Chapter Text
Carl didn’t do late nights anymore. That’s what he told himself, what he promised himself, years ago. He should be retired by now — the money from the Project should’ve been enough to pay off any debts that could’ve ever befell him. But, after a little gambling here, and a lot of bar clearing there, and then some more gambling after the drinking over here again (repeat cycle until 5AM when he crashes on his own couch), he had no choice but to haul his ass to the job that was now kicking said ass. He knew a new security gig would be too much for him, but he did it anyway. Stupid Carl. He could’ve picked any job in the fricking world, and he goes for patrolling hallways at 4AM that looked like something out of an amateur horror game.
He was like that with a lot of things.
Tom Holland is the inferior Spider-Man, and owning houseplants is for dummies.
He then buys four houseplants, and names one of them (a spider plant, funnily enough) Holland.
Being sober is for pussies, he thought to himself, right before becoming sober. That was five years ago — he still thought he was a pussy.
Sending your friend to space on a suicide mission against their will is a shitty thing to do and that should never happen in any universe ever.
You’ll never believe what he does next.
Thoughts like these were the only thing keeping him from falling asleep at the wheel. Not that he preferred thinking like this — they kept him up basically everywhere.
The roads always went on forever. There was always going to be something that caught his eye along the way, like the —
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The cafe was the first place Carl took Grace after he was free from, as Grace put it, his “argon prison”. It was the nicest either of them had seen since being recruited by Stratt. She didn’t exactly allow for days off. But hey, she was off in Thailand for some sort of conference — something about an agreement with some wacko monkey scientist to license their medically induced comatose technology for the ride to space. Grace certainly had many thoughts about that — and other things.
“Y’know what? Y’know what I think, Carl?” He said, with an enthusiasm about superhero movies only a middle school teacher could garner.
“What do you think, Grace?” Carl sat stone-faced across from Grace, with five Home Depot bags piled at their feet.
”I think that Andrew's Spider-Man doesn’t even hold a candle to Tom. Like, sure, he had flashier tricks and whatever, but… Tom’s just better, y’know? At least he saves his MJ.”
“You realise that Andrew also saved Tom’s MJ?” Carl glanced up from his staring contest with the Home Depot logo.
“Ugh, you suck. I swear I’ll watch No Way Home — eventually.”
“Mhm.”
“So,” Grace said, biting into a croissant that, by the sounds of it, seemed to be constructed from solid rock — but anything to save him from his crumbling Tom Holland debacle. “I’m sure the Home Depot crew weren’t thrilled when we stole —”“Legally paid for.” Carl interjected, pointing a finger at the Project Hail Mary clearance lanyard around Grace’s neck.
“With what money?”
Silence.
“Uh-huh. Exactly. So, they weren’t exactly thrilled when we robbed them of their yearly duct tape supply.”
“Hey,” Carl sipped his own coffee — it tasted like crap. “The less they have to sell, the less work they do. I think.”
“Yeah, no, that’s not how that works.” Grace wheezed into his cup. “Just because I might teach less kids — and let’s be real, Jack’s not great — doesn’t mean I get hours off.”
Carl curled an eyebrow at his shockingly blond friend — he was almost blond enough to play Ken, in another universe – and smirked. “You’re a teacher? Stratt didn’t mention that.”
Grace sat up a little bit straighter. As humble as that man may be, everybody loves talking about themselves from time to time. “Yeah, I can’t imagine her being thrilled to reveal that she tracked down and recruited a middle school teacher for a top-secret project to —”
“Teach the underprivileged youth how to cook.” Carl said a tad too loud. Who knew the random (lonely) middle school teacher they hired wouldn't be so used to an NDA?
“...Right.” Grace shook his head, enveloping a laugh with restraint. “Anyway, she doesn’t strike me as the type to openly admit that she… inspired her- favourite, uh, cookie recipe, after a middle school teacher. Nope, that's baking, isn't it?”
Carl smiled into a sip of his drink — nope; still terrible. “If only they knew about the cheesecake recipe.”
“Really now?! Who coulda guessed?”
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Finally, he slumped out of his car and shimmied his ass to the door. Surely, one more thing couldn’t go wrong today —
He forgot his keys.
Nice going, you idiot.
After a comical drive back to his personal hell, he finally stepped into his sanctuary.
He shed his coat and dragged one foot in front of the other.
A bang and a yowl had Carl turn toward the kitchen.
“Ugh, Garfield…” he mumbled to himself (lunatic, he thought.)
The tabby (odd name for a tabby) sat pretty, his bowl overturned and kibble scattered across the floor.
“You little…” Carl shook his head. He loved the little guy, but he was certainly not the brightest tool in the shed.
As he bent down to begin cleaning up the spattered cat food, his knees clicked and popped. Wow, he really wasn’t the spring chicken he used to be — it got him thinking.
About life. About thirty years ago.
About Grace, and about what he had said.
Stupid Carl.
He had left the Project ages ago; pretty much right after it launched. Everyone else kept trying, kept recruiting people, trying to solve and mitigate while they waited for the Beetles to (hopefully) come back.
Carl had backed away from all of it. Signed the NDA and took the lifetime’s worth of money that came with it, and dissolved himself from public view. The others weren’t so lucky.
When the Beetles came home, all he had received was a text from Lokken: “he’s alive”.
But that was… what, 5 years ago? No one knows if he’s still alive. From what he describes of Erid from the tapes, it seemed… intense. Not like Carl understood any of it; he got Leclerc to explain it to him pretty well: gravity affects your bones. Stronger gravity, weaker bones… or something like that. So, Grace may very well be dead by now. Or he’s still alive, and living his best life with, quote from Lokken, “arachnid rocks” (or, in Rocky’s own words, “scary space monster”.) Carl liked to call it "Schrödinger's Grace".
After that, the public circled in on almost every major participant in the project, starting with Stratt. She was essentially the only one that was able to get prosecuted, being sent to god-knows-where for god-knows-how-long. No one knows where she is now; literally, no one. Carl assumed that those who did would’ve been put to death if they so much as even thought about splitting.
Everyone else couldn’t be prosecuted, for a bunch of unknown reason. Most of them were bullied and mobbed into obscurity. Some were spared from the scrutiny. Some of them defend their honour and all of what they did with every fibre of their being, refusing to believe they did any harm.
The only person to remain completely unscathed — even praised — for their efforts on the Project was, of course, Grace himself.
The public believed him to be brave. He believed himself to be a coward. Carl had believed him to be strong.
Stratt didn’t know what she was supposed to believe. All she knew was that he knew how the Project worked, had done all the training, and was qualified.
That was enough.
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The lacklustre kibble-cleaning attempt had been wrapped up, and Carl surrendered to getting ready for bed.
He was going to sleep early. Tomorrow would be a good day. Manifest it, Carl.
Two hours later, he was laughing at a video on his phone.
Stupid Carl.
With a groan, he finally plugged his phone into the wall and turned himself over.
It was too hot and too cold. He himself was freezing, but he was sweating. A chill went down his spine — from what, he wasn’t sure. Time felt like it was rushing so fast he could hear it in his ears, and so slow he felt it crawling up his skin.
He wanted a drink. He was itching for it. Dying for it.
No, Carl. it’s been five fucking years, for god’s sake. Let go.
But he wouldn’t.
He really couldn’t.
He wondered how Grace's students were doing. Those were his kids. They’d all be around forty by now.
Grace would’ve loved to see that.
The night stretched on. Eventually, tossing and turning, achy and old, fatigue overtook his thoughts.