Work Text:
The politician was, well, that was about as far as the descriptor went. The politician was a politician, of a vague senator-ish, congressman-ish, governor-ish shape and idea.
And he. Of course it was he; statistically speaking, the probability that it would be a woman was still nowhere near equal, especially not over here. The dude was so generic it was almost painful. Sure, he could have been the spray-tanned orange type. He could have been the aggressive guyliner variety. He could have been someone pushing full museum-artifact status—actually, that one probably applied here. Academic studies published at his year of birth, graduation, marriage, and legal retirement age were all likely no longer viable for citation anymore, simply due to sheer temporal distance from the present day.
The point was, he was simply… painfully American. Not that politicians of other nationalities weren’t also annoying as fudge; this one was just a bit closer to home… especially with the retrospective gained, after having been, for the first time in his life, properly outside the United States for any substantial length of time—(not counting the unfortunate fiasco in Copenhagen that had rerouted his life enough to land him in the White House now, huh)—even if it was technically in the middle of the ocean on a Chinese military ship, which still absolutely had to count as international exposure—Dr. Ryland Grace was beginning to understand the complaints, the stereotypes, the eye-rolling that tended to follow his fellow citizens abroad.
Yeah.
He could really see it now.... It just… sucked.
The man leaned back in his armchair—well, not his armchair, Grace corrected himself; it was probably government property, or maybe on loan from some museum or gallery somewhere. Meh, honestly, it suited him, by the looks of it, both had already passed their peak structural integrity and were now relying entirely on institutional inertia to stay upright.
Still, he did it with the smug ease of someone who had never been seriously contradicted in his life—though, Grace noted with a faint, almost hopeful sense of inevitability, that particular condition had a limited shelf life in rooms where Eva Stratt was present. One way or another, someone was about to perform a rather abrupt correction to his long-standing experimental error.
Most likely the moment that certain someone finished her cigarette...
Must be nice, Grace thought, having the ego of a rich old guy with enough funding to afford proper healthcare so he wasn’t one unexpected sneeze away from his final yee-haw, who showed up to his cushy job in Washington once a month tops, all while representing a comfortably gerrymandered district somewhere that guaranteed his opinions would keep getting mistaken for competence.
The guy sucked so bad.
This was not what Grace had expected from today. He had only planned to answer a few questions about spin drives—put his little spin on it, ha—maybe nod politely at important people he had already been introduced and reintroduced to far too many times not to remember, and then wander around humming the Hamilton or 1776 soundtracks to himself while waiting for Stratt to suffer through her piece of this very unappetizing diplomatic cake.
Because, yes, to be fair—considering what their workloads looked like these days, especially hers—this whole event was probably the easy part. Stratt even wore makeup today, which in Grace’s increasingly reliable observational system signaled day three, maybe day four, of no sleep. Yikes.
Honestly, getting the nuclear codes of the United States—currently administered by what Grace privately categorized as the world’s loudest democracy, judging by the persistent ringing in his ears, paired with the quietest attention span, judging by how his vocal cords were now actively protesting after repeating explanations about anything and everything roughly ten times to everybody present and clarifying, again and again, that anything belonging to Stratt’s domain was, well… not his domain, so if they could please talk to her, she doesn’t bite…where was he going with this?
Oh right.
The nukes.
What is his life?
The codes for the nukes… signed over and metaphorically placed into Eva Stratt’s hands—actually literally, because Stratt had genuinely received a physical folder placed directly into her hands, which seemed totally unsafe now that Grace thought about it, but hey, still arguably better than a giant red button sitting on the Oval Office desk.
Compared to the normal—well, not normal, but the past-twenty-eight-months kind of normal—in fact, come to think of it, it had truly been the relaxing part of the week. A walk in the park. For her.
Sadly, Grace had never been that into walking. That might have something to do with this country not being exactly the friendliest place for pedestrians.
And it wasn’t like he could hop on his bike, pedal away, and quietly escape the premises, which frankly sounded fantastic right about now. Gosh, he actually missed that bike. He never thought he’d say that. How the turntables.
Maybe Stratt could technically approve it and get him a bike, and he could just do laps around the ship. Olesya had managed to rollerblade through half the meeting rooms and Stratt survived that, so why not—Stratt!
Why was she not here yet?
Grace cleared his throat, checking the doors for what had to be the twentieth time in the last twenty seconds, not fully listening—though, to be fair, the man opposite him wasn’t really listening either, otherwise they wouldn’t be having this exact conversation again.
