#phm fluff

Clara’s got her hands clasped together to enhance this begging she’s doing. This definitely wasn’t what you expected when you told her you might not go to parent-teacher conference. You grimace and lean over the kitchen island, a way to get on her eye level where she’s sitting on the other side of it.

“Are you sure? I thought we could have a girls’ day out. It’s our only day off together until Thanksgiving break, y’know.”

She waves your comment away. Even adds a scoff to it. You throw a brow up, because how couldn’t you? Kid’s really developing an attitude. Probably got it from you, though, so it’s not like you can complain.

“Don’t worry about it. We can do that stuff over the weekend. I really want you to go this time!”

“Did you want me to beat up your Algebra teacher or something?”

“I mean, I won’t complain if you do that,” she grumbles. She really doesn’t like that guy. Maybe you should beat him up just for giving her so much grief about her grade. She tried really hard. That guy just has a stick up his ass or something.

“But I want you to meet Dr. Grace. He’s my favorite teacher this year, and I think you’ll like him a lot.”

You press your mouth into a thin line when she says that, but your contemplative look doesn’t last long. It twists and turns, the corners of your lips tilting upward just a bit. She’s never asked you to go to one of these for a specific teacher.

“Really?”

“Yes! He’s super cool!”

“Do you have a crush on him or something?” you tease. Her entire body tenses up when she cringes at your joke. It makes you laugh.

“Oh, God, ew! No!”

“I’m just kidding!” you insist through your laughter. She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. Rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Definitely got her attitude from you.

“Dr. Grace makes science make sense. Not a lot of my science teachers have been good at that.”

You hum after your laughter dies down. Your smile lingers. A couple seconds later, you extend your pinky.

“Fine. I’ll go just to meet Dr. Grace, but you owe me a girls’ day out this Saturday.”

Clara practically starts vibrating with excitement from how you agreed. She throws her pinky out to you and hooks it with yours, grinning so hard you’re worried her face will get stuck like that.

“Yes, I swear! Thanks, Mom!”

Now, here you are, lost in this big ass school, searching for the science wing so you can find the elusive Dr. Grace that your kid’s obsessed with. Before you left this morning, she promoted him to the best teacher she’s ever had. That piqued your interest. She’s usually obsessed with her History teachers.

Is she obsessed with him because he’s weird? Very likely. She’s usually interested in the eclectic teachers. What if he’s some kind of crazy? A psychopath with a teaching certificate? One of those insane wackos who jump on desks and flail around and somehow manage to get incredible test scores?

You let your thoughts run wild as you round the corner and enter the science wing you’ve been looking for for the last 5 minutes. Who fucking knows what you’re about to walk into. Clara’s got a sneaky sense of humor, which means she could totally be setting you up to meet a teacher she knows you’ll hate.

While you’re hesitantly walking down the wing, your eyes fall on each little blue nameplate outside each door. A number and a name on each one, and yet none of them have the name you’re looking for. Clara should have just came with you to show you to the classroom, but you were nice enough to let her sleep in.

So much for your kindness.

If it wasn’t for the final nameplate that said DR. R. GRACE right at the end of the hallway, you’d have left. Classroom number 220. Why the hell is 220 on the first floor? Who designs a school like this?

You peek through one of the big windows embedded in the classroom wall, and shock replaces your irks about the layout of the building. When you see the person sitting at the desk within the classroom, you’re taken aback. Surely, this man isn’t Clara’s teacher.

He’s bent over his desk and scratching red pen marks on the paper in front of him, but you can still see a decent amount of his face. He looks so young for a doctor. Maybe he’s a little older than you, but his messy blonde hair and overall bright facial expression make him look like a picture of youth.

His glasses slip down his nose and force him to push them up, giving you a good look at his arm. At his toned forearm. At his surprisingly large bicep. At the way that his t-shirt is practically strangling that surprisingly large bicep. At the dorky graphic on the t-shirt that you can’t see clear enough from here; one that you can tell is some kind of science joke.

When he straightens at his desk to stretch a little, you get a glimpse at that shirt. Black. Relatively tight. Features a white graphic of ramp with a ball at the bottom of it. Says “I HAD POTENTIAL” at the top of it.

“No fucking way,” you whisper to yourself. You even laugh. Clara’s teacher isn’t this super cute guy with that insanely cheesy t-shirt on. This is some sort of teaching assistant, or…a student teacher, maybe?

But she never mentioned a student teacher or a teaching assistant. Perhaps this is a teacher who lost his way. Or some random guy that snuck in and is cosplaying as a teacher. Concerning for school safety? Yes. More believable than this really attractive man being Clara’s teacher? Also yes.

This is the last door in the hallway. Clara’s teacher’s name is on this classroom’s nameplate. This has to be Dr. Grace.

Yet, when you very timidly take a few steps into the classroom, just beyond the doorway, and pause in it, you find yourself knocking and asking, “Would you happen to know where Dr. Grace is?”

The guy who definitely isn’t Dr. Grace perks up from behind his desk. Snaps out of the little grading trance he was in. He smiles at you, and it’s a beautiful smile. Soft and lacking teeth because it’s just a gentle upward curve of the corner of his lips, but still comforting and gorgeous nonetheless. The corners of his eyes crinkle a little. Their bright blue color is striking, to say the least.

Oh, Christ…are you ogling him? Stop it!

“Yeah,” he answers. His voice is as polite and casual as the smile on his face. “You’re looking at him.”

Okay. This guy who definitely is Dr. Grace perks up a little more. The way he’s keeping his eyes on you isn’t making this any easier on your heart.

“Oh,” you squeak out. Much higher pitched than you wanted it to be. How humiliating.

He stands up, now, and even from your spot at the door, you can tell he’s taller than you. A decent amount taller than you. He rounds his desk and starts toward you. You, on the other hand, can’t move your fucking feet at all. You’re still stuck just a couple steps into the classroom.

“Nice to meet you,” he says while sticking his hand out for you to shake. He got here so quickly. Didn’t give you enough time to recalibrate, or to do a system reset, or to come back down into your body. You clear your throat enough to find your voice again, though, just a few seconds after you take his hand and shake it.

