liz

You can feel Grace’s suspicious gaze on you.

He follows every one of your movements with narrow eyes, head tilted as if trying to solve a puzzle. He should be focusing on the meal you gave him a minute ago, considering it is the first ‘real’ food he has had in four years, but instead he is squeezing the food into his mouth, almost missing it in the process.

You try not to let it show how much it was affecting you, but if you had to guess, you’d say you aren’t hiding it well. Your eyelids are heavy, and fingers shaky from the potent mixture of caffeine, no sleep, and anxiety.

After he woke up, it hadn’t taken long for him to notice that you are acting off. Where you loitered around him before he went to sleep, you now watch him as closely as possible. When he went to the lavatory, you waited outside the door, and you’re sure that the only reason he hasn’t told you to back off yet is that you had almost started crying when you saw him step out of the door again.

Now, you’re sitting in the galley, silence tying both of you in thousands of little knots, tugging your gazes back and forth between each other. It is a game of who’ll break first, and for the first time in years, you won’t be the loser.

“Are you okay?”

Bold question, you have to admit. Not ‘is everything okay?’ or asking again whether you have slept well—no, he went right to the point.

“I’m fine.” His expression makes it clear that you had said it too quickly. So, you try to double down on it, “Seriously, I’m okay. Why shouldn’t I be?”

Grace sits up, and you clench your jaw, realizing that he had waited for you to say something like that; maybe you actually are the loser.

“You look like you haven’t slept well.” He pauses, and if you have to guess, you’d say he’s trying to assess how far he should go. “You look like you haven’t slept at all.”

“So?” you say, shrugging.

“That’s not… good,” he says, but it comes out like a question. “You seem twitchy.”

“You don’t know me,” God, it hurts to say that. “Maybe I’m always twitchy.”

“You weren’t this twitchy before I went to sleep,” he countered. “Did something happen?”

You bit the inside of your cheeks, trying to physically stop yourself from saying anything. Of course, something happened, and of course you want to tell him. You want to spill your guts, and then sob for a couple of hours, maybe scream a bit.

But Grace isn’t your friend, he’s your patient, and you don’t act that way with patients. That familiar mantra haunts you more than the literal end of the world. He’s the victim of heavy amnesia, and you’re the idiot by his side, doomed to spend the last couple of months of your life orbiting him, never again getting close to him the way you had on Earth.

“Nothing happened,” you say in a small voice.

Grace studies you for a second before going back to his food-sludge. “I don’t believe you.”

“Good for you,” you scoff.

“Twitchy and snappy, wow.” Grace rolls his eyes. “What’s next?”

You flinch at his dismissive tone. It hit you harder than it should. Back on Earth, something like that would have been a joke between friends, but up here it is his genuine impression of you, the only one that he has. He has been awake for not even 24 hours, and you have already made him dislike you.

“Sorry,” he mumbles and then sighs deeply. “That was not nice.”

“We said we wouldn’t apologize anymore.” Your voice is thin, trembling slightly.

He looks up, and when his eyes fall on you, he freezes. “Oh, geez! Oh, no, no. Don’t—” he gets up and steps closer to where you’re sitting on the floor. “Are you crying? You’re crying. I’m such a meanie.”

You didn’t notice when it started, but he’s right, you are crying. Silent tears running down your cheeks. But when he crouches down before you, you can’t help but let out a watery chuckle. “Did you just call yourself a ‘meanie’?”

“I—I did, yeah.” He scrunches his face. “You’re crying. What can I do to make you stop?”

You sniff. “Nothing, it’s fine.” You wipe a hand over your cheek. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”

“This is all a lot,” Grace says.

“For you, maybe.”

“No, I think for you too. Maybe more in a way.”

You laugh at that. “More? You lost all your memories and woke up in the middle of a suicide mission.”

Grace doesn’t laugh with you, just looks at you with a soft expression in his eyes. “Yeah, and you have been part of that suicide mission for four years, remembering everything that you left behind. You spend four years mourning the world, and I think…” he sighs, looking away. “I think now you’re mourning me.”

You furrow your brows and feel more tears gather in your eyes. You shake your head slowly. “Don’t say that, please.”

When he looks back at you, his eyes are equally as glossy as yours. The blue shimmering like the ocean you’ll never get to see again. “I’m just really sorry that this is how it went. You deserve better than this.”

“You mean better than you?” You ask, breath hitching. He nods silently, and something burns within your chest. “No. Mm-mm, don’t say that. If someone can save the world, it’s you.”

He snivels. “Sure, if that’s all.”

“I mean it,” you say, trying to make him understand.

“I’m sure you do.”

You hate seeing the defeated look on Grace’s face. Sure, even back on Earth, he’d get a bit sulky from time to time, but he was never one to doubt his own intelligence. He knew he was smart, no matter what. It wasn’t arrogance, or at least not merely that. It was more a mind so active, so ready to study the world around him, that he had no choice but to go along with it. Now here he is, looking like someone had opened his head and spooned out his brilliant brain, bit by bit until all that was left is the ability to look pitiful.

“I get auditory and visual hallucinations whenever the lights go out.” The confession burst out of you before you could rethink it.

Grace looks up, alarmed. His eyes are wide and his mouth half opened. “What?”

You close your eyes briefly and take a deep breath. “That’s why I look like this. I didn’t sleep, I—” You cut yourself off, knowing that whatever you say next could change everything.  

“You what?” Grace asks in a low voice.

You smile, your nerves running wild. “I monitored your heartbeat,” you whisper, hoping that it was quiet enough that the sound waves won’t ever reach him, forever getting lost in the space between you.

But, of course, because the world is unfair, he hears it. “Oh,” he says, blinking a couple of times as if needing to recalibrate himself.

“And I named almost all the objects on the ship,” you blurt out.

“Oh,” Grace says again, watching as you get up and start to pace.

“And I talk to myself and the stuff around me basically at all times. I know you know that one already, but I wanna reiterate that I do that a lot.”

“O—Okay,” Grace stutters while getting to his feet as well.

You stop your movement, turning to him. “I’m telling you this because I cannot have you doubting yourself like that. Hundreds—no, thousands of people worked day and night to get us here. I completely destroyed my brain, and our other two crew members died, all for this moment.”

“That’s a lot of pressure,” he points out feebly, and you take a step closer.

“I know, it’s horrible. I’m sorry, but this is our situation. I’m okay with what happened to me, and so is everyone else. This is what we signed up for, but only if it has a purpose. My sanity is nothing against the lives of eight billion people. So, please, don’t start doubting yourself, because right now, you’re literally the only thing I still have—the only thing I still believe in.”

He stares at you speechlessly for a couple of seconds. Then he suddenly starts walking toward you, and before you could stop it, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you against his chest in a tight embrace.

Your entire body lights up. Every nerve, every cell in you is aware of him, as he is burning his outline into you. His left hand is draped around your back, and his right one is on the back of your head, pulling you close until your face is pressed into his neck. He smells like the sterile, clean smell all fabrics on the ship hold, mixed with something that is just him—something you had last smelled this closely four years ago, and might now be your favorite smell ever. Screw vanilla, petrichor, or freshly brewed coffee; if you could, you would bottle his smell and douse yourself with it every day.

He shifts, laying his head on top of yours. “If I’m overstepping, you can tell me and I’ll let go.”

“No,” you squeaked, shoulders tensing at the suggestion.

His breath hits your hair as he exhales softly in what might be a laugh. “Then, if you want to, you could hug me back.”

The gentle reminder is what breaks you. Your arms snap around him, holding him tightly, like the safety belts on a rollercoaster. If you let go, he’ll fly off and you’ll never see him again. Sobs start to wrack through your body, shaking your shoulders, and he tightens his arms as well.

He’s murmuring something in your hair, although you cannot make out what. Your hearing is filled with static, getting louder and louder the longer he holds you before it becomes so loud that you cannot take it any longer.

You push yourself away from him. Grace looks startled at that, but not offended.

He’s your patient. He is so vulnerable up here, trapped with you. But at the same time, your heart is beating so fast, you think it’s trying to escape your ribcage to jump back into his arms. You swallow.

“Too much?” Grace asks carefully.

“No.” Yes. “Maybe.”

“Okay.” He nods. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

“You didn’t.” He didn’t; you did.

“Okay,” he says and nods again as if that is the only gesture that still makes sense. “I think… I think there’s a lot we should talk about. Starting with how to best handle…” He trails off, looking down at his feet.

“Me?”

“Your situation,” he says hastily.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Hey,” he scolds, although his tone is light. “We talked about apologizing.”

“Alright, alright.” You take a breath. “What do you wanna know?”

“When did it start? How advanced are the hallucinations? Can you discern between what’s real and what’s not? Is it just when the lights go out?” He fires off the questions in the way you assume he must have done back on Earth in his classroom.

You blink, momentarily overwhelmed, and before he can continue, you lift your hands. “Okay, just… gimme a sec.” You run a hand through your hair and sit back down, leaning against a cabinet.

Grace goes to sit down on the chair he sat on previously, when he halts, wide eyes finding yours. “Does the chair have a name?”

You nod, your cheeks burning.

He looks down to where you sit on the floor, before realization flickers across his face. “Is it okay if I—would you rather if I sit down on the floor with you?”

He asks it so earnestly that the burn on your face runs down your body, enveloping it like a comfortable blanket. “I can’t possibly ask you not to sit on our chairs.”

“You’re not, I’m offering.” You mull it over for a moment, although that is just for appearance. You know your answer already, you have known it ever since he sat down on Veronica, and you felt her intense discomfort as if it were your own.

Still, the words don’t quite make it off your tongue and out of your mouth. Instead, you kind of shift to the side, offering him the space beside you. He accepts it wordlessly and sits down, close enough so that your entire left side is aware of his presence, but far enough so that you’d only touch if one of you decides to reach out.

He waits patiently until you’re ready, arms balanced casually on his knees. When you start talking, you’re purposefully not looking at him. “It started about two years ago. At first, it was just random sounds that I could easily write off. Like, a beep, or something that sounded like footsteps but couldn’t possibly be because, well, I’m alone. But then it would become more frequent… one night when I went to get some water, I suddenly heard this laughter. It—it wasn’t menacing or scary; it was just laughter. For a second it sounded like a childhood friend of mine. It freaked me out so much I couldn’t sleep for three days, which obviously didn’t help the matter.”

Grace isn’t looking at you, but his eyes are slightly narrowed, head tilted in your direction. “And that only happens when it’s dark?”

You hesitate. “Not quite. Even when it’s light, I’ll sometimes hear stuff where I’m not sure how real it is. It’s never too bad, never visual, just stuff like coughs or clangs. Just any random sounds you’d hear in busy rooms,” you say. “You know when you’re kind of deep in thoughts and then think you hear something, like someone calling your name or trying to get your attention? I get that, too. It’s just that for me both options aren’t real.”  

“Okay,” he says for what must be the millionth time in less than an hour. “What about the visual stuff?”

“That only happens in the dark,” you say, hoping he won’t be able to hear the slight shake in your voice. It isn’t a total lie, after all. “It’s mostly shapes, nothing distinct. Just stuff you see out of the corner of your eyes, and then realize that there was nothing there, or the old ‘is that a hat stand or a man in the corner’ situation, you know?” You trail off, pursing your lips.

“Is there more?”

“There is… sometimes…” You groan, letting your head fall into your hands. “The worst is when I can feel something that isn’t there. Like a hand on my shoulder, or a breeze in my hair.”

It feels so humiliating to lay it out like that for him. Like you’re performing surgery on yourself before him, dissecting every part of you, taking out every organ and holding them up for his inspection.

To his credit, he doesn’t look as freaked out as he probably should be, considering the person he’s stuck with in space just confessed to being a total lunatic.

“That’s good to know. Thank you for telling me,” he says, sounding like a therapist at the end of a long overdue session.

You snort. “You’re welcome. There is more from this nutcase where that came from.”

“You’re not a nutcase,” he retorts intently. “Don’t say that about yourself. That’s not appropriate medical lingo, you should know that.” He grins at you at the end of the sentence. It’s almost a miracle the way he is able to switch your mood so quickly. 

You shake your head, amused. “Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor Gra—ah, shit.”

“Mhm.” He laughs haughtily. “PhD, baby,” he croons and then briefly looks mortified at himself.

“Oh, wow.” You laugh now, too, and mumble, “Asshole,” although it holds no bite.

He bites his lip, trying to stop the grin from widening.

It feels nice to sit here with him, you realize. The casualness of your conversation reminds you of the way it had been back on Earth, and while that does make your heart clench a bit, the familiarity also makes your shoulders loosen.

Grace taps his fingers against his legs a couple of times before sitting up a bit straighter. “Alright, what can I do to help you?”

Your head snaps toward him. “What? You don’t have to help me. I’ll handle it, don’t worry.”

He sighs, “I wanna help you. This whole thing will only work if we help each other.”

“No,” you say, now sitting up straighter as well. “This will work if we do what we’re supposed to.”

“Yeah, but you…” he sighs again. “Think about it like this: you cannot take care of me if you don’t take care of yourself—”

“I know that,” you cut in, but he continues to ignore you.

“And I think that it would be a lot easier for you to take care of yourself if I help you with it. Also, if I help you so that you help me, that will help me double, which is good for everyone, because if I’m taken care of, I can help you more, and the people back on Earth, right?”

You stare at him. “I don’t know. I don’t think I caught all that.”

“Perfect.” He claps his hands together. “Then we’re on the same page.”

You groan, which turns into a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“No, this mission is impossible,” he says. “I’m just a variable in it.”

You smile, and the room falls silent. The galley has always been a place of comfort for you. You had your girls—chairs—here, it was far enough away from HAL 9000, but close enough so that you’d hear it if anything changed with your patients, and from all the rooms on the ship, it was by far the most normal.

Originally, there wasn’t supposed to be a galley on the Hail Mary. Food could be stored anywhere, and it wasn’t like you would have a fridge or oven to use in space. But when it was decided to send an awake crew member up as well, the galley was added to establish at least a little sense of normalcy.

It was your room, the closest you’ll ever get again to having a home. When it was created, you had even been allowed to decide on the color scheme. When you passed your choices to the engineers, they had gently but firmly tried to get you to change your mind, stating that you would surely get sick of it, but you stuck by them.

And you’re glad you did. Sure, the galley was a lot, with its brightly coated walls painted with swirls of light blues, yellows and greens, and the furniture which ranged in colors from throughout the rainbow. But you love it. It is like your own little oasis, in the middle of all the whites and grays found in the rest of the Hail Mary.

Your favorite parts are the insides of the cupboard doors, though. You only realized that they had been painted once you were up in space. Every door was decorated by someone on the engineering team. Some were covered with glitter and color, in what was a more childlike attempt at a painting by the less artistically accomplished of the team, and others were detailed masterpieces of landscapes or fantastical scenes.

