what was supposed to be a placeholder blog is now permanent as, alas! it seems as though mine original blogs will never be returning from the skeleton war.
: ̗̀➛ the tea here
acaademicqueer | hobbyistauthor -> academic-clown -> aamputation
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He explains Astrophage and Tau Ceti and Project Hail Mary, granting Simon the whole picture, barring Ryland’s not-so-voluntary place on said ship. He doesn’t share anything with Ryland in return, but there is a slow acceptance in Simon that no, the stars and planets didn't disappear here, yes Earth still exists, but they can’t go back.
It’s clear that the other man’s worldview has been irrevocably shaken, but since his home universe consists mainly of what Ryland can only call cosmic horror, it’s hope that he wants to believe he’s seeing in the depths of Simon’s eyes.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Their daily life becomes routine, as trust slowly begins to build between the three of them. Rocky and Ryland spend much of their time in the labs, working on keeping the taumeoba farms alive and preventing mutations to allow them escape. Simon is more listless, and it isn’t until the end of a day cycle where they’re all gathered together in the Don’t Go Crazy Room for a movie night that Ryland learns more about the mysterious man from another universe. He and Rocky are arguing over what to watch, as usual, with Simon flipping through the massive catalog away from their chaos. It’s only when Rocky pauses mid argument to angle his body towards Simon that Ryland realizes the man in question made some sort of gasping noise. Concern supersedes any petty quarrel with Rocky and he rushes on ungainly limbs to Simon’s side.
He’s staring at Our Planet II, which Ryland knows is a solid nature documentary. This is the first time Simon has expressed anything about what they watch, and Ryland feels a giddy sort of anxiety well up in his stomach.
“Oh, hey! That’s a good one!”
Rocky comes rolling over, pointing his texture monitor gun at the screen. He trills in excitement. “Is Attenborough yes yes yes! Excite! Must watch, Simon better taste than Grace.”
Ryland shoots a look at his best friend over the rim of his glasses, trilling his mono-phonic variation of notes to say rude in Eridian, which only makes Rocky laugh at him.
“... so it’s okay if I pick, then?”
Simon’s soft, unsure inquiry warms the space in Ryland’s chest and he smiles, fighting down the urge to wrap the other man up in a hug and never let go. “Of course! Rocky’s right, you do have good taste.”
Ryland silently delights in the way the other man’s eyes widen and the speed with which the tip of his ear visible through his long hair flushes red.
Once they’ve settled in and started the documentary, Ryland relaxes to Sir Attenborough’s dulcet tones, only to be distracted when Simon’s hand fumbles for his own, grasping it like the other man needs a lifeline. It immediately alarms Ryland but when he turns to look, Simon is on the verge of tears, his eyes wet and wide as he stares with unabashed awe at the depictions all around him. As the documentary continues, it quickly becomes apparent that Simon has never seen plants before, at least not real ones, not alive ones, and definitely not the vast, endless variety that covered Earth’s surface.
(Absently, he wonders how many of said varieties are still alive.)
When the documentary ends, Simon pulls his hand back abruptly like he’s embarrassed or ashamed. Ryland decides not to mention it, but does feel the need to ask something else.
“Do you like plants, Simon?”
“... yes. I do.”
Ryland remains quiet, fighting to keep his body language open and soft, like he’s sitting with a troubled student rather than a full grown man. He just knows Simon has more to say, but he needs the space and time to be able to get the words out. Ryland is the same way sometimes.
“... I, we had a tree… on Eden.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah.” Simon's rarely seen nervous tick shows itself in the way his teeth press down against his lower lip. “The Last Tree, but… but it had died. We– we couldn’t keep it alive anymore, no matter what we did.”
“The Last Tree, huh? Must have been an impressive thing while it was alive.”
“... it was. It was impressive, even in death.”
It’s that tiny conversation that has Ryland pulling Simon to Mary’s tiny greenhouse the very next day, and becomes the decision that almost kills the long-haired man. Of course Ryland had been expecting wonder or excitement, like he'd seen during the documentary, but instead he watches as Simon freezes and doesn't step inside.
“...”