“Nice to meet you, too,” you mumble. You’re reeling over the firmness of his grip while you let out an awkward laugh.

“I wasn’t expecting you to look like this,” you blurt out. Fuck. Why did you say that? And why did he throw his eyebrows up like that when you said it?

“No?” he asks. Crosses his arms over his chest and smiles at you. If God was on your side right now, he’d make Dr. Grace stop finding ways to flex his biceps in front of you.

“What were you expecting?”

“I…well, I thought you’d look like,” you pause and awkwardly laugh again. Really making a good first impression with this one, huh?

“I don’t know. I thought you’d look like Bill Nye, or—or a mad scientist, or something.”

“Bill Nye or a mad scientist,” he repeats.

He laughs. A little wheezy, a little higher pitched than you expected. Just makes him even more attractive, which in turn ends up making you more flustered. Your face floods with an embarrassed heat that’s so hot you could probably melt steel with your skin alone. You look down at the floor between you and force out a chuckle.

“I can’t tell if that means your kid really likes me or really hates me.”

You look back up at him. There’s an incredibly defeated, embarrassed little smile on your face. This is potentially the most humiliated you’ve ever been in your entire life. Can’t get much lower than this, right? Somehow, that thought grants you the ability to speak.

“I’m sorry. Can we restart? I’ll walk out, come back in, and we’ll pretend I never said that,” you softly mumble. It’s a little surprising that you were able to compose yourself enough to say that coherently. Dr. Grace’s brow pinches together. Is that sympathy? Is he trying to not laugh at you? Who knows.

But he nods. Then he smiles at you, devoid of sympathy and full of what you’re pretty sure is genuine kindness.

“Sure. You want me to reset? Go back to my desk?”

“Yeah. Let’s just time travel to…a couple minutes ago?”

“Deal.”

He claps his hands and calls out, “Action!”

Then he skitters back to his desk. A light but quick jog that has you laughing pretty hard as you walk yourself out of his classroom.

When you’re in the hall, in a spot he can’t see you, you shake your hands at your sides. You let out a soft, anxious sigh and run your fingers through your hair. Self soothing, but also a way to tame any potential fly aways. You even jump a few times. Anything to shake the jitters off.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “You can do this. You can talk to him without embarrassing yourself.”

With your jitters mostly shaken off and your self-pep talk not doing much for you, you walk into the classroom again. Dr. Grace is sitting at his desk as if your first introduction never even happened. Same position and everything.

You start the scene by clearing your throat.

“Hi."

He looks up at you with that same gentle smile he flashed you the first time he saw you. Nods his head at you.

“Hi, stranger I’ve definitely never met before.”

“I’m looking for Dr. Grace?” you ask through a giggle. Your question sounded so dorky because of the grin stretching your face. Maybe you're a student instead of a parent.

“You found him!” he excitedly responds, both of his index fingers pointing at himself and eyes widened behind his lenses. “Because that’s me!”

Your giggles turn into a full laugh. Between his stilted use of the word “stranger” and the enthusiastic way he’s currently standing up behind his desk and rounding it to meet you, you were done for. He juts one of his hands out toward you and, for the second time today, you find yourself reeling from Dr. Grace’s palm being pressed against yours.

“Very nice to meet you, Miss.”

When he releases your hand, he gestures toward an empty chair sitting right next to the one he was occupying. “You can have a seat over here if you’d like.”

A typical parent-teacher conference usually maintains some distance. It’s rehearsed, in a way. A performance of good teacher and good parent. It’s got a formulaic parent question about how your kid’s doing and a formulaic positive teacher answer that every parent wants to hear. And it happens over their desk with at least five feet between parent and teacher.

Not this one, though. Dr. Grace is breaking that formula and improvising that performance.

You blink a few times, but you round that desk and follow him. You both sit down at the same time, and he turns his chair toward you to continue giving you his full attention. He leans back a little. Leaves his arms uncrossed, now, because he wants to remain open to you. Although, the smile on his face and the interest in his eyes was enough to tell you that he’s an open book.

It’s nice to break that formula. It’s nicer to improvise.

“I didn’t catch your name earlier,” he mutters. There’s a little apologetic lilt in his voice. A sheepish quality to it that’s quite heartwarming.

“Because we’ve never met before, so how would you have caught it?” you counter while you point back and forth between him and yourself. He snaps his fingers, then gently smacks his own forehead.

“That’s true,” he confesses.

“What’s your name, stranger?”

You give it to him. He smiles. Repeats it with some sort of reverence and leans into you just a pinch.

“That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you, Dr. Grace.”

Have you ever sounded so timid in your entire life? Probably not. But it’s hard not to be when he refuses to break eye contact with you while he’s complimenting you so sincerely.

“You don’t have to call me that. Most of the kids just call me Mr. Grace,” he mumbles. Basically blows off his fancy title that definitely took him years to achieve.

“But you’re not 13, so…please call me Ryland.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I really like that. It’s unique.”

He scoffs. “You think mine’s unique? You should hear my brother’s.”

He waves off that murmured comment and laughs at himself.

“That’s a story for another day, though,” he says, “because I’m pretty sure you’re here to see me instead of hear about my brother.”

What a rambler. A really, really attractive rambler. Is the rambling only bearable because he’s so cute?

Maybe.

“You’d be right,” you respond, muddled a bit by the smile you can’t wipe off of your face.

“I figured. So, who do you belong to?” he asks while he picks up a packet from his desk. It’s full of names. Some kind of roll sheet, you guess. Only a few have been checked off. Maybe that’s why he’s so excited about how you’re here. Another parent to perform for.

You know he’s asking that question about Clara. If he wasn’t her teacher, you’d have made some kind of feisty quip. Something like:

“Are you asking me about my kid or my relationship status?”

Shit. Did you say that out loud?

Ryland’s eyes widen. His face flushes pink and he laughs really, really hard while he tears his gaze off of you. Even though he clearly wants to keep looking at you, he’s seemingly unable to; he opts for gluing his eyes to his hands as they clutch that roll sheet like grim death.

Nice to know you’re not the only one getting flustered here—and, boy, are you flustered. You’re so tensed up that you’re starting to worry about the way your muscles are squeezing your own bones. You’re so embarrassed that you could throw up.