When you had first seen in, you started weeping, and Commander Yáo and Dr. Ilyukhina—who had that point had still been awake (and alive)—had hugged you tightly. There was a lot to do, and not a lot of time, but Dr. Ilyukhina spent the next two hours showing you each masterpiece, explaining who did what, and laughing about some of the flimsier ones. They were all signed, and you two ribbed about how if the world would actually end, that the insides of your galley cupboards might be the last remains of human art, floating around forever in space until it would one day be found by some aliens, who would surely believe that humanity was a species made up of toddlers.

You thought a lot about those last couple of days before putting Commander Yáo and Dr. Ilyukhina in their comas. The overwhelming combination of adrenaline bubbling in you mixed with the fear briefly put to rest by each other’s company.

A thought that has been crawling around your brain for years now comes to the forefront of your mind, and you can no longer ignore it.

“We need to deal with Commander Yáo and Doctor Ilyukhina,” you whisper, as if scared that the two crew members would feel offended if your voice reached them back where they lay in the med bay.

Grace closes his eyes, shoulders rising when he takes a long breath. “Yeah, you’re right.” He does nothing for a second, just breathing deeply, and then he opens his eyes again to slowly get back to his feet.

He holds out his hand for you to take, and while you hesitate, you do take it and let him help you up. Once you stand you make to pull away, but he stops you by holding on to your hand lightly.

“But this conversation is not over. Don’t think I don’t realize that you’re avoiding telling me how to help you.” He squeezes your hand. “You need me not to doubt myself, and I’ll do that if, in turn, you let me help you. Help me, help you. Tell me what you need, and I’ll do it, just like we said yesterday. Okay?”

He tilts his head, his eyes trying to find yours. When they do, he smiles expectantly.

“Okay,” you say, and while you try not to mean it, his face is so sincere that a part of you wants to just surrender to his requests. It does make sense after all. It is just painful to admit that you might not be able to do the one thing you’re here to do.

“Good,” he says, and without another word turns to leave the galley. You follow him quickly, and side by side you walk to the med bay. Maybe this could work—maybe you could work.  

part one

taglist: @ahfkwnxkgndk @cosmicyeehaw @desiredgosling (comment to be added)

You had been irritated ever since your boss told you what your next job would entail. When he had called you into his office yesterday to inform you, you had nearly stormed back out.  

“You’re kidding.” You narrowed your eyes and your fingers dug into the orange upholstery of the chair you were sitting in.

Tiger—a large man with the kind of arrogance needed to christen himself with such a moniker—looked unimpressed at your demanding tone. “Don’t go buggin’ out now, baby. ‘S nothing personal, the job just needs to be done.”

But it was personal, you were sure of it. Ever since you had turned Tiger down, he had been handing you only less than desirable work. You stared irritated at the cigar hanging half out of his mouth, and you hoped that some of its ash would fall onto his too-tight leather pants.

“I’m too good for this shit, and you know it,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

He shrugged. “Someone needs to do it.”

“Make Nail do it. Or Petrol, or hell, I’m sure Skinny would love the opportunity.” God, what stupid fucking handles these men could come up with. It’s not like it actually protects their identity—get two drinks in them and they’ll freely hand out their government name to any woman unlucky enough to be around them.

“Baby,” Tiger sighed, rolling his eyes. He had given you that name himself in a desperate attempt to get you into his bed. Like a sucky nickname would ever actually make you suck his dick. “Close the shades and listen.”

You hated the way he used slang. As if a couple of up-to-date phrases would make people look away from his bald spot or his saggy cheeks.

“The men gotta do some other stuff. Figured you’d love the opportunity, being a strong modern woman and all that.” Some malice seeped through his voice at the end of the sentence, and you wanted to throw the framed painting of Tiger stroking an actual tiger at his head. “C’mon baby, it’s an easy gig. Just find out whether these two private dicks got their nose in my business, and if they do, bump them off. That’s it.”

You sighed, knowing that you didn’t have an actual choice, anyway. While Tiger’s business wasn’t one the largest out there, he had enough leverage over you to make it so that you would stick around until the bitter end—whatever that would entail. Plus, killing people was kind of the only thing you were good at, ever since you shot your first victim at the age of seventeen.

“Knew you’d see my way.” Tiger pulled a manila folder from his desk, throwing it into your lap. “Here’s all we got on them.”

You opened the folder and looked up, unimpressed. “It’s empty.”

“Can’t make it too easy for you, now can I, babygirl?” You wanted to retch. “Stakeout’s part of the gig. If you wanna have fun with it, have fun, but just make it quick.”

You nodded, stuffing the folder into your purse, and got up. “I at least gotta know their names.”

“Jackson Healy and Holland April.”

It was Holland March. You genuinely didn’t know whether Tiger had been trying to fuck with you or just was that stupid.

Ever since you got the job, you had been doing your research, finding out whatever you could about those two possibly soon-to-be-dead bastards.

Jackson Healy, 53 years old, former enforcer-for-hire turned private eye. Divorced, two-bedroom apartment, owner of two handguns according to the DROS. (Even though you never relied on those records—trusting either paperwork or law enforcement was a sure way to get a bullet between your eyes.) His only known associate came in the form of his business partner:

Holland March, 36 years old, a semi-reliable private eye who worked alone until last year when he and Healy joined together and started The Nice Guys Agency. Widowed, teenage daughter, rental house, one registered handgun.

You had looked away quickly when you noticed the young blonde girl walking up the driveway and letting herself into the house. You didn’t like messing with people who had kids, especially considering the girl had already lost her mother, but business was business. Maybe you’d slip the girl—Holly—some cash once you had killed her father.

Right now, the two self-declared ‘Nice Guys’ were hunting for information in a shady strip club. It was a rundown building, with windows covered by black shades and a neon pink sign reading ‘Tinseltown’ mounted over the entrance. On either side of the name was a glowing breast equipped with a nipple tassel, lighting up rhythmically.   

The sun was slowly setting behind the club, and the ultraviolet color palette painted the scene, turning it almost romantic. Then some man lurched out of the front door of the club, hurling on the sidewalk before stumbling back inside, and you let your eyes fall closed with a groan.  

Either the two detectives were perverts and in the process of getting their rocks off while on duty, or they had actually found something interesting in the club. You didn’t care which one it was, you just wanted to not continue waiting here for them, so you made a decision: it was time for some close-up investigating.

You exited your car, stretched your stiff limbs, and then started striding over to the club. Steps confident, head held high. You were aware that establishments like Tinseltown weren’t the safest for women, but you were carrying two guns, and the ability to knock a man to the floor in less than three seconds.

The smell that greeted you when walking into the club was a delightful mixture of sweat, alcohol, and lube, so potent it stung your eyes. The air was filled with upbeat music and low chatter, interrupted by the occasional whistle or shout by one of the many men crowded around the stages and throughout the room. The overhead lights were so dim that most of the room was only visible because of the many glowing neon signs scattered along the walls or standing throughout the space. When you took a couple of steps forward, the floor was sticky under your boots, making you almost turn back around. The chestnut knee-high platform boots were one of your most treasured possessions, and no job in the world was worth ruining them over.

While you didn’t make bad money, there was not much you could do with it. You had your apartment—nicely furnished with everything you might need—and otherwise you invested in your wardrobe. Without a family to support, or a big social life outside of your job, there was not much else to do with the money, so clothes it was.

Lacy tops, suede suits, tight skirts, boots, sandals—whatever you wanted, you got. You didn’t have to work in a stuffy office, so there was no dress code to follow, and you could wear whatever you wanted. That was not just comfortable for you, but it also made it very easy for you to go undercover in places; however, sometimes it worked a little too well.

With your high-waisted tight sitting jeans shorts and orange blouse knotted over your navel, you fit in a little too well in the strip club. Then again, you were sure that any woman unlucky enough to stumble into this joint would get the same kind of looks you were currently receiving, after all while your clothes were on the shorter side, anyone with half a brain should understand that you weren’t one of the workers here.

But to the kind of men frequenting this place, a pretty girl was a pretty girl—whether she wore a bikini or a winter coat—therefore flesh to be consumed.

“Heya dolly,” a slurred voice came from your right. A man was leering up at you from the red leather couch he was half sprawled over it. His eyes were glazed and teeth stained yellow. “Don’t you look pretty?”

“If you say so.” You shrugged, eyes searching the many faces for your two targets. You thought you spotted one of them near the bar, but when you tried to get a closer look, a hand wrapped itself around your wrist.

“Now, wait a second.” The man hiccupped, and you wrinkled your nose at the smell permeating from him. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”

You sighed, “Not really.” You tried to shake him off. It would be easy for you to knock his drunk ass to the floor, and while you certainly weren’t above hurting men who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves—in fact that might be one of your favorite parts of your life—you didn’t want to risk drawing too much attention on you.

“Just… c’mon, baby. Gimme a chance.”

You froze, now focusing on the man who seemed to perk up at your sudden attention.

“Baby?”

The man frowned but quickly shook it off, grinning widely. “Yeah, baby. You like that? You wanna be my baby, hm?”

“Oh, god.” You rolled your eyes. “Fuck off.”

Secretly, you were relieved, though. Tiger liked to sometimes send one of his men after you, just to ‘check in’. It was condescending, irritating, and on several occasions almost screwed up gigs for you. Plus, if he had men stationed here, it would mean that the club was one of his, or at least one he operated out of, and that thought didn’t sit right with you.

Sure, Tiger and his men did bad shit, you weren’t stupid, you knew that. Hell, you regularly killed people, a lot of whom didn’t really deserve it. But looking around you at the girls hanging off the poles or strutting around the room, with glassy eyes and worn-out smiles, you felt something burn in your chest. That wasn’t the look of women who were living out their dream lives, or at least who found some enjoyment in their work—those were the slumped shoulders and weary faces of women pushed to their limit.

And with a couple of those, the term ‘women’ might be an exaggeration; girls seemed more fitting.

The man was still holding on to your wrist, looking more hopeful by the second, as if ‘fuck off’ wasn’t enough of a hint. You twisted your hand in his grasp and were about to break his fingers—fuck the extra attention, he was starting to piss you off—when another voice spoke up from behind you.

“Hey man, she doesn’t seem interested.”

You turned, surprised, and came face to face with none other than Holland March. He wore a nice-looking maroon suit with a mustard-yellow tie, a cigarette hanging from between his lips. He was looking at the grip the other man had on you, and while he didn’t have a very threatening aura, he stood close enough to signal that he wouldn’t leave before he was satisfied.

The other man did a quick once-over of March and then scoffed, “Fuck off.”

Funny, that's what I just said, too. Is what you wanted to say, but you bit back the retort, a plan forming in your head.

Every man loved a Damsel in Distress, whether because they want to put her in the aforementioned ‘Distress’ or because they want to save her from it didn’t really matter, as long as a woman was looking at them doe-eyed and trembling, they got their kicks from it. And if March was the kind of man who’d rather protect than threaten, then that was only the better for you; he was handsome after all, there was no reason in denying that.  

“You fuck off,” March retorted, sounding genuinely offended.

“What’s your issue, pal? Just wanna relax for a bit and spend some time with this pretty thing,” he said, voice thick with annoyance and intoxication. He got off the couch, swaying a bit. March was a tall man, but the other man stood a couple of inches taller.

“I’m not your pal, pal. And she’s not an object,” March said, and his words landed somewhere they shouldn’t for you. Then he went and pushed the man. 

That came as a surprise not just to the man who stumbled over his feet, tripping over the flank of the couch, but also to you. He still held you, so when he went down, he took you with him.

You hit the ground hard. Half catching yourself on the cushions of the couch, which, considering the kind of establishment you were in, wasn’t that much of a relief. At least the hold on your wrist was finally broken.

“Oh, fuck,” March yelped, threw his cigarette in the closest ashtray, and knelt down next to you, hands fluttering over your back. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t—that didn’t go the way I hoped.”

While you did feel a twinge of annoyance, mainly because you were sure you had to burn these clothes now, you couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re fine. Got him off me at least.”

At that, you both looked up to where the man stood up from behind the couch. His gaze landed on you before he scoffed, muttering something about ‘teasing sluts’ before trailing over to the bar.

“That’s not—hey,” March yelled after the man before turning back to you with a dopey smile. “If you want, I’ll get someone to beat him up.”

“You’ll get someone to beat him up?”

“Yeah, I know someone. Actually, wait here a second, I’ll do that now.” March stood up, but you stopped him before he could walk away.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I—” you noticed you were still perched on the ground.

“Here.” March offered his hand, and you took it, getting up.

“Thank you.” You brushed off the crumbs from your clothes, trying not to shudder with disgust. “Seriously, though, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Well, if you change your mind, let me know,” he said and nodded as if trying to convince you of just how serious he was being. “Any time, any day. Just give me a call and I’ll be there.”

You laughed. “I don’t have your number.”

Yes, you did.

He started frantically searching his pockets but came up empty. “I swear I had one here. Healy always tells me to…” he mumbled, more to himself than you, before looking up with wide, regretful eyes. “I’ll ask Healy for a card quickly. Healy is my partner—business partner! He is my business partner.”

“Nothing wrong with the other kind, too.” You grinned.

“Of course!” March basically tripped over himself to agree with you. “Nothing wrong with it. Love is… love is beautiful, no matter who with whom, right?”

You nodded. Fuck, he was endearing.

“But we are private detectives. Worked with the DOJ last year. Well, kinda, but… anyway, lemme just get that card for you.”

You stopped him again. While you were certain he’d come back to you as quickly as humanly possible, you didn’t want Healy to get involved right now. From your prior research, it became clear that Healy was the more serious and reliable one of the two—if one of them was going to spill their secrets, it wasn’t going to be him.

“Do you have a pen?” You asked.

March started patting his jacket before taking out a silver pen.

“Perfect, just write your number on my arm,” you said, holding out your right arm toward him.

March first turned a shade paler and then three shades darker. A rosy flush spread over his cheeks. “You want me to… yeah, yeah, that works. It’s actually perfect!”

He gently took hold of your elbow with his left hand, holding it steady while he started to write with his other hand . His hand was warm on your arm, and he was lightly moving his thumb back and forth, seemingly subconsciously. He had large hands, and you—you have to get your mind out of the gutter.

“Your skin is so soft,” March whispered and then flinched, smudging some of his writing. “Oh, Jesus, that wasn’t—” He grimaced. “Sorry, I’m not usually this…”

“You’re fine.” You smiled, and then, as if just getting an idea, bit your lip, looking away coyly.

“What?” March asked. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you to make up for all of this?”

“No, it’s nothing.” You almost started dragging your foot across the floor, but then figured that’d be a bit overkill. “Really, it’s—whatever.”

