Work Text:
And Cassandra Wept
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Carl is off-base buying skittles when the explosion happens.
The purchase of snacks with no nutritious value is not an official part of their errands but it is, as usual, a small side quest that none of the men in his convoy question anymore. Their duties (securing the perimeter and scaring overzealous journalists off the premises) have been handed over to the next shift and if Carl, the guy who only answers to Stratt herself, wants to stop at a service station in Baikonur on their way back to the base to pick up some candy no one has ever seen him actually eat then that is none of their business.
Carl is just stepping out of the building when in the distance a plume of smoke and fire erupts into the sky with no prior warning. His eyes are still trying to make sense of what they are seeing when the ground starts to shake beneath his feet. A strong gust of wind rattles the windows before the sound of the explosion finally hits his ears and heart with the force of a sledgehammer.
The fact that he can still hear it over 18 miles away is terrifying.
While car alarms blare and civilians scream and flee into their homes, Carl is already running. He stuffs the bag of candy into his coat pocket and shouts for his agents to get back into their cars and drive drive drive.
Carl jams the earpiece back into his ear and tries to make sense of the chatter he can hear on the different channels. It takes every last shred of his self-control to not chime in and demand updates. Calling anyone on the radio so soon after the explosion would be a waste of time and only add to the general confusion. They have trained for emergencies like this ad nauseam and if everyone is doing their job no one should have the capacity to take his call anyway. Everyone will know what to do without his input.
Carl knows what he has to do.
The ride is agonizingly slow despite the driver breaking every speed limit known to man but they finally reach the outskirts of the scene. The car hasn't even rolled to a full stop yet when Carl is already tearing the door open and hits the ground running.
It's chaos. The air is full of smoke and soot and the heat from the fire is almost unbearable. Dozens of people are running in circles - military, scientists, maintenance crew. Their voices are overlapping, a constant cacophony of calling for assistance or organizing search groups. Most of the crowd is trying to fight the fire and keep it contained.
Despite the pandemonium it takes Carl no time at all to spot Stratt. The woman is, naturally, right in the middle of it all, her red hair shining copper in the flickering firelight. She is holding a phone to her ear and seems to simultaneously shout into the receiver and at the people hurrying past her.
Giving orders, demanding answers.
Carl positions himself in her line of sight. Their eyes meet for a mere second before they acknowledge and dismiss each other with nothing but a nod.
Stratt is not his priority right now.
As usual, Grace is not far. He hovers near Stratt but obviously tries to keep out of the way of the rescue teams. With his yellow raincoat he's like a beacon, a spot of color in a sea of black suits and white lab coats. His eyes flicker from the demolished building to Stratt and back again, over and over in an endless loop. He looks lost.
The sight of him loosens the knot in Carl's stomach. The building that exploded is one of the research labs. Grace practically lives at the research labs.
Carl is not a religious man but he finds himself thanking God anyway.
He jogs over and grabs Grace's arm. Judging by the way the scientist flinches and immediately tries to pull away he’s probably squeezing too tight. Carl eases up and Grace stops fighting long enough to look him in the eyes. For a second it looks like he doesn’t recognize the agent but then he relaxes and instinctively steps closer. He's shaking, lips trembling, eyes red-rimmed from the smoke and wet with tears.
“Carl. The lab… it’s…”
Carl pulls him away, away from the chaos and the shouting and the smell of smoke and death. Grace follows like a puppet with its strings cut. He's mumbling something under his breath and it takes Carl a moment to make sense of it.
Calculations. The force of the blast and the radius. What amount of energy would be needed for an explosion of this size.
Carl feels sick just listening. There is still no definite answer as to the cause of the explosion. Was it an accident or have they been the target of a terrorist attack? The chatter in his earpiece keeps him updated but he's only listening with half an ear.
He needs to get Grace to safety.
They finally reach the car Carl arrived in. He pulls open the back door but for the first time Grace resists. His feet scramble for purchase as he tries to look over the agent's shoulder, looking for Stratt, most likely.
“No, I can't just leave, I have to-”
“We're not leaving,” Carl tells him and keeps pushing. “Just sit down for a minute. Catch your breath.”
Grace reluctantly lets himself be pushed into the backseat. He sits sideways and keeps his legs outside, as if afraid Carl will close the door and whisk him away. His eyes are still trained on the building. The fire is dying down, at last.
