Chapter Text
“I do not understand how nobody sees it but me. It is so obvious,” Ilyukhina says to you one day, on your usual overlook platform on the top-surface of the Vat. There’s a good view here of the aircraft runway. All the flight crew look like little dots buzzing around the jets, making sure everything’s staying in order. You’ve gotten into the habit of coming here on breaks lately, when Stratt doesn’t have you two doing training and briefings. As Ilyukhina’s shadow for Project Hail Mary, you’ve spent the majority of your time together; it’s clear that the time has gotten you both much more comfortable around one another.
Especially when Ilyukhina’s being so easily forward about your thing with Grace. She nudges your elbow with her own. “There is… eye-tag during every debrief. It is very painful to watch.”
You shake your head eagerly, “There’s no eye-tag.” Her observations don’t exactly come in vain, despite your persistence against them. It’s her third time bringing it up this week (clearly, out of conversation points a month on the ship). It’s true: you have a terrible habit of staring, even when you’ve tried to convince yourself on multiple occasions to just quit it. You’re simply stubborn and don’t want to admit it to her.
“You look at Grace, Grace looks at the wall. Grace looks at you, you look at the wall. Grace pretends to read file,” she plots out for you methodically. “This happens every time.” It can’t be every time, but she may be seeing something that you don’t.
So, you tell Ilyukhina defiantly, “It’s a workplace. There isn’t any space for… eye-tag.” It’s impossible to look her in the eyes when you’re clearly fibbing. So, instead, you decide to trace the movement on one of the gunmetal-colored jets getting ready to take off. It propels forward on the track, too slowly.
“I think DuBois and Shapiro have already made much space,” Ilyukhina smirks. “We work on the ship, we live on the ship. Because you are working does not mean you cease to be attracted to each other.” Your failure to respond to her observation only makes her more stubborn. Ilyukhina raises her hands up to tighten her ponytail closer to her scalp. “In fact, I am positive co-habitation breeds attraction, like moth to flame.”
“Okay. That’s completely untrue,” you insist. Though, you’re very sure that seeing Grace intermittently in the halls of the Vat—when neither of you can sleep, restless in the middle of the night—does heighten the feelings that you do have towards him. Her line of reasoning is nothing but legitimate. “Grace is great, but I don’t see him as anything but a colleague.”
“Then, you won’t care that there is betting pool for Grace’s intimate relations with Stratt?”
You nearly choke on air. “What?” Ilyukhina tilts her head, as if surprised by your not knowing. The collar of your bright yellow jumpsuit feels tighter than usual—and it’s palpably hotter now, despite the fresh ocean air. Your brows furrow. Could it be true that everyone but you heard about a bet? Are Stratt and Grace actually sleeping with each other? Then, Ilyukhina pats you on the center of your back with a dry laugh.
“There is no pool for Grace and Stratt. It is a joke.”
“Oh my God.” Now, you can’t tell what’s more embarrassing—the fact that you believed her, or how much it actually bothered you. You let your head hang, and begrudgingly, she rouses a smile out of you. The buzzing sound of jets blurs out Ilyukhina’s relentless laughing. She pushes you lightly by the shoulder, cheeks practically glowing at the sight of your dismay.
“Laugh. Please laugh. It is funny—I make you worry your pretty head over Dr. Grace,” she jests, “You care for Mr. Middle-School. It’s cute, like 2000’s rom-com.”
—
It’s unlucky that you collide with Grace head-on not long after this, on your way to the conference room. You’re walking through the apportioned lab section of the Vat all too weary of who you might bump into—and suddenly you’re crashing into an expanse of blue propylene—the flimsy lab coat of one Dr. Ryland Grace. You’re trying your hardest not to burst into a nervous fit of laughter as he turns around and steadies you with a clipboard and a pen in either hand. You can see his eyebrows raise above the frame of his glasses. “Oh, I was just looking for you.”
“You were?” You’re lucky that he doesn’t seem to be very affected by your tone, sliding his pen over the curve of his ear and keeping the clipboard tucked at his side. His glasses glint. While the two of you are standing rigid, face-to-face with one another, the rest of the science team seems to be working rapidly around you. Like usual, there’s always tests to be run, especially with regard to the astrophage fuel systems. Everyone’s hot on their feet, save for the three of you.