“No, c’mon. Now you've gotta tell me.” He was grinning widely now.

Hook, line and sinker. It’s so easy.

“I, um, well, the reason why I’m even in here is that my car kind of broke down,” you said. “And I was just going to ask to use a phone to call… well, someone—I wouldn’t even know who to call, to be honest. But it’s already getting late and it’ll be dark soon, so maybe you could—”

“Yes!” he said, nodding vigorously. “This is not a good place for a woman to be stuck, believe me. I’ll do what I can to help.”

“That’s really kind, thank you.” You smiled bashfully up at him, and he practically started swooning.

“Oh, it’s—it’s nothing, really.” He waved you off and then held out his hand as if to say, ‘Lead the way’.

When the sweaty evening air hit your face, you took a deep breath. LA air was passable on its best days, and while today definitely wasn’t one of those, everything beat the stench of desperation wafting out of the men present in Tinseltown—present company mostly excluded.

You walked over to your car, March hot on your heels.

“This really isn’t the best place to get stuck for a beautiful woman. I mean, this whole side of town, honestly.”

“I should pick a better one next time, I know.”

“Probably. I mean, it worked out great this time, but who knows who’ll be around if it happens again.”

You hold out your arm. “I figured you’d be, now that I have your number.”

He chuckled. “I’d prefer it if you wouldn’t have to under those circumstances. But, sure, call me and I’ll be there.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You turned and winked at him. He winked right back, and you had the sudden urge to grab him by the tie and pull him closer.

But luckily, at that moment you reached your car, and now had to focus on the bigger issue, which was that you had to fake a car emergency with him right there, watching you closely. You opened the hood of your car, and he stepped up next to you.

“Can I be honest for a second?” March asked, looking between the car and you.

“Sure.”

“I don’t know anything about cars,” he admitted and patted the hood lightly.

Perfect, you thought.

“You can’t be any worse than me.” You noticed a square shape in the pocket of his pants. “You got a cigarette?”

He pulled the packet out of his pocket, and while he was occupied, you quickly pulled one of the wires from its place, tearing it. Fuck, I hope I didn’t just ruin my car.

“Here.” He handed you a cigarette, also taking one for himself. He lit up his first and then motioned for you to get closer to him so that he could light yours. You inhaled, relishing the slight burn of the nicotine.

“Alright,” March said, and clapped his hands. “Let’s see what we can do here.”

────────

Nothing; you couldn’t do anything there, and neither could he, as it turned out. March even dragged Healy out of the club to take a look at your car, but when he saw the torn wire, he just shook his head and explained to you with narrowed eyes that in whatever way that happened, it couldn’t simply be reversed.

Healy had left to call AAA and hadn’t returned yet, which left you and March sitting in your car, talking. Sure, you had ruined your car for it, but this was the ideal situation you had hoped for.

“—and then we just handed over the por—the film, and our job was done.” March looked proud detailing the gig that had led him and Healy to start their own business. It all sounded rather chaotic, and more like they had a bunch of dumb luck instead of actual investigative prowess, but who were you to judge?

“Wow, that sounds dangerous.” Your voice was thickly sweet, and you almost couldn’t believe that March was buying the act—Healy certainly hadn’t. But March was eating up every one of your honeyed words; you could almost see his ego growing by the second.

The worst part, however, was that it worked in reverse, too. With every heavy-handed but delightful brag, all the little grins, and his seemingly real and well-intended attentiveness for your safety, you could feel yourself melt into the seat of your car. Every now and then you had to pinch yourself to remind yourself that it wasn’t unlikely that you had to kill him soon.

“Ah,” he shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal and then continued talking in a voice that made it clear that actually it really was, “Sure, but we’re professionals.”

With that, he shot you a grin that made you glad you were already sitting. You needed to get back to your original topic, and quickly!

“Is that what you were doing in there?” You tilted your head toward the club. “Working on a case?”

He nodded, brushing nonexistent dust off his jacket. “Been working on this case for quite a while.”

“What’s it about?”

The answer to his question would either lead him to your bed or his coffin, and you tried not to show how that affected you.  

“I probably shouldn’t talk about it,” he said, chuckling.

“Oh, come on. Who am I gonna tell?”

“Alright,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “There is this semi-successful gang running business through this side of the town. At first, it was just drugs and booze, that sorta thing. Then last month we were approached by a woman who swore up and down that her daughter had been taken, and guess who some of the last known associates of the girl were?”

Your stomach turned a bit, and you looked away from March’s eyes to gaze out at the night sky. Before you could answer him, he continued talking, which you were more than okay with. 

Yeah, take a fucking guess with whom, baby.

“The Stripes—that’s the name of the gang.” God, I hate that fucking name. “Apparently, she hung around them quite a lot. Healy and I then did some of our own investigating, and it seems like The Stripes progressed from drugs to ladies rather quickly. Turns out she’s not the only young pretty girl gone missing in the last couple of months.”

“Yeah, but it’s LA,” you said weakly, not knowing what you were trying to prove, and to whom.

“Sure, but four of the seven girls had ties to at least one member of The Stripes that we know of. Now, we’re mainly trying to find the girls and get them home safe. If we take down the gang while we’re at it, that’s a bonus, of course, but mainly there are a lot of mothers missing their daughters,” March said.

The atmosphere in the car was heavy, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Shame was gnawing at your insides, to the point where you were sure that if you were to open your mouth, you were going to start spewing blood all over his nice suit.

He seemed to notice the tense mood as well and shrugged playfully. “And grateful people pay well, so there’s that.”

You could only nod, lips pressed together.

“Oh, shit,” March groaned. “That was probably a lot for you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just… you asked, and most of the time there are only two people who I talk with about this stuff, and they love all the horrible parts.” He grimaced, hand coming to pat your shoulder. “You good, sweetheart? Deep breaths, that’s it. You don’t gotta worry though, me and Healy will get this under control. Just maybe avoid this side of town for a while, yeah?”

Headlights suddenly blinded you. It was AAA pulling up in a truck, and you gritted your jaw. Get it the fuck together; it’s a job, nothing more.

You turned to him, trying to ignore how good his hand on your shoulder felt. “Why are you here, though? At the club, I mean.”

March looked surprised at the sudden shift in your mood, but went along with it happily enough. “Oh, that’s one of theirs. You see that orange wriggle over there on the side of the club? That’s their calling card. An S for Stripes but also a tiger’s tail. Creative bunch, those guys.” He chuckled again, but you couldn’t join him, gaze frozen on the all too familiar signal.

This seedy, bottom of the barrel club, where the women looked dead and the men all too ready to indulge in that, was part of the same group of associates as you were. Well, kind of. Sure, you were a contractor but then again, Tiger had given you a name, a contract that couldn’t possibly be legal in any way, and tried to make you get the tattoo all members of the gang shared—and when was the last time you worked for anyone outside of The Stripes?

The next couple of minutes happened, but you couldn’t really say what transpired. March talked with the mechanic while you stood quietly next to him, eyes continuously trailing back to Tinseltown. While your car was getting hooked up, March led you to the passenger side of the tow truck, a soothing hand on your back.

“I mean it, I can give you a ride home. Don’t need to get into any cars with strangers if you don’t wanna.”

“You’re a stranger,” you mumbled.

“Well, not really.” He pointed to your arm. “You got my number.” He said it in a way that made it clear that he wasn’t just joking, you could call him if you needed anything. That fact only made you feel more nauseous. Because as you got in the truck, and watched March close the door for you, you knew two things for sure: firstly, The Stripes were partaking in the kind of illicit behavior where it was almost impossible to turn a blind eye to, and secondly, you now knew for sure that you had to kill March and Healy. 

He could feel the sticky blood slowly pouring out of his body, spreading over his stomach and down the staircase, accumulating in a pool by his feet. He could feel the warm tendrils temporarily warming his skin where they touched it ever so softly. He could feel the sharp pain radiating from the wound, beating in tandem with his heart.

He had been feeling a lot recently. He wasn’t sure what of it was real anymore, if anything.

A snowflake landed on his upper lip, and when it melted, it left a droplet of water behind, which slid into his mouth, landing on his tongue. He closed his lips, savoring the fresh coldness of the water.

He doubted he had more than a couple of minutes left to live.

‘Live’, he almost scoffed at the thought. He had seen a miracle, had experienced it. He felt on every level there was, but still, it hadn’t been him. He hadn’t been able to rip himself away from what had been decided was his life.

He was created and now he would be destroyed. He was born and now he would die.

He closed his eyes. Maybe it was for the best. Joi was gone, he was alone, and he wasn’t human. No one will care that he’ll bleed out on these steps. Just another replicant that needed to be retired. Just another officer who died in the line of duty.

The words Lieutenant Joshi had said to him days ago in her office rang around his head, “You’ve been getting on fine without one!” 

He wished he had a soul, or maybe he just wished that the pain would finally end. If he were lucky, birth and death were so intertwined that in the same way that the first gave you a soul, the latter took it back, and wherever one went afterwards, they would accept him, even without one.

Then again, he wasn’t sure whether he would die, or simply stop being.

“Hey,” a voice sounded from somewhere far away. It was a nice voice, he was still aware enough to realize that. “Hey! Are you okay?”

His arm shifted, but he wasn’t the one moving it. The coldness that had enveloped him was chased away, where he could feel his body being repositioned.

There was some mumbling followed by cursing. His coat was lifted away from his side, baring the wound to the freezing air, making him shiver more. “Okay, alright. I think I can help you. I just need you to come with me, please.”

He smiled, convinced now that he had died and gone to wherever beings with souls are allowed to go. The voice had said ‘please’ as if actually caring about what he wanted. As if he had any say in what happened to him.

“Is that a ‘yes’? I’ll—I’ll just take that as a yes. I need you to try to get up with me.” The voice hesitated. “I’m sorry, but it’ll probably hurt.”

The smile stayed on his lips. It was sweet the way that the voice seemed to actually care for his well-being. It made the rest of the chill occupying his body vanish.

His arm was tugged forward, and he automatically sat up with it, groaning at the pain racing through his body. He blinked his eyes open, finding the outline of a person next to him, holding his left arm.

“You’re fine. You’re fine. I got you. Deep breath,” the voice—you—said. “Now, on three, I need you to try to get on your legs, okay? I’ll support you, and you can lean on me, but I can’t completely carry you.”

You waited, and he realized that you wouldn’t move before he gave his okay, so he nodded as much as he was able to. At that point, he could only feel about sixty percent of his body.

“Perfect. On three, one… two… three,” you said and pulled his arm around your shoulder, heaving him upwards as much as you were able to. He let out another long groan, but managed to stay on his own feet, even though his legs were shaky and he had to put most of his weight on you.

You put your arm around his waist and gently led him forward, step by step, making sure that he didn’t trip. When he let out a muffled moan, you stopped immediately, checking in with him and asking if he needed a break. He wasn’t sure where you were leading him, but it didn’t matter to him anyway, he had already decided to follow you.

After a couple of minutes, blood loss was really starting to hit him. Everything was whirling around him so when he heard the sound of a Spinner door opening, he didn’t have the strength to worry where you got the mostly police-used vehicle, nor to continue keeping his eyes open.  

His body fell onto the bouncy seat and he was out like a light.

────────

The first thing he registered when he woke up was that everything felt comfortable. The second thing was that actually, his stab wound still hurt pretty badly, but other than that, it was like he was floating on a warm cloud.

He tried to sit up, but your hand on his chest pushed him back down onto the mattress. “Easy. You’re safe, everything is fine.”

He looked around him and saw that he was in a windowless room, sparsely lit by different lamps standing all over. There were a couple of bookcases and a closet, although they were all already pretty old, looking ready to fall apart at the slightest touch. The walls were a dark gray, matching the concrete floor. The mattress he was lying on was settled on top of what he assumed were several slabs of metal—he could feel the gaps and slight variations in height through the cushion.

You must have noticed his scrutinizing. “We’re at my place. I know it’s not much, but…” you shrugged.

“I like it,” he said. You looked a bit surprised to hear him speak and smiled.

“Thank you.” You sat down on the edge of the mattress, far enough away from K that you weren’t touching, but near enough so that he could feel his nerves react to you as if you were. “How are you feeling?”

He almost smiled again at the question. It really was sweet.

“I haven’t glued the wound together yet. I wasn’t sure whether you’d be okay with me getting all close like that. At the same time, it probably would have spared you some pain if I had done it while you were still unconscious, so, yeah… tough situation. Sorry if I made the wrong decision for you.”

“You’re fine,” he said, voice low. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

You frowned. “Of course I had to, you’re a person, and people don’t deserve to die out in the cold, alone.”

“No.” K looked away from you, down at the slightly tattered maroon blanket thrown across his legs and stomach. “I’m… I’m not.”

Realization flickered over your features, but instead of disgust upon realizing what you had accidentally dragged into your home, resolve settled on your face, making you tilt your head forward in defiance. “Yes, you are.”

“I’m a—”

“Who cares?” You cut him off. Your voice was dismissive, but the way your fingers were rapidly tapping your thighs made it clear that you did care at least in some way. K didn’t want to push you away, in fact, he wanted to absorb as much of the comfort you were so naively offering him, but some part of him needed you to understand—some part of him needed you to push him away.

“You are a cop, though, right?” You asked in a small voice.

“That’s all I am,” he answered without hesitation, and your eyes narrowed at that.

“Is it?”

This time he had to think about it. Technically, the answer was easy: yes. However, he was quite certain that he was fired, or the replicant version of it, which meant that he was supposed to get retired. But he doubted anyone would actually come looking for him, and if he wouldn’t retire, but also wouldn’t be able to keep working, then where did that leave him?

“I’m…” he felt the heat of shame burn down his body at not being able to answer the question accurately.

“Well, are you gonna arrest me?” you asked, seemingly having regained some confidence while he struggled to answer.

“What?” The question shocked him. “Of course not.”

That wasn’t even something he did while still actively working for the LAPD. He had no right to arrest or subjugate a human. 

And he was sure you were human; it was something in your eyes, a flicker that he had only ever spotted in humans—he had assumed that it was their souls shining through.

“Good.” You smiled at him.

“Why…” he hesitated. “Why would you think that?”

Your lips parted slightly, but you continued smiling. “You really were out of it, huh? I’ll let you in on a little secret,” you leaned in closer, and a part of him wanted to close the gap between your bodies, if only to feel your skin on his at least once. “I am not part of the LAPD, and the Spinner I used to get you here isn’t really registered in my name.”

“You stole it,” he said, not as an accusation, but just as a statement.

You nodded, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think you looked a bit proud.

