Archive of Our Own

She doesn't let him follow her.

At the end of the day, that's the worst part.

The Soyuz takes their astronauts to space and in the dust that settles, once they can no longer see its flare in the sky, the world seems very quiet, and very still.

That's it. It's done. Their roles are over.

Now, all they have left is a twenty-six year long wait.

"Alright," Eva Stratt shatters the silence, all business as usual. "I have places to be. I trust that you all have your affairs in order?"

No one responds to her, stunned. It feels like a crime to speak in the gravity of what they just did. It feels like an impossibility to even move their jaws.

She nods anyway, as if their silence is confirmation. "See to it, then. I must head out first. Good work."

And she leaves, like it's just another day of work, and it takes her guards a full two minutes to scramble to follow.

"Did she just—?" Lokken turns to Ryland, disbelieving.

"Yeah," Ryland says, once his mouth remembers how to work. "You'd think we'd be used to it."

"Uggghhh, she's just so—!" she shouts in frustration, and Ryland gets it. He totally, one hundred percent gets it.

And he's not one to cry very often, but he slaps a hand over his mouth, tears slipping down his face before he can stop them. "Oh God. Yao, Ilyukhina, DuBois… Oh God.” And he is not a man of faith, but he prays to the stars that their journey will be safe. That they will fulfill the mission they gave their lives for and find salvation for mankind.

Leclerc is also wiping away tears.

Shapiro, still watching the sky with the other backup astronauts, is strikingly hard-faced in departure from her usual flippancy. She was especially close to Ilyukhina. She was even closer to DuBois.

She salutes, once, to the sky, then turns to be the second to leave.

People trickle out after her, and their team of lead scientists are one of the last to remain.

"So that's it then," Bob shrugs, trying for levity but his voice tremors. He pulls out a cigarette to still his shaking hands. "Well, back to the farm for me. No rest for the wicked."

He's right. Astrophage will be needed in the years to come. Both to study and to use as fuel as the Earth grows colder. Humans will need to increase efficiency.

"I go back to my home country," Dimitri says, gravely. "Much to do, still."

"So will I," echos Dr. Lamai.

So will Lokken. So will Grace.

But unlike the others, who will continue their work of saving the Earth, all Ryland has to go back to is his life as a schoolteacher. And he loves it, don't get him wrong, and he knows it's meaningful work. But compared to this— compared to Astrophage and Roscosmos and NASA and Hail Mary, his old life seems so small in comparison.

Ryland doesn't know how he'll go back to it. If he can go back to it— God, his rent. He puts his head in his hands and groans. "Might also need a cigarette," he says, even though he doesn't smoke.

Lokken, who's already accepted one from Bob, exhales smoke and says, "Don't. Stratt would have our heads."

"Hey!" Ryland whines, his (now ex-) coworkers passing out cigarettes around him. "That's not fair!"

"I am more surprised the Frenchman doesn't smoke," says Lamai.

"Isn't it more surprising since he's a hippie?" asks Lokken.

Leclerc, sniffling, glares at the both of them. "It's bad for the environment," he hisses.

"Hurray for greenhouse gases," Lokken cheers impassively, lifting her cigarette.

Ryland cannot believe they're having this conversation now, on this day. He buries his head in his hands and sighs.

"Now, now, friend," Dimitri says, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "How about this: first, we pack. Then, we meet for dinner and drink. We celebrate, and wish the best for our friends." He gestures at the sky. "Then, tomorrow, we go home, and get back to work."

Ryland swallows, throat dry. "Sounds like a plan."

Stratt's plans, as it turns out, were at the ICC. Ryland finds out in a news article someone on the team forwards him the next day, squinting at his phone while hungover, that she had appeared at court, tablet in hand, like it was just another appointment on her list. The summonses hadn't even been issued. She just came to make her case during the pretrial. Unrepresented.

It's not an easy read. He's not a law person; and even the simplest of texts are difficult when his head is killing him.

He nearly misses what she was being suspected for: war crime of medical or scientific experiments. Skims the article, bugs out again. Scientific experiments. Against Ryland.

It's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.

In short, what she was being suspected for is basically the following: the victim (Ryland) was forcibly detained and taken to meet the accused, where he was coerced to participate in a scientific experiment where he was made unaware of the hazardousness of the situation until it was already well underway.

The proof? Multiple eyewitnesses from nations all over the world — those military personnel with Stratt in the observation room, back then; and thirty-six cameras that caught Ryland finding out he was in a room filled with argon, and then finding out about possibly being infected by an unknown alien substance. Making him be first contact, without being aware of the dangers.

… And yeah, okay, that did happen. So what.

An international crime? They've got to be kidding.

And after Stratt's intervention, the ICC agrees, dismissing the case— not because they didn't find sufficient evidence of crime, but because it wasn't during armed conflict. It wasn't a war crime. The decision is basically this: let it be tried in domestic courts.

She is tried by nearly every nation the moment she leaves.

He gets a permit to visit her while she is a pretrial detainee in France.

They're in a private room, separated by a barrier, when he sees her again looking as calm as ever. She was more upset that time they went to prison to see Redell.

"What's all this, Stratt?" he explodes, the moment he sees her.

"I'm being convicted," she says, like he's being stupid. He feels stupid. Why is he the only one upset about this?

She sighs at him, impatient and familiar, the way she sighed at all of her scientists and engineers when they were being too stubborn or too fussy.

"You do remember Antarctica, right?" she asks dryly. "We've talked about this before."

Yes, but—

It's only been days since the Hail Mary launched. Days. They said goodbye to Yao, Ilyukhina, and DuBois days ago, and Stratt has not taken a break in well over four years. And now, this.

The preliminary investigations for that ICC farce must have begun long before the launch even happened. The thought makes Ryland sick to his stomach.

While they were rushing to save the world and sending their friends off to die, the world was making plans to put their leader on trial.

It's nothing Stratt didn't see coming in advance. Still, Ryland can barely stand the thought that this is the humanity that they— she— worked so hard to save.

Stratt must see the revulsion on his face because she sighs, again.

"It's not like the charges are unearned. Whatever I end up in prison for will be quite deserved."

"Bullshit," he bites, surprising them both when he breaks his no cursing rule. Still— "Everything you did, you did to save the world."

"Dr. Grace," she reminds him, like he's a child she's being very patient with, "Do you remember when we met? You wanted no involvement in my project. I sent people to your apartment and kidnapped you."

"Yes, but what does that have anything to do with—"

"I put you in a hazmat suit and left you with an alien species we had never interacted with before in a room full of argon gas. I did not tell you any of the stakes beforehand. You did not even sign a waiver. You were expendable, and you didn't even know or consent to it."

"Oh, no, you made it very clear that I was expendable back then, and what is your point?!"

"My point is, Dr. Grace, that I am, in fact, a criminal. While I have not committed war crimes that the ICC could try me for, my crimes against humanity are still many. And they are not things that the world will excuse for reasons like 'saving the world.' Many of my actions were far too unreasonable to use that excuse. You should know. You were a victim, yourself. You were forced to join the project against your will."

"Against my will?" Ryland scoffs in disbelief. "I was the one who asked to be in the project! I demanded you give me astrophage to work with!"

"Oh, yes, after the fact. And I do commend you that; you asked for the sake of your schoolchildren, a noble cause. And when you figured out how to breed it, a scientific discovery that in no uncertain terms made the Hail Mary possible and will perhaps save the world, what did I do? I kidnapped you again and stuck you on a ship in the middle of the ocean. You have not been home since."

Oh my God, she's so infuriating. Making herself the villain in his life's story, as if he didn't live it, as if he didn't understand why she did everything she did. It makes Ryland want to grind his teeth.

