Work Text:
A/N: Working title: the Denmark fic. We won't talk about how much googling I did for the sake of a PWP - I hope you all appreciate what I go through for you, strattlandia.
I now have to use Freak4Freak Ryland Grace/Eva Stratt on every fic, because in case anyone hasn't been informed - it's now a searchable tag! We did it Joe!
Timeline shit: for my sake, making it clear - this is ten years before launch of the Hail Mary, six years before Ryland is asked to join the project. Ryland is 27, Eva is 32.
Title from I Think He Knows by Taylor Swift - one of my favourite horny Taylor songs, yes. I'm on tumblr and twitter @ heavensbeehalls, so come connect! If you enjoy, leave kudos or a comment or a funny quote tweet, I treasure them all.
On with the show! Please enjoy young Strattland and Ryland being an idiot!
So, in essence - it has been three days in Denmark, he lost a bag on the way here, his spare glasses were broken by an unforgiving bout of turbulence, and the smug face of a respected colleague made him lash out and end his own career.
And an email just popped through on this bar's terrible public WiFi to let him know his flight back has been overbooked and he will be placed on standby for the flight the next morning - a punishing flight, having to enter the USA in New York instead of San Francisco, everything going wrong.
Ergo, in conclusion, he has argued - there's nothing to do but get drunk in this sticky woody bar and watch the fascinating swirl of the water of his own life go spiralling down the drain.
(His metaphors are already mixing like paint colours. It may be the three beers he's already drunk on an empty stomach.)
The clink of a glass being set down in front of him, and the bartender says, "From the lady at the corner booth."
He twists on his stool, almost falls, and swivels his eyes to the booths. An older couple holding hands, a rowdy group of what look to be college students, and a woman on her own who raises her glass to him in the warm light.
Christ. It could be the beer talking, but she's gorgeous. Sharp jaw, strong nose, short slicked back hair in that blonde so silver it can't be natural. Sitting alone in the booth like she owns it, like no one would dare to come into her space, hand wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. She looks like she knows the bouquet of her wine choice, the sort of person who takes thoughtful sips.
He slides down from the barstool, a very careful adjustment to ensure he doesn't stumble, and crosses to her, the glass of clear liquid she sent him sloshing in his hand. "Is this straight vodka?" he asks, his tongue thick, his lips heavy around the correct pronunciation. "Cause beer before liquor, never sicker."
"It is water," she says. Perfect English - it didn't even occur to him to wonder whether she'd speak it. Soft accent, her voice low and, yeah, fuck it, sexy in the low light. He can't place her accent. European. "I have sat here and watched you drink like you are running from something."
"Maybe I am," he says, and sniffs the glass.
She arches one - perfectly shaped, darker than her hair - eyebrow. "You don't believe me when I say it's water?"
"Maybe you want to get the dumb American tourist hammered so you can, like...rob me," he says, and her lips purse. "Oh God, I...not that I think you would rob me, you look like a nice respectable lady, I...I think I'm gonna go not be here. Uh, thanks for the water."
She looks up at him steadily. Her eyes are the colour of paint water. No, that's a shit metaphor. Doesn't capture the interplay of blue and grey in her eyes, the piercing shine of them.
They look - and he hates himself a little for this thought - like water. The best water. Water in the wind, in the storms, water to be watched, waves rushing over his feet curled into the sand while a bird caws thematically overhead.
And she darts those eyes to the seat opposite her in the booth and says, "Sit."
"Um-"
"You are in imminent danger of sliding off that stool," she says, and pats the table in front of her. Her hands are pretty, slender fingers and bare nails. A ring on her finger. "Sit. Drink water."
He does both, and the thirst hits him like a freight train, half the glass gone in three gulps.
And he looks at her across the table, the way the loose dark fabric of her sweater looks against her wrists, and says, "I'm Ryland."
One corner of her mouth tilts up in a suggestion of a smile. "Eva."
