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Temperatures worldwide have dropped one to four degrees by the time the Hail Mary departs Earth. It means much colder nights, especially on the open ocean, or in the heart of freezing Russia, where the launch facility is based. He’d joked with Eva about it once, asking if the main reason why she started sleeping with him was so the shared body heat would keep her warmer in bed. She’d stared at him, and he’d awaited a fittingly mild, unimpressed, slightly sarcastic response in usual Director Stratt fashion. But then she’d said, instead, so simply: Do you really want it to be?
It was just a joke, he’d replied, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck; she knows him and his sense of humour, after all - the way he hides behind it when the alternative is to run. She’d looked right at him; he’d blinked, and suddenly he was seeing Eva, the softest part of her, locked away for most of her life in order to put the world first. What you and I share isn’t a joke to me.
Ryland’s pretty sure that if he hadn’t already fallen sickeningly, upsettingly, inexorably in love with her way before that, that would’ve been the moment. It’s a privilege he gets, seeing her this way - seeing her like nobody else is allowed to. He has no idea what he did to earn it or deserve it, but he cherishes it - every second that they get to spend together. Being seen, being loved, being trusted, and believed in - and he does everything he can to make sure she feels the same.
Like now. When they’re preparing to go to sleep, and nothing seems out of the ordinary - same bedtime routine; quick shower, brushing their teeth at the sink in her tiny bathroom (one at a time, no funny business, because their quarters at the launch facility make broom closets look spacious), changing into sleepwear (she wears his shirts, and he’s never stopped getting a kick out of that), and slipping under the serviceable sheets. No different from last night, or the night before, or every night before that - no different, except that three hours ago, they launched the Hail Mary into space.
When they turn off the lights, he gathers her into his arms; she rests her head against his shoulder, and he can feel her breathing, slow and steady, against the line of his jaw. Ryland grazes his lips over her forehead, lingering; her fingers tighten minutely where they’re flexed against the fabric of his shirt, over his heart. “Hey, talk to me,” he murmurs. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” she replies, and anyone else would believe her, because she sounds exactly the same (except for the tiniest tremor in her voice). Ryland sweeps a gentle hand over the expanse of her back and says: “You’re not, though.”
He waits patiently through her silence - he’s learned to read them, and tame the urge to fill them, and recognise that she just needs him to listen. She needs the beat of his heart to calm the endless racing in her mind, and to be grounded by his touch - his hand coming to rest on her shoulder, keeping her close; his legs tangled with hers, knees brushing. She inhales shakily when she finally responds, “I have to be. I should be. We’re here because of choices that I made, that I don’t regret. I shouldn’t feel anything but ready and determined to continue the work.”
“Eva. You can feel whatever you want,” Ryland says softly. “What matters is what you do, regardless, and we can always trust you to do the right thing. You’ve proved that a thousand times over in the last four years.”
She laughs, brief and sweet. “Occasionally I forget that you were a teacher,” she says (and Ryland gets it, because sometimes he forgets that either of them had a life before this - before the project, obviously, but also before hers intersected with his and changed him forever; he was a different man before he fell in love with Eva Stratt, and he prefers this one). “And then you say something like that, and it is impossible not to be reminded of the fact.”
“Yeah, yeah. Giving good pep talks is a transferable skill, okay?” He kisses the top of her head, breathes in the scent of her hair; cards his fingers through it in leisurely movements, keeping things calm, a safe space for her to just talk. “Tell me what you’re feeling. I know it’s not guilt eating at you,” he prompts. That’s his cross to bear, never Eva’s - not when she was chosen precisely because she could see the bigger picture, could put the lives of billions of people she had never met over her own. He’s grappled with his conscience over the hard choices they’ve had to make for the greater good, because that’s who he is; she’s always been able to show him why they were necessary, even when they broke her heart, because that’s who she is. It’s why they work; why he fell in love; why he privately thinks she might have, too - they balance each other, bring out things in each other that would otherwise stay buried, and make each other better. “It’s not guilt, so what is it?”