Stratt smiles faintly, knowing she's right. Because she is, at least in the eyes of the media and the law. "As you know, I forced many people to join me, Dr. Grace. I had many relocated against their will. I put even more people's lives in jeopardy. This is me paying for my crimes. But take solace in this, Dr. Grace: I forced you to join me on that ship, but I do not intend to drag you to prison with me as well."

And— well, that's a thought. What if he—

(It's not like he has a place to return to anyway—)

"Not to mention all the other instances of extortion, abuse of power, ecoterrorism, and so on," she sighs. "I have more than enough charges stacked up to land me a hefty sentence. They cannot be avoided." She shrugs, like this is just a minor inconvenience. "Anyway. I've had people take care of your homes in your absence. Rent has been covered and housekeepers have ensured they are livable to be returned to at any time."

At that, Ryland stares in disbelief.

He didn't know that, what the heck.

He just spent the past few days, while in hotel rooms finding a way to meet Stratt, resigning himself to not having a place to go back to in San Francisco. And she's telling him, this whole time—?

"You, Dr. Lokken, Dr. Leclerc, and everyone else I've forced into this project can go home now," she says with such an air of peace and finality that Ryland forgets about his apartment again; he could punch her, he's so angry.

What right does she have to neatly wrap things up like that? What right does she have to assume they will all happily go back to living their lives while she sits in prison and rots? What right does she have to assume that's what Ryland Grace wants; what right does she have to take all the blame?

They spent four years in each others pockets. Sure, he doesn't exactly like her, but he respects her, immensely. Doesn't she know that? How could she possibly think he'd be okay leaving her here?

But she does know him. Spent years in close proximity, let him ramble endlessly about his classroom and curriculum and fog. And because she does, he's sure she see's right through him— sees his intent to say fuck it to everything and stay.

(And he could stay. He really could. Stratt was very thorough about taking the blame for everything, from being the cold face of the project in the media to being the only one to sign off on documents that had anything to do with money or politics or crime. But Ryland did not follow her for four years for nothing; he shook hands with politicians too, was witness and advisor and accomplice to many of her back end deals. Fuck, he was the one who told her to pave the Sahara. He could totally turn himself in and stay with her.

He doesn't think too much about why he would want to. Why he would be willing to give up the life he could return to to share the blame with her, so that she would not have to bear it by herself.)

But because she knows him so well, she smiles, and says, "Your children miss you, Doctor. Are you sure you don't want to see them again?"

—And really, damn her for knowing just what to say to make him break.

His 'children' that he misses so much have surely long since graduated his class. Even if he returns, it will not be to the same kids he taught when he left, or the class before that, or the class before that.

But he knows what Stratt means. Do you want to never be able to teach the never generation again? Can you give up the thing you love doing most?

And of course, Stratt is right. How could an international criminal ever step foot in a classroom again? If he goes down with Stratt, he can never go back to teaching. He'll never have another class of kids again.

There's a knock on the door, and someone saying in a heavy accent that his time is up.

"Wait, we're still in the middle of—"

There's so much more he wants to talk about, and no where near enough time—

Another knock on the door, and the guard behind it walks in. He says something in French, and Stratt responds in kind.

"Tell him to extend our time," Ryland demands. "I'm not done talking to—"

"Goodbye, Grace," she tells him. "You needn't come again. I will have your visitor permits denied, going forward. Don't concern yourself too much with what will happen to me. It is nothing I won't deserve."

… She's kidding, right? Stratt has never told a joke, but she has to be kidding.

In that moment, he realizes the sickening alternative to imprisonment: Stratt may have to pay with death.

"Wait!" he panics. "You can't just—!"

"Thank you for you work," she speaks over him. "I did appreciate it, really. Hell is coming to Earth, now, but I hope you can live in whatever is left to the fullest."

The guard moves to escort him out, then, but Ryland resists, not having had nearly enough time. It's like there's ice in his veins.

—Is this the last time he'll ever see her?

His desperation must show plainly on his face as he shouts and struggles against the guard, but Stratt just huffs in laughter.

She smiles, a small, glad thing, as he's being forced outside. Remember, she mouths to him, a subtle gesture with a tilt of her head that makes Ryland dizzy and nauseous to remember; a bygone karaoke line sung right at him: Remember, everything will be alright.

That's the last he sees of her for a long, long time.

Stratt is right. He doesn't have the courage to follow her to prison, not at the cost of his career, or his life.

He has no political or judicial sway; no way to alleviate the charges that may face her.

But still, he believes.

His whole life is just believing in near-impossible things now; believing in the Hail Mary, and believing in this:

We will meet again somewhere.

This won't be the end, for them. She once wielded more power than God; she cannot die here.

He believes it wholeheartedly, because it's all he can do. After all, she is Eva Stratt, unyielding and invincible, and he still needs to curse her out for all she's put him through.

In the end, Ryland does go back to San Francisco, if only because he has nowhere else to go.

As Stratt promised, his bills have been taken care of. The trash has been taken out. Even his mail is neatly sorted in small bins on his dining table.

Of course, it's not like he can go back to teaching right away (which, he doesn't really think he can anyway, still wrong-footed after the end of Project Hail Mary and what happened with Stratt). He still has his job, thankfully; the school had been notified by the big guys in the government that he was leaving for a classified project, but to keep a position open for him for when it was done.

Still, returning in the middle of a school year is kind of a tough ask for all parties involved, so they shelve it for the next one, leaving him much needed time to rest and adjust back to living in the city.

The school organizes a reunion for him, which he's thankful for. They invite faculty he worked with and students from some of the last few years he taught before leaving. A lot of them are in high school, now. Some have even graduated. It makes him so emotional.

He gives lots of teary hugs and tries to catch up with as much of them as he can. His kids are all grown up now, and with luck, their efforts on the project won't be in vain and they'll all have many more years to come.

Ryland learns on the news that as soon as the trial began, in typical Stratt fashion, she said her piece before anyone can get a word in edgewise.

She stood up, alone at the defense table against some of the best prosecutors in the world, and spoke calmly, evenly, with the same unwavering confidence she always had: "Before we waste any time, let me just say this: I admit guilty to all counts. Proceed."

And sat down as the court was thrown into chaos.

When Ryland reads about it, he sits back and laughs and laughs and laughs.

(The kind of laughter that one does because if they don't, they might cry.)

She is sentenced to life imprisonment.

And Ryland hates it, hates it to death, because they were saving the world for fucks sake, and all the world's nations had agreed with them while they were doing it, but they turned their backs on her after the fact and had Stratt take all the blame.

Damn the world, he thinks, not meaning it. (And wow, spending years in science labs instead of classrooms has taken a toll on keeping his language kid-friendly.)

Damn the world, and damn Eva Stratt for not even trying to fight it, and damn him for being so useless about the whole thing.

But still, at least she's alive.

He doesn't return to teaching, in the end.

Maybe he should have expected this, but the UN reach out to him a month or two later requesting (but he has no doubt they'll kidnap him if he doesn't comply) that he be a part of a new project. A project to mitigate the effects of the sun dying on Earth while they wait for the Hail Mary to return.

Basically, a sequel Project Hail Mary but with more bureaucracy, less spaceships, and no Stratt.

Ryland wants to grind his teeth at the thought of it. How dare they ask the project's staff to return while keeping their leader in jail! It's unbelievable!

"What do you think, Dimitri?" he rants to his friend on the phone.

Dimitri hums, considering. "It would be for the good of the world," he muses.

Ryland groans, ruffling his hair. He knows. "But it leaves such a bad taste in my mouth. They sentenced our leader, who did more for the world than any of us, and now they're asking us to come back and start up work again without her?! It's ridiculous!"

"Ms. Stratt's imprisonment is a woe to us all," Dimitri says, audibly frowning. "It sets a bad precedent for how UN may treat us, and is bad for morale. Still," Dimitri sighs, "it would help humanity. And it is what Ms. Stratt would have wanted as well."

