Archive of Our Own

It takes Grace two years to decide he wants to return home. 

He figures all the great heroes do. Odysseus to Ithaca, Frodo to… wherever the fuck Frodo lived, and Dorothy, of course, to Kansas. He’s joined their ranks, Grace thinks. He’s earned the title of hero. And heroes come home. It's just what they're wont to do.

In the time it takes for him to decide, Eridian scientists figure out a way to use astrophage to reduce the time it takes for space travel from roughly one year per light year to nine months per fifteen light years, essentially warping through space past light speed. So instead of sixteen years alone in space, Grace only has to endure a year long coma to get back to that pale blue dot of home. 

So he comes home, because he has to, as a hero, and with the comfort of knowing that if he ever wants to come back to Erid, it’ll be entirely within reach.

Rocky puts him to sleep with a “See you later, Grace,” and sends him off in a ship made of reinforced xenonite, and a year later, Grace wakes up orbiting a different Earth than the one he left. He leaves the Eridian ship in orbit, gets into a capsule, and crashes the pod into the Pacific Ocean, fifty miles off the coast of California where the United States military kindly picks him up in a bright orange raft. 

He says to them, “I, uh… I come in peace.”

And they shake his hand. And then a million people want to shake his hand. And there are conferences with world leaders, some different than the ones nearly three decades ago, some the same, and there are televised appearances, and there are people everywhere saying, “Thank you, thank you, you saved us, you’re a hero.”

And Grace has no home, no family, so they put him in a penthouse suite in whatever country he’s in in between all this, and all he ever does is ask everybody who might know, “Where is Eva Stratt?”

And nobody tells him anything. 

And then a month into all this, she appears.

Paris, France. The Ritz.

Heather gray cashmere sweater, fuzzy and frayed but still managing to look elegant and sophisticated. Black trousers. Black baseball cap, and under it, her hair is less orange, more white, but it still looks soft to touch. Her pale blue eyes still have that awkward, cynical look to them, but crows feet weigh heavy on them now. She’s standing stiffly, picking at her fingers as she tries to maintain a look of stoicism and fails. How can someone so still radiate such restless energy, Grace wonders.

He stares at her, frozen in place. His mind goes blank. His stomach starts to hurt.

The only thing he can think to say is, “How did you get into my room?”

Stratt smiles. An uncertain, tentative thing. And she steps forward once, a staggered step, before stopping in her place, as if she is unsure whether she is allowed to take more, to get closer to him. She looks almost teary eyed, and when she speaks, her voice almost shakes.

“Thank you for saving the Earth."

"Thanks" sounds better when she says it. Means more.

Grace swallows. Distantly, he hears himself say, "Miss me, much?"

And Stratt laughs. And she admits with ease, "Yes."

Grace smiles at her, lopsided, and he rushes forward, can’t help himself, hugs her tight. She accepts it. She hugs him back. 

Later, after Grace has ordered room service for pizza and popped open a bottle of champagne, he asks Stratt, “Where have you been all this time? I thought you’d be the first face I saw.”

They don’t talk about it. About before. Not really. Not yet. 

Grace is sat on the carpeted floor, and Stratt sits on the couch beside him. Her knee brushes against Grace’s shoulders every now and then, and he finds himself waiting for it, wanting it, that small brush, that small touch. It makes him feel warm. 

They’re watching French news. From what Grace can understand, the French government are breeding more taumoeba for the United States and Russia and China to send to the Petrova Line. An assembly line of countries breeding, manufacturing, and launching taumoeba to save the solar system. Really quite impressive stuff. 

Stratt shrugs.

“I was doing crisis management,” she answers, but it’s no answer at all.

So Grace presses, “Are you, like, super top secret now?”

He bites into a slice of pizza, can’t wait to finish chewing before he is asking more questions, hopes Stratt doesn’t find his excitement too disgusting. “How come nobody would give me an answer when I asked about you? I asked the President of the United States if he would give me a billion dollars if I wanted it and he said, ‘Well, for the savior of Earth, anything,’ but when I asked if he would tell me where you are, he said, ‘Oh, yikes, sorry that’s our time for the day, Russia’s scheduled to have you for a meeting’.”

Stratt lets out a humorless laugh. There is a bitterness to it. The message is clear. Grace has missed a couple chapters since he's last been here. 

She waits a long while to think before eventually settling on, “I’m, err. Not exactly as celebrated as you are, Grace.”

On the TV, French reporters in a lab beckon for the camera to look at a screen depicting a newly-bred strain of taumoeba with faster reproduction rates replicating and replicating and replicating under a live microscope. It looks like an overpopulated tide pool, almost. The scientists in the lab talk about it in excited French. 

Grace asks, “What does that mean?”

Stratt tells him, “I’m sort of blacklisted from all that.”

“From what?” Grace laughs. Because it’s funny. The thought of the most powerful woman in the world being blacklisted from anything. He didn’t even think that was possible.

Stratt shrugs again.  

“Politics,” she answers with a long exhale. “Science. A couple countries. Everything. At least officially."

Grace raises a brow. "What do you mean?"

And Stratt traces the rim of her glass with a fingertip despondently. "They seek me out sometimes, presidents and prime ministers and such. They phone me and they say, ‘Eva, we need your help,’ and they’ll ask me what to do about some crisis that’s sprung up in their neck of the world, and I tell them, and I’ll watch it all unfold on the news. But I can’t be in any of the meetings. I can't sign off on any of the paperwork.” She looks up at Grace like, Oh, well, what can you do? "That's about all I'm allowed to contribute to anything these days."

Grace stares at her with furrowed brows. Confused. Shocked. Thinking, What the fuck?

“A little cold of them,” Grace responds, because he doesn't know what else to say, because he's still having a difficult time wrapping his head around what she is saying. 

“Yes, well,” Stratt sighs. “It’s the way of the world. They’d phone me all the time even when I was behind bars. Aggravating, but well. I suppose I should be lucky I wasn’t executed. I’m too useful, maybe. They put me in there for life without parole, for the formality of it all, and then broke me out anyway.” She stares off into space for a second. “Sometimes, it’s like I’m still waiting for the shoe to drop.” She says this all with such an air of acceptance, resignation. Like she’s saying, Today’s cloudy, isn’t it? 

You were in prison? Grace thinks with alarm. Eva Stratt was imprisoned? His head starts to hurt.

Grace wonders how different this Earth he came back to must be, that Eva Stratt, once granted pure immunity and unlimited power now lives as somebody who's been in jail. Then he processes the whole "execution" bit and stares at her with surprise. 

“What could you have possibly done?”

Stratt sips from her glass.

Casually, she answers, “Oh, y’know. Crimes.”

“What crimes?”

“Copyright infringement,” Stratt says. “Among other things.”

“What other things?" Grace frowns deeply at her. "Are you fucking with me?”

Stratt laughs. For a moment, Grace thinks, Oh, she is fucking with me. 

But then she stops laughing, and she says, “Well. Remember I nuked Antarctica before you left? That’s just the tip of the iceberg— no pun intended.”

Grace’s head starts to pound. A sharp sort of pain, exactly like the pain he felt back on the Hail Mary recovering from drug-induced amnesia. He groans a little from the pain. He wants to say, No, I actually don't remember that. What the fuck? Must've been one of the memories he never recovered. 

“But officially," Stratt continues, "my charges were mostly terrorism.” 

The news segment on the television has changed to a party out on the streets of Paris. A news reporter asks a civilian, “Y a-t-il quelque chose que vous aimeriez dire?”

The civilian grips onto the mic. He exclaims, “Je t'aime, Ryland Grace! Tu es un héros!”

In the top suite of the Ritz, Ryland Grace blinks rapidly at Eva Stratt who stares back at him.

“You nuked Antarctica?"

Stratt inhales deep, exhales long.