Ryland waits, all nerves but allowing the other man his space to take it all in. His patience pays off when eventually, an indeterminate amount of time later (he definitely didn't check his watch on the sly, nope, no sir), Simon speaks in a voice so soft Ryland almost doesn’t catch it.
“...they're alive.”
“Yep, they sure are.”
“They're not dying.”
“Nope,” Ryland says, keeping the self deprecating despite my black thumb, thankfully locked behind his teeth.
It's with sudden clarity that yet another piece of the Simon puzzle slams into place, Ryland watching with renewed eyes and a weird sense of pride alongside that aching warmth in his chest as Simon steps gingerly into the space holding the seedlings as though it is the Sistine Chapel.
Simon has never lived anywhere where things were allowed to simply… grow.
“Hey, Simon?”
The dark-haired man looks up from where he’s staring at a whole row of what Ryland hopes will eventually provide them with nutrient-dense green peas. “Mm?”
“So, I’m really a poor botanist, you know? Quite frankly it’s a miracle none of these crops have died, and most of that is thanks to Mary—”
You are welcome, Doctor Grace.
“—and well, I’d have to be blind to miss how much you clearly love these little guys! With all knowledge crammed into the databases on Mary I’m sure she would be able to help you with anything you don't already know—”
I would be delighted to assist you in any botany endeavors, Simon.
“—but your love and passion will definitely, surely make you a better plant parent than I am, so… um, do you maybe… want to take over the greenhouse maintenance? As a favor? To me?”
Ryland finally risks a glance back at his shipmate when the silence drags on for too long and he can no longer take it, ready to apologize for his presumption and rescind his suggestion, but the tears running down the other man’s face halt him entirely.
“You… you would trust me with such precious work?”
“Of course I would, Simon. You’re important to me– to us, and we want you to be happy here.” He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed, “I honestly just wanted to offer it, since you’ve seemed to want to do some actual determinant work onboard and not just random odd jobs where we ask for a hand.”
Ryland smiles, feeling the flush across his cheekbones as he gazes at the man before him. “I wanted you to have a job that you would love doing.”
Simon doesn’t respond to Ryland’s bold statement verbally, seemingly only able to nod as the tears continue to fall. He turns back to the green surrounding him and Ryland’s heart throbs in his chest at the tiny, wavering smile that sits upon Simon’s lips.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
The greenhouse becomes Simon's favorite place. He devours every scrap of information on botany stored in Mary’s hard drives (some of which enrages him; blood and bodies were never necessary to feed the Tree, so what the hell did he help kill all those people for!?) Nothing in the greenhouse is trying to kill him, and the plants themselves give him peace.
Being granted the permission—no, the honor—of tending the life within is the greatest gift anyone has ever given him, and he will never forget such kindness.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Ryland keeps running into roadblocks with this man.
If and when Simon sleeps, it's not because he feels safe but rather because he loses the fight against his own exhaustion. He passes out upright, always with something that could be used as a weapon—a whiteboard marker, a wrench, anything—in hand, back against the wall so he faces the entrances to whatever room he’s unconscious in.
Even his waking habits are concerning.
The dark-haired man has instinctual flinching, constantly watching exits—even when Simon, Ryland, and Rocky are all in the same room together—never sitting with his back exposed… the constant, quiet apologies that seem to just be for existing.
Those ones hurt the worst.
All of Simon’s odd behaviors reinforce Ryland’s sick feeling that without a doubt points to a life of scarcity and even potentially of systemic abuse; a world where not once has Simon ever truly been safe.
Ryland also notices the missing arm, and not in the way of the glaring absence of it, no... Instead he clocks the habits: the way Simon instinctively reaches with a limb that isn't there, the awkward balance of carried objects clutched at odd angles like he’s still expecting an equal counterweight on the opposing side. It's in the way he twists his shoulders and torso in ways that must hurt him, and the automatic apologies that leak out from behind gritted teeth and quivering lips every time Simon drops something.
He never complains, he just keeps… adapting to life without a limb. Ryland hates it. Not Simon—no, never Simon—but the fact that the other man has had a life where instinct tells him to pretend nothing hurts… and he’s very good at pretending nothing hurts.
Even so, Ryland bites his tongue regarding the other man’s guarding behaviors and his left-over phantom instincts, quietly planning on rearranging and redesigning the ship. He never announces his intentions, instead simply and subtly recruiting Rocky to his cause.
