Work Text:
"You know who you are. You're gonna do great."
He didn't realize it then, but these would be their parting words. The desperate, horrified scream that followed echoes in his mind and haunts his every waking moment, only to return in full force when he sleeps. He's afraid of his own dreams, as it's the same thing over and over: Ryland Grace being tackled by the huge Russian security guards, his tearful begging to let him go, his refusal to submit, no, no, no, please, no... until the syringe is plunged into his neck, and his screams get quieter, turning into sobs, but they do not stop.
"No... no... no... I can't do it! No... no... Don't do it... Don't do it... Don’t do it… No..."
He cries out in pain.
“Carl…”
The hoarse whisper, as his eyes roll back into his head, his hands desperately grabbing anything, anything, clutching a clump of dry grass, no, no no...
He fights for his life, and all Carl can do is stand there and watch. A cargo truck pulls up and the security guards move to pick up the flailing body from the winter-cold ground.
"Whoa, easy there," Carl objects to them manhandling Grace a little too roughly. There are two men in white lab coats on the truck bed who receive Grace's shuddering, twisting body. Carl insists on riding with them and they shrug as he climbs onto the truck bed.
They wobble over the frozen ground until they reach the paved road and the ride gets smoother. It's starting to drizzle.
Grace makes a gurgling sound, still fighting, as if by reflex, and Carl reaches out to grasp his hand, not surprised when his fingers get a good squeeze in return. Then he starts heaving and Carl knows what’s coming – he’s seen it plenty of times as a reaction to the sedative. He barely manages to roll Grace onto his left side, as Grace heaves again and then vomits, and he can’t stop, crying out with dry heaves that go on and on.
Carl wipes the hair out of his face gently, then places his hand on his forehead as Grace sobs uncontrollably.
"Just let it go, Grace," he says. "I'm not going anywhere. Not for a while." Grace's hand trembles in his, and he looks away.
oOo
They arrive at the barracks minutes later. One of the Russians points at his hand holding Grace's but Carl gives him a withering stare, and that's that. Once inside the small cell the guard tries to move Grace to the makeshift bed but Carl slaps his wrist and the guard raises his hands and backs off. Carl places Grace on the bed and covers him with a blanket. Grace has soiled himself completely, and it's starting to reek.
"Can we get him some clean clothes?"
The guard nods and holds the door open but Carl shakes his head. The guard shrugs and leaves, and Carl hears the door lock.
There's no chair so he kneels down by the bed. Grace is still fighting and he tucks the blanket in around him to keep him from hurting himself.
"I'm sorry, pal." He sighs deeply and surveys the tiny room.
"I don't know if you can hear me, so I'm just gonna talk. The medical team will be here soon. There's all kinds of prep that needs to happen before they can put you under for good. Stratt wants you in the coma before the launch. I get it. We can't afford to have you sabotage this mission. You know what's at stake. I know you don't want this, but none of us have a choice here, buddy."
He stands up and checks his watch, and moments later he hears the door being unlocked. Several orderlies and a nurse enter with a medical equipment cart and the white PHM uniform. They strip Grace out of his messy clothes and wipe him down while he whimpers and mumbles seemingly random gibberish - it sounds like chemical formulas to Carl. The soiled clothes are put into a plastic bag and most of the team leaves.
"Routine baseline," the remaining nurse says in heavily accented English and Carl steps aside. She waves at the door.
"Nope," Carl says. "I'm staying. Stratt's orders."
The nurse shrugs and goes about taking Grace's pulse and respiration rate, takes his temperature in his ear and clips an oxygen sensor onto his index finger. She pushes up the sleeve of his right arm, slips on a blood pressure cuff and inflates it, takes a reading and removes it again, then notes everything on her pad. Then she ties a rubber strap around his arm, taps his elbow crease and hums appreciatively as the vein rises nicely. She slips in a needle and attaches a vial which quickly fills with blood. Carl counts eight vials of blood being taken.
"You trying to suck him dry?"
"Need many test."