“They’ll come looking for you for that. All vehicles of the LAPD are tracked, and any theft is not treated lightly. When they find you, you will be prosecuted to the fullest extend of the law.” You waved him off, rolling your eyes, and he felt a twinge of annoyance at your flippant behavior. Didn’t you know how dangerous it was? You shouldn’t go around telling people you stole from the LAPD, and you definitely shouldn’t have taken him in. You should have left him there—let nature run its course.

“I have been using it for years now. And it was already old and abandoned when I found it.”

“Still,” he sat up, ignoring the sharp flash of pain shooting through him. He needed you to understand. “It’s foolish. You shouldn’t have taken me with you.”

“What?”

“It’s dangerous.”

“You’re dangerous?”

“Yes.” The word hung heavy in the air, drowning out the quiet buzzing coming from the ceiling lamp.

You tilted your head slightly, but to his annoyance, you didn’t seem afraid, more so intrigued. “To me?” you asked, and the question made him wince.

“No,” he whispered. You had saved him. You had let him rest on your bed. If he’d get the chance to, he would spend the rest of his existence trying to repay that debt. Maybe that could be his new existence, his next purpose.

“Then what’s the problem?” you whispered back.

Everything, nothing, he, you. His gaze bore into you, begging you to answer the question for him. How was he possibly supposed to react to that?

You noticed him getting overwhelmed, and backed off, getting up. “It’s okay, take your time. May I now take care of your wound, please?”

It took every training he had ever received not to whimper at the tenderness in your tone. He nodded. At first his eyes stayed glued to the blanket, but when you turned and started rummaging around the room, he followed your every movement. He lost sight of you for a couple of seconds when you walked through a rusty door he hadn’t noticed before, but you joined him back in the room quickly, now carrying some medical supplies.

You laid the things out on the mattress and then moved to his right side, kneeling next to the bed. You found his eyes with your own and then nodded your head toward a chair standing around a small, rickety table. “Your coat is over there. I took it off you because I figured it would be more comfortable. Hope that was okay.”

He nodded. He hadn’t even looked up to confirm whether his coat actually was there.

“I’ll have to lift your shirt, okay?”

K wasn’t sure whether he had ever laughed before, but suddenly he felt the bubbly feeling of humor crawling up his throat. He choked it back down and just mumbled a quick, “Yes.” And then tacked on a “Thank you.” It landed somewhere between ridiculous and confused.

You pulled the blanket down his chest, and then gently slid your hands up his shirt, pushing it upward. Your fingers grazed his stomach and chest, leaving trails of lightning behind. It didn’t hurt, but it should have. It should have hurt, but it didn’t.

It burned, though.

The wound on his lower stomach was covered with a thick piece of gauze, flimsily taped down. “I had to at least stop the bleeding a bit,” you said it like it was an apology and not the nicest thing anyone had ever done for K.

You pulled the strip of tape off him, and the gauze with it. The wound underneath was deep, bloody, and K suddenly felt ashamed of it. He didn’t want you to see him like that. He wasn’t made to be hurt and vulnerable. But when the tips of your fingers swept along the edges of it, an eerie part of him wished you would stuff your fingers into the laceration. Burrow them deep until you were covered in his blood, and he could keep you close and safe.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and hoped you would chalk it off to him being a bit squeamish at the ghastly sight. Then he felt the need to slap himself because he didn’t want you to think of him as fragile.

“I’ll glue it back together now, okay?”

“You don’t have to keep asking.”

You looked up, and when your eyes met, his fingers twitched. You studied him for a moment before continuing your work, reaching for the glue. “Alright, but I think I’ll continue to do so anyway. ‘S just good manners.”

He didn’t answer, he couldn’t; what was there to say?

The glue was familiar in its stickiness, and when it touched the laceration, K instinctively flinched away from it. You placed the hand not holding the glue over his ribs, not pushing or pulling, just a light touch, dragging him away from everything outside of this room, and anchoring him to you, to this moment.  

You pressed the edges of the wound together now, sealing everything back inside where it belonged. K hoped that something of you would stay inside him as well; a lash, maybe, or a little bit of the breath you exhaled, which had caressed his skin ever since you kneeled down next to him.

After a couple of seconds, you let go of him and then hummed in satisfaction when the wound stayed closed. “Perfect.”

K shifted a bit, and his hand landed close to where yours rested next to his chest. Without realizing what he was doing, he brushed his fingers against the back of your hand, hypnotized by the way your skin felt so soft, something that seemed impossible considering the brutal world you lived in.

When you moved your hand, he pulled back instantly, shame once again flooding his mind at being caught behaving like… like that. But you didn’t say anything, you didn’t even look at him weirdly, you just turned your hand around and then offered it back to him. Hesitantly, he traced the faint lines running over the palm of your hand, following them from side to side, mapping the constellation that was your skin.

“Thank you.” He sounded out of breath even to himself.

“You’re welcome.” With the hand not caught in his grasp, you pulled his shirt back down, covering him once again with the blanket. The gesture was ridiculous; the softness of the blanket was almost grating next to the feeling of you. “D’you want some painkillers?”

“No,” he exhaled. He closed his fingers around your hand and then furrowed his brows so hard it almost hurt. “Why are you doing this? You’re not supposed to do that.”

“Says who?” You asked and offered him your other hand. He was now clutching both of yours between his, and the sensation was enough to make him feel light-headed.

He shook his head. “Don’t ask that.”

“You know…” You hesitated, before continuing voice low and soft, with just a hint of sadness, “You deserve to not be in pain.”

Ironically, your words might have been one of the most painful sensations he had ever experienced. He’s sure you could feel his hands tremble, but he was too tired to correct himself. He stared down, and the sight of your combined hands set something loose in him that crumbled down, down, until its debris jumbled throughout his body, covering him whole.

You tried to pull your right hand away from him, and for just a second, he didn’t let go. He was stronger than you, no question about it. He could keep you there, in his hands, safe and soft. But then he did let go, because he only wanted what you were willing to give, anything else would be simulated, and he couldn’t continue existing in a world where the only affection he would get was forced.

To his relief, you didn’t pull away completely, in fact, your hand moved up to his face, settling on his cheek and gently urging him to look up. Your eyes were filled with compassion and a kindness so consuming, K had to blink just to not get overwhelmed.

“I don’t know what happened to you, or anything about you, really.” You smiled at him. “But I do know that no one, human or replicant, deserves to feel pain just for existing.”

Your other hand moved from between his, but before he could protest, you grasped his hand, placing it on your chest, right over your heart. Afterward, you placed your hand on his chest, over his heart.

The feeling of your heartbeat, stable, strong, so alive, beneath his palm was only seconded by the implication of the gesture. Your hearts weren’t beating in tune, but if he tried hard enough, maybe he could match his pulse to yours.

His other hand hovered over your form before settling on your cheek. When your thumb started caressing his face, he copied the movement. Your thumb was a little calloused, making him shiver with every stroke, but the skin of your face was warm and soft under his own callouses.

He couldn’t say for how long you two stayed that way. Without windows or clocks, there was no way to tell how much time had passed. It might have been minutes, it might have been an hour. All he could focus on was how right it felt to sit there with you, sharing touches and heartbeats.

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

taglist: @theworstwolvie @qardasngan @madsfilmjournal @vexerieart (comment to be added)

Okay… okay… okay…

Over the last four years, you have undoubtedly become a champ at self-regulation.

You feel sad because you’ll never see Earth again? Watch a film.

You feel angry that human invention hasn’t developed enough yet to solve world-ending crises from the comfort of your home? Throw shatterproof stuff around.

You feel the overwhelming anxiety of knowing that it’s very possible that everyone you’ve ever known is dead already? Talk to your girls (four chairs waiting for you in the galley)!

So, this should be easy!

Grace is going to lie down, close his eyes, and sleep for either two to three hours—if you’re lucky and it will truly just be a nap—or seven to nine hours, which seems more likely considering everything his body has been through the last couple of hours. Sure, the thought of seeing him in a state so similar to what he was in for four years makes you feel like you’re falling down a never-ending abyss, always about to hit the ground, but it’s not like there is a way around it; he needs sleep.

He’s currently in the restroom, and you’re spending the time walking up and down the med bay trying to regulate your heartbeat so that you won’t die of a heart attack before he can return.

You hear the click of the door opening and have exactly ten seconds to rearrange your features into something that seems, at least at first glance, like neutrality before he joins you.

“Hey, thanks for the toothbrush,” he says, now changed into a different t-shirt and sweatpants. “It kinda felt like my teeth hadn’t been brushed in four years.”

“You may not have, but your teeth certainly weren’t not cleaned in that time.”

He stops. “You brushed my teeth?”

“Obviously,” you say, frowning. “Not like you did it just now, but I took care of them. Otherwise, your teeth would be nasty as hell.”

“Hm, hadn’t thought of that.” He pauses before running a hand over his face and then through his hair. “Did you shave me?”

“And I cut your hair.”

“Wow,” he says, looking a bit freaked out.

It occurs to you that this might be a necessary but still uncomfortable intrusion on someone’s privacy. “That’s normal stuff, though. The upkeep of a person who’s unable to do it for themselves is a big part of my job,” you explain, hoping it would make him feel more comfortable.

He opens his mouth, closes it again, and then scrunches up his face. “You saw me naked.”

A surprised cough leaves your mouth, and for a second you stare at him. He stares back, seemingly just as shocked about what he said.

You blink rapidly, shaking your head. “No! No, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t?” he asks, a hint of doubt in his tone.

“Well,” you splutter. “Technically, I did. But that’s not—it isn’t like I—oh my god!”

His face is beet red as he takes a step forward and then immediately back. “I’m not saying you—no, wait… I just—ugh.”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “Okay, I was responsible for your health for the las four years. Part of that involves stuff that might seem a bit private, but I assure you that it’s not anything unusual or something I had even thought about in any way that isn’t of medical importance.”

“Yeah, obviously. Sorry for… I don’t know,” he says. “I’m not sure what just happened there. Sometimes I just,” he makes rapid movements with his hands in front of his face. “You know?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I know.”

You stare at each other for a couple more seconds, neither saying anything nor moving at all. It’s not as uncomfortable as it could be, but at the same time you would rather be outside of the ship right now—EVA suit or not.  

He snaps out of it first and slowly starts inching toward his bed. “I’m gonna,” he points at it. “Sleep.”

“Mhm.”

“Can the lights be lowered manually, or do I have to wait until the ship says it’s night?” He sits down on the stretcher.

“Oh, right. Mary, can you please lower the lights and go into crew-sleep mode?”

“With pleasure,” Mary retorts, and straightaway the lights lower, enveloping the room in a sleepy, dusk-like atmosphere. Your shoulders begin to tense.  

“Thank you,” Grace says, though you’re not sure who he’s thanking. He lies down, pulling the blanket over himself.

You still stand at the foot of the bed, which you realize is a majorly creepy thing to do, so you back up, which pulls his attention back on you.

“Are you going to sleep as well?” He asks.

“Uh,” you hesitate. “Yeah. I’m—yeah.” You walk over to your cot, sitting down.

“You’ve been sleeping on that thing for four years?”

You look over to him, and he’s already looking at you, or more like looking at your cot, which, yeah, you admit, is a bit pitiful. A simple metal frame, low to the ground, and a latex mattress not two inches thick.  

“You’ve been sleeping on that thing for four years,” you retort, pointing at his stretcher, but the insult falls short; you know for a fact that the stretcher is more comfortable than your cot. You had tested them back on Earth a couple of times, trying to get used to sleeping on the Hail Mary.

To your relief, it seems like Grace has never slept on a medical cot, therefore doesn’t know just how right he had been in his judgement, and just says, “Touché.”

You lie down, haphazardly pulling the navy-blue fleece blanket you had used for the last years over your legs. There is a low buzzing constantly in the air coming from the various electrics on board, but Mary tries to keep most of them out of the med bay during the artificial night. Still, it’s present, and it fills you with an unreasonable amount of relief to hear the white noise even surrounded by all that darkness.

You quickly squeeze your eyes shut, trying not to let your mind wander. It had been a while since you have been in a dark room, and while at least you’re not alone, you can still sense the whispers of sharp ghostly shapes dancing just outside of your field of vision.

“You okay?” Grace whispers, cutting through your memories (or fantasies, or dreams; you can’t tell the difference anymore.)

“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” you reply, clutching your blanket between your fingers.

“You just seem a bit…tense.” His voice is careful.

“Nope, I’m fine. Go to sleep.”

“Alright,” he says promptly, tone making it clear that he wasn’t sold, but knows that he won’t be able to get through to you. “Good night.”

“Good night,” you echo, and the room falls back into its restful humming.

A couple of minutes pass, and your fingers twitch against the fabric. The texture feels like sandpaper against your skin. You pull it over your face and then push it back down after it makes you want to scratch the insides of your eye sockets. 

Your eyes have been closed for too long already. You cannot hear Grace breathing from over here.

What if he’s not breathing?

You need to open your eyes. You need to look at him.

Your hands clench harder and suddenly you’ve torn the fabric. It feels good to know that you can still destroy for the sake of it, not just by accident.

You slowly pry open your eyes, immediately honing in on his prone form. He’s not moving, and before you can stop it, you’re on your feet, tiptoeing toward him.

Something moves in the corner of your eye, and you freeze.  

You hear a loud clang coming from somewhere behind you.

A shiver runs down your back as you feel the distinct sense of someone watching you.

You need to get to Grace, see if he’s all right. You creep closer and slowly kneel down beside him. That’s when you hear it: the steady rhythm of his breathing, and it’s like the ground under your feet stabilizes for the first time since you got up.

He’s fine. He’s breathing.

Your fingers find his wrist, and his pulse stands strong and steady even through the clammy sensation enveloping your hands.

Your head falls forward and your forehead lands on the edge of his stretcher. His blanket is much more comfortable than yours, and tears start to gather along your lash line. You don’t even try to blink them away, there is no use, more would just follow.

While your left arm stays by Grace’s side, your right one slings itself along your chest, and you dig your fingers into your shoulder. Another noise echoes through the near silence of the ship, this time from the other side of Grace’s stretcher. You dip down a bit more, as far as you can while still keeping close to him.

“It’s not real,” you whisper, trying to be as inaudible as you can in an effort not to wake him. You wouldn’t even know how to begin explaining your current position. “It’s not real. It’s not real. We’re fine. We’re completely fine. Everything is fine.”

The next sound comes from right next to you, and you make the mistake of looking up. The second your gaze falls on it, it vanishes and your heart skips a beat.

On instinct, your fingers tighten around Grace’s wrist. “Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum,” you mutter, syncing with his heart. Another tear runs down your cheek, and your voice breaks while his heart keeps beating; it might as well be the most beautiful melody you’ve ever heard. “Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.”

────────

“Hold it, please. Wait, hold it. Hold it!”