“Well, as I said, that’s actually not my field. Nor my expertise. I can’t provide any information on the diplomatic logistics of this part of the project, seriously… um, you should probably—”
He gestured toward Stratt—good gravy, yes—who had, thankfully, finally just returned from a smoke break.
She looked slightly recharged, the way someone does after stepping outside for a couple of minutes to scream internally while forcing out a constant polite smile and surviving small talk, which, considering she was German, had to count as a kind of double achievement in emotional endurance.
It would be nice if she joined him soon—sooner rather than later—instead of running circles around him and everyone else across the room though—because what the heck?!
Was she just taking a photo with Tom Hanks?
No, wait.
Was Tom Hanks taking a photo with her?
Since when was he even here?
Then again, Grace dimly remembered that line from The Simpsons—something about whenever the U.S. government needs to borrow some credibility, they bring in Mr. Hanks.
So…
Wow?
Another prediction of the future fulfilled. Such a shame Astrophage never made an appearance in Springfield. They could have wrapped this whole thing up like a year ago, and Grace could go back to hating his crappy old bike with a burning passion.
Grace shot her a desperate please help me look.
She met his gaze immediately and nodded, lips flattening slightly while her cheeks lifted just a fraction, producing what could generously be classified as an almost-smile. Nice!
Then another man—looking suspiciously identical to the one Grace was currently being unwilling entertainment for. What in the Kentucky-fried nonsense is this? As though they had been manufactured in the same factory, and for the love of Walther Flemming, were they multiplying now?—grabbed her, lightly so, to be fair, but still, personal space, people—by the forearm to say something, and for some reason attempted to physically steer her in his direction.
Carl, who had been tailing her, coughed loudly. It was an impressive cough, and it did exactly what it was engineered to do—create just enough temporal interruption for Stratt to disengage without losing her cool.
The man immediately released her, probably assuming the gesture was directed at him as some subtle warning, or fear tactic, or both. He bowed slightly instead, as if nothing had happened, and gestured toward the nearby wine glasses.
Stratt took one.
Then, with the quiet efficiency of someone who, according to Grace’s mental physics model, must have had an extra internal gyroscope installed at birth—because that, at least in Grace’s working theory, was the only way she could possibly be so consistently un-clumsy—she folded the gum from her mouth. Not into a tissue and tucked away in a pocket like a normal person would, but instead bent her knee slightly, lifted her foot just enough…and pressed it into the taut arch of her polished, red-soled heels... glass stable, posture unchanged.
Grace continued, because apparently his knight in shining—four-inch, um, Louboutins?—was temporarily preoccupied with refreshments. Rude. But that didn’t stop him from once again pointing in her direction, because he was truly losing his marbles by now.
“—ask her. She’s the head of the project. And currently, if we’re being technical about it, the closest thing the planet has to—”
Don’t say dictator. Don’t say dictator. Don’t you dare say it.
“A central authority,” Carl supplied from somewhere next to him.
Grace glanced up at him in mild betrayal for not physically escorting Stratt over here along with him, though he was also internally grateful for his friend’s presence. Carl didn’t actually need to be here; the rest of the CIA unit he belonged to—which now meant he effectively belonged to Stratt—could have stayed and waited in the rose—well, technically cement now—garden outside. Yet he had volunteered to follow the queen into battle.
And it was probably easy for him here, partially on home turf, doing what his job description probably was for once. Carl looked serenely unconcerned, unlike how Grace felt, or how Stratt occasionally looked when she thought nobody was paying attention.
The politician didn’t even look at Stratt.
Grace, on the other hand, couldn’t stop looking—back and forth, trying to create his own little field of gravity that would pull Stratt right into the conversation so she could promptly end it.
The guy didn’t even follow Grace’s finger, which was now pointing at her again with increasing insistence—impolite, sure, but necessary, absolutely necessary. Instead, he gave Grace a slow, patronizing nod.
Why?
Grace wasn’t lying; he truly had no clue about Stratt’s expertise. Like, literally none. Not even a little. Strategic planetary defense coordination. International crisis logistics. The general management of “please do not let this become an extinction event.”
Yeah. That sort of thing. Not his thing.
Grace was an eighth-grade science teacher—well, was, and hopefully still would be again once this was all over—and yeah, okay, technically also the leading xenobiologist of the Project Hail Mary mission and the top expert on astrophage. He had made peace with that. But he was absolutely not Stratt’s understudy, nor her potential replacement, nor whatever mental category this guy seemed to have invented for him.