Changes happen slowly but steadily. Mirrors appear at corner intersections so blind spots are exposed and sliding doors are removed from their rails. Modifications are made to greenhouse equipment, coffee mugs, tool handles, heck even Mary's interface. Persistently and secretly, every single thing Simon struggles with becomes easy to navigate or becomes usable with one hand.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Weeks later, Simon notices that things around the ship have steadily become... easier. He tries to be discrete in his investigation, but when he turns his attention fully to the why said tasks have gotten easier, it becomes glaringly obvious.
It's in the lab that he confronts the taller man, stopping in front of a cabinet, running the fingertips of his remaining hand along the edges of a modification, clearly painstakingly done without his immediate notice.
It makes him immediately wonder what he now owes; this... it's an immense amount of work that's been done, encompassing nearly every inch of the ship. He swallows down the anxiety that swells in his throat, barely scraping out the words he wants to say to Grace.
"You… changed this."
Grace turns away from... whatever he's working on, sees what Simon is referring to, and merely shrugs, as if what he's done is nothing at all!
“Well it’s better– easier, really, to just change the ship so it's accessible to everyone, isn’t it?”
Simon's jaw snaps shut from where it had been opened, to- to argue or refute or- or something but... he has absolutely no response to Grace's nonchalant, easy words and just… doesn't know what to do with the entire sentence.
He can't wrap his brain around it.
Nobody has ever just gone and changed the world around them instead of demanding Simon change himself.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Eventually, Simon haltingly explains the Quiet Rapture to both Ryland and Rocky. Said explanations are sterilized and obviously edited, but even so Ryland is beginning to piece together Simon's impossible history. Ultimately, the consensus falls more in accordance with the old adage: “Yeah, sounds fake, but okay.”
Honestly, it’s not like he has any room left to be surprised anymore—and he has a pretty strong feeling that Simon is wearing the same hat—which makes it a little easier to swallow.
breaking news from the AP, our boys on the front have just sacked constantinople. take that, heretics. coming up next are the soothing lute dirges of bing crosby
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He explains Astrophage and Tau Ceti and Project Hail Mary, granting Simon the whole picture, barring Ryland’s not-so-voluntary place on said ship. He doesn’t share anything with Ryland in return, but there is a slow acceptance in Simon that no, the stars and planets didn't disappear here, yes Earth still exists, but they can’t go back.
It’s clear that the other man’s worldview has been irrevocably shaken, but since his home universe consists mainly of what Ryland can only call cosmic horror, it’s hope that he wants to believe he’s seeing in the depths of Simon’s eyes.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Their daily life becomes routine, as trust slowly begins to build between the three of them. Rocky and Ryland spend much of their time in the labs, working on keeping the taumeoba farms alive and preventing mutations to allow them escape. Simon is more listless, and it isn’t until the end of a day cycle where they’re all gathered together in the Don’t Go Crazy Room for a movie night that Ryland learns more about the mysterious man from another universe. He and Rocky are arguing over what to watch, as usual, with Simon flipping through the massive catalog away from their chaos. It’s only when Rocky pauses mid argument to angle his body towards Simon that Ryland realizes the man in question made some sort of gasping noise. Concern supersedes any petty quarrel with Rocky and he rushes on ungainly limbs to Simon’s side.
He’s staring at Our Planet II, which Ryland knows is a solid nature documentary. This is the first time Simon has expressed anything about what they watch, and Ryland feels a giddy sort of anxiety well up in his stomach.
“Oh, hey! That’s a good one!”
Rocky comes rolling over, pointing his texture monitor gun at the screen. He trills in excitement. “Is Attenborough yes yes yes! Excite! Must watch, Simon better taste than Grace.”
Ryland shoots a look at his best friend over the rim of his glasses, trilling his mono-phonic variation of notes to say rude in Eridian, which only makes Rocky laugh at him.
“... so it’s okay if I pick, then?”
Simon’s soft, unsure inquiry warms the space in Ryland’s chest and he smiles, fighting down the urge to wrap the other man up in a hug and never let go. “Of course! Rocky’s right, you do have good taste.”