Ryland grumbles, but knows better than to argue. He's right, after all. Ryland knew it before he even called. It still doesn't mean he likes it though.

He dishevels his hair some more, then sighs, getting up. He has work to do.

The Hell on Earth Stratt described ends up not being the cold, or the natural disasters. For Ryland, at least, it's having to navigate the world without direction.

It's missing his North Star.

There is no general overseer of the new project, which is good because Ryland would have thrown a fit if anyone tried.

Instead, there are divisions, each with their own head, who carry out the objectives assigned to them.

Ryland leads the unit on astrophage research. Who was he kidding, back when he was considering rejecting the UN's recruitment out of spite. He's technically the world's leading expert on astrophage biology; they wouldn't have let him go. And their means of kidnapping him would have probably been more ruthless than Stratt's.

Dimitri and his engineers develop ways to use astrophage to fuel things on Earth, and a team led by Lokken creates and enforces astrophage-related safety measures. No one wants a repeat of what happened at Baikonur. (Thank God none of the astronauts were caught in it, at least. Ryland doesn't know what would have happened if they had been.)

Dr Lamai's team continues being their medical staff while developing equipment like the medical machine on the Hail Mary.

Most important of them all is Dr. Leclerc and his climatologists, who monitor the Earth's condition and do what it takes to keep it as stable as possible.

Stratt knew what she was doing, keeping Leclerc out of prison despite his intentions to go. He is of much more use to the world free. (So would Stratt be, Ryland would argue, but no one who could make that happen would care to listen.)

In her absence, Leclerc has steeled his resolve and become stronger, making the difficult calls Stratt once did to destroy Earth in order to preserve it. He still cries about it, often, but he gets it done.

As Dimitri said, there is much to do, and so, they must do it.

And of course, because they're working with astrophage, they work on a ship.

It's the People's Liberation Army Navy Gansu.

It's just the most convenient option. All of the labs and living spaces are already set up, and the old crew members are already familiar with it.

Any other ship at this point would be inconceivable.

And even though she's not there, they all still call it Stratt's Vat.

Okay, so the project does end up needing an administrator, if only because they need someone to manage the conditions and supplies on the ship. Robert Redell, recalled from the Sahara, is a familiar enough face that none of them feel like he's a new UN goon being inflicted upon them. Best of all, he trusts each team and their lead enough that he doesn't impose on their operations.

They're largely left to their own devices, outside of their daily briefings and weekly status meetings. (Which they mostly only do because that's how they did it when Stratt was around, and as all Stratt-decided things are, it's effective. All of them hate tedious bureaucracy, Stratt included, but they do what they have to.)

Bob feels more like a chill general manager than anything, which is probably as good as it gets, all things considered.

It would have been best of Stratt were here though, Ryland thinks miserably, no matter how strict she was. She gave them clarity and direction in a way no one else could.

Her absence on board leaves them all just a little bit adrift, like a ship without compass.

He wonders how Shapiro did it, watching her lover be sent off to die and then recommitting herself to the mission on Earth with wholehearted vigor, not grieving— or at least, not showing it. She still has the same careless, unflappable personality as ever.

She's strong, he thinks.

He can't even stop thinking about of his annoying boss for reasons he can't fathom, and she's not even dead.

(Yet, a part of him whispers. She might still get sent to the firing grounds yet.

It's more likely she won't, though, and that's a cold comfort. Everyone knows she's too valuable alive.)

"I tried to follow her, as you know," Leclerc tells him once, on one of those mornings when it's only 7am and everyone's already exhausted. "I meant what I said, that if she went to jail, I would be there too. But she didn't let me, in the end." He shakes his head and sighs. "Told me I would do better work out here, helping the world. I hate that she was right, but then again, she always is."

Ryland snorts. "Story of my life," he agrees.

They raise their coffees together and cheer on it.

Their days are largely the same; doing just as important work, but without the countdown.

It's more peaceful, because of it. But even though it struck the fear of God into everyone, Ryland misses the sound of Stratt's shoes as she bustled to and fro.

He avoids Bob's office like the plague if he can help it. Nothing against the guy; Ryland just can't get used to the fact that it's no longer Stratt's, and that if he enters, she won't be sitting behind the desk.

There's a major breakthrough in increasing the efficiency of astrophage production and the ship is in high spirits for days with the good news.

Ryland, too, of course. Ryland is more happy than anyone. The whole astrophage reproduction thing is basically his baby. He is happy, don't get him wrong, but…

But after the initial wave of cheer passes, he goes to tell her the news, before realizing she's no longer there.

And as the days pass, he can't get over how wrong it feels not to have Stratt with them to share the accomplishment with.

He knows her; knows she would only nod, with a pleased, barely-there quirk of her lip, and tell them good job before ordering them back to work, treating such progress like it was only expected of them. She was just so rigid, like that.

But out of earshot, she'd probably order a restock of their team's favorites in the bar for their inevitable party after hours.

He misses that about her. She was stern and unyielding, but had a secret soft spot for them deep down.

He wishes selfishly that he could at least get word to her about the news so that wherever she was being kept she might, for a moment, wear that barely-proud smile.

"When is Stratt coming back…" he mopes, mulishly picking at his lunch in the mess hall.

The rest of the table, the usual group, eye him, then each other over his head.

He's insulted. He knew about the rumors about him and Stratt, but he really thought he'd denied them enough, back then. Clearly, they're still being believed.

"You know," Leclerc starts tentatively. "She is in prison. If you want to see her, couldn't you just… visit her?"

Ryland groans miserably. "You think I haven't tried? Apparently the UN is keeping tight lockdown over who can visit her, which I don't even think is allowed, by the way. You gotta get special clearance to see her, and I definitely won't be allowed."

Besides, he thinks, remembering her saying she would deny him permit, she probably wouldn't let me.

He slumps to the table face first, food forgotten.

"They just might let you, actually," Lokken comments.

Ryland turns his head to eye her blearily. "Huh?"

"If you play your cards right. I think you have a chance."

"Explain!" Ryland demands, sitting upright. The prospect of seeing Stratt brings him to attention like an alert dog.

"Think about it," Lokken gestures with her fork. "Sure, the UN employs us, but they need us more. We're their hope for mankind. And you're pretty important here; Mr. Expert on Astrophage Biology, and all. All of us are. And if any of us refuse to do our work, it's a setback for humanity. You may think we're just a bunch of scientists, but we're worth enough that the UN won't want to offend us if they can help it.

"And your words have more weight than just as the astrophage expert. While Bob's technically the highest ranking person on the project on paper, everyone knows that in actuality, it's still Stratt. And Stratt's second in command," she points her fork at him, "is you."

"I still don't think that's true," Ryland grouses.

"Please spare us your humility, Dr. Grace," says Dr. Lamai. "It's unproductive." He gapes at her, because, rude. She smiles genially in return. "… Is what Ms. Stratt would say if she were here, I believe."

The table laughs at Ryland's expense. It's embarrassing, in a warm and fuzzy way, but it's nice because they all know Stratt so well too. They were all friends, kind of, even if Stratt never let herself get too close. Having them here eases the pain of her absence to be a little less.

Lokken brings them back on track. "You have the weight of your position and your influence within the project on your side. You have more authority than you think," she advises him. "Why not try leveraging it?"

"What, you mean like, threaten them? With my job?"

"Yeah."

He pauses. Considers her. "Wow, you really are a mini-Stratt."

She smiles, proud.

This is an abuse of authority, some opposing members of the UN object when he does as Lokken suggested.

He wants to laugh.

Abuse of authority? Stratt practically invented the phase.

He's merely following her good lead. Learned from the best, after all.

He visits her in prison for the first time.

It's a different one from where she was held during pretrial, with cleaner facilities and even more security.

When she enters the room on the other side of the divider, she looks annoyed, like she's here against her will.