Carl nods. She removes the needle, presses a cotton ball on the puncture and tapes it down with a quick, practiced move. As she packs up she points at the door.
"Knock when wake," she says, gesturing at Grace, then leaves.
oOo
Carl sits and watches Grace toss and turn restlessly for several hours. He wonders whether he dreams. It sure looks like a never-ending nightmare. Carl wants to wake him and tell him everything will be all right, that it was just a bad dream, that he'll keep him safe. He's guarded so many people with his life but he's never felt truly protective of any of them.
When he was assigned to guard the scientist, two items on the classification list were checked:
- Security Detail/ Civilian
- Flight Risk
Stratt's initial impression has proven to be right on - he did run. Not that it did him any good; the Russian soldiers at the base are very good at what they do.
But Ryland Grace has gotten to him, wormed his way right into his well-shielded heart, and right now he feels trapped, caught between what he wants to do and what he has to do. He rubs his neck and tells himself it doesn't matter because he has a job to do. He took an oath, for fuck's sake.
The waiting is torture.
Finally Grace twitches violently and moves his head, moaning softly, his hands weakly trying to grasp at something. Carl gets up and knocks on the door. Seconds later the lock grinds and the door swings open. It's the nurse again, with a small case. She hands it to Carl and he opens it, reads the label on the small vial and returns it, then watches her fill up a thin syringe and injecting it into a vein on the back of Grace's hand. She nods at him and leaves again.
Graces fingers move a little, as if he were typing on an invisible keyboard. He mumbles something unintelligible, then his eyes flutter open.
"Grace?"
No reaction, just the same slight movement in his fingers. It's unnerving, so Carl looks away.
The hours pass. Carl is fighting sleep, as Grace shivers and claws at the blanket, then suddenly stiffens and moans.
"Grace?" He jumps up and touches his hands. Grace grunts and squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again as if searching for something.
"I'm still here, Grace," Carl says, and suddenly he feels incredibly helpless. "Go back to sleep. It's ok. I'm here. I’ll watch you, buddy."
Grace stills and stares straight ahead, his lips move soundlessly, and then he's gone again, his fingers endlessly moving, moving, moving.
Carl feels sick to his stomach.
oOo
It comes almost as a relief when the door finally opens again and several orderlies and nurses file in with a new gurney. Carl gets up.
"Time to go."
Carl nods and moves to pick up Grace. To his surprise Grace sobs and curls up against him and moves his lips. "Ca... Ca..."
"Shhhh... it's okay. Let's go now. I'm here, baby. " The word slips out before he can stop it.
He places him on the gurney and realizes Grace is looking at him - actually looking at him. Carl swallows hard, as he notices a tear dripping from the corner of Grace's eye. The hurt in his gaze is bottomless. Carl tries to smile reassuringly and motions for the team to go ahead. They place a breathing mask over Grace’s mouth and nose and he immediately tries to rip it off, so they tie his arms down again.
Carl follows them, hands in his coat pockets, when he suddenly feels some crinkly plastic wrappers in there - an empty Sour Skittles bag and the sleeve of a bite-size Twizzler.
Of course. He always kept the stuff on him in case Grace got a sudden hankering for it – which was at least once an hour. The thought makes him smile, and he turns to one of the aides walking with them and hands them the wrappers.
“Get the biggest box of these you can find. They need to go up with him. Express ship it overnight if you have to. He’s not leaving this planet without it. If you need something signed, give it straight to me.”
The aide gives him a slightly disturbed look but then scurries off at Carl’s impatient gesture.
oOo
Outside the drizzle has stopped and for just a moment the sun breaks through, painting a full rainbow across the grey sky.
Carl is somehow not surprised - rainbows seem to follow Ryland Grace around, and it seems fitting that Carl's time with him should start and end with one - back at the school, and of course now.
They move across a small grassy field and back into a larger building, and the trip through the maze-like corridors of the barracks feels like forever, but eventually they arrive outside a brightly lit room. Carl moves to follow them inside but the nurse from before holds him back. "Medical only," she says.
