Work Text:
Dear friend,
I felt it shelter to speak to you.
[...]
The last song that I heard-that was since the Birds-was "He leadeth me-he leadeth me-yea, though I walk."
- Letters from Dickinson to Higginson, 19 January, 1878
The thing about Ryland Grace is that he is not one to do anything halfway.
It should have been obvious from the day Stratt read that ridiculous paper of his.
It wasn't a bad paper. Stratt's not a scientist herself in any way, but the logic of it was sound. He was just… perhaps a bit over-zealous in the way he wrote it, which is not bad in and of itself but—
The assumption that water is required for life is a statistical bias that remains unaddressed. Water is a requirement for life on Earth, but any scientist with a grasp of statistics (which should be all scientists) will be well aware that a single sample is not sufficient to draw definitive conclusions. The insistence that water is a requirement is closed-minded and dumb.
Frankly, she's surprised "closed-minded and dumb" passed peer review to begin with, but if anything, it should have tipped her off on the kind of man he would be.
No, Ryland Grace does not do anything halfway.
She supposes that's what saves them, in the end.
How to begin?
Ryland Grace is an anomaly. It's likely because Stratt spends all day surrounded by military personnel and politicians and uppity scientists who insist they are the leading experts in fields that don't yet exist, but Grace is… difficult to describe. There's something engaging about him. He is warmth against the buffeting wind, a smile in a room full permanent frowns.
It would be charming if he wasn't so annoying about it.
She reasons later that it's his lack of professionalism. It's not as if he doesn't take the apocalypse seriously, it's that, in his mind, the apocalypse is thirty years away, and not right now and in his lab. (Debatable: astrophage are the apocalypse, and he works with them daily.) He insists on being casual and conversational towards everyone, and he's modest to a fault, even when he is very quickly becoming the world's leading astrobiologist.
He's a good scientist, Stratt will give him that. He seems to know more about what he's doing than anyone else on the ship. He's unorthodox, but he gets results. He's ridiculous, but he's clearly capable. He's smart, but somehow also an idiot in a way that's endearing and exhausting both at once.
He's a bit like a puppy, in some ways: cheerful, a little needy, eager to follow orders and go where he's needed, which is, more and more frequently, by her side. She's heard others on the ship refer to him as her 'number two' which is… not incorrect, but not wholly correct either. It's the fact that no one knows more about astrophage biology than him, and so there is no one better to explain their progress. Stratt does not begrudge his company, but for all her severity and no-nonsense demeanour, he has grown… comfortable. So comfortable that, even though she is Stratt to everyone else, when it is only them, working late into the night in her office, she is—
"Go to bed, Eva."
Stratt spares him the briefest of glances over the top of her tablet and lets out a little huff of a laugh. "I'm fine, Dr. Grace."
"Ryland is better."
"But too casual, I think," she quips, her lips twitching. "I'll stick to Dr. Grace."
He pauses and studies her carefully over the pile of paperwork on her desk. Stratt tries not to shift under his stare. "Have I overstepped?"
Stratt snorts. "No," she says. "If I cared enough, I would have stopped you."
"It's just so… impersonal, you know?" Grace sighs and slumps in his chair, his laptop halfway closed. His hair is charmingly mussed, as always, but combined with the bags under his eyes, the toll of his work is becoming painfully obvious. Stratt wonders, inwardly, if the order to go to bed is more for him than it is for her. "It's all work, all the time, and obviously it's serious because, like, the sun's dying, but does that really mean we can't all be friends?"
"You can be friends with whoever you like, Dr. Grace, that is your prerogative."
"Even you?"
Stratt glances up from her tablet properly at last. If it were anyone else, she would think they were being over-familiar, but it's Grace, and she knows from the amount of time she's spent with him that he's just like that. He's earnest, and genuine, and it's obvious from the look on his face that the question is real.
"I don't have friends," she says at last. It sounds stupid in her own ears, perhaps a bit brusque, even, but Grace is either oblivious or remarkably perceptive, and at this point, even she can't tell.
"Well, I'm your friend, Eva," he says pointedly. Stratt swears she can see him smirk. "And as your friend, I think you should call it a night and go to bed." And then because he's right, and he knows her that well already, he adds, "Besides, coffee will only do so much for your productivity, and you're no good to the project sleep-deprived."
Stratt almost flounders in her own seat. "I'll go shortly," she recovers primly. "You can go to bed now, if you like, Dr. Grace."
"Ryland. Please? Even if it's only when it's just us."
Her tongue feels swollen in her mouth, like his name is some secret she doesn't know how to speak. "Ryland," she manages at last.
