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The days were starting to blend together.
Grey skies and small rooms and constant meetings and nothing changed. The sun was still dimming. She was still cold, getting colder as Earth caught up. The scarves and hats and thick coats weren't doing much, the chill had settled into her bones; biting and slowing her down, stealing away her thoughts and her energy when she already had so little. She knew it would never improve. The sun would never get brighter again. She tried not to think about it too much. It wasn't productive.
Eva had woken up that morning and everything was off, everything was simultaneously too bright and yet distant, dull and faraway—when people talked to her, she couldn't hear them at all until she did and their words battered through her skull, echoing through her mind even when she couldn't parse much meaning from the words. She replied on autopilot, leaning on the small pieces she'd comprehended, hoping she made sense, and she must've because no one said anything about it. Part of her wished someone would, that they would declare her ill or something just for the sake of a day or two of quiet, but she was far too competent for that and so she soldiered bravely (unwillingly) on.
She trudged between her office and the cafeteria, looking for a top-up for her seemingly endless chain of coffees. They were just as much an antidote to the freeze which had settled over the base than they were for her near-constant exhaustion.
As she walked, she found it hard to focus on the people she passed. On her feet below her. On the empty cup in her hand. She hadn't spoken to anyone outside of a conference room in 3 days. She could feel a sort of buzzing under her skin, a desire to get up and move, do something, anything that could make a difference. All of this talking and negotiating seemed to have no consequences except digging her into a greater hole, giving all the leaders of the nations more ammo to pelt at her once the ship was sent up and the project was complete.
She wasn't stupid. She knew that she'd go to prison. Her pardons wouldn't hold forever, and the US army wouldn't protect her for much longer. Eventually it would all catch up.
While she wasn't looking she'd made it to the coffee stand, was pouring more out when she became aware of a presence behind her.
"Dr Grace," she sighed.
"Stratt, how are you?" She grunted. "That's good—um… Look, do you have a minute?"
She turned around to him. Standing there in a lab coat and another ugly T-shirt, he was in a similar state to her, apparently—shifting from foot to foot, unable to keep still; his hair stuck up in all directions, as if he'd been running his hands through it (and she stubbornly ignored the awful urge in her to reach out and fix it—it was a symptom of the last few days, nothing more); he wrung his hands together and avoided meeting her eye. God, what was up with him?
"I have to go back to my office," she said bluntly.
"I…could walk with you?"
She thought for a second. "Okay." Tried to ignore how this was her first, real human interaction since Tuesday.
She poured some milk and a packet of sugar into her coffee. She wouldn't normally allow herself the indulgence, but today called for it. She looked at Grace, and he looked back.
"Aren't you getting anything?"
"No, I was just looking for you. I need to talk to you."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Right."
They walked back through the halls together, Stratt a little in front and him a little behind, and it was quiet. She was hyper-aware of the sound her shoes made on the floor, the rustling of her too-many-layers of clothes. Why was it quiet? Why wasn't he saying anything?
They came to her office door and the silence stretched on. The buzzing under her skin was back, curling into her hands and making them clench around the little to-go cup. This wasn't like him. What could he possibly have to tell her?
"Grace. What do you need to talk to me about?" She phrased it as a question but her tone made it sound like a command. She normally got better results that way.
"I… Um," He still wouldn't look at her. He shifted his feet on the floor. "We were crunching some numbers."
Silence. On and on and on it went. "Yes?"
"We've been breeding the astrophage, as—as you know, and we've had a projected number? That we were supposed to hit, by now?"
"As in the amount needed for launch?"
"Yes."
More quiet. She'd known about the projections, she'd been signing off on them since the beginning. "Well, spit it out."
"Right…so we, um—we haven't hit the projected amount."
"Okay."
"By, like a lot. By too much. There's a possibility that, we—uh. We might have to delay the launch? Maybe?"
She didn't outwardly react.
Their current launch date was already 9 months past their initial launch date.
Fuck.
There were estimates made. Solid fucking estimates. Each time they delayed it, they had to figure out exactly how many people it would kill. How many more people would be displaced, or starved, or dragged into war and conflict. How much blood would be on their hands. On hers.
They were far too close now. They had 3 months left till launch. Each and every major world leader had been briefed on the project, on what they were doing and how they were doing it and when exactly launch was. Everyone was aware, and everyone knew the estimates, and everyone knew exactly whose fault it was if the estimates increased. She couldn't feel her fingers.
"Dr Grace," His eyes snapped up to hers, finally, "Please come into my office."
She wrenched open her door and stalked in on shaky legs and he followed her, she thought, and she told him, "Close the door behind you."
He did so, and he looked scared now, of her, as if she was the one to be scared of and not the fucking sun burning out, freezing them all to death or starving them, not discriminating between children and elderly but killing everyone the same, some who'd lived their whole lives taking the warmth for granted and some who would never know what it was like to feel the sun on their face. The next generation would never know how green grass used to look, would never hear the buzzing of insects on a summer's day, and for fuck's sake they probably wouldn't even know that summer used to be warm. They'd look at old photos of sandy beaches and sun loungers and have nothing to compare it to, and they'd dream of family dinners with enough food for lunch the next day, too, and they'd probably have to imagine the concept of lunch at this rate, if the plans for rationing went through.
