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Bad things happened to Ryland Grace on Wednesdays. He never really stopped to think about it, but it was a pattern that would frighten those more superstitious than he was. The day his mother died when he was seven was a Wednesday. The day his father beat him nearly to death when he was 12 was a Wednesday. The day he turned 18 and aged out of the foster system and the minuscule support it offered was also on a Wednesday. Even the day he presented at that fluffing UNESCO conference was a Wednesday.
However, if people were ever to point out that last one, Ryland Grace would have waved them off with a casual grumble about how science doesn’t work that way, and besides, getting unceremoniously tossed out of academia was a good thing anyway because it led him to the career that he loved more than anything.
Which is where he was now. Teaching about the visual light spectrum. On a Wednesday. He didn’t think anything of it except that it was ‘hump day’, something he could use to motivate his kids when they started looking like it was all too much because it was standardized testing season (Ryland hated standardized testing season. It wasn’t fair on the kids. Even if his classes had some of the highest scores in the county, he still hated them because of the way that they made the kids so anxious and the way they measured a child’s academic worth in such artificially narrow measures).
Anyway, back to the visual light spectrum- with a brief tangent into a few facts about dromedaire biology because it was ‘hump day’. His Wednesday was going great; he’d treated himself to takeout from his favorite Thai restaurant, and he had an excessively spicy but just-right for him Pad See Ew waiting in his thermos for when the period ended. His kids were engaged. They even laughed when he reminded them to hydrate regularly because they were not camels and thus couldn’t ignore their fluid intake even on a hump day. It was great.
Until it wasn’t.
_______
The lockdown didn’t immediately frighten him. Sure, he was anxious, but they’d had false alarms before- a bomb threat from an angry father who disagreed with his kid’s Spanish grade but didn’t actually do anything about it. An experiment gone wrong (in another science teacher’s classroom) that had triggered a brief lockdown before the unlucky teacher could clarify through the intercom that no, it wasn’t a threat, he just wasn’t paying enough attention to the back of the room during lab day. Nothing that kept them on tenterhooks for very long. The most serious complaints about those lockdowns that Ryland received were from kids who really had to pee during the whole thing or who were mad that they had to stay at school late. There was a detached sort of fear, but nobody truly conceptualized the danger and nothing actually happened to force them to.
Dr. Grace still initiated protocol, like he always did, telling the kids to be quiet and to barricade the doors and windows with their desks, Testudo-style. They’d practiced this during drills. Then they hunched in the corners, away from the windows and behind another Testudo-style lab table shield, and Ryland did a head count.
“Alright guys, it’s probably another false alarm,” he whispered, even as he couldn’t be entirely sure it was true. “But treat it like it’s serious, okay? Make sure all phones are on silent with the vibration turned off and the volume down. If your parents text, let them know you’re okay. We don’t know if this is on the news yet or not, but no reason to make them worry.” Then he sat down in front of the tables, his own training kicking in.
The thing about the Roman-style desk shields is that it’s really there to buy a few extra seconds and give the kids a sense of just a bit more safety. They don’t actually do much against an assault rifle. Something that the bullets that crashed through the window, decimated the blinds, tore through the flimsy laminate and composite-wood desks, and embedded in the wall proved easily.
It did, however, give them warning. “Stay down,” Ryland whispered to his kids. He readjusted himself into a crouch, reminiscent of the Teacher Squat that he used to get on a student’s level when helping them with their work, and which- along with biking to work every morning- kept him reasonably fit even if his diet left much to be desired. He balled his hands into fists out of anger more than anything else as the shooter kicked in the glass of the broken window and vaulted into the classroom. It made Ryland really wish the school board had taken him more seriously when he said that they should bulletproof the glass since it was clear that the pile of dead American children would never grow high enough to be considered enough of a price in exchange for even a little bit of gun control.
The thought didn’t stay with him for long as he met the man’s eyes; he had no time to be distracted. This wasn’t a lab explosion or an angry parent. This was a man pointing an AR-15 not at him but at the desks shielding his students- desks that weren’t truly shields at all. Ryland never considered himself a brave man, but he’d do just about anything in that moment to get that rifle pointed at him instead.
Okay, he thought to himself. Proceed with caution. He didn’t know what the man’s motive was- and he didn’t particularly care, either; a motive just gave them more space in the news as they talked around an issue they were never going to change. But maybe, just maybe, he could hope that it was at least partially greed.
“Come on, man; you haven’t done anything irredeemable yet. You want money- take me as a hostage. You can get your money somehow. Take me back out that window and we can talk about it. I won’t fight.”
It was a long-shot, and it didn’t land.