Ilyukhina is making matters a lot worse, the way she’s glancing between you and Grace like she’s viewing the Sunday morning cartoon. You want to get on your hands and knees and beg her to stop, but there isn’t any chance for you to—especially considering that Grace is so intent on informing you about whatever it is. So, you have to settle with the sight of her batting her eyelashes at you tauntingly.
“Well, Stratt is looking for you and—well, both of you—to run through the sampler simulation in an hour.” Of course, you’re both well aware. Grace murmurs, “And there’s also a fitting for the new jumpsuits. She wants to make sure they fit okay.”
“You’ll be in attendance, Grace?” Ilyukhina gives him a vacant grin. You don’t know what she’s thinking, taunting him. Clearly, it seems to be working, because Grace is shoving his free hand into his pocket, with nowhere else to put it.
“To run you through the astrophage filtration system, yes. But, I’ll be, you know, in the other room during the,” Grace assures, rather unnecessarily, “fitting portion.” There was no implication at all that he would be. Ilyukhina’s going bright beside you again at the mere sight of him floundering at the two of you. It’s in accordance perfectly with her little rom-com viewing. And while you’re trying your best to keep a kind smile at Grace, it’s impossible not to note the way that he’s avoiding eye contact like the plague. So, you must both be pretty frightened by each other. That’s good to know.
“It’s only changing into suits, Grace.” Ilyukhina chuckles, “PG-13. Do not worry.” She nearly wants to call him prudish. The word’s dancing on the tip of her tongue, but she’s kind enough to the both of you not to push his buttons any further. Instead, Ilyukhina takes her arms up and swings them around both of your shoulders. It’s a very happy trio, the three of you, though she’s the most happy of all. Though you’re mildly embarrassed by the whole scene, Ilyukhina’s smile is contagious.
—
The setup for the fittings is simple. Stratt is having all six of you—Ilyukhina, Yao, DuBois, and their backups—toss red jumpsuits over a tank top and government-standard briefs. She’s repurposed a larger storage closet into a changing room for the six of you to use one by one—complete with a body length mirror. You’re slipping the torso half of the jumpsuit on, pants already shrugged up your legs and over your waist. Once you zip it to the top, you find yourself in a hurry to get it all over with. It feels strange to have a spacesuit to go on this mission that you’re so unlikely to get sent up on.
You exit out of the hallway and down the hall to the conference room. There, all six of you are clad in your red jumpsuits—littered with all sorts of different patches to delineate rank and status. It’s very… real, even more so than the yellow suits you’d been given after recruitment. Grace is hugging the wall with his clipboard held over his chest. You feel inclined to look over at him, and he’s staring right back at you with a dewy look in his eyes. You tilt your head at him, and he only looks down at the clipboard in his hand. He’s running over—or, at least pretending to run over—the sampler instructions for the six of you. You find your gaze rushing over to Ilyukhina, who’s already shooting you a little wink and grin.
You look down. Stratt clasps her hands together softly: “I am hoping these are sufficient. I ordered them with specific measurements, unlike your standard launchsuits.”
“I think mine is snug in the chest,” Ilyukhina teases, tugging at the center of her zipper. It’s a low-hanging fruit, her risqué joke. Stratt is about to grumble about the tailor, or something of the like, when Ilyukhina rushes out a smiley. “No, I am kidding. It is perfect.”
“The suits are great, Stratt,” DuBois assures, hands in his pockets. You think he may be more focused on the fit of Shapiro’s jumpsuit than he is on his own.
Yao nods, kind eyes flashed straight towards Stratt. “You’re assuring our comfort. That’s the most we can ask for.” She returns a soft smile that lasts only for a moment, before she seems to look away. You’ve seen this before; she’s occupied by yet another task in her mind.
“Good, good. It’ll be easier now that we won’t have to send them back. I’ll have them packed alongside your set belongings.” Stratt takes her phone out of her front pocket, presumably to pass along the message. As soon as she pockets the phone, she’s looking over the six of you to check for any last palpable signs of discomfort. Without any, she nods. “Okay. Change out and leave them on the table folded, please. I’ll have a runner pick them up.”
