Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The one thing Ryland would never understand, for as long as he lived, was why big events required a smart dress-code. 

He was, he thought as he pulled the starched collar away from his neck for what felt like the ninth time in a row, more than capable of retaining his professionalism, his academic knowledge, without feeling like he was being choked out by a tie. In fact, if Ryland really thought about it, the more counter-intuitive it seemed. Surely, if everyone here was at their comfiest, then they would be able to convey their papers, theories, lectures and arguments with much more fluidity and ease. 

Maybe he was overthinking it … he was definitely overthinking it, but his options for thought-patterns right now were either mentally bemoan the dress-code, or give in to the panic and nausea curling in his gut. 

Ryland decided, then and there, that when he got his first ever batch of PhD candidates to supervise, he was going to categorically tell them they never had to attend conferences, if they didn’t want to. No one had had the courtesy to tell him that, and he felt that was rather short-sighted of the university’s faculty. 

Sitting alone at a table in the corner of the hall, Ryland pulled out his phone and scrolled aimlessly through it. The conference breakfast sat, untouched, before him – some sort of pastry and a little glass ramekin of yogurt on the side. The coffee cup, however, had been drained to the dregs, and if it wasn't now so busy in the hall, he would have gone for another. 

A stack of papers lay at his elbow, sticky tabs protruding from certain sheets, some sentences highlighted and others viciously crossed out in red ink. He really should look at it again, just to make sure it was succinct and engaging. It was a pointless task; Ryland had already edited it four times previously, he knew the contents by heart. 

His panel was in the afternoon, just after lunch. It was, for all intents and purposes, a good slot to have. Everyone would be refueled after an intense morning of keynotes, but less razor-sharp in their questions and criticisms. But the fact that he had to wait – Ryland checked his watch – another four hours before getting this over with, did nothing but make him feel more jittery. Perhaps the crowdedness of the hall was a blessing in disguise. More coffee was not the solution here. 

Scanning the room, Ryland looked for any other delegates that he might recognise. He wasn’t the only one here representing his alma mater, and subsequently now, after clawing his way onto a post-doc, his employer. He couldn’t spot anyone straight away, and wondered if they had all sequestered themselves at a different table. Away from him. 

He knew he wasn’t the easiest person to work with. He knew he came off as standoffish and rigid in his demeanour and thinking, but really, Ryland was willing to listen, to consider other people’s ideas, if only his were treated with the same merit. A guy could only take so many back handed compliments about how unique his theories were before he gave into a bad-natured, acerbic temperament. 

The rest of the faculty attending this conference had only added him to the group chat a week prior to the flight – which they had gone ahead and booked as a group beforehand. It had taken Ryland twenty minutes to figure out a greeting message, and even then, Colt had hung over his shoulder to offer advice and proofread. He’d wanted Ryland to tell them all to – Colt’s words, not his – fuck off and stick a test tube where the sun doesn’t shine, but Ryland still clung to the vain hope that his colleagues might accept him for who he was, not the front he had tried to maintain working with them. 

Opening the group chat now, Ryland tapped out a message, read it, cringed, deleted it, tried again. And again. Nothing he wrote sounded anything other than nervous and begging for company. No one took him seriously now; they certainly wouldn’t take him seriously if he asked for a buddy to navigate this conference with. He was fine, he could do this on his own. 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t attended conferences before, they were a workplace hazard. But they’d all been in the same country, where domestic flights were easy to board and he could be home, or at Colt’s, within a few hours, if he needed to be. They’d been interesting, and he’d definitely enjoyed himself at them, especially during roundtable panels and debates. He thought he’d even managed to make a few friends. And getting to just talk about what he loved was such a joy. 

But this was an international conference. This one had people attending that Ryland had cited in his own thesis, people who could be considered royalty in their fields. He’d heard a rumour that the Dr. Annie Shapiro might be here, but he had yet to spot her. 

This conference was much bigger than anything else he’d ever been too, and it was a little overwhelming. Colt was on the west coast right now, and he was nine hours ahead here in Denmark, so even the ability to phone his twin for comfort had been taken from him. 

Thinking about Colt made his chest tighten. He would have his first day back on set soon, the proud owner of Fall Guy Stunts. Ryland had begged him to be careful, to not do too much and delegate jobs wherever he could. Lingering fear from Sydney still resided behind his ribs, and other, much deeper anxiety that had never faded – and he wasn’t sure ever would – from sitting at Colt’s bedside in the ICU, listening to each and every beep of the heart monitor. 

In fact, Ryland realised with a lurch, it would be today that Colt walked back onto a movie set. It was past midnight back home. Forgetting momentarily his own nervousness, Ryland unlocked his phone again and pulled up his text thread with Colt. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard. There was the chance Colt was still up, but if he was asleep, Ryland didn’t want to disturb that rest when his twin had a long and strenuous day in front of him. Deciding to hedge his bets, he typed out a message and sent it on the silenced feature. Colt would wake up to the notification in the morning, or he’d see it now and respond. 

Ryland hoped it would be the latter.  

He waited, locked his phone and set it screen down on the table, picked up his pen and his paper, read two words, and then grabbed his phone again. The receipt read ‘delivered’. 

A stray thought occurred to him then, one that he immediately discarded. He could text Court. He had a phone number for him in his contacts, one that was simply labelled ‘C’. Court had given both he and Colt the number the first time he’d turned up at their then shared apartment, years ago.

“It’s for emergencies only,” he’d said, pinning them both with a sharp look. “And when I say emergencies, I don’t mean you’ve got another parking ticket, Colt, or you’ve set fire to another lab coat, Ry.” 

Ryland had only used the number twice since Court had given it to him. The first time had been after Colt’s fall, sitting curled up in a deserted, sterile corridor of the hospital, listening to the dial tone ring and desperately needing his big brother at his side. 

The second time he’d used it had been after he’d seen a news piece on TV, detailing a shoot-out in Naples, grainy security footage alighting momentarily on someone Ryland had been convinced was Court. It had been Court, and he’d been uninjured, plus a little annoyed Ryland had called him in such a panic. But they’d stayed on the phone together until Ryland had calmed down and Court had had to gently tell him it was unsafe to stay connected much longer. 

“Get it together,” he muttered, resolutely setting his phone back down. Colt and Court had other things going on right now, and didn’t need him adding to that, feeling sorry for himself that no one here really liked him nor took him seriously. 

Maybe when he got home, there’d be a postcard waiting in his pigeonhole. Ryland knew Court thought it was funny to send them, and he had a small collection of the brightly coloured, tourist-trap featuring cards stuck to his fridge door. And, Ryland reasoned with himself, he could go out for dinner with Colt – and Jody too, if she was around – and this would all be laughed at over drinks. 