“Shut the fuck up,” the shooter told him, and Ryland bit back on the reflexive language that was apparently such a part of his muscle memory that it tried to emerge even now. He nodded and didn’t say a word, watching through glasses that were thankfully properly on his face for once as the man’s finger tightened on the trigger. He only had one shot at this.
Luckily for him and his kids (and unluckily for wherever the blood was currently gushing from), he calculated correctly, going left as the shooter had.
He didn’t hear the first bullet exit, which means his kids couldn’t be the collateral damage. Good job, ribcage, he thought sardonically. He couldn’t feel the pain yet, but he could guess by the angle and trajectory that it had landed there. He surged forward, knowing he was doing something incredibly risky but also unsure how long his meat shield could hold up.
The shooter clearly didn’t expect him to come towards the man with the gun, so he was surprised and unprepared for the clumsy tackle as Ryland headbutted the man round the middle, elbowing the gun up and forward, as far away from the children down in the back as he could reasonably get it. It fired automatically twice more as it hit the ground, and the shooter reached a hand towards it. Ryland Grace wasn’t going to let that happen. He elbowed the man in the chest and felt something break. Ouch, kevlar. Probably steel-plated, he guessed, as he felt his elbow shatter. He threw his weight further against the man as he took his other elbow and aimed it towards the man’s right eye with his still-functional left arm. He felt something shatter and his brain, without his permission, took a millisecond to marvel at the power of adrenaline. He’d never thought himself capable of throwing down that hard.
The same elbow, this time towards the windpipe, and the man was out for the count. He didn’t leave the man’s chest though.
He was going to take a calculated risk and call the principal, hoping that she’d answer and that the only shooter was the one currently unconscious below him, because he couldn’t keep the man down forever and he knew he was running out of time even if the pain hadn’t hit yet. He reached for his phone in his back pocket and found it shattered.
“Olivia,” he called. “You have the best aim. I need you to very carefully make a gap in the desk-shield and slide a phone towards me. Do not look at me, and do not exit the barrier. Got it?”
He figured it was probably scary to tell them not to look at him, but it couldn’t be helped and it was certainly less scary than seeing the blood that was currently gurgling from his mouth and onto his chin, the wrong, unsettling angle of his shattered elbow, or the blood all over the walls. A tentative once-over with his left hand found an entry wound near what he was pretty sure was his left lung, a chip in the rib closest to his heart (but no bullet that he could feel, which meant it was probably slowed by his ribcage but ultimately found a nice little home in said very important organ) and another down by his appendix. Well, at least he didn’t need one of those.
One less surgery to get if I ever decided to become an astronaut, his brain supplied, and the thought was enough to tell him his lucidity was slipping rapidly, because why would he ever do that? Then again, why would he ever run towards a man with an assault rifle? The communal urge to protect children was a powerful thing.
Going into space doesn’t protect kids, though, and he congratulated himself on having at least a semi-reasonable thought as he dialed the principle and updated her on the situation.
“Principal Brown?” he opened, wincing as he realized the kids could definitely hear the gurgling in his throat. “I’m currently on top of an unconscious gunman- the kids are fine, thankfully. But uh, I’m going to need an ambulance. Hopefully that was the only shooter?” His relief at being informed that yes, they were certain enough that that was the case to send the police and SWAT team in was all encompassing.
“Okay kids, you’re safe,” he told them. “Help is on its way.”
“Mr. Grace,” Priya choked out, and he realized with horror that she had stood up and now had a clear view of the wreckage that was his meat shield. “You’re not safe.”
He was still too high on adrenaline to feel the pain of the wounds, but something was certainly stabbing him in the heart as he watched her dark brown skin take on a pallor that it was not meant to. He doubted it was the bullet.
“Priya, don’t look at me, okay? Nobody look at me. You don’t need to see this. It’s all fine.”
She ignored him and took of her sweater as she hopped over the barrier of flimsy desks. “Both my moms are doctors; we need to keep pressure so you don’t bleed out,” she insisted, her voice shaky.
Ryland Grace was a crocheter, and so it was with a dull horror that he realized she planned to come over and keep pressure on his wound using the sweater her older sister had made for her for Rakhsabandan last year. Then he remembered that he was still on top of a would-be mass shooter, and the terror took root fully.
“No Priya, no sweetie,” he begged her, and his voice was wretched as the blood still pouring out of his mouth merged with the tears flowing freely from his eyes. “It’s not safe. Please stay there, please.”
Priya had never ignored an order from a teacher before, but she was an overachiever and so of course the first time she did so would be in such a big way.
The police, SWAT, and medical all entered the room to the noise of Mr. Grace desperately begging her to go back behind the barrier as she held pressure to the wounds on his chest.