She kind of is; she wasn't lying when she said she would deny him visitor permits, but he forced the matter with the UN, and in the end she came to see him anyway. That she didn't just stay in her cell is a win to him.

"Why are you here, Dr. Grace?" Not even a greeting.

"Visiting!" he replies cheerily. She pulls a face. "Don't be like that," he admonishes, "I brought you presents. Books!"

"The prison library has ample novels to peruse at my leisure."

Ryland laughs. "Yeah, sure, if you say so, but I bet those aren't in Dutch, or about history or sociology."

"I doubt sociology books will pass the security screening. It would be counterintuitive to put them in the hands of a prisoner as persuasive as I," she says, not haughty, but quietly self-assured.

Ryland shrugs. "Well, I tried. Hey, at least there's still the history ones."

Stratt sighs, weary. "Why are you here, Dr. Grace," she tries again.

"Visiting," he repeats, purposefully obtuse. He's annoying, like that.

She rolls her eyes. "Fine then. Why are you visiting? Why are you doing this?"

He leans in, tries to catch her eye. "Because I don't think you should be stuck here."

"You should cease your efforts now. You stand nothing to gain."

"No no no no," he says emphatically. "There is something to be gained. Ideally, a few more pounds for you. Are they even feeding you here? You look like you're two skipped meals away from starvation." Though at least it looks like she's sleeping more, which is good.

"They feed me sufficiently. And it's of no concern to you."

"Of course it's my concern! You're my boss!"

"Not anymore."

"Y'know, I didn't agree with that court decision anyway."

"You're fired. Dismissed," she says; a futile attempt.

"Nuh uh. Not gonna work. You'll have to do more than that to get rid of me."

She sighs again. "I simply don't see the merits of your actions. I've heard that the sequel project is going swimmingly. You and the others are more than capable of managing yourselves." And oh boy, if this were any other day, Ryland would be in over his head with the praise. But not now, and not when it's being made at Stratt's expense.

"Not true, there are a ton of things that would go more smoothly if you were around," he argues. And it's true. Bob is doing a good job, but let's be honest, no one wields efficiency and authority in a way that encouraged getting things done like Stratt did. "But even if that weren't the case, I would still want to get you out of here. We're…" he struggles to place them. "Comrades," he settles on. "Crew."

"… We were not so close," is her token protest.

He rolls his eyes, waves it away. "Yeah, sure, but that doesn't mean I can't care."

"You don't even know me that well."

… It's true. Despite being in each other's pockets for four years, at the end of the day she's just his pain in the ass boss. Ryland worked in too close proximity to her than to know better.

They didn't exactly like each other, but they respected each others' intellect and just wanted to get their work done, and they needed each other to do it.

That's why he's here, in the end. He needs her.

"No," he eventually agrees, "but I know how you'd answer the trolley problem."

"I hate the trolley problem," she hisses, vicious.

He chuckles knowingly. "Yeah, I bet you do."

(And she casts her eyes downward for the first time he's seen since knowing her as she realizes: crap, yeah, maybe he knows her better than she thought.)

He beams, victorious, and a security guard tells him that his time is up.

He gets up from his chair, satisfied that he got to see her at all. "See you next time, Stratt."

She watches coolly as he goes.

Despite his motion sickness, Ryland takes the private jet as much as he can to France (which is really just once a month), visiting Stratt in prison, giving status reports, and being generally annoying while he's there.

"I'm hurt, you know," Ryland says one visit, not sounding hurt at all. "That you only call Dimitri by his first name. Why only him? Why not any of the rest of us?"

Stratt sighs, put upon. "He asked us to. You were there."

"Yes, and I was also there when Redell asked you to call him Bob, and you didn't do that, now did you."

"Dimitri was one of the Russian Space Force's best engineers. Dr. Redell was serving life sentence. I'll respect their wishes accordingly to their value."

Harsh, Ryland thinks to himself. Poor Bob.

He hums mock-thoughtfully. "And what of a middle school teacher, Stratt? Would you call me by name, if I asked?"

"No," she says coldly. Which, ouch. "Not for a junior high teacher." She pauses, throwing him a bone. "But I might, for my first officer."

Oh. And if that doesn't send an odd flutter of butterflies racing through his stomach. He swallows. "Then, consider your first officer asking. Would you—"

"I don't have a first officer anymore," Stratt says coolly. "I have been stripped of all position and rank and am serving life sentence. There will be no more officers for me."

That admission, to Ryland, is the worst one. The thought that she will never get out of here, that she will be stuck here for the rest of her life.

"Well," he tries for levity, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "I suppose that's fine, as long as I'm the last one. Don't go recruiting any more first officers other than me, yeah? And even if you won't call me by name, don't go calling anyone else by theirs either. I refuse to lose to Lokken or Leclerc in this," he warns, jokingly (but not actually).

Stratt closes her eyes, exasperated but, dare he call it, amused. "I won't," she promises. Ryland considers it a victory.

He needs to curse her out, he remembers belatedly. That's what he'd resolved when he last saw her before her sentence, wasn't it?

Except, he doesn't hold the same anger he did back then, and he doesn't really curse, at least out loud.

He doesn't have the courage to curse at Stratt, anyway. He's a coward, and he values his life, thank you.

So what, then?

What is he supposed to make of the lingering emotions he felt on the cobblestone streets, fresh with fear that might be the last time he saw her, and willing against all odds for that to not be the case?

He's not feeling grief or frustration anymore, that's for sure, at least not for the same reasons.

In the end, he thinks he's just glad to see her again.

Ryland is complaining, something or another about about the incompetency of some of the new scientists on board, and how he had to scold them just last week for not doing something the way she'd like even though she wasn't even there, and, God, he still feels like he's her pet science lapdog sometimes.

(It's exacerbated by how much of his schedule he clears just to visit her, working late nights to make up the time. He won't tell her that part though, or she'll suggest he visit less, or not at all.)

She huffs a maybe-laugh. "That's how you think of yourself?"

"Wha— That's how everyone thinks of me!" He shouts indignantly, trying not to flush.

"No," she says, two seconds from rolling her eyes. "They think of you as my second in command."

And yeah, people keep saying that, she keeps saying that, and he knows he also used that position to throw his weight around to get him here, but he still can't believe it sometimes. It's just— It's Stratt. And he's second in command? Her first officer? Him? He still feels like just a misplaced middle school teacher some days.

He doesn't know what face he makes at her, but it must be something truly confused and pitiful indeed.

"Pet," she remarks dryly, just for the sake of it, and watches as his brain stutters to a halt.

"I—. Wha?" His neck feels like it's on fire. He can only pray his face is any better.

Stratt raises an eyebrow. "So what I'm gathering is," she says slowly, "you rather like being my 'science lapdog'."

He flushes even further, if that were possible. "Shut up," he hisses. He looks like he might cry.

(Now that's a thought. Eva thinks she would like to make him.)

There's a memory Ryland has suppressed for months, maybe years, because it was unprofessional, unrelated to the mission, and frankly, fucking humiliating:

They're discussing something in her office, and Ryland's having difficulty paying attention.

It's a lot of things, the stress, the lack of sleep, the feeling of impending doom.

(The realization the night before that he has no close relationships, but the closest he's ever had were the ones he made here on this ship, tied by shared purpose, grueling work, and the natural camaraderie formed by close quarters.

The realization that he fell out of contact with Marissa, his only friend from before the project, months ago, and that if he went back to San Francisco, there'd be no one there for him.)

Stratt has been saying something. She's been saying his name for the last minute.

"Dr. Grace," she sighs impatiently, a bit of steel creeping into her tone despite the late hour.

And, oh, Ryland suddenly takes back every judgemental thought he's ever had about DuBois calling Shapiro by her title while sleeping together.

