Chapter Text
The street lamps of Paris, France, were for some reason on another, orange.
The entire street was painted in varying shades of orange and yellow, and whatever was untouched by the soft glow of the light was tucked away into crisp shadows. Dr. Ryland Grace would care to continue waxing on about the poetic nature of it all, if he was still certain he had a job the next day. Signs are currently pointing to no.
It was 2017 and the annual UNESCO conference had met for its first ever Biodiversity Science-Policy Conference, with it allegedly being the year for international biodiversity. Ryland internally groaned. He loved science, he loved biology, he certainly loved biodiversity.
But an International Year of Biodiversity??
He shrugged. He was mad at someone, and it wasn't the intern that coined that name.
He ducked around a group of rowdy french teenagers, his steps not as measured as they usually are. The bronze light caught it, his shadow looking as wobbly as he is.
Back to the conference.
It was 250 of the world's leading scientists, their teams, and their research. The idea was to kind of get all of these smart people in one room and figure out the secret to stopping climate change and deforestation and pollution and war- all of it.
But Ryland had published his paper on questioning one of the biggest pillars of truth in science only 3 months ago. Obviously that was why he was invited, not because his research in graduate and during his doctorate merited being selected. But because his article in the American Association for the Advancement of Science’s journal had over 30,000 interactions, ranging from broadly supportive to this question even being asked, to downright offended he dared to ask it.
So of course he said yes to the invitation for a free flight to France.
He didn't know however that he signed up for days of questioning and prodding and uncomfortable social situations. He was routinely stopped and debated with. On the way to a panel, leaving a roundtable, even going for the continental breakfast at the hotel.
So he maybe might’ve called the leading scientist in his field a… waste of space. One could say. Euphemistically.
So now it was 4 hours later, he’d lost his blazer, and had finally remembered how to say ‘thank you’ in french.
He walked into the tavern, Le Shamrock, and sat on one of the barstools.
“Que veux-tu?” the bartender asked him, as he wiped the counter in front of Ryland.
Ryland raised his brows.
The bartender sighed, and something sounding like ‘Americans’ tumbled out under his breath.
“What do you want?” he finally said, an attempt at an American accent sounding abysmally too French.
“Shot of vodka and…” he squinted at the menu. “Pint of Guinness please” he set the euros on the counter.
The bartender collected the money, giving him a coin in change, before sliding the drinks in front of the scientist.
Ryland wasn't a drinker, even during undergrad or whenever he became legal. Sure whenever his friends wanted to go out, he would, but he would mainly nurse the same beer slowly sipping it to feel a slight buzz of contentment. His friends would always joke that it would take the sun exploding for Ryland to actually get drunk, to which he would correct them that 7 minutes is not nearly enough time to get blackout before being vaporized.
His friends stopped making that joke.
The well vodka burnt his throat slightly, but the worst part was the aftertaste. He chased it with a sip of his beer, his brain finally calming down after a little bit more alcohol entered his bloodstream.
Initially he was just sitting in the bar of the lobby of the conference, ordering a glass of whiskey, hence the slight unevenness in his cadence throughout the cobblestone streets. But after a few too many sideways glances and questions, he left, finally stumbling into another bar. But his thoughts followed him there too. So he now sat in a dimly lit knock off Irish pub in one of the arrondissements, and with only an anti-american bartender as his comrade. His brain was finally stopping the endless berating of his actions recently, as he finally breathed. He turned around and looked at some of the gaudy Irish decor, a slight smile on his face.
He sipped on his beer as he took in the few French people out this late on a Thursday, their partners, their friends.
Suddenly his eyes found a familiar face.
A lit only by candlelight from the small pub table, her eyes crinkled at the joke just told.
Her head tipped back, the grin wide and unbridled by social anxiety.
Ryland pushed through the alcohol haze, placing you at the conference, specifically on the panel of solar power and its advancement of scientific applications. His brain was mainly focused on his colleague who was on the panel, but remembered the points you made about the use of spectroscopy to identify cancerous cells and their treatments, and how that same technology could hypothetically be applied to finding life on exoplanets. Groundbreaking stuff, whatever funding you were searching for you were going to get.
He didn’t realize however, that all of these thoughts were causing him to look at you for a long time, and as you ran a hand through your hair before he could see you visibly shift in posture. Your head whipped around, searching before locking into eye contact with Ryland.
He turned away and chugged the rest of his beer, setting down a 10 euro slip and ordering another set of shot and beer. Its not like he has work tommorrow, at this rate anyways.
He decidedly tried not to remember that he just saw you in a skin tight glittery gold skirt. Or how low cut your top was. Or the scuffs on your Adidas Superstars.
He also tried to not remember that his glasses were dangling off his face, his tie was stuffed into his pocket, or that his shirt was slightly unbuttoned.
Or when the slight burn of alcohol hit his throat, he realized he also knew you because he cited your dissertation in his, finally placing your name. He used your work on applied solar importance as a rebuttal argument under the "Goldilocks Zone is for Idiots” section of his paper. Also known as the part where he tore apart other theses. Including yours.
He cringed.
He ran his hand through his hair before resting his head on his hand, sipping on his second beer.
Suddenly he felt the air shift around him, the stool next to him being moved.
His eyes shifted upwards, to see you next to him, maybe a yard apart, ordering another drink.
“Un Hugo Spritz, s'il vous plaît” you spoke perfect french to the bartender, his face lighting up. “Tout de suite, Madame,” he swiftly took the euros on the counter as you smiled.