He was still barely coherent enough to roll off the shooter of his own free will, giving him a weak kick to the gonads just for good measure.
_________
All the pain he hadn’t felt during the initial incident came roaring back to take its revenge with interest as he woke up to bright lights and the beeping of medical equipment. His mouth was dry and tasted funny, and he didn’t like it at all. Also, there was a tube in his throat, so he couldn’t even express his displeasure verbally. But oh! There was Marissa- beautiful, brilliant Marissa, who also knew ASL. It had been a while since he’d used it, but he’d refused to talk for a full year after entering foster care, and it had been his only way to communicate, so it was well-ingrained even if a bit dusty. He realized with a second wave of displeasure that his entire right arm was in a cast and he couldn’t move it. Okay, one-handed signing it was, because he had thoughts and Marissa was always on his side.
“Tube out,” he signed clumsily. “Bad.”
Marissa just looked at him and burst into tears. “What the fuck, Ryland?” she asked, voice thick with snot, and he just glared at her as if she was a student.
“Oh no, don’t you ‘language’ me, you asshole! Do you know how scared I was? You’re in the ICU. The only way I’m even allowed to be here is by pretending I’m married to your aroace ass! Luckily nobody actually thought to check, and since I bullied you into letting me be your emergency contact, it was believable enough. It’s been a week and four surgeries, don’t you ever do something like that again!”
The words took a while to compute through his foggy brain, and he furrowed his brows. “Angry?” he signed, face guilty.
Marissa crumpled. “No,” she warbled, voice softer as the fight left her. “I’m sorry. Just scared.”
“OK,” he signed. “Normal.” Then he caught sight of the medical drip. “No,” he signed with his fingers, not quite able to make the head movement to go with it. “No O-A-T-S.” He was trying to finger-spell opiates, but it seemed that the movements for P, I, and E were beyond him at the moment. Marissa got it anyway.
“Yes, morphine,” she scolded him. “I know you’re afraid of becoming addicted, but the level of pain you’d be in without them would probably be enough to shut down your weakened heart, so we’ll cross that bridge later, okay? I’ll be moving in with your dumbass until you’re off medical leave, so I’ll hold you accountable to using them properly and then weaning off until you trust yourself, okay? Just rest right now.”
Another guilty face greeted her, and she sighed. “No. Don’t you dare feel guilty about this; I can work from home in your apartment just as well as mine. Besides, you’re not getting a choice, so fuck off about it.”
Ryland smiled around the tube. Yeah, he thought. That’s Marissa, alright. Even a morphine-induced hallucination wouldn’t have cursed at him that much.
_______
The six weeks that followed were largely a haze of pain and boredom. He spent the first half of it in the ICU with Marissa as his only permitted visitor.
“I literally just paid off my loans from my Bachelors degree (his MA and PhD were covered by assistantships, thank Curie); I don’t even want to know what this co-pay is going to look like,” he grumbled to her, finally free of the breathing tube on week two.
“And you don’t have to worry about it; the GoFundMe your kids set up is making bank; you don’t even have to go back to work if you don’t want to,” Marissa told him, typing something for work.
“Why wouldn’t I want to go back to work?” he asked her. “I can’t wait to go back to work. It’s absolutely unfair that I’m being forced to take the whole semester off.”
“Ry, it’s gonna be at least that long before you’re fully recovered. What, you thought you’d just waltz out of the hospital and back into the classroom?”
“I mean, yeah, kinda.” He shrugged with his good arm.
“There’s a hole in your lung, and your heart got fucked up so bad they had to put in a pacemaker. It takes four to six weeks to recover from a standard appendectomy, and they were pulling pieces of your ruined appendix out of places where bits of an appendix should not be,” she told him.
“I still don’t like it when you curse,” he mumbled, looking a little green at the mental image.
“Fucking deal with it, my best friend almost died. I’m allowed to have feelings about it,” she replied. “Now go the fuck to sleep.”
_______
“Oh my Einstein, I can’t believe they actually put this in the news,” Ryland grumbled, closing the tab on the iPad one of the parents in his class had sent as a get-well present.
“You saved an entire classroom full of kids; of course it was going to be in the news,” Marissa sighed.
“They couldn’t have left my name out of it?” he grumbled.
“Do you think your kids wouldn’t have talked about how their brave, heroic teacher Mr. Grace saved all their lives even if they left your name out of the article? There was no way you were gonna remain anonymous,” his best friend told him.
“I’m not brave,” he grumbled. “It was instinct; any teacher would have done it. Heck, any decent person would have done it.”
Marissa exhaled deeply, sick of having the argument. “You’re way too much of a fucking optimist for someone who’s been through the shit you have.”
