Archive of Our Own

In his defense, he didn't exactly intend on proposing to her. He just didn't like the idea of her going to jail. Or of him going to jail.

The conversation they'd had stuck with him. Stratt’s unwavering confidence that yes, she was likely to be sent to prison for the Project, she was the world's whipping boy to take the fall for all the desperate measures they'd taken to stave off the death of the world for just a little bit longer. He had honestly been taken aback by the whole thing. She was such a force of nature, calling the world's governments to heel, that he hadn't considered that that position came with a very real Sword of Damacles hanging over her head. And she was just …fine with taking the fall.

 She has every lawyer on the planet on call, surely they could come up with some kind of defense plan for her. But everything is driven towards the sole purpose of their mission, of their project, and while that was great and selfless and noble, he wonders a little bit if Stratt is some kind of suicidal. Surely they can afford a little bit of effort towards making sure that the woman in charge of saving the world isn't completely ruined by it? He knows there were some plans in motion– files to be destroyed the minute the launch succeeded, legal defenses of how nearly every person had been kidnapped and therefore acting under duress. But none of those plans protected Stratt. 

Despite her cold demeanor and ruthlessness, he likes her a lot. She has a wicked sense of humor. She gets away with a lot because most people take her deadpan delivery so seriously. In another world– or maybe when this is all over and they aren't running constantly on fumes and stress and single-mindedly focused on work– he is sure they would be good friends.

She is doing this all for a noble cause. She didn't deserve to be jailed for it.

Then the thought occurs to him that he is the second-in-command.

He hasn't – look, he hasn't been so naive as to think that everything is going to go back to normal after the Project finished, but he's had some hopes of returning to a relatively regular life. Dreams of living not on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean. Ice cream. Financial stability. 

But even if they purged the Projects records, that would only extend so far. Sure, it would probably protect most of the lower staff, the records of kidnapped scientists and other admin, but his name was on nearly every document. Next to Stratt's. Because somehow he'd tripped and fallen and stumbled his way into being the second most important person on the team without his knowledge or consent or say in the matter. It was fine– really, he was happy to be a part of the effort, but he hadn't really considered what the plan was for himself after all of this. 

Did Stratt also expect him to go to prison and just hadn't told him? Because well, yes, sure, he had also technically been kidnapped at first, he did kind of argue his way into continuing his work with Astrophage even when Stratt was ready to kick him to the curb, and given that he'd been side by side with her when Stratt had, well, kidnapped the manslaughter/fraud guy to pave the Sahara and he had actually watched the Arctic be nuked–

Suffice to say, he isn't sure how much the ‘under duress’ argument would protect him from.

So he may or may not have been trying to rally together a group of legal people to figure out if there was a way to defend Stratt. And also him. Look, he didn't want her to go to prison! She didn't deserve to, she's saving the world, even if that meant ruthless and cutthroat measures, the world is on a ticking time bomb and he stood by her every choice–and maybe she didn't care if she went to prison, but he cared if he did.

Was it selfish? Was it cowardly? To have torn the world apart with his bare hands and then be surprised that the blame would be pointed in his direction?

Whatever. He was trying not to think about it very hard. He hadn't actually brought it up to that many of their lawyers, just as a passing thought in conversation, never in written record because he was sure Stratt would find out and get mad he was diverting resources away from their single-minded goal. 

He is also doing a lot of Googling.

It really is only in his spare time, and he didn't have that much of it. Besides, the launch wasn't for a while yet. A year? He'd have to look at the calendar. It was far enough away that in his ADHD brain it didn't exist and therefore he wasn't constantly spiraling about the aftermath. But it is a thought running around in his brain an awful lot, which is why, during one of his late-night meetings with Stratt where they went over the day and what was upcoming, he blurts out, “I don't want to testify against you, you know.”

She levels him with a glare, the line between her eyebrows creasing. “It is not your job to worry about what will happen to me,” she says, blunt as always. Or maybe ‘sharp’ was the better term, cutting like a knife. “What will happen will happen. There is no use focusing on it.”

 “I mean, it kind of is my job, though, isn't it?” he says, his voice going a little high pitched at the end. God, couldn't he talk like a normal person? “I'm – I'm your second. Everybody on the Vat says it, so does the organizational chart, so does this meeting where I'm being consulted for your decisions. Which means that what happens to you, actually, is of extreme relevance to me. What do you think will happen to me after all of this?”

“You were kidnapped. Everything you did is under duress.”