All Ryland had to do was get to that point. It was, at maximum, five or six hours more of discomfort and nerves, and then he could hide all he liked in his hotel room, order room service, and flick through the TV to see what Danish television had to offer. 

An announcer entered the hall a few minutes later, getting everyone’s attention and asking them to make their way to the main lecture hall for the keynote.

Ryland left his breakfast untouched, hastily gathered up his papers and hurried to join the growing throng. He fumbled with his phone for a second, hoping against hope to see a notification on the lockscreen bearing Colt’s name, but there was no such luck. Flicking it onto ‘silent’, Ryland stowed it in his pocket and filtered through to the lecture hall. 

He felt something instinctively ease inside him as he took in the amphitheatre-like room, the lectern ready and waiting with its customary glass of water and small microphone perched atop it. So what if his peers didn’t invite him out for lunch, so what if his theories were – as of yet – unproved? Ryland felt a smile tug at his lips, straightening his back and walking with a little more surety as he stepped into one of the meagre handful of places on Earth where he felt at home.

As long as he lived, Ryland knew he’d never want to stop learning. There was simply too much to know, and he was determined to know it all. 

Colt had accepted his first degree as normal. It had been, Ryland thought, inevitable in his twin’s mind that he’d go to university. The masters degree, straight off of the undergrad, had garnered a raised eyebrow, a fond muttering of “nerd” and then a serious follow-up about if he’d be okay as Colt became more and more busy with his growing stunt portfolio. Ryland had assured him he would be, and had thrown himself into his MSc with delighted fervour. 

The third degree, the PhD, had made Colt sit him down and ask if this was what he really wanted, or was it actually that Ryland was struggling to find a career that he could settle into? Ryland had felt a little affronted by that, and said that the career he wanted, above anything else, involved a professorship. If he wanted that, he had to get his doctorate first. 

“It’ll be a lot of work, Ry,” Colt had said. 

“I know,” Ryland responded. “But I can do it.” 

“I know you can, but –” Colt had broken off, sighing and looking around as if searching for a cue card. 

“But, what, Colt?” 

“I just … I know you, kid, and you’ll dive right into this and burn yourself out in a matter of months.” Colt ruefully ran a hand through his hair. “And I’ll be up in L.A. most of the time now.” 

The slight annoyance Ryland had been feeling with his twin dissipated immediately after that. As with all things in their life, Colt was once again standing protectively in front of him. After promising to finish work each night by six, latest, and call every Saturday to check in with him, Colt nodded, squeezed his shoulder and said, “If this is what you want, Rylie, then go for it. Blow their crusty-ass, ancient theories outta the water, okay?”

He had kept his promises to Colt, and now, if Ryland played his cards right, he could be on track for the youngest professorship his university had ever handed out. Just because people didn’t like his ideas didn’t mean they couldn’t acknowledge he was darned good at what he did. 

Sitting down near the front of the lecture hall, Ryland pulled out his notebook and pen and found a blank double-page spread. All his mental capacity thus far had gone to worrying about pointless things, or editing his own paper, so he couldn’t recall who was the keynote, having only cast a cursory look over the schedule given to him to find his own panel. 

Marking the top of his page with today’s date and copying down the title displayed on the projector screen, Ryland waited patiently for the presenter to be announced. His pen actually dropped from his hand when the chair introduced the speaker. 

Professor Niels Brandt, the name in microbiology, and more importantly to Ryland, the forerunner and absolute pinnacle of exobiological research. The man was in line for a Nobel Prize. 

The keynote passed in a haze of note-taking and awe. Ryland, when he’d become familiar enough with his field, had begun to almost idolise this man. He saw something of a kindred spirit in Brandt; the word that circulated throughout the community was that he wasn’t very popular with his co-workers either, preferring to study and experiment alone and then present his findings with his name listed as the sole author of a paper. The latter part Ryland didn’t really understand, as he liked co-authoring papers … on the rare occasion he was asked. But regardless, Brandt’s theories had been met with disinterested dismissal as well, but he’d resolutely stuck to his ideas and was now internationally renowned. 

Ryland was disappointed to see the keynote end, but he perked up when Brandt said he’d be staying at the conference for the next few days, and was even chairing a panel here and there.

They had a fifteen minute lay-over so everyone could get to their respective rooms for the first set of talks. Ryland had taken a highlighter to all the papers he wanted to see – most of the page was covered in bright green ink. As he wandered through the hallways, searching for his first panel, he flipped through the programme just to refresh his memory on which room he was presenting in later. 

He stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, forcing people to go around him. His panel was listed for just after lunch, and he was presenting with three other people. Standard conference stuff. He had noticed, upon receiving the schedule, that the chair had been noted down only as ‘keynote’. 

The keynote speaker had been … 

“Oh … okay. Gosh.” 

Ryland turned on his heel and headed right back for the lecture hall, and then took a right into a reception area. “Uh, hi,” he said to the man behind the desk. “Is the library open to conference delegates?” He held up his haphazard stack of paper sheepishly. “Need to do some last minute editing.” 

***

Stop shaking. Stop it. 

In a very odd reversal from earlier, Ryland wished he could attribute the light trembling his hands to pure nerves. He couldn’t, and the real reason was, to him, far worse than simply being anxious. 

Frustration was mounting in his chest, steadily rising up his throat and curdling into true anger. He needed to get a grip and calm down. 

His paper was the last one of the panel, and whilst the other three presentations he’d just sat through had been very interesting, each of them had made a sly comment about his research. 

It was blink and you’d miss it, but Ryland knew. An offhand mention that water was fundamental to life. A knowing smile, eyes flicking in his direction, when talking about the Goldilocks Zone. Making pointed reference only to planets and exoplanets that were categorically known to have had oceans, or now had ice. 

He knew he had a reputation, but Ryland hadn’t quite realised how far that reputation had spread. And he was being laughed at in front of Professor Brandt. 

Clenching his hands into tight fists beneath the table, he tuned out the rest of the penultimate speaker’s paper, and focused on not letting his temper get the best of him. 

Court had once, when they were all still living together in their father’s house, called Ryland a glass cannon. He hadn’t understood what Court had meant at the time, he’d been perhaps seven or eight, but as Ryland had grown he’d come to realise that – like in all things – Court had been right. 

Out of the two of them, people assumed it was Colt who had the unpredictable temper, mostly because Colt was, fundamentally at his core, unpredictable. He was brash and loud and absolutely not afraid to speak his mind, so Ryland could see where people got that notion. He, on the other hand, was quiet and probably in comparison to his twin, meek. 