“Your kids really want to visit you now that you’re out of the ICU,” she continued after taking a moment to breathe deeply.
“Not until I’m out of the hospital; they don’t need to see me like this. The entire thing was traumatic enough already. You should have seen Priya’s little face.” He slumped his good shoulder and put the tablet aside.
“You only talk about how traumatic this was for your kids; it’s okay to talk about how traumatic it was for you, you know,” Marissa reminded him, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
“It hasn’t sunk in yet,” he replied, uncharacteristically frank. He was too tired and the pain medication made him too loose-lipped to evade the issue like he typically would have. “It hurts a lot, but I’m just so grateful to be alive that I don’t think it’s caught up to me yet. I just keep picturing their faces… They try to act so adult but they’re so young. They were so terrified. I think I traumatized them for life.”
“They’re only alive to be traumatized because of what you did,” Marissa continued, the reassurance well-worn by now.
“Maybe there was another way, and I wasn’t smart enough or calm enough to figure it out. I could have handled it better,” he protested.
“You cannot be serious right now,” Marissa groaned. “Your self-esteem issues are going to put me in the psych ward, Ry. Jesus Christ.”
“Not real,” he muttered on instinct, an old joke of theirs. She rolled her eyes.
“You were amazing, Ry. You are a hero. Okay? Fucking hell, grow some of that ego men in STEM are so famous for.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment. Marissa hoped her message was sinking in.
“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” she asked eventually.
“I really want a hoagie,” he admitted, looking a little embarrassed about it.
“Of course I say ‘hero’ and you think ‘sandwich,’” she scoffed, but her face was fond. “I’m on it.”
_______
“If you don’t stop reading those articles on the Petrova line, I’m child-locking that fucking iPad,” Marissa warned Ryland as the rhythm of the heart monitor started to beat a little too fast for her comfort.
“You can’t tell me you’re comforted by the numbers coming out?” he replied, several google scholar tabs open at once.
“Pull that tablet further away from your pacemaker before I take it, and focus on one danger to your life at a time, please.”
“You’re avoiding the question,” he scolded, but did as she ordered.
“Says the king of evasion,” she rebutted. “But seriously, yeah it’s scary, but it’s categorically not your problem. That probe is gonna come back in a few weeks, and I’m sure they’ll have all the big important brains working on it. It’ll probably be fixed before most people even know there’s a problem.” His face had scrunched again, and she sighed.
“What is it now?”
“I have an itch under my cast,” he pouted, presenting the offending limb to her.
“It’ll go away on its own, don’t you dare fuck with it,” she demanded. “Just think about something else.”
“The something else is the Petrova line, and you just told me off for it. Now get me a pen, please.”
“You are not sticking a pen down your cast.”
“My elbow’s already full of pins and screws, what harm can a pen do?” he reasoned, squirming.
“I am going to kill you,” she muttered.
“After all this trouble to keep me alive? I think Dr. Harkins might strangle you right here,” he chuckled, but the squirming had slowed, at least.
“I’m going back to your apartment for a shower and then to the store to grab some more clothes for you.”
“Can you bring the element of surprise, and the Cats t-shirt?” he requested immediately.
“No, you know that it’s only button downs for you until the cast comes off.” He whimpered.
“I’ll find some really stupid ones, I promise,” she conceded, trying to cheer him up.
“Button-downs never come with science puns,” he whined, giving her one of the poutiest looks she’d ever seen.
“Yes, because that is absolutely your biggest problem in life,” she snarked. “I hope you’re craving Greek food, because I am and you’re not getting a choice about it with your behavior today.”
“My fake wife is so mean.”
She just rolled her eyes and kissed his forehead on the way out.
____________
Marissa entered his hospital room with her hair wet and a bag over her shoulder.
“I was cleaning out your medicine cabinet to make room, and I’m honestly not sure why you’re so worried about getting addicted to the pain pills with the amount of expired Aderall I found in there,” she told him as she handed him a pre-opened pack of sour skittles.
“I forget to take them,” he defended himself. “I need the meds to remember to take the meds. Really bad system.”
“Ever heard of a phone alarm?”
“It becomes background noise after a while,” he replied. “My brain out-stupids every system after a while. But I’m taking them every day now.”
“Yeah, because a doctor hands them to you in a paper cup every morning,” Marissa responded, unimpressed. “Honestly, I’m halfway to actually marrying you so that you have someone to take care of your dumbass.”
“That seems like unnecessary emotional labor. As a feminist, I cannot allow it,” he protested, but he was biting back that crooked half-smile that she loved. “Besides, what if you wanna get for-real married one day?”