“Oh, yeah, that will go over well. That will cover all our bases,” he bites back. “ ‘I watched the Arctic be nuked, but my hands were tied! Gun to my head, I swear!’ ”

“You will be given the best legal team our resources can offer,” she says after a momentary pause, but that pause says a lot more than her words do. 

Had she… not actually thought about it, either? He can't blame her, honestly, but he is a little miffed. Come on, Stratt. After all he'd done for the Project, surely he was owed a little bit of consideration.

“Yeah, well,” he says, “so should you. I know– look, you shouldn't go to jail for saving the world. It's baloney and we all know it.”

“My actions are directly responsible for the death of millions.”

“So are mine,” he blurts out, quickly so he doesn't have to think about that too hard, “but my point is– my point is…I don't want to testify. Against you. And - and- I've been doing some Googling, and I'm not sure which jurisdiction this is all going to even be tried under, but– spousal immunity is a thing, right?”

Her face does a weird little twitch. “You …are aware of what that means, yes? Spousal immunity?”

“Yeah? It's – it would mean we wouldn't have to testify against one another. They can't force married spouses to. We're the most incriminating witnesses against one another, so taking out that testimony would– I mean, it's not everything, but it would surely help, right?” he says, before his brain stumbles and finally catches up to the ‘married’ part of the explanation. His face feels like it's on fire, but he's never been one to back down. He will die on any hill. “A marriage license is just paperwork! And– like, obviously we can't have gotten married just for the purposes of a legal defense, so all the rumors–” he makes a vague gesture with his hands and regrets the action immediately, but charges forward, “actually work out to– to – to support our case? Nothing has to actually– obviously there is nothing actually going on, Eva, jeez. That would be– uh. But.”

He clicks his pen a couple of times as his voice trails off, steamroll coming to a sputtering, pitiful stop. Stratt looks at him and he squirms a little under her gaze, but he does his best to stand his ground and act like he hadn't just proposed marriage to her as a legal defense.

“It is not a terrible idea,” she says. “I will look into filing the paperwork. We surely have somebody on the base that is ordained.”

The tension leaves his shoulders and he sits back down in his chair– he had stood up some time during his impromptu speech. “Cool. Great. Great,” he says. It's hitting him now that he's going to get married. To Stratt. 

Not exactly what his parents probably pictured for him, but, well, they were dead. Serves them right.

“And I will direct a team to formally prepare a legal defense for you,” she says. “You are right. That was a large oversight on my part, and I apologize.”

“And a defense for you.”

She shrugs.

“No, I'm serious. I'm not taking any defense if you don't also,” he says, probably lying. “A legal defense for you, too, Stratt. It wouldn't kill you to be a little selfish. We're saving the world out here. Don't martyr yourself for no reason.”

She sighs. “Fine.”

“Good! I'll hold you to that,” he says.

“I will start with Benjamin and his team, since you had the foresight to bring it up with him.”

Grace nearly does a spit take of his coffee. “You– I brought that up with him once over lunch! How did you find out about that?!”

She smiles, sipping her own coffee. “You are the second-in-command, Dr. Grace,” she says, “but I am the first.”

Olesya is their witness. Their priest is Steve from IT, who had gotten ordained in college on a whim. Carl, Grace proclaims, is his Best Man, and since Stratt didn't pick anybody, also by default the Maid of Honor. The latter titles are not legally required but Grace felt like they were important. Part of this whole thing was making it convincing that they aren't just getting married for the legal benefit, right? 

That is actually why Grace had suggested Olesya as their witness. She and Stratt are friendly enough, but more importantly, Olesya is a gossip and he'd heard her more than once in the midst of theorizing with others about his and Stratt's relationship. Having her be witness to the whole matter is sure to drop a tactical social nuke. The Vat at large would be convinced of the legitimacy of Grace and Stratt's relationship as a torrid romantic and sexual affair. Stratt has not been thrilled about this strategy– she'd wanted Carl to be their witness– but had eventually conceded that it would help their cover story.

Olesya was very confused when she was called into an office with Grace and Stratt. She looked a little bit like a kid called to the principal’s office, he could see that she was puzzling out what exactly she was in trouble for, and what Steve from IT had to do with it. That was, until she got a glance at the paperwork laid out on the desk. 

She squeals, high-pitched excitement that reminds Grace of his middle schoolers. She berates Stratt for not even dressing up a little bit fancy when she knows that Stratt has fancy gala dresses, and that she is going to throw them a party later, and she is so happy for them and that Dubois owes her so much money–

(Olesya, Grace conceded, probably also takes the Maid of Honor title from Carl, if only for her dedication.)

