eyes. 

Stratt was upset with him. He knew this already, yes, but it seemed as if he had just realized that she could do something about it, his notion of future consequences finally having caught up with him. If he stood with Stratt as she had requested, the entirety of the Vat’s deck maintenance crew was about to witness Dr Ryland Grace being thrown into the middle of the ocean. Or, rather, the next most convenient air vessel for his return trip to sunny California. 

And yet, there were no army men barging in to strong-arm him into a jet, no Carl to reassure him that whatever Stratt says goes. 

Grace’s sleeve was damp by the time he pulled it away from his face. Stratt was still standing there, waiting for him. Convinced that he had heard her the first time, she didn’t repeat herself, only flicking her hand upwards as a silent reminder of what she had just asked him. What was that again? Stand. Stratt wanted him to stand.

So Grace stood on definitely not-trembling legs. And while he loomed damn near a foot over Stratt, he did not feel it. He felt like a bad dog, one of those big ones who don’t actually misbehave that often and have the saddest, most pathetic eyes when they have realized they have done something wrong. 

A hand pushed against his shoulder. Though one could barely consider it a push, as Stratt hadn’t put much of any force behind it. It was only meant to guide him, turn him around and for a moment Grace thought that they were heading for the door and his heart skipped a beat. He didn’t want to leave, he wanted to keep working on the project. He had experiments to finish and astrophage to study. 

But he was turned past the door, and it became clear that the destination was still within the room. Toward the window in the corner. 

The Vat wasn't an office building, it was a military base in the middle of the ocean. It was built for holding aircraft and conducting whatever military duties the military conducts. Having every office and dormitory be aesthetically pleasing was not the highest priority when designing such a vessel. So, more often than not, windows were scarce, many dorms did not have one or were small and too high above the eyeline to look out. Stratt had been given one of the larger offices that had two usable windows. One that was somewhat centred with the room and another that was nearly flush with the far corner. 

“What are you— What—?” Grace mumbled out as they came closer to nothing in particular. Nothing but the corner of the room and its giant window that overlooked also nothing in particular except for the vastness of the open ocean. 

“Just stand there, please? I think you need a moment, and the day is clear for once, take it in. Five minutes.” 

Grace accepted this for all of about ten seconds. 

“This is a timeout.” Grace turned around to face her, eyes low and unamused. 

“Yes, if you wish to call it that,” Stratt said, still watching him carefully, as if gauging his reaction, “And I need you to take five minutes to look out that window.” 

“I am not regressed—“

“Regressed or not, this conversation is not leading us anywhere, and I cannot in good conscience send you back to the floor in this state. So five minutes, turn around,” She watched him expectantly, one hand waving around to punctuate her point and the other resting on her hip, not making any movement toward him. 

And for some reason, he did once again. Grace could leave whenever he wanted, he assured himself, but this seemed easier, even if demeaning. Going back onto the floor didn’t seem all that appealing anyway. Plus, it wasn't a bad view, and as she had said, it was a very clear day compared to the past few that had been grey and cold. They’d be having a lot more grey and cold days in the next few years, months even, as winter would be getting much longer every year that passed. 

Grace heard movement behind him, and he couldn’t help but turn around again, just to see if Stratt was still there. And she was. Now sitting on a couch that looked very new and unused, but still only a few steps away. For only a glimpse, he saw that she was also looking out the window, worry knitted in her eyebrows. But just as quickly her eyes met his, and she shook her head in a way that made Grace’s stomach churn. She made a point to glance at the clock. 

“Try again, five minutes.” 

And without his say-so, a whine crept its way out of his throat. It was meant to be an exasperated groan; he wasn’t sure what went wrong. 

“You can do it, it is not very long.”

Which, yes, in the grand scheme of things, five minutes was not very long. But he’d already been here for an unnecessary amount of time. He had samples to check on and reports to write and people to consult. He didn’t have ten, fifteen minutes to sit in a timeout! But Stratt raised an eyebrow at him, and he was looking out at the open ocean once more. 

How much longer until all of this was ice? Hm. Realistically, many, many years, but the effects of the climate will be devastating long before that happens. That fact was all he could think about between working and sleeping, and the thought of it lingered still while attempting the latter. It kept him up knowing that the warmth of his blankets is fleeting, that the berries he has with his breakfast will be a luxury in the years to come. It worried him, the idea that his kids will grow up in a world of scarcity and uncertainty.

Grace shook his head, scrunching his nose a little. No, he thought to himself, don’t start, you know what that thinking leads to, and you don’t have time for that.  

“Stratt, I need to get back to work,” Grace said, his voice pitched up slightly in a way that made him embarrassed. He didn’t turn to look at her this time, in fear that she would start the countdown again. And definitely not because he did not want to see that indiscernible look of disappointment and pity on her features again. 

”You managed two minutes that time, start again. Hush.” 

Grace sputtered. 

“You didn’t say no talking!” He whipped around, no longer worried about the resetting of time since adding stipulations all willy-nilly was on the table!

”Generally, that is a condition to most timeouts,” Stratt tipped her head at him, definitely analyzing him now, if she hadn’t before, which she definitely was. 

“You didn’t say! You’re supposed to say the rules!” Grace stomped his foot on the ground, and it had a dull thump that wasn’t all that satisfying. Darn these hard floors and their stomp-absorbing properties. “It’s not fair if you don’t say the rules.”

Stratt took a long time to respond to him, weighing the options only she knew in her mind. “I apologize, Ryland, I should have made that clear.” 

Grace gave her one big nod of acknowledgement, accepting her apology. She should be sorry, nobody should be punished for rules they didn’t know about. 