“Then I’ll divorce you and transfer the tax benefits to whatever guy or gal pops the question,” she answered easily, stealing a skittle and ignoring his indignant squawk.
“And ruin my reputation?” he asked, good hand over his heart. “Your cruelty knows no bounds!”
“Your idiocy knows no bounds.”
“Heyyyy!!!”
________________
“A cast and sling seems like overkill,” Ryland complained to her as she helped him into a button-down with pineapples wearing sunglasses. “Actually, the cast seems like overkill. It’s been seven weeks already.”
“And it will be another month before you’re out of it- you shattered the damn thing. It’s full of pins and screws,” she replied, groaning when she realized she’d misaligned the buttons.
“I thought being a cyborg would be cooler,” he grumbled. “Instead I need help to get dressed.” The protest was half-hearted, however, because he was going to see his kids today. He’d gotten permission from his doctors and the school to go back for one day, just to reassure them that he was okay (and to reassure himself that they were okay). Then it was back to the interminable sameness of medical leave while arguing with Marissa about how much of the prescribed opiates that he was allowed to replace with ibuprofen (her answer- none. His answer- all. They usually met in the middle somewhere).
“There,” she replied, looking at her handiwork and running a hand through his hair in an effort to tame it a bit. “All ready. Let’s get in the car.”
“Can we take the stairs?” he begged.
“You were shot with an automatic rifle less than two months ago; we’re taking the elevator,” she told him. “I’ll hold your hand.”
“Fine,” he huffed.
___________
His classes had never paid such rapt attention to him before. He didn’t even have to put his hand up to get them to quiet down. Even the snarky ones were behaving like complete angels.
Maybe I should get shot more often, he thought, with the morbid humor of a teacher who has had days where they were ready to try anything for just a moment of peace.
He got so many hugs that day, too. Normally, as a male teacher, he would have gently declined them, but the kids clearly needed this and so he let them. They were so careful and mindful of his injuries without needing to be told, and he almost wanted to squeeze back tighter as he felt their elevated, frightened heart rates. He’d really frightened them that day, he thought again with a new frisson of guilt.
“When are you gonna come back full-time?” Rheka asked. “The sub’s really boring.”
“That’s an inside thought about the sub, Rheka, and I’ll be back as soon as the doctor’s clear me. It’s looking like it won’t be until fall semester, but I’m trying to wear ‘em down,” he told her, winking.
“What are you doing now that you’ve got all this free time?” Olivia asked.
“Mostly wishing I was teaching you guys,” he replied, while also casting a critical eye around his new classroom. The school had agreed it would be better for both students and the teacher if they relocated Dr. Grace’s classroom away from the one in which such a traumatic incident occurred, and while he agreed with the decision, he wasn’t happy with the way they’d placed his solar system model- the distance between planets was all wrong. And they’d bought a new periodic table poster to replace the one that had been ruined by blood splatter (his blood splatter), but the colors weren’t as nice as the old one. He hoped the kids weren’t as bothered by it as he was.
“Dr. Grace, can I ask you something?” Abby piped up, sounding unusually unsure of herself.
“Come on, Abby, it’s Mr. Grace in my classroom. You know I’m fine with that. You don’t have to change it now, and the rules haven’t changed- you can always ask. That doesn’t mean I’ll always answer if it’s something I can’t or shouldn’t get into with you guys, but you can always ask and I’ll answer if I can,” he told her, reflexively starting a teacher squat before his body protested the movement with extreme prejudice. He tried to hide the wince, but clearly wasn’t as successful as he hoped, because Kevin was out of his chair like a rocket, insistantly guiding him to his desk chair.
“I’m 33, not 93, Kevin, it’s alright,” he told the boy, waving him off, but he sat to please the kid. “Abby, ask your question.”
“Is the sun really dying? All the other grownups just keep telling us not to worry about the Petrova line and the probe on the news and stuff, but you always tell us the truth. We can trust you,” she insisted, turning pleading eyes on him.
Oh, you emotionally manipulative little booger, he thought to himself, groaning internally. Guess they were having this conversation.
After explaining to them that it was not, in fact, a government conspiracy, and trying to assure them that it was only a small-to-medium whoop at most and that the best minds in the world were on it, they shuffled out of his classroom looking reassured. His desk was covered in all the gifts he’d received that day, and he spun in his chair as he looked at the pile of homemade art and messily-wrapped packages of various shapes and sizes. The warmth of the gesture warred with his worry about them- first a school shooting and now they Petrova line. They were too young for all of it, which he told Marissa as she came to pick him up and started packing the gifts into a large Costco bag.
“Control what you can control,” she told him. “They’re alive to be worried because of you. It’s better than the alternative.”