It's not even the name that does it for him, it's the fact that she says his name at all, that she bothers asking for him, that he's even registered as a blip on her radar—

And yeah, maybe that's kind of desperate or sad, but he hasn't gotten laid in like years, and he's realizing just now that out of all the people he's met on this ship, she's the one he's closest to even though to her, he's just one of her many scientists.

She's Eva Stratt for Christ's sake and he's just a middle school teacher from who knows where.

And it's not like he's in love with her or anything. He's under no illusions about who he is or what they are to each other; he's just her science lapdog and she's still his pain in the ass boss, but if he takes some small pleasure in being the person who's name she calls most often in the crowd, well then that's only for him to know.

She sighs; he's zoned out again.

"You're useless right now," she says frankly, but not necessarily unkind.

Then, she herds him bodily out of the room.

"Go to your room," she demands. "Go to bed. And tomorrow, be a functioning human being again. That's an order." And shuts the door in his face.

He drags his hand down it, messing up his hair and knocking his glasses askew. Yeah. Sleep. That's what he needs.

And, because he always does what she says, he goes to follow orders.

She never gives him any orders to relay to the crew or offers advice on how they should do things.

"You're smart," she says when he complains that she's being difficult. "You'll figure it out."

Ryland can't tell if that's a compliment or just apathy, but he gets offended regardless and accuses her of negligence. "It's your ship," he argues. "Your crew. Help us out here."

"Not my ship," she reminds him.

He just huffs because yes it is.

He's not sure, but he thinks she looks amused.

Okay, fine then, he grouses to himself. She wants them to figure things out themselves? Then Ryland will make sure they do a damn fine job of it.

He won't give her a single reason to be let down. But if she has to bear all of his complaining about it in the meanwhile, then she only has herself to blame.

"I'm going to actually murder Lokken."

"Don't do that."

"She's just so—!" he groans, leaning back heavily into his chair. "Infuriating! What do you mean I have to fill out eight forms and go through six rounds of checks and clearance whenever I request astrophage? Do you know how long that'll take? It'll set my team back weeks!"

"It's a reasonable precaution for something as dangerous as astrophage, and you know it. No one wants a repeat of Baikonur."

"I know," he grumbles, feeling a little bad about it. "But I still think it's overkill. The processing time for even three micrograms would take weeks. Weeks." Ryland cannot stress this enough. He feels himself getting worked up again. "Dimitri's team is down in the dumps over this too. How are we supposed to get anything done like this?! I know we want increased safety measures, but the cost to efficiency is too much!" He breathes out a long sound of frustration.

"Down, boy," Stratt says mildly. She won't let him live down the lapdog comment.

"Ruff," is his sarcastic reply.

She laughs, sharp and high.

He's stunned out of his anger for a moment. It's maybe the first time he's seen her be anything other then tired and stressed in a long time.

Maybe he should make jokes at his own expense more often, if it makes her laugh like that.

… Maybe not. His dignity wouldn't survive it.

He should go back to being angry about Lokken, before he keeps thinking stupid thoughts.

"Why did you make a case for yourself to the ICC, then plead guilty everywhere else?" He's been genuinely curious about this.

"Practicality," Stratt says. "Efficiency. An ICC trial would have taken too long, even if I pleaded guilty. Domestic trials are much faster. Besides, I do hold legal proceedings to a certain standard, and I really didn't commit any war crimes; we weren't at war. If I'm going to end up in prison anyway, the trial better be short. If I'm going to be convicted, it better be for something I actually did." Typical Stratt.

"Didn't you have immunity from persecution, or something?"

"The pardon only applies in the United States. And the international treaty was revoked. I knew it would be the moment it went into effect," she shrugs.

He sighs. "I still don't get how you're so okay with being stuck here."

She raises her eyebrow. "And I don't get why you're not."

Touche. Sometimes, Ryland doesn't know, either.

The first time he visits and finds her wearing a dress shirt and sweater combo instead of a turtleneck, there's something new on her neck.

A V with a line through it. A tattoo.

Ryland had never thought Stratt to be one to get a tattoo. Wonders how she got it, but decides that's the less important question right now.

"What does it mean?" he asks, throat dry. There's a sinking feeling in his gut.

Even without saying, Stratt knows what he's talking about. She considers him, apathetically. "Life without parole."

His chair scratches harshly against the floor when he excuses himself, hurriedly, for the first time leaving before his time is up.

(And it's stupid of him. Stupid, stupid. He only gets thirty minutes with her a month. A mere thirty minutes, for which he flies all the way to France and chokes himself on motion sickness pills, and he always wastes it on trivial nonsense; but at least he gets to see her, be in her company.

What a waste, leaving like that. What a waste.)

As he rushes out and down the hallway, passing the bewildered guard who always stands outside the door, he has to stop to clutch the wall and hold a hand against his mouth, breathing quick and short and trying his best not to heave.

Life without parole. Life without freedom. Just thinking about that for her makes him sick to his stomach. It's not right. It's not right. And of course he knew about the sentence already, but he had always believed she would make it out of there eventually. And now, it's permanently etched upon her body.

Yeah, he might be sick after all.

Later, once he's gathered himself some, he thinks: maybe I can still go back.

By the time his trembling legs take him back to the room, Stratt has already left.

The next time he sees her, they both act as normal.

If they pretend it didn't exist, then Ryland's little outburst never happened.

But Stratt doesn't often wear turtlenecks again, after that. Like she wants him to see, and to know, that this is her life now. That what's done is done, and Ryland needs to accept it. (He won't. He won't. He meant what he said, that she isn't meant to be here. He just needs to find a way to make that a reality.)

But maybe he's overthinking it. Maybe she doesn't mean anything by it. Maybe Stratt just got used to the cold.

He doesn't know which thought is worse.

He wonders if she's getting any other visitors. If there's anyone else concerned about her, anyone who checks up on her, or anyone who makes her smile these days.

He has a terrible feeling the answer is no.

It's not like there was anyone like that on the Vat, either. Only a handful of assistants fetching her coffee and quick meals from the mess hall to eat while she worked.

And Ryland, who would turn up at her doorway sometimes just to frown at her coffees and nag that humans and astrophage need water, despite what he wrote in his grad school thesis, and she should really consider having some. And he'd keep talking until she got fed up with him and ordered him to fetch her a cup himself, if he wanted her to drink so badly, and he would, just because she asked, and would watch her down the entire thing at once then glare and order him to get out. And he would, smug, patting himself on the back for a job well done.

He doesn't think there's anyone for her like that, now.

He worries, brings her more books, tries to make her smile more (often unsuccessfully) and hopes that it's enough.

"I just don't see why they want me to go," Ryland complains, as he usually does, when visiting Stratt. "I thought I would be done with all this networking and schmoozing after you stopped taking me with you." Because she was imprisoned. "And now I have to go on my own? Why can't Bob go?"

"Must I remind you that Dr. Redell was once serving a life sentence for homicide and embezzlement? He does fine work as an administrator, but he is not exactly fit to be the face of the project to billionaires and politicians."

"Ugh," Ryland shoves his face in his hands, defeated. "Why me though? Why not Lokken, or Dimitri? They could do the job just as well."

"You break down the complicated science in a way that is easily digestible to the average layman, Dr. Grace," she says, practiced, as she has a million times before whenever he complained about accompanying her.

It's the only reason Ryland has ever regretted becoming a teacher. Having to teach industry bigwigs was nowhere near as fun as teaching middle schoolers.

"And you're likeable," she continues. "People like you."

"Lokken and Dimitri are likeable!" he argues. "And I only seem friendly and pleasant because I was next to you all the time."

She looks at him, three parts offended (and yeah, Ryland should have thought some more before saying that) and seven parts confused. "How to break it to you, Dr. Grace? You are friendly and pleasant."

His face warms despite himself. "No I'm not."