He glances up at you from behind those cute glasses and shoots you a crooked smile. A fleeting glance that makes you feel good about yourself. He still wants to look at you despite the way that you humiliated the shit out of yourself so badly that you might have to excommunicate.

“I was asking about your kid.”

“I’m so sorry. Just a stupid joke,” you mumble. You clear your throat and shake your head to try and rid yourself of the terrible thoughts in it. Then you point at the roll sheet in his hands. You found Clara’s name the moment he clutched that paper.

It called out to you. That kid’s your everything even though she’s just unknowingly tossed you into the most embarrassing moment of your life.

“I belong to that one,” you say, trying your very hardest to get this conversation back on the right track.

Ryland perks up. His smile from earlier grows. It’s not crooked anymore, but it’s still just as genuine as it was when he tossed it your way.

“Oh, you’re Clara’s mom!” he exclaims. “She’s great! Super bright. Takes a little while to get her out of her shell and speak up, but she’s a perfect addition to third period because of it. I never have to get on her case.”

Your face might split in half if you grin any harder.

“Yeah, that sounds like my girl,” you proudly confirm. “Can you believe she never stops talking back at home?”

“I can, actually. All the good ones are like that,” Ryland says through a chuckle. He checks her name off then passes you the roll and a pen. While you’re in the process of signing in the little blank next to Clara’s name, things take a tiny turn for the worse.

“You and Dad did an incredible job.”

Ouch. At least you’re not the only one saying the wrong shit today.

You must have visibly winced when he said it, because he looks like he wants to die now. You didn’t think it was possible for a person to look this mortified. He’s pushing the boundaries of just how red a person’s face can get. He drops his mouth open, likely so he can apologize, but you hold one hand up between you to stop him before he can get a single syllable out.

“Don’t worry about it. I know he’s on here,” you mumble while you gesture toward the roll sheet. A wistful little sigh falls from your lips, then an awkward giggle. One you force out to make things not so tense. He still has the ghastly appearance of, “man, I wish I could throw myself into oncoming traffic right now" plastered on his face.

So you reach out and lay your free hand over his. Give it a gentle pat and squeeze before you pull away and let it settle in your own lap. His fingers twitch. For a second, they appear to have been chasing after yours.

Maybe. A lot of things are weird right now. That was probably just in your head.

“At least now you know not to call him if you ever need anything,” you continue. A bit of a joke, albeit too realistic. Pulls on a taut, aching string in your heart—that same one that always gets pulled when you have to think of that idiot. You’re not sure if it’ll ever snap and relieve you of that pain.

You’re in the process of handing the roll sheet back to him when Ryland finally says something.

“Can we restart one more time?”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to bite back a grin when you look up at him again. His face isn’t as red, but there’s some pink lingering over the bridge of his nose and bleeding into his cheeks. You’re not sure it’ll go away after that massive fuck up, but…at least it’s cute on him.

“Should we go a couple minutes back again?”

“That—Yeah, maybe,” he stumbles over himself, grimacing a little before he finishes, “just as long as we can forget what I just said.”

You pinch your eyebrows together and let out a confused huff.

“What do you mean?”

He’s confused, now, too. Laughs to himself as he begins, “When I said that you and—”

You decide to cut him off with a little clap and a whispered, “Action!”

Then you straighten in your chair.

“You’re losing it, I think.” You gently tap your temple a couple times while you laugh, too. “Because all I remember is you saying my kid’s pretty good in your class.”

Then it clicks for him. You can see it. The sparkle in his eyes and the way he has to suck in a deep breath so he doesn’t blow the next interaction you have. He decides on simply shooting you a thumbs up.

He settles back into that casual routine you had both been nurturing. The tension in his shoulders—his broad shoulders—melts away. He looks almost relaxed as he drops his hands into his lap. When he rubs his palms up and down his thighs for whatever reason someone would do that for, you have to force yourself to not think about the veins on the back of his hands. And how soft his hands look. And how big his hands are.

You're not really doing a great job at it.

Your tongue runs over your bottom lip and you force your eyes to meet his when he speaks up.

"Clara really is a great kid."

"She'd die if she knew I told you this," you begin before you lean forward just a little. Enough to get closer to him. To get a hint of that woodsy cologne he's wearing and fuck yourself up pretty badly. Can't help but wonder if that scent would transfer onto your skin if you got close enough to him.

Jesus. What the hell is going on with you today? Best to continue your actual conversation before you melt into a puddle.

"But she begged me to come to this because she wanted me to meet you. She said you were her favorite teacher ever."

Ryland smiles. Then he laughs. You like how much he does both of those things.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously!" you exclaim. He clutches his heart. Quite dramatic. Quite hilarious. Man, he's interesting. One of the most interesting men you've ever met.

"No way!"

Through a giggle, you tell him, "Yes way! She likes you a lot, actually."

He huffs. "I find that hard to believe. She's got such a good History teacher this year."

"Oh, yeah? You wanna bet?" you question, smirk on your face and a twinge of mischief hidden in your tone.

"Word for word, she told me that 'Dr. Grace makes science make sense.' So…on behalf of her, thanks for that. You're making my kid's life a lot easier."

There's a twinkle in both of his eyes, now. You might even say they're misty. Your heart aches; this was fun until you stoked the fire of his tender-hearted ways. It might just be a hallucination, but you're pretty sure his bottom lip trembled a little for a second there before he cooked up a response for you. Makes you want to reach out and give the poor guy a hug.

"That's so sweet. Means a lot," is that response he cooked up, accompanied by a hint of a cracking voice that makes him clear his throat. You nod and try not to stare at him when he brings one hand up to his face and rubs a lash line. To lighten the situation a bit, you lean back in your chair and cross your arms over your chest.

"She also said she thought I'd like you."

He blinks a few times and snaps up to look at you again, quick and surprised by your sudden pivot. Throws an eyebrow up. A corner of his lips quirks up to match it.

"Yeah?" he asks. His fingers toy with a loose thread on his jeans while he keeps his eyes on you. Clearly, he's got no idea what to do with those pretty hands of his.

You can think of a few things. But maybe you shouldn't right now.

"Was she right?"