Whatever reply he was going to give was cut off before it could begin by an unfamiliar voice calling “Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?” Ryland replied reflexively, earning him an eye-roll from Maria.
“Not good at jokes,” a strange woman replied in an accented voice, and Ryland’s heart spiked as he stood up too fast, hands balled into fists. He didn’t recognize her, there was no visitors’ badge, and there should not be badgeless people he didn’t recognize in his school so soon after a shooting.
“Relax, Dr. Grace, I’m not a threat, and I have full authorization to be here, and I’m not going to hurt you or your students,” she replied, sticking her hand out. “Eva Stratt, Petrova task force.”
“How do you know my name?” he asked her, as Marissa came to stand by his side and glared at the woman.
“Did you write this?” she asked, ignoring his question and pushing a copy of his infamous post-doctoral paper towards him. He frowned.
“Why do you have that?” he grilled her, shoving it away. She ignored his question, opening it to the section on the Goldilocks zone with a fluidity that suggested she’d read it enough times to know exactly where to find the page she wanted without needing to look.
“Do you stand by what you wrote?” She asked him.
“It led me to teaching, so of course I stand by what I wrote,” he told her. “Also, it’s a perfectly reasonable hypothesis,” he added, slightly petulantly.
“I’m inclined to agree. That’s why I’m here,” she told him. “ArcLight samples splashed down last night, and I want you to look at them.”
Why me? Ryland asked mentally, but he didn’t say that. He was staring down the next several months of nothing but sitting in his apartment undertaking the boring work of ‘recovery’, the monotony of which would only be broken up by frequent follow-up visits with the bevy of doctors he’d been saddled with, and eventually a few weekly physical therapy appointments. Being quasi-kidnapped by a government lady was definitely the more appealing option.
Marissa, evidently, disagreed. “He was shot 7 weeks ago, he’s not going anywhere but home to bed. You can find someone else; he’s a middle school teacher.”
“A brilliant, absurdly over-qualified middle school teacher with a doctorate in molecular biology,” Stratt argued.
“There are other brilliant people with a doctorate,” Marissa insisted, equally stubborn.
Ryland returned to his chair. He had enough sense not to get involved with an argument between two competent, headstrong women, thank you very much. Even if the argument was technically about him. Especially if the argument was technically about him.
He pulled a packet of Twizzlers from the pocket of his sweats (he was so sick of wearing sweatpants, and he never thought he’d say that. But it turns out that being only allowed to wear loose-fitting pants made them far less appealing simply out of the human tendency to reject that which is mandated). Realizing, once again, that he only had one good arm, and that it was his non-dominant arm, he nudged them towards Marissa, who opened them without a word without breaking her glare towards Eva Stratt.
“It needs to be Doctor Grace,” the woman insisted, uncowed. “He’s got the sort of open-mindedness that I want on this project. Speculative astrobiology is a very small field, and even his detractors seemed to agree that he could have been leading it if he had stayed. Everyone I’ve spoken to, from London to Tokyo and beyond, has given me the same name.”
“I don’t care; he’s not getting involved. He’s very medically fragile right now,” Marissa hissed.
Fragile, Ryland thought to himself. Rude. He continued to spin in his chair and nibble his Twizzler, however. His old roommate had the idiocy to interrupt Marissa when she was on a roll, and his old roommate was evolution’s greatest mistake and had also moved out of the apartment and across the country the very next day. He even left his ninja blender! One did not simply cross Marissa.
Eva Stratt, apparently, had not gotten the memo, but seemed to be just as much of a force of nature.
“This is for the good of the world; he’s getting involved. I’m not asking.”
“Neither am I.”
Okay, now he was beginning to get a little worried. Not about being quasi-kidnapped- still less boring than sitting in his apartment watching Friends reruns while Marissa looked at spreadsheets and sent careful emails to idiotic supervisors for whom a PhD hadn’t actually conferred them with any real intelligence or social skills. Definitely about the tension in the room.
“It’s fine, I’ll go,” he replied, and Stratt actually gave him a small but genuine smile. It was unsettling.
Marissa spotted the security guards lingering outside of the room and seemed to come to the conclusion that Eva Stratt was the real deal. Ryland spotted them and squinted suspiciously, the first real sign of dissatisfaction he’d shown since Stratt entered.
“I’m not going anywhere with you if those men are armed,” he told the woman. “I don’t like guns.”
“I figured you wouldn’t,” she assured him. “They are perfectly capable of doing their jobs without them. They’re only carrying tasers and an extensive knowledge of how to kill someone with just their little finger. It’s not protocol, but I’m willing to make an exception in your case.”
“Well, I’m not used to being the exception,” he declared.
“Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face,” Marissa ordered. He did his best, but his eyes were still sparkling with mirth.
“I can’t believe we’re getting kidnapped by the government,” she grumbled.
“Only Dr. Grace is getting kidnapped by the government,” Eva Stratt corrected. “You are not obligated to come.”
“Like hell I’m not coming,” Marissa replied, crossing her arms. Ryland’s grin fell a bit. He missed crossing his arms. Stupid shattered elbow.
_______
“Argon? Fuck no,” Marissa hissed, starting down a room full of military brass (plus Eva Stratt) with the sort of chutzpah that Ryland Grace could only dream of. If he were into romance, it would definitely be with her- as it was, he still had the world’s strongest platonic crush on his old grad school friend. “Earth’s atmosphere or he walks, and fuck your little black dots.”
“I mean, they came from Venus’s atmosphere, right? Why don’t we just replicate that? If there’s a breach, it won’t be immediately fatal like the argon, and you can pull me out,” Ryland offered as a compromise. “Safe for the dots, will only knock me unconscious and I’ll be fine if you’re really quick about dragging me out.”
“Acceptable compromise,” Stratt agreed. Marissa glared at both of them.
Carl looked at his fellow security guards- why on Earth did Eva Stratt want this guy that badly. However, they also had at least enough good sense not to question a powerful woman. They wouldn’t have been hired otherwise. So the conversation stayed a silent thing of raised eyebrows and subtle but incredulous looks.
_______
The right arm of the hazmat suit flopped uselessly as Ryland giddily opened the probe. He loved teaching, but it was nice to be back in a real lab again, even if the current atmosphere of that lab was… incompatible with human life. It was hard to make due with one arm, but he thought he was managing well enough. Eva Stratt didn’t seem to agree.
“Well do it faster,” she ordered, when he cautioned her that it would take time to find out if it was actually alive, and that movement did not equal life.
“I have one good arm and no assistant,” he replied. “I’ll do it as fast as I can, but if you want to criticize, you need to get in here and help me. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”
“I think you will find that I can,” she replied mildly, and the security guards looked at each other again. Her tone was much less threatening than usual.
She even made everyone applaud when he found out it was a cell (after killing it. First contact and first murder of an alien organism on the same day by the same guy. A guy whose glasses were currently crooked under his hazmat suit).
“Aww phooey, it’s water,” the aforementioned guy grumbled, half-heartedly kicking an empty sharps bin. “Well, back to the classroom, I suppose.” He didn’t sound too upset by the notion. Carl shared another look with his coworkers- what a deeply fascinating weirdo their boss had kidnapped.
“Back to bed,” his scary (girl?)friend corrected. “You’re overdue for your meds.”
“Full ibuprofen or I’m taping my mouth shut,” the weird scientist argued, puzzling them.
“If you’re not addicted to the pain meds by now, you’re not going to be,” she argued. “Now get into the decontamination shower and get out here. You’ve had a much longer day than you should’ve.”
Stratt waited until he’d followed the instructions before motioning Carl, Steve, and another man named Austin over (Carl and Steve were not fond of Austin. Austin was a jerk and way too uptight even for his fellow CIA agents).
“I’m leaving you three dots, Doctor Grace. Carl will escort you here in the morning to continue work.”
“Carl will mind his own fucking business and stay away from our apartment,” Marissa corrected.
“Sorry Carl, it’s nothing personal,” the weird scientist apologized, cringing. “It’s been a tough couple months for her.”
“For me?” Marissa scoffed, but it lacked venom. “Unbelievable.” She turned to Stratt, and the venom was back in full.
“He got out of the hospital a week ago,” she hissed. “He’s not getting roped into this anymore than he already has.”
“That ship has sailed, Miss Levinson.” Marissa had never wanted a doctorate before, more than happy with her Masters (which was enough to transition into industry- she’d had no designs on academia like Ryland had at that point), but the way Stratt said Miss Levinson made her want to punch a wall.
“Dr. Grace has discovered a staggering amount about the Astrophage- and named it- within the last six hours. He’s involved in this now.”
“Eh,” he shrugged his good shoulder, trying to reassure Marissa, who was metaphorically steaming like a kettle. “I’ve got a semester to kill.”
He missed the look Stratt gave him that suggested he’d just committed himself to far more than a single semester. Marissa sighed and decided not to burst his bubble just yet- it didn’t seem like they had a choice either way. She could bite and scratch and fight like an angry purse dog when it came down to it, but that wasn’t going to work against this crowd. The realization left a bitter taste in the back of her throat, and eight weeks ago, this would have been the most furiously, uselessly helpless that she’d felt in years, if not ever. But then Ryland Grace got perforated like a pincushion by an AR-15 and as his emergency contact, she’d gotten the call. So this was only the second-most furiously helpless she’d felt in her life. But damn it all if she wasn’t strapping herself to his side for this government-sanctioned kidnapping.