The stool creaked as you dragged it out from under the bar, the sound of your bracelets hitting the counter shook him out of the socially unacceptable amount of time he stared at you.
He turned his head sharply back to the bar, reciting space facts mentally to calm down his beating heart. But alcohol made it slightly harder.
The sun is 4.6 billion… your shoes are white and gold, scuffed on the sides
Kepler's 3rd law states p… there was a slight tattoo peeking out from under your shirt on your ribcage
Venus, Mercury, Mars, Earth- Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars-
He couldn't focus.
He looked at you again, deciding it was a socially acceptable amount of time to glance at you again.
Except you were staring right back at him.
Smiling.
“Dr. Grace” you said, your white teeth practically glowing in the dim yellow bar light, your smile like a fox that had just captured its next meal. You stuck your hand out like you were still at the conference, or maybe a peer on a panel, or even like Ryland was interviewing to just occupy some of your mental space. The bartender slid the drink across the bar to you, a mint leaf sticking out the top.
Ryland glanced at your drink, your hand, and finally, back at the face that had quickly permeated his thoughts for the night.
He tentatively reached his hand out, noticing your firm grip on his limp one.
He managed an awkward smile, suddenly fixing his posture and putting his glasses on correctly/ Your lips curled into a smile around the straw, as your body was practically the definition of at ease. The silence enwrapped both of you, you calm and him fidgeting. The previous alcohol in his bloodstream wasn't actually helping anything, instead making him hyper-aware of how much it's making him feel socially inept.
“And here I thought you always had an answer to everything, Dr. Grace” you said, a soft layer of alcohol coating your voice. The panels had ended probably around 2 hours ago, and you definitely had gotten ready to go out, so you probably were also 1-3 drinks deep, like him.
Ryland finally realized what you were really saying before bashfully trying to stack the empty glasses to get them out of the way, shoving them to the far lip of the bar.
“Uh hi, hello” he said, his voice trying to find its footing.
There you went again, smiling like he just told you the funniest thing.
“Hello.” you said, sipping your drink again. “What a day huh”
He didn't know if you knew he had just completely thrown what some scientists, professionals, and scholars would maybe call “a socially unacceptable insult” at the leading microbiologist in his field. Or if you simply were talking about the 4 panels on the importance of STEM education that were held today.
So he simply nodded, retucking the arm of his glasses behind his ear.
You sipped your drink a little bit longer while Ryland's eyes searched your body, curiosity and anxiety spiking his stomach.
He chose to stay quiet. About everything. From the dissertation, to the conference, to all the other million things he’d fucked up recently.
You noticed.
“So do you speak French?” You asked, twirling the straw of your drink in circles, the ice churning.
Ryland shook his head, sipping his beer. Be cool.
“No, I- I uh took Latin in school, immediately dropped it whenever I got to undergrad.” he stuttered out. You nodded solemnly, your face showing no surprise.
Ryland mentally congratulated himself on being so chill, before realizing that in social situations, it's natural for him to ask the follow up.
“Do you?”
Oh my god. Of course you do. He just heard it. What-
“Yeah. I speak a couple of languages” You said like you were describing the weather. Rylands eyebrows raised. Be it the alcohol, be it the anxiety of public humiliation and the knowledge he tore your entire doctoral thesis apart, but he was feeling chatty. Finally.
“Really?” He sipped his beer.
You finally looked up at him, the twinkle in your eyes returning, soft and bright.
“Yeah. English, Spanish, French, Dutch, and I’m learning Mandarin”
Ryland was in slight awe.
“Youre one of the.. the… “ his brian stalled and he wanted to blow his brains out at that moment.
You laughed a little. “Polyglot. I’m a polyglot.”
A soft smile graced Rykland's face. “Wow, that 's insane. 5 languages” he sounded as impressed as he was.
You shrugged. Rylands brian was trying to figure out the time needed to learn that many languages, especially since it didn't sound like any language besides English was your heritage language-
“Any reason?” His brain barely caught up to what he was saying before he said it
You looked at him. Deeply and truly searching his soul. He fidgeted slightly.
You ran your hand through your hair, it somehow became even prettier at your slight adjustment.
“I worked at ALMA for a while, down in Chile, and took Spanish throughout school. I learned French when I first started working for ESA, and then Dutch because I moved under the director, and she's Dutch. Mandarin just for fun” you said, casual and like it was common for people to pick up languages that their boss spoke.
Rylands wide eyed gaze locked into yours, impressed all over again. You seemed a little bored, but Rylands brian was working overtime trying to calculate how many hours you had probably devoted to learning another language, especially given their category ranking from the U.S. Department of State.
“I’ve never heard of someone learning so many languages-" He began, before your eyes slid over to him, a slight glint in them.
“Youre not drunk enough for someone who embarrassed themselves today.” You said, your voice not mocking, or condescending, simply observational, like you were telling him how many quirks made up an atom.
Ryland was immediately snapped out of his mental loops, focusing on you again. Your tone was light, and you had somehow pulled out a 10 euro bill.
“Tout ce qui me permet de faire 4 clichés avec ça, s'il vous plaît.” You said to the bartender as Ryland's blood was rushing cold. He had no clue what you said, his stomach knotted and twisted, the anxiety not foreign to him.
You turned back to him, “Not that I think it was particularly terrible. Hernandez-Rios is a little pedantic and can occasionally harp on older schools of thought-” 4 small glasses were slid back down the bar to you. “Merci,” you smiled, continuing, “but don't tell her I said that” you picked up 2 of the glasses and handed one to Ryland.
“She was my boss at ALMA,” you smiled.
Ryland was in for a long night.