You punch out a hum; might as well let him steep in the suspense of waiting on your answer.

Your gaze, exhibiting some sort of mind of its own, sweep up and down his face and body. Over his widened, seemingly hopeful eyes. His pronounced jaw and the stubble dusting over it. The broad expanse of his shoulders, the tightness of his shirt around his arms and the way it hugs his torso just right.

Then you see a flash of his smile in your mind, and you replay that tiny wheeze hidden behind his laugh when you first walked in, and you think about the genuine kindness that's always hidden in his voice no matter how silly he's trying to be.

"Yeah. I think she was."

Ryland's response? A very relieved sigh and a very dramatic loosening of his shoulders. He even hangs his head for a moment to breathe out a laugh. You hadn't noticed he was tensed up. Too busy thinking about the prominence of his nose. Can you be blamed for that, though? It's really nice.

"That's good to hear."

"Do you usually want your students' parents to like you this badly?"

He blushes. Bright pink, all over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose and creeping down to his neck and up to his ears.

"Well, I—"

He gets cut off by someone rapping at his classroom door. When he sits up and snaps his head toward the door to look at the person waiting there for him, you realize just how close you actually were to each other. You practically could have crawled into his lap without him noticing.

"Hi! We're just finishing up here, so I'll, uh—I'll be with you in a moment!" he calls out. His voice cracks a little when he raises it. You bite back a snicker while you lean back in your chair. The person who you presume is a parent nods and backs out of the classroom. It leaves a slightly awkward air sitting between you and Ryland, but it's oddly comfortable.

"I guess that's my cue to go."

You didn't mean to sound as sad as you did. It's like all the wind has been taken from your sails. If you could spend all day with him, you'd do it in a heartbeat. Why the hell did that parent have to show up?

You reluctantly stand from your spot. Ryland shoots up to follow you. His chest bumps against yours, causing him to roughly pull back and frantically apologize beneath his breath. He almost falls backward, so you lunge forward and grab onto his hand to keep it from happening. His fingers intertwine with yours and he steadies himself when he presses his free hand down onto the flat surface of his desk.

He doesn't let your hand go, though. He's still apologizing for bumping into you, but he's giving your hand a squeeze at the same time. Firm yet gentle. The most comfortable grip you've ever felt, maybe.

Safe to say you're frozen. Eyes wide, breath caught in your chest, face burning like he's set it on fire. You've got no idea where to move and where to go because, if you were being honest, you'd say you wanted this the entire time you've been in here. How on Earth has he managed to wrap you around his finger so quickly?

He releases your hand right and mutters another apology. An unnecessary one. If anything, he should be apologizing for letting you go. For taking the welcoming firmness of his grip away from you.

"It was really great to meet you," he softly coos. You return his sweet little comment with a tiny head nod and a bright smile, then you round his desk and start for the classroom door. He follows you, because…well, of course he does. Did you honestly expect anything else?

"You're good company, Dr. Grace," you tease. A tiny, mischievous lilt added to the title you know he doesn't care for. Something that makes him roll his eyes. You saw that smirk on his face, though.

"And I'm really glad that you're my kid's teacher."

"Ah, well," he pauses and waves off your comment. "She's great. I'm happy to be her teacher."

He clears his throat to stop you just before you walk out the door. A frantic comment follows.

"But if she ever needs a tutor or something, don't be a stranger. Reach out!"

You spin on your heel and send him a sympathetic little smile.

"I don't know. She's got a pretty good grade in here. I don't think she needs a tutor."

He deflates almost immediately. A frown's on his lips while he rubs the back of his neck. Then a little bit of hope flickers in his eyes, and he cheekily adds, "Well, I'm good at other subjects too."

You laugh.

"I'm sure you are."

He sighs. Perches his hands on his hips and presses his lips into a thin line. It's a cute way to feign disappointment.

"But," you begin, heat welling beneath your cheeks and playfulness laced in your tone, "science was my worst subject in school. Maybe you could tutor me instead?"

"Yes!" he frantically replies. A little louder than you were expecting. A little quicker, too. Almost a garbled yelp because of the smile on his face. You're a little surprised he isn't jumping for joy.

He clears his throat again. His face burns bright red again. Then, in the most embarrassingly fake non-chalant way possible, he tells you, "Yes. I can definitely be your tutor."

it strikes you as intriguing, the way ryland grace is undoubtedly a night owl. his ability to stay up for hours past midnight, pondering over his scientific discoveries is both admirable and incomprehensible to you.

late in the night, you're up for a cup of water, and a quick trip to the bathroom. light radiates from ryland's workspace, constant in the way the earth circles the sun. gentle clinks and clatters echo where he researches deep into the night.

he tries not to wake you. you wake anyway.

you don't mind. not even a little. you like watching him work through your bleary, half-awake eyes. it's silent, and peaceful. therapeutic, even.

he doesn't notice when you peek through the gap, the lights of the hail mary illuminating his silhouette with a golden glow. the blonde strands sit on top of his head, shimmering like a halo.

it becomes something akin to a ritual: you'll pull on a pair of cotton socks so your feet don't snag on the floor. gliding along the surface, the occasional beep from machinery causes your heart to jump.

you do find it hard to make up new excuses for the growing dark circles under your eyes, however, and though you know ryland wouldn't mind having a late-night lab partner, it's obvious that he would usher you to bed immediately, caring for your well-being far more than his own.

sometimes, the sound of ryland's soft snoring drifts into your ears.

you'd grab a blanket, sneaking into the laboratory, skipping past the part of the floor that always creaks, and place a blanket on top of ryland's rising and falling breaths. you'd always take his crooked glasses off of his face, stifling a giggle when you see the trail of transparent drool at the corner of his mouth.

you don't do it every day. not at first, at least.

but these visits become increasingly common, until you spend hours sitting cross-legged outside ryland's door, drowsy and fatigued and still, unable to look away.

you spend half the time thinking about how nicely his glasses frame his face, and the other half wondering how his ears never seem to hurt from the temple tip digging deep into his flesh.

when he glances up, you duck. your presence probably doesn't go unnoticed, though: you can tell by the way he's smiling at the now empty crack of the door.

you feel ashamed, somehow. like you're intruding, cutting through the quiet, cool atmosphere of the ship and the matchless bond between ryland, and his beloved molecular biology.

tonight is no different. you're on one of your late night treks when a shadow hovering in the hallway stops you dead in the tracks.

