Chapter Text
If Stratt doesn’t hear him barreling up the stairs with clumsy steps, she definitely hears her name exclaimed over the rush of briny wind whipping against her ears. In a panic, she drops her cigarette and snuffs it out with the heel of her boot. She’s figured the crew and staff would all be preoccupied with booze and karaoke and conversations downstairs for the evening, but one individual knows just how to surprise her.
“Eva!”
Stratt’s brow pinches. Nobody on this ship addresses her by her first name. They know better. She turns stiffly, taking in the world’s leading expert on Astrophage biology clinging to the railing like it’s the only thing holding him upright. The only time she’s ever witnessed Ryland Grace under this level of rubber-legged stupor is when he’s been caught in the lab overworking himself into exhaustion. But even her initial impression of this current demeanor rings different.
“Dr. Grace,” she says evenly.
Judging by the way his face lights up, Stratt’s greeting must act as some subliminal invitation to embrace, because here he is, stumbling into her with open arms. Stratt backs into the railing with a gasp. She holds him by the shoulders, as he melts into her, his laughter hot on her neck.
Who is this man? What did he do with her esteemed scientist? The Grace she knows is awkward. Gentle. Reluctant, but excitable in the right contexts. This Grace is reckless. Assertive. Sloppy. Not to mention, affectionate in ways he most certainly will spiral about in the morning.
“Permission to come aboard, cap’n?” he slurs.
What is the matter with you? Stratt nearly snaps, but oh, her nose wrinkles at the liquor souring his breath. She pushes him at arm’s length, taking note of the coffee cup clutched in his left hand. Not coffee. Okay. So her head scientist is intoxicated. Hammered, as they say, on a level so profound that he can barely support his own weight. A swell of embarrassment heats her cheeks, as if she is the one tripping over her own words and feet.
She nudges him backward, out of stifling proximity. “You’re already aboard.”
“Mm. Aye-aye cap’n,” he says, sticking an arm out to steady himself.
Stratt gives him ten seconds of struggle before guiding his hand to the railing to ground him. He’s still smiling. Grinning, even, which makes Stratt want to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Just because there are no experiments and conference meetings tonight does not mean that the sun isn’t dimming.
Frankly, she finds the whole idea of celebrating prematurely to be a bit unnecessary. They haven’t even launched yet. So many factors could go wrong. They’re relying on the slim fraction of hope that launching an interstellar spacecraft across the universe will somehow save humanity from certain demise without knowing for certain if there even is an answer out there.
She thought Dr. Grace, of all people, would understand that. Sure, he expresses that goofy middle school teacher sense of levity here and there, but he is ultimately a hard worker and persistent at that. That quirky side of him additionally makes for good company during taxing meetings with executives and diplomats across the globe. It’s why she values his contribution to this mission.
That, and the coma resistant gene, naturally.
“How can you stand the light hitting your eyes like that?” he groans, tugging the brim of his cap over his brows. “Oh hey, did’ya get your free hat?”
In the hand gripping the coffee cup, he gestures to his white baseball cap sporting the mission’s logo. The same baseball cap passed out to every crew and staff member when they arrived at tonight’s celebration. Grace’s jokes are terrible in a normal setting, but this is a new low. Stratt waits a beat before glancing back in his direction, and what do you know? He’s waiting for an earnest answer.
“Yeah, I kind of…bought them?” Stratt stammers.
Not that she would wear one herself. Instead, the breeze teases strands of long hair over her eyes, nose, and mouth. She even wears some of it pulled back in a claw clip, but the wind doesn’t care. At some point, she gives up on swiping her face clear. There’s no use in fighting a losing battle.
“Oh, right.” He lifts the cup and stifles a gag before the lid touches his lips. “What’re you doin’ up here alone, anyway?”
Stratt squints against amber sunrays. “I could ask you the same question, Dr. Grace.”
“I dunno. This is such a weird party.”
“Is it?”
“Yáo is singing. Everyone’s so happy and they know they’re going to die. I mean, people are hooking up left and right. Just look at…” Grace stops himself short.
“Shapiro and DuBois, yes. I am aware of all that goes on.”