Grace…maybe had an inkling she would react like this. A party would be good for morale! And it would help their cover! But he hasn't entirely considered her reaction, until when the papers are signed and she looks expectantly at them. Right. The whole ‘you may now kiss the bride thing.’

He moves a little closer to Stratt, trying to communicate with her telepathically. Is this fine?

Stratt moves a little closer to him. It's fine. It is what she expects, and will help our cover.

He kisses her. It is, like all other kisses he's had, nothing special. Soft and a little wet, very chaste. Not the most unpleasant thing in the world, but not as thrilling as TV had him believe. And, despite all the rumors of their relationship, there are no sparks of passion. 

They part. Olesya is holding up her phone and he realizes she's almost certainly taken a picture. So is, he realizes, Steve from IT. And Carl.

Tactical social nuke, he reminds himself.

He looks at Stratt. The rumors are going to be awful.

Stratt looks back at him, a hint of an amused smile on her face. Hopefully it passed for an affectionate gaze. This was your idea.

He assumes that that's the end of it, but when he goes back to his desk to work, he finds a ring box sitting on top of it with a Post-It next to it explaining that they hadn't been done in time for the ‘ceremony.’ He can hear his fellow scientists whispering about it as he sits down and opens the box– this is a taste of his own medicine, Stratt stirring the rumors herself. He deserves it. 

He opens the box and finds a simple golden band placed neatly atop the velvet. As he looks closer, he reads an inscription.

Ad astra.

It's the first half of a saying– ad astra per aspera. To the stars, through great difficulty. He imagines hers has the other half.

It's an awfully apt message for the Project. He runs his thumb along the edge of the ring. She hadn't needed to put an inscription in for the cover to work. Nobody else would read it but him, but she’d had it inscribed anyways. So she was capable of sentiment after all. It was strangely sweet of her, in a way that catches him by surprise, emotion stuck in his throat and heat rising to his cheeks. He puts the ring on and it fits snugly. He tries not to question how she'd managed to get his ring size correct.

He glances over the wall of his cubicle. Sure enough, he watches several heads duck down, clearly caught peeking.

“Get back to work!” he calls out, and laughs at the noise of several things falling as scientists scramble away as if they were not being nosy gossips. Well, at least he and Stratt don't have to worry about their cover story. Everybody on the ship will have heard about their marriage soon.

(What he doesn't know is that half of those rumors circling are about the way he keeps stopping his work to fidget with his ring, a smile creeping onto his face.)

(Stratt isn't the only one capable of sentiment, after all.)

He's halfway through his workday when Carl kidnaps him.

‘Kidnaps’ is a strong word, especially given that he had actually been kidnapped into the Project, but still. Carl pushing him down the hall in his wheely-chair before he can say otherwise is kind of a kidnapping.

“I have a meeting in ten minutes!” Grace complains. “And I have tests being run, and–”

“Your schedule has been cleared and your tests are being taken over by your team,” Carl says.

“My schedule is cleared? You can do that?” he asks. “I haven't had a day off in two years, Carl, what the hell?”

“It's a special occasion.”

“What special occasion?” Grace blurts out, before he remembers he's just gotten married. Sure enough, he's wheeled into an office where Yao, Dubois, and several other team members are waiting for him. His suit– the one he wears when Stratt drags him to gala fundraising events– is hanging up by the window.

Grace inhales. Right. Olesya. Party.

His face feels like it's on fire. “We already– you know we already did the whole–” he holds up his left hand with the ring. “I don't think Eva wants more than that. She's – we're very busy, you know.”

Carl raises a brow. “ ‘Eva’?” 

Grace stutters. He's been on a first name basis with Stratt for a while, even if he doesn't generally use that privilege. They're friends, kind of. Sort of.

And they're married. So he can call her that. Probably.

Yao holds up his suit and thrusts it into Grace's arms. “Olesya is throwing a party,” he explains. “I don't think Director Stratt was given much choice in the matter.”

“Yeah, but it's Stratt,” Grace argues. “She could put her iron fist down.”

Yao shrugs. “I guess she didn't. Go get changed.”

Grace is herded into a bathroom before he can protest further. He sighs, pulling off his pants to start changing. 