"Eva," he says, rolling the taste of her name around his mouth like candy. Her eyebrows lift slightly, amused, and he wonders if he overexaggerated the accent. "Can I buy you a drink?"
She smiles, and he feels a little like a sheep facing down a wolf. "I have a drink," she says, inclining her wine glass towards him.
"Can you finish it, and I'll buy you another drink?"
"I like to take my time-"
"Jesus, do you always make it this hard to hit on you?" he asks, and she tilts her head softly, blinking those ocean eyes at him. "Fine. Fine."
"Did I say I wanted you to stop hitting on me?" she asks, and yes, his jaw does drop. He watches the way the rim of her glass rests against her lower lip, the smear of mist on the glass from her hot breath, the grease spot of lip balm, the motion of her throat when she swallows.
She sets her glass down, eyes bright, and softly says, "My glass is empty. I'm drinking red."
He grins, saunters away to the bar and orders another glass of wine, basking in the glow of the smirk on the bartender's face. Goes back to her, settling himself into the booth. Slipping off his blazer and rolling up his sleeves, watching her eyes linger on his forearms as she takes a sip of wine.
"So," he says, quirking his mouth in his most flirtatious smile, "in all the bars in all the world, what brings you to this one?"
"Work," she says, and he's enthralled by the one word answers, the steady expression on her pretty face. "You?"
"Lack of work, I guess," he says, shrugs. "I got fired today."
"Sorry," she says, and just because it's one word doesn't make it feel any less genuine. The first person who's actually said it. "Why?"
He takes a sip of the top-up he bought himself, sighs, and says, "I called an 'esteemed colleague'," he gestures quotation marks, feels the warm static of the booze in his fingertips, "a staggering waste of carbon."
She giggles. Looks startled by it herself, the dainty sound ringing between them, and a wave of something rears in the pit of his stomach. Well, call a spade a space - it's arousal.
Her eyes shine at him across the table, and she asks, "Well, did they deserve it?"
"Oh yeah," he says. "He's just...an asshole. He's actually publicly talked down on my ideas before."
"What ideas?" she asks. "What do you do?"
"I have a doctorate in molecular biology," he says, and one of her eyebrows arches. "Yes, I'm impressive."
"Indeed," she says. "Tell me your ideas."
"I wrote my thesis on the hypothesis that water is not essential for life," he says, and she nods, her face focused, her eyes intense. It's...well, incredibly sexy to have someone look at him like that. Girls usually glaze over when he talks about his thesis. "That the Goldilocks zone is overhyped. That's-"
"I know what the Goldilocks zone is," she says, and he flushes. "I work for the ESA."
"Oh wow," he says, rearranging his impression of her in his head. "So, spill - are aliens real?"
"You tell me," she says. "A form of life that water isn't essential for - that would be alien, no?"
"I just believe it's arrogant and human-centric to believe that simply because we need water to survive, so does every possible lifeform in the known and unknown universe," he says, and she tilts her head.
"We are very self-centred beings," she says, and he laughs. "So you're fired for believing in something different?"
"When you put it like that-"
"I like people who believe in things when everyone else tells them they're wrong," she says, and gives him a real smile. Her eyes glitter and her cheeks lift and he takes a slug of beer to distract himself from quite how affected he is by her.
He tries hard not to whine. But it starts spilling out, the way people look at him, invited to speak at the conference but hearing the snorts in the audience, knowing the whole scientific community knows him as the crazy guy who believes in something different. The lost feeling, the exhaustion of academia, of defending himself against all sides constantly.
"So leave," she says, shrugs lightly. "You feel disrespected. Leave."
"Would you-"
"I have," she says. "And I've only found better."
"I'm not...like you," he says, and she smirks.
"You've only known me for an hour," she says. "What do you know about me?"
"I can tell you make people nervous."
"How?"
"You make me nervous," he says, a slip of his booze-loosened tongue. And she smiles at him, pure supervillain, and he gulps.