"i've seen you. watching." it says. scrutinising, but not commenting on the way your throat lumps nervously when you swallow.

"sorry," you say. "did i bother you?"

"no, no." ryland steps forward into the light, and his face is illuminated- he's smiling, like the thought of you having the ability to pester him in the middle of the night is laughable.

"so- um." you fidget with the ends of your hair, messy and tangled from slumber. "i guess i'll go back-"

"wait!" ryland says quickly. too quickly. "do you want to... maybe stay up with me?"

you realise that he's given this some thought, the spark of eagerness in his eyes giving him away. he's scared, nervous. like the thought of you rejecting him and going back to sleep would kill him.

"yeah." you laugh before he's consumed by his own anxious thoughts. "i'd like that."

"okay." he whispers, a promise splashing in the cold air.

"okay." you echo as his hand circles your waist, thumb brushing over your hipbone, guiding you to his seat like a fiery lantern in the darkness.

ryland's lap acts as your seat, his right arm draped over your waist. barely there, but pulling you gently backwards so you ease into him.

you can sense his heart beating at the back of your spine. you're too exhausted to watch whatever he's doing, but your fingers tinker with the small hairs on his arm, trailing where his blueish veins are visible.

you move down to his fingers. they're smooth. heavy. you trace the warm lines of his palms down a path and the the body behind you suddenly goes very still.

you can hear ryland's pulse patter faster, and faster, until his heart is racing. you keep going, painting paths along his hand and he flinches. you feel a shaky inhale travel from his stomach across his torso.

he's ticklish.

suddenly, you're wide awake. but you don't want to inconvenience him any more than you already have, so you muffle a giggle into the soft sleeve of your pajama top.

"what's so funny?" ryland looks at you. you don't miss the traces of pink at the tip of his ears.

"nothing." you attempt to school your facial expressions into neutrality.

he knows that you know. he lands a soft squeeze at the side of your stomach where his hand rests, making you yelp. you're too drained to retaliate, so you let it go, and he lets it go.

you drift off, soon after, to the gentle rhythm of ryland's steady heart, and the incessant growling of the spaceship.

you don't notice when a blanket is wrapped around you, nor when a certain scientist presses a soft kiss on the top of your head.

it's a shame ryland never wakes up in the morning, though.

despite how understanding you are to his tendency to work into the small hours, you can't bear his insistence to stay in bed for "five more minutes". it's gone on for a full hour.

you can't imagine how he finds such comfort in the bumpy mattress, and the endearing silence from the night before has eviscerated in response to his unintelligible grumbles and protests, causing you to descend into a type of indescribable rage.

"ryland." your patience is long gone. "i need help with the centrifuge setting."

he doesn't respond.

you swear under your breath.

and now, the fucker decides to look you dead in the eye, awake and all, and utter the patronizing word.

"language."

"are you- oh my god- you're kidding." it's hard to put into words the kind of aggressive frustration that overcomes you at the moment.

you take his unacceptable behaviour into account when you climb onto the lump of ryland on the bed, perching on his hips.

he blatantly ignores you.

"last chance," you say.

silence from the other end.

you shove your hands into ryland's ribcage through the blanket and he jolts, stuttering giggles bursting out of him. it's so cute, and uncharacteristically ryland, that you can't help but coo at him. he blushes at the sound, writhing under your touch.

his movements are slow and clumsy, and lethargic, and his lack of sleep does nothing to help. he squeezes his eyes shut like he can shut out the feeling, but pries his eyelids open the second your fingers travel to the middle of his stomach.

"noho," he sniffles, a persistent smile tugging at his lips. "nohot thehere, plehease."

"and why should i listen to you?" your fingers dart under the blankets, then under his shirt, stopping for anticipation. a pair of blue eyes widen in response. "you never listen to me."

ryland pouts- pouts and your heart melts at the sight. it only intensifies the need that gnaws at you, though- the need to tickle him within an inch of his life.

you begin to trace patterns over the soft skin of his stomach and his laughter hitches when you hit a particularly sensitive spot. he's giggling now, really giggling, a wheezy, choked sound that erupts out of him.

"yohu arhe soho dehead." the words come out stuttering and slurred through hiccups and it's mean, you know that, but you can't help it- you giggle at his ridiculous state. the redness on ryland's ears migrates to the apple of his cheeks, swirling patches of pink living on the surface of his skin.

"are you gonna get up?"

ryland doesn't respond. wow, he's persistent.

"you really want me to tickle you, don't you?"

ryland stares at the ceiling, an unwilling giggle bubbling up his throat. you take the bottom of his chin between your fingers and tilt his face so he's looking at you.

he flushes a crimson shade, and you pinch his cheek. he's so fucking cute. you press sloppy kisses over the soft skin of his neck, and he shrieks right into your ear.

"ryland!" you scold. "are you trying to make me deaf?"

"sohorry- i'hm sohorry- noho, DOHON'T!" his rambling apologies do nothing to deter you when your thumbs latch onto the crease of his hipbone, rubbing tiny circles and he squeals. he's batting at your fingers uselessly, and his usual strength has somehow evaporated.

"and what have we learnt today?" you smile as you emerge victorious.

"ih'll gehet uhp nehext tihme!" ryland's trying to speak through his broken giggles, and the sight is so amusing to you that you land a few extra pokes on his torso. he twitches at each one, his face crinkling in mirth.

all your effort's gone to waste, though. you're still sleepy from the night before, and when ryland reaches up to hug you, your back tightly pressed against his chest on the bed, you fall into unconsciousness almost immediately. the centrifuge lies on the bench, long forgotten, and it beeps in protest.

this, too, becomes a ritual after your late nights: ryland's refusal to rise, your half-hearted attempts to wake him, and the way you inevitably end up fast asleep with him anyway.

neither of you acknowledge that this is a weak excuse to feel close to each other; nor when you’re pressed up against the warmth of ryland's arms, it finally feels like home.