Then she stands and says, “It’s late. I should make my exit now. Before they find out I’m here and arrest me again.”

And she’s slipped away before Grace can think of a good enough reason to get her to stay.

The next time he sees her is one month later in Germany. 

Just for a second. Just for conversation and coffee. 

“It’s a small world after all,” Grace sings as he walks up to her across the street in Berlin. 

And Stratt is amused, he can tell from that glint in her eyes.

“Hello, Grace. It’s good to see you again. What are you doing here?”

“Conference,” he responds, feeling a bit proud of how important he sounds when he says that. “Helping German physicists figure out space travel. Stuff like that. It's a melding of the minds.”

Stratt looks proud of him. “How’s that going?”

“Oh, you know,” Grace shrugs, waving a hand. “I love to teach, so it’s going well.” He smiles at her. “What are you doing here?”

Stratt smiles back. “Advising the President on whether or not space travel is worth the resources.”

“Oh," Grace blinks. "We're both here on the same business, then."

Stratt nods. "Guess so."

Grace shifts where he stands, returns, "And how’s that going?”

Stratt shrugs. “Short story, space travel to different planets are not worth it, but being able to send objects to exoplanets potentially harboring life is a promising venture.” 

“What?” Grace guffaws. “You’re against space travel?”

Stratt arches a brow at him like, Obviously. Are you stupid? 

“It’s not feasible,” answers Stratt. “Nobody wants to be in transit for years.”

“Proxima Centauri is only 4.2 light years away,” argues Grace. “That’s only, like, four months of travel with new tech. Probably less.”

Stratt rolls her eyes, shoots back, “The technology for traveling faster than light speed isn’t reliably safe. There is no sane person who would willingly do it. Can't convince a person to let you shoot them out a canon through the fabric of space and time without the doubt that he'd come back out the other end of that wormhole the same man he came in as. And besides that, we don’t even know if Proxima Centauri hosts intelligent life or anything worth going there for at all.”

Grace huffs, “Well, we’ll never know if we don’t go. And I’ve traveled at and past light-speed for years and I’m totally fine.”

“Debatable,” remarks Stratt, and that gets a surprised laugh out of Grace. “And anyway, nobody wants to be put in a coma all that time. You sure didn’t.”

Grace stills. Stratt stills. This is the closest they've gotten to talking about it.

They both stare frozen at each other. 

Stratt swallows visibly. She clears her throat. Starts to say, “I’m sor—“

A teenager on the street recognizes Grace, and he exclaims in a thick German accent, interrupting Stratt, “Dr. Grace! Ryland Grace! Können wir ein foto zusammen machen? Err, selfie? Selfie?”

And Grace takes a selfie with the teen, and when the teen leaves, instead of allowing Stratt to continue with what would undoubtedly be the universe's most awkward apology, Grace only says, “Hey. I have some time before my conference. If have time before your thing, too, we could go get coffee together? And you can tell me all about why you’d rather set up an intergalactic postal service than have a badass intergalactic exploration program.”

And Stratt blinks at him. And she smiles. And she says, “I have time.”

So they go for coffee, awkwardly bumping shoulders as they walk and talk and debate space travel until eventually, Grace has to leave.

And Grace sees her again two months after that.

He is doing a lecture at MIT in front of an audience of over four hundred people.

He recognizes her early into it, just after he begins presenting. She's standing all the way in the back leaning on the wall along with the others unfortunate enough to be left without a seat, and the entire rest of the two hours and forty minutes, he cannot look away. He thinks, while he is presenting, about all the cool, suave ways he can approach her after the lecture to ask if she wants to go get lunch with him, and he gets giddy with excitement. 

But towards the end, during the Q&A, one of the audience members asks about Antarctica and the Sahara, and Grace's head starts to hurt again, and when he turns to look back to where Stratt is standing, he sees her face contort into one of pain as well. She leaves shortly after, before the lecture even ends.

Grace thinks about running after her, but he doesn't. He knows he will see her again soon. 

Sure enough, they cross paths once more in Beijing.

It's late. He's walking away from another university campus, and her voice calls after him when he thinks he is alone. "Dr. Grace!"

Grace turns around, and there she is, wearing a long black coat, her hair under a thick black beanie, little hands clad in black winter gloves, little legs in black winter boots, walking towards him in quick strides, gorgeous and elegant. He lets her catch up to him before teasing her, "What are you, the grim reaper? Would it kill you to wear some color every now and then?"

Stratt huffs out a laugh. She tells him, "I liked your lecture today."

Her replies, softly, "It was the same as the last one you went to."

"Yes," she considers, "but some things sound better a second time. Speaking of time, could I steal some of yours? Grab a coffee?"

In the darkness, under glow of street lights, she looks positively effervescent. It's not even a question. 

They go to a cafe and sit side by side. Their hands brush once through her gloves. She takes them off and they brush four more times after that. Each time sends a small jolt through Grace that travels before settling in his chest and stomach. She remarks, "You seem to be doing very well for yourself, as expected," and he shrugs and says, "Well, everything these days seems like just a thing I have to do before I get to see you again," and he intends for it to mean You're probably the most consistent thing in my life right now but it comes across more like I live my life for moments with you, which is not exactly wrong but not exactly the type of thing you say to somebody you're having a casual cup of coffee with. 

Luckily, she does not seem uncomfortable with it. She just sips her drink and lets Grace scoot closer and closer until their shoulders have no room between them. 

He wonders why she stays with him. There is no project, no mission, no end of the world, and yet she stays with him. He feels lucky that she does. 

She's probably the one person in the world who understands him. The one person in the world who knows what he went through, who went through it all with him.

Stratt's phone buzzes right as she finishes her coffee. She turns to Grace and says, "I have to go now. Duty calls"

And Grace doesn't know what comes over him, but he finds himself reaching for her hand. She lets him interlock their fingers slowly, watching curiously, not pulling away. She says nothing. Grace smiles at her, a little unsure. She squeezes his hand, reassuring. 

And they let go. And Grace says, "See you later." And they go their separate ways once more. 

They meet more times. Always the same routine. After a lecture or before a conference. After a meeting or before a seminar. Hello, how are you, how is work, what are you doing here in the States/China/Russia/etc. A coffee. Sometimes lunch. Light brushes. Three good seconds of hand holding. A feeling of understanding and something else, something warmer, something that was not allowed to exist thirty years ago but is slowly creeping in now.

A goodbye, knowing they'll meet again. 

Grace grows tired of traveling. He lives his life for moments with Stratt. 

The world gives him a break from work and conferences and media appearances and university lectures and medals and hotels and scientists twelve months after his return. 

The US Government sets him up with a permanent home back in California, back in the Bay Area. They tell him, “If you need anything, let us know,” and then they leave him alone. And a week later, the doorbell rings, and it’s her again, finally, standing on his welcome mat, holding a gift basket the size of her entire upper body.

Grace snorts at the sight. “Hello again, Stratt.”

He does not bother to ask her how she got his address when he just got the house a week ago. He knows she must have her cool, mysterious ways. 

“Hello, Grace.” She sticks the basket out to him. “This was on your porch. I didn’t get it for you.”

And that’s funnier than if she had. So Grace laughs, steps aside, lets her in. 

And they get drunk on gift basket wine and talk about nothing that matters. The weather, and work, and how tiring it all is. And all the while, Grace lets his gaze wander over her soft, light hair, her charming little smile, her knitwear that fits her simultaneously perfectly and loosely, and he wonders, When are we going to talk about anything worth talking about? 

They listen to music from Grace’s Echo Dot. Ladies and gentlemen we are floating in space. 

At some point, Stratt says something hilarious, either unintentionally funny or cleverly witty in that strange, cynical way of hers, and Grace finds himself laughing so hard his entire body shakes. And Stratt laughs with him, or at his reaction, and Grace is so drunk he doesn’t even realize his forehead has fallen onto Stratt’s shoulder until the song ends and it dawns on him that she’s not laughing anymore and all he smells is her scent of rain and gourmand, dark cherry and cashmeran. 

