Work Text:
Eva Stratt let out a long, slow breath as she moved across the ballroom floor, avoiding eye contact with those she passed in an effort to keep herself from being dragged into any more conversations. It wasn’t that she disliked conversation, just that there was so much work to do, she found it hard to think of anything else — and that conversation with billionaires and world leaders tended to be… boring.
She typically found her way out of attending galas, state functions, dinners, and other celebrations held in honor of the project. She always sent her regards, and would send a representative when necessary, but aside from a few notable exceptions, she herself did not attend, with the excuse that the work was just too important to put on pause. But the organizers of this function had been tricky, for they had made it in honor of the crew, of the humans that would give their lives for the whole of humanity, and if the woman who had selected said crew could not spare a night in their honor, then, well…
She didn’t particularly care what people thought of her, but she cared how her crew was perceived, and that the world knew everyone treated them with the utmost respect. So, she’d put on a dress, a long slip of navy blue with delicate lace running from chest to forearms, slipped on the heels in sensible black, and painted on the makeup — and then spent the rest of the night reminding herself not to smudge it.
Then, she played nice the rest of the evening — smiled and laughed politely at jokes, made inane small talk with a mildly interested look on her face, and raised her glass for every speech made, no matter how long they went.
Which is why, as pain radiated from her jaw where she’d clenched her teeth too long up into her skull, she thought she was entitled to slip across the room and not speak to anyone, making her way up the large curving staircase where maybe, for a blessed moment, she could be alone.
And perhaps God smiled upon her that day, for on the terrace there was only a small scattering of people, none of whom noticed her arrival, and — perhaps the best of all — there was a small bartop table, currently unoccupied with two empty chairs.
Sipping onto one of the chairs, she yearned to kick off her heels, but resisted for the moment. Instead, she let her eyes slip closed, rolling her neck slowly, taking measured breaths as she tried to release the tension her muscles held, tried to envision them softening, relaxing until the pain ebbed away from her skull. She wished she had grabbed another drink before coming upstairs, wanting selfishly to replenish the warmth in her stomach. What she really wished for, she could admit the longer she thought about it, was for Grace, with a quick smile and a joke, and his hands that could ease her pain better than any drink or painkiller. But she’d shooed him away after dinner, telling him to go chat science with all of the nosy dignitaries who wanted to know the mysteries of Project Hail Mary. She almost regretted that decision now — the night would have been more tolerable with him.
“Thought I saw you come up here.”
Stratt smiled softly, opening her eyes to see Grace standing across from her, sharp suit and soft smile, a steaming cup in his hands — her thoughts seem to have summoned him. “Needed a moment away,” she said, and he nodded.
“Figured.” He took the chair across from her, the table so small that their knees brushed underneath. “I brought you coffee,” he said, setting the cup in between them. “For your head. Know you get a headache of some kind at these things.” He studied her, his head cocked to one side, and then he gave her a sympathetic smile. “Ah, so it is a migraine, then.”
She returned his with a wry smile of her own, and tapped the spot where she felt the ice pick driving into her skull.
He pushed the coffee towards her, and she picked it up, taking a slow, savoring sip. “Want me to fetch you ibuprofen? Unless you managed to conceal some… somewhere on you.” He looked her up and down, a bold look that made her quirk an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting.
“Too late,” she replied, and shook her head. “At this stage of it, it won’t do much good.”
Grace nodded, then leaned forward, his forearms on the table as he held out his hands to her. “The spot in your hand? I know it works better for you on stress related migraines.”
He sent her a knowing smile that made her suppress a chuckle. She studied him for a long moment — they had never been so bold with physical affection in public before, even if they were at a gala, where everyone was a bit looser. Still, there weren’t many people around, and though the warmth of the gin in her belly had faded almost to nothing, she could still feel it, lending her a sense of courage. So, taking another sip of her coffee, she slowly leaned forward, matching his position against the table as she laid her hand in his.
He grinned, his fingers twitching against the back of her hand in a subtle caress, before gently turning her hand and pinching the webbing between her thumb and index finger, His other hand took up a slow, soft massage, gently rubbing tendons and muscles, stroking her skin in a comforting way that sent small shivers down her spine.