What the heck had Grace done to deserve the attention of this badly mannered fossil—in a badly tailored suit, at that; honestly, the cheap second-hand one Grace used to wear while teaching at GC Middle had more flair, and that was saying something. Apparently money really couldn’t buy class, or style, or anything else remotely useful that the man seemed to be missing—and he was missing a lot. And by speaking to him for over five minutes now, Grace felt confident in that assessment.
“Well,” the dude said, spreading his hands—no jazz hands, just the flat gesture of a person who had never been within five mile radius of a drama club—“that explains it.”
Grace blinked. Like… genuinely confused.
“What explains… what?”
Grace felt heat rush into his face. Yeah, as if Stratt’s peak of enjoyment was hanging out with him basically twenty-four seven.
“That’s—” he started, then forced himself to stay on track and not play the hero. Might as well avoid saying something she definitely wouldn’t appreciate being out here. “First of all, she is my superior, and I’m not nearly qualified to speak on topics I don’t understand and she does. Actually, I’m not qualified at all. Secondly, Stratt keeps a scientist standing beside her due to her having enough of her own obligations. She also chose to have the option for the meeting to be in person—for your sake—and not only via digital communication, as she knows it makes things more comprehensible. Again, for your guys’ sake. She is in charge of everything concerning the project, therefore much more qualified to represent it than I am. I’m here to enlighten you on the science-y parts, and those parts only. Plus, she is putting herself front and centre—being the leader and doing what a leader should do. The project is moving fast, and with normal procedures we wouldn’t even be at one percent of the progress we’ve made, so doing things through a direct approach and through her pre-emptive pardons moves things at incredible speed…”
There was a pause in which the air itself seemed to tighten. Grace only briefly looked at Carl, who didn’t look angry or disappointed, but he also looked like it had been enough. Thanks to that, Grace managed to shut his mouth before he started rambling again.
Then he was met with much quieter, and colder version of the soft southern crackle.
“Her immunity only lasts until the ship is in orbit, if not before that if the project is unsuccessful. The ship might not even enter orbit, Dr. Grace—no matter the leadership nor the people underneath. Remember that next time you come to her feet like a stray dog. It’s unbecoming of a man. You may as well start salivating the moment she whistles.”
That was also the first time he had ever heard someone be this blatantly sexist toward Stratt. Honestly, he had almost forgotten people still tried. Her general aura usually discouraged such attempts. And Grace would know—he was there almost constantly at this point. Tagging along might as well be his official job title. And this was genuinely the first time ever someone had been so openly hostile toward Stratt; people usually kept their personal antipathies to themselves, especially given she was, in practice, responsible for the continued existence of… people.
A quick, high-pitched sound caught Grace’s ear, and he flinched slightly before angling himself to see what it was.
Stratt had been holding a glass. She set it down. Not loudly. Just… down. The small, precise click of crystal on marble carried more weight than a slammed fist. Nobody was staring, so it couldn’t have been that loud. Good.
Grace felt a wave of relief—and a bit of shame. She had heard that. And still she would come rescue him from this. And with that realization, he noticed the shift immediately.
Not a dramatic posture change—no grand theatrical predator stance, no shoulders squaring or chin lowering. She remained exactly as she was, only her eyes grew colder, the blue flattening like a lake freezing over in a hard winter.
With a few long strides—and a quiet click-clack symphony of heel meeting marble—she stepped behind his chair and rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. A silent I’ve got this. A squeeze followed—an apology for being late. Then the hand withdrew.
“Oh?” Stratt said evenly, though there was no conceivable scale on which the level of annoyance in her tone could be comfortably measured. “You believe the Hail Mary won’t even enter orbit. Why are you present in this room then? I’m sure you have some car dealership opening to attend, or a podcast to guest on?”
The politician smirked, almost as if pleasantly surprised that the Eva Stratt knew who he was. The pleasure did not last long. Realizing he had to look up at her from where he was sitting, he seemed mildly less comfortable with that arrangement, swallowing as his neck moved like a hundred-year-old turtle finally deciding to process a meal it had long since stopped caring about. He stood almost too quickly, straightening his jacket, and extended his hand.
She looked at the... that prick!—what did she say, a governor? Yes, governor—for a long second.
“Let me clarify something for you.”