And she is so warm, so soft that his head feels too heavy to lift from its perch of her collar bones. 

Grace’s heart beats rapidly in his chest. 

Stratt says nothing. Does nothing. 

And Grace begins to lift his head. But then her hand rests itself on the back of it, insists for him to stay. A wordless action. Grace melts further onto her. 

He whispers, muffled against her jumper, “I’m sorry for this.”

She shakes her head. He feels it. Her fingers tangle themselves in his hair, massaging his scalp gently. “You want this?”

God, yes. “Yes.” 

And he whimpers, despite himself, or because he is himself, or because she is her, and she’s touching him in this way. 

Stratt’s fingers still. And she pulls away, leaving Grace to stare at her pathetically, questioning. 

“Grace, I can’t.”

“I—“ Grace swallows. “Why not?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t do this to you.”

Do it to me. “Why not?”

“I’ve done… a lot of terrible, terrible things since the terrible thing I did to you,” Stratt says. There is a hollowness to her voice and a haunting sort of emptiness in her eyes. Grace wonders how such an absence can be so heavy. “I’m not sure if even you could forgive it all.”

As if Grace is the highest authority on forgiveness. As if Grace is God. Grace swallows.

He says, “Try me.” 

And Stratt laughs a little bit. Charmed despite herself. She smirks at him, mostly forlorn but a little amused. 

“I nuked Antarctica,” she starts. And Grace cringes. “I paved over the Sahara. I’m functionally responsible for the extinction of thousands of species that we knew of and millions that we will never discover. I’ve crashed economies. I’ve killed people.” She shrugs. “Not personally, but, y’know, I made it happen…. Used them as test subjects. Used them as pawns. Made decisions for the world, and I won’t lie and say I didn’t prioritize some lives over others. I won’t lie and say many paths of destruction can’t be easily traced back to me. I’ve sent men to their deaths…. I…. I sent you—"

Stratt breaks off. She has sunken into herself, as if the weight of her words on her shoulders was too heavy to hold up. As if she was literally slowly being crushed by the pressure of all that was on top of her.

Grace watches. After all this time, after what she did to him, he thinks, perhaps, he should feel some sort of comfort in knowing that Stratt feels sorry, or at the very least, responsible. But he watches her as she crumples, watches her as her bottom lip quivers and her eyes blink in a controlled rapidness to clear away the moisture gathering there, watches as the most stoic human he’s ever known breaks along the cracks. And he does not feel satisfaction. And he does not feel vindicated. 

He feels sad.

“I…,” he starts, then trails off. Love you, he could say, which is a lot. Forgive you. Thought of you every day, even when I didn’t remember you. Think you’re brave. Admire you. Wish we’d met under normal circumstances, wish this had never happened, wish you never had to make the choices that you did. Want you to stop crying. “I….”

Stratt blinks at him, shakes her head softly, looks gently to the ground. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Grace shakes his head too. “I understand.”

And he says nothing more. And neither does Stratt.

She takes his limp, dejected hand in her own. Here is the heart line. Here is the life line. 

“Anything else, Grace. Ask anything else.”

Here is the line. 

Grace blinks. His vision blurs. He stares at the ground. He misses her, even though she is right there.are down here

“I want to go to Antarctica,” Grace says. Because he must show her just how great he can be at forgiving. 

Stratt stares at him. She asks, “Are you sure?”

And he nods. “Yeah.”

So the next week, they go to Antarctica. 

These days, Stratt mans control of an icebreaker instead of an aircraft carrier. It is called the USCGC Polar Star. Her crew is smaller, but loyal. She says Carl used to work for her after her exile from government, too, on this very cargo ship, but he eventually retired somewhere off the coast of Italy with his family a couple years ago. He says, "Good for him."

Being on a ship with Stratt is a mind-fuck sort of experience. The feeling of the cold salt air on Grace’s face and hair is familiar, nostalgic. Stratt stood beside him on deck while the boat shifts and rocks with the waves and current gives him a strange feeling of déjà vu. Almost makes Grace seasick. Or regular sick. 

But whatever. 

They get to Antarctica and it doesn’t look nuked. 

Grace voices this. “It doesn’t look nuked,” he reports.

Beside him, Stratt says, “Yeah, it freezes over quick.” 

“I can’t remember doing it,” Grace frowns. “I must’ve stood by you, must’ve seen it all happen. But I don’t remember us ever sending the bombs.”

“You’re lucky,” Stratt remarks. And she looks out past the deck, not onto any of the glaciers, just out on the distant, blue horizon, as if remembering the day. “They coined a new term for it while you were in space. For that feeling you get when you know your species is about to die and you have to kill your planet to save it. ‘Antarctic sadness’. Like the Sunday scaries, or Monday blues, or war fatigue. It’s almost a medical term.” 

Grace processes this. 

After a small pause, Grace asks, “Did we save any penguins?”

Stratt shakes her head. Her hair whips with the wind. “Not enough time. A couple colonies survived, though. It’s a big continent. Some avoided the nukes. But most of those died in the nuclear super-winter.”

Bummer.

“Well,” Grace claps his hands together, “I can’t really say I like what we’ve done with the place.”

Stratt does not laugh. She stares at him with those calculating blue eyes, and she states, “If I had to do it all over again, I would.”

It’s like she wants him to hate her. It’s like she’s daring him to.

Stop pushing me away, he wants to demand. So he says, “I know. So would I.”

Stratt’s frown deepens. Grace shrugs.

And they stop talking about Antarctica. 

“I drugged you. Sent you to the gallows for the crime of being the most qualified.”

“I never would have decided to go on my own,” Grace dismisses with ease. And he thinks back to space and waking up and remembering in fragments the reason why he was there in the first place. “Before I remembered you drugging me, I thought for a long time that I was this brave man. That I made the decision to go up on my own. Sacrificed myself for this great mission to save humanity. And then I remembered. And it was… I don’t know. I didn’t even feel betrayed. Well— that’s a lie, I did. A little bit—” Stratt snorts, despite herself. “—but mostly, I just felt ashamed.”

Stratt sighs. Does not say anything for a while. And then she admits, “I didn’t care whether or not you forgave me.” And she smirks a tiny bit. “Well, that’s a lie— I did. A little bit. But I cared most about how you would react once you remembered. About whether you would continue the mission or refuse out of revenge.”

“Oh, come on,” Grace chuckles. “You think I’d be so betrayed that I’d let my planet die?”

And Stratt looks at him long and hard with meaning. 

“No.” Her tone goes all business-dictator-like again, detached and cold, entire factual, entirely self assured. “I knew deep down that you wouldn’t. I knew how kind you were. It’s in your nature.” She averts her gaze. Stares off into an irregular looking ice shelf, which looks like any other ice shelf, really. “It’s one of the reasons why I chose to force you rather than wait for you to change your mind.”

And then she echoes, apologetic, unapologetic, “If I had to do it all over again, I would.”

And Grace responds, stubbornly, losing a bit of patience, feeling like a child, wanting to just shout, Stop trying to push me away, stop using me to punish yourself, “And so would I. I’d wake up alone and in pain and confused, and I’d almost die multiple times, and I’d save the world, and I’d come back and forgive you! All over again!” 

Stratt looks as if she’s been struck. 

Grace thinks she might be the one person on Earth who hates being forgiven more than anything. It is frustrating, this journey of self flagellation she’s on. This idea that she is well past the point of redemption.

Many paths of destruction can be traced back to her, she’d said once. Well, Grace can’t stand the fact that she can’t seem to see that the Hail Mary that saved the world also traces back to her. That she is the path of salvation as well.

“All I feel is ashamed,” Stratt confesses.