She sat down in her chair, or maybe collapsed, but she must have done something weird because Grace still looked scared but he also looked like he wanted to reach out and touch her and cradle her face in his palms, or something, like he could see her shakiness, except maybe she was just projecting because she knew a part of her was longing for it. For someone, anyone to sit her down and take her in their arms and handle this for her, to absorb the verbal lashings she was sure to receive, and the oncoming prison sentence, and the hatred and the blame and the lives of millions, billions.
"Stratt, I'm just… I'm really sorry. I—"
"How are we behind? How did we let that happen?"
"We don't exactly, um... know? We've been keeping an eye on them and we—I thought we had the ideal conditions for breeding them, but—just—we only discovered these things 3 years ago, and we don't really have all the info, since they're alien, and they don't behave like anything on Earth, and the numbers have sort of…plateaued, and it could be anything slowing them down—"
Her fear climbed and it grabbed her words and it pulled them and it twisted them into something angrier, something meaner. "But that's your job! You're supposed to figure out what's wrong with them—"
"I know, but it's just not possible to—"
"Well make it fucking possible, Grace. We can't just postpone the launch, think of the consequences of—"
"I know the consequences! I know it's bad, I'm sorry, but I know! I go to the same meetings you do and—"
"You do not go to the same meetings I do," she snapped. Her hands were clenched into tight fists in her lap. "You don't hear the fucking realities of the situation, and you don't hear the fucking numbers, and—"
"I'm the one making the realities! It's me who's breeding them, Stratt, I'm the one who's slowing us down and it's my fault and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry but we just need a little more—"
"Grace, it doesn't matter if it's your fault or not, I'm the one they're going to blame, and—and I'm the one who's supposed to be managing it, and managing you, and managing the fucking numbers and—I just—You just need to—"
She became aware of just how fast her heart was beating. She could feel it expanding, crawling up her throat and out of her skin, echoing in her ears, and Grace was still talking, "Look, we just need to slow down a bit, we're not—this isn't helping anyone—"
"We can't fucking slow down, Grace, I—"
Her breathing was speeding up, and he was looking at her now, really looking, and she wished she could see herself through his eyes because she had no clue what he was looking at. His eyebrows knitted together and his mouth was open like he was saying something and she pinched the bridge of her nose and wished he wouldn't because she didn't need him to worry about her, her, world-domination-bound Eva Stratt, except the buzzing under her skin had evolved into burning, into pure panic because they couldn't postpone the launch at all, and if they did more people would die and there was nothing she could fucking do about it, she didn't know shit about breeding astrophage and she didn't know how she was supposed to help Grace of all people figure it out, seeing as he was the leading expert in his field, and she was laid bare in front of him like she was on the edge of a cliff, trembling, or maybe she'd already dived off it and that was why she'd finally cracked open and he still just stared and she thought maybe he was saying something but her breathing had sped up even more and there was no rhythm and she could see his lips moving and couldn't make anything out and—
And she felt a hand on her shoulder, steady and competent and safe, and she thinks she would've hated it at some point in her life but she couldn't remember why—she must've been broken down by the fucking project and 16 hour work days every day for the last 3 years because all she could think was that she couldn't remember the last time someone had touched her and touched her kindly, and Grace's hand was rubbing gently up and down her arm, soft and soothing and nice.
Because that's what Grace was. He was steady and competent and safe and kind and gentle and soft and soothing and nice, and he was touching her so carefully yet was so sure of himself, not like he thought she was breakable but just that he would never do anything to break her, and her breathing was still quick but she didn't think she was dying anymore or at least not anytime soon because her experience of this world had narrowed down to his hand on her arm and nothing else mattered and she could finally hear his voice and she was very glad she did because she really didn't want to tune this bit out like everything else—
"It's okay, it's okay, just calm down—it's all gonna work out, don't worry, Eva—" (and she gave a sharp intake of breath because when was the last time anyone had called her Eva) "—just breathe. You're okay, don't focus on it right now, just—just breathe through it, nice and slow, that's it—"
And she did, because what else was there to do but listen to him? She closed her eyes and she kept breathing, slower now, and tried not to think of anything at all, instead just being and listening to him and to his voice and the feeling of his hand through her sweater.
They sat there for a minute or 10 or an hour, just breathing and him talking, softly and sweetly like she didn't deserve, and eventually she reached a point where she didn't need his guidance anymore, and to her complete and utter horror the awful, oppressive silence from before was back. She could feel it pushing on her from all directions, condensing her down into something small and stupid.
Reality crashed back in, bit by bit, and she stared at the floor and tried to ignore that he was still there. That he'd seen her like that. That he was, still, seeing her like that.