Ryland silently delights in the way the other man’s eyes widen and the speed with which the tip of his ear visible through his long hair flushes red.
Once they’ve settled in and started the documentary, Ryland relaxes to Sir Attenborough’s dulcet tones, only to be distracted when Simon’s hand fumbles for his own, grasping it like the other man needs a lifeline. It immediately alarms Ryland but when he turns to look, Simon is on the verge of tears, his eyes wet and wide as he stares with unabashed awe at the depictions all around him. As the documentary continues, it quickly becomes apparent that Simon has never seen plants before, at least not real ones, not alive ones, and definitely not the vast, endless variety that covered Earth’s surface.
(Absently, he wonders how many of said varieties are still alive.)
When the documentary ends, Simon pulls his hand back abruptly like he’s embarrassed or ashamed. Ryland decides not to mention it, but does feel the need to ask something else.
“Do you like plants, Simon?”
“... yes. I do.”
Ryland remains quiet, fighting to keep his body language open and soft, like he’s sitting with a troubled student rather than a full grown man. He just knows Simon has more to say, but he needs the space and time to be able to get the words out. Ryland is the same way sometimes.
“... I, we had a tree… on Eden.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah.” Simon's rarely seen nervous tick shows itself in the way his teeth press down against his lower lip. “The Last Tree, but… but it had died. We– we couldn’t keep it alive anymore, no matter what we did.”
“The Last Tree, huh? Must have been an impressive thing while it was alive.”
“... it was. It was impressive, even in death.”
It’s that tiny conversation that has Ryland pulling Simon to Mary’s tiny greenhouse the very next day, and becomes the decision that almost kills the long-haired man. Of course Ryland had been expecting wonder or excitement, like he'd seen during the documentary, but instead he watches as Simon freezes and doesn't step inside.
“...”
Ryland waits, all nerves but allowing the other man his space to take it all in. His patience pays off when eventually, an indeterminate amount of time later (he definitely didn't check his watch on the sly, nope, no sir), Simon speaks in a voice so soft Ryland almost doesn’t catch it.
“...they're alive.”
“Yep, they sure are.”
“They're not dying.”
“Nope,” Ryland says, keeping the self deprecating despite my black thumb, thankfully locked behind his teeth.
It's with sudden clarity that yet another piece of the Simon puzzle slams into place, Ryland watching with renewed eyes and a weird sense of pride alongside that aching warmth in his chest as Simon steps gingerly into the space holding the seedlings as though it is the Sistine Chapel.
Simon has never lived anywhere where things were allowed to simply… grow.
“Hey, Simon?”
The dark-haired man looks up from where he’s staring at a whole row of what Ryland hopes will eventually provide them with nutrient-dense green peas. “Mm?”
“So, I’m really a poor botanist, you know? Quite frankly it’s a miracle none of these crops have died, and most of that is thanks to Mary—”
You are welcome, Doctor Grace.
“—and well, I’d have to be blind to miss how much you clearly love these little guys! With all knowledge crammed into the databases on Mary I’m sure she would be able to help you with anything you don't already know—”
I would be delighted to assist you in any botany endeavors, Simon.
“—but your love and passion will definitely, surely make you a better plant parent than I am, so… um, do you maybe… want to take over the greenhouse maintenance? As a favor? To me?”
Ryland finally risks a glance back at his shipmate when the silence drags on for too long and he can no longer take it, ready to apologize for his presumption and rescind his suggestion, but the tears running down the other man’s face halt him entirely.
“You… you would trust me with such precious work?”
“Of course I would, Simon. You’re important to me– to us, and we want you to be happy here.” He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed, “I honestly just wanted to offer it, since you’ve seemed to want to do some actual determinant work onboard and not just random odd jobs where we ask for a hand.”
Ryland smiles, feeling the flush across his cheekbones as he gazes at the man before him. “I wanted you to have a job that you would love doing.”
Simon doesn’t respond to Ryland’s bold statement verbally, seemingly only able to nod as the tears continue to fall. He turns back to the green surrounding him and Ryland’s heart throbs in his chest at the tiny, wavering smile that sits upon Simon’s lips.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
The greenhouse becomes Simon's favorite place. He devours every scrap of information on botany stored in Mary’s hard drives (some of which enrages him; blood and bodies were never necessary to feed the Tree, so what the hell did he help kill all those people for!?) Nothing in the greenhouse is trying to kill him, and the plants themselves give him peace.