Grace lifted his eyes from the microscope for a second, brows furrowing as he tried to determine whether the noise he’d heard was just a figment of his imagination. It seemed to fade for a moment, but just as he was about to shrug it off and go back to his samples, it sounded again — louder this time.

Grace pushed off from his chair quickly, scrambling around the room as he rushed toward the noise.

You’d told him you were going to repair some things on the ship, and for one dreadful moment, Grace thought perhaps the sound was you crying out for help. But the closer he got, the clearer the noise became, and the more confused he grew.

Grace couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It had caught him so off guard that he just froze at the entrance of the ship’s compartment.

Your eyes were closed as you moved, your body gliding across the floor in a combination of jumps and shuffling of feet.

You were dancing.

Dancing like you were at some random party or bar, not floating in outer space for all eternity. And then, to surprise him even more, you started to sing.

“You are the dancing queennnn, young and sweet, only seventeennnn,” you screamed, slightly out of pitch but still somehow holding the tune.

“You can dance, you can— oh shit!”

Your hand sprang to your chest, eyes wide as you stared at Grace. He had his hands raised as if to tell you he was no threat, and there was a comical look on his face.

You let out a breath of relief, hands moving to brace against your knees as you laughed.

“Fuck, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” Grace replied softly, his voice barely able to be heard over the song still blaring.

You stared at him, chest heaving, and Grace just stared back.

Then, because it seemed like the only right thing to do, your hand shot out, palm reaching toward Grace. His eyes widened at the gesture, gaze moving from your outstretched hand to your face. You just gave him a smile.

“Come on, I know you want to,” you said in a sing-song tone.

He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should accept the gesture or just go back to the lab and leave you to your fun. But you were right, he did want to join. So before he could think better of it, he raised his hand, allowing his palm to touch yours.

The smile that spread across your face could power a thousand suns. But Grace had only a second to admire it before you were tugging him into the dance.

He was a bit awkward at first, movements stiff from nerves or lack of practice. But as the song went on, he found himself relaxing.

You belted the lyrics out with all your heart, jumping and shimmying along with the music, oftentimes making faces or expressions that tugged a smile at the corner of Grace’s mouth.

At one point, you reached out to him again, holding his hands in yours as you shimmied.

“Come on, Grace, sing! I know you know the words.”

“I’m not sure I do,” he muttered.

He totally did.

You gave him a look that told him you didn’t believe him. But you were never going to force him to do anything, he knew that. So he stayed quiet for a second, allowing you to sing on your own as you continued to guide his movements.

And then, just as the chorus began, he opened his mouth and sang.

Grace wished he could have taken a picture of your face and hung it in the lab for when he was having a bad day. The shock didn’t last long, though, because you started singing along with him, your voices blending together as your bodies moved in sync.

You pulled him into a spin, both of you giggling like maniacs as you twirled to the music, the world around you blurring until the only thing you could see was each other.

You took a wrong step, fumbling slightly and causing Grace’s grip on you to tighten.

“I got you!” he screamed over the music.

“I know,” you said, a smile plastered on your face, and Grace couldn’t help but mirror the expression.

Your twirling slowed to a stop as the music faded out. The silence of the ship seemed overwhelming after the loudness of the music.

You and Grace stared at each other, hands still locked together as you panted.

And then, much to Grace’s surprise, you moved forward, hands letting go of his so you could pull him into a hug. He froze for a second, surprised by the gesture. But the hesitation didn’t last long, his arms moving to hold you closer in the warmth of the hug. 

You stood there locked in each other’s arms for a long time, your shared breathing the only sound that could be heard.

“Loud rhythmic human ritual is complete. Question."

Both you and Grace startled violently.

You pulled back just enough to look toward the doorway, Grace’s hands still resting on your waist while one of yours remained tangled in the front of his jumpsuit.

Rocky stood in the entrance of the compartment, mechanical arms clicking softly.

For a second there was complete silence.

Then you burst into laughter.

Grace followed a second later, his forehead dropping briefly against your shoulder as he laughed too.

“Sorry,” Grace called out between breaths. “Did we wake you up?”

“Negative,” Rocky replied. “I was observing.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, hiding your face in your hands.

Rocky tilted himself slightly.

“Observation: both humans appear significantly less sad after rhythmic flailing and loud female warbling.”

Grace looked over at you then, really looked at you, your face flushed from dancing and laughter, eyes bright in a way he hadn’t seen in months.

And maybe Rocky was right.

Because wrapped in your warmth, with your hand still clutching his sleeve and laughter still echoing through the ship, Grace realized he did feel happier.

But Rocky will stay with Grace during his bad, bad human decisions as he continues to do the same thing tonight. Rocky lies halfway over his lap, careful to balance his large weight, as Grace sits on the floor of his Eridian-made bedroom with his legs crossed with one over the other. The human has compared Rocky to a ‘lap cat’ or a weighted blanket while he is in this position; he says Rocky’s warmth keeps him cozy.

In front of Grace’s chest, there is a small table that is being held up by an adjustable arm, allowing Grace to work on his computer from his sitting position. Much safer than Grace using Rocky as a platform to hold his electronic device, which he has jokingly done before. Behind Grace, a short distance away, is the bed that he’s currently avoiding sleeping in.

Rocky continues hearing the tap, tap, tapping of Grace’s computer keys for what he feels like has been all night. Rocky keeps himself occupied by creating xenonite puppets that Grace can give out to his students, if he wants. The clock on the other side of the room suddenly chimes a specific, quiet melody they rigged that allows Rocky to know what time it is without him having to look at the Earth version of the clock.

Twelve chimes.

It’s midnight by human standards. Rocky shifts in his comfortable spot to look up at the human. It appears that the chimes of the clock have not wavered Grace’s focus on his computer in the slightest.

“Grace, clock currently says midnight. Is late,” Rocky mentions as his chirps are translated into a computer voice for Grace to understand. “Grace ready to sleep, question?”

Grace types away at his keyboard, tap, tap, tapping, not even looking at Rocky. “I’m almost done, buddy.”

“Grace said almost done human hour ago.” Rocky grows worried that the scientist is so tired that he is forgetting what he previously said.