"Take the compliment," she orders, no longer bothering to look at him.

"I don't—"

"I wasn't asking."

He sighs, resigned, and lets the praise warm him for the rest of the day. Dumb gala be damned.

It gets colder and colder. Ryland brings her the warmest sweaters he can find, despite her protests. Tries to match them to her size and style as best he can, but the one time he sees her wearing one, it hangs loose, even over her layers of clothes.

She's still too thin.

He frets and frets, but has no idea how to help. He only sees her once a month, for thirty minutes. It's not enough.

Ryland is pacing on his side of the partition, rambling about— something. It's so unimportant she's not even paying attention.

"Be quiet. Sit down," Stratt orders.

"I'm not actually your dog," Ryland complains without heat. He does sit though.

Her lip quirks into one of those rare, barely-there smiles. "Could have fooled me."

Ryland knows she's only teasing (which, in itself, is so rare he could count the times it's happened on a single hand over the years they've worked together) but he can't help but flush anyway.

Thank god she's not looking at him, absorbed in flipping through one of the books he brought her.

And isn't that a point of pride, her using the things he gives her.

He tries not to take it too personally; he knows she probably doesn't have much, in jail. But knowing that she uses the books, the clothes, the gifts he brings always makes him preen.

(He always wonders if she wears the socks, too. He takes care to buy sets that are thick and wool, good for keeping out the cold, and while he mostly buys them in the monochrome she prefers he'll add in fun ones, too, in hopes they make her smile. His favorite are a fox set. They're terribly silly, and they'll serve their purpose if they manage to pull a snort from her, even if she never uses them. But he hopes, desperately, that she wears them and is reminded of him.)

"Is there anything you want?" he asks. That he can get her, but also, in general.

She's never wanted anything for herself, as far as he could recall. The closest he's ever seen her to being selfish was when she fought with a prison guard in New Zealand. In the moment it had been quite exasperating, but looking back on it, it's one of the funnier moments of his life.

And still, he doesn't even know what she likes. It's frankly unfair, considering how much she knows about him, since he never shuts up.

All he knows is that she takes coffee black, and that she basically needs it to survive. Dr. Lokken had put her on trusting well-tested off-the-shelf products over custom years ago and she hasn't looked back since. She never wastes a moment on inefficiency (and yet she spends half an hour a month talking about basically nothing with him. Maybe prison is making her too idle).

Nothing else. She has no preferences on food, though he guesses she doesn't care much for sweets. (Still, she fed into his incorrigible sweet tooth, always having candies stocked on board, even though she balked at it.) She rarely drinks, outside of the one time he saw her with Dutch gin. She barely even sleeps.

He wants to know more about her. The trivial things, not just the big ones. He doesn't know if she'll let him.

She considers him for long enough that he starts to squirm, but eventually shakes her head no. "Whether I get what I want is up to God's will," she says with a far-off look in her eye, and he knows she is thinking about the Hail Mary. Their hope. Which, isn't what he was asking about at all.

How can she be so selfless, he wonders. She says things like this sometimes, things like it doesn't matter what she'll do after the Hail Mary launches, things like she'll be the world's whipping boy to secure their salvation.

Like it's so easy to think of the world before herself.

Ryland can hardly imagine it. Ryland knows that if he were in her position, he wouldn't be able to do even half the things she could. And not even because of their different skills and expertise, but because he doesn't have what it takes to give up so much of himself for the cause. He doesn't have her grit, or determination, or single-minded ruthlessness. He is unable to see through the trolley problem, the way she does in her sleep.

That's why she was chosen, he understands now. Above everyone else, anyone more experienced or more qualified, that is the reason why Eva Stratt was chosen to become the savior of mankind.

And now, she's in prison for it. As if that were the only possible outcome.

Ryland wants to show her that's not the case. That her efforts will not be rewarded with only scorn and isolation.

He wants her to know that she's amazing, she's inspiring, that her work is appreciated. He needs her to know.

But he's a coward without the courage to tell her, so he settles for the monthly visits and trying to give her things, and hopes that's enough to make her understand what he can't say.

"What other genres do you like?" he asks, trying to be kind instead of brash like he usually is. He's rarely ever bothered to be kind with her; it's just not their dynamic, but he might want it to be. He wants to start being kinder to her, because she might not need or want kindness, but he thinks she deserves it, even if her personality is also kind of awful. "What kind of clothes do you prefer? I'll bring them, next time. I'll bring you whatever you want."

She looks at him with something indecipherable, then.

He thinks she'll ask him why like she does when she doesn't understand why he concerns himself with her, but she doesn't.

(He's glad for it. For him, it is one of the hardest questions in the world; why he cares so much about Eva Stratt. He just does. He doesn't like her, he thinks she's a pain, but he respects her, and he cares. There's nothing else to it, other than that, or so he keeps telling himself.)

So he doesn't know why his breath hitches like so when she says, quietly, "I don't need you to bring anything else. I'm fine without. But… I liked the fox socks. And the cat ones. And the purple sweater from a few months ago. It was soft," she whispers, like she's having difficulty admitting something as normal as liking soft things.

"… Alright," he says finally, throat dry. "I'll get you more of those, then." And whatever else she asks for. Whatever she wants.

"I'm still kind of mad, you know," he tells her one day, "that you said you wouldn't let me visit, back then. I mean," and he can't help that a note of insecurity sneaks into his voice, "you said I was your second in command, didn't you? What's up with that?" he laughs nervously.

For a while he thinks she won't answer. Which is fair, he expects as much. He was the one who asked a difficult question. But—

"… I wanted you to forget about me," she admits. "I wanted you to go back to your life from before. I mean that sincerely. It's not like I didn't foresee that the UN would try to recruit you again, but…" she smiles sardonically. "Part of me wanted you to say no. I wanted you to go back to teaching. I wanted you to live your life." She sighs quietly. "I knew you wouldn't, though. You're a good man. You wouldn't have refused, with the good of humanity on the line."

It bowls him over, to hear Stratt say she thinks he's good. He doesn't think of himself that way. He thinks of himself as a coward who does nothing but run and run and run.

But he's also learned not to disagree with Stratt when she says something kind about him, so he swallows his self-doubt and makes himself take the praise.

"Grace," she says, looking him in the eye, and Ryland is reminded how much he likes the sound of his name in her voice. "It was not because I did not want to see you that I said that. If I really wanted you gone, I would have gotten rid of you years ago. Do you understand?"

He does. Stratt is only ever practical, but she is extremely opinionated about her dislikes.

In all the times he's visited, she's never once not shown up. He knows what it means that she comes to meet him in this room every month when she doesn't have to. Knows that, for some reason, she thinks these trivial conversations with him are worth her precious time.

"Stratt," he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to find the audacity to phase what he wants like an order instead of the pathetic request it is. "Don't push me away again."

"I can't promise that."

"Why not?" he asks, indignant, but really just quietly desperate.

She stays silent until their time is up, no matter how much he pushes and prods, and it becomes just another one of those things they don't talk about the next time they meet.

(How can she promise him that? How can she, when he once tried to follow her to prison? She only pushes him away when she thinks it's for the better for him. She only stays away when she's trying not to ruin his life.)

Ryland starts to wonder what he can do to make her agree to that promise. He starts thinking of all the ways he can make her stay.

The crew are thinking of moving someone else into her room. It's practical. More people are moving onto the ship all the time as their workforce grows, and her room isn't in use, and it's no different in size or form than anyone else's. It's the smart thing to do.

Ryland is more mad about it than anyone else on the ship.

"How could they even think about it?" he rants, gesticulating as he paces. "It's so ridiculous, it's borderline mutiny."

"It's not that deep."

"Yes it is!"

"Just let them do it," she says mildly. "What does it matter?"

"But it's your room," he says, incensed, not caring that he's acting like the faithful little lapdog everyone says he is. "They can't just give it to someone else."