"I get what I want," she says, taking the last sip of her wine. It stains her lips crimson, tempting and full in the dim light, and his gut twists hot.
"I don't know how to do that," he says. "I guess...I back down. I'm not that brave."
"Didn't you tell me you called someone a staggering waste of carbon a few hours ago?"
"That was not a good thing," he says, and she smiles across the table, her hair flashing in the light. "I'll never be able to show my face around those people again."
"So do something else," she says. "But someone who defends a thesis against the beliefs of the entire scientific community doesn't sound like someone lacking bravery to me."
"When you put it like that," he says, and sags back against the booth. "Who are you, Eva? Are you some magical ghost who knows what happens to me next, here to make me feel better?"
She reaches across the booth and presses her fingers to his wrist. Traces her hand along the veins of his forearm, fingertips ruffling the light dusting of hair across his skin, goosebumps rising in her wake.
"Do I feel like a ghost?" she asks, voice a low, soft murmur.
His cock twitches in interest beneath the table at her cool skin against his, and he clears his throat and says, "No."
"Good," she says, and shoves her glass abruptly to the edge of the table. "I'm going for a smoke. Come on."
He doesn't hesitate. Call her a guardian angel, call her the ghost of Christmas Future, call her a shoulder devil - whatever she is, he wants more of her.
"Bring your coat, we're leaving," she says, slipping out from the booth and revealing her legs. And he shouldn't be so crazy about them, her loose trousers and simple white shirt, shiny boots and the dark blazer she pulls over her shoulders.
But when she turns her head and her shiny hair bounces against her neck he feels like a man finding water in the desert, and hastily shoves his arms into the sleeves of his blazer, following her out into the evening breeze.
She leans against the side of the bar and lights her cigarette, the tip smouldering amber in the purple dusk. Casual, in control. So hot, and he only lasts a few moments of staring out at the rising moon and the faint stars before he steps towards her.
Her eyes rise to meet his, her fingers loose and sure around her cigarette. Even hemmed against the wall, she stands there like she owns the moment, like she is exactly where she wants to be, and it's unbearable.
He drops his head and lands his mouth on hers. Her lips are soft, fruity and peppery from her wine, and the hand not holding her cigarette lands on his shoulder, her fingers digging in for a second.
She presses him back, and he lets out a thoroughly embarrassing, desperate sound when their lips part. So desperate he immediately shoves his hands in his pockets for something to do, shrinking in on himself, and she smirls.
Her hand dips into her pocket, and she holds out a small, round, white mint in the palm of her hand. "I'm not a lover of the taste of beer," she says.
He takes it, hypnotised, pops it into his mouth and leans in again.
"Let me finish my cigarette," she says, and leans back against the wall again, looking up at the sky.
He really must find her sexy, because even her blowing smoke in his face doesn't put him off. Just has him inhaling, loud and proud, tasting smoke that was on her tongue a moment ago.
When she finishes her smoke, stubs out the smouldering end of her cigarette and dumps it into the trash can, he swallows what's left of the mint whole.
She watches him expectantly, leaning back against the wall, her head cocked.
He leans in to kiss her again, and the taste of smoke in her mouth only draws him in further. And her tongue meets his, her arms draping around his neck, fingers sinking into his hair, and he steps closer to press her against the wall, hands against the small of her back.
She's so easy to touch, to want. Sneaking his hands beneath her blazer, her skin warm through the thin fabric of her shirt. She smells like rosemary and jasmine and smoke, and that's his new favourite combination of scents.
"You're gorgeous," he breathes between kisses, and feels her smile against his mouth. Her hand drops down to the small of his back, hauling him closer, their bodies pressed tight together.
His mind melts when her hips grind just slightly against his, an experimental roll. The preparation for UNESCO has eaten up all of his brain power for months, and there hasn't been time for bars and girls and flirtation.
At least, that's his excuse for why he's already getting hard, his cock filling out against her stomach. She breaks the kiss, her tongue lingering across his bottom lip in a way that makes him whimper, glances down and arches an eyebrow. "Eager," she breathes.