“I needed a little more time,” Grace replies. “Give me five more minutes.”

Oh, Rocky has heard this one before, especially when he is trying to get the human out of bed. Five minutes is never five minutes.

Rocky stares up at Grace, clacking his claws together out of annoyance. “Rocky does not believe Grace.”

Grace’s gaze remains unmoving from the computer screen. “It’s going to take me even longer if you keep distracting me, buddy.”

Rocky rattles his shoulder joints and gurgles out a quiet grumble. He concedes, however, and plops himself back into Grace’s lap to wait the five so-called minutes that Grace has declared. 

Rocky does not get bored easily, but he does not want to start another xenonite puppet, and he finds the need to preoccupy his claws with something while he waits these excruciating three hundred seconds. 

The Eridian chirps out a quiet sigh. Seeing the first item in his vicinity, Rocky mindlessly starts playing with Grace’s shirt through his claws, just fiddling with the material as if he is kitting it. Human cloth is a fascinating thing. Grace has explained it to Rocky before. Fabric made of plants or animal fibers, crafted into a wearable object is intriguing. Even through Rocky’s xenonite mesh suit, he can feel a bit of the texture, soft and fluffy. Maybe one day Rocky can craft a line of xenonite apparel for Grace to wear–

Suddenly, the human flinches under Rocky’s claws. The tap, tap, tapping of the computer keys stop for a moment. Rocky pulls his claw away to see that the human’s stomach beneath his shirt has retracted out of reflex, most likely because Rocky mistakenly grazed his fleshy skin while he was examining his shirt.

“Rocky, please don’t do that. It’s distracting,” Grace says as a gentle reminder. However, Rocky’s immaculate hearing can tell Grace’s words were trying to mask what the Eridian has come to learn is an airy laugh humans do. A chuckle, it is called. 

Now why would Grace be chuckling? No joke was told. Hmm, maybe he just wrote something funny in his lesson plan to the pebbles? No, no. He wouldn’t try to hide his laugh if that was the case. Rocky ponders for a moment… All he was doing was playing with Grace’s shirt when he accidentally touched his stomach and–

Oh.

Oh yes.

Humans have this reflex when they laugh when they’re touched in their fleshy spots. It is very silly. Very adorable. Eridians have something similar, but Grace has taught Rocky that humans call it tickling. Rocky has used it on Grace on multiple occasions, such as using it to get the squishy human out of bed.

So, theoretically… there is a possibility that it can also get him in to bed.

Grace’s fingers have already resumed typing on his computer. While the human is occupied, Rocky looks at the end of his arm and flexes his claw. Rocky happily wiggles in place and stifles a squeaky laugh so the human’s less-than immaculate ears can’t hear him. 

With his plan in mind, Rocky starts playing with Grace’s shirt again, but he purposely scratches gently at the squishy stomach underneath. 

The human’s belly retracts again, the tapping of the keys stop, and Grace stiffens. His mouth begins to wobble into a smile.

Grace pulls his shoulders close to his ears, resisting the urge to laugh, Rocky can tell.

“Rocky-” his smile quivers even more and his fingers twitch above his computer keys.

“Yes, Grace? Is there a problem, question?” Rocky’s computer voice correctly translates that he is fully enjoying this. “Rocky is keeping occupied by examining clothes covering squishy flesh.”

Grace shakes his head. “I know what you’re trying to do, Rock- and it’s not going to work.” Grace clearly sounds like he’s trying to swallow the build up of pressure in his chest from wanting to laugh, but the pressure keeps building. 

“Rocky disagrees. Grace is very ticklish. Clearly holding in laughter,” Rocky makes sure to state. “Grace will not be able to last long,” the Eridian chirps out a giggle of his own.

Grace struggles to speak without a laugh, but he surprisingly manages. “Oh yeah? You think I can’t handle some tickling while I’m trying to focus? Watch me,” the human challenges. 

He clears his throat like a cough, rolls his shoulders back, and straightens out his spine. Grace takes a deep breath like he’s about to go swimming underwater, then refocuses. His fingers, miraculously, start tapping on the keys again.

Could Rocky absolutely tackle Grace to the floor and have him laughing in seconds? Yes, absolutely. Humans are far too squishy to resist for long. However, Rocky welcomes the challenge, as it is much more entertaining. The Eridian quickens the pace of his claw that is pressing into the human’s belly.

Grace muffles a laugh behind his lips, only letting out a huff of air from his nose. He lets out a little squirm, then loudly, and very obviously, clears his throat again. He talks to himself about what he’s typing to get his mind off the sensations Rocky is producing at his tummy.  

“Okay…” Grace says to his computer screen, “So the noble gasses on the periodic table of elements are…” his smile wobbles. There’s a squeak in his throat. He bites his bottom lip. “Are…” The human lets out a sound in-between a snort and a squeak. He squeezes his eyes shut and throws a hand up to cover his mouth.

Rocky shakes, quite pleased with the current results. “Grace looks ready to explode, figuratively speaking, statement.”

Grace places his hands on the table for support and shakes his head. “Nope!” he barely gets out the words. “Nope! I’m good!” 

Stubborn, stubborn human. Okay, that’s it. Time to bring in the second claw.

With no hesitation, Rocky takes his other arm and scratches it at the bottom of Grace’s ribs. Grace squeaks and curls his fingers into a fist, wobbling forward over his desk. A few of his giggles slip. The scientist leans back and slaps both of his hands across his mouth, but his giggles continue to leak through his fingers like a hole in an oxygen tank. His shoulders bounce and soon, Grace pulls his hands from his mouth, successfully giggling out into the room. 

Grace snorts and looks down at Rocky. “Ohohokay, okay,” the human reaches down to grab the Eridian’s claws away—his first mistake. 

“Rocky–AH!” Grace yelps when Rocky launches his claw upwards, right in the middle of the top rib and the squishy part humans call the armpit. Grace’s loud giggles burst out of him and he flails his arms against Rocky’s full-scale attack with three of his claws squeezing at his torso, including his belly. 

“Rocky win! Rocky win!” the Eridian cheers over the human’s laughter. “Rocky choose prize. Rocky wants Grace to sleep now, statement.” 