Carl pushes her hand away. "Then get me some scrubs. I'm not leaving."
The nurse sighs and turns to one of the orderlies, conversing in Russian. Carl can make out most of it, and the consensus seems to be "look but don't touch". He takes off his coat and slips on the disposable gown, pulls the cap over his head and dons the proffered gloves and mask.
oOo
They're in an operating room now. Carl recognizes some of the equipment - they are about to induce the coma. There is an observation window and he notices Eva Stratt watching them. She nods at him, then rubs the back of her hand over her nose.
He returns his attention to Grace who appears to be at least partially conscious now - his eyes move frantically left to right, blinking rapidly, and his lips twitch. A nurse places a different mask over his face and a short while later Grace falls still, his hands trembling, fingers moving ever so slightly.
Good grief, what does it take to put the man down? Carl has never witnessed anything like it. He’s seen far bigger guys go completely under after the first needle. But Ryland Grace is strong – much stronger than he ever gave him credit for, belying his usually mild-mannered behavior.
Carl points at his glasses, and a nurse removes them and hands them to an aide who drops them into a small plastic bag.
“Get at least ten more of these made. In case he breaks a few.” The aide rushes off.
He watches as the medical team removes Grace's uniform; they are quick, efficient, competent, clearly having done this many times before, and he averts his gaze as Grace lies naked, as if it mattered, but he feels the need to afford him at least this tiny bit of dignity.
And suddenly Carl's world tilts inexplicably and he's somewhere else.
oOo
He's looking at a body on a metal table, an old man, a clean white towel draped over his hips. The lights are bright but not harsh; there is a strong smell of clean mixed with lavender, and music plays softly in the background. It's the embalming room of the funeral home his grandparents owned, and it's his first day helping out, his 8th birthday.
Someone taps him on the shoulder and he looks up. It's his grandmother, handing him a packet of clothes. "All righty, Carl, let's begin. Just hand me one thing at a time and just do as I say."
"Grandma?"
"What's that, baby?"
"Why do you have music playing? He's dead, he can't hear it."
His grandmother takes the boxers from him and begins to slip them onto the man's body. "Well, now, baby, death is a mysterious thing. You remember me sayin' that people in a coma can hear things, right?"
Carl nods.
"While his head can't hear it no more, his body can. And his spirit is still around. You know it takes a while - go ahead and put some socks on Mr. Williams, wouldya, baby? - it takes a hot minute for the soul to leave the body. And we're here to make that journey a wee bit easier for them."
Carl struggles with the socks - the man's feet are stiff and floppy at the same time, but he finally manages.
"Good job, Carl," his grandma praises him. "Your daddy would be so proud of you today. Now, Mr. Williams, let's go ahead and put on your favorite shirt."
She takes the white shirt with the blue pinstripes Carl hands her and starts threading the right arm through. "Come sit up for me, Mr. WIlliams so we can put that shirt on. Carl, come help me - go on the other side and take his left arm. Yes, Mr. Williams, that's my grandson, you remember him, right? Brenda's little boy, that's right."
"Why are you talking to him?" Carl whispers, more than a little spooked now.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Williams, it's his first time helping out. Carl, it's a matter of respect. Mr. Williams lived a long full life, and he was a good man. Just because his breath is gone don't mean he ain't a human being no more. People don't turn into slabs of flesh when they die. They're still people."
Carl nods and helps his grandma button the man's shirt. "What do we say, Carl?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Williams. I meant no disrespect. I'm still learning."
"See, that wasn't so hard," his grandmother encourages him. "Tell him what you got for your birthday, baby. I'm sure he'd love to hear about that."
So Carl tells him about the books he got and the new clothes, and how he's going to have a party next weekend and the names of all his friends that will be there.
And somehow Mr. Williams becomes a friend. He's certainly a good listener. Carl sees how gently his grandmother moves the dead man's body, the reverence she displays, the care she takes with every movement.
oOo
Carl observes the cool detachment of the medical team as they work on Grace's naked body and he bites his lip hard. It's not right. No, this isn't right. This is not just another body. That's his friend. And he's still alive.