You snapped out of your thoughts at the third ‘hold it’ and jerked your arm forward, stopping the elevator doors from closing at the last second. In stumbled Ryland, blonde hair messy, and his Converse shoes untied.

“Hey,” he greeted you, slightly out of breath. “Sorry for that. I don’t know why I made such a big deal out of getting the elevator. Could have just gotten the next one.”

“You’re fine,” you waved him off. “This way, if something happens and the elevator gets stuck, we can do the film thing where one of us climbs on the other one’s shoulders to get out through the hatch in the ceiling.” You pointed upwards, and he followed your gaze.

“While that is a great plan, the hatch won’t open from the inside, sorry,” he said, looking back at you.

“What?”

“These are locked.”

“Bullshit,” you said, eyes moving between the ceiling and his face.

“It’s true—safety codes.”

“Wh—how do you know that?” you spluttered.

“I… am kind of scared of elevators,” he admitted, scrunching his nose. “Well, I’m not scared-scared, more like I get nauseous thinking about them.”

“You get nauseous thinking about elevators?” You couldn’t help but laugh.   

He huffed. “No, it’s just—c’mon, elevators are just too old. They shouldn’t have been invented back when they were. The Roman Colosseum had around twenty-five elevators. I don’t like that.”

You stared at him with wide eyes. “There is no way that’s true.”

“It is! They weren’t elevators as we know them, those were introduced in the nineteenth century. Which only makes it worse. For hundreds of years, people used elevators where if the main rope snapped, they’d just fall to their death. I don’t like putting my life in the hands of an invention that is thousands of years old, same goes for something that is almost two hundred years old.”

“That is very neurotic of you, Doctor Grace.”

“Well,” he slapped his hands against his legs, turning his face away. You could’ve sworn he was blushing. “You get what you get.”

You shook your head and then froze. “Wait!”

“What?” he asked.

“I see what’s going on. You’re afraid of climbing out of a broken-down elevator, so you lie to me about the hatch being locked.”

“What?” he laughed.

“Mhm. Don’t play innocent. Why would the hatch be locked? That doesn’t make any sense.” You loved arguing for the sake of it, and to your delight, the last couple of weeks had made it obvious that he did as well.

“It’s a safety code thing; I already told you that. Do you know how many people die every year because they play around in elevator shafts?”

“How many?”

“Dunno. Probably millions, though.”

You couldn’t help but grin at his sincere tone. “Well, it’s either that or you think you won’t be able to lift me up there.”

That seemed to offend him even more. “Excuse me? Okay, first of all, I had assumed that you would pick me up. And, secondly, I totally could, but I won’t because I don’t have to prove myself to you.”

You lifted your arms placatingly. “Alright, alright. I just assumed there had to be something considering you still haven’t pushed a button.”

“Hm?” He looked at you, blinked, and then his eyebrows shot upward. “Oh, right.” He pressed the button for the first deck, which coincidentally is also where you were heading anyway. “Why didn’t you press anything?”

“I wanted to see how long it would take you to notice.” You shrugged.

He scoffed, but you could see the smile on his face. The elevator started moving upwards, letting out a long groan.

It had been almost a wonder that no one had called the elevator while you were talking, normally, it was in constant use. Sometimes it was almost quicker to take the stairs than to take it.

“Where are you going anyway?” Ryland asked.

“One of about three trillion health and safety meetings for the journey. You?”

“Seminar to discuss the funding for the department,” he groaned.

“Sounds thrilling,” you said mockingly.

“Oh, it is.” He rolled his eyes. “Believe me, I did not miss that. Sure, having to pay for everything is not ideal, but at least I don’t have to go toe to toe with some slimy researcher who believes that he should get a Nobel Prize for existing, anymore.”

“Where were you before this? I never asked.”

“I’m a teacher,” he said with the pride of someone talking about their spouse.

“At a university?”

“Middle school.”

“Oh.” You hadn’t expected that. “A regular middle school, or one for like super-intelligent kids who are about to be recruited to work for the CIA?”

“No,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Regular kids.”

The elevator stopped, and with a chime, the doors opened. You both stepped out and started walking along the long corridor, filled with people rushing around.

“That’s cool,” you said, and you meant it, even though it came as a surprise considering Ryland’s academic background. And thinking back on it, he had mentioned being a teacher back when you had first met, and you just hadn’t thought about it more.

“You think?” he asked, and then suddenly stopped. He pointed at the door to his right. “This is me.”

You halt as well. “Do you think you’ll be done by lunch?”

“Probably, yeah.”

“Maybe you could tell me about how you became a teacher then?” You smiled, trying not to let your nerves seep through. Ryland was cute, there was no way around it, and while you knew that nothing could ever happen—on the basis of you being coworkers, him being a good bit older (not that you minded that, to be honest) and, of course, the fact that in about nine months you were going to leave Earth forever—still, you liked spending time with him.

“It’s—it’s not that interesting.” He looked down before quickly looking back up. “But, yes, of course. I’d love to tell you. If you want that is.”

“I asked.” You smirked at the embarrassed look on his face.

He adjusted his glasses. “Then I guess I’ll see you later…” he hesitated. “Croci—alligator.” He hid his face in one hand while the other fiddled for the handle of the door, opening it. He entered the room, and the last thing you heard of him was a whispered, “Oh my god.” Before the door fell shut.

You giggled, making your way toward where your meeting was being held a couple of doors down. Now you just had to get through a tedious two hours of a dozen doctors talking about the right combinations of nutrients for the coma slurry before you could go back to the really important things—ogling the surprisingly, but definitely not unpleasant, muscular arms of Dr. Grace.

────────

Your fingers are still holding on tight to Grace’s wrist, counting the beats while narrating them under your breath, “Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.”

His pulse has slowed a bit while he transitioned into deep sleep. It’s a bit faster than it had been during his coma, but even so, when you realized that his beats per minute slowed down, yours automatically sped up, and you had to take several deep breaths to calm down.

You feel like you’re standing in the middle of a forest, with hunters at your back and a field of traps before you. There is no winning; if you wait, they’ll get you, but if you move forward, you risk the chance of blowing yourself sky-high.

What is worse? Inaction because you have no chance of winning anyway, or going forward and therefore being the one to destroy yourself?  

You are considering drugging Grace.

You are also considering waking him up and then pumping him full of dextroamphetamine so that he’ll stay awake.

“Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba—” You let out a sob, which makes your shoulders shake. You have started to cry again, you don’t remember when. You don’t have time for it anyway; you need to keep counting. “Ba-dum, ba-dum.”

You pull your knees closer to your chest, pressing your forehead harder against Grace’s stretcher.

You’re glad that he’s asleep.

You want to scream.

Another shadow moves somewhere to your left. You close your eyes. You feel a hand on your shoulder.

────────

Olesya’s hand on your shoulder steered you forward, rubbing small circles into your skin. Yáo and Dubois were trailing behind you out of the conference room. You were glad to find that the corridor was nearly empty. It usually was quieter around midday, with most people either going for lunch, stuck in conferences, or taking a sweet, sweet nap.

The meeting you had attended hadn’t been as you had assumed, just another boring talk about whatever troubled the medical panel at the moment. No, it hadn’t been about the general health at all—it had been about your health. Mental health, to be exact.

It turned out that the concerns about long-term isolation were not based on nothing. Obviously, you knew that it would be tough, and you had already known the basic strokes of what extraordinary circumstances like that could do to the human psyche. Still, having it laid all out like that in front of you had been sobering to say the least.

“Where do you wanna go? You wanna eat something, hm? Might be nice.” Olesya looked at you expectantly. Her ponytail had come loose during the meeting and was now hanging limp along her back. She didn’t fix it, she never did, you noticed. She left her quarters in the morning with one hairstyle and then let it fall apart over the day. You were not sure whether it was indifference or obstinacy, but you liked that about her.

You had decided to like her the moment you met her all those months ago, when she had offered you a handshake with one hand and a toffee with the other. You had accepted both, and she had explained to you that the toffee was called ‘Kis-Kis’ (“like how in English you say ‘pspsps’ to attract cats”) and how she always carried some with her in case she met someone new.

“No, thank you,” you said and shook your head. Olesya clicked her tongue in protest.

Yáo spoke up then, his voice calm but with a hint of sternness that reminded you that he was not just a pilot and the commander of the mission, but also the father to an—if his stories were true—rather unruly child, “Doctor Kilberg said that you shouldn’t be alone right now.”

That was a rather lenient interpretation of what the psychologist had said. In truth, it had been more like, ‘Make sure that the little girl doesn’t throw herself off the ship out of pure dramatics before the mission can even take off’. You would never understand why some people went into fields like psychology while also having zero interest in treating other people well.

“Yeah, well, Doctor Kilberg is a dick,” you grumbled.

“That is true,” Olesya chimed in.

Yáo shook his head, but he notably didn’t disagree with you.  

“Still, I want to stay with you. I don’t have anything better…” Olesya trailed off before pursing her lips. “Not true. Пиздец! I have other meeting in ten minutes.”

“It’s fine, I was gonna meet up with Ryland anyway,” you said and regretted it instantly when you saw the way Olesya’s eyebrows shot up.

“Ah, I see, Doctor Grace,” she chuckled and then made a sound you could only describe as a purr. “That’s how it is.”

“Nope. Nuh-uh, that is not how it is,” you couldn’t help but grin at her teasing. “Just because you sleep with anyone that gets within two feet of you doesn’t mean I will.”

At that, Yáo took a deliberate step away from Olesya. She winked at him and said, “If I were into men, you are top of my list, but alas, you are safe.” You laughed at that, and you thought you were safe, when suddenly she turned back toward you. “But I know you like men, you have told me about your weird ex-boyfriend, so why not. He is cute, and you are too good for him. It’s the perfect relationship.”

You playfully pushed her, looking to the others for help, but Yáo seemed opposed to getting into an argument with Olesya, and Dubois’s attention was somewhere else, his gaze stuck in the room you had just left.

He noticed you staring at him but didn’t seem embarrassed. “I actually agree with Doctor Ilyukhina. That does seem like a good ground for relationships.” Doctor Shapiro—Dubois’s backup. You hadn’t yet had the chance to get to know her much—walked out of the room, pulling Dubois’s attention with her down the corridor. “Will you excuse me, please?” With that, he left, following Shapiro.  

Olesya gasped and started hitting both you and Yáo. “You see that? They will fuck now.”

“What?” You laughed incredulously. Then you saw Dubois take a hold of Shapiro’s hand. You paused, tilting your head. “Oh.”

“See!” Olesya pointed at the two scientists, who did seem rather cozy all of a sudden. “That could be you and Grace.”

“Alright, let’s not…” You held up your hands. You sighed, “Don’t you have a meeting to go to?”

“Ah, Гавно! Well, where are you meeting Grace? I at least want to hand you over, see that you won’t be alone.”

“I’m not sure. We just said we’ll meet for lunch. I don’t even know if his seminar is over,” you said.

“Where is he?” she asked, and you pointed toward the room. She started marching over and you hurried after her.

“I don’t know whether he is still in there, though.”

“We’ll see.”

“Or maybe it’s not over yet.”

“We’ll see.” She stopped before the door, turned back to you, and winked. You and Yáo paused as well. It didn’t surprise you that Yáo was still there, the man always stayed until everyone was either done or ready to leave.

Olesya knocked twice on the closed door and then opened it. While you didn’t see the inside of the room, you could hear confused murmurs upon noticing the Russian engineer-turned-cosmonaut walk in like she owned the room.

“Is this an important meeting?” She asked, and you exchanged a glance with Yáo, not sure whether one of you should intervene.

There were some overlapping voices, some sounding a bit annoyed, but Olesya chose to ignore those. “Okay, good. Doctor Grace, Stratt wants to see you, pronto.”

There was some more chatter, and then Ryland walked out of the room, Olesya pulling the door shut after him. While he seemed confused by the unexpected summon, he certainly didn’t look unappreciative.

“There he is,” Olesya said cheerfully before grabbing your shoulders. “I gotta run now, but everything will be alright.” With that, she ran off.

Yáo as well seemed satisfied and patted you on the shoulder. “You know where to find me if you need to.” He walked back to your conference room, no doubt wanting to discuss the situation as much as he can.

You looked back at Ryland and found him looking at you with an expression that had turned from confusion to concern rather quickly. “Stratt doesn’t really need me, does she?” You shook your head. “Everything alright?”

You ran a hand over your face, closing your eyes for a second. “The meeting was… tough. To say the least.”

“Boring-tough?” You both made your way toward the elevator.

“More like ‘I got a two-hour lecture about all the ways my mind will fuck with me alone in space’ kind of tough.”

“Oh,” he grimaced. You arrived at the elevator, but before he could press the call button, you slapped his hand away.

“Wait. Can we take the stairs, please?” You chewed on your lip, avoiding his gaze.

“Look who’s afraid of elevators now,” he mumbled, but gently steered you toward the door leading to the staircase. You walked ahead and instead of going downstairs toward the canteen, you walked upstairs.

“Need fresh air,” you uttered, which Ryland wordlessly accepted, following you through the heavy double doors and out onto the deck.

The cold air hit you in the face like a bucket of water, clearing your mind surprisingly well. You were still out at sea, so the wind played with your hair, turning it into a mess. You regretted not bringing a sweater with you, goosebumps rising along your arms, but the chill was also sort of comforting.

You walked over to the railing and took hold of it, looking down at the dark blue water of the ocean. So much life was right under your feet, whether all the people temporarily giving up their lives to work for all of humankind, or the thousands of species found in the water surrounding you.

You would save them, that’s why you were doing all that, for them.

“You wanna talk about it?” Ryland walked up beside you, leaning his hip against the railing, body turned toward you.

You sighed before beginning, “You know, before your first field assignment with MSF, you have to do all this training. Workshops and assemblies, etcetera. A lot of it has to do with how to interact with people who have spent their lives in situations you can’t even begin to fathom, or cultural differences, depending on where you’re going. But while most are about the patients, some of them are about you, like how you’ll behave while you’re there. They will go on and on about how difficult it can be and that it is normal to sometimes have doubts or even regret going.

“I never doubted that I would feel that way, it makes sense. The things I saw… they stay with you. But for some reason, I never regretted it, not for one second.” You let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Maybe it’s because I’m still young and naïve—believe in the goodness of people and all that. Or maybe I just didn’t do it long enough. Who knows? But I loved it, I really did.”

You tightened your fingers around the cold metal and placed your foot on the lowest rail, slowly pushing yourself off the ground until both your feet were on the rail. Ryland took a step closer, his hand hovering by your hip.

“Is this… are you doing a Titanic right now?” he sounded a bit panicky, which you guessed was fair.

“You mean the king-of-the-world part, or when Rose tries to kill herself?”