She doesn't even make any arguments about how it's no longer her room, just raises an eyebrow at him. "You do realize how you sound when you say that, right?"

He pouts. It's not like he doesn't know, it's just—

"Pet," she says, gently mocking.

And she teases him ill-naturedly about that one misplaced comment all the time, but Ryland still can't help the way his brain stutters to a halt, face flushing deeply. It's Pavlovian, or something. He can't even think of himself as her dog in his head as a self-deprecating joke anymore without wanting to dunk himself in water.

"What is it?" She tilts her head, gauging his reaction. The slightest smirk plays at her lips. "Out of words, for once?" she says meanly.

And wow, they really need to discuss when she's allowed to use that voice on him, before Ryland combusts.

"Dr. Grace," she drawls, clearly having fun.

It's a good look on her; the look of amusement on her face makes him blush even more than her comments do.

"My dear doctor," she says, fully smiling now (and good Lord is she pretty). "I don't think I've ever seen you so speechless." She hums. "I might just like you like this. Quiet."

He drags his down his face and groans. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"No, I quite prefer you alive."

"What, then? Trying to make my life more difficult?"

For an instant something melancholic passes over her face, quickly plastered over by a smile equal parts smug and condescending. "Yes, well, I'm quite good at that, aren't I?"

Well, yes. She does make his life difficult. But she also makes it more.

He doesn't have the words to tell her that though, nor the guts, so he just grouses, "You're such a pain, you know that?"

She laughs, slightly proud with it, and says, "I know."

"Dr. Grace," she tells him, exasperated. "I'm not your charity case. I have no need for that many gloves, or scarves, or beanies."

He balks at the accusation. "Of course you're not a charity case, you're my boss! And yes, you do; it's getting colder and you need to keep warm and I just realized the other day that I've never gotten you any of those things. So there."

She rolls her eyes. "I can hardly even wear all of the things you've gotten me," she says. "Stop it."

And she's asked him to stop before, but this is the first time she says it like an order, so it's the only time he listens. He doesn't have to be happy about it though.

Ryland pouts, slumping in his seat. "What am I supposed to get you, then?" he complains. He was running out of Dutch history books fast, and many of the ones he'd brought, she'd already read before.

"You needn't get me anything," she repeats tiredly, as she's told him many times before. "I'm already taking up your time as it is."

Ryland swallows painfully. He hates that she thinks like that; that she's a charity case, that she's no longer their leader, that she's a waste of his time. (It's absurd; visits to her are literally his favorite time of the month.)

Not for the first time, he wishes there wasn't a wall in between them. He wishes he didn't only see her in this room. It feels so unnatural for her to just be sitting there, when she used to tower over conference tables, stride though hallways, and generally command the attention of every room she was in. She is so stifled, like this, and he hates it.

She thinks of herself as removed from the project, and he hates it.

She makes it clear that she is not his to follow, or to care for, and he hates it, hates it, hates it.

The work starts to suffer.

It's been suffering.

It started months ago, with minor malfunctions on the ship, then shipments got delayed, and arguments kept breaking out across divisions because there was no stern voice of authority to meditate.

Bob is neck deep in work with managing the astrophage farm remotely and the Vat, and while he is a scientist himself, he is specialized and cannot navigate the complexities of a dozen different areas of expertise the way Stratt could.

It's taking a toll.

Lokken and Dimitri have hit a wall trying to figure out how to handle astrophage in a way that's both safe and practical in their latest project.

Bob looks more exhausted than ever, and he's constantly antsy to check in on the farm in person. If, for the rest of them, their life's best work is the Hail Mary off in space, his is in the Sahara. Being away from it is killing him.

Leclerc… is doing his best. He's stronger, now; can stomach the environmental horrors more. But there is no one with Stratt's conviction to help shoulder his burden when he needs it. Now, when the carrier goes regularly to chisel away Antarctica, he stands at the flight deck alone.

They're all, in the end, just doing their best.

But all of it could be solved in a heartbeat if she were here. It's increasingly clearer by the day.

They need Stratt.

It's been over a year. Closer to two, even.

Ryland has spent the last year reaching out to anyone he could, contacts from Stratt's lists and people he's shmoozed with at all those parties he's been forced to attend, trying to see if any of them could help him get her out.

He was unsuccessful many times, and had a variety of setbacks along the way, and he's no great planner like Stratt; but he's stubborn, and does whatever he can. He finds people willing to help. People loyal to Stratt, or who at least appreciate her work well enough, and are willing to offer their assistance behind the scenes.

He thinks they might be able to put things in action, soon. Thinks that third to the Hail Mary, and joining Project Impossible, that this might be the riskiest thing he's ever done. He's so fucking terrified.

Ryland Grace is a coward. He can't stand the criticism of others, escaped to teacherhood to become someone others could look up to without bearing his academia years' shame.

But her? She, proudest and most powerful woman on earth, was willing to become humanity's punching bag in the aftermath of their long shot venture in order to save it. She is the bravest person he knows.

That's why, he'll try to be brave for her, this once. It's the least he can do for the person who picked him up from his cowardly life and gave him courage again.

For the one who said, “there’s more to him than that.”

But okay, let's face it, he's still terrified.

He's anxious, and antsy. So, he does what he always does when panicked out of his mind and goes to Stratt about it.

He doesn't tell her what about, obviously! Just that it's something important he has to do, but it's because it's important that he's scared to do it. He doesn't know what the outcome will be. He doesn't know how to be brave.

Stratt sighs, long and weary. Looks at him with the same steady conviction as always, and for a moment it's like she sees through all his plans and intentions, and all his insecurities and doubts. 

Her next words are benediction and challenge all at once. 

"You're already brave, Grace. You're been brave since the day you came back to the lab and demanded three astrophage dots from me. For the sake of your children. You just needed someone to be brave for."

He swallows, throat tight.

Remembers Yao, and all his bravery, and maybe wants to cry about it. He hadn't known Stratt had heard that conversation.

He hadn't thought of himself as brave at the time, when he asked for those dots. In fact, it was one of the most scared moments of his entire life— the thought of his kids dying made him so afraid it sent him running out in the middle of class.

He still doesn't feel brave now.

But Stratt is never wrong.

And even if he tries to deny it, she would order him to take the compliment anyway.

So instead, he swallows again. Says, "Alright. This time, I'll be brave for you."

Ryland wonders how he got here.

He started as her expendable little guinea pig, promoted to her little pet scientist. (Her most beloved pet scientist, Ilyukhina would claim.) Just one of many she had half-charmed, half-kidnapped into joining her cause. Or threatened. Or bribed. Depended on the person, really.

And now he was going to go head to head against the UN for her.

Life really is unpredictable.

They get a hearing at the UN over it. It's highly unusual, but given the circumstances of Stratt's imprisonment, it had to be done. Even if they get her pardoned in France, she has charges racked up against her by nearly a dozen other countries; getting her freedom would take forever if they did it that way. So, UN.

(Efficiency, as Stratt would say.)

They wouldn't even consider it, in any other case, but every scientist, engineer, and astronaut involved in Project Hail Mary and its sequel petition for her release. And when that's ignored, they go on strike. (The opposition says that their actions are causing a setback for humanity. They argue that Stratt's imprisonment is a setback for humanity. And as Lokken once said, their 'little group of scientists' has more power than Ryland's ever imagined.)

It's a kind of faith in humanity moment for Ryland he never thought he'd have.

Humans are petty and cruel, Ryland knows from his struggles in academia, but they are also loyal and just. Everyone who has worked in proximity with Stratt over those four or so years know who she is. They know her ruthlessness, her straightforwardness, her pride, her lack of morality. They know how single-minded she is about saving humanity. They know just what price she was willing to pay for it, and are unwilling on her behalf to let her.

And of them all, Ryland has the audacity to think that he knows her better than most. He spent the most time working at her side. He was her second in command, as he's finally willing to accept. And he thinks she should be free.

She was brave for humanity. It's their turn to be brave for her.

He goes to see her, anxiously, the moment she is released. No one else is there for some reason; they had all insisted on him going alone. Made some excuses about not wanting to overwhelm her out of jail (ha! As if they could. It's Eva Stratt) and Ryland was too anxious about the whole thing to argue about it.

And so, she gets released. And the moment she is, she steals his phone and starts corresponding, in calls and emails, with various politicians across the globe. The ease at which she does so implies she has been doing so recently, and frequently; perhaps this whole time.

"Wait, were you working while in prison?" Ryland asks in disbelief. They haven't even greeted each other yet. "They put you there and still made you work?!"

"Of course," she raises an eyebrow, then turns to her tablet (because of course he brought it for her) like even looking at him is unproductive. "Why would I be there idle? That's a waste of time."

Ryland can only stare, then shakes his head. "Unbelievable. You're just— unbelievable."

"My contacts also told me about the stunt you were going to pull," she mentions casually, which makes his brain halt entirely because he thought he'd been doing the whole thing under her radar and what do you mean she knew. She sighs at the face he's making. "Don't take it like that. It was—" she struggles for the word. "… Sweet."

And then she has to turn away to make a phone call. Typical Eva Stratt.

While the rest of them had been dealing with astrophage and the environment and the logistics of getting her out, she had been running geopolitics from behind the scenes. Go figure.

"Stratt," he says, later. "Do you want to get married?"

Her face remains as placid as ever. "In general?

"No. With me."

He couldn't care less about the prospect of her marrying some other dim-witted goody two-shoes. He'd rather eat a rock.

She blinks. "Are you drunk?"

"No!" he exclaims. It's too late. Stratt is already dialing Dr. Lamai to get his head checked out.

In a fit of unprecedented boldness, he snatches her hand holding the phone before she can call.

Stratt blinks at the point of contact. "Please unhand me, Dr. Grace."

He yanks away, scrambling back. "Sorry! Sorry, I didn't mean to— just please don't call Lamai. I'm not drunk or concussed, I swear."

She sighs. Puts away the phone.

Narrows her eyes at him, as if judging his intentions. "You want me to be 'your wife'?" she asks, displeased by the idea of it. A powerful woman in her position, she must have had many men want to claim her, want her to submit to them.

He shakes his head, indignant. "I want to be your husband."

Her eyebrows raise in that way that means that's what I said.

"It's different!"

"Sure, Dr. Grace."

"I just— not the thing you said. Not like that."

She hums. Thinks. Looks confused. "Okay, then, is this some kind of convoluted revenge plot that I don't understand? You want my connections? Assets? You want to get back at me for ruining your life?"

"No," Ryland says, exasperated. What is wrong with this woman. "And you haven't ruined my life, what the heck."

"Yes, I did," she says, not arguing, just with quiet conviction.

(How can she explain the way she sees him: the genius schoolteacher who was living an ordinary, fulfilling life, who she stuck on a boat and made weather long, grueling, stressful years by her side. They all have more lines on their faces now, and they all have grey hairs; Grace, Lokken, Leclerc, everyone. The weight of being the cause of those is one she will bear for the rest of her life.)

"I would do it again," she says, steady and grave.

Ryland understands her better, now; knows what she's thinking when she speaks in that exact tone. He still disagrees, though. Would argue that she made it better, instead.

But he knows she won't believe that (but he'll get her to one day, he swears) so he pivots. Says defiantly, "You can ruin it more, if you want. I'd like you to try."

Her eyebrows rise to her hairline. It's the most stunned he's ever seen her, which he'd be more smug about if he wasn't so damn nervous about this whole thing.

"Why?" she asks, and it feels like the first time he visited her in prison all over again, back when she asked why he would go though such trouble to see her.

"Why not?" he shrugs, because his bravery quota for probably the next decade is already in the red, what with the UN debacle and his impromptu proposal. Both then, and now, he's still too much of a coward to tell her the real answer: because he cares. Not just because they're comrades or crewmates, like he had said back then. But because he cares, much more than he'd ever admit to anyone.

She opens her mouth to argue, question him further. Then she stops. Goes still for a long moment, then sighs, like she's conceding something to herself, and steps closer.

He scrambles backwards again, not wanting to make another misstep like he did earlier. At some point he can't go any further. She backs him into a wall.

Then, she gets way too close. Like he can see each individual eyelash close.

Wait. He frowns. "Are you getting enough sleep?"

He throws his hands in the air.

"Stratt!" he scolds. "The one good thing about prison was that it was supposed to give you time to rest! What are you doing, not taking advantage of—"

She puts a hand on his chest. His mind goes blank.

Her face gets way too close to his. She watches his eyes dilate. He knows because he's watching her watch him.

"Focus, Dr. Grace," she reprimands. "We were in the middle of discussing something."

Yeah. Yeah, he's focusing, all right. What were they talking about again?

And God, she really needs to stop using that voice on him. It's killing him. He never even knew he liked being scolded or praised— or anything, really— before her.

"Dr. Grace," she demands, because he's getting distracted again.

"Yeah, uh— yes, uhhh— what?"

She sighs.

He can feel it on his face. It's killing him.

"We were talking about why you wanted to marry me."

Marry me. Jesus Christ, he's going to have an aneurysm.

"Yeah, I mean, well," he scrambles, fighting for his brain to work. "Just think about it, I'd bring you coffee and water and carry an extra sweater for you everywhere. And I'd make sure you ate and slept enough— but I won't be too annoying about it, I swear! Okay, maybe a little annoying, but only because you're really, really bad at taking care of yourself sometimes. And I'd accompany you to those stupid networking gigs if you ever go to one again! And I'd bring you snacks and drinks and keep the vulture bigwigs off your back when you get fed up with them. And—" he rambles, trying to come up with every reason why he, science teacher extraordinaire, would be useful to her, Eva fucking Stratt.

"Grace," she says, and his jaw snaps shut. "Stop talking."

Yeah. Okay. Shutting up, now.

A finger of the hand that's still on his chest (!!) starts tracing idly across his pec.

If he short circuits for the second time in a many minutes, that's entirely her fault.

"That's not what I meant," she scolds, speaking nearly against his jawline. He's sure she can feel his heart pounding— her hand is literally right there. "I meant, was the reason you wanted to marry me because you wanted something like this?"

He squeezes his eyes shut. It's not that she's wrong, but— "That wasn't the point," he wheezes.

"Oh?"

"I just wanted to…" he trails off, already feeling the mortification of what's he's about to say, and deciding to say it anyway. "Have a reason to follow you, if you try to go somewhere without me again. Have you somewhere I could see you. Have permission to take care of you at the end of the day. That's all," he says, and can feel the steam in his ears.

She considers this, and he takes the chance to try to calm his racing heart (largely unsuccessfully).

"Alright," she says, and he sucks in a large breath— "So are you saying you don't want me like this?"

He averts his eyes. "… I didn't say that."

She nods, satisfied, as if confirming a long-held hypothesis. "Good," she says, in that self-assured way of hers. And then, "Me too."

And before he can even begin to process that, she kisses him.

… Thinking is underrated anyway.

He still has not formed a single thought by the time she pulls away. He hasn't even moved to breathe.

She raises an eyebrow at him. "No?"

He goes bright red, up to his ears.

"I don't— I never— I didn't think you wanted this," he gasps, overheating.

"I did. I just didn't act on it."

"Oh." As if she didn't just overturn his entire worldview.

She shuts him up after that.

Slides the hand not on his chest to his face, strokes over the side of his glasses and plays with his hair. She hums, all too satisfied, against his mouth.

She's ruining him.

And he lets her, gladly.