"I-"
"Eager boy," she whispers, and that sends a jolt of heat down his spine, blood flowing eagerly to his cock. Her eyebrow arches, and she smirks and pulls him down again, pressing herself into his erection.
She makes a call, has a car waiting for them at the road within a few minutes. He doesn't think to question it, lost in the way the moon reflects in her eyes, the slender elegance of her fingers smoothing her hair behind her ear.
"Give him your hotel," she says in the car, and he does. Stares straight ahead while the driver stays silent through the streets.
Eva's hand on his thigh, crossing casually to his crotch. Driving the heel of her palm down against his cock, and he splutters and grabs her wrist, her smirk evil under the flare of passing streetlights.
She leans across the back seat and breathes, "If you are too drunk to know what you are doing, Ryland, you should say so."
"I want you," he says, and her eyes gleam.
The car drops them outside his hotel, and he fumbles with his keycard to buzz them both up the stairs, to his room. Desperately trying to remember if he left the place tidy, breathing out in relief when he doesn't notice boxers on the floor or socks draped across the bed.
Eva looks around and wrinkles her nose, comments, "They fly you out for UNESCO and give you such a shitty hotel room?"
"It's fine-"
"Small," she comments, slipping her blazer off. Turning back to him and immediately pressing her hand into his cock, and he makes a strangled sound, filling out in her palm. "Not like you, Ryland."
"Holy-"
"You are surprised?" she asks, still touching him, her fingers pressing in, his head thrown back. "I did not follow you home to talk."
"God," he grits out, and kisses her. More intentional, her hands under his blazer, pushing it down, loosening his tie. He can't even bring himself to care about this suit. He's going to burn it, damn away the memories of ruining his own career.
But then he'd lose the memories of Eva's fingers hooked into it. Her unbuttoning his shirt, her fingers sliding through his chest hair, tracing down his happy trail to his belt, his button.
She has him down to his boxers, his cock obviously hard, and she's still in her collared shirt, her heeled boots, hardly a hair out of place. Staring at him like he's a puzzle she's trying to solve, and he resists the urge to slap his hands over himself.
He likes it, the steadiness of her gaze. The feeling of her clothes against his bare skin when she kisses him again, drawing him back towards the bed. He waits to be drawn down on top of her, or maybe to be steered down first, climbed on top of.
But she stops at the end of the bed. Flattens her hands to his shoulder and pushes down, and when he doesn't go she breathes, "On your knees."
If it takes him a second to obey, it's because there's no longer any blood left in his brain. His cock pulses, and Eva glances down and quietly commands, "Take those off."
The carpet beneath his knees is rough, overused, his cock so hard he's leaking. His mouth open when Eva unbuttons her shirt, unhooks her bra, bears herself to him. She's perfect.
A tattoo rests against her ribcage, and he lifts a hand to tap it, asks, "What's this?"
"Did I say you could touch?" she asks, and he retracts his hand hastily. But she smiles, and says, "It's a St. Christopher medallion. They're for safe travels."
"It's beautiful," he says, and she smiles down at him. He stares as she unzips her boots, kicks them over his shoulders and away, and his whole body buzzes with anticipation when her hands go to her waistband.
She spreads her legs, unashamed, and she's pink and wet and perfect, and she orders, "Lick it."
"I-"
"I know you're not stupid," she says, and takes her chin in his hand, pulling him pathetically closer. "Lick my cunt, Ryland."
Her fingers hook into his hair, other hand tossing his glasses aside, and he goes eagerly between her thighs, burying his mouth in her. God, she tastes perfect, sharp and sweet on his tongue, hot against his mouth.
She moans, fingers twisting in his hair, gasps a command of, "Suck," and he seals his lips around her pulsing clit and does exactly as she says.
It's too much, the taste of her, the sounds she's making, and he moves a hand from her knee to his erection, squeezing for a little relief.