The meeting on the astrophage sampler is due next, but you’ll have to get out of the jumpsuit before then. You’re not surprised to see DuBois and Shapiro volunteer to change out first. Together. In the meantime, Yao, his double, and Ilyukhina seem to be talking briefly about the quality of their patches—better than the yellow suits, they both agree. Ilyukhina sits on the conference table, while the other two sit down on the nearby foldable chairs. It’s all so calm; you’re still not able to wrap your head around it.
Grace finally braves it to approach you. You appreciate it, really, considering how much you’re letting the room move around you. His eyes flit over the patch on your chest—last name embroidered across the patch on your chest, under a pair of gold wings. Then, his tender blue eyes flash up to look at your face. You’re hopeful that his examinations aren’t making you look as anxious as you feel. “You look like a certified flight engineer,” Grace tells you.
“Let’s hope not, right?” It sounds cowardly for you to say aloud. You regret it as soon as it slips out, and the thought of any of your colleagues picking up on the remark terrifies you even more. From the looks of it, they’re already well-captivated by their own conversations. No need to worry.
Grace is more forlorn than anything else at the remark. “You wouldn’t want to get sent up?” You’re embarrassed to admit it, but you really are as scared as Grace is about the whole one-way trip scenario. You’ve heard the way he talks to Yao, like he’s already a walking international hero. You’re almost completely sure that the two of you are in the same boat. Lacking a bravery gene.
“I mean, Ilyukhina seems pretty psyched to get sent up. It is pretty epic,” you admit to Grace. “But, uh… I’m only here because Stratt needed expertise. I think she values that even more than she does willingness. There’s no point in trying for a Hail Mary if you don’t even know how to throw.” Grace laughs dryly. You’re trying hard to blink away the rising glossiness of your eyes.
“All things considered, it’s better if you stay down here,” he tells you. That’s a… funny thing to say. You want to ask him a simple follow-up—How so?—but it’s all too quick that Stratt is walking over to pull him aside.
“Your presentation, Dr. Grace,” she says gently. He’s supposed to be setting up a laptop and pulling it up on the projector for you all. Grace gives you a curt nod and a soft “sorry,” needed elsewhere. While he’s following Stratt to the other end of the room, everyone’s still changing out to their everyday jumpsuits, and Ilyukhina is back over to you. You stiffen up as she gives you a swift pat on the back.
“So, the verdict is yes?” she hums. “You are going to marry after I am sent into space? If I make it my last wish, you will have to do it.” Ilyukhina’s too big of a fan of that humorous morbidity. It’s worse now that she’s trying to use it against you. You still have an eye on Grace, seeing him hunch over this military-grade laptop to pull up his PowerPoint. He’s running his hand over the coarse cut of his blonde hair, waiting for the presentation to load.
Dr. Grace would just be too ideal. He looks too much like the kind of person you’d want to spend early mornings with. Late nights, too. All things considered, you do that now with all your working on the project—but it’s nice to imagine how it’d be with a little second-floor apartment in San Francisco, close enough to a nice expanse of park. Or, a bus line to take down to the beach. You know Grace loves the beach. On the high chance that you’re not getting shot up into space, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to stay in contact with him. It’s better if you stay down here.
One look at Ilyukhina and she’s already slipping you an affectionate smile. It’s like she can see right where your head’s at, because the wordless way that she nods her head toward you is nothing but good-willed. As much as she likes to tease you about your ongoing Grace issue, Ilyukhina must see it in the way you look at him. There’s a potential for something really good among this calamity that is the Petrova Line. She wants it for you.
Ilyukhina only takes her eyes off you when she sees DuBois and Shapiro have come in—in just their project-hoodies and joggers, a little bit more breathless than normal. She gives you a soft push in the direction of the door. “Your turn to change, now. Go, go,” she shoos you. You shoot her a raised brow, and she can only jut her chin out towards the conference table. She wants you to secure a front-seat for this presentation of Grace’s. Only the best for her backup.