He took hold of the fabric of your shirt, holding it tight as if willing you to stay with him. “I don’t know, you tell me. But no matter what, just remember: you jump, I jump.”

You laughed, and it seemed like the sound hit Ryland the way that the fresh air had hit your face earlier. He stepped even closer, and you could feel the warmth of his body now next to yours. His grasp on your shirt tightened, and his fist grazed your covered waist.

You watched the horizon and the thousands of miles of water separating you from the end of your field of vision. For a moment, the only sound comes from the waves lapping against the ship, and the couple of people bustling around behind you. Then Ryland carefully asked, “Do you have doubts about signing up for the mission?”

Your chest tightened, and you didn’t say anything, which was probably an answer in and of itself.

“Don’t go,” Ryland said, pulling on your shirt like a kid trying to pull your attention back to him.

“What?” you asked, half laughing and half confused.

“If you don’t want to go, then don’t go.” His eyes were filled with a level of sincerity that almost made it impossible to keep looking into them.

“I want to go, though.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. Ryland, I—I want it more than anything.”

Something you couldn’t identify flickered in his gaze, and he tilted his head slightly. “Then… what is it?”

“I’m scared.” It came out as a whisper, and you had to look away from him when you felt yourself tear up. “I’m really scared. They’re making contingency plans in case I kill myself on board or have a mental breakdown. And—and that’s fine, it makes sense, that's not even what I’m afraid of. It’s just… what if they are right? What if I ruin the mission, doom the entire world, because my brain fucks up?” Your voice broke on the last word.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he muttered, and before you knew it, pulled you into his chest, hugging you tightly. You still stand on the railing, which made it easy for him to sling his arms around your waist. You let your head fall down on his head. His hand was rubbing soothing little circles on your back. “I’m sorry. I—I don’t know how to help you with that one.”

“It’s fine,” you mumbled into his surprisingly soft hair. “This is nice.” At that, he pulled you even closer, and you could feel his heartbeat—slightly faster than normal—resonate through your body like a soothing rhythm.   

After a while, you pulled back, wiping any traces of tears off your cheeks. Maybe you should have felt embarrassed, but it was difficult to give in to frivolities like embarrassment or regret when you knew your time on Earth was limited. Olesya’s suggestion rang through your head once more, but you quickly dismissed it, if not for your sake than for Ryland's. You hated the idea of leaving someone behind, and you couldn’t imagine a world where you’d be able to establish any kind of intimate relationship with the biologist without completely falling for him. It was already difficult enough being his friend.

“D’you wanna get off the railing now or…?” Ryland asked. His cheeks were tinted a light red, whether from the cool breeze or something else, you couldn’t tell.

“Hm.” You narrowed your eyes at him and then started grinning. “Hold my waist for a second, will ya?”

Ryland opened his mouth but then seemingly got your hint and positioned himself behind you. He hesitated for just a second before placing his hands on your waist in a firm but still gentle grip.

You carefully stepped another rail upward, and once you were stable, let go of the railing, spreading your arms wide. “I am the king of the world!” you yelled, spurred on by the low laughter coming from behind you.

You turned back and found a couple of confused soldiers staring at you weirdly. Ryland momentarily tightened his grip on you before tenderly hoisting you back down. “Alright, that’s enough of that. Let’s go back down before the best nurse in this galaxy and the next accidentally goes overboard.”  

You walked next to him back toward the doors leading inside. Your arms grazed each other with each step. “So, you wouldn’t actually jump after me? Interesting.”

“What would you want me to do once I’m down there with you? You jump in that water, and you’re on your own, you’re dead, sorry. But I’ll throw you a lifebuoy from up here.” He bumped his shoulder against yours. “Y’know, switch up the roles. You’ll be the fish out of water, and I’ll be the savior.”

You laughed, throwing your head back. “I’d like to see that, actually.”   

────────

His heartbeat has been slowly speeding up, and you know that he’ll wake up soon. You have settled back on your cot, not wanting him to wake with you stuck to his side. Still, your gaze is fixed on the rise and fall of his chest.

The shadows have calmed a bit, or maybe they’re just waiting for you to let your guard down.

Suddenly, Grace rolls over, and you almost flinch at the movement. Another moment later he sits up, blinking sleepily. His eyes wander over to your cot and then widen slightly when he sees you sitting up, already gazing at him.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles and then yawns. “Did you sleep well?”  

A/N I actually kinda like this chapter. this turned out a lot darker than I had started out with sry but I love angst so much lol. plus four years alone is so crazy it will fuck with your mind. if you're in Europe experiencing the heat wave be safe and drink lots of water (do that anyway) and if you're watching the World Cup have fun yeah that's it oh if you have any requests for x reader... send some my way (;

Taglist: @theworstwolvie @qardasngan (comment to be added)

“Okay, so, middle school, Petrova line, Astrophage.” You count on your fingers. “Anything else?”

Grace is hunched over the whiteboard, several different colored pens between his fingers. “Stratt and Carl, but only how we met for the first time. I’m assuming that wasn’t the last time we met.”

You hum noncommittally.

“Feel free to jump in at any time,” he says in a sing-song voice.

You have been through this at least five times already in the couple of hours since he woke up. It is starting to get on your nerves, but he’s insistent in his inquiring.

You sigh deeply. “You ever seen Doctor Who?”

He seems confused by the sudden switch in topics, but goes along with it. “How would I kno—yes, I have.”

Good to know that he can remember the really important stuff.

“Of course you have.” He looks slightly offended at that which you ignore. “Well, think of it like that; knowing too much about one’s future is not good. No spoilers and all that.”  

“I don’t think the situations are very comparable.”

“You’re right,” you say, exasperation now seeping into your voice, “I’m not the Doctor, or even a doctor. I don’t know why you don’t remember anything, therefore, I don’t know what will help and what will hurt you even more. Please, just… accept that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, but then looks at you and takes a deep breath. “Alright, I get it.” He copies you and starts counting on his fingers. “Middle school, Petrova Line, Astrophage, Stratt and Carl, and,” he lifts his eyebrows pointedly, “Britain’s most important addition to pop culture.”

“You’re on the road to recovery,” you sigh.

He grins and then suddenly stops, frowning. “Wait, you’re not a doctor?”

“Do I look like a doctor?”

He stares at you as if trying to gather whether you were being sincere or just messing with him. “Yes?” You raise your eyebrows. “Yes, obviously.”

“No, I don’t. I spent the last five to six years of my life on this mission. There wasn’t really time for medical school.”

“Fair enough. So, you’re a…”

“Nurse.”

“Nurse!” he claps his hands. “Unsung heroes.”

“Yeah?” You raise your eyebrows.

“Yeah, I mean… you know. After—after the pandemic and everything,” he says, looking like a man who is seriously regretting having opened his mouth.

“Alright, stop while you’re ahead.”

“I’m still a bit woozy from the coma, I think,” he mumbles, waving his hands in the air.

That makes you sit up. “You are?”

“No, no. I was just… can we just continue? I’m sorry.” His head falls into his hands.

This is how you have spent the last couple of hours—either quipping back and forth in a desperate attempt to make space feel less empty or letting silence win while you both bask in the horrible knowledge that this is now your existence.

You hoped that by writing down his memories, his brain might kick into high gear and start reproducing everything that has for some reason been lost. But that hasn’t happened yet, and your hope that it would be a short-term, temporary thing was dwindling by the second.

You really try to sympathize with Grace and give him all the time he needs. You cannot imagine what he must be going through right now, but with every minute that passes filled with the kind of atmosphere normally only found during a police standoff, you can feel your brain start to shut down.

You want to bash your head into the steel walls of the Hail Mary until either you join Grace in beautiful, ignorant oblivion, or you get knocked out for good, whatever that would entail.

“But I have a job to do,” you hum to yourself, clenching your jaw.

Grace doesn’t even look up. He’s smart enough to let you talk to yourself without interruption. He is listening, though; you are quite certain of that.

He is sitting cross-legged in front of the whiteboard, which is propped up against the wall, his shoulders slumping in on themselves. One of his hands is holding onto the side of the whiteboard, a pencil between his fingers. His other hand is fiddling with the fabric of his shirt, tugging on it where it stretches over his body.

A thought suddenly arises in you, and you feel like slapping yourself for neglecting your duty. “Are you hungry?”

He looks up with wide eyes, but before he can answer you, you hear his stomach growl. He looks away, embarrassed, and you stand up quickly.

“Mary, where are the nutrients for post-coma care?” You ask into the air.

“The nutrients can be found in the bottom storage unit of the med bay. Before starting the practice of re-feeding any and all prior comatose crew members, please reacquaint yourself with the specific method which has been decided prior as the right course of action to avoid any side effects. The treatment plan can be found in the main medical computer under—”

“Thank you, Mary,” you cut her off.

“Shouldn’t you listen to what she says?” Grace asks, slightly concerned.

“Don’t need to.” You have read the treatment plan at least a dozen times almost every week since takeoff; you could probably recite it in your sleep.

You look around the floor and quickly find the partially hidden latch leading to the storage unit. You grab the grip and with one strong tug, pull it open, and then lower yourself into it.   

While the storage unit is almost as wide as the med bay, it is rather cramped, and you have to crouch a bit to fit.

“Whoa, I didn’t know that was there.” You hear Grace say from above and then watch his head pop through the opening.

“There are lots of hidden compartments throughout the ship. Efficiency is kind of the most important thing when it comes to space travelling.” Your eyes wander over the many cube-shaped boxes stacked around the storage unit. It wasn’t your first time down here, but the search for anything specific never got easier. Color coordination can only go so far, especially when the only light down here comes from four shaky motion sensor lights that are located on each wall.  

“Can I help you?”

“No, just stay up there,” you tell him, stepping closer to another stack of containers. Luckily, it only takes about thirty more seconds before you find the bright red cube with the words post coma rationswritten on it. The containers are all made out of Styrofoam to be as lightweight as possible while still protecting what’s inside them. You grab it and carry it over to the open hatch. It isn’t very heavy, but you really want to prevent accidentally dropping so you call Grace back, “Wait, can you take this?”

He appears above you immediately and snatches the box out of your arms. He is a bit too enthusiastic, and you have to try very hard not to tell him to slow down and be careful. He’s probably just happy that he can do something, but if he damages the provisions inside, his chance of survival will drop drastically.  

You climb back up and close the hatch behind you. When you turn toward him, he’s sitting on the floor, already opening the box. You walk over and sit down opposite him. The box is filled with a dozen tubes varying in size, all labeled with the day it is supposed to be eaten and which number meal it is.

Grace picks one up and reads its label aloud, “Day three, meal two.” He puts it back into the box, his face pulled into a dejected expression. “Is that going to be all I get to eat?”

You nod, trying not to laugh at the way he closes his eyes and tilts his head back.

“How long?”

“At least four days. After that, I’ll have to decide whether you’re ready to transition to solid food.”

“I am ready right now,” he says, and it is underlined by his stomach growling. “Can’t we just skip this stuff and get right to the real food?”

“Sure, we can do this.” His face lights up, and you continue, “If you want to spend the next couple of days vomiting, have muscle spasms, experience double vision, not to mention the breathing problems and seizures, before you once again slip into a coma, or even better, die.”

His face has fallen over the course of your explanation, and he looks slightly annoyed. “Are you done?”

“I haven’t even started. Believe me, re-feeding syndrome is no joke.” You have seen it enough during your time with MSF, and it was always uniquely terrible. Knowing people died because they were finally able to eat again after prolonged starvation feels like the kind of cruel joke only found in horror stories.

“Alright,” he mutters, and then holds out his hand. “Feed me, please.”

“Not yet, sorry. First, I need to take a blood sample. Over the next four days, I’ll take one before the first meal of the day and after the last. It’s to monitor your electrolyte levels.”

“Ah,” he says, and his skin has turned significantly paler. “I’m not great with needles.”

“I know,” you reply without thinking, and regret it the second you see him perk up.

“So, you were also responsible for my health while on Earth?”

“No,” you say, avoiding his eyes. “You were just such a big baby about it that everyone knew.”

“Ha ha, very funny.” He rolls his eyes, but you can see the edge of uncertainty creep through his exterior.   

You close your eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t okay for me to say.”

But that’s the thing that kind of makes your chest twist like a balloon figure—it should be okay for you to joke with him. You are friends, or you had been, but now he is not himself, which means that you also can’t be who you are.

But it is basically impossible to look at him and pretend like he’s just a patient and not the person you have spent months with, sharing bad coffee, and arguing about each other’s sleep schedule.

Not to mention the day when everything changed. When a simple measuring mistake killed over a hundred people and forced him into a position he had never asked for. When you had found him on the roof, face burrowed in his hands, sobs wrecking his shoulders. The way his voice had quivered when he had asked you what he was supposed to do, which was a question so unfair to ask you it had knocked the wind out of you. When you had put your hand on his back, then held his hand, then hugged, and then—

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and you’re not sure who you’re talking to. Yourself, him, the world since you are currently letting down eight billion people all because you fail at doing the number one thing you are taught when working in medical settings—the ability to detach yourself from your patients.

“It’s fine,” Grace whispers back, which makes you smile. He is as awkward as they come, but he knows how to read a room and when to slow down a bit. A habit you suspect he picked up after years of teaching. “You wanna take my blood now?”

“If it’s fine with you.”

“If you say it needs to happen, sure. You’re the expert.” He smiles a bit, and your throat suddenly feels dry.

You’re the expert? Please no.

“Give me a sec to get the kit.” Your voice is quiet, but steady enough not to betray the self-doubt boiling deep in your gut. You get up and walk over to where another couple of boxes were settled in a corner. These a dark blue and holding mostly basic medical equipment.

“How’s it going, Sonic, Mystique and Smurfette?” you whisper to them while opening the one you called Smurfette. You grab a venipuncture kit, put on a pair of single-use gloves, and then start to unpack the plastic-wrapped butterfly needle, blood collection tube, and tourniquet, placing them with the rest of the kit on a small metal tray.

When you turn back to Grace, he is already looking at you, and when you walk back to him, he sits up straighter, presenting his left arm.

“You want me to prick that arm?”

He hums in agreement, and you begin to fasten the tourniquet around his bicep. You quickly disinfect the crook of his arm with an alcohol pad and then tap against a vein a couple of times before taking the butterfly, removing the small plastic cap over the needle, and then inserting the tube into the connector.

Your fingertips burn from where they had touched his skin, and you do your best trying to pretend like it wasn’t affecting you.

“You have really good veins, by the way.”

“Yeah?” he breathes out, gaze wandering between the needle about to puncture his skin and your face.

“Mhm. Even while you were under it was no problem. Very convenient.” You insert the needle but keep talking without pausing. “Made my life a lot easier. Thank you.”

“I aim to please,” he chuckles, looking away at the sight of his dark red blood flowing through the thin tubing.