Her voice did not rise further, and her tone did not change; it simply stayed exactly where it was, which, in Stratt’s case, already lived somewhere between final warning and the kind of calm that would have been perfectly appropriate in a preschool classroom, ideally while gently removing scissors from one hand and a classmate’s hair from a child who had clearly misunderstood the concept of arts and crafts. She would be a menace in the education sector—probably very loved too. She cared a great deal, even if she rarely performed that fact in any socially reassuring way. Then again, that was what being the only one of your kind, and positioned above most other forms of institutional constraint, tended to do to a person, it created distance.
“Dr. Grace is here because otherwise this room—including you—would be too daft to understand the stakes. He is here because he is a good teacher, and I simply do not have the patience to deal with you.”
“Are you calling the most influential men in the States children, Ms. Stratt?”
“No, natürlich nicht. I would not disrespect Dr. Grace’s students like that. And I would recommend you to reevaluate your own importance.”
Carl let out the softest possible cough, making Stratt roll her eyes the tiniest bit, clearly not appreciative of the gesture this time, though to her credit she did not look like she was on the edge again—fair to her, and credit where it was due, she genuinely did not seem like she was about to escalate anything further.
“The man you just insulted is currently the most qualified human being—the only qualified human being—on this planet who can reliably explain how the organism eating our sun works. He named it, for God’s sake. He is on this project because humanity needs him. And if this mission fails—if a single thing goes wrong—if our plane crashes tonight on the way out of here—his loss would be beyond irreparable to the world. Still, Dr. Grace would die, but he would die trying to save our species. You, on the other hand, will merely die with it—or far before it—comfortable, I’m sure, but forgettable. You are here because someone insisted I should tolerate you.”
She took a breath. Grace took a deeper one. Wow. That was bleak. No more alcohol for her... ever. And no more sleeping less than five hours a day for him—this served as a very clear reminder that everything astrophage-powered could, in fact, blow up in his face, and that he could indeed die dead, permanently, and inconveniently, which was not really on his to-do list. So many things could go wrong...
Instead, he chose to focus on a small vein on Stratt’s forehead, briefly appearing and then disappearing again as she exhaled, clearly also steering herself away from that particular branch of the conversation.
“Dr. Grace, come on. We are done here.”
She reached out her hand for him.
And Grace only then realized that he was the only one left sitting while two very clearly pissed-off adults were looming over him, with Carl standing there as an observer, which was fine, but also effectively sandwiching him where he sat. Still, she noticed that and offered him a way out that would not inconvenience nor embarrass him further.
So of course, he took her up on the offer, ready to push himself up, but…
“Woof.”
Grace had barely gotten halfway to his feet when it—whatever this bullcrap was—happened, and at that exact moment her hand slipped away from him and he landed right back on his bum.
Stratt moved. Not with a shouted warning or a theatrical wind-up, the kind one might expect from watching too many movies or television shows. Just a swift, clean motion—her arm coming forward with the unmistakable trajectory of someone about to punch a man square in the face.
Carl moved faster. His hand closed gently but firmly around her wrist mid-arc, stopping the motion with the sort of precision that suggested this was not the first time he had intercepted this particular bad idea traveling at high speed.
“Ma’am,” he said quietly, “it would be unfortunate if you broke wrist on your dominant hand.”
Stratt blinked once, clearly considering this.
The governor laughed—not very loudly—just that smug, satisfied little chuckle of someone who believed the universe had just arranged itself to prove his point. Female in power, temper, see? Exactly what he had been saying all along.
Grace, meanwhile, could care less, as he was having a completely different realization. Several of them, in fact, all worrying the heck out of him...
Carl no longer looked serene. Ooof, Carl looked very much like a man considering several creative ways to permanently rearrange a governor’s dental records.
Stratt, on the other hand, suddenly looked too calm. Not just calm—administratively calm, the kind of calm that usually preceded her throwing a printer out of a window and ordering a new one because it misprinted a single dot wrong. And for some reason, her left arm remained where Carl had grasped it, not moving an inch, as if he were keeping her steady, as if staying exactly there was somehow beneficial to her.
Grace’s brain was still trying to process that when Stratt turned slightly, shifted, barely moved—the tiniest move, but still. Faster this time, and in a way he would not have predicted in a million years, and yet somehow, infuriatingly, really elegant.
There was a single click of a shoe against the floor. The sound cut through the room like a snapped ruler. A beat of absolute silence followed—oh why was there silence when there were about thirty people in the room, not concerning at all, huh—but what did not follow was the expected second click of her other shoe meeting the ground. Instead, a scream did.
For a moment, nobody moved.