Grace frowns. He does not know what to say that would make her feel better. She walks away. Her footsteps do not make a sound. Ghost feet carrying ghost body. 

Grace knocks on the door to her cabin in the night.

She is awake. He knew she would be. 

She is wearing a gray, cotton pajama set under a woolly robe. Her hair is in one loose braid. He is wearing a t-shirt that says FOXY NERD and flannel pajama pants.

“Wanna go stargazing?” He offers.

She looks at him like he is stupid. “Outside is cold enough to freeze your tongue to the roof of your mouth, Grace.”

He may be stupid. “Forgot about that,” he admits.

And she shakes her head. She opens the door to her room wider, and she beckons Grace to come in. He does.

“Your cabin is roomier than mine,” he comments. 

Stratt raises a brow. “I’m more important.”

“I saved the world,” Grace rebuts.

“Old news,” Stratt dismisses.

And Grace rolls his eyes. “Famously not. Pull up the news right now, I assure you I’m still front page.”

They glare at each other. Then they smile. And Grace sits on Stratt’s bed, and Stratt sits on her desk chair facing Grace.

They sit in silence for a while before Grace eventually says, “You do know how much I admire you?”

And Stratt startles, visibly tensing although her expression betrays no shock. She blinks at him. Tentatively accepts the compliment with a slow, “Thank you, Grace.”

“You know it?” Grace presses.

Stratt crosses her arms, looking uncomfortable with the sudden attention. “I… I suppose I do. It’s hard to miss.”

“You’re, like, the most competent person I’ve ever met. You saved the world just as much as I did. You probably are the most important person that’s been alive in the last century.”

“Is there a point to this?” Stratt grumbles.

“I’m sure I’ll stumble into one eventually,” Grace jokes. Stratt rolls her eyes deeply.

“Get out of my room,” she sighs. 

Grace shakes his head with a grin. “As if you’re sleeping anyway.”

“You don’t know me,” Stratt returns. “Maybe I am. Maybe I was nearly asleep before you barged in here saying dumb shit like ‘let’s stargaze’.”

Grace laughs. “My point is—“

“Thank God, you’ve found one!”

“—that the next time you want something, you should find it in yourself to take it. You’ve got a lot of good karma to cash in.”

Stratt’s posture becomes rigid. She stares at Grace with meaning. Grace smiles, lopsided, and he stands, and he starts to walk to the door. But as he walks past her, she catches him by the wrist, and she holds on, and she looks up at Grace like, What?

Grace says, “It would have been more profound, if I said it while we were stargazing. Just imagine we were."

Stratt says nothing for a while. 

Then she stands. She stays holding his wrist. She points to the ceiling of the cabin, playing along, and says, “Oh, look. A satellite.”

And Grace turns to look, even though he knows it’s just ceiling. And then she leans upward. Leans forward. And by the time Grace turns to look at her again, she is in the perfect position to press a single, soft kiss on his lips.

And Grace blinks rapidly. 

And Stratt stares back.

She lets go of his wrist. She says, “Sleep well.” And she nods towards the door.

Grace’s lips feel fuzzy and warm. He nods. He says, “Goodnight.” 

And he exits. 

Stratt is sharp angles and sharper stares. Stratt is impossibly intelligent and terrifyingly calculating. Stratt does not laugh often, but when she does, she always laughs at the resonance frequency of whatever room she’s in. She is commanding, intimidating, but kind. Soft when she wants to be. Her jokes are complicated and complex, so witty and quick that they’re difficult to follow. And she won’t slow herself down just to let Grace catch up to them, either. But when Grace gets them— when he’s in on it, and she’s smiling at him in that slight sardonic, slightly proud way… when he’s allowed into the privilege of hearing her laugh, of sharing in her joy, basking in her glow… it’s euphoric. It makes him feel larger than life. As if nothing can touch him.  

She makes him stupid. 

She makes him brave.

They dock in Australia, because it is close and because Stratt’s ship is not allowed to dock anywhere even near North America for fugitive reasons.

They dock in Australia and Stratt drives him to the airport. She pays for temporary parking and walks with him to his terminal, and they don’t talk about it, and Grace feels like they don’t even really have to yet, because the world is not ending, because they have time, because he will see her again soon, no doubt.

So he accepts her hug and he boards his flight and he waits until she disappears at the corner before walking into his flight. And he sees he’s booked her business class and not first class, probably to keep him humble, and he flies back “home.”

Sure enough, just days later, she shows back up on his doorstep. Her brow has a focused furrow to it, and her gaze is once again cold and calculating. But there is a fondness there reserved only for him. He can recognize it. Easily. The San Franciscan fog clings to her like a thin, gossamer jacket. 

“I need your help,” she says.

Grace smiles at her. He jokes, “Is it Saturn this time?” 

And she pushes into his house, and he laughs fondly. 

She sets up her laptop on his kitchen table. She’s wearing a cable knit sweater today in a deep, dark green that compliments her eyes. Her hair is down but clipped back to keep her face free. Grace admires her from the kitchen doorway.

“Where’s the fire?” He asks, because she looks so serious and laser focused, type-type-typing away on her laptop.

She does not bother to look at him. Just grumbles, “Tiananmen Square.”

“So it’s politics you want my help with?” Grace questions, amused. 

“Not as a politician,” Stratt clarifies. “I need you to sit beside me on something.”

He says, “Go on.”

“I have ideas. Nobody wants to listen to me.” Stratt rolls her eyes, like, Typical. “They never do, until it’s too late.”

Grace snorts. “And they’ll listen to me? Look at me.”

“I am looking at you,” Stratt says, even though she’s actually not, because she’s typing on her laptop. “Hero of Earth.”

Grace purses his lips. He sighs, surrendering, and he moves to sit beside her. 

“I don’t need you to talk,” Stratt says. “I don’t even need you to really pay attention. I just need you to sit here while I do the talking.”

Grace arches a brow. “What, like, for emotional support? Like a service dog?”

Please, please, please, yes, Grace thinks. He does not say it, because he does not really want to be slapped right now. Maybe later. 

Stratt does a tiny half-chuckle under her breath.

“No,” she says. And she corrects, “More like… for backup. Like a brandished gun.” 

Grace repeats, slowly, “A gun. You want me to be a gun?”

“Yes,” Stratt nods. “A very good, very powerful, very influential gun which is mine and no one else’s.”

Grace blinks at her, confused. “What?”

And Stratt shushes him, and she clicks on a link in her emails, and it takes her to a Zoom call. Before Grace can even process what’s happening, Stratt positions the laptop camera to capture both of them, and she joins the call.

“Hello, Mr. Chairman,” she greets the man pinned on the Zoom. “And everybody else.”

Grace stares at the screen. He recognizes the man, vaguely, and some of the other Zoom attendees. Seems to be a meeting of Chinese government officials. He does not really know what he’s supposed to do here.

The main guy’s brows raise in surprise, and in accented English, he exclaims, exasperated, “Oh, fuck, Stratt, is that Dr. Grace? Did you kidnap Dr. Grace?”

“No,” Stratt answers simply. "He likes it here."

“Hi, guys,” says Grace, waving. "It's true, I do." 

“Now don’t mind him,” dismisses Stratt. “He’s just going to sit here.”

And she switches to Chinese with ease, and the meeting resumes, and Grace does nothing but sit there, silently, nodding along after Stratt finishes any sentence despite not at all knowing what the Hell it is she’s saying. She's sure she must be right about it all. She usually is.

The meeting goes on for a little over an hour. At some point, Grace stands to get himself a bowl of grapes, but other than that, he is still, sat beside Stratt. 

And then the speaking stops. The officials go silent, but they stare at the screen expectantly. And then Stratt looks at him like, Any closing statements for these chumps?

And Grace says, “Um, yeah, what she said.” 

Stratt looks smugly at the screen. And she leaves the meeting without any other words. And she turns to Grace and smiles gratefully.