“Did’ya know he calls her ‘Dr. Shapiro’ while they’re—”
“Please spare me the specifics, Dr. Grace,” Stratt blurts, but a twitch of a smile betrays her composure. “But do try to control your facial expressions around your colleagues. They are some of the world’s top scientists.”
Grace’s shoulders hitch with a chuckle. “What’s your point, Stratt? Those top scientists are taking classes from me. I'm the one teaching the saviors of the world, and they’re admitting to sex between lessons. I think I’m allowed to express opinions on the matter.”
“That is fair.”
He scrunches his brows, jogging his muddled memory. His eyes light up. “Plus, you’ve gotta tell Lokken to gimme my laptop back. Pretty sure she stole it off the counter when I had my back turned. I kinda need that to finish updating that slideshow about heat-transfer-rate coefficients, like we discussed.”
Bringing his laptop to a party. Typical Ryland Grace. Stratt pictures him sitting out of the way, alone in the back of the room with his head buried in his work. If that’s the case, how on earth did he turn up this inebriated? Is he that much of a lightweight? Did somebody spike his drink? Is she going to have to write up an incident report? Stratt’s fingers twitch against her pocket, aching for another cigarette.
“Everyone was laughing about it,” Grace rambles on, “and they kept goin’ on about how I could earn it back if I just win one round against Ilyukhina. But she turned it into a drinking game. Winner picks the poison. Loser drinks. ”
Ah. Pieces of context are clicking into place. “Win one round of what?”
“Y’know, arm wrestling.” Her scientist presses a palm against his forehead. “I could have beat her at trivia or something, easy. But arm wrestling? Just lose, lose, lose. Drink, drink, drink. She’s just so strong, Eva.”
Again with the first name? Her own name sounds so foreign through his lips. It shouldn’t shock her to this degree, but she hasn’t heard anything other than Stratt in so long. Nobody but family has referred to her as Eva since ArcLight first reported back data of alien life.
Inhaling through her nose, she straightens. “Dr. Grace, must I remind you that we are to address one another by our formal titles exclusively?”
“Huh?”
“I did not give you permission to call me Eva.”
A flicker of irritation presses a crease between his brows. “Oh, my apologies, Ms. Director Stratt.”
Although she specifically requested it, this is worse. He delivers her name with venom, and to Stratt’s surprise, it stings a little.
“You just spit on me,” Stratt deadpans, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.
“Did not.”
“Enough. You’re acting childish.”
“Nuh-uh, Stratt, you’re acting childish,” Grace says, jabbing his pointer finger toward her face. “M’ middle schoolers act better than you.”
Stratt chokes back a wry chuckle. “Your students are children and worship you. Please be reasonable.”
“No. You don’ know anything ‘bout my students. Everyone at Grover Cleveland Middle calls me Mr. Grace instead of Dr. Grace. Nobody cares about formalities and neither do I. Heck, some of the kids slip up ‘n call me dad. Do you see me throwing a fit about it?”
Ugh. Ryland Grace under the influence of alcohol is arguably more insufferable than the head guard of Auckland Prison, or any other department head looking to engage in some kind of useless peeing contest with her. She’s lucky that most evenings, Grace opts for caffeine to rep experiments in the lab instead of hitting the bars in his free time.
In all honesty, this side of him intrigues her. From what she’s gathered, this arrogance of his was a staple of his personality during his years in academia. Teaching schoolchildren has mellowed his temper out considerably, she’s sure, and it’s easy to pick up on the way that he eases any trace of conflict with a joke. But every once in a while, someone will set off the short fuse he does so well at masking—mishandling the lab equipment, acting greedy with the astrophage, etc.—which requires Stratt to step in before he bites the head off of another staff member.
Alas, if she lets her second in command talk to her like this, the whole mission will derail in a matter of days.
“Dr. Grace, this is the first free evening we’ve had in months,” she sighs. “I’d rather enjoy this brief break in the schedule devoid of stress, if I can help it. If you have nothing nice to contribute to this conversation, I will have to ask you to leave.”