Instantly, she kicks, her bare foot catching his cock, and he jerks back, yelping, "What the hell-"
"Did I say you could touch yourself?" she asks, voice forceful despite its softness.
"Christ, Eva-"
"I want to take my time," she says softly. "If it feels that good to eat me out, you'll be disappointed to come before you're inside me, won't you?"
"I-"
"Now get back to work," she breathes, yanks him back between her thighs and grinds messily into his mouth, smearing his jaw wet and messy.
She drapes her legs languidly over his shoulders, moaning when he licks through her folds so slowly, tasting every drop of her slick. He moves back up to her clit, licks, sucks, and her legs tighten around his head, heels digging into his back. "Fuck-"
He pulls away momentarily to take a breath, gasps, "Eva."
"Such a good boy," she whispers, and he makes a strangled sound, magnetised back to her. "You're so good at this. Lick a little harder, Ryland. I like it rough."
He moans into her cunt, and she shudders, parting her legs a little further, and he slides his tongue softly into her. She groans, he feels her fluttering around his tongue, and fucks deeper, tasting her concentrated, forehead pressing into the coarse red hair between her legs.
"Fingers," she hisses, and he moves his mouth back to her clit, slides a finger into her.
He barely meets resistance, feels the hot clamp of her and groans, lifts his head to say, "You feel so good."
"You want that around your cock, sweetheart?"
"Yes-"
"Then be a good boy and make me come," she whispers, and he sucks hard on her clit, worrying his teeth gently against her soft skin. "Ngh, fuck-"
His whole face is hot and he's soaked from nose to chin, and his lungs are screaming, but he can't pull off when she's grinding on his face, clenching around his finger. He adds another, feels her tighten sharply as he fucks his fingers in and out of her, her body rolling and jerking and her moaning getting louder.
She grabs his hair, pulls him closer, grinding her cunt into his mouth, his fingers, gasps something in a language he doesn't know and he feels her pulse hard against his tongue and flood into his mouth.
He stays on his knees, laving his tongue gently through her folds, tasting every inch of her. Pops back with a desperate gasp for air, blinking stars out of his eyes, and finds himself yanked up into his kiss.
His cock bumps her thigh, and he realises how achingly hard he is, blinks down at her and breathes, "Oh my God, that was-"
"Filthy boy," she says, sounding utterly thrilled. "Do you have a condom?"
A long groan, a disappointed, "No-"
"I do," she says. "In my purse. Fetch."
He'll unpack the twitch of his cock at that particular phrase later, instead grabbing the condom from her purse and unrolling it over his cock. Trying to make a joke, a soft, "So, you have a boy in every port?"
"On your back, funny boy," she says, and when he tumbles onto the mattress she slings her leg over his, and he jerks up with a strangled sound when her hand wraps around his cock.
She jerks him off slowly, her fingers and the turn of her wrist elegant, his hips rising in fits and starts to meet her. "You have to stop," he hisses. "Or I'll come."
"Hungry for it, aren't you," she observes. She leans forward, her hand still on him, angling him between her thighs. "Take it, sweetheart."
She drops down onto him in one smooth motion, and he tosses his head back into the pillows and shouts, "Fuck!"
God, she's so gorgeous in the lamplight, hair sticking to her neck, leaning forward to dig her nails into his chest as she grinds on him. He feels the hot tight slick of her cunt around his cock, grabs blindly for any part of her body, groans, "Oh my God, Eva."
"So big," she breathes, and his ego swells. "Maybe after this I'll suck you off."
He looks up at her, pictures her river eyes looking up at him and her cock between her wine-stained lips, has to take a deep, sharp breath and clench up to keep himself from coming. "Give me a chance, Eva-"
"You're gonna be a good boy and not come until I say," she says, and leans down. Her breasts swaying as she rides him, and he lifts his hand to wrap his mouth around her nipple, hot and hard and salty with scent against his tongue. "Yes, sweetheart. Just like that, you look so pretty."