Being granted the permission—no, the honor—of tending the life within is the greatest gift anyone has ever given him, and he will never forget such kindness.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Ryland keeps running into roadblocks with this man.
If and when Simon sleeps, it's not because he feels safe but rather because he loses the fight against his own exhaustion. He passes out upright, always with something that could be used as a weapon—a whiteboard marker, a wrench, anything—in hand, back against the wall so he faces the entrances to whatever room he’s unconscious in.
Even his waking habits are concerning.
The dark-haired man has instinctual flinching, constantly watching exits—even when Simon, Ryland, and Rocky are all in the same room together—never sitting with his back exposed… the constant, quiet apologies that seem to just be for existing.
Those ones hurt the worst.
All of Simon’s odd behaviors reinforce Ryland’s sick feeling that without a doubt points to a life of scarcity and even potentially of systemic abuse; a world where not once has Simon ever truly been safe.
Ryland also notices the missing arm, and not in the way of the glaring absence of it, no... Instead he clocks the habits: the way Simon instinctively reaches with a limb that isn't there, the awkward balance of carried objects clutched at odd angles like he’s still expecting an equal counterweight on the opposing side. It's in the way he twists his shoulders and torso in ways that must hurt him, and the automatic apologies that leak out from behind gritted teeth and quivering lips every time Simon drops something.
He never complains, he just keeps… adapting to life without a limb. Ryland hates it. Not Simon—no, never Simon—but the fact that the other man has had a life where instinct tells him to pretend nothing hurts… and he’s very good at pretending nothing hurts.
Even so, Ryland bites his tongue regarding the other man’s guarding behaviors and his left-over phantom instincts, quietly planning on rearranging and redesigning the ship. He never announces his intentions, instead simply and subtly recruiting Rocky to his cause.
Changes happen slowly but steadily. Mirrors appear at corner intersections so blind spots are exposed and sliding doors are removed from their rails. Modifications are made to greenhouse equipment, coffee mugs, tool handles, heck even Mary's interface. Persistently and secretly, every single thing Simon struggles with becomes easy to navigate or becomes usable with one hand.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Weeks later, Simon notices that things around the ship have steadily become... easier. He tries to be discrete in his investigation, but when he turns his attention fully to the why said tasks have gotten easier, it becomes glaringly obvious.
It's in the lab that he confronts the taller man, stopping in front of a cabinet, running the fingertips of his remaining hand along the edges of a modification, clearly painstakingly done without his immediate notice.
It makes him immediately wonder what he now owes; this... it's an immense amount of work that's been done, encompassing nearly every inch of the ship. He swallows down the anxiety that swells in his throat, barely scraping out the words he wants to say to Grace.
"You… changed this."
Grace turns away from... whatever he's working on, sees what Simon is referring to, and merely shrugs, as if what he's done is nothing at all!
“Well it’s better– easier, really, to just change the ship so it's accessible to everyone, isn’t it?”
Simon's jaw snaps shut from where it had been opened, to- to argue or refute or- or something but... he has absolutely no response to Grace's nonchalant, easy words and just… doesn't know what to do with the entire sentence.
He can't wrap his brain around it.
Nobody has ever just gone and changed the world around them instead of demanding Simon change himself.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Eventually, Simon haltingly explains the Quiet Rapture to both Ryland and Rocky. Said explanations are sterilized and obviously edited, but even so Ryland is beginning to piece together Simon's impossible history. Ultimately, the consensus falls more in accordance with the old adage: “Yeah, sounds fake, but okay.”
Honestly, it’s not like he has any room left to be surprised anymore—and he has a pretty strong feeling that Simon is wearing the same hat—which makes it a little easier to swallow.
Ryland makes it a point not to ask about what exactly happened to Simon.
Not immediately, anyway.
He approaches his new shipmate exactly the way he'd approach a frightened wild animal: slowly, hands visible, no sudden movements. He recognizes the expression of a man who expects every question to become an interrogation, like he’s waiting for the catch, the other shoe to drop. There isn't one, at least not from Ryland.