“Nohoho! Grahahace wants to finish his lehehehesson!” the human mimics the speech pattern of Rocky’s computer voice as the scientist attempts to shove at him. Grace leans back and topples to the floor. Rocky crawls above him, poking and wiggling his claws into his squirmy form. Even when losing control of themselves from producing this joyful sound, humans still have the audacity to talk back.

“Stubborn. Stubborn human.” Rocky claws at his ribs to persuade him. Grace tosses his head back with a wheeze and bats at the Eridian’s claws that are clearly not going anywhere. It is foolish that he thinks he can push them away. “Stubborn human needs to lie down!”

“I a-ahahaham lying dohohohown!” Grace sasses.

Rocky growls and stomps his back foot on the ground. “Not on the floor! On bed! Grace can not do lessons if low on sleep!”

The human kicks his feet and leans forward to take another shove at the Eridian. “I’ll be fihihine! I’ve done it behehehefore!” Grace says.

Rocky squawks, like a hard surface screeching on metal, “WHAT?! Grace has done this before, question??? Grace, bad! BAD! This is why Rocky needs to be here to watch over Grace more often! Can not leave Grace alone for even a small amount of time!” Rocky adds more pressure to his wiggling claws into the human’s soft flesh to show that he means business. 

Grace squeals. He hugs his torso and squirms from side to side to side. “Ahahaha! I’m nohohot a child!” Grace cackles.

“Grace certainly looks like one,” Rocky snickers at the giggle-filled human.

Grace covers his face, slipping his hands under his glasses that are already askew. He giggles under his hands for a moment before squeezing his arms to his sides.

“Trust mehehehe! I cahahahan teach under ahahahany conditions!” Grace declares with full confidence. How is this human not tired yet?

Rocky rumbles with a growl again. Rocky will make him, what is the human phrase again, ‘eat words’? Yes, Rocky will serve him a meal of his own words.

“Then teach Rocky now, statement,” the Eridian says.

“WHAHAHAT?” Grace exclaims in the middle of his laughter.

“Grace needs to prove his statement of teaching under any condition. Teach Rocky while Rocky tickle.”

“Nohohoho way!” Grace squawks when Rocky plunges two claws into his armpits.

“Grace, teach Rocky,” the Eridian repeats. Rocky sees that Grace’s shirt has shifted upwards, so Rocky changes spots and slips a claw under the fabric of his shirt to get at his squishy tummy, earning a flail and an overflow of giggles from the human. “Tell Rocky what lesson is about.” Rocky knows the human can not resist a good challenge. 

“Fihihihine!” Grace giggles, trying to get his thoughts in order while Rocky keeps his claws creating tickly sensations across his torso. “It’s about Earth’s periodic tahahable of ehehe-elements!” he says the mouthful of words through his laughter.

“And?” Rocky continues to skitter his claws over his friend’s stomach, awaiting the lesson he is owed.

Grace kicks his legs behind Rocky and flails his arms in front of the Eridan’s face. “Ihihihit’s ahahahabout the atomic numbers, prohohotons, electrons, atomic mahahahass!” Grace starts frantically spewing scientific knowledge, “Aahahahand- and the groups! And families! Like alkali metals, halogens, noble gahahahases!” Grace cackles loud, wheezy giggles as his form of an answer.

Hearing all of this, Rocky pulls his claws away. Grace hugs his torso, taking a breather and exhaling any remaining laughter. 

Rocky tilts his body. “Pause. All of what Grace said is for Pebbles’ next lesson, question?” 

“Yeheheah…” the human’s words are still laced in giggles. As the oxygen returns to Grace’s brain, he appears to realize the reason as to why Rocky is asking him this. Grace lifts his head up. Rocky keeps himself from snickering at how his friend’s glasses are pushed up in his hair from the result of their game.  

“Do you think it’s too much?” Grace asks. 

Rocky nods his body. “Rocky likes the subject matter, but does think it is too much for pebbles for one day. Would be better if Grace separated lessons into multiple sections, statement.”

Grace lifts himself on his arms. “You think?” Grace fixes his glasses back to the bridge of his nose. He narrows his eyes at Rocky through the lenses. “You’re not just saying that because you want me to sleep, right?” Not helping his own case, Grace lets out a yawn.

“Rocky being honest. Pebbles may not retain all of new Earth knowledge in one sitting.”

Grace takes a moment to soak in Rocky's words. The human moves to sit up and Rocky moves out of the way so the scientist can scoot closer to his computer. He scrolls his fingers on the laptop to glance at the pages he already has. After scrolling a few times, Grace exhales a breath out of his nose.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Grace concedes, smiling. “I got too ambitious to teach them about a new topic again, huh?”

“Yes. Grace got overly excited, statement,” Rocky agrees. “But makes Rocky happy that Grace gets excited to fill the pebbles with Earth knowledge,” the Eridian stands on his legs like a proud parent. “Does this mean Grace sleep now, question?” 

Grace lets out a soft chuckle. Rocky is surprised his friend has any more giggles to give after tickling him. “Yeah, bud. I’ll go to bed now,” Grace says.

“Amaze! Finally got through to stubborn human. Now up up up,” Rocky nudges and gestures for the human to get onto his feet.

“Okay, okay, I’m getting up. No need to be pushy,” Grace jokes and stands.

“Rocky must push. Human will not get sleep otherwise.”

Grace huffs out another laugh. He leaves to prepare himself for bed and Rocky waits patiently. After a few minutes, Grace shuffles into the room towards his bed, then pulls down the covers and gets into the blankets. He folds his glasses, placing them on the nightstand beside the bed, and turns off the lamp next to it. Grace pats the mattress beside him, welcoming Rocky into his bed. Rocky hops up to join the human. Fortunately, the bed frame is built strong to hold the full weight of an Eridian. Grace pats the top of Rocky’s shell.

“Grace sleep now. Get rest to teach pebbles in the morning,” Rocky says.

A chuckle softly rumbles in the human’s chest. “Yes Rocky. Goodnight.”

“It is technically morning-” Rocky corrects on impulse.

“Rocky,” Grace giggles. 

“Apologies. Rocky stay quiet now. Grace sleep. Rocky watch. Night good to Grace too.”