"Where did you come from?" he asks, looking up at her, her face flushed and her eyes glazed with desire.
"East Germany," she gasps, and he laughs, pulling her down into a kiss, rutting up into her. "Ryland-"
He leverages himself up to keep kissing her, their bodies pressed together, sweat on his shoulders. She moves harder when he drops his mouth back to her chest, testing teeth on her skin, her hand grabbing at his hair, his back, his bicep, their hipbones meeting.
She groans when his thumb moves over her tattoo, bucks him back and bounces harder on him, her head thrown back as her body tightens and breaks, as she cries out his name.
He clenches his jaw to hold himself back, and when she comes down she keeps moving on top of him, slow and deliberate lush circles of her hips, and he clutches the bedsheets and begs, "Eva...please-"
"Such a good boy," she breathes, grinding him against herself. "Mmm, Ryland...come for me. Make a mess."
He moans her name and spills hard into the condom. Feels her fingers walking up his chest, a hand behind his neck, a thumb pressing gently into his throat and feeling the way he's panting.
She yanks him up into a kiss, his cock softening inside her, and she's glowing. Like the sun, her eyes bright and her smile sweet. "Wow," he gasps dumbly, and she giggles.
"Wicked boy," she whispers, and despite how hard he just came he feels his cock twitch pathetically. She laughs, climbs off him and curls into his side, a kiss on his shoulder. "Pathetic boy."
"Evil woman," he says, and she laughs so loudly. So free. He sits up, gingerly ties off the condom and throws it away, and rolls on top of her, dancing his fingers over her tattoo again. "I like the ink."
"Ever considered it?" she asks, spreading her fingers across his chest.
"Didn't know what to commit to," he says, and she smiles.
"Favourite animal?"
"Foxes," he says, and she cocks her head. "We used to watch them in the back garden in the spring. They'd bring their kits down to forage."
"You know foxes are seen as spirit guides in Celtic mythology?" she asks. "And in Chinese mythology they can be seen as harbingers of good fortune." She ghosts her fingers over her tattoo and says, "Like St. Christopher."
"You're a nerd!" he says delightedly, and her brow furrows in confusion.
"I work for a space agency, what about me doesn't suggest being a nerd?"
"I don't know, you're so...assured, and cool," he says, and she beams up at him.
"I assure you I can reel off plenty of obscure historical facts," she says. "I love knowing everything. Surely that's obvious."
"Well yeah," he says, and she smiles, nuzzling into his chest. She's so soft, so warm in his arms, her gentle smile. "Tell me things."
And he falls asleep to her listing dates and battles. Wakes up with her still there, tucked into him, and she opens her eyes already gleaming, rolling him onto his back and swallowing his morning erection whole.
She looks stunning with her mouth around his cock, hair falling in her eyes, her swollen lips pressed right to his skin, her face flushed. Swallowing around him and making him grip the sheets, his cock twitching in her throat, the soft sounds he can feel her making sending sparks juddering hard down his spine.
He comes down her throat with a yelp, and she gives him one last kiss before slipping off the bed, moving around the room for her clothes. "My flight is this afternoon," she says, and he lies pathetic and gasping on the bed.
"Where to?"
"France, for now," she says. "Next promotion, who knows."
"A woman of the world," he says.
"Where's home for you?"
"San Francisco," he says. "My flight got overbooked. I don't leave until tomorrow."
"So what will you do today?" she asks, slipping her feet back into her boots.
"I don't know," he says. "Mope. Think about jumping into a river. Email my old boss from when I was a barista and see if he'd take me on and tide me over."
"Don't mope, pathetic boy," she says. "Remember who you are."
"...What if I don't know?" And he immediately regrets saying it, that's way too heavy and vulnerable for a woman he met last night, for a woman who had his cock inside her and in her mouth and doesn't want anything more from him.
"Figure it out," she says. "You're smart. And hey - think about some random woman you hooked up with in Denmark is rooting for you."