Instead of prying questions, he asks things like:
"Do you want water?"
"Feel like breakfast?"
"Would you like to rest?"
That's it. There are no demands, no accusations, and never any strings attached. Ryland only asks simple questions without hidden motives. The frustrating bit is no matter how he rewords said questions, it seems Simon still doesn't know how to answer him, almost like the other man is… scared. Of what, Ryland hasn't a single clue, but it's a problem, and he doesn't know what to do about it.
He can't seem to figure out the right combination of words that will convince Simon that he has no ulterior motive, that yes, he does in fact just want to know if Simon is thirsty! No, it's not a threat; of course he can have water whenever he needs it. Ryland isn't a monster! Jiminy Christmas!
When he inevitably asks Rocky for advice, the alien lets out a gust of wind from his vents—what Ryland has come to interpret as the Eridian version of an exasperated sigh.
“Grace is not good at communication. Must be more do, less talk.”
It takes Ryland an embarrassingly long time to figure out what the hell his best friend means, ignoring the savage diss. When it does click, Ryland changes tactics and works to communicate without words. Instead of asking if Simon is hungry, Ryland offers a snack as he munches on his own meager rations—usually taumeoba, but Simon doesn't need to know that—or slides the other man a water pouch while he slurps on his own. Bedtime is choreographed and deliberate, blankets and pillows left out haphazardly like a sloppy nest, and snatched at a whim.
Does all of this mean that the ship has gotten a bit messy? Yes. But has he succeeded in getting Simon to actually follow Ryland’s lead? Also yes.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
After a prolonged period of cohabitation with the strange man named Grace, Simon is told he can meet the other inhabitant of the Hail Mary if he'd like. Of course, he knows he doesn't actually have a choice in the matter, as Grace seems to be the ranking officer and Simon is just a random charity case the guy picked up on a whim or something. So of course he agrees, because denying Grace when the man looks so– so hopeful makes his gut twist like he's eaten something rancid.
(He's also not willing to risk pissing off the one guy who—within Simon's shitty, relatively recent life history—has not been a blatant fucking asshole to him if Simon so much as breathes… at least, he hasn't yet, and he definitely doesn’t want to give Grace a reason to start.)
Grace talks a lot, but when he starts dropping hints and bits about this “Rocky” guy he intends to introduce Simon to, it's like the floodgates are open and the Ark is unmoored upon the unending sea. From what Simon can gather from the other man’s lengthy ramblings, “Rocky” is Grace's best friend and the ship’s engineer. Apparently, the guy can make anything, and he's amazing, blah blah fucking blah. Grace seriously sings the guy’s praises just as much as he gripes about him, how with “Rocky” around there's no privacy and how he’s “so bossy, Simon, you wouldn't believe it!”
Through all the rambling, Simon gleans two very crucial bits of intel: number one, Grace values this “Rocky” incredibly highly and credits the guy with saving his life. And number two, “Rocky” is definitely not human.
Simon isn't honestly sure what to expect before meeting this mysterious engineer Grace can't shut up about. He half assumes “Rocky” is another robot like Armando or the ship's AI Mary, because based on simple context cues it makes the most sense, but a smaller part of him wonders if maybe “Rocky” is more than simply not human.
Turns out he's right. Rocky is definitely not human.
He's a fucking alien.
If Simon thought Grace was strange, well… this new alien is even stranger.
After their introductions—during which Simon was tense and anxious as fuck—Simon finds himself warming to the alien faster than he'd anticipated. Rocky uses a translator to speak to Simon, even though it's blatantly obvious that the thing is rudimentary at best and only being used for Simon's sake. Grace certainly doesn't need it anymore, somehow being fluent in fucking rock spider harmonics or some shit. Initially, Simon keeps himself on guard when the alien speaks, waiting for the malevolence and insidious words he's grown accustomed to from the previous alien species he's encountered. That malevolence? It never shows, nor do the insidious words, despite Rocky’s abundant proof of his obvious, and in some ways abrasive, sapience. The worst he gets is the weird alien getting particularly snappish and rude, insulting, but… it’s impersonal in a way the eel never was. The overwhelming absence of malicious manipulation slowly releases something clenched tightly, deep in Simon's chest.