He's a little shocked at the thought. Ryland Grace is his friend. And the memories keep crashing around him like waves on the shore - the happy banter, the endless stream of science quips and dad jokes, the impromptu bowling match at the home improvement store, the countless pizzas and Chinese dishes they had delivered while they worked through yet another night. The celebrations when the scaled-up breeder farms work like a charm. Grace showing him a scientific paper he’s started, entitled “The Carl Hypothesis: Breeding Astrophage”. The moment when he got the dour-faced military reps excited for his test results. How he got the CIA agents hooked on Sour Skittles. How they felt compelled to help him cover the lab with aluminum foil after he gave them one look over the top of his glasses and a charming lop-sided smile.
He shakes out of his thoughts as a dental team gives Grace a thorough checkup, painting the inside of his mouth with a clear liquid. Another team moves in to apply a mix of eye drops and to cover his eyes with a clear tape.
"When was his last bowel movement?"
He turns and focuses on the doctor in front of him.
"Uh... I don't... Yesterday, I think. Yes. But actually a coupla hours ago. All over."
“Sedative reaction?”
“I think so.”
"All right, let's flush him then to be sure."
Carl tilts his head. "What?"
The doctor sighs. "He can't have anything in his bowels before he gets on that ship. The system can't handle solid fecal matter, it's designed for the nutrient solution only."
He turns back to his team. "He needs a colonic. Go."
"A what?"
"Colonic irrigation. Flush it all out."
A new machine is rolled over and Grace is moved to his left side. Carl winces as the nozzle is inserted into Grace's rectum. The machine begins to pump warm water into his bowels and Carl watches in morbid fascination as Grace's abdomen swells up plump and round. His cheeks flush with the heat of a memory, when Grace celebrated their success in breeding astrophage by telling Stratt that they had made a baby. He groans inwardly as Grace's belly is being massaged very thoroughly. A short while later the machine reverses the flow and a surprising amount of matter runs through the clear tube into a sealed container.
After the nozzle is removed there is a fair bit of liquid still leaking and a towel is draped over Grace's hips, as he's being rolled onto his back.
Carl gestures. "Is that normal?"
The doctor turns to him. "What, the colonic or the residual? Both, actually. Unless people have stopped eating two days prior, this is pretty much necessary."
"What are they doing now?"
"Shaving. Can't scrub up until after." He hands Carl a tablet and points at it. "Got a whole lot more to do."
oOo
Grace looks so different with his head shaved, and for once his face is smooth, free at last from the two day stubble he always seemed to prefer. He doesn't look like the Ryland Grace he knew. Somehow, seeing his dirty blond, always shaggy hair being swept up by an aide nearly gives him a panic attack. For one terrifying moment he considers reaching out to grab a fistful, something, anything to remember him by. The medical team begins to scrub Grace down with an antiseptic solution and Carl wrinkles his nose. His grandmother had her own recipe for washing a body - that distinct smell of clean and lavender he remembers so vividly.
Scanners are moved around him and every inch of Grace’s body is mapped. A little skin tag on his left temple appears to be a concern for a while but is then determined to be harmless.
A second team enters, fully gowned, pushing a bed with the clear vinyl suit for the coma equipment, splayed out on the top like a second skin.
"All right, let's get the catheters in."
Carl averts his gaze but he can't help stealing a glance or two as the rectal and urinary catheters are inserted. It looks painful, and he hopes with all his heart that Grace can't feel it. They insert a speculum-type device into his rectum and push a long, clear, flexible tube in, then thread in the urinary catheter and inflate the stopper. The line begins to drain his bladder. A tight-fitting set of briefs is slipped onto him and the catheters guided through. Then there's a clean pair of socks and finally a pair of simple tennis shoes - Carl knows about that part: it's to keep his tendons from stretching out during the long coma. More machines are pulled up and electrodes are attached all over his body; according to Carl's tablet they are set on specific muscles to keep them stimulated in order to prevent atrophy during the journey. Carl figures he’ll be ripped by the time he wakes from the coma.