"Please give me your number," he says, and she smiles. Something a little haunted, a little sad.
"I'll find you at the next port," she says, shivers. "Can I take a scarf? I didn't think through not having a coat."
"Take a cardigan," he says, gestures vaguely to his suitcase.
She takes the dark green one, wraps it around herself, and smiles. "Bis bald."
"Yeah, auf wiedersehen," he says, and she laughs.
"A formal goodbye for a woman you came inside," she says, and crosses the room to drop a kiss on his lips. "Good luck."
"Safe travels," he says, and watches the door click shut behind her.
He rolls onto his side, and starts to mope. But her voice rings through him, so he gets up. Takes a shower. Gets dressed. Walks down the street for a coffee, watching the world go by.
On the plane home, squished between a sleeping old man and a couple returning from their honeymoon, he applies for a teaching qualification. Screw it, TA-ing was his favourite part of his Masters. He can do it for younger, he's sure.
He starts teaching, watching the kids get excited about science. Dates a girl. Is grateful when she leaves him, because his head still goes back to that night in Denmark, to Eva's soft voice and her eyes.
On his thirtieth birthday, he gets himself a fancy coffee and walks to the tattoo studio. The artist's hair is yellow, and he takes that as a good sign.
"What do you want?" they ask, sketchbook in front of them.
"Fox paws," he says, and they nod approvingly.
They place the stencil over his heart, and he closes his eyes to avoid watching the needle, biting at the inside of his mouth. His artist - their name is Jet, they told him - makes him a sweet cup of tea and hands him a Twizzler from their stash when he's done, and he looks at the dark paw prints on his chest and says, "Thanks."
"Foxes are spirit guides, you know," Jet says, tilting their head.
"I know," he says.
"Significant to you?"
"Sort of," he says, shifting in his seat. "There's been a lot of change for me the past three years. It's...sort of for the person who was the catalyst."
"Ah, a girl?" Jet says, pierced eyebrow arching. "Or a boy? Or a person?"
"A woman."
"Ooh la la," Jet says, clucking their tongue. "You still together?"
"We never got started," he says. "Sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I talk too much."
"Oh honey, I love it," Jet says, beaming. "Like being a hairdresser, but seeing people with their shirts off." He flushes, presses his T-shirt to his chest, and gives Jet a small smile.
He settles into this life. And it's not quite the righteous arguing of his thesis, but he loves his kids. He likes cycling to work, the wind in his hair. Thinking constantly about booking a plane to Denmark and remembering that night. Or to France. Maybe she's still there. Maybe.
Three years after his tattoo, after he marked that turning point, he hits another. The redhead in his classroom, hair the colour of fox fur, blinking at him and telling him the sun is dying.
Stratt seems softly familiar. Maybe he's heard her voice on news reports, with her fancy Petrova Task Force title. She's striking, the tilt of her nose and the sharpness of her jaw, soft-footed around the Vat and controlling every room she's in.
He can feel how it lights him up, working on this. Being looked to as the expert, teaching people about astrophage, Stratt's soft, proud smile on him.
Maybe he does develop a crush. Maybe, sometimes, when he touches himself, he thinks about Stratt and the here and now, not a long ago night in Denmark.
He gets to be her right hand man, at her beck and call, happy at her side. Watching the way she focuses when he explains the science of what they're doing to him, fascinated by the way she gets exactly what she wants out of everyone. He's never met anyone quite like her.
When the air conditioning breaks on the Vat, he goes to maintenance with her and listens to what they say. She stands there fanning herself, and he nudges her and says, "Stratt, come on, just take your sweater off."
"Please!" Ilyukhina puts in, hanging around by a cracked open window and only wearing a sports bra and tight shorts. "Is too hot, silly boss."
Stratt's face hardens, and Ryland looks away respectfully as she reaches for the hem of her sweater.
Her white T-shirt comes up with it, her face flushed as she yanks it down.