But Ryland would take all his frustration and anger, and simply hold onto it until it got too hot to do so. It didn’t happen very often, but when he did lose it, it was never a pretty sight, and he would usually find himself collateral damage. 

His foster parents, Helen and Will, had noticed this tendency fairly early on, and had given him an array of things to try, from counting to ten and taking a deep breath, to speaking to someone professional about it. Ryland had chosen the latter after completely blowing up at school, the so called ‘popular kids’ having been continually picking on Colt for weeks after he’d asked out one of their number and been brutally rejected. He’d given a boy two years older than him a black eye and made his nose bleed. 

Throwing punches at a UNESCO conference, however, was categorically out, and Ryland pulled on one of the methods the therapist had given him to calm down. It didn’t matter what these people thought of him, they could laugh it up all they liked. He’d show them. 

A polite round of applause told him the penultimate speaker was done, and that it was his turn. 

“Thank you, Dr. Aleci, for that illuminating paper – I have some questions of my own to ask you, so please, don’t hurry off for refreshments before I can corner you.” 

Dr. Aleci preened a little under Brandt’s attention. 

“Now, for our final speaker today, I’d like to welcome Dr. Grace.” 

Was it his imagination, or had Brandt faltered, just a little, over his name? 

“And his paper, a chapter from his doctoral thesis, ‘An Analysis of Water Based Assumptions and Recalibrations of Expectations for Evolutionary Models’.”

Pulling a Colt-like smile onto his face, Ryland stood and took his position behind the lectern. He nodded at Brandt, thanked him, and flipped through his paper. He’d made copious amounts of changes and notes in his more … judgemental sections, but looking down at the red ink littering the page now felt like conceding defeat. 

No one else here had watered down their own theories to make them more palatable. Colt had always told him to be unapologetically himself, especially when people were working doubly hard to make him feel less. 

He stared at the crossed out title of the chapter. With a little half-shrug, Ryland decided to be unapologetically himself.

“The Goldilocks Zone is for idiots: why everyone is wrong about life.”

The time limit on presentations was the standard twenty-five minutes. Ryland was finished at thirty, the time keeper of the panel waving insistantly her little laminated card with a picture of a clock on it.  

“Unorthodox thinking, I know,” he concluded, “but where is it written that alien life will conform to our understood and proven parameters of evolution? Thank you.” He returned to his seat. The applause was polite, but Ryland heard the muttering breaking out in pockets throughout the room. 

“Well.” Brandt had stood. “That was … different, Dr. Grace, thank you.” 

Ryland bit his tongue hard. The condescension was all too audible in Brandt’s tone. He found he was rapidly going off the man. Brandt was their leading scholar, he should be welcoming all manner of out-of-the-box ideas with open arms. Science didn’t happen because you stayed where it was comfortable, it happened when you embraced the unknown and expected it to blow up in your face a few times before a breakthrough. 

Ryland didn’t like swearing, it reminded him too much of his father, but he had to admit that Colt’s description of the scientific method was fairly accurate. Fuck around, and find out. 

“I’ll open the panel up to questions now, who would like to start?” Brandt selected a few people from the audience to ask long-winded questions that often didn’t even contain a question, the other people on his panel answering when addressed. 

None of them were addressed to him. 

“If you’ll allow me,” Brandt said eventually, taking a lull to speak into, “I have a question I’d like to ask before we have to dismiss.” 

Dr. Aleci sat up a little straighter, directing her attention to Brandt with clear and eager eyes. 

“Dr. Grace –” 

Ryland leaned forward, a little surprised. His heart began to beat against his ribs. Brandt had a question for him, he’d obviously been mulling over Ryland’s paper and had come to the conclusion that it was worth his time and – 

“– you don’t actually believe what you’ve written, do you?” Brandt smiled at him, as if they were sharing an in-joke. “It’s all purely academic speculation, correct?” 

Someone had poured molten lava down his throat. It writhed, searing hot in his belly and Ryland had to take a second to make sure he didn’t lunge for the stuck-up moron right then and there. 

“Isn’t all the scientific method academic speculation?” He said, his voice betraying nothing of what he felt. “Especially when considering exobiology – it has to be reasonable guesswork and estimations. Unless you’ve met an alien, of course.” He couldn’t help the last bit, and watched with vindictive pleasure as Brandt’s jaw tightened, just a fraction. 

“I can’t say I have, Dr. Grace.” He neatened the papers on the lectern. “But don’t you think it’s a little unreasonable to assume that water is, as you say, a variable, not a constant?”

“Why?” Ryland shot back. The room had gone very quiet around them, not that it mattered. There was only him and Brandt, now. “It’s unreasonable to assume otherwise. We have to think far beyond what we’re used to when considering extraterrestrial life. We’re in danger of anthropocentrism here, we cannot assume that the building blocks for life across the known – and unknown – universe stem from us.” He gave a little derisive laugh, “As much as we may think and act like it, Professor, we are not that important.” 

He realised then that he’d just insulted the entirety of Brandt’s research. Brandt’s bread and butter was that a panspermia event could be responsible for life on other planets, but that the microorganisms and bacteria required for such a thing had come from an early Earth. Brandt maintained that Earth’s ecosystem was so delicate, so intricate, that it had to be the proverbial garden of Eden for potential life in the cosmos. 

It was, Ryland now realised, an incredibly short-sighted point of view. 

“To answer your question directly, Professor, yes, I do stand by what I said – and what I wrote for my thesis.” 

His voice was clipped and he knew he was doing nothing but proving his colleagues right when they thought him arrogant and aloof. But he didn’t care. No one was listening properly to anything he had to say, and it had gone on long enough. 

“And I would ask all exobiologists to be a little more open minded in this field of research. If we’re willing to look externally, and pool our collated knowledge, then who knows what leaps of progress and understanding we may make?” 

Brandt seemed to have forgotten there were other people in the room as well. “Dr. Grace, you’re asking us to work on pure speculation and, let’s be frank, a childish understanding of how evolutionary models work. Centuries of research cannot be discarded to suit your own theories.” 

“I don’t think it’s childish to engage in a little creative thinking when it comes to a problem that we don’t even know has a solution. I’m not asking to rewrite the laws of – of gravity, but I think it’s time we accept that even with all this ‘new’ research, we’re not getting any closer. The issue isn’t my understanding, Professor, it’s that people are refusing to engage with a concept that forces them beyond their comfort zone.” 

Ryland could have heard a pin drop in the hall. He stared down Brandt, willing him to see reason, to agree. Ryland knew they were similar, deep down; he wouldn’t have practically hero-worshipped this man throughout his doctoral studies if he wasn’t. 