The governor’s head had turned slightly, mouth hanging open, the smugness evaporating mid-thought, replaced with an immediate pained expression. His eyes were wide in stunned disbelief, fixed somewhere between shock and denial, then—as if gathering courage—the man looked down, coming to terms with the impact of having his leather-polished loafer pierced through by a sharp feminine object.
Grace’s mind, meanwhile, was absolutely sprinting in six directions at once. Did she just—no, she couldn’t have—oh she absolutely did—was that why Carl was still holding her arm like he was escorting her to an opera—was that planned? That had to be planned. She does not improvise.
Woman in power, indeed. Now get crushed under her heel, grandpa.
Carl slowly released Stratt’s wrist, only after checking that her balance was under control and that her shoe had managed to leave the man’s foot where it was so snugly embedded, neither he nor Stratt showing any sign that anything was wrong. She even mouthed a quiet thank you at him, whether for the support offered or for being an accomplice, that was unclear.
Grace stared, watching it all come down. Everyone stared... The room looked at them as if this were the finale of Game of Thrones, only without the mercy of reduced lighting—just the harsh, humiliating overhead illumination of a grand crystal eyesore and the unfortunate reality of being very visible, very alive, and very present for all of this.
Too bad there was no Phantom of the White House to drop the chandelier so they could make their escape.
The governor took a few additional erratic breaths, clearly working himself up to spew more personal attacks in her direction.
Stratt, meanwhile, only smiled—apologetically so. Speaking up, mildly remorseful, softly delivered, but perfectly enunciated so that everyone could hear: “Entschuldigung, I didn’t mean to step on your toe, Governor”—and the thing was, Stratt wasn’t a liar. She was absolutely, one hundred percent truthful, to a fault, all the time, which only meant she probably had meant to step a centimeter or two to the right or something and cause a bit more harm, and drive the point home, well, drive it into something for sure.
There was a tiny speckle of blood dripping down her heel now, and the chewed piece of gum now on the governor’s shoe, right next to the neat hole in it—plastered there as an added insult to injury. Heh. At least Carl wouldn’t be grumbling about her needing to throw it out on the way to the car, to prevent her messing up the Jeep interior again—the coffee cups were already overflowing as it was, and a piece of gum on the new rugs was probably a step too far.
The governor finally opened his mouth, after gathering enough courage to look away from the damage and back up at her. Stratt kept smiling—technically—but not warmly, not even faintly. She looked at him as if she dared him to, lip already curling in preparation for whatever retaliation was about to come. Surprisingly, Carl did not cough.
Before any other shots were fired—thankfully not real ones, though lately that had become an uncomfortably frequent mental association, especially where Stratt was concerned, and assassination attempts had started to feel like an unfortunate category of background noise—it was another voice that beat them to it: the President’s.
That was, incidentally, the only other politician in the room Grace had actually recognized. If Grace could set aside the limited knowledge of the man’s politics he unfortunately possessed—mainly that the current POTUS had once been the mayor of San Francisco—he would have to admit the guy seemed like a pretty chill dude. Plus, Grace had received very cool shoelaces from him about a month ago, so… the two of them were kinda cool, for now.
“Barry, we all heard you,” the President declared calmly, flashing a smile of far too-whitened pearly teeth in their general direction. “Perhaps muzzle whatever inappropriate reaction you’re about to have next. I’m sure this was simply... a misstep, and it will be accounted for at the appropriate time.”
Grace noted that, as much as the public shaming was for the now-sputtering dinosaur, the warning was very clearly directed at Stratt. Then again, she was about to detonate an enormous number of nuclear weapons over a continent, destroy several ecosystems, and deliberately accelerate global warming in a matter of weeks or so, so facing charges for bodily harm by an expensive shoe was probably the least of her worries. Grace was fairly sure she could handle that when it eventually came to it and the gavel finally fell.
She nodded in a way that settled it—in a way that meant we are leaving now—and reached back for Grace to help him stand up, as before, before she had been interrupted. But he was still frozen in place by the sheer number of weird things that had happened in under sixty seconds.
He heard a small whistle and could almost hear the inconspicuous little smile on Stratt’s lips after the sound left them. He would have been embarrassed and blushing under normal circumstances, but in this case it did serve its purpose and broke his shocked trance, so he took the extended hand, grateful for the support, even if it came in a manner he would not have expected. Carl was already heading for the doors, walkie-talkie in hand, signaling the rest of his team to pack up. They followed, arm in arm still.
Stratt only winced slightly the moment they stepped out into the fresh air and away from the people, the sound quickly carried off by a cold wind.