Grace grins back. “I didn’t just endorse you on your next campaign to nuke Australia, did I?”

Stratt rolls her eyes but the satisfaction of a meeting gone well is clear in the glint of them.

“Funny boy,” she chuckles. “You and I just made a baby.”

Grace chokes on his breath. “What?”

Stratt doesn’t answer. Just stands up from the table, still glowing with contentment, and she walks over to the telephone on the wall. And Grace thinks it might be yet another politician she’s contacting, but then the other line picks up, and someone greets, “Hello, this is P.F. Chang’s, how many I help you?”

And Grace snorts as Stratt answers, “Yes, I’d like to order for take away.”

Over takeout, Stratt finally tells Grace about the meeting. She describes the development of a new global policy that established global ecology fund and a baseline standard which all countries must contribute towards repairing Earth’s ecosystem.

“Getting China to agree,” Stratt explains in between bites of her dumplings, “is a really big win. It’s like dominoes. Many countries will follow suit.”

Grace swallows down his bite of lo mein and hums. It’s started raining outside. Cloudy and foggy and wet. 

“Seems like you’re well on your way to fixing it all,” Grace comments.

Stratt arches a brow. “Hm?”

“Y’know,” Grace shrugs, “with the ecocide of it all.”

And Stratt lets out a bitter sort of chuckle. “Yes, well.” 

And a heavy pause blankets them until Grace finds the nerve to break it. 

“…Well what?”

“Well, what else is there to do?” Stratt gets a faraway look in her eyes, and she turns her gaze to the window where fat droplets of rain crash onto the pane and make the outside all blurry and blue. “It was easy to make all the decisions I made, before. It was easy to excuse it all as it came to me. We were desperate. Humanity needed saving, didn’t matter how we saved it.”

She bites into another dumpling, takes her time in chewing, and then finishes, “But the world’s not ending anymore. I don’t have to break things to make them better. The correct choice is much simpler to make. That’s what I’ve been trying to do all along— do what’s right.” 

Grace hears himself ask, “No regrets?”

And Stratt’s gaze turns to him with a sudden sharp, unwavering focus. There is meaning there. 

“None,” she answers, definitively, and Grace expected it. “But there is guilt. And shame.”

“Is this your way of making up for it then? By fixing it?”

“I’m fixing it because it’s the right thing to do and I am compelled to do it, Grace.” Her voice is solemn, matter-of-fact. “There is no ‘making up for it’. We can’t un-nuke Antarctica. There is no absolution for something like this. No amount of Hail Mary’s could take back what I did.”

Grace frowns. 

“The world isn’t ending anymore. ” he says. He stands up to wash his plate. “Stop being so hard on yourself. Anybody who matters forgave you a long time ago, forgave you as it happened. Just accept it.”

And he starts to walk away. 

And Stratt calls after him, “Grace.”

So naturally, he stops and turns back.

“Yeah?”

“…Do you mind washing my plate too?”

“…Yeah, okay.”

Later in the evening, while listening to music in the living room, Stratt yawns and says, “I should be leaving now.”

But Sufjan Stevens is playing, and outside, it is raining and cold, and Grace doesn’t want her to go.

So he says, “It’s too late. Sleep here. I have a guest room.”

And Stratt considers it. And she nods. “Okay.”

So he shows her to the guest room, and he gives her his pajama pants and a shirt to wear, and he retreats to his room. 

And he tries to sleep but can’t stop thinking of her, just down the hall.

And in the middle of the night, his bedroom creaks open, and she spills in like light, all soft footsteps and careful movements. She knows he’s awake. She meets his curious gaze the dark. She slips into bed beside him, tells him to turn to his side and face away. And he does without question.

He can’t help but shudder when her small body presses against his back, can’t help but blush madly when her arm wraps around him, spooning him. 

They do not speak. 

There are some moments that are better off without words. 

They fall asleep together.

And when he wakes, he wakes up to the smell of her on the sheets and the sound of music playing in the other room. Ben. E. King. 

In the kitchen, she stands in his clothes holding a mug of coffee in her hands and another mug steaming on the counter. In the morning light and better rested, Grace can see what clothes he gave her to wear the night before— his black I had potential shirt and striped cotton pants. The fabric swallows her but she manages to still look tall and regal. 

“Do you still take yours the same way?” Stratt asks. 

Grace hums, “Three spoons cream, two spoons sugar.”

Stratt nods then gestures at the mug on the counter. 

As they sip their coffees together, Grace questions, “Plans today?”

“Phone calls,” Stratt shrugs. 

“Nothing you can’t do from my living room?”

Stratt smiles slightly. “Not today, no.” 

Grace pumps his fist in the air. She shakes her head in amusement.

The day passes uneventfully. Stratt makes phone calls to presidents and gets emails from other presidents. They seek her advice or they just want to hear what she has to say for the day. Grace sits beside her and thinks about Erid.

They snack all day in place of lunch and for dinner, they order take away — Thai this time — and eat while the TV plays movies neither of them have ever had the time to see before. Stratt talks to Grace about politics and how the world has changed since Mary first launched. Grace talks to Stratt about the beauty and vastness of space and Rocky and Erid. 

At some point this conversation moves to the bedroom where the two lie supine side by side, and as Grace describes basking in the glow of the Tau Ceti Petrova Line, Stratt’s hand finds its way to Grace’s stomach, and it stays there, tracing innocent shapes into his shirt, soothing and grounding.

Then she asks, “Grace?”

And Grace answers, “Yeah?”

Her thin, nimble fingers trace down his shirt to the hem, and they dip under, just slightly, the warmth of her fingertips making contact with his skin beneath. Feels like fire. Lights Grace up almost immediately. 

“This is okay?”

Grace swallows thickly. He turns his head to look at her, sees she’s already laser focused on him. And her fingertips on his stomach are such a foreign gesture of intimacy for her, such a new and gentle invitation, but her expression reveals nothing that wasn’t ever there before.

This is how you approach everything, Grace thinks. In measured breaths. In careful calculations. With care. How long have you been thinking about this before you actually did it? How much of this did I miss? I'm lucky to have it now.

Grace closes his eyes. He nods. 

And Stratt says, “Words, please, Grace.”

“Yes,” Grace chokes out. “Yes, this is okay.” 

“Good job,” Stratt praises, and Grace swallows again, involuntary response. Her fingers trace a soft, electrifying swirl on his skin. “You’ll let me know if it’s not?”

There is absolutely no fucking way I will ever not be okay with this, Grace's internal monologue screams. He does not say that. He just says, “I will.”

“Good job,” Stratt repeats, and Grace decides it’s the type of phrase that just sounds better the more it’s said. 

Stratt whispers, “Would you take your shirt off for me?”

And Grace does. Quickly. Quickest he’s ever done before, and he lays back down on the bed, eyes still shut, and he breathes shallowly as she sits up and lets her soft hands roam over his chest. Shoulders. Collar bones. Neck. Then down the middle of his rib cage. Down to his bellybutton. Down to lower.

Grace’s body shivers. 

Her fingers toy with the waistband of his pants, and Grace is hard, pathetically so, he can feel his dick straining against his sweats, he can’t help it, so he shuts his eyes tighter and hopes Stratt does not think it’s too embarrassing that such light, nothing-touches could already illicit such excitement. His face feels hot and sweaty.

She stops playing with his waistband. She drags her fingers down to the aching tent of his sweats. A low groan escapes from Grace’s throat. She flattens her hand, pushes her palm against his erection, and involuntarily, Grace’s hips rise to meet the motion, and it’s so good, and it’s her, and she’s touching him in this way he never thought she would, so he spasms in pleasure, and she laughs breathily in response.