He catches a glimpse of the ink on her ribs before it's covered up by white cotton.
"You have a tattoo!" Ilyukhina shrieks gleefully.
And Ryland just stands there, mouthing like a fish.
He knows that tattoo.
"What is it, what is it?" Ilyukhina gasps, and pouts when Stratt (Eva) shakes her head. "Spoilsport, boss."
"It's a St. Christopher medallion," Ryland says hoarsely, and Eva looks up at him.
"Yes," she says. "It is."
"Stratt's tat," Ilyukhina says ecstastically. "You have any ink, Grace?"
"On my chest," he says.
"Show!"
"It's fox paws, Ilyukhina," he says, and she pouts. "I'm not showing you, we're coworkers."
"I am only interested aesthetically," she says, rolling her eyes expressively. "Well, I will return to kitchen. Fridge is cold."
Ryland can't stop staring at Eva now. Following her after maintenance finish what they can, and when they're alone he swallows thickly and says, "You never said your first name was Eva."
"I did, in your classroom," she says shortly. "Not my fault you were not listening properly."
"Stratt...Eva-"
"You didn't recognise me, it's fine," she says. "I am sure you have a girl in every port. One German girl in Denmark doesn't stand out."
"Eva, come on, you think you're forgettable?"
"Clearly, you forgot me-"
"You were blonde!" he exclaims. "And you never told me your last name!"
"Forgive me for thinking we shared a significant night-"
"We did!" he insists. "Eva, I went home and became a teacher and didn't mope because of what you said. I...I have a tattoo because of you!" He scrubs a hand through his hair. "Is...am I here because we hooked up?"
"No," she says. "You are here because you are the best. Because you think you're right when everyone else thinks you're wrong. Because when I asked some of the biggest names in the scientific community, they all told me the man I needed was Doctor Ryland Grace."
"So...in my classroom-"
"I knew it was you," she says. "I would have recognised you. Did, from the articles about Denmark. There couldn't possibly be more than one scandal about someone being called a staggering waste of carbon."
"I think you might be underestimating academic circles," he says, and the slight twitch of a smile pulls the corners of her mouth. "I knew that blonde was fake."
"Shut up," she says, but there's a fondness in her eyes. "All it took to confuse you was my natural hair colour, huh? Maybe you are not as smart as I thought."
"Red hair suits you," he says. And energy sizzles between them, he stares at her body in her white T-shirt and her loose trousers. So similar to how she looked in that hotel room, her eyes hot on his body. "I...Christ, I've been thinking about you basically every day since Denmark."
She tucks a long lock of hair behind her ear, swallows, and says, "Me too."
"You...You changed my life that night," he says, and she smirks.
"Sex was that good, huh?"
"Not just that," he says. "I mean...Eva, I was at the lowest point of my life and you told me to get it together."
"You make me sound mean-"
"You were a little mean," he says. "It worked."
"You liked me a little mean," she says, and he swallows. Nods. "And now?"
"...I still do," he says slowly. "I guess I uh...I have a thing about women who know what they want." He scuffs his foot along the floor and adds, "I have a thing about you."
"Fox paws, huh?" she asks, and he nods. "Show me."
He glances around before he slowly raises the hem of his T-shirt, and she moves closer. Traces her fingers over the solid black of his tattoo, goosebumps rising beneath her finger, and she nods. "It suits you. Subtle."
"Do you have any more?"
"Yes," she says, and a frisson goes down his spine. "You'll see them."
"When?" he asks, and it comes out breathy.
She arches one auburn eyebrow, smirks, and asks, "Would you like to come over tonight, Ryland?"
"Yes-"
"You're sure you remember what to do?" she asks.
He kisses her back against the wall of the corridor, thinking about smoke in her mouth on the streets of Denmark eight years ago, and when her lips touch his he remembers everything.
"I can prove it," he whispers against her mouth.
She smirks up at him, her eyes feral.
"Good boy."