“I’m afraid, young man, I’m going to have to disagree with you – in fact, to be blunt, I think this new line of thinking would be a staggering waste of time for the exobiology community.” Brandt collected his papers and turned to the room at large. He started to speak again, but Ryland barely heard it.  

He knew what they said about meeting your heroes. He just wished it hadn’t been true. 

With a screech that had all eyes on him, Ryland pushed back his chair, slammed his hands down on the table before him and glared at Brandt. A dull roaring sound filled his ears, and it felt like someone had shut his ribcage in a vice and was tightening it until, one by one, his ribs all snapped.

“And you’re a staggering waste of carbon, Professor Brandt,” he spat, voice loud and ringing. “Enjoy the Nobel Prize, I hope you find your future research comfortable. I’ll be spending my time doing something actually worthwhile.” 

And with that, Ryland grabbed his papers and bag, and stormed out of the hall. As the door closed he heard a roar of chatter erupt on the other side.

It felt so damn good – for all of five minutes. He’d blindly left the conference site and had found himself in a green space on the university’s campus. The adrenaline and the anger cooled rapidly in the fresh breeze, and Ryland blinked and stumbled. 

Oh. Oh no. 

“What have I done?” He murmured, feeling this morning’s nausea take an unwelcome encore in the pit of his stomach. 

Ryland didn’t attend the rest of the day. Later that night, an employee at the hotel the delegates were staying at knocked lightly on his door and handed him a note. 

He had been politely, but firmly, told his presence was no longer required at the conference. The room was his for as long as he’d booked it for, but he should find other ways to spend the remainder of his time in Denmark. 

***

He felt the stares on him the moment he entered the foyer. 

Ryland hunched his shoulders, hoping his yellow raincoat would act like a shield and take the brunt of the mutterings, the eyes – both curious and accusatory – and the people leaning over to their neighbour, pointing him out. 

He hadn’t slept at all. He was fairly certain the hotel carpet would bear his footprints for years to come with the amount of pacing he’d done. Ryland had ridden an insane rollercoaster of emotions over the course of the night, from utterly despondent, to ragingly furious and into sickeningly anxious. He’d kept his phone clutched tightly in his hand, his finger hovering over the call icon on Colt’s contact and even, twice, over Court’s. 

But he was determined not to call until he’d at least tried to salvage the situation. He wasn’t sure if it was salvageable, but he had to try. Not because he wanted Brandt to like him, quite the opposite, Ryland now found he pretty much despised the man, but because Brandt could do some serious damage to his future career if he wanted to. And Ryland was prepared to bow and beg and scrape to make sure that didn’t happen. 

“Professor!” His call drew more attention to him, but Ryland didn’t care. 

Brandt was standing by the self-service refreshments table, holding a steaming cup and speaking with another of the conference delegates. He looked around at the call, holding a hand up to pause the conversation he’d been engaged in. It sent a twinge of annoyance through Ryland. There were other people here who were professors, the man was self-righteous enough to just assume the call was for him and halt a wide-eyed student in their tracks. 

“Dr. Grace.” Brandt gave him a chilly smile. He added to the student, “Would you excuse us?” 

Without waiting for an answer, Brandt turned his back and began leisurely walking through the crowd. They parted for him like the Red Sea, Ryland trotting at his heels like some disgraced child. 

Ryland Disgrace, he thought nonsensically, feeling his shoulders tighten under the scrutiny. 

Brandt led him into a little side room off of the foyer. Two metal sliding doors placed side by side told Ryland this was a particularly grandiose elevator waiting area. 

“Professor Brandt, I just wanted to say that I thoroughly apologise for my behaviour yesterday,” Ryland said in a rush. “I was out of line and it was unfair of me to speak to you that way.” 

A voice that sounded eerily like Colt’s piped up in the back of his mind. He treated you like shit and you’re apologising? He shoved it away roughly.

“I was anxious about how my paper would be received, especially as I know it’s controversial, but that’s not an excuse and I should have handled myself with more –” 

Brandt, repeating his earlier motion, held up a hand to cut through his ramble. “Dr. Grace, I appreciate your apology, but you have to understand that yesterday’s … performance is not something a person of your, ah, position, can afford to undertake.” 

“W– what?” That hadn’t been the response he’d been expecting.  

“You are aware of your reputation, young man?” 

The walls were closing in on him. For a split second, Ryland felt exactly the way he had once done trying to show his father something he was proud of, something he was sure that, this time, would gain Teddy’s approval. 

“I – I am, but Professor, I’m only trying to make a name for myself, find a – a gap in the research that I feel is significantly under-represented.” He gestured a little helplessly at Brandt. “I’m just trying to be like you.” 

It didn’t matter that Brandt hadn’t lived up to his expectations. It didn’t matter that Ryland felt vague disgust looking at him now. What he had just said was true, and had been for a very long time. 

Pathetic, hissed his father’s voice in his ear. 

Brandt breathed in deeply through his nose and then took a sip from his cup. “Ryland, was it?” 

Ryland bit the inside of his cheek to try and keep the sting in his eyes at bay. Brandt had gone from calling him by his hard-earned title, to ‘young man’ like he was a student, to his first name. It felt vaguely foreboding. 

“Yes, Professor,” he said quietly. 

“Will you allow me to be honest with you?” Brandt said evenly. “I think after yesterday’s outburst, I am owed it, somewhat.” 

He wanted to be furious again. The anger was still there, but someone was heaping cold, wet sand over its flame, smothering it until only the barest embers remained. 

He wanted Colt at his side. 

Brandt considered his words for a second and then said, “Some people, Ryland, are the first author of a paper. Some are the secondary, the tertiary. Some people are cited within. Some are left out entirely, but I cannot say I think this will be your fate.” 

Ryland couldn’t take his eyes off of the ugly carpet. He waited for whatever was coming next. Some part of him, small and young and never really free of Theodore Gentry’s house and shadow, felt he deserved it.  

“No, some people are destined to be footnotes in other’s works. Supplementary – or cautionary. I dare say you might be an annotated footnote, but … well, we shall see, won’t we?” Brandt reached out and patted Ryland’s arm in what, he assumed, was meant to be a conciliatory gesture. As if Brandt had just given him some esoteric wisdom he should feel grateful to have, rather than utterly destroying his entire world within mere minutes. 

He left Ryland alone in the gaudy elevator lobby. 

Numbly, he pressed the call button and waited. His room was on the far side of the hotel, but there was no way he could go back and face everyone no doubt loitering in the foyer for their return. 

The return trip to his room was a blur. It was only when he staggered inside and closed the door firmly behind him did he realise he was shaking. Leaning against it, Ryland tried to parse out his emotions, to begin to make sense of … whatever this mess was all knotted up inside him. 