Grace isn’t in bad shape – he’s quite fit for an academic, with just a hint of dad bod coming along, but he’s not overly muscled, just well-toned from riding his bike everywhere. And Carl can't fathom how Grace could live on a steady diet of Sour Skittles and Twizzlers and not be huge. High metabolism, he suspects.
Many hands lift Grace and transfer him to the skin, and the catheters are attached to the proper outlets. Carl checks his tablet so he has an excuse not to watch.
When he looks up again multiple straps are tied around Grace's arms and hands, and two nurses begin to insert IV lines. He counts them – six: the sides of his neck, his elbow creases and the backs of his hands. Tight-fitting gloves are pulled onto both hands, apparently to keep the lines from pulling out too easily. It all seems excessive, but then again he's never witnessed the entire process before, and it's on his list so it must be right.
He watches as a nasogastric tube is pushed up his nose and all the way down into his stomach - good heavens, that thing is going on forever - and he twitches as Grace gags and coughs, an involuntary reflex, no doubt, but it hurts to watch it. It's uncomfortably warm in the room and Carl wipes the sweat off his brow. Grace was always chilly, always bundling up in that silly frumpy cardigan with the foxes on it.
There is a flurry of activity as all the IV lines are connected to their pumps, and the medical team checks each other's work. Carl nods in appreciation - they're not leaving anything up to chance.
"Start the next mix."
"Mix 3 B commencing."
Everyone stares at their readouts. The head nurse counts down as the drugs flow into Grace's veins.
"Complete. Intubate."
Carl can't watch this part. Grace might be completely under now but his body was still fighting. The agonal gasps, gags and retches sound like torture as they echo in the room, and then it gets very quiet.
"Connect the ventilator."
A hiss and a thunk. "Vent on."
Hiss, thunk. Hiss, thunk. Hiss, thunk.
The machine is breathing for Grace now.
"Start final mix."
"Mix 4 commencing. Go. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, complete."
"All right. Zip him up and start the cooling process."
Carl shivers. If Grace was even a little aware of what was happening, he would hate this with the fury of a thousand hurricanes.
oOo
Time passes as Grace's body is cooled down to a sustainable level. Only his face is still visible with the breathing tube in his mouth. Carl is at the bottom of his list.
"What happens now?"
The doctor comes over, removing his mask.
"We monitor him for 24 hours, then he goes on that rocket. He'll go into a self-contained capsule in case of a sudden loss of pressure. It's like a space suit for unconscious people. There's a medical team standing by on the Hail Mary in orbit to make sure the transfer is completed properly and to administer the amnesia drug, and then they will take the same capsule back down. Sorry, you can't go there."
"I have to be with him until he's on the shuttle rocket."
The doctor shrugs. "Yes, I know. Let me assure you he's not going anywhere."
Carl nods. "That's not why."
The doctor flashes him a half-second smile, then gives the signal for the team to leave.
Then Carl is alone with Grace and a small five person team who watch monitors and adjust and calibrate equipment.
oOo
An aide arrives with a new tablet - his team has inventoried and catalogued every item in Grace's quarters. Carl goes through the list and picks a bunch of dorky science t-shirts that he knows the man loves, a few sentimental items like a fox mask and cards made for him by his students, socks, underwear, a few photos, a knit cap, some sweaters, some official PHM gear.
And of course the thick cardigan he wears everywhere.
Carl hopes he's made the right choices - it's all Grace gets to take with him on his final journey.
oOo
Carl naps in a chair in the corner. The observation room is empty now, he never noticed when Stratt left. Grace's body is completely still, surrounded by softly clicking and buzzing machines. Carl learns all the different noises - the slow beeps of the heart monitor, the hiss-thunk of the ventilator, the whir of the nutrient solution and the soft hum of the catheters and IV pumps.
He has long conversations with Grace in his head. They've spent so much time together that the other man's voice is loud and clear in his thoughts. It's like a hand of ice grips his heart when he flashes back to Grace looking at him over the top of his glasses, popping another fistful of Sour Skittles in his mouth and grinning at him sheepishly.