He grins, pleased. "Goodnight, Eva," he says, closing his laptop the rest of the way. "Don't stay up too late."
He leaves her office with a mock little salute, and then the office is silent except for the occasional groan of the carrier as it weathers the cooling sea. Stratt does not finish the document she is reading.
She hadn't realised she'd forgotten the sound of her own name on someone else's lips.
She probably should have put a stop to it then. Fool that she is, she convinces herself that it's fine, and it's just because Grace is Grace.
He makes everything feel so easy, so doable, something she can weather even when the rest of the world is ready to eat her alive. The work is endless, but it's fine because he is there to help. The world is angry, but it's okay because he is not. The sun is growing colder everyday, but there is warmth in the way he talks to her, in the way he smiles.
It's dangerous territory and she knows it. She should put a stop to it now.
She doesn't.
"Coffee, Ms. Stratt?"
It should bother her that he doesn't even knock anymore, but in his defense, the three venti coffees balanced precariously in his arms are reason enough to forgive him, at least this time. Stratt twitches her lips in thanks as he sets both of hers on her desk before he slurps loudly at his own.
"Spin drives are looking good," he reports mildly. "Dmitri's smoothed out all the kinks in the current prototype and I think he's ready to test something on a larger scale. He'll have a report for you later this evening."
"Mm," says Stratt, only half listening. There is an angry email in her inbox about the bombs they are planting in the Antarctic which she doesn't have the patience to read but somehow still has to respond to.
Grace watches her for a moment. Then he adds, "He needs about half a milligram of astrophage for a test he's scheduled for next week. He's done the risk analysis already, but you'll need to sign off on it before he does anything."
"Right," says Stratt absently. "Anything else?"
A pause. And then, "I think there's room onboard for a soft-serve machine."
Stratt tears her eyes from the email at last to frown at Grace over the top of her screen. "We don't need a soft-serve machine."
"So you were listening."
She almost scowls. "I am capable of multitasking, Dr. Grace."
"How much astrophage does Dmitri need for next week's test?"
Stratt hesitates. Then she actually does scowl. "Has he submitted a request?"
Grace actually smirks at her. "No, but if you'd been listening, you'd know that he'll be submitting one tonight." He slumps in his seat, smug little smile on his face that he doesn't even attempt to hide behind the lip of his coffee. "Do you think maybe you should take a break?"
"I don't need breaks," snaps Stratt, perhaps with a bit more venom than she means.
"Right, yeah, of course," says Grace, nodding emphatically. "That's why you know all the details for next week's spin drive tests. You were definitely one-hundred percent listening and there's no risk to the project at all because you know exactly what Dmitri needs to make sure it's safe to run."
There's a pause. Stratt wants to throw her coffee at him.
"Take a break, Eva," he says, leaning forward to close her laptop before she has the sense to stop him.
"Dr. Grace—"
"We've been over this."
Stratt huffs. "Don't patronise me, Ryland," she snaps. "You know more than anyone that there's no time to take breaks on this ship."
"I mean, true," says Grace, "but I also really enjoy the idea of not dying because our director is completely present in all of her decision making, but that's neither here nor there."
Another pause. Stratt sips begrudgingly at the first of her coffees, the warmth like a balm on her endlessly frayed nerves.
"You can't half-butt this," says Grace gently. She thinks he means half-ass but cursing is not quite in his vocabulary. "Whole-butt it or don't do it at all. You expect it nothing less from us. We expect it from you. Take a break. Ten minutes. Please?"
Stratt breathes out harried sigh.
Grace stays to make sure she takes all of it.
At some point, it stops being annoying. Stratt can't say when. It's like the nature of him is just part of life now, and she's grown fond of his refusal to be serious. His dumb science shirts have become a staple on the Vat, and suddenly, he's bringing two coffees to her office every morning to fill the spaces between scathing emails with jokes and quips and the sound of her name.
She likes being around him. She likes his calm when the world is a never ending storm. She likes his warmth in the face of a dimming sun.
It almost feels like she's happy, which is a ridiculous thing to feel with an impending apocalypse.
She should put a stop to this now.
(But Ryland Grace does not do anything halfway, and she would be a fool to try and stop him from worming his way into her heart.)
He catches her one night after a Teams call with the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. She is dressed immaculately for two o'clock in the morning (a Teams meeting is still a meeting, after all) but she's caught off-guard regardless. She forgets to hide in that moment of hesitation, and suddenly it feels like Grace has seen more of her than she ever intended.
"Do you sleep?" he asks, incredulous.
Stratt quirks her lips at him, a sardonic little half smile that she knows is growing more genuine by the day. "I'll sleep when I'm dead, Dr. Grace."