It was a pointless task. Everything he did was pointless. 

The self-loathing rose too quickly to the surface, and Ryland did his best to consider it, tell it it was wrong, and fold it away. He knew the tricks of the trade. But Brandt’s words – annotated footnote – reeled through his brain on lurid repeat.

Sinking to a sit, his back against the door, Ryland pulled his phone out from his pocket, scrolled blindly through his contacts, and hit ‘call’. 

***

Colt had been thinking about Ry. 

His twin’s voice had been ringing annoyingly in his ear every time the director of the film he was working on – not Jody, much to his chagrin – had called up the stunt team for a take. 

Is that safe, it doesn’t look safe, Ry’s voice told him as Colt had cast a critical eye over the rig he’d be attached to. It was almost a physical effort to not respond aloud. 

But the days had, so far, each ended with no accidents, not even so much as a paper cut, and Colt headed home with the very self-satisfied feeling a job well done. He couldn’t have really asked for a better first few days, to be honest. 

He’d begged off the post-office drinks, wanting to be fresh for whatever tomorrow might throw at him. Or, rather, what he might be thrown at tomorrow. Sitting on the couch with a mostly melted bowl of ice cream and a cheesy action film on the TV, Colt kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, unlocking his phone screen to see if Ry had texted again. 

He’d sent a very nice message around quarter to one, L.A. time, wishing Colt luck on his first day and that he’d be thinking of him. None of this! Ryland had written at the end, the words followed by an explosion-impact emoji, an ambulance emoji and a hospital emoji. It had had the intended effect on Colt, who’d snorted out a laugh and felt his twin’s sheer ridiculousness quell some of his nerves.   

Since then, there had been nothing, and Colt was trying hard to pretend he wasn’t bothered by it. He hoped Ry was enjoying himself at the conference.  

He settled in to watch the film, and then, quite suddenly jerked upright from the half-doze he’d fallen into. Checking his phone, he realised he’d taken an impromptu nap on the couch and probably needed to relocate to a bed. Colt stood, walked through the kitchenette, depositing his ice cream bowl in the sink and headed for his bedroom. 

A wave of deeply intense misery hit him right in the diaphragm. Colt took in a shuddering breath, and knew it wasn’t his misery. 

He dived for his phone, forgotten on the couch, just as it began to ring. 

“Ry?” 

When Ryland didn’t answer him right away, and Colt heard the tiniest hitch in his twin’s breathing, he knew something was wrong. Neither of them had heard from Court in a while, and Colt couldn’t help but jump to a conclusion. 

“What’s happened?” He clutched the phone tight against his ear. 

“I –” Ryland sounded distraught. 

“Rylie, what’s happened?” Colt said again with more insistence. “Is it … have you heard anything about Court?” 

“No, what?” A rustle of fabric over the line, followed by a sniffle. 

Colt allowed himself to breathe out a sigh of relief, sitting back down on the couch. “Okay. No news is always good news, right?” He laughed weakly. “Where are you, I thought you still had a few days left at the conference thing?” 

“They kicked me out.” 

It took Colt a second or two to process that. He frowned, “What? Ry, kid, you gotta explain because I’m confused. They kicked you out?” 

“I messed up, Col’.” 

And that’s when Colt knew it was really bad. He didn’t bring up Ryland’s use of the nickname he’d always hated – ‘Colt’ was just so much cooler to go by, and was in its own right a nickname as well. It only made an appearance if Ry was teasing him incessantly and not getting the rise he wanted, or if he wasn’t thinking straight and needed him. 

“Okay,” he said evenly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. “Okay, tell me what’s happened and I’m sure we can sort it.” 

Silence followed his words. 

“Ry? You there?” Colt did his best to keep his tone light and not acknowledge the steadily growing worried frustration he was feeling nip at his calves. 

“I think I want to come home.” 

“That’s fine, but are you sure you don’t want to figure out why they’ve, uh, kicked you out?” He knew instinctively that the ‘home’ Ryland was referring to would be Colt’s own apartment. ‘Home’ meant where the other was, as it had been for the majority of their lives. 

Ryland’s breathing hitched again – and the whole story came pouring out of him. Colt listened, feeling his knuckles go white with the intensity of his grip around his phone. It was a miracle the screen didn’t shatter. 

God fucking damn it, Rylie, he thought, closing his eyes as if in physical pain when Ryland recounted his loss of temper. 

He knew how hard Ry had fought to eke out the merest inch of ground in his chosen field, knew that he was considered, at best, an eccentric and at worst, a pariah. Brandt had been out of line, and deserved someone as razor-tongued as Ry could be to put him in his place, but Colt knew what men like Brandt did when they felt slighted or challenged. 

All the sympathetic concern he felt had then instantaneously evaporated when Ry told him what Brandt had said instead of acting like a grown up and accepting the apology – not that it really sounded to Colt like Ry had to say sorry – and instead had acted like an utter bastard and torn down Ry’s entire sense of self worth. 

Ry’s words had dissolved into actual sobs then, and Colt barely resisted the urge to hurl the phone at the wall. 

He kept himself together and said, “Ry. Ry, listen to me, kid. He’s not worth it, okay? None of them are. They couldn’t hold a fucking candle to you on their best days. I’m –” Colt paused, wondering if it was kinder to lie to his brother when he was so obviously distressed. He decided it was. “I’m sure this whole thing will blow over the minute everyone has left the conference. A bit of academic drama, and then everyone goes back to poking tiny shit with sticks, yeah?” 

“You think?” There was fragile hope in his words, and Colt felt a pang lance through him. 

He had another call to make the second he got off the phone with Ryland. He clenched his jaw, but kept his voice soothing. “Yeah, don’t worry so much about it, Ry.” Christ, I hope I’m wrong about Brandt. 

“O-okay.” 

“Where are you right now?” Colt changed tack. 

“M’room.” 

“Okay, here’s what I want you to do – you listening?” When Colt got a little hummed affirmative, he nodded to himself. “Pack your stuff up and get to the airport. First flight out to L.A., alright? I know,” he spoke over his twin’s half-hearted protests about funds, “I know you’ve already got a flight home booked, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll pay for it, whatever.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“No, I know I don’t, and you’ll be washing dishes at mine for months after this, just so you know.” He heard the barest breath of a laugh down the line and let Ry’s steadily increasing calm balance him out. “Just get here, ASAP, got it? Fuck ’em, Rylie.” 

“Okay.” 

He heard Ryland move about the room, muted sounds telling Colt he was following his instructions to the letter. “Want to hear about what I did today?” 

“Please.” 

Colt let himself fall into an aimless ramble as he listened to Ryland packing his suitcase from nearly six thousand miles away. He did his best to avoid talking with too much enthusiasm for his job, considering that Ry’s own might be on the line. 