It's good for morale, a party, and since Olesya is one of the astronauts going to die for the cause, he figures that's why Stratt decided to humor her. Even if he can't imagine Stratt is thrilled about being the center of attention for a social event. He isn't, either. He's known about the rumors swirling around them for a while. Dubois and Shapiro had asked point blank if they were sleeping together. He hadn't considered the rumors further than it would be good for bolstering their story, but a party would mean invasive, prodding questions and congratulations and–

Panic crawls its way into his chest and he fumbles one of the buttons of his shirt. It feels a little bit like the walls are closing in on him. Is the shirt too tight? He can't breathe.

This was his stupid idea. He shouldn't be so upset about it. This was a natural reaction to a wedding. And it was good! They wanted people to believe this was a normal wedding! It wasn't Olesya’s fault that the marriage was just for a hare-brained legal defense and that Grace actually really hated the thought of people thinking about him and Stratt in a romantic-sexual way. Making their relationship the center of attention made him want to hurl. 

He liked what they had, their not-quite-friendship, the weird, quiet understanding that had manifested between them. He liked that there wasn't a label on it, and yet here he was, ruining the whole thing and slapping a big fat ‘married’ label on it with all the expectations that would entail. He has the sudden image in his mind of Stratt as a ‘50s style housewife, himself as the hardworking husband, an image so absurd he nearly laughs out loud.

“You good in there?” Carl calls out, knocking on the door. Grace nearly jumps out of his skin. He rushes to finish buttoning up his shirt and pulls on his suit jacket in a hurry, opening the door. 

“Yup, all good,” Grace says, giving Carl a toothy grin. 

Carl just looks at him and sighs. He steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind him, reaching to adjust Grace's collar that had been left sticking up in his rush to act like everything was fine and dandy. Carl doesn't say anything more, smoothing over the lapels of Grace’s jacket.

“I don’t want to actually get married-married, you know?” Grace blurts out, his anxiety causing the words to tumble out of his mouth. It's fine, Carl is in on the ruse. “I just– I– and I know this is good for the whole, like, story or whatever, and it's fine and I'm overreacting and–”

“You don't have to do anything you don't want to, man,” Carl says. “Everybody knows you're a pretty private person. So is she. Nobody would think anything was strange if you called this off.”

Grace blinks. Was he a private person? People thought he was private? He didn't think so. He felt like his problem was that he ran his mouth too much.

“I just don't want to be the center of attention,” he admits. “Like, a party is good. A break is good. I just…I don't know, can't it just be a party and the wedding thing is extra? And if everybody is gonna talk about it, just, like, at least do me the favor of not letting me know about it or talking to me directly. Dubois and Shapiro have already told me way too much about their whole thing, I don't need to know the kinds of things people think me and Stratt are up to.”

Carl calls him on the shoulder. “I think that can all be arranged. I'll let Olesya know to take down the ‘Grace and Stratt are fucking’ banner.”

“The what?!” Grace blurts out, face going beet red. Carl laughs. “ Oh. That was a joke. You're joking– but hey! That's the kind of thing she would pull! That Russian is crazy!”

Carl grins, stepping back and giving Grace a look up and down. “Oh, you're still in your sneakers,” he says. “We should get your dress shoes.’

“No, no, these are way more comfortable. Hey– though, shouldn't I have a tie?”

Carl nods, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a slim rectangular box. Grace opens it, and inside is a silk tie in a garish pattern, images of beakers and test tubes and the words ‘science rules’ repeated over and over. It's the ugliest thing Grace has ever seen in his life. 

“It's perfect,” Grace says. “You really are the Best, Man.”

Carl doesn't laugh at that joke, but Grace is pretty sure he thinks it was funny, too.

In the end, it's not all that bad. The spotlight is put on Stratt and Grace for all of five minutes as everybody cheers and applauds them, before Olesya declares that “Now is the time to get wasted on our bosses’ dime!” as she holds up a bottle of vodka. He's not sure where she's gotten that from, but he appreciates that everybody, as Carl has promised, seems to have gotten the memo about not making a whole thing of the marriage. He gets some congratulations as he sits down and gets a drink, but that's the extent of things. It's mostly just a party.

The dress Stratt is wearing is nice. It's one he recognizes from one of the galas, a blue-green, floor length number that complements her red hair well. He's mostly just relieved it's not anything overly bridal.

It– like every celebration on the Vat– has the air of dissonance that comes with a party happening in the face of an upcoming apocalypse, but all things considered, it's a nice celebration. Shapiro drags out the karaoke machine and gestures at Stratt to sing, but Stratt adamantly denies the request. “That was a one-time thing,” she says, which is the end of that argument. Grace would like to have the ability to completely shut down requests like that. It occurs to him that, as second in command, he probably does.