And just like that, the fire in his posture snuffs out. Just for a second, there’s a flicker of sober discomfort behind the smudged lenses of his glasses.
“Oh. I, uh, didn’t mean to bother you.” He clears his throat, lifting the cup to his lips again. His nose wrinkles in realization. “Right, yeah. Brought this for you. I…sorry.”
He thrusts the coffee cup into her hands and pivots in a slow circle. Stratt watches him wander toward the other end of the flight deck before stopping and setting off in another direction. He’s tripping over his untied shoelaces and wobbling to stay upright. Stratt already knows that if he attempts to rejoin the party, he’ll certainly tumble down the stairs.
Curiosity gets the best of her. She pops the lid off of the cup, sniffs the mystery drink, sips. The familiar burn of Dutch gin warms her tastebuds. Wait. Has he really memorized her choice of alcohol from that one early encounter, back when she agonized over the ethics behind putting her crew into comas or risking them killing each other on their trip to Tau Ceti?
Before she thinks twice, she blurts, “You don’t bother me.”
But he does, doesn’t he? Everyone does. The fact that they’re all celebrating in the common area while she’s left to hold the weight of the world on her shoulders bothers her. It bothers her that they’re all drinking and singing and celebrating when this mission isn’t over. Not by a long shot. It bothers her that the sun is still dimming and there’s still no solution. Yes. It all bothers her.
Yet, here she is, inviting her inebriated biologist to stick around. Because the laptop grievance was just a talking point. Obviously he needed something. Fresh air, maybe. A lap around the desk. Perhaps he needs a favor from her. Or, god forbid he asks her to sing a duet with him. She grits her teeth at the thought.
The softness to her tone rouses Grace to face her. He hesitates, picking at a loose end in his cardigan. Stratt makes up the distance and meets him where he sways. Just barely audible over the wind and waves, they catch the crowd below bellowing the chorus of Tag Team’s “Whoomp! There It Is.” The moment the pair registers the song, they stiffen at a particularly humiliating memory. Stratt shakes her head and smacks her scientist’s arm. A giggle bubbles out of him. His exuberance returns in the form of movement, bouncing his knees to the bumping beat.
“I figured you’d be down there hogging the karaoke machine,” Stratt says through a smirk. “You don’t sing?”
He huffs a laugh. “Trust me. You don’t want to hear me sing. I got enough heat from Carl when we tested the mics this morning.”
“Carl may or may not have reported an error in setup. Not faulty equipment but faulty users.”
Grace flings his arms up and grips his hair.
“Dang it, Carl!” he shouts to the horizon. “Not cool.”
A snicker betrays Stratt’s stoic homeostasis. She can’t remember the last time someone’s tickled that level of amusement out of her. Grace’s own chuckles fall into rhythm with hers, and it feels…right. For a fleeting moment, the dire state of the world falls to a hush, leaving room for the present. Here she is enjoying the last rays of daylight on her skin, the hitch of laughter rattling her chest, and the comfort of good company. Everything else can wait, if only for the evening.
She sips at her gin and raises the cup. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Grace dismisses with a wave. “Gotta look out for my superior.”
If there is a hint of snark lingering in his tone, Stratt chooses to ignore it. For the sake of moving, she strolls along the perimeter of the aircraft carrier, fingers gliding across the smooth metal rails. Only now do her legs register how long she’s been standing in one place. At least her drink will warm the ache out of her muscles.
Part of her expects her head scientist to stumble after her but, after walking a decent length of the flight deck and rounding back, she finds him rooted in the same spot. The booze is catching up to him now, wilting his posture considerably. The dark circles beneath his eyes are typical for the microbiologist, always eager to stay up in the late hours of the night to chart out data recorded from the day’s experiments, but they especially stand out amongst a complexion akin to curdled milk.
“Are you doing alright?”
As expected, her biologist gives his usual thumbs up, but reassesses and conducts a brief self-assessment.
“Head’s kinda pounding, but ‘m fine,” he admits softly.
“Perhaps you should turn in for the evening.”
Grace ignores her. “Been lookin’ for you. Haven’t seen ya all day.”