Dear god, let me be wrong about that. 

“I’m leaving now,” Ry broke in quietly, the snick of a door closing accompanying his words. “Stay on the phone ‘til I’m in a cab?” 

“Sure,” Colt said easily. “Hey, if I wanted to be on fire but the flames be, like, purple, what chemicals would I need?” 

Ryland didn’t answer right away and Colt thought he heard the barest trembling exhale. 

“Ry?”

“They’re all looking at me again,” Ry murmured, his hurried footfalls audible over the phone. 

“Ignore them,” Colt said sharply. “You’ve got as much right to be there as they do, Ry. This asshole just couldn’t stand the fact that you’d cornered him, he’s throwing his weight around. Ignore them all.” 

Brandt and Ryder, he thought cynically, were a match made in hell. 

A car door slammed and then the sound of an engine roaring to life came to him. “Alright, kid, you good?” 

“Mmhm.” 

Colt knew he’d be on damage control for a while after this one, and glanced around his apartment. He’d go shopping tomorrow for Ry’s favourite comfort foods – his twin still had to find a flight and even then they were around twelve hours back to the States. Maybe he’d bring Ryland to the set one day so he could talk shop with the special effects guys. He’d like that.     

“Okay, kid, I’m gonna go so you can concentrate on not boarding a plane to, I don’t know, Tokyo or something, but call me when you need to.” 

“What time is it there?” 

“Uh,” Colt pulled the phone away from his face and squinted at the bright display. “Nearly midnight, why?” 

“Are you working tomorrow?” 

He could see where this was going and tried to nip it in the bud as fast as possible. “I am, but that doesn’t mean you can’t call.” 

“I’ll text you with the flight times, and then call you when I’ve landed. Sorry.” 

Colt heaved a sigh, “Ry, don’t apologise to me, it doesn’t matter. Odds are I won’t even be doing much tomorrow, they’re filming the boring romance scene – there’s no explosions or anything, can you believe that?” 

“I worry for Jody if that’s your idea of romance.” 

There he is. Colt grinned, “Smart-ass.” He sobered, saying, “Call me, okay? I’ll pick up.” 

“I – yeah. Maybe. Thanks, Colt.” 

“Just get here so we can plot this moron’s demise together,” Colt said seriously. “Fly safe, Rylie, I’ll be there to pick you up at the airport.” 

“Okay. Love you.” 

“Ew.” It was a well-worn routine, and Colt could practically feel Ry’s smile on the other end of the phone. He affected a gruff, tough-guy voice. “Yeah, that, whatever.” 

He waited for Ryland to end the call, and sat back into the couch cushions with a sigh. Allowing himself a minute to process all of that, Colt then picked up the phone again and, without any preamble, hit ‘call’ on a different contact. 

The line rang twice before it was answered. 

“Yeah?” Court’s voice was sleep-grizzled, and Colt wondered where in the world his big brother could be right now. Hopefully in the same country, if not, by some act of kindness, nearby. 

“It’s me.” 

“Colt? What’s happened, are you okay?” The distinct sound of bedding being thrown back and feet hitting the floor reached him. 

Colt knew he should allay Court’s fears immediately, but in all honesty, he was just too angry. 

“I need you to kill someone for me.” 

A long, confused pause met his words. “What?” 

***

Ryland was dead on his feet by the time he touched down at LAX. He’d snatched about forty minutes of sleep on the plane, but nothing more. Every time he tried to settle, readjusting his raincoat against the wall as a makeshift pillow, all he saw was Brandt’s plastic-sympathy smile. 

Speaking with Colt and putting actual physical distance between himself and the conference had helped, but cortisol was still flooding his system, making his hands shake and brain refuse to lay quiet for a while. 

Navigating customs and passport control on forty minutes of sleep in over twenty-four hours – maybe it was closer to forty-eight now, with the time differences? He didn’t know – was a gauntlet that Ryland could not contemplate doing. He called Colt again as he queued in various lines, his twin already on his way to the airport having tracked Ryland’s flight once he’d received the information. 

There was something in Colt’s voice that put him ever so slightly on edge, an intensity he only ever heard when Colt was really excited about something and doing his best to keep it under wraps. Ryland didn’t ask; he wasn’t sure he could handle Colt’s energy right now. All he wanted to do was sleep, and wake up to find that Denmark, the conference, Brandt, had all been a bad dream.  

Finally, Ryland stepped out into the arrivals lounge, slowing his pace to give him time to try and spot Colt. Amidst the various family members and chauffeurs in their black suits, was a tall, blond man in ragged ripped jeans and a long sleeved tee. Held in his hands, obviously cut hastily from the back of a cereal box, was a ragged cardboard sign that simply read ‘Rylie’. 

He was over to Colt in an instant, letting go of his suitcase and all but hurling himself into his twin’s reach. Colt snagged him easily by the shoulders and pulled him in close. 

“I’m sorry,” Ryland got out, pressing his face into Colt’s shoulder. He didn’t really know what he was apologising for, it just sort of came out. 

Colt, because of course he did, gently chastised him for it. “What’re you saying that for, kid? You don’t have to say sorry for me coming to pick you up – unless you’re apologising for the truly heinous traffic, but somehow I don’t think you can control that.” 

With a slightly strangled laugh, Ryland pulled away and smiled waveringly at his brother. Colt’s eyes roved over his face, a pinch forming between his brows. “You look done in, Ry, c’mon, let’s go home.” 

Grabbing his suitcase, Colt led the way out of the packed arrivals area and toward the drop-off zone outside. Ryland stayed close to his twin’s shoulder, fighting the urge to grab the cuff of Colt’s tee like he used to do when he was little and they were crossing roads. An errant burst of anger unexpectedly filled his chest. Not at the predicament he had put himself into, no – but because Brandt’s words of him being childish suddenly rang all the truer. He was a doctor, for goodness sake, he didn’t need to be hanging onto his brother’s t-shirt for comfort. 

Curling his hands into fists to keep the urge at bay, Ryland blinked a little in the sun as they stepped outside. “Uh, Colt, please tell me you didn’t keep the car running here?”  

The drop-off zone had a maximum time limit in place to keep it from becoming too congested. If the car had been actually parked there and left unattended, the owner would incur a hefty fine. Colt had already paid the difference for his flight, and Ryland was loath to take any more handouts from him after everything he’d done. 

Colt’s posture changed almost immediately at his words. He shot Ryland a sly look with a grin, pulling his shoulders back and walking with just a bit more of a swagger. “I did.” 

“You’ll be fined!” Ryland hissed, as if speaking too loudly would magically make the money disappear from his twin’s bank account. 