You only need a little, so you quickly grab a piece of gauze, press it over where the needle punctures his skin, and then pull it out slowly. “Can you press down on this, please?”

He does. You grab a beige band-aid, wait a couple of seconds, and then carefully push his hand holding the gauze away, putting the band-aid in its place.    

You remove the tube—now halfway full of Grace’s blood—from the rest, cap it, and then dispose of the rest into the medical waste bin near you.   

“Good job. You want a lollipop?” You ask him. When he doesn’t answer, you look back at him and find him staring at you with a mixture of outrage and humor. “Ah, right, sorry,” you smirk. “Remind me in four days again, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Funny,” he deadpans.

“I aim to please,” you say, shrugging, and he snorts in response. You turn to HAL 9000, knowing that you can’t ignore it any longer. “Here’s Doctor Grace’s first blood sample post wake-up, Hal. Please hurry with the results. He’s hungry.”

There’s no reason for you to rush the medical robot, it’s not like it has anything else to do, but you don’t like the way he has been silently observing you drawing Grace’s blood, as if ready to step in at any moment.

“You don’t really like the robot, do you?” Grace’s question startles you for a moment, and you whirl back toward him, where he’s fiddling with the band-aid.

“I… no, I guess I don’t.”

“Why?” You shrug, busying yourself with cleaning up the other trash. “Wait, is it ‘Hal’ as in two thousand one Space Odyssey Hal nine thousand?”

“Mhm.”

“So, you were actually arguing about the film while I was waking up. I wasn’t sure whether I was just very out of it.” He laughs, but stops when he sees that you don’t join in. “Do you guys have, like… history?”

Without meaning to, your eyes fall on the two beds still retracted in the wall. Grace follows your gaze, and then his eyes widen a bit, his lips forming a silent O.

“It didn’t actually hurt them, or anything,” you admit quietly, and start to scratch the back of your hand. “It’s just easier to pretend…”

“I see,” he says, and then shifts in his seat. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Your reply comes instantly, without hesitation.

Grace sighs. “Maybe it would be good to, y’know, kind of process all of this.”

Your eyes snap back to his, and the way he’s looking at you makes you bristle. Like you’re a little scared kitten who’s hiding under a car during a thunderstorm instead of running toward the open door leading to a warm house.  

“I have processed this. They died three years ago, I’m over it.” The words hurt to say, but you hope they get your point across.

He lifts his hands placatingly, which makes you want to throw the medical waste bin at his head. “Still, maybe talking about it would be good.”

“I have talked about it, thank you very much.” You are trying your best not to start yelling.

But Grace doesn’t get offended at your tone—stupid, fucking teacher with his stupid, fucking patience—instead he tilts his head slightly, lowering his voice. “Talked with whom?”

At that, you falter. While it has become completely normal for you to talk to your surroundings, you are aware enough to know that technically, giving inanimate objects names, personalities, and then spending hours talking with them, isn’t something generally appreciated in medical settings. Or anywhere, for that matter.

“You have been talking to things,” Grace mutters under his breath.

Your shoulders tense, and your throat suddenly feels too dry.

Will he think that you’re weird for that? Well, yes, most likely. But would it be enough to get him to start ignoring you? Maybe try his best to stay out of your way? Or maybe your previous concerns will come true, and he will try to hurt you, afraid that if he doesn’t, you’ll sabotage the mission or hurt him in some sort of way.

“I’m sorry,” you say, hoping that he won’t notice the way your thoughts are spiraling.

He looks confused by your sudden apology. “Why are you apologizing? It’s fine, you’re fine. I can’t imagine how the last years must have been for you. Honestly, if I were in your position, I think I would have thrown myself out of the airlock two months in. I’m definitely not… I couldn’t do what you do.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, rubbing a hand over your cheek. “I’m glad you’re awake, even if you don’t—” you clear your throat.

“I get it. I’m also glad that I’m awake, and that I’m not alone.” He pauses before continuing in a slightly lighter tone, a smirk playing on his lips. “At the end of the day, we’re all on the same ship.”

“Oh, god,” you sigh exasperatedly, trying not to smile as well. “That was horrible.”

He only hums, seeming very pleased with himself.

“Also, there is no ‘end of the day’ on here. We’re in space, day and night don’t exist, and time is literally relative.”

“I’m assuming the lights are programmed to mirror our circadian rhythm.” He raises his eyebrows, to which you nod. “That’s close enough.” Then his face takes on a more serious expression. “Still, if you feel like talking to someone who can reply in a semi-intelligent way, I’m all ears.”

“Alright,” you say, even though you’re pretty convinced that you won’t take him up on that. “Same goes for you, of course.”

“Great,” he says, smiling, but he also looks like he was only humoring you.

This is going to be fun…

“Hey,” Grace speaks up again. “Can I have something to drink, or do I have to wait for that too?”

Another thing you should have been on top of, good god you can count yourself lucky that you’ll never return to Earth; you are certain that if word got out about your practices on board of the Hail Mary, they would rip up your BSN degree.

“Of course, sorry, wait here a second.” You get up to leave the med bay but are stopped by Grace’s voice.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing.” He looks up at your standing form. “I just think it would be a lot easier if we skipped the whole ‘saying sorry every couple of seconds’ bit.”

“But I didn’t do what I’m supposed to do. You shouldn’t have to ask for water or food post-coma. It is literally my job to care for that, to care for you.”

“Who cares? I’m fine, and I am not so spoiled as to expect you to cater to my every whim.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Just… I promise I’m fine, and if not, I can speak up just fine.”

You blink, looking away, not wanting him to see the way you tear up at the gentle reminder. You move your head a bit in what you hope comes across as agreement, but he’s not satisfied.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Okay,” you respond, which seems to mollify him. You turn toward the exit, but before you can cross the threshold, you stop in your tracks once again. Your nails dig into the flesh of your hands as you feel your thoughts once again become louder and overwhelming.

Despite what he might remember, you know Grace. You know Ryland. You had spent almost a year with him, and experienced him in all the manners of states one person can be in.

You know he is an early bird and almost freakishly energetic in the morning, but how he also tends to neglect sleep in favor of whatever work he deems more necessary than his own health—which is basically everything.  

You know that he loves to talk about anything and everything, and that if he goes silent, it’s either because he is so concentrated that a bomb could go off next to him and he’d barely notice, or something is really wrong.

Most importantly, you know that he is a good person. That he will always resort to kindness before anything else, and that he is ready to accept almost anything if it means helping someone.

You never found out whether it was because he had been a teacher back on Earth, and he therefore had to adapt to dealing with a bunch of children about to enter puberty, ready to rip themselves, each other, and him apart limb by limb.    

Or maybe it had been something that was just innate to him. Perhaps he had been a nice child, a considerate teenager, and then grown up to be a thoughtful adult.

Whatever it is, the one thing you’re certain of is that that attribute is still part of him, memories or not.

Still, your voice shakes a bit, and you avoid looking at him when you ask, “Can we make another rule?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

“We can ask each other to do stuff, and the other will do it, no questions asked.”

Grace makes a choked sound. “What?” he coughs out. “That’s—what do you mean by that?”

The double meaning of what you just said hit you like a hammer to the face, and you feel your face heat up. “No! Not—nothing like that. I meant… well,” you bring a hand up to your face, pressing it down over your eyes. You take a deep breath. “Would you mind talking while I go to the galley to get you some water?”

“I—” Grace starts, but you interrupt him hurriedly.

“And not ask any questions.” You can feel his eyes burning into the back of your head. You’re quite certain that even without asking, he knows why you’re asking him to provide you with constant reassurance that he is still where you left him. He’s not dumb after all. “Please.”

“Okay,” he says, and while you can’t pinpoint what his tone means, he doesn’t sound judgmental, or like doing it would be uncomfortable for him.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Y’know back on Earth, I had this game that we played in my classroom.” He pauses and hums. “I hope I haven’t told you about this already… Anyway, it’s just me asking them questions, and my students are allowed to shout the answers without raising their hands.”

His ‘stream of consciousness’ talking calms your nerves enough to be able to start moving out of the room. His voice is loud enough to follow you down the corridors of the ship, and while every step away from him is a fight against your mind, his babbling is enough to let you keep going.

“If they’re right, I get to throw beanbags at them, and they collect them and can later switch them out for rewards. They love it, and it’s a lot of fun if you ignore the occasional parent who complains about it to the headmaster because, in their opinion, teachers shouldn’t throw stuff at children. Which is ridiculous! First of all, it’s not like I do it just to have an excuse to throw something at them. I don’t. Sure, it’s a bonus, but it is certainly not the main goal.”

You arrive in the galley and start rummaging around for a cup and a pouch of water.

“Secondly, the students love it when I throw stuff at them. Seriously, you wouldn’t believe how much twelve years olds love casual and unexpected violence committed by authority figures.”

You found everything you need and follow his voice back to the med bay.

“And, lastly, they don’t hesitate about throwing beanbags back at me, and once a year they get to throw a pie at me during our annual ‘Pie-a-Teacher’ fundraiser. No parents contacted the headmaster to protect me from that, and I ended up with a face full of whipped cream and crumbs in my hair every year.”

It’s like a knot loosening around your heart when you turn the corner and see Grace again. He’s still sitting on the floor where you left him, now passionately talking, his hands making wild movements.

“Anyhow, the whole beanbag thing only started because I accidentally ordered a hundred of them instead of ten. Don’t ask me how that happened, it was my first week of teaching and I was exhausted.”

You smile at him as you motion for him to stand up. “I actually didn’t know that. Well, I knew about the bean bags, obvi—” you cut yourself off and then continue quickly, hoping that he won’t call you out on it. “I didn’t know how it all began, though. Or that you got pie thrown at you on a regular basis.”

You hand him the cup, open the pouch, and pour some of the water into it.

“It’s a tradition, every year on Pi-day,” he says, shrugging with one shoulder. “The kids love it, and it’s for a good cause. All the money we raise, we donate to whichever organization the students previously voted for. It changes every year, which is nice. We had The Trevor Project, GLIDE, Doctors Without Borders—Wait!”

You almost jump back at his sudden outburst. His eyes widen comically, and he looks at you as if seeing you for the first time. (Which would be the second time in one day. Man, you’re tired.)

“You—you’ve worked with them. You were a nurse for—”

────────

“—Doctors Without Borders? Wow,” Ryland said, surprise coloring his tone. “I mean that—that’s scary. Impressive, obviously, but scary.”

You only laughed, already used to that reaction. Most people could barely stand hearing about war and famine on the news, knowing that you had put yourself in those situations out of your own free will to help always fell somewhere between fascination and horror.

“I guess it makes sense considering what you signed up for here. But still… wow.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

It had only been a couple of hours since you had first been introduced to Doctor Ryland Grace, but it already felt like you had known him for a long time. He was sweet, a good listener, and not as arrogant as he should have been, considering his breakthrough when it came to Astrophage.

Now you were sitting in the cafeteria eating either a very late dinner or a very early breakfast.  

“How did you get into that? I mean, was it something you had always wanted to do, or…?”

“Not really, it wasn’t really on my mind at first. I just knew that I wanted to become a nurse, so I got my Bachelor of Science in Nursing, during which I met Doctor Fadul. I don’t know if you’ve met her yet…”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ah, you will. Can’t miss her. She held a guest speaker seminar at my school. I guess she was impressed by the questions I asked and approached me afterwards to exchange contact information. Told me that once I’m done with the degree and still feel like helping the world, I should give her a call,” you said. “So, I did. And subsequently spent the next three-ish years shadowing her wherever she went. Then COVID happened, and it became much more difficult to access the parts of the world we usually worked in. Hence, why she applied for MSF, and where she goes, I follow.”

“That is…” Ryland put down the fork he was holding and leaned forward slightly. “Impressive, to say the least.”

“Having a PhD in molecular biology and finding out how an alien substance breeds kind of beats my accomplishments, I think.”

“I don’t know about that. Especially considering your…” he trailed off, looking a bit discomfited. Your lips started to twist into a slightly evil grin, and you raised one eyebrow. “You know.”

“C’mon, you can do it. Say it,” you teased, tongue between your teeth.

“Your age,” he sighed, looking really flustered now. “Don’t call me ageist again.”

“I won’t, promise. Plus, it’s not like you’re that much older.”

He let out what sounded like a wheeze. “If you say so.”

“Twelve years.” You clicked your tongue.

Ryland had taken a sip of water, and you could have sworn he almost did a spit take. “You’re not even twenty-five yet?”  

“I will be in a couple of weeks. You wanna come to the party?”

“A party? On here?”

“Well, the Château de Versailles was already booked that day, so I figured might as well celebrate here.”

He laughed, although it sounded more like a groan. “Cute.”

“So, you’ll be there?”

“I’ll check my calendar.”

You kicked him under the table, and without hesitating, he kicked you back, which made you laugh so hard you almost pushed over your cup of water.  

────────

He is holding a cup of water, gripping it in fact. His eyes haven’t left yours, and you are certain that the same memory that played in your head has played in his as well.

He clears his throat, still, his voice is thick with melancholy. “Did you have a nice party in the end?”

You take a shuddering breath and keep your focus secure on the blue of the cup, instead of the blue in his eyes. Both scream at you, trying to pull you back into the past.

“Can you please take a small sip and swallow it carefully?”

He seems confused for a second, shifting on his feet, before recalling why you are standing in front of each other in the first place. He does as you told him, and you hold your breath watching the way his Adam’s apple dips as he swallows.

But to your relief, nothing happens. He doesn’t start coughing or choking, which is enough for you to encourage him to empty the cup before giving him the pouch to refill.

Once he’s done drinking, he sets the cup and pouch aside, gaze wandering around the room, ultimately settling on his cot.

“I know we’re waiting for my blood results, but do you think I could take a quick nap? I’m beat.”

You freeze once again, and every nerve in your body feels like it is being set alight.

Sleep. He needs to sleep. Of fucking course, he needs to sleep.

You feel nausea bubble in your stomach at the thought. 

Great, just great.

next

authors note: sorry that this is kind of super boring, I promise we'll get into the actual plot soon. think of this as a 'slice of life' chapter I guess. anyway, it's a bit difficult to find the right balance with ryland and his despair during the first couple of days because now he's obviously not alone which does help in a way, but at the same time he doesn't know anything. hope y'all are having a great day!! I appreciate any likes/reposts/comments <3<3

It has been approximately two and a half hours since Grace found out that he will die in space, and he has handled it better than you were expecting. But considering you had been planning on intercepting him from trying to crash the ship into the nearest object, or ejecting himself out of the airlock, that isn’t really all that soothing.

He’s mostly just lying around on the floor, breathing heavily, and alternating between blinking rapidly and staring at the ceiling for several minutes at a time.