“Even so, you still have three minutes to stand for, and now you know all the rules, as you have put it,” Stratt explains, and it doesn’t escape Grace that she is choosing to ignore the fact that he turned around in his fit of passion. “Your time will resume when you turn around.” 

Interesting. This isn’t the Stratt that he knows, not entirely. She’s putting up with a lot from him right now in a way that he is sure she normally wouldn’t. Patient, that’s the word. Grace thinks he heard once, from the chatter that lulled around him while working or making coffee, that Stratt was too cold to be a Caregiver, surely. 

But she wasn’t cold, she cared too much about everyone all the time for him to consider her cold. Unwavering, maybe. Blunt. 

Grace stares at her a moment longer, brow furrowing slightly as he thinks. And perhaps he's pushing his luck because Stratt is raising her eyebrow once again, and he begins to think her grace is contingent on his compliance. This tracks. Like, really tracks. 

And for the third time this afternoon, he is looking out at the contrasting blues of ocean and sky. 

Three minutes. That’s it, after this… well, Stratt hadn't said what happens after this, but he can assume he can go back to work. There's a report still open on his laptop at his station, half written. The rest of it can only be completed after he retrieves and analyzes his samples that should be ready for him here soon. He hates that he can’t even see the clock from this angle; for all he knows, he’ll be standing here another five minutes so Stratt can bask in his silence. 

No, she wouldn’t do that. She isn’t one to gloat. Especially not for bringing her astrophage scientist down a peg. She has made it very clear with her insistence for applause and praise that she is not in the business of tearing down her handpicked scientists. This was, unfortunately, Stratt’s genuine attempt at helping this situation between her and Grace and Grace’s poor life decisions. 

This close to the window, he can feel the coolness of the glass. It’s cold against his hot skin. Crying will do that to you, make your body temperature rise. As will throwing an inappropriate fit in your boss’s office. The thought of it makes his eyes burn once again. He really hadn’t learned his lesson, had he? All these years cultivating a successful adult life with a successful adult job, and he's right back to where he started. What exactly couldn’t he seem to understand?

A shudder runs through his body, and Grace can’t help it. He thinks about anxiously checking the time on the far wall, but the threat of his time starting over once again looms over the idea. That, and he isn’t sure he remembers the newest start time. The clock had begun to confuse him the last time he looked at it, which could happen to anyone, really. Everyone occasionally confuses the big and little hands’ meaning when they're upset. 

… But they don't, do they? People don't just kick their boss’ desk when they don't like what they're hearing. They don't stomp their feet when the rules aren't explained to them. Maybe they think it. A Neutral may seriously consider such a childish act, but there's a part of their brain that stops them before they do, making them think about the action and realise that kicking and screaming were inappropriate. 

Baselines do not whine and cry, snivelling with their nose in the corner of their boss’ office. 

“That is your five minutes.” 

Waiting for their timeouts to be over. 

Grace took a trembling breath in and instead of sighing, a soft sob tumbled out of him. Behind him, he could hear Stratt click her teeth softly. 

“There is no need for that, you did well.” 

No, he didn’t. His time was reset twice— well, only once because he kicked up enough of a fuss to reverse Stratt’s decision on the second one. And there was the fact that Stratt felt the need to do this exercise with him in the first place. No, he did not do well because he is not good. His head dipped forward and he wrapped his arms around his face, rubbing his tears away. 

“Ryland.” 

And wasn’t this ironic? They had just spent so long getting Grace to face a certain way, now he did not want to turn back again. Because at least now facing the corner meant he didn’t have to look or speak, facing Stratt meant another discussion was to be had and that somehow scared him more than the shame of being given the punishment of a child. 

But he couldn’t stand here forever, and Stratt was waiting for him. It had been a beat too long since she last said something, so she was waiting. 

Eventually, slowly, he turned around, looking at Stratt who was still sitting in the same spot, watching him. His breath quickened. And Stratt shook her head, shushing him. 

There is no need for that. Watching her, Grace forced his breathing to slow.  

“Better.” Stratt smiled softly at him and his feeble attempt at calming down. “Come,” she patted the space next to her. And he did, in just a few steps, he was standing over her, the distance between their eyelines even larger than when she had been standing, but he still felt too small before her all the same. Perhaps because he was. 

“Your five minutes are up, it’s over. You do not need to worry anymore. Sit, no more tears,” She explained to him like it was that simple, but he nodded his head anyway. Slowly he folded up his legs to nestle into the space next to Stratt, way too close. But she didn’t say anything about it. In fact, she snaked her arm behind his shoulders and her hand came to run her fingers through his hair. At some point his crying had stopped, he wasn't sure when, only that his cheeks had started to grow cold from his tears drying against his skin. 

“Eva?” he figured, since she had used his first name, it was only appropriate to use hers. 

“Yes?” 

“Neutrals don’t— they don’t regress, do they?” Grace already knew the answer. Everyone in the world already knew the answer. But he needed to hear it from someone else that wasn't his own anxious thoughts. Confirm what the two of them were already suspecting even if Grace had inadvertently been forced to the same conclusion that Stratt had come to. 

“No, Ryland, they do not.” There wasn’t judgement in her voice, even if there should have been. No reasonable Baseline would act as he did, he ought to be ashamed. And he was, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe he acted uncharacteristically. This was just the first time someone had acted in accordance with what he was displaying, rather than, say, being dragged away by security and thrown out of a convention hall. 

Do Neutrals regress? It was a question his own students would have asked him, and the answer Stratt had given him was the same as he would have given them. And yet, the worry still twisted something awful in him, and he found himself wanting a different answer. Even if he knew there wasn’t any. 

“Only Littles?”