Grace opens his eyes to find her smiling, fond and amused. The sight of that alone could made any man cum. Her laughter makes him flushed and embarrassed — and kind of, sort of makes him feel hornier — so he defends his sensitivity, “I haven’t been touched like this in decades, okay?”

She shakes her head with affection. Her palm grinds against his erection through his clothes once more, makes the fabric brush perfectly against his leaking tip. Grace moans. He can feel his precum soaking a spot through both his underwear and his sweats.

“Poor boy,” Stratt teases.

And Grace thinks, I am the furthest thing from. But he plays along, it’s very easy to, and he ruts up against her hand, breathes, “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please more.” Grace’s eyes are glazed and desperate. “Let me take my pants off. Please.” 

Stratt’s hand pauses in her palming. For a second, Grace thinks she might deny him, might keep him in this pathetic state for longer, but then she tilts her head, and she says, “Okay.”

Then Grace is undressed, sitting up against the pillows, waiting for… something. An order. Touch. And he’s leaking so much, droplets of precum running down his pink tip to his twitching shaft. And he’s so hard, it almost hurts. He can feel every involuntary pulse of his cock. Can feel his heartbeat hammering in his chest.

Stratt’s hand wraps around his cock.

“Oh my God,” Grace groans.

“Responsive,” Stratt comments. She pumps from tip to base, covering his entire erection in precum, making her soft hands slide up and down easily. Up, down, up, down, up.

Grace gasps with every pump, writhing. 

Stratt adds, “Sensitive.”

“Thank you,” Grace responds. “Or I’m sorry.”

And Stratt laughs. Grace can’t tell if it’s a mocking laugh or a fond one. He doesn’t really know which he would rather it be. He squirms uncontrollably.

Stratt orders, “Stop moving so much”

“Yes, m—“ Grace catches himself “—mmmm…ma’am.”

And Stratt stops moving her hand but she keeps it wrapped around his cock. She arches an amused brow.

“Ma’am?” She repeats. “Is that what you meant to say?”

“Yes,” Grace hisses, feeling embarrassment creep up his neck. “Yes, that’s what I meant to say.”

Stratt doesn’t let it go. “Really? You dragged the ‘M’ out suspiciously long there. Are you sure that’s what you meant to say?”

Grace turns even redder. “What else would I have said?”

“I don’t know,” Stratt shrugs, and their is a glint in her eye, sharp and bright. She knows, Grace thinks. She knows. “Maybe ‘mommy’?”

Grace’s heart hammers in his chest. Fuck.

“I— What— No?" He stammers. "No! I wouldn’t… I didn’t… that would be—!”

“Embarrassing?” Stratt finishes. She fucking knows. “Humiliating? Fucked?”

Grace’s breathing goes shallow. This can’t be real life. He lets out a whine. He ruts up into her hand, missing the friction, missing her movement. “I….”

“You what?”

“I… I did mean to say it.”

Stratt is merciless. “Say what?”

“…Mommy.”

Stratt breathes out a laugh. And she resumes her pumping, soft hands going up and down the eager length of him again. 

Slowly, as if testing it out, as if tasting it as it leaves her tongue, Stratt tries, “Good boy.” 

Grace’s head rolls back with feeling. “Oh, fuck, yes, yes, yesyes—“

And Stratt interrupts, “Stop talking for now."

Grace shuts his mouth and nods obediently. 

“Thank you.”

Her voice is level, calm. Almost as detached as she usually is. But she watches him sharply, taking him in, seeing how he reacts, and the level of attention is electrifying to Grace, makes him want to squirm and die. Grace can’t stop the whines and whimpers that escape from him. He’s a goner. He’s a true and genuine goner. Yes, his mind keeps repeating in a dumb loop. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

“Is that what you like?” Stratt questions, voice like molasses, sweet and rich and heavy. And Grace is stripped bare in front of her, literally and figuratively, and she’s already so intimidating at everything she does that the position of vulnerability she holds Grace in makes her all the more menacing. “You like being good for me? Following directions? Obeying? Feeling embarrassed? Humiliated?”

Grace’s cock, apparently, rather likes being scared. He nods enthusiastically and whimpers as her hand wraps around the head of his dick and pumps quickly, shallowly. He doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to speak again, so he doesn’t, but he hopes his eyes can communicate what he wants to say well enough— Oh my god, yes, this is what I want, yes, yes, yesyesyesye—

Stratt leans down. She kisses him, gentle, on the lips. Than on his cheek. Than on his jaw. And she trails her kisses until she’s on his neck where she sucks, soft, and licks a small stripe from carotid to just below his ear. “What else do you like?” 

The reaction that elicits from Grace is instant.

He gasps, his body shudders, spasms, and he shoots a hand out to grasp onto Stratt’s wrist, stopping her from continuing the universe’s hottest handjob. Stratt arches a questioning brow. Grace pants. 

“I was gonna cum,” he explains. 

Stratt laughs.

“Didn’t you want to?” She asks.

And Grace flushes. “Well, yeah….”

“So why did you stop me?”

Grace averts his gaze. “I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Stratt mocks. “Or you wanted my permission to?”

Grace blinks stupidly. He swallows. “I wanted your permission to.”

“You’re very lovely when you’re embarrassed.”

I’m very hard when I’m embarrassed, more like. “Thank you.” 

Stratt gives him a stern, expectant look. 

Grace corrects himself. “Thank you, mommy.” 

“Good boy.” 

The praise gets to his head. He groans and says, “You are trying to kill me.”

Stratt laughs again. “You are fun to wind up. Like one of those toys.”

“Call me a toy one more time and I am going to cum so hard.”

“No, you won’t,” says Stratt, smugly. “Because you can’t do it unless I say you can. Remember?”

Grace whines pitifully. She pats him on the head in consolation. 

“It’s okay,” she soothes. “Just be good for me and let go of my wrist so we can continue where we left off, okay?”

And what else can Grace do but follow her command?

She kisses him again, deep and with tongue, and as she pulls away, she says, “Let me know when you’re close.”

She jerks him off, softly, slowly, an excruciating tease, speeding up every so often just to slow back down once he gasps, “Close, I’m close,” bringing Grace to the edge only to bring him back down again until he’s breathing heavy, writhing on the sheets with a thin sheen of sweat covering the entirety of him, until he’s begging, “Please let me cum, please, please, please, please, mommy, please,” and he almost can’t take it anymore, so painfully hard and pent up. 

She has him spit on her hand once the precum has dried and stopped coming, just to make it last longer, and she is beautiful and amazing and perfect, whispering, “It’s okay, Grace, you can do one more, just one more, I know you can." 

When she finally lets him, Grace is so lightheaded and dumb that he barely registers her permission — “Okay, good boy, you can do it. You can cum for me now.” — before he’s painting her hand a slightly opaque white, his entire body erupting in spasms while stars burst behind his eyelids. His orgasm is almost violent, and it seems to go on for years.

And as he comes down from his euphoria, she holds him, whispering praise and precious nothings, “Good boy, good boy, you did so good for me, you’re perfect.”

And he tries to reciprocate in his haze of pleasure, but she just holds him down, kisses him, and she says, “It’s okay, Grace. You were perfect for me already.”

Stratt has to leave the next day for a meeting, and while she’s gone, Grace occupies himself by internet surfing. He catches up on post-apocalyptic human culture, which is basically the same as it was all those years ago, just more glib and nihilistic. 

He searches up “Harry Styles” and listens to the ten albums released that he never got the chance to listen to. He thinks they’re good, but Sign of the Times will forever be his favorite. He searches up “Antarctic Sadness” and finds a million different articles written about the phenomenon. He searches up “Eva Stratt” and there are articles about her too, but he does not bother clicking in on any of them because none of these reporters know her the way he knows her. He searches up “Hail Mary” and the search results show the prayer. Hail Mary, full of Grace….  He searches up “Project Hail Mary” and looks at the images. He looks younger in the crew pictures. Awkward and eager to please. Intelligent but clumsy. In most of them, he’s standing beside Stratt, colder in her youth, detached and concentrated. A diamond under pressure. 