Carl breathes for the first time in what feels like forever and takes stock. Grace's clothes are rumpled and his iconic rain coat smeared with mud and rainwater. He's lost his beanie somewhere along the way and his hair sticks up even worse than usual. The glasses are missing and Carl feels unreasonably sad at the idea of them destroyed or lost somewhere in the chaos but then he spots them poking out of Grace's neckline. There doesn't seem to be any obvious injuries except for some nasty abrasions on the palms of his hands.
But Carl doesn't like the faraway look in Grace's eyes, the way he's still shaking. Shock, maybe. Or the beginnings of it. He needs to give the man something else to focus on.
Grace is the kind of guy that thrives on physical contact. He might awkwardly fumble his way through social interactions with strangers but a simple pat on the shoulder from a familiar face immediately makes him stand taller. It’s why he and Ilyukhina get along so well. He might roll his eyes at her overbearing familiarity and the way she is always hanging off his arm or slapping his back, but Grace never pushes her away and noticeably relaxes in her presence. She can be a lot but she’s never too much for Grace which is probably why she has latched on to him as hard as she has. If she were here, she’d pull him into a hug and squeeze the fear and anxiety right out of him.
But Ilyukhina is not here.
Carl is not nearly as tactile as the engineer but he only hesitates a second before he cups Grace's hands, palms facing up, and pulls them towards his body. He winces when he gets a closer look at the scrapes. They have stopped bleeding but they look painful.
He gently rubs his thumbs along the edges of the broken skin, rubbing off as much grit as he can without causing more damage.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
Grace looks down at their joined hands as if he's never seen anything so interesting. He hesitantly curls his fingers over Carl's thumbs and when the agent merely squeezes back he sighs and slumps into his seat. “I don't think so. My ears are still ringing but-” He shakes his head. “What happened? Was it an accident? Did someone-?”
He can't seem to finish the thought, the idea that someone might deliberately try and sabotage their mission to save the world not something he wants to articulate.
Carl concentrates on the radio chatter in his ear for a moment and shrugs his shoulders. “They haven't found any signs of tampering so far. Looks like an accident but we won't know for sure until the fire is out.”
“Accident,” Grace mutters. His eyes are once again trained on the remains of the science building. Suddenly he laughs. It's more of a bark really, short and abrupt and desperate. An unhappy sound. “What a mess.”
What a mess, indeed.
Carl pulls back and reaches into his pocket to hand Grace the bag of skittles. The scientist takes them with a small smile but doesn't open them. Instead he kneads the wrapping between his two hands in a nervous pattern. The sound of crinkling plastic shouldn’t be so loud.
“I'm trying to remember who was in there.” Grace sounds distracted again, thoughts miles away. “I’m trying to remember the experiments that were scheduled. I think… I think…” He sobs and slaps a hand over his mouth as if the noise has snuck up on him. “I think Shapiro and Dubois… I think they wanted to… but I can’t remember if that was today. I can’t remember, Carl!”
A shiver runs down Carl’s spine and it feels like the ground is falling out from under him. His vision is swimming with black spots for a second but he blinks them back by sheer force of will.
This can’t be happening. He refuses to believe that this is happening. Because if Shapiro and Dubois were in that building that means…
“Let’s not panic,” he says and remembers the day he had to escort a complaining Grace to get his blood tested for the coma gene.
“We don’t know anything yet,” he reassures and remembers wondering why Grace has to test and familiarize himself with all the astronaut equipment when he’s not the one going into space.
“Let's find some bandages for your hands,” he cajoles and tries not to remember the look on Stratt’s face when the puzzle pieces finally fell into place and he raised his voice at her for the first and only time.
“It’s just a precaution,” she’d said, staring out the window and avoiding his glare.
Just a precaution.
Just another Hail Mary.
“You’re right,” Grace whispers and slowly gets to his feet. He stumbles forward a little, right into Carl’s chest. The agent can't bring himself to put his arms around him, feeling unworthy all of a sudden, but he doesn't push the man away either when he just remains where he is and presses the top of his head against Carl's chest. Grace holds himself eerily still. Just staring at his feet. “No need to panic. It’s fine. We’re going to be fine.”
“Of course.”
Sirens blare into the sky and drown out Carl's next words.
His prayer.
“You’re going to be fine.”