He drinks some of Olesya's mystery vodka, which is a bad idea, because he very quickly ends up with his jacket discarded and tie around his head like a bandana, playing pool with (against?) Carl and recounting ill-advised college drinking games.

“I can't believe you've never heard of Wisest Wizard!” he exclaims to his captive audience as Carl nods along, humoring him. “You– every beer you drink, you tape the cans together, right? Into a staff. So that by the end of the night–”

“I want to play this!” Olesya yells. “Do we have beer? I will be the Wisest Wizard, Dr. Grace. I promise you this.”

Grace nods solemnly. “I would expect nothing more of one of our astronauts,” he declares. “Only the Wisest Wizard can save the world.”

She whoops and Yao and Dubois lift her upon their shoulders. Grace salutes her.

It's not as crazy as his college parties, but it's definitely more crazy than should be advised for a bunch of academics who are largely in or past middle-aged. He cuts himself off pretty early, though, mostly because the thought of how much work he'll have to catch up on is haunting him, a shadow cast over the unrestrained fun of the evening. God, he hates having a real job. If this was his middle school, he could just put on Bill Nye to nurse the hangover and call it a day.

He's roped into some other antics– karaoke where he sings ‘Pinball Wizard’ and bowling with lab equipment that he should probably discourage– but pretty soon he finds himself sitting in the corner nursing an ice water. He's got a pretty high tolerance for socializing, but he's an introvert at heart. He needs a breath of fresh air. 

It doesn't surprise him, as he steps out onto the deck, pulling back on his suit jacket, that Stratt is already out here. Honestly, he's more surprised that she hasn't scurried away already to her office or apartment. 

He takes his tie off from around his forehead and throws it around his neck instead, in some effort to save some dignity in front of her. He's not really sure why he bothers.

Stratt stands at the edge of the deck, gazing out past the horizon. Out here, without light pollution the sky really is a remarkable view. It's hard for him to think about how many of those stars shining down on him must be dimming– or even extinguished– because of Astrophage, the ghost-light afterimages still hurtling towards the Earth.

“Ad astra per aspera,” he says as a greeting. They hadn't really talked this evening, so far, and he had been meaning to bring up the rings. “That should be the missions’ tagline.”

Stratt smiles at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling ever so slightly. “It was one of the pitches, actually,” she says. “I quite liked it, but it was beat out by other suggestions. I thought it suited us.”

Grace's face goes warm. “Yeah, it does,” he says, in lieu of something more eloquent or profound. “It–uh, I thought– yeah. Yep. Yuparoo.” She just looks at him with that same half-smile as he stammers and fumbles for words. Why can't he ever be the one to be cool and well spoken? “Though of course you give yourself the per aspera line,” he says. “You're always working too hard. You know you can take a break, right?”

“I am taking a break right now,” she says, gesturing at her dress. “See? A break. But we cannot afford too many of these, you know.”

“I know. Believe me, we all know,” he sighs, leaning against the railing and turning his gaze towards the horizon. “ But– I don't know. You shoulder a lot. But you don't have to take it all. I'm here.”

“You did not sign up for this.”

“No, I didn't. But we didn't sign up for a global apocalypse. I'm sure you didn't go to college aspiring to be a world dictator. We roll with the punches, right? And I'm happy to do the work,” he says earnestly. He looks back over at her, giving her a crooked smile. “Believe me, if I didn't want to, I would be complaining a lot more.”

She huffs, the Stratt equivalent of a laugh. “No. I did not picture this, doing an undergraduate in history. Sort of the opposite, really. But…I don't know. I think it offers some perspective. The world is much bigger than any individual. I do not care how this Project is remembered, only that there is a future to remember it.”

Grace nods. “Yeah. I get what you mean. But– we only live on the scale of our own lives, right? Nobody lives for hundreds of years. History is not written by the effort of one individual. Even dictators, kings, their power comes from the people around them. My point is just– look, even from a scientific perspective, your work gets less efficient if you're not treating your body well. Rest is a critical part of our function.” The words keep spilling out of his mouth. Maybe it's the alcohol making his tongue loose. He laughs. “And I'm a freaking hypocrite! I'm probably gonna pull an all-nighter to catch up on stuff. But–I… I worry about you, sometimes.”

“You worry about me?”

He's surprised by her surprise– she seems genuinely taken aback, even as her expression smooths back over, the mask of indifference slipping for just a moment. He takes a risk– liquid courage– reaching his hand out and placing it atop where hers rests on the railing. 