Stratt’s stride falters. “We see one another every day. For multiple hours in multiple meetings. And on jet flights. And in conferences.”
“Yeah. I missed you.”
Another blunt answer sends a pang through her chest. On a normal day, her scientist’s cheeks would flush and he’d wave off his true train of thought with some dismissive “never mind” or “don’t worry about it.” And his honesty isn’t even terrible. It’s almost endearing. Almost.
It takes Stratt a moment to compose herself before turning in his direction. He’s still looking at her, but upon closer observation, the intensity behind his gaze isn’t lust. She’s not sure what it is.
“How much have you had to drink?”
Grace shrugs. “I dunno. Ask Ilyukhina.”
“Let me reframe this,” she sighs. “How many times has she beat you in arm wrestling?”
“Loads.”
Knowing how much this man cherishes math, this unit of measurement confirms his hazy state of mind quite accurately, given the context.
“Mm.” Stratt pinches the bridge of her nose. “And after every round you lost, she made you drink.”
“She didn’t make me drink,” Grace scoffs. “I’m a grown man.”
“A grown man who cannot handle his liquor. I don’t suppose you drink often.”
“Quite the contrary, Stratt. Now I’m more of a Guinness kind of guy than one to slam the hard stuff, but I’ll have you know that Marissa ‘n I went out for drinks at Murphy’s every Thursday. The staff knew our orders by heart, and I guarantee the two of us alone kept that place in business. I wonder if…” He glances at his feet. “I wonder if she still goes without me.”
Another shift of mood in the conversation. Grace’s smile is a lightbulb burning out. It thins the air between them.
“Perhaps she still enjoys your company in spirit.”
“Yeah. Prob orders my half and drinks it, too.” Her scientist blinks hard. “Gosh. She was my best friend.”
“Is,” Stratt corrects.
He doesn’t say anything for a minute or two. That stretch of silence is stifling, even amidst the noisy outdoor ambiance. Stratt wishes that she herself had a cardigan to pick at. She can’t bring herself to look him in the eye, so she squints at those massive clouds blanketing the horizon.
When he finally speaks, it startles her.
“It’s dumb, I know, but you’re the only one I feel genuinely close with.” Grace pauses, reconsidering. “And Carl.”
“I highly doubt that. Plenty of the Taskforce members have expressed fondness toward you.”
“But in a room full of all of those people, I felt alone,” Grace argues. “Everyone was a pair down there. They all had someone close. Someone dear to them. I…I needed a friend.”
“I’m not your friend,” Stratt blurts.
Grace winces at how cold her response is.
“But you’re familiar,” he says. “I see more of you than anyone else on this ship. I can always count on you being there ‘n that brings me comfort. I don’t have to…y’know, put on a certain face just to earn your respect. You take me for who I am and don’t make me feel like some kind of nut.”
Stratt’s lips purse. “If that is the case, the bar is in hell, Dr. Grace.”
This comment teases a chuckle out of her biologist. He mentions something about being used to it, that this is just how it is in the academic setting, too, but Stratt can’t hear him over her own pulse thrashing in her ears.
“Given the conditions of this project, it is ill-advised for us to engage in any relationship shy of professional. Including friendship.”
Here she is rejecting this brilliant, charming man who just admitted he has few friends at all. She’s sick of herself. What’s more pathetic? His reality, or her standards?
Grace blinks rapidly. Erratically. Maybe it’s her eyes playing tricks on her, but Grace’s skin appears to be paling exponentially. Not only that, but his hands hold a slight tremor to them. Stratt notes the bobbing in his throat, the way he struggles to swallow.
“Dr. Grace? Don’t take it personally.”
No answer. Her scientist stares off into the distance, half-lidded.
“Dr. Grace?” Stratt curls her fingers around his clammy wrist.
He stirs. “Huh?”
“Your heart is pounding. Why don’t you sit for a moment?”
“‘Kay.”
Backing up to the railing, Grace’s knees buckle and he slides to the floor. Stratt hovers over him. He forces a smile as his eyes drift shut. Stratt blows out a breath and pivots toward the swell of music and conversations happening below.
Stratt pats his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”