After he had done the math and realized that even if you turn around right now, the amount of fuel you still have would mean that your flight back would take over a century, he had kind of fallen in on himself. At some point you had handed him some clothes to put on, because if he was going to have a breakdown, you wanted to spare him the indignity of having it in just his underwear.

Now, you are sitting nearby, not knowing what else to do.

Every cell in your body is screaming at you to help him. To soothe his worries and dissolve his fears. Most of all, you want to hug him. To throw your arms around him and bury your face in his neck, breathing in so deeply until all your senses are occupied by him.

However, that is more about soothing your own biting anxiety, and not his, and it’s not about you.

Still, you can’t leave him, not just to make sure that he’s fine—he has literally just woken up from a four year long coma, the man should really take it a bit more easy—but also because the thought of letting him out of your eyes for even a couple of seconds, feels like being asked to cut off your own legs.

In fact, if someone were to come up to you right now, and tell you to either leave the room, or take a chainsaw to your thighs, you’d happily start the process of amputation—it’s not like you need your legs anymore, but you did need Grace. You need him so much.

And if the only way you can have him is from a couple of feet away, you’ll take it.

“I need to calm down a bit,” you say lowly.

It turns out that you can’t kick a habit that you have maintained for the last four years in less than a day, so you are still babbling to yourself all the time. You aren’t expecting Grace to react to your talking, he hasn’t the last couple of hours. 

But he does react this time, his head slowly tilting toward where you were on the floor, leaning against the wall. “Did you just tell me to calm down?” His voice is quiet and raspy, and his eyes are still looking a bit glassy and out of it.

“What? No, I told myself to calm down,” you reply.

“You seem pretty calm to me, considering we are going to die here.”

“Well,” you say timidly, “I’ve known that for a while now. I’m okay with it.”

He scoffs and looks away from you. “Back on Earth we’d call that being suicidal, and it’s not generally seen as something favorable.”

You pull your knees closer to your chest, hugging them tightly. “That’s not the same.”

“I’m a mandated reporter, and if a kid came to me saying that they had accepted their imminent death—self-inflicted, mind you—that would be seen as the kind of red flag we’re trained to look out for.”

You jolt up. “What do you mean, you’re a mandated reporter?”

He waves you off. “Don’t worry, no authorities to report you to. Or, well, I could send a message to Earth, but I think any help they’d send would come a little bit too late.”

“No, no,” you let go of your legs and lean forward slightly. “How do you know you’re a mandated reporter?”

“Oh, I remembered that I was a teacher,” he says with the air of someone telling their noisy neighbor about a trip to the grocery store.

“What? You—you have to tell me if you remember something.” You try to sound as authoritative as possible, channeling your inner Dr. Fadul—no patient is hiding any symptoms from her.

Grace sits up now as well, scrubbing his hands across his face. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then narrows his eyes. “I need my glasses.”

You nod, having completely forgotten about that.

He waits a second before raising his eyebrows. “Do you have them somewhere? Or maybe know where they are?”

“Oh, right. Shit, sorry,” you curse, and he looks mildly amused. You stand up to go get them, but before you could cross the threshold to get back to the med bay where you know his glasses are stored safely, you hesitate.

Even just turning your back on him made your skin crawl. 

Now that he’s awake—that he is not connected to a monitor overseeing his vitals, and top-notch medical equipment keeping him healthy—the only way for you to be sure that he’s okay, is seeing the rise and fall of his chest, or hearing him speak.

“Everything okay?” Grace asks, and you turn back to him, trying your best not to look like you’re freaking out.

“Yeah, of course. It’s just… maybe you should—or if you want you—No, um. I—I think it would be best if you, y’know, came with me.”

He blinks at you slowly, and you feel your cheeks heat up.

“I’m sorry, I can’t talk… I mean, I can, obviously, but I just don’t have a lot… recently.”

The urge to leave the room makes your legs shudder, but your mind won’t let you move an inch. You need to stay. You need to make sure he’s breathing. Everything else comes second.  

He stands up, and his face holds an expression so gentle it hurts. “You have been on your own this whole time, right?”

“I mean… I guess,” you say hesitantly.

“That must have been pretty tough.” His voice is soft, and you can feel nausea bubble in your stomach.

“Not really. I watched some films, I did some reading, and I took care of you. Plus, I like being alone,” you say as shortly as you can, trying your best to tell him to shut up without outright insulting him.

“You are not alone. I am here with you.” Mary’s detached voice reverberates through the ship, landing between you and Grace like a missile not yet detonated.

“What was that?” he asks and you can’t meet his eyes. “Was that automated to answer to the word ‘alone’?”

You nod.

“Did you put that in? It only reacted to your voice.”

You nod again, and your fingers twitch at your side.

“Oh.”

“It’s… it’s just a joke.” You chuckle feebly.

“Yeah,” he says, although it’s clear that he can’t find the humor in it. “What’s your name?” He must see the hurt cutting through your expression, and he purses his lips. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault.” You tell him your name, and he mouths it back silently as if tucking it away in some special part of his newly empty memories. You clear your throat. “I’ll get you your glasses now, and then we should go over what you know now.”  

“Alright.” He tilts his head forward. “Lead the way.”

You do your best not to show how relieved you are when he follows you down the corridor. He stays a couple of steps behind you, but hearing the sound of his feet on the ground is enough to make your shoulders relax.  

When you reach the med bay, you walk up to one of the compartments, and after a little searching, find the case holding his glasses. You hand it over and he thanks you quietly while he takes them out, cleans them on his shirt, and then puts them on.

The sight is so familiar, it feels like you are swept off your feet and dropped back to when you first met him.

────────

Ever since you had agreed to be part of a suicide mission, your life had really taken a turn for the better. It turned out that deciding to lay down your life for the sake of all of humanity made people very grateful in return.

In one day, you had found out what your new job entailed, sat in on some ultra-secret meetings, and then moved from the dorm room you shared with five other women to a private room with an en-suite bathroom.

Where people used to see you as just another nurse there to rub backs and hand out painkillers, you were now looked at with a sort of reverence. People who knew about Project Hail Mary, and what it entailed, looked at you with admiration, and those who didn’t were intrigued by why you had suddenly caught the attention of the most high-profile people on the ship.

You couldn’t even lie; you were basking in the attention. So, when a rumor spread around Stratt’s Vat about some hot-shot scientist who would arrive at some point today, you felt almost a bit jealous.

You were going to die for this mission; what could they have possibly done that was more important?

Well, found out how Astrophage—the alien cells that were eating the sun, because of course First Contact couldn’t have been made with E.T.—breed, and therefore made the whole four years of interstellar traveling even possible.

Yeah, all right, that was impressive.

Thus, you had decided that you would happily share the attention and just hoped that whoever that scientist was wouldn’t have the big-headedness found so often in academia.

You were starting to fear that you were developing that same ailment, to be honest. But then again, you were part of the four people who would save the world—what 24-year-old could say that? (None, you were the only one, how cool was that?)

You had been waiting for the last two hours for any news about this mystery scientist. The rumors flying around about him were starting to get to you. They ranged from unusual to downright ridiculous, but they did make you more excited to finally meet him.

Finally, your pager vibrated against your hip, where it was strapped to your belt. When you looked at the message you had received, you couldn’t help but frown. You were being summoned down to your medical office—because that was something that you had now—by Stratt herself.

You were pretty certain that she’d be with the scientist now, so it made no sense to you that she’d summon you unless it was an emergency. So, you quickly made your way to your office, ignoring the group of technicians yelling after you whether you had already seen the new guy.

When you reached your office, you were greeted by Stratt standing outside it, the door ajar. She looked fine. Yeah, her clothes were a bit ruffled, and she had bags under her eyes large enough to store the liters of coffee she consumed every day—a habit Dr. Fadul scolded her for, but you could only ignore because you were no better—however, she had looked that way basically every day you’ve seen her.

Before you could ask her whether she was okay, she opened her mouth. “He has thrown up at least two times already.” With that, she pushed open the door a bit more, revealing someone sitting on your examination table.

The first thing you noticed about him was how out of place he looked. He wasn’t a soldier, that much was clear. He sat on the table with the confidence of a little kid about to get yelled at by their parent. His shoulders were hunched, and eyes were trained on his hands, which he was tapping sporadically on his thighs. His hair was a mop of dirty blond curls, with strands of it hanging over the glasses drooping halfway down his nose.

Most people stuck to either business casual, uniforms, or lab coats on board. Therefore, his blue and red striped hoodie seemed too casual for the long gray halls, coming off bright in the windowless rooms.

“Meet Doctor Ryland Grace,” Stratt said. You entered the room, and the man looked up, smiling slightly embarrassed. “Check him to make sure he’s doing fine and is stable enough to stay on board for the foreseeable future. Then give him the full panel.”

She had stayed outside the room, eyes now fixed on her pager, no doubt already being called away to put out another fire. Seeing her stand still for more than two minutes was basically unheard of. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think she had skipped over the necessity to eat and got all her nutrients through photosynthesis. But that wasn’t possible, obviously, for that to work the woman would need to get a lot more sunshine than she actually did.

“Alright, sure,” you said.

“Good.” 

With that she hurried away, and you turned back around to the man waiting patiently. You smile at him, introducing yourself while disinfecting your hands. “So, you threw up?”

He blushed a deep red. “Ah, yeah, but I’m fine now. It was just the flight…” he suddenly stuck out his hand. “I’m Ryland, by the way.”

You looked down at his hand, hesitating for a second. He realized his mistake and pulled it back quickly.

“I puked a while ago and it wasn’t on my hands… sorry, I’m gonna stop now and let you do your work.”

You laughed a little at his blatant but slightly charming awkwardness. “It’s fine. Nice to meet you. You’re the guy that’s going to send me to the moon, I take it?”

He blinked, pursing his lips. “Um, I’m not sure what that means.”

You laughed again. “You know about Project Hail Mary, right?” He nodded, and you continued, “Well, I’m one of the four lucky partakers.”

“What?” He almost jumped off the table, his eyes widening comically. “You?”

“Yeah, me. Got a problem with that?”

You were messing with him, but he hurriedly shook his head. “No, no, of course not! I didn’t mean it in a bad way, just… you’re not what I… expected.” He sighed at the end, letting his head fall back and closing his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. You certainly aren’t the first one to be surprised, and you won’t be the last. Apparently, there is nothing more shocking than a young woman being bestowed that much responsibility.”

He opened one eye at that. “It’s not the ‘woman’ part that surprised me, I swear.”

“You’re not a misogynist?”

“I very much like to think that I am not,” he said, opening his other eye, blinking against the bright light.

You hummed. “Good to know. Just ageist, I take it.”

He pointed a finger at you. “Alright, you’re joking, I get it. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Yeah, obviously.” You smirked. “It has been a couple of decades more than that.”

“Wow,” he said, stretching the ‘o’ and letting his finger fall back into his lap. “I’ve been here less than three hours and already I am being ganged up on.”

“You can’t be ganged up on by only one person,” you said.

“Yes, you can. I’m a teacher, I’d know,” he said in a faux-stern tone, nodding his head as if agreeing with himself.

You held out your hands. “Alright, can’t argue with that.”

The two of you smiled at each other for a couple of seconds, and you were happy to notice that he looked much more relaxed now than he did when you walked in.

“Are you still nauseous?” You asked him, slipping back into the role you were here to fulfill.

“What? Oh, uh, no. I’m fine now. I mean, my life just kind of got flipped on its head, and I’ll have to find a way to change my mailing address to ‘somewhere in the middle of the ocean’ which is going to be a problem because I don’t even know which one we’re in. But other than that…” He shrugged exaggeratedly. “I’m living the dream.”   

“That’s good. I’m still going to quickly check a couple of things, alright?”

“Sure.”

You grabbed your blood pressure cuff. “Can you take off your hoodie, please?” He did, and you added, “We’re in the Indian Ocean, around four thousand kilometers off the coast of Madagascar, by the way. In case you want to send someone a postcard.”

“Oh,” he said, while you pushed up the left sleeve of his t-shirt and then fastened the cuff to his bicep. “That explains why the trip here took so long. You know, that’s why I puked. All the air travel was too much. I’m fine, as long as you don’t put me into another fighter jet in the next couple of days.”

You hummed and turned on the cuff, the automated buzzing filled the air as it inflated. “I can imagine. Still, we just wanna make sure you’re fine. Plus, everyone has to go through a short medical exam if they want to stay here.”

“I mean, I don’t want to stay here.”

“You don’t?” You asked.

He sighed. “No, I guess I do. I just didn’t think I would. The last couple of days have been kind of a blur. I just—” He was interrupted by the cuff letting out a sharp beep, and then slowly deflating again. “I want to help.”

You took off the cuff and then waited until he looked at you before you said, “Then give me ten more minutes of your time and you’re on the team.”

He chuckled, raising his eyebrows a bit. “Sounds good. I’ll do that.”

────────

“—okay?”

You blink rapidly and then jerk back when you notice his hand on your shoulder. He immediately takes a step back, pulling his hands close to his body.

“Sorry! You seemed a bit out of it. I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he talks fast, but with a clear effort to appear calm.

The part of your shoulder that has previously been touched by him burns almost painfully. Your body isn’t used to being touched anymore, and now every cell is begging for more while simultaneously being overwhelmed by the sensation.

His hand left you, and took a layer of skin with it, leaving you raw and exposed and aching to the sterile air.   

“Yes, I’m—I’m fine, sorry. Just kind of spaced out, I guess.” You clear your throat and then put on a forced little smile. “Spaced out… Ha, ironic.”

Grace slowly lowers his arms, eyes trained carefully on your pitiful form. “Y’know, if you want to talk about anything… I’m here. I’d gladly listen.”

You suddenly get a vivid picture of what he must have been like as a teacher. Staying after class and listening to whoever needed a couple of minutes of his time. You would bet that he was a good teacher.

But you aren’t his student, and he isn’t a teacher anymore.

He is your patient, and right now up until the moment that he’ll die—which even that you will oversee to make sure everything goes alright—your only duty is to take care of him.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

He’s not convinced, you can tell, but that doesn’t matter.

All that matters right now is making sure that he’ll get his memories back as soon as possible and then saves the world. That’s all.

So, what if you’re not fine? You have been alone for four years, and you’ll be dead in a couple of months, anyway. You can stay upright and working for just a little while longer.

For Grace, for the world.

next

authors note: normally I keep my chapters at around 5k words so I'm sorry that for some reason these are shorter. also aww cutie Ryland trying to slip back into the only role he knows, and then reader just completely blocking it because she needs to keep up the only role she has known for the last years and doesn't know who she is outside of it anymore i <3 making my characters suffer

Btw if anyone has any requests or something go ahead and send me them. I’ve never done anything like that but I think it would be fun (: