Work Text:
I bump into Stratt on the way back to my cabin. She’s walking while scribbling something on her tablet and doesn’t notice me until the last second. I back up a few steps.
“What’s wrong, Doctor Grace?” She frowns.
I try to fix my face and play it cool. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”
Stratt lowers her tablet, which means that I haven’t convinced her. She looks up at me. Her cheeks are windburned and her eyes are bloodshot like she's just come below from the deck. I can count three pencils jammed into her drooping red bun. “I won’t ask you again.”
It would probably be good for my self-esteem if I pushed back on these small issues and resisted the all-seeing Strattopticon in a minor, inconsequential way, but I, too, am tired and the path of least resistance is a tempting one. I have come to accept Stratt's inevitable will. “Have you, uh,” I break off. These aircraft carrier hallways are remarkably cramped and stuffy.
She raises her eyebrows at me.
“Have you heard at all what some of our colleagues think we’re up to?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, like, their idea of the nature of our relationship.”
“No, I have not heard.”
“Well, they seem to think that we’re, uh, you know. A thing.” That’s the school-appropriate way of putting it. I can’t bring myself to repeat verbatim what was said earlier. "Like, together." I gesture nonsensically with my hands, trying not to be too evocative, but still communicating something. The gesture ends up looking something like my atomic nucleus hands, protons and neutrons buzzing together.
“Oh,” she says. She exhales quickly from her nostrils. A bona fide Stratt laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Thank you!” I throw my hands in the air. “No one seems to understand that!”
“That is…completely implausible. Utterly laughable,” she shakes her head. “Why would I ever be in a relationship with you?” Ouch a little bit. I’m very glad she’s on my side, and I don’t have to feel entirely crazy, and I do agree, but my ego is a little tender. I'm a single employed man around her age who looks standard and is capable of keeping himself alive. The conclusion our co-workers came to was a result of what I feel is very simple but very incorrect math. Is it that hard to see why they thought what they did?
“I mean, it’s not a huge leap--”
“I’m a lesbian, Doctor Grace.”
Ohh. Ego restored! “Oh, that’s great!” A lesser man would probably not be able to respond so adeptly to such an admission as this, but my teacher experience has prepared me for these moments. What is junior high if not the most likely place to experience a person you don’t know that well announcing deeply personal information? “That’s very cool, and I accept you.” Okay, maybe a little too middle school teacher. “That makes sense why we would never be together. Are you…seeing anyone on board? Or do you have a girlfriend or partner back home, or…?”
“I am divorced.”
I feel myself immediately make a face. These admissions I have less experience fielding on the fly, obviously. “Not that divorce is a bad or shameful thing. That’s too bad, though. I’m sorry. Or, I’m happy for you, if divorce was a good decision for you and your, uh, ex-wife. You’re a really direct and insightful person, so I’m sure it was amicable either way.”
“It was pretty bad, actually. The divorce lasted years and I lost the house and custody of our son. I was living with my brother’s family before relocating here on this boat.” She checks her watch. “I think our no-contact order is due to expire around when Hail Mary launches, so I will have to file to renew that.”
Fiddlesticks. Get it together, Ryland. “Wow, I had...no idea. Sounds like it’s been one thing after another between your divorce and now the taskforce. Do you, uh…need a hug, or…feel like…crying…?”
Stratt stares at me.
I draw my lips inward. I am proverbially trying to swim out of a tar pit and screaming and flailing my arms around and burning alive.
Her eyes narrow and she tilts her head slightly. “Isn’t there something you should be working on, Doctor Grace?”
“Yeah, there is. I’ll go do that. I’ll go work on the science…stuff.” I was planning on showering and eating in my cabin, maybe taking a power nap, but I can’t be alone with my thoughts right now. This is already one of the Ryland Grace Greatest Hits of Embarrassing Moments that I know will be causing me to convulse at random when my mind wanders to it. How many nights of sleep will be postponed by me seizing up and having to groan into my hands until the memory passes? “Good talk. Yeah, yeah. Sorry about the lesbian divorce. Or congratulations about the…yeah.”
I would give almost anything to have my memory wiped right now.