“No, I won’t. I didn’t leave the car unattended.” Colt pointed at his car – some sort of muscle car that he’d saved tirelessly for and was infinitely proud of – and Ryland caught a glimpse of someone sitting in the front passenger’s side. 

“Jody?” He said, trying to cram the fatigue he knew was leeching into his voice back in its box. He liked Jody, truly, but right now Ryland just wanted the unobserved vulnerability that came part and parcel from time with his brother. 

Colt just kept walking, Ryland’s suitcase rattling obnoxiously over the paving slabs. He knocked on the window as he drew level with the car, and it was rolled down. “Look who I found,” he said, hooking a thumb at Ryland. 

All previous intention of acting his darn age and like a person with three degrees forgotten, Ryland lunged for the handle, threw the door open and dove into Court’s waiting arms. 

“Hey, buddy,” Court breathed, his hands tight over Ryland’s shoulders. 

“Court, what – how, I didn’t … it’s good to see you,” he mumbled, not moving from his slightly awkward sprawled position half in and half out of the car. 

“Okay, I actually will be fined if this carries on much longer, so shift.” Colt prodded him in the square of his back. 

“He won’t let me drive,” Court said conspiratorially as he clambered out of the front seat after Ryland had extricated himself. “I think he doesn’t trust me with it.” 

“I’m not even allowed to sit in the front,” Ryland complained. “He says he needs the space up there.” 

Court laughed, lifting Ryland’s suitcase into the trunk and climbing into the back seat. “Sorry, kiddo, but he let me sit in the front on the way here.” 

Ryland gasped dramatically, leaning forward to flick the back of Colt’s head as he started the engine. “Why does he get to, and I don’t?” 

“Little brothers sit in the back,” Colt said, guiding the car out of the parking bay and joining the slow moving traffic heading back into downtown L.A. 

He was about to argue the toss with his twin over that, but Brandt’s wry derision came back to him in full. Childish. He’d nearly, for one utterly blissful moment, forgotten that this impromptu reunion had been caused by a stupendous fudge-up on his account. 

Sinking back into the leather of the seat, Ryland took a few long breaths to calm the suddenly roiling nausea that had made an unwanted reappearance. 

“You okay, Ry?” Court asked, inching along the bench seat to sit with his arm over Ryland’s shoulders. “You don’t look so good, kid.” 

He never liked that Colt’s car didn’t have seatbelts. It felt wildly dangerous and the anxiety monster in his head latched onto that as well. He didn’t tell Court that, though, and said instead, “M’fine. Tired.” 

“Alright,” Court said with a tinge of hesitation, obviously not wanting to drop the matter. 

Ryland watched as his eyes flickered to meet Colt’s in the wingmirror. Understanding passed between them, and he knew then that Colt had told Court in full what had transpired at the conference. At least he didn’t have to relive it all over again. He honestly wasn’t sure he could.

“How come you’re here?” Ryland asked, wanting to find the ease of a few minutes ago again. “Wait, can I ask that?” 

Court smiled for him. “This time, Rylie, you can. I was on babysitting duty for my handler’s niece – Christ, she’s a handful. Nice kid, but …” He shrugged. “Not exactly what I thought I’d be doing with my time, y’know?”  

Ryland didn't know what Court did with his time really, aside from shoot things (people) and occasionally blow something up. Colt had always expressed an active but, if only through necessity, suppressed interest in what their older brother did, but Ryland was mostly sure it was because Colt had had a big spy-thriller phase in his late teens and early twenties. Having a spy for a big brother sounded cool … until Ryland really thought about what that meant and then felt anxious all over again.  

“F– my handler came back today, I asked if I could take some time out for, uh, personal reasons.” 

To tidy up the mess my little brother made by being a complete idiot, Ryland heard. The voice had cheap whiskey on its breath. He did his best not to listen, although something in his face must have betrayed him, as Court closed the meagre gap between them and gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. 

They pulled up to Colt’s place a little while later, Colt beating him to it and retrieving his luggage for him.  

As Ryland stepped over the threshold into Colt’s apartment, he felt something, ever so slowly, begin to fracture inside him. He hadn’t even been away for that long, why was he being so dramatic about everything? Colt’s sheer presence in the apartment overwhelmed him, and with Court at his back and his twin setting down his suitcase and then gesturing for him to stop dithering on the doorstep, a sense of rightness flooded through Ryland. 

And then, horribly, before he could make excuses for a shower and bed and not do this in front of them, he broke down entirely. 

He wasn’t sure how they all ended up on the couch, but Ryland was just aware enough to register that his face was pressed against Court’s chest and that Colt’s chin was resting on his shoulder as he loosely gripped his hand. 

Ryland was also vaguely cognisant of the fact that he was speaking, his words unfiltered and jumbled. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I’m just not – not good enough, but I tried, I really did a-and Dad was right, I just mess things up and I need to be better –” 

“Hey.” Court’s voice rumbled against his ear, but the comforting sensation didn’t last long, as Court gripped Ryland’s upper arms and pushed him back. 

For one heart-stopping moment, Ryland thought the anger he saw in Court’s expression was directed at him, that upon seeing how useless his brother truly was, Court agreed with his babble.

“None of that, Rylie, is true. I never want to hear you say that D– that man,” Court’s eyes went flinty, his jaw tightening a little, “was ‘right’ about you, got it?” 

“But –” 

“Don’t argue, dude,” Colt put in. “Court’s right and you know it. This guy, this Brandt,” he said the name like it was a particularly ugly curse word, “knows fuck all. What do you always say about Ryder? Tell me.” 

Ryland could see where this was going but Brandt’s voice, Teddy’s voice, heck, even his own voice were swirling through his head like a hurricane. He felt Colt’s hand momentarily squeeze his, and the pressure broke through the cloud and rain. “T-that he’s a jumped-up, narcissistic loser.”

“I’d have chosen a stronger word than ‘loser’, but the point still stands,” Colt said lightly. Then, with more seriousness, “Ry, don’t let this guy get in your head. I saw how hard you worked, and what you tried to explain to me seems like it makes perfect, logical sense – and I’m no scientist. So if I agree with you, this guy clearly has to be incredibly dense, or incredibly egotistical.” 

Ryland fidgeted for a moment, looking down at his hands. “He’s got a lot of power,” he murmured eventually. “In my field, I mean. He could …” He trailed off. He didn’t want to contemplate what Brandt could do if he put his mind to it. 

“That’s a problem for another day, kiddo,” Court said. “And we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” 

“I shouldn’t have shouted.” His eyes misted over again, and Ryland pulled his glasses from his face to hang beneath his chin. 