They’ve always looked good together, Grace muses to himself. She’s all sharps and darks and he’s all soft and dork. Their contrast compliments each other. But they’re not all too different. They’re both passionate. Intelligent. Curious. Doomed to betrayal. Will do the right thing regardless. 

Grace searches up “Petrova Line” and finds a promising article that states the brightness of the Petrova Line has diminished by fifty percent. He searches up “Grace’s Ship” and finds a website dedicated to tracking where the xenonite ship he returned to Earth in is in the sky. Apparently, it’s hovering above South Africa. 

He texts Stratt, Wyd

Helping negotiate peace treaty, Stratt texts back a minute later. Lol.

Home in time for dinner?

Probably not.

What if there’s a show involved 😉 (The show is me, stripping) 

Lol. No. I’m too far to get back in time for dinner. Gonna stay here for like 2 days. Fml.

Wtf. Where u at bbg

Top Secret. Haha. 

Why do you laugh more in text than irl

Lol. Jk. I’m in Atlantic International Waters. 

Ok. Be safe. 

Smell u l8r. Lol.

He gets bored. He has nothing to do. He has no job, nobody else to text. He answers science-related questions on Quora. He orders Viet and eats pho while watching reruns of The Simpsons. He falls asleep. 

Stratt returns morning the second day. 

She wakes Grace up with a gentle tug at his sleeve, and Grace blinks up at her through his sleepiness, managing, “Oh, hey, you. How was work?”

"Good. How was home?"

"Good."

Stratt changes into house clothes — she’s brought her own this time, a loose gray shirt and black shorts — while Grace brushes his teeth.

And while they’re drinking coffee together in the kitchen, Grace blinks at Stratt, amazed by the domesticity of the moment.

They’ve kissed, they’ve done more, she comes home to him. She’s worn his clothes and they touch and they have long, winding conversations. They eat together. Watch TV together. Drink coffee on lazy mornings with shoulders pressed together. It’s so… homey. 

And in the middle of thinking this is a side of her I’ve never seen before, he realizes that this is a side of her that’s always been available to him. This softness, this kindness, these offers of affection. All those years ago, he used to wonder if all the affection she gave — those pats on the back, her always being the first the clap at the end of his speeches — were like treats an owner would give to their dog to keep them happy, to keep them doing tricks. He used to wonder if she only really bothered with him because of what he brought to the mission.

Now, with nothing hanging over them, no longer a mission to fulfill, no reason to be so near, no reason for her to even be here with him…. The truth becomes all too obvious. 

Stratt finishes her coffee. She sets the empty mug down on the sink for Grace to wash up later. She hates doing the dishes. Grace has been in love with her for decades, so he bears it. 

Stratt turns to Grace. She asks, “How do you feel about stargazing tonight?”

That about confirms it, Grace thinks. She’s been in love with him, too. 

Stratt drives them East to Yosemite during sunset. Grace would’ve driven, except his driver’s license has been expired for a very long time, and the car the US government provided him with is a small sedan that Stratt deems “a little wimpy looking”. 

So. Stratt drives them East. These days, she drives a black Toyota Tacoma. It’s slightly different from the black SUVs that used to chauffeur her around, but somehow, Grace thinks it’s still very fitting for her. She takes good advantage of the big tires and lifted wheels once they get to Yosemite, driving them off road and parking in a big clearing a good ways away from the asphalt.

Grace and Stratt set up in the bed of the truck with the blankets and foods they packed and while they snack, they settle into easy conversation. 

“Must not look very impressive to you,” Stratt assumes, looking up at the clear, starry skies, “after you’ve been much closer.”

Grace shrugs. Shakes his head. He puts his glasses on and looks up. He spots Orion with little effort, and after he does that, the rest of the crew come to him much easier. Ursa Major. Ursa Minor. Taurus. Pisces. If he strains his eyes a little, he can see the five naked-eye planets. Venus is brighter than he remembers. 

“Not really.” Most of space is empty. Planets and stars light years away from each other, which is an impossible distance to truly conceptualize. “You don’t get as good a view as this up close.”

Stratt hums. Moments later, the cool night breeze kicks in, so Grace offers Stratt his knit fox cardigan. She accepts, and they both bundle up close with blankets around them, passing between each other a large thermos of coffee. 

“How long until Venus dims back to normal?” Grace asks. He could run the numbers in his head, but he doesn’t have the human side of it like Stratt does. He knows the rate at which taumoeba are able to ingest and metabolize astrophage, knows the rate of which both are able to reproduce, but he doesn’t know when the rockets of taumoeba launch and from where, doesn’t know how many are in each rocket.

Stratt swallows her mouthful of coffee and answers, “Not long. At the rate we’re breeding taumoeba, five years. We’ll keep launching them to Venus after, but that’s preventative, really. Astrophage will be long gone by then.”

And Grace processes this as he steals back the thermos and takes a drink. It’s almost unbelievable, the thought of it. The star virus that changed the course of his life, of Earth’s life, vanquished just like that. 

“Wow," he marvels. "Five years and it’s all gone.”

And Stratt clicks her tongue. 

“Well. All gone from Venus,” she corrects. “We’ll keep breeding it here on Earth.”

And it’s something that should sound absurd, something that someone who didn’t know any better would oppose. But Grace knows better. Knows that astrophage is the perfect fuel source, incredibly efficient and eco-friendly when not on actively feeding on the Sun. Knows that neglecting this resource is stupid, moronic. He understands.

He also knows that abusing it is almost inevitable. Grace is no political analyst, no expert on humanity, but even he can see astrophage bombs might be a thing of the near future. He hopes humanity has grown kinder in the years he was gone, but he knows that human cruelty and negligence is as selfish and enduring as kindness is selfless and prevailing. 

“I just hope we don’t repave over another Sahara for that,” he voices. 

And Stratt shakes her head. 

“Oh, no, we won’t,” she reassures. “No more ecocide, remember? International laws, and such.”

And Grace snorts. “Right. I remember.”

She smirks at him fondly. He smiles back. And she turns her gaze away, looks back at the sky. 

Earth fits her like a glove, Grace thinks. Work and business and humanity. Always buzzing around, from country to country to international waters to international waters. Always on the phone or on her laptop, emailing a president or prime minister or CEO. 

She’s important here. Even demoted and shunned, even technically on the run, she’s still without argument the most important human in the world. Making changes behind the scenes, needing no recognition for the hard work she does. Fixing things. Making them better. 

And he’s there. 

He passes her the thermos. And then he looks down at his hands.

And he confesses, “This world’s moved on without me, I think.”

And Stratt closes the thermos. Sets it down. 

She asks, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” breathes Grace. The breeze seems to breathe with him, or maybe through him. “Just... doesn’t seem like I fit into it anymore.”

“That’s ridiculous,” laughs Stratt. And there is a nervous sort of lilt to her voice. 

Grace tilts his head, doubtful. 

“Is it, though?” He shrugs. “Feels like I did my part, and the rest is up to you all.”

“Your part was a huge part,” Stratt points out stubbornly.

It’s not the point.

“Yes, but it’s over.” Grace shakes his head. He’s not quite sure if she’s understanding him. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Stratt blinks at him. “I don’t know, live the rest of your days in satisfaction knowing you saved the world?”

“There’s no satisfaction without purpose,” Grace says. And he wants to say what he means, which is, I realized just now that I came back to Earth and other than you, there’s nothing else for me here. But he doesn’t say it.

Stratt stares. She says nothing for a while. And then, “You’d go back to Erid?” 

It’s clear she is trying to keep her voice level, calm, detached. But there is a small hint of accusation that seeps through, a small hint of sorrow, betrayal. 