—
It’s getting closer to launch, and you’ve gotten the OK to move operations over to the ground base in Russia. You’re trying your best to commit this image to memory. Ilyukhina. The tiny disposable coffee cups in your chilled hands. The two of you perched on your usual platform like two little morning doves. A high vantage point over an endless expanse of water. The time for her send-off is coming far too soon. “You’re sad. You wear it so clearly,” Ilyukhina says to you, “Terrible poker face.”
“We’ve been on the deck of this ship every other night for, like, months now.” It’s been a comfort, you think, away from all the mission talk. It’s hard for you to let go. “We could always just find a roof or something once we arrive at the launch facility,” you tell Ilyukhina.
“It will be not as cool, but a roof will do,” she agrees. “I have been to the Cosmodrome five times before. It is a nice campus. Multi-facility. Lots of rooftops to pick from.” Both you and Ilyukhina know the truth; once you dock, there won’t be much time for roofs or chats—too busy with last-minute preparations and training to the end of the line.
“It’ll be just as foggy. Just not… oceanic.” It’s bittersweet, really.
Ilyukhina takes a deep breath in and out, alternating her coffee cup between her hands. “Stratt says she has ordered copious alcohol for tomorrow night. It is a… last hurrah. I think you should spend it on Dr. Grace.”
“We can’t just split off,” you protest. It’s supposed to be celebratory for everyone. For Ilyukhina, Yao, and DuBois, especially. It feels selfish to take yourself out of that room with them. They’re on such limited time. But Ilyukhina is shaking her head, eyebrows creased together as her lips purse.
“Of course you can,” she chuckles, “We do karaoke, we dance, we party. Annie and DuBois will sleep with each other early in the night. Just sneak away—it is easy.”
“And then what?”
“Drink together. Sleep together. It doesn’t matter,” Ilyukhina says. “It’ll be good for you to know each other sooner rather than later. Besides, who will be there to sit on roofs with you when I’m gone?” You’re not sure what you’re supposed to do after this project, when they’re all gone—if you’re supposed to keep an eye on the luminosity or keep going on with your life. You’re not sure that both are possible.
“…Are you scared, Olesya?”
She considers your question for only a moment, with a gentle nod. “Fear is natural. Being without fear would be like saying I have no pulse,” Ilyukhina shrugs. “But I would also like to save the Earth and then get blasted. It will be like an ultimate space opera.”
—
Everyone’s got their sweaty beers in-hand, bustling and bumping against one another. It’s strange, seeing them all like this, your mission researchers and technicians. Most of the time, you’re all occupied by the work and now, it seems that they’re occupied by nothing but the current company. It’s a small party at the possible end of the world. Ilyukhina is making the most of it now, with her cat-tee and her floral skirt—clapping briskly at Yao at the mic. She’s about four beers in and very pleased.
You don’t know how you make it over to Grace so easily. It must be her doing—her “last wish”—that causes you to pick up and approach Grace. He’s still working on a few last minute tasklists in the same black notebook that you always see him carrying. It’s as if he’s never able to stop working, amidst the rest of you. Once he sees you in his periphery, Grace sits up a little straighter on his barstool. “Shouldn’t you be up there performing something?”
You look back over your shoulder at Yao, then back to Grace. “He’s on a streak right now. I’ve been watching for the past hour and I’ve decided it’s really no use.” Grace scribbles a few last-minute notes on the corner of his current page, before shutting the notebook entirely. His attention’s on you now, kind-eyed, patient.
When you seem to hesitate, Grace exclaims. “I could grab you a beer from behind the counter, if that’s what you came over for—”
“—Dr. Grace, would you wanna go for a walk with me?”
“Outside?” Grace responds, finger pointing towards the door. He answers his own question very quickly. Of course you mean outside; there’s absolutely nowhere else to go. There’s this packed room and the empty deck. He nods, quick, “Of course. Yeah.” Grace slides his notebook off the table and tucks it right behind the counter; he’ll be back for it later. As soon as he stands up from his barstool, both Converse sneakers planted on the floor, he begins to follow you out. Ilyukhina, you can see at the sofa, gives you a raised tip of her beer. One more wink to send you both out the door.