“Maybe not,” Court said evenly. “But I think given the circumstances it would have been hard for anyone to keep their cool.”

“Yeah, I’d’ve decked him,” Colt added.

Court sighed heavily, “Colt, unhelpful.” 

“As if you wouldn’t have done the same,” Colt scoffed. “You’d have chucked a grenade at him.” 

Ryland knew this was a distraction tactic. He didn’t care. It was working. 

“Funnily enough, bud, they don’t allow grenades at academic conferences, so no, I wouldn’t have.” Court rolled his eyes and leaned over to Ryland. “Do you want to know what he said when he called me?” 

He nodded, feeling his shoulders drop from around his ears and the adrenaline and cortisol-fuelled jitters calm somewhat. 

“He said he needed me to kill someone.” Court shot Colt an accusatory stare. 

“Oh, come on, what’s the point of having a hit – I mean, spy big brother if you don’t take on petty commissions from us?” 

By an unspoken agreement between the two of them, Colt and Ryland never referred explicitly to Court as what his job dictated he was. Hit-man. Assassin. It meant they had to come to terms with the fact that Court, gentle and protective and fundamentally kind – to them – killed people for a living. 

“Not how this arrangement works, pal.” Court made a gesture at Colt that clearly conveyed get a load of this moron. The levity weakened a little as Court looked at Ryland. “When did you sleep last, Rylie?” 

“Um … I don’t know? Not because it’s been a while,” he hastened to add, “but because of the time differences.” 

“I suspect it’s also been a while,” Court raised an eyebrow. “Lucky you, you get the guest room, I’m sleeping on this.” He patted the couch with a fake put-upon sigh. 

“I can –”

“Shut up,” Colt said amicably. “Get lost, Ry, go shower and then don’t come see us for like, eight hours or something.” 

Standing up was far more of an effort than he would have liked, but Ryland got it done. He paused in the doorway to the little bathroom, looking back and twisting his hands before him. Colt and Court sat on the couch, a him-sized gap between them. “I – thank you. I’m –”

“Don’t apologise!” His brothers spoke at the same time, Court fixing him with a glare and Colt an exasperated eye-roll. 

In what felt like months, Ryland felt a true smile curve his lips. 

***

Colt read the short email over his twin’s shoulder. A quick glance to his left: Court looked ready to renege on his no killing for his brothers policy. 

Dear Dr. Grace, 

After reflecting on the events at the UNESCO conference, the faculty have come to the decision that we cannot condone your actions, nor remain affiliated with you and your work. 

With our sincerest regrets, your position has been terminated, effective immediately. You will receive this month’s, and your final, salary on the usual date.

Please have your office and lab-area cleaned out by the following Monday. Any ongoing experiments can be passed onto your colleagues, please make sure they have all the relevant data. 

Warm wishes for your future endeavours, 

Cynthia Hannock

Science School Head. 

“Oh,” Ryland said quietly, closing the laptop. “Oh, um … okay.” His shoulders twitched, and Colt heard him swallow back tears. 

“Aw, Rylie. I’m really sorry.” Court climbed over the back of the couch, pulled the laptop from Ry’s grip and set it on the coffee table. 

“We can fight it,” Colt began fervently. “They’ve got no right to do this to you, we can –” He stopped dead as Court shot him a sharp look and shook his head.  

All Colt’s protestations died on his lips as he swung around the arm of the couch to look at his twin. Ry was staring at the laptop, tears streaming silently down his face. 

Wordlessly, Colt pulled Ryland off of the couch and onto the floor, holding him as Ry had done countless times for himself, on his darkest days after the fall and the surgeries. Court joined them a moment later, resting a hand on the nape of Ry’s neck and murmuring soothing nothings to him. 

“But I really tried,” Ry whispered, and Colt felt like someone had punched him. 

“We know, kid. We know.” 

***

“Grace, question?” 

Grace jolted back to full wakefulness in the pilot’s chair, hastily scrubbing grit from his eyes and hoping he hadn’t been drooling onto his jumpsuit. “M’up!”

“Stupid sleepy human,” Rocky chittered, settling down in his xenonite-bubbled chair. “Grace okay, question?” 

He smiled, “I’m fine, pal, just doing some late night reading.” Proper sleep had, annoyingly, evaded him tonight, and Grace was more than willing to blame Colt’s truly cacophonous snoring rather than his own restless and spinning thoughts. 

“Can Rocky read too, question?” 

“’Course, grab your camera, get cozy.” 

“Mm, sleep over.” Having learnt what a sleepover was a few months ago, Rocky was now adamant that they have them as often as possible, despite the fact that they all slept in the same room anyway. 

Grace chuckled. “Yeah, a science sleepover, the best kind there is.” He turned back to the central panel in front of him, scanning over the sentences to find where he’d gotten to before he’d fallen into a doze. 

It wasn’t anything mission critical, nor particularly anything Grace didn’t already know, but having finished his space book for the third time since being gifted it, he’d fancied a bit of a change up in reading material. It was just a paper talking about the star system Erid belonged to, and what exoplanets humanity knew of there. There was something satisfying about being able to read through and go no, no, oh close, no, okay yes to all the theories posited in the paper. 

“Ready for science reading sleep over.” Rocky reappeared and got comfortable. 

They sat together in amiable silence, Grace scrolling slowly through the paper and Rocky making little chittering noises as he read what people thought his small chunk of space was like. 

Grace scrolled down further – and then stopped. The name on the page stood out like it had been highlighted. Niels Brandt. 

“Grace, question? Rocky is done reading this part, move on, request.” 

Niels Brandt. Old hurt and anger flooded his brain, and Grace took a second to simply breathe through it. Leaning in, he read whatever quote Brandt had written that had been cited in full in this paper. 

‘I find it highly unlikely that a super-Earth planet, such as 40 Eridani A-B, could support extraterrestrial life. The atmospheric pressure and magnetic field alone would kill most, if not all, species found on Earth, and thus I have to conclude that the panspermia event that potentially stems from our blue-green planet cannot have seeded 40 Eridani A-B in its journey across the stars.’ 

Glee began to spread through Grace, starting at the tips of his toes and rising in a dizzying self-righteous wave to the crown of his head. He was wrong. Brandt was wrong, categorically and provably incorrect – and Grace had the means of showing him, seated in a loaf position at his side. 

“Grace, question? Please speak to Rocky, worried. What is Grace thinking, can Rocky help, question?” 

Grace looked at his best friend in the entire universe and felt his smile widen. “Want to help me prove an idiot wrong?” 

Rocky cocked his carapace in confusion. “Explain, question?” 

“What do you say that we become the first ever human-alien co-authors of a PhD project on Eridians?”