"You know this isn't reasonable."
"The Petrova problem is even less so. In any case, I see that you aren't asleep either."
He chuckles a little at that. "I'm used to it," he says, shrugging awkwardly. "I mean it's been a hot minute since I've had to pull so many all-nighters but I'm no stranger to doing thirteen hours in a lab. I was just, um." He rubs the back of his neck, charming in the way only an exhausted but passionate scientist can be. "I was just about to head to the mess hall for some tea. Helps me wind down, y'know? Care to join me?"
Stratt thinks the answer should be no. Coffee in her office is one thing. Tea at two o'clock in the morning is something else.
She is his boss. This is not work. It's two AM. It's unprofessional. It's —
"I mean, no obligation, of course. Just… I don't know. You seem like you could use a pick-me-up." His smile is tired, but it's easy. There are bags under his eyes, but there is still warmth in his gaze.
Stratt's resolve fails her. She nods and follows him down the passageway.
The mess hall is mercifully empty when the get there, but every sound they make feels like it could wake the whole ship. Grace climbs (literally!) over the counter and helps himself to the kettle, two mugs, and a couple of tea bags (lavender) while he motions for Stratt to make herself comfortable in one of the bolted-down chairs.
It's strange being out here. Stratt takes most of her meals in her office so she doesn't have to stop workiing, and even now, her fingers twitch like she's searching for the tablet she left in her room.
"What was the meeting about?"
She shrugs. "Nothing new."
"Go on."
Stratt sighs and lets the facade fall away. She is already having tea with him at some ungodly hour of the morning. There is no need for the pretense of professionalism here. "The UK is wanting details of our timeline. More correctly, they want reassurance. Their agricultural yield is less and less each day."
Grace grimaces as the kettle switches itself off. "Maybe they should be less mad about Antarctica then."
Stratt twitches her lips at that.
"Do you ever think about it? Life, I mean. If all of this hadn't happened. Do you ever wonder where you'd be instead?"
Stratt snorts then and shakes her head. "When have I had the time to consider something like that, Dr. Grace?"
"Eva."
"Ryland," she corrects herself quickly. "No, I haven't thought about it."
"I have, a little," he admits, pouring their tea. He sets a mug in front of her and grins when she smiles her thanks. "I'd probably still be at Grover Cleveland. God, I miss the kids. It's what, April now? Doesn't feel like it, with the weather being so sad, but we'd be doing our unit on cells right now. Plant cells, animal cells, mitosis—all of that feels like a lifetime ago."
"So it would seem," says Stratt. Where would she be? she wonders. Still working for the UN, probably, pushing paper for the sake of diplomacy for something far less important.
"Sucks that the sun's dying," comments Grace mildly, "but I don't mind being here."
Stratt raises an eyebrow at him. "You don't mind being trapped on a ship and studying astrophage for thirteen hours a day to prevent the apocalypse?"
"The apocalypse thing is kind of a downer," snorts Grace. "But I like working with you."
Stratt studies him. The mop of his hair, the blue of his eyes, the way his glasses hang askew off one ear. There is so much warmth to him, so much light that he could convince her that all of this is just their day job, and the weight on her shoulders is something she can put down. He does, everyday. Too late, Stratt realises how comfortable she's grown towards the notion that this will all work out, and she suspects he has a lot to do with it.
"You are a remarkable man, Ryland Grace," she says after a moment.
He blinks at her. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
She lets herself smile at that but hides it behind her tea all the same. "I enjoy working with you too."
"Who are you and what've you done with the real Eva Stratt?"
Stratt only shakes her head and sips at her tea. Tomorrow, he will bring her two coffees and sit with her while she finishes them to make sure she doesn't overwork herself. She will sign whatever forms are pushed under her nose and negotiate with world leaders who are growing envious of all the power she wields. The storms will come one way or another, but for now there is only peace, and the sound of Grace's constant chatter that she's growing fonder of each day.
Well, if she wasn't doomed before, she's doomed now. She had never intended to let anyone past the walls she'd built because she's known from the start that the world wil turn on her after the launch. They're turning on her now just for buying time. Better to be alone than to drag anyone else into all of that.
But Ryland Grace is insistent, and he never does anything by halves.
What's the harm in letting him in?
She sings to him at the pre-launch party. She wants to blame alcohol for her boldness, but she is sober when she does it, and she only does it at all because it's in the spirit of things (and because he looked rather mopey at the bar).