She studied him as he worked, slowly sipping coffee. His hair, while neater than it often was, still held a tousled look to it that tugged on her heart, made her want to bury her hands in it. His glasses sat perched on the end of his nose currently, though she’d seen them hanging off of his ear earlier in the night, and she wondered vaguely if he had a spare pair with him on the Vat — God only knew the headache she’d have the day he accidentally broke his current pair, and she’d have to rush order him another.
Her eyes slid down his face, down to his collar and tie, her study continued. It was a navy blue, almost the same color of her dress, she realized with a start. She certainly hadn’t planned that, and wondered if he’d caught a glimpse of her dress before, and had picked one of his ties accordingly. Terribly romantic, if he had — or maybe just a coincidence she was assigning more meaning to than it really held.
“So, who do you think had the most annoying laugh here tonight?” he asked suddenly, breaking her from her reverie.
She frowned at him, setting aside her coffee. “Is that all you took away from tonight?”
He shrugged, shot her a grin. “Had to find some way to have fun.” He squeezed her hand in emphasis. “Come on, don’t tell me you don’t have an answer.”
She stayed silent for a long moment, never breaking her gaze from his. But he didn’t shy away, only raised his eyebrows at her, still grinning, waiting expectantly, and finally she let out a long sigh. “The Vice Chancellor, from Austria.”
He laughed, squeezed her hand again. “We’re of the same mind on that one.”
“Hard not to be, you could hear his bray from across the room.” She pressed her lips against a smile, finding a petty sort of glee in their talk. “Who made the biggest fool of themselves in front of you, trying to pretend to talk science?”
“Oh, the Secretary of State, no competition. Tried to talk to me about putting antibiotics in the Petrova Line?” He held up a hand when she let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Don’t even get me started, it was worse than you’re imagining. Who had the worst speech?”
She couldn’t stop her smile now, enjoying the quick banter. “Minister Zavala — too circular. Worst table manners?”
“I don’t know what his name was, but the guy diagonal from me could not chew with his mouth closed. Who was the worst dressed?”
“The man diagonal from you was a Mr. Cardenas, and proves money cannot buy manners. Worst dressed was Senator Hale. Best dressed?”
“You, by far.”
She gave him a flat look, and he grinned, raising a hand. “Nope, it’s the truth, hand to God.”
Eva licked her lips, fighting the smile that wanted to spread. “You’re biased.”
“No, can’t be. Scientists are never biased.”
That made her laugh, and she curled her fingers against his, a delicate affection. “Well, you look good in a suit, too. I should drag you to more of these functions.”
He blushed lightly, letting out a shy laugh as he looked back down at their hands. “Eva Stratt, spend more time at galas, less time at work? I hardly think so.” He looked back up at her then, a look of curiosity on his face. “Where did this suit come from, by the way? It was just… in my room the first time I had to go to one of these things.”
“I bought it for you.”
His eyes widened, his fingers stilling on her hand as he all but gaped at her. “You bought me a suit?”
“Yes, you needed one.” She raised an eyebrow at him, as though to ask why that was so surprising to him. “It was easier than sending someone to your apartment to search for one you might own — which was not an absolute certainty.”
“I own a suit,” he said, defensively, then added after a moment. “Not as nice as this one. But, how did you know my…” he paused, blushing lightly again, before finishing, “measurements?”
She nearly laughed at his expression, almost a bashful thing, and she couldn’t help but take the opportunity to tease him. “Don't make things weird by asking how I know these things about you.”
His blush deepened, and she did laugh then, a little giggle in her throat, and the sound made him puff up, laughing lightly as he went on the offensive. “Alright, well, then, you need to even the playing field here. Come on, give me your measurements.”
“88, 74, and 92,” she answered easily, smirking when he blinked in surprise. “86 inseam. A 39 in shoes. 58 for hats. And a 53 for rings.”
He blinked again, smiled, laughed. “Well, I — okay. Suppose that wasn’t as good of a comeback as I imagined. But, uh, that’s, noted.”