You and Grace find yourselves traveling across a balcony railing that traces the outer perimeter of the ship. You can feel the maritime wind tossing your hair just slightly, and from the looks of it, it bristles Grace’s blonde hair, too. It’s much more calm than that crackly karaoke speaker and the shouting and the swaying. Up here, it’s quiet. You find yourself looking at him with a sort of softness. Grace’s glasses off, hanging on the collar of his polo. You can see all the pretty details of his face now, the high curve of his cheekbones, the strong bridge of his nose. And as soon as his head turns to face yours, your gaze flashes down to your shoes. What are you doing?
You can’t help it, the chuckled breath that you let out. You must be nervous, but it’s not all nervousness. “Why are you laughing?” You can hear the lingering smile on Grace’s voice when he asks. He’s a little bit confused, but he’s fond of the sound, so it’s not all bad.
“It’s eye-tag,” you tell Grace. “Sorry, Ilyukhina always—nevermind.” He shakes his head, corners of his mouth upturned into a smile. As Grace’s hands slip slowly into the pockets of his cardigan, his shoulders bump softly against your own. You try to press down that tight feeling in your chest, roused from the contact. “Are you enjoying the party?”
“As much as I can. Which is… moderately,” Grace admits. You stop on an upcoming portion of the open deck, a sort of balcony to look out at the passing sea. He comes to lean on the bar beside you. He hangs his head, propping one sneaker up on the lowest bar of the railing. “They’re going to die up there, and they’re acting like it’s New Year’s Eve.”
“Can’t blame them for trying to take the edge off a little bit,” you say, “You know how it is.” And it’s how they are. It’s an excuse that you’ve both told yourselves a billion times before. They’ve got the gene. They’re wired perfectly for this mission. After your talk with Ilyukhina, you think it still stands true.
He concurs, “It’s a lot of pressure. And after they reach Tau Ceti, we don’t know what they’re going to find—if anything. A miracle phenomenon.” Grace looks over the rail, with a shaky breath. “And we just have to let the chips fall where they may.”
“Not a big fan of free will?”
He takes one hand up to cup the back of his neck, fingers ruffling through his hair. “I like free will. And… I also like certainty.” And Grace certainly does not like death. You can’t say much against that. You’re a big fan of certainty, too. It’s a waiting game, this mission, for all the rest of you left on Earth. The ocean water below you both is spritzing up salty air; it’s so dark, even at sunset. You can barely see anything besides the curvature of the waves—the way they clash against the steel body of the boat.
Grace has his hands gripped fully around the railing, intent on grounding himself to the cold pole. “I think it’d be worth having someone to know, coming out of this.” As thrilled as you are about this sentiment, you decide to keep quiet. You want Grace to say it again. It’s better if you stay down here. With me. He’s still trying to weigh what the right words should be. After a generous period of silence, Grace decides to make the shot. “We could agree to give each other a call after the launch. In a month or so, when we have to go back to normal and then realize we can’t,” Grace suggests. “I don’t know if you’re based out of the U.S. I never asked—”
“San Francisco, right?” He inhales, maybe a little floored that you remembered, but altogether content with the discovery.
He nods, with a soberness about him. “That’s assuming I’ll stick around,” he mutters. “I don’t even know if they’ll let me teach at my school after this. Being AWOL for months. It’s, uh, to be determined.”
“It’d be silly for them not to let you back,” you insist. “You’re a model educator. The model educator.” Grace laughs—really laughs—at this thought. If he can teach astrophage, then he really can teach anything. You place a hand down on the railing, right beside his. “When we go back in, I could toss my phone number in that workbook of yours. That way you won’t misplace it.”
“It would take a Titanic-level accident for me to misplace your number,” he admits to you. And he doesn’t seem to be joking either. You have to admit that you’re pleased about the outcome of this talk. Dr. Grace wants to keep your contact. Ilyukhina will be over the moon.
“Let’s not talk about capsizing until after the launch,” you say, “It’s like saying Macbeth.” Grace nods, hand coming down to grab for his glasses. As soon as they’re back up on the bridge of his nose, he’s looking only at you, a gentle smile set on his lips. It’s difficult not to feel that blooming warmth spiking over the surface of your face. After all that denial on your end, you think that you’re right on track. Staying on the ground with him, with the mere possibility of being in-touch, is all you could really ask for.