______
The very next day found him, in full middle-school teacher mode, bossing her, Carl, and Steve around as they built his little plywood Venus. Austin just watched and ate Red Vines. She’d made sure that Ryland had given him the Red Vines and not the Twizzlers, because Red Vines were shit and so was Austin. At least that much she could agree on with Carl and Steve.
Two hours later, and the fucker had bred astrophage. Then he called Stratt with all the eagerness of a puppy and told her “Carl and Marissa and I made a baby!”
“Fuck my life,” she whispered. Steve nodded.
“It seems it has been, yes,” he agreed.
“Not the time, Steve,” she spat through clenched teeth as Ryland gave her a thumbs up and mouthed ‘Private Jet’ at her.
_______
“You’re lucky he’s injured, or it would have been a fighter jet,” Steve informed them mildly when Marissa expressed her distaste for being immediately shuffled to the nearest private runway.
“His medication better be coming in a fighter jet, or we’re going to have problems,” Marissa insisted as she shoved an itemized packing list towards the man. “He’s not missing a dose.”
“Mari, you can’t threaten the CIA,” Ryland whispered to her, wide-eyed. “Wait, are you guys the CIA?” he asked Carl, his hardware store buddy.
“You know, it’s sort of a grey area at the moment. And also classified.”
Ryland cocked his head, considering the answer as Marissa helped him up the steps into the plane.
“Be careful,” she warned him.
“I’m not geriatric, you don’t have to hold me like a nursing home attendant,” he grumbled, then immediately nearly tripped. She gave him a look.
“Okay, fine,” he sighed, defeated. “I see your point.”
________
Marissa sat glaring at the waste of carbon currently glaring at Ryland. Maybe he didn’t hold grudges (“it led me to teaching, Mari, it’s fine. I’d thank him if he wasn’t such a waste of carbon”) but she was happy to hold all his grudges for him. The man pulled at his collar and she smiled coldly. Then she glared at Eva Stratt, who was trying to encourage Ryland to speak to the assembled crowd.
Back off, she thought, intensifying her glare. That’s my sweet loser science teacher with no self-esteem. I’ve been having dinner with him every Thursday since grad school, and I was the one who had to sit in the ER waiting room waiting to find out if he’d pull through.
Stratt met her glare with a raised eyebrow. Ryland, temporarily unsupervised by either of them, said the words “whoomp, there it is!” Both of them cringed (Eva Stratt did not do so visibly, but there was A Vibe).
She glared at Stratt as she mandated applause, not liking the way she was toting Ryland around like he was a child following their parent to career day.
Sure, was Marissa mentally infantilizing a grown man with a PhD and a career? Probably. Did he invite it by acting like a golden retriever when happy and a wet cat when angry? Definitely. Did she have the right to do it either way through the power of Best Friend Privileges? Indubitably. Was she going to let Eva Stratt do the same thing? Fuck no.
Ryland was not paying attention to any of that. Ryland was too busy eagerly talking science with an East Asian scientist who had repeated his corny punchline. Ryland was brilliant, but also autistic and happily ignorant- by choice- to any of the unspoken social norms that underwrote adult social interaction. Ryland Grace was well-versed in the social complexities of the lives of middle schoolers because it helped him be a better teacher, but Ryland Grace had no care for playing nice with any adults who weren’t interested in engaging him in conversation on his special interests.
He was also charming and cheerful and genuinely kind enough that it usually didn’t matter, because people tended to like him anyway.
Marissa was not Ryland Grace. She was probably on the autism spectrum, sure, but she was a woman and thus both good at masking and had learned to be able read a room full of (mostly) men as a matter of safety. Marissa did not like the vibes coming off of Stratt.
Stratt apparently returned the sentiment. Marissa couldn’t know this, but she was much more similar to Stratt than either of them would probably prefer. And now, it seemed, they were going to have to learn to share with regards to one Dr. Ryland Grace. Once the top-secret clearance is given, there are no takebacks.
Ryland Grace gets a shiny new lab, a lead scientist position he doesn’t seem to be fully aware of, a bodyguard named Carl, and a private cabin. Marissa gets a ‘shut-up’ consultancy and a room next to his.
An atheist recruited into a Hail Mary to save humanity and the Jewish best friend who had invited herself along because she’d almost lost him once and wasn’t about to lose him again to whatever the fuck this was. If that was the start of a joke, well, she wasn’t fucking laughing.