By the time they were escorted back to the car, Carl surprisingly did not move to the front but instead took their duffel bags containing a comfortable change of clothes, came around to her side in the back—where she had left the door open—placed the bag between her and Grace, and bent down, which once again caused Stratt to wince. Weird. Grace had thought that earlier one was just out of frustration.
Carl gave his boss’s apparently rather obvious predicament a quiet chuckle and shot Grace an amused glance as he carefully took her shoe off for her, making her let out a pained, aborted, whimper-like sound once more.
Oh.
“Broken, ma’am?”
“Just sprained, I think. Twisted my ankle a bit when I stepped down.”
“Change into normal clothes, ma’am, so it doesn’t swell and you can’t get the pantsuit off. That would be a long flight for you. There will be a pack of ice on the jet, or we can stop by—”
“For a coffee, yes, that would be wonderful, danke schön, Agent Boyce.”
Grace wanted to scream—definitely not think about the very inconspicuous small whistle—to laugh, to cry, to ask her if she could be normal just once, if she was feeling alright, to thank her, to berate her for making more enemies… He could not. So he simply asked, “Starbucks?”
Her face said it all—nose scrunched up, lip curling, the corners of her mouth pressing together for a second as if the very idea had left a bad taste there. She didn’t even have to bother with the disgusted “Oh, God, no,” that followed.
“Why?”
“The ethical connotations—being on the list of the boycott, divestment, sanctions movement, union-bashing, the cult-like corporate culture, taking over the spaces that were and could have been small, mainly family-owned café businesses all over Europe. Plus the coffee beans are extremely over-roasted and taste like shit.”
“Oh… Good to know you’ve got your morals intact.”
“Hmmm… yeah.”
She shot him a quick wink just as Carl shut the door and walked around the car to his seat, very audibly cackling—loud enough that his colleagues stationed around the vehicle looked visibly uncomfortable with whatever dynamic the three of them had going on today.
Grace understood too well. Actually, he would very much like to be excluded from this narrative. Once again, he was actively yearning for his old rusty bike—what he would not give to be able to pedal to the airport, alone, wind-in-face, simple physics-based suffering, anything but this. Especially—Whoa. Nope. No.
He turned sharply toward his window as Stratt started changing. Possibly. Probably. He was not verifying this with visual data. That was a hard no from him. Couldn’t she at least wait until the car was moving?
There were a few sounds of motion—zipper unfastening, fabric rustling, and a couple of frustrated sighs and German curse words, though with her one could never be entirely sure. He tried to focus on the car setting itself into motion, on the gate unlocking as they passed through, until he was interrupted by a duffel bag being thrown into his lap—at least not at his face like she had done in the morning. Baby steps. Yay.
“Come on, Dr. Grace,” she said. “You were complaining the whole time here about having to dress up, which I don’t get—as you used to teach in a suit. Plus, if I recall correctly, you felt inappropriately dressed in that cat T-shirt you wear all the time, back when I was introducing you to the astronauts and their replacements for redundancy… your preferences and choices truly do amaze me. But you’re free to change now. Gratulations.”
He very carefully unpacked his bag and was about to take off his blazer when he noticed Stratt was not in her usual knit turtleneck yet. It felt like seeing her naked. And... What was that? Oh no way. Oh, Grace would never let her live this down...
“Stratt, are you? ...You? Seriously wearing a graphic tee?”
She gave him a look that very clearly said: Isn’t it obvious—the item of clothing is literally sitting on my body, is it not?
Grace read and reread the words on what he’d call an American football–chic cotton monstrosity at least five times, because it absolutely did say, in black on white—also, wow, white, a light color, who is this and what has she done to his Eva Stratt?
BLONDES HAVE MORE FUN
The text was indeed bold, capitalized, and aggressive to the eye; at least it wasn’t written in papyrus.
“…You’re not a blonde, though?” was all he managed to squeak out next, genuinely stuttering now, as he had to double-check and re-analyze her hair like it was a data set. Somewhere on a scale of not-blonde-to-definitely-not-blonde, her hair was more sunsetty orange-ish, golden perhaps, not anywhere near yellow nor blonde. She was very firmly not that; her hair color was perhaps around RGB 240, 183, 136, if he had to assign it a value, which he did not, and yet here they were.
“Well,” she huffed out a frustrated laugh, “I am not having fun either, am I?”
And at that, very helpfully, very academically, and with the full composure of a former middle-school teacher witnessing not only the most justified disciplinary action in human history, but also Eva Stratt simply being funny and petty and, worst of all, human—Ryland Grace completely lost his shit.