Before she could respond, his thumb drew over her ring finger — had that been deliberate? His touch there was gone almost as soon as it came, quickly enough that she couldn’t be sure it had been, but her skin there felt warm, like his touch there had lingered, and he heart jumped lightly in her chest.
Could it have been? They didn’t have time for such things, not with the project, the hope of humanity on their shoulders, the end of the world before them. But then, she had thought she didn’t have the time for a relationship, and yet they had fallen into one, as easy and comfortable as well moulded shoes. Perhaps that meant… well, maybe that was a question for another night.
“It feels good to be on land again,” he said then, and any thoughts of rings and futures and bells evaporated into the night. “The air feels different, somehow.” He glanced up at her quickly, then looked back at their hands, chuckling lightly. “That might sound silly.”
She shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. It’s… heavier. More full of people.”
Ryland laughed, ran his thumb in the space between her knuckles as he rolled his fingers on the webbing of her hand. “That is one way to describe it. I was going to say, it feels more alive.”
“I like that better,” she murmured, and quirked a corner of her mouth when he looked up at her, realizing that somewhere in their conversation, her migraine had faded to a dull thrum. “Perhaps it’s a silver lining of the time we’ve spent isolated on the ship. After, when we’re back to our,” she waved her hand, gesturing to the vague, nebulous idea that was their lives after the project, “we’ll better appreciate life that much more.”
He smiled softly at her, and in a bold move, lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles. “I think I already do.”
~~~~~~~~~
At a small, bartop table on the terrace of the ballroom, Yao, Ilyukhina, and DuBois stood huddled together, drinks in hand as they observed the scene in front of them.
“I cannot believe Yao won betting pool,” Ilyukhina sighed, taking a sip from her glass of vodka. “I thought for sure they had been together months longer. If not years.”
“An assumption we both fell prey to,” DuBois agreed, gently swirling his glass of wine. “Both my pride and my wallet were the victim in said endeavor. And my liver, for all we drank afterwards.”
“Ah, but who needs money when we die, da?” Ilyukhina exclaimed, clinking her glass on the edge of DuBois’. “Besides, our dear commander needed good win — his singing voice is shit.”
That made Yao laugh, raising his beer in agreement. “To that, I will drink.”
“What made you so certain in your bet?” DuBois asked Yao, as the three of them watched Stratt flash a quick, wide smile at something Grace had said. “I thought it a statistical improbability that Ms. Stratt and Dr. Grace could refrain from each other as long as they did — considering how they look at each other, of course.”
Yao took a deep breath, considering the two in question as he toyed with the label on his bottle. “Instinct,” he finally replied, then shrugged. “It was not any one thing. Just a… sense. That they needed more time to find their ways to each other.”
They all fell silent, watching the scene before them. Stratt’s head had fallen slightly forward, her eyes closed as Grace continued to massage her hand, the steaming cup of coffee he had brought forgotten between them.
“She looks relaxed,” DuBois remarked softly, watching as Grace tenderly stroked his thumb over her knuckles. “That’s good for her. I thought she was liable to send herself to the grave with us, with the weight she carries. That is, before him.”
Ilyukhina hummed her agreement. “Living proof that orgasms save lives.”
DuBois stifled a chuckle in his wine, while Yao tilted his head slightly, considered the couple further. “He is changed by her, also. He is,” he paused, considering still, “softer. Less tension. But there is a new spark of confidence, too. A balance of the two.” He took a swallow of his beer, glancing at his crew. “They are lucky that they change each other for the better.”
Ilyukhina raised her glass, and the other two clinked their drinks with hers in a toast. She downed the rest of hers in one gulp and then slammed the glass down on the table. “Now to other business — new betting pool. How, when, and where will those two be caught in middle of roll in hay?”
They all gave one last look to the couple, watching as Stratt gently touched Dr. Grace’s jaw, a tender gesture, before retreating.
“Come,” Ilyukhina announced, and together the three moved away, following her. “Let us discuss at dessert table. I want to find little cakes they put out.”