"I'm so sorry, Grace. I know you hate my guts now, and I understand. We all betrayed you. And if you wake up on that ship and decide not to do anything, I wouldn't blame you. But I know that you will put that aside, and you will rise to the challenge. We all believe in you so much more than you ever believed in yourself. You and everyone else may think you’re a coward. But I know you’re not."
oOo
True to his word Carl accompanies the coma bed to the shuttle rocket, when Grace is laid into a coffin-like capsule and all his life support is switched to the internal systems. He's there at the hatch, watching as the closeout team transfers Grace to the shuttle and the medics do their final checks. He high-fives Commander Yao and Engineer Ilyukhina, both in full suits, as they climb into the craft. He watches the hatch being closed and the access arm retract, and then he rides the elevator down with the closeout team.
oOo
"... three... two... one... ignition, and lift off!"
Carl watches the transfer shuttle rocket climb up into the sky and disappear into the clouds. It’s drizzling, and it takes him a while to realize he's crying. And he can’t seem to stop.
Yes, he helped prepare for the last Hail Mary of humankind.
And he did it by betraying a man who had become his friend, sending him off to die in space.
oOo
Carl spends the afternoon cleaning out Grace's quarters, boxing up everything and labeling it for storage. If Grace succeeds most of this stuff will probably end up in museums. He double-checks his team's inventory, including the trash in his waste basket. There is a key chain with a fox figurine and a medallion on the bedside table. Carl smiles as he picks it up. Grace loved foxes, and animals in general. There's an engraving on the back of the medallion - Grover Cleveland Middle School.
And that's when it really hits him.
He sent a school teacher to his death. He ensured that all those kids would lose one of their most dedicated mentors, and no matter how much he rationalizes that it's his job and it was for the good of humanity, blah blah blah, he's still complicit in Ryland Grace's death sentence.
A shuddering sob escapes him as he carefully slips the key chain into his coat pocket, deletes it from the inventory, and then slumps into a chair.
He sits for a long time.
And then he calls his team to come over to pick up Grace's stuff. He watches them load the van and drive off.
Grace is really, truly gone.
He walks through the cold drizzle over to the main building and hands in his resignation.
oOo
Carl books the next available flight back home. He sleeps on the plane, haunted by visions of Grace being transferred to the Hail Mary, kept alive by machines but no less a corpse.
He arrives at the nursing home mid-morning, and his grandmother is overjoyed to see him. Carl stands in the doorway, staring at her. His grandmother nods and gestures.
"Come on in, baby."
He kneels down next to her wheelchair and buries his face in her shoulder as she gently rubs his back.
"What happened, baby?"
And he tells her. She strokes his hand and listens, and when he finishes she reaches for his chin and turns his face to look at her.
"You did your job."
"I could have refused."
"It would have still happened. At least you were there for your little friend, right?"
"I don't know what to do now."
She kisses him on the forehead, just like she always did when he was little.
"Oh yes, baby, you do know what to do. You're gonna make this right. You're gonna honor your friend. You know who you are. And you're gonna do great."
And Carl realizes she's right.
oOo
He’s spent much of his childhood around dead people, which had led to a strong commitment to protect the living and a promising career in the Secret Service. He’s carried the responsibility of keeping high-level politicians and heads of state safe with practiced ease and professionalism. Always at a polite distance, he had taken pride in his objectivity.
Then Ryland Grace had come into his life and torn down his walls with his playfulness, his stubborn determination and his brilliant mind.
Carl has never dwelled on the past, always ready to take on a new challenge, guarding another VIP.
And now he carries on the legacy of a friend. He studies hard, driven by the promise he made to his grandmother and his long-gone friend, and now he understands why Ryland Grace loved doing what he was doing.
"Good morning, class! Everyone please take a seat. Let's review what we learned last week. Who can tell me the speed of light?"
He knows who he is now. And he's going to do great.
oOo