“I’m afraid,” she admits; she laughs again, no joy in it, shaking her head. “It’s foolish. Director Eva Stratt, leader of the Petrova task force, afraid - “
“You would have to be a stone cold psychopath not to be,” Ryland interrupts. “Which you aren’t, even if all the misguided idiots think so. Don’t resent yourself for being human, please? It’s the entire reason why the project worked, because above everything, you care. The people who mattered could see that.” He wraps his arms tighter around her, pulling her closer to his chest. “That’s why Yao and Ilyukhina and DuBois agreed to make a sacrifice. They knew they could trust you to make it worth the while.”
“That is exactly what I am afraid of,” says Eva. “It is only going to get harder and harder in the coming years, Ryland. The crop failures, the food shortages, the civil wars, the death tolls. The entire world fears for their lives, the unknown that the three of them will encounter, but what about the world itself?” She exhales hard. “I’m not scared of the possibility that they will fail. I am scared that they will succeed, and die filled with hope and the satisfaction of a job well done, not knowing that the Beetles they sent home reached a planet that had already long lost its way. Dying is one thing. Dying for nothing is altogether another.”
Ryland’s heart aches. He reaches for her hand in the dark, finds it without needing to look, and entwines their fingers. “We’re going to do everything we can to make sure that doesn’t happen, okay? That’s all we can do. They know that. They’d forgive us, if they had to. I promise.”
She nods, but remains tense; he can feel the knots of her muscles along her frame, still coiled so tight where they’re pressed against each other. Ryland asks: “What else?”
Her volume drops; she doesn’t cry, because this is still Eva Stratt they’re talking about, but he can tell she’s close. “I have done terrible things to save us,” she whispers. “Things I could never even dream of forgiving myself for, let alone expecting anyone else, who might have suffered or even died for them.” She doesn’t look him in the eye. “I think when the worst is over - or perhaps, when things are at their lowest; I suppose it depends on what people need when that happens - the world will demand for that price to be paid. Blood for blood. If I am lucky, I will go to prison for the rest of my life.” She shrugs, trying and failing to raise a bittersweet smile. “If I am not - well, there are much worse fates out there.”
“Anybody who wants you dead will have to get through me,” says Ryland; he knows full well that he wouldn’t last a second against any government determined to get their hands on her, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight. Eva does laugh at that - sad, tender, loving. “I didn’t mean dying, Ryland. That would be a mercy.” She strokes her fingers over his cheek. “I meant something that would actually matter. Like losing you, or them deciding to hurt you in order to hurt me.”
Ryland blinks away the tears gathering in his eyes. “You matter,” he says fiercely. “And you are not going to rot in prison for making decisions that nobody else would dare to, especially not to save the exact people who would hand down your sentence. Not going to let that happen.”
Her eyes glow, warm and soft. “You really think you could prevent it, if that is what it came to?”
“Not a chance, they’d mow me down. Doesn’t matter.” He kisses her, and she melts into it, her mouth moving a familiar pattern against his. “We’d run away, or I’d break you out, or I’ll spend my life in there with you. I’m not leaving you, Eva, not even if you asked me to.”
After a long, weighted beat, Eva says, strained, “I think there exists a universe where I had to. Even though it would have broken my heart.” She squeezes his hand so hard it almost hurts. “I am so grateful that it is not this one. I love you,” she says - those rare three words, almost never uttered; she’s always found them so hard to say, when every instinct in her begs for her to demonstrate her sincerity through her actions instead. Getting to hear them is how Ryland knows he’s the luckiest person to walk the earth; why he means every word he says - he’s not brave, he never has been, but for her, he will try to be. “I love you. I love you.”
“I love you too, Eva Stratt,” he says. “So don’t be afraid to be afraid with me, okay? We’ll walk through it together, no matter the outcome. I know that isn’t everything, but I think it’s enough for us.”
She’s quiet for so long that he thinks she’s fallen asleep, until he’s beginning to drift off himself, and she murmurs just one word. “You.”
Ryland hums sleepily. “Mm, me what?”
She tucks her head into the curve of his neck, rests her hand over his heart. “You are enough for me. For the rest of our lives, however long or short that may be.”
Ryland chuckles, letting the warmth smouldering in his chest lull him safely to sleep. “That’s all I could ask for,” he replies. “Good night, Director Stratt.”
“Good night, Doctor Grace. Sleep well.”
Always, Ryland thinks. As long as I’m with you.