“Of course I worry,” he says. “Somebody has to. You're not– I know that it's all, like, ‘whatever has to happen will happen’ and ‘this is the sacrifice we have to make’, or whatever, but dangit– damnit, Eva, you're worth fighting for. Don't just roll over and let yourself be jailed. At the very least, stick it to those jerks on your way out.”

She takes his hand in hers, running a thumb up the side. Belatedly, he realizes he is holding her left hand. He can feel the metal of her ring against his palm.

“I will take notes from your UNESCO conference,” she says.

Grace cackles. “And you say you don't do jokes!”

She smiles fully, now, breaking across her face like dawn's light. He smiles, too, warm with the glow of her sun. The moment between them is delicate and beautiful, a sunrise. And like a sunrise, it passes. Stratt squeezes his hand and lets go. “I should get back to work,” she says, nodding her head in the direction of her office. “You should stay, though. Camaraderie is good, just…”

“Not for you,” he finishes, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Goodnight, Stratt.”

“Goodnight, Dr. Grace.”

“Oh, c'mon!” he says. She blinks back at him. “I've told you this. And we're married, now, you can call me Ryland. Jeez, Louise."

She rolls her eyes at him, but smiles. “I am maintaining professionalism.”

“On our wedding night? You insult me.”

She hesitates. He can see it in her, just for a moment, and opens his mouth to tell her that he was just joking, but she seems to have come to some sort of decision. She steps towards him and reaches a hand up, cradling his face.

“Just for tonight, then,” she says. “Goodnight, Ryland.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek and turns around, walking into the night.

Grace…

Grace decides he needs another drink, if only so there's an alternative explanation for the giddiness bubbling in his chest and the flush that runs across his cheeks. He hopes nobody else notices.

(They do.)

(They start a betting pool about what will happen during the wedding night.)

10.5 light years away and several years later, Grace blinks away the memories washing over him as he runs a thumb over the cool metal ring. The Eridians had been working on repairing the Mary from the damage it had sustained. Grace wasn't sure about going to Earth any time soon, but access to the zero G environment would probably be good therapy for his joints. His body was not agreeing with Erid’s gravity.

During their repairs, they had come across a box of items hidden in the walls, where nobody was likely to have found them.

 In the box were sentimental items of Grace's. His duffel bag had been largely empty, save for his clothes and some letters from students, the Polaroids of just himself. But in the hidden box, there was more. Photos of his parents from when they were alive. Letters from peers on the Hail Mary, including from Carl. Class photos and photos of the crew. 

And the ring.

He could do the math– they probably hadn't been allowed to place these items with him for fear of triggering memories past the amnesia and him acting on his threats of sabotage. But somebody on the mission had thought it prudent to give him these things, anyways. He wonders if Yao or Olesya knew about the hidden box and if there was a plan in place to tell him eventually before they all died, or if the gesture was more symbolic.  He has a feeling, either way, he knows who is responsible for it.

He puts the ring on his hand. Despite his weight fluctuating from the starvation, it fits snugly.

He's made his peace with what happened to him. That's something people just say, but it's true. That's not to say he isn't still upset by it, but he can take a step back and at least acknowledge that there were very few alternatives, and he's happy with how things have worked out. If he had never been sent to space, he would have never met Rocky, never been able to save both Earth and Erid. 

Still, the box raises complicated emotions. He's mostly just glad for the physical proof that Earth hadn't completely abandoned him. That there had been people he loved and who loved him. Those lonely Polaroids, in contrast to the ones of Olesya's and Yao's family, had really haunted him. It was easier now to see that he hasn't been as alone as he believed. Though, he wasn't sure if that made it better or worse, what was done to him.

He spins the ring around his finger. Ad astra, it says. To the stars. The sentiment has become much more literal than Stratt had ever intended.

He doesn't hate her. He thinks maybe he should, and the raw, angry parts of him want somebody to blame, but he doesn't hate her. She had just been doing what she was called to do– making the difficult calls that everyone knew they had to make but didn't want to be responsible for. 

He wears a lot more jewelry these days. A forearm bracelet with ridges and a matching ring so he can scrape across it in an Eridian ‘goodbye.’ Dangly little stones sewn to the edges of his clothes that help define his shape to an Eridian sonar sense. A gemstone from Rocky and a gemstone from Adrian kept on a necklace he never takes off, ‘mate’ jewelry he keeps as a symbol of being part of their family.

He decides to keep the ring on. Ad astra per aspera is a sentiment worth remembering. He hopes she's still alive and well, wearing her matching half. Because-- despite everything – Eva Stratt is worth remembering, too.