Grace’s averts his gaze. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” I’m not stupid, Grace, her face is saying. “You feel purposeless on Earth and there is nothing keeping you here, and across the galaxy, far, far away is your best friend and an entire alien species that needs a teacher.”

She’s… unfortunately accurate. Except for one thing. 

“You keep me here,” he says. This means, I love you.

Stratt frowns deeply. She knows, more than anyone, how love can be everything and still not be enough. 

“You could teach here, too,” she offers. Always offering solutions. Can't sit with a problem without feeling the need to solve it. Her voice is soft. She looks a little pained. “At a university. Any university you want. We’ll make it happen.”

Grace shakes his head gently. “It wouldn’t help.” 

Stratt suggests, “Or you and I could move. The Italian countryside, or Japan, or Norway. You could travel to all these places you’d never seen before.” 

There might be desperation in her voice, or Grace is imagining it. 

“I’ve had my fill of traveling.”

“You could come with me. Anywhere I go. Everywhere I go. Like before.”

“And watch you fulfill your purpose while I stand useless beside you?”

Stratt breathes, “You’re never useless, Grace.”

“It’s not the point.”

Stratt pulls away from him. She pulls his cardigan tight around her body. She tries to glare but it’s not effective when she’s clearly fighting back tears.

“You’d go back,” she says, an air of disbelief or refusal in her voice which is still so soft, because it always is. “Sixteen light years away, and you’d go back.“

“It’s only really a year away,” Grace tries, and he smiles, but it doesn’t get to his eyes. 

And Stratt’s composure breaks. Her face falls, her eyes water. Her voice cracks when she says, “We’ve lost so much time already.”

Grace hesitates. He shifts in his seat.

He tries to comfort her, says honestly, “I haven’t made my mind up, yet. It’s a difficult decision to make.”

Stratt cannot even bear to look at him anymore. She just exhales sharply. 

Replies, “All those years ago, I begged you to go.” The world was ending. “Now, I’m begging you to stay.” World’s not ending anymore. 

Grace doesn’t know what to say to that. He looks to the stars. Looks out into the vastness of space. Looks to God. Looks inside of himself. Just looks. 

Stratt stands suddenly, walks off the bed of the truck, and gets into the passenger side. Grace watches after her with alarm, and he’s about to follow her back inside the truck, but he looks in through the rear slider, and he watches her open the glovebox to take something out. She comes back to him moments later holding a large cylinder in her hands. Grace recognizes it immediately as a xenonite capsule. His eyes go wide. 

Stratt does not meet his eyes. She just passes him the capsule. 

“It’s from your friend,” she says, her voice sounding pained. “Rocky. Seems like he’s our very first intergalactic penpal.”

Grace’s eyes are still wide. He turns the capsule in his hands. “When did you get this?”

“Arrived three days ago,” Stratt responds softly. “Got to me this morning. Nobody’s translated it, yet.”

And Grace twists open the capsule. Inside is a CD and small Rocky and Adrian replica figures, all made of xenonite. Grace can’t help but smile.

“He must’ve sent this last year, then.”

Grace holds the disc gently. Such a light thing but still so heavy. 

He looks up at Stratt. She’s still not looking at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” He whispers.

And for a while, she doesn’t answer. Grace begins to think she might not have an answer. But then she speaks. 

“I thought perhaps tonight would go differently,” Stratt admits, chuckling humorlessly. The way she says it, all hopelessly and saddened, pulls at something in Grace’s chest. “That I’d take you deep into one of Earth’s most beautiful forests, and we’d stargaze, and I’d convince you, somehow, that Earth is where you need to be. And at the end of the night, I’d let you listen to whatever message he sent you with the confidence that nothing he says would change your mind, that he won’t charm you back into going away."

She shakes her head, continues, "But I can see now that there is someplace else you’d rather be. And I can’t hold this from you waiting for the moment where I’m confident you won’t want to leave. Because if it doesn’t come now, it will never come.” 

Grace blinks at her.

“You’re scared I’ll hear what he has to say and it’ll make me leave,” he summarizes. 

And Stratt nods miserably. She looks very vulnerable, then. “In so many words, yes.”

Grace laughs breathlessly. He places the disc back into the capsule. He wraps his arms around her, pulls her close against his chest.

He says, “I won’t make my decision now. We have time.”

She urges, “You have to decide.”

He can hear what she really means. I can’t bear not knowing. She’s a woman who needs certainty. She’s a woman who needs answers right as the question presents itself. 

“Always a time crunch with you,” Grace teases. “World’s not ending anymore. We can have this moment to ourselves.”

And Stratt despite her stubborn nature, she melts into his arms. He smiles, points at the sky, and she follows his finger. 

“First one to see a satellite wins,” he says.

She doesn’t miss a beat. She points at a line of moving, twinkling dots. “Starlink.”

Grace laughs, jostling her against his chest. He points out a bright streak, moving quicker. “BlueWalker 3.”

She sniffles. “I already won.”

“That you did,” Grace snorts, shaking his head. “That you did.”

They drive home listening to music. Stratt spoons Grace to sleep. They wake up together, Grace in increments and Stratt all at once. She finishes up brewing his coffee just as he pads into the kitchen to enjoy it with her. They kiss. Stratt bounces off new international policies to him. He reads her new publications on scientific journals. They go out to eat at an Olive Garden that used to be a family-owned Viet restaurant, thirty years ago. 

People stop him in the streets. They say, “Oh my God, are you Dr. Grace?”

And she steps back to let him have his moment,  and he says, “Yeah, yeah I am.” 

And they thank him. They thank him so much. Take a picture with him. Shake his hand fiercely. And he excuses himself, reaches for her hand, and walks away.

Back in Stratt’s car, he reaches over the center console to tuck a couple loose strands of hair back behind her ear.

She says, “Thank you.”

It means more to him than any other thanks. 

Back home, she kisses him against the door to the bedroom. She says, “I love you.”

It means more to him than anything. 

He listens to the CD while she is gone to work. He’ll tell her about it, of course, but it’s just something he needs to do alone. 

He puts it in a CD player, hits “play,” and Rocky’s voice, rhythmic and musical, comes back to him all at once. 

He sounds happy. Sounds excited. Then again, he always does. 

“Hello, Grace! It is me, Rocky. If you cannot tell from sound of my voice.” 

Grace laughs. He feels, suddenly, the need to cry. Can’t blame him. You can’t exactly spend sixteen years in space fostering a best-friendship and not feel at least a little bit emotional when you hear your best friend’s voice after a year without it. He misses Rocky. Misses Erid. Misses space. 

Rocky’s voice continues. 

“We sent you back to Earth three human month ago. Rocky figure, if we can send Grace to Earth, we can send message to Earth. So I have made human CD to send to Earth. Just saying hi! Hope Grace doing good and is fulfilling mission he went back to do. Erid is better than ever. School children hate school but they are good. Rocky is good. Adrian is cranky, but Adrian good. Everything is so amazing.” 

In the background, Grace can faintly hear Adrian calling to Rocky. “Dinner ready!"

"Just a second!" Rocky calls back. "Doing message for Grace!"

"Save doing message for later! Dinner now! Rocky make mate impatient.”

Rocky makes a sound that is the Eridian equivalent of a long, pained sigh. 

“Rocky make mate impatient,” he repeats for Grace. “Must make mate happy. Miss Grace, love Grace, come back soon! Or send message if staying longer. How human say? Hit my line.”

The message cuts. Such a stupid fucking message. Grace has tears streaming down his stupid fucking face. 

When Stratt returns that evening, Grace is waiting for her in the entry hallway. 

“Oh,” she says. “You’re still awake?”

He ambushes her into a hug. He holds her close like she is treasure. She is confused, but melts into him anyway.

“I listened to the message,” Grace says into her hair. 

And she does not stiffen. Just melts further into his hug, as if this is the very last. She breathes, “And?”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”