He'd come around to her side of the desk when he'd reached out; she hadn't seen it with her eyes closed. Their shoes were close together, on the floor, she noticed; hers black and sensible and his battered sneakers. She could hear him breathing, slowly, still, next to her. She wanted to cry.
God, how was she supposed to recover, how would he take her seriously? How was he supposed to trust her leadership when one piece of bad news sent her spiraling like a child? What was she supposed to say to him now to convince him; she could still do it, she could still work because who else would, she could still do her job, please—
"Does that… happen often?"
Her brain still lagged behind, stuck on the aftermath—she had no clue what to say and was worried whatever it was wouldn't be English, anyway, so he jumped in again, "Do they—have you got those? Before?"
She cleared her throat, "No."
Liar. She'd had…experiences like that as a child. Panic, pure and true; lying in bed at night or sat on the couch downstairs or even once, horrifically, in a church pew in the middle of a homily, unable to breathe. When her father died, for example, and her mother didn't know what to do with two little girls all by herself, things had been… difficult. It had happened too much.
She'd grown out of it, thankfully, and then grown back into it again, because she was childish and foolish and in way over her head even though she was supposed to be above it all.
She could feel his eyes on her. She longed for 20 minutes ago when she had no problem telling him to spit it out. When her restlessness was something which could be pushed away till tonight when she'd lie awake in bed, blissfully alone, to deal with by herself.
"Look, um…" She wished he wouldn't, she couldn't stomach his kindness anymore, and his hand had moved down to hold hers, to pry apart her fingers where they were painfully clenched into fists again, and he was running his thumb over the back of her hand oh so gently, and she didn't have the strength to push him away. "I'm sure we can figure something out, about the launch. I'm sure there's something we can do. It won't have to be delayed."
"…If it has to be delayed we'll delay it. There's nothing to be done," she said softly.
"Yeah, but—we can work on it a bit longer. There's a whole team of us, there has to be something we can do." She stared at their joined hands.
"Grace, don't…" She huffed, "Don't baby me. I don't need you to hold back for me, if it has to be delayed then it has to be delayed. I'll call a meeting tomorrow."
"I know I don't have to baby you, it's not about that," (it definitely was, God, she hated this) "I just don't want—You said about consequences, before. I don't want to make things—"
"No, Grace, I'll deal with it, it won't be anything serious—"
"But I'm just saying, I can keep working on it—"
And it would be so nice to just let him work on it, for him to pull a solution out of a top hat and fix everything for her and she was so tired and because of that she hesitated, and—
"I swear, Eva," (and she had to suppress a shudder as her first name came out of his mouth again) "Let us think on it, give us a day or two and I'm sure we'll be able to fix it—we can accelerate the production rates somehow, we're scientists for goodness' sake. We can work it out. It'll be fine."
She glanced up at him finally and he looked so earnest, so genuine under his messy hair and his eyes were so big behind his glasses and against her will and good judgment she believed him. She truly believed him, because he was just so convincing and so good and, really, she did know that he knew the consequences, no matter what she'd told him before, and she knew he knew what was at stake and she knew he would never mislead her. She trusted him and it was terrifying but she trusted him.
"I'll…" She cleared her throat again, "I'll give you 3 days." He nodded eagerly and she continued, "If you can't hack it in 3 days then we'll need to postpone it."
"Yes ma'am," He grinned and she could feel herself smiling quietly too, the corners of her mouth pulling up and even when he finally pulled his hand away she didn't care because she felt lighter, now. She was sure once he left again she'd fall back into regret and embarrassment and fear over how she'd practically cut herself open in front of him, bringing everything out into the light and allowing him to see everything, but it didn't matter because right now he was smiling at her and he had a solution and she was still tired but things were on track. Things were going well and he was helping.
He stood in her doorway, about to leave and he looked back and she knew what he was going to say by the way his eyes crinkled, "If—if that happens again, then I don't mind if you need me. I don't mind…hanging out, y'know."
Need him. She wished she had it in her to scoff at the idea. "Thank you, Dr Grace." She didn't make eye contact.
"Stratt," he nodded his goodbye.
She slept peacefully through the night that night, and the next, and the one afterwards too, comfortable and safe and surprisingly calm. Her skin felt like it fit her body again. Her hands didn't shake, and one day she even found time to eat lunch. She could still feel the ghost of his hand on hers.
And 3 days later when she visited the lab and he was rushing around madly, a panicked whirlwind of movement, she shouldn't have been shocked when his solution didn't work. She wasn't, really.
When she called the meeting, and told each and every major world leader that they would have to delay the launch again, she wasn't shocked at all when chaos erupted and expletives were hurled and the most distinguished and respected people on Earth acted like schoolchildren. She was painstakingly aware of how fear could morph your words, of how pressure made people crack. Of course, they weren't wrong—this would kill thousands. It was terrible.
She accepted it all, all the anger and the fear and the shouting and despair, and she took everything in, and stored it shaking in her chest until that night in her room and she felt it all, dealt with it all. Alone.