He follows her out of the room when she's done, his face soft in the harsh lighting of the ship. Stratt can feel the way the guards watch them, can see the knowing curiosity in their eyes. She knows the rumours that have been going around the ship. She's never cared enough to dismiss them, but they'll certainly be rampant now.
"You weren't kidding," he comments, when they are far enough away from the party that no one can see or interrupt.
Stratt lets herself smile a little and pretends her face isn't still warm from the rush. "I'm not good at jokes."
He laughs, brushing his arm against hers in a way that is purposeful and also not. Something thrums in her chest, warm and sweet and soothing that settles her still-racining heart.
They stop just outside her office, and he's standing so close to her that she can see her reflection in his glasses. "You have a beautiful voice," he says quietly.
Stratt chuckles. It's the closest she's come to laughing outright in a very long time. "I don't like to show off."
"I don't see why," he murmurs, shifting the slightest bit closer. His fingers pinch at the sleeve of her jacket. Stratt surprises herself when she doesn't pull away. "I could listen to you sing for hours."
Stratt glances away to hide the way her cheeks flush. "Some other day, perhaps."
"Is that a promise?" He tilts her chin up with the crook of his finger, and Stratt's breath stalls on her lips. He's so close. So warm. It would be so easy to lean that last little bit forward, to close the gap between them once and for all.
"Dr. Grace—"
"Eva."
Her breath shudders out, like a laugh and a sigh both at once. "Ryland," she mumbles. "I—uh—" She cuts herself off, unsure what she wants to say. She's so lost in the blueness of his eyes and the way his breath tickles her lips, and she realises, far, far too late, that he's waiting for her.
Of course. Of course he would be so polite, so frustratingly charming. Of course, he would let her decide if she wanted to kiss him or not, because so many choices have already been made for her by circumstance but he won't let this be one of them.
And God, she wants to kiss him. She shouldn't because she's his boss, because the world is ending, because when the Hail Mary launches, this will all be over, and the world will come for her to demand she pay the price for her sins, and she cannot drag him into that too.
She shouldn't.
She does.
It's just a small kiss. A chaste press of her lips to his, barely a kiss at all by anyone's standards, but a kiss all the same. She pulls away, a little taken aback by her own audacity, but Grace is smiling at her anyway, and Stratt can't help but smile back.
"Can I do anything else for you, Ms Stratt?" he breathes.
Stratt huffs out a laugh and unlocks her office door, letting herself believe that, just for tonight, there is no harm in letting him in.
The research centre in Baikonur explodes. Dubois and Shapiro die in the blast. The Hail Mary will launch in three days.
Stratt considers her options knowing that she doesn't have any. There is only one person who can get on that ship in their place, but she's too far gone now, and it will kill her to ask him, to make him, and there will be no coming back from it.
She should never have let it get this far.
She swallows a mouthful of whisky straight from the bottle and calls the meeting before she can hesitate.
He runs. Of course he runs. Stratt watches from the window, the blinds like prison bars across her face.
They tackle him into the ground, and even from here, she can see the glint of the needle in the weakening sun. She wants to be sick. Or perhaps the feeling is just her body trying to throw up the heart she is clawing out of her chest.
She packs for him. Makes sure he'll have his favourite science-pun t-shirts and the hideous fox cardigan he likes to wear. She slips a little fox figurine and a key chain of St. Christopher into his belongings. She hopes the wrinkle her tears leave on the piece of paper where she writes his name will disappear long before he needs his bags.
On the day of launch, before he is loaded onto the ship, she asks for a moment, and the doctors oblige her. They leave her in the room with an unconscious Grace, already zipped up in what might as well be a body bag with extra tubes, and the silence alone makes her sick to her stomach with guilt.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "Ryland, I'm sorry. I wish—"
She wishes a lot of things. She knows there is no point dwelling on them. Not now.
She sighs and presses her lips to his forehead, one last indulgence before he is gone and she is left to wallow in her sins. "I believe in you, Ryland Grace."
She forces herself to leave before it breaks her entirely.
But the thing about Ryland Grace is that he doesn't do anything halfway.
The beetles splashdown in the South Pacific thirteen years later, and Stratt wants to laugh and to cry at the same time when they open his video logs and he spends the whole time talking directly to her.
It's a lot colder these days, but his smile is warm. It's always warm, even when he records a video log with real swear words in it once he remembers what she did. His friend Rocky is strangely more polite about it, but Stratt suspects that that's because Grace didn't program the translator to include anything meaner than the word idiot.
(He follows it up with another, promising he doesn't hate her for it, and that he understands.)
"Whole-butt it or don't do it all, right?" he says, grinning proudly at his taumoeba farm.
Stratt laughs at him.
That's what saves them all, in the end.