The way Rocky speaks is blunt and to the point, and he even uses tone indicators regularly in his speech, which Simon is increasingly grateful for. The alien never asks Simon if he’s okay or if he's feeling a certain way, which is a massive relief on Simon's cortisol levels. Rocky simply… notices and recognizes patterns better than anyone Simon has ever known. According to Grace, Rocky and his species—Eridians, they're called—have what is effectively an eidetic memory, never forgetting anything they learn. Although the alien lives in an entirely separate environment (or that weird ball thing he uses to be a menace and move more freely around the ship), it becomes apparent that the Eridian is purposefully changing his routes through the ship so Simon is never accidentally cornered, making sure to announce his presence loudly at a distance, and seems to be trying to include Simon in discussions between himself and Grace, even if Simon has nothing meaningful to contribute.
Quite frankly Simon doesn't fucking understand how he does it, nor why he does it. But he's grateful for the obnoxious asshole regardless.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
It doesn’t take long before Simon’s food habits become concerning. Ryland notices the way he skips meals entirely unless he feels like he’s contributed in some way to the productivity onboard Mary for the day cycle. Rocky dropped the bomb regarding how the other human portions out what he’s given into impossibly small pieces to stretch it further, and how he hides away what remains. His actions aren’t exactly subtle.
Simon is still operating like food is earned and not a right, like he has to balance the scales to avoid falling into a trap. Trying to reason with, to explain to a traumatized person that there are no traps and that there will never be any traps seems a futile endeavor, so while Ryland notices Simon’s behaviors and habits, for a while he chooses to let it go. The man is adjusting to a life where suddenly scarcity isn’t the same, and yeah, they still have to watch their food intake until the plants in the greenhouse produce edible offerings, but they have to eat.
Eventually, though, Simon’s poor eating hygiene gets to a point where Ryland can no longer hold his tongue. He waits for a time close to the end of day cycle on the Mary, when Rocky is in the room with them but not fully paying attention to what the two humans are doing. He’s holding Simon’s dinner rations in one hand (something warm, real in a way that makes his own mouth water) and his own manufactured taumeoba-coma slurry abomination in the other. He takes a deep breath.
“Simon.”
There’s no response from the other man, but Ryland clocks the way Simon flinches at his own name, tension shooting across the broad span of his shoulders and straightening his spine like a soldier standing at attention. Ryland’s heart throbs.
“You don't have to earn food here, okay?”
There’s still no response. Rocky pauses his task only for a brief moment before seamlessly slipping right back into it as though he’d never noticed.
“I promise you… nobody's keeping score.”
Ryland quietly sets the food near the other man, backing away with soft steps towards the door. With a subtle beckoning gesture directed at a pretending-he’s-not-listening Rocky, Ryland and the Eridian leave their wayward passenger alone in the room.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Simon stares at the offering left behind. It's such a foreign concept, he doesn't know the right answer to give Grace—he doesn’t know how to accept such a gift, such impossible kindness. He’s not being asked “have you been useful enough?” or “what have you done to contribute to deserve this?” It’s just a simple inquiry, something that he’s seen repeated now over and over and over again, no deviation in the pattern, nothing hidden beneath the surface.
It’s– it’s just…
It’s kindness freely given. He still doesn’t fully believe it, the way he’s just– just expected to accept these blessings with zero expectations, zero strings, zero intention hiding in the fine print waiting to drop him into servitude.
He doesn't touch the food until Grace has been gone for almost an hour. It’s cold by then, but the flavors still explode across his tongue in such a way that he can’t help the tears that escape. He doesn’t get to be this lucky… but how can he deny the reality of the situation?
At this point, Ryland has spent years of his life solving impossible scientific problems, so the wackadoodle arrival of a (most likely majorly traumatized) human? Yeah, sure, why not?
Up is down, left is right, xenon's a solid, and aliens are real… so why can't this be normal too?
He closes the door behind him as he enters the lab where Rocky is tinkering away on yet another piece of jewelry he’s making for Adrian (by Ryland’s count, he’s up to piece number 147). He sighs heavily, drags himself over to his chair and drops into it, the momentum sending him idly spinning as he considers the situation he finds himself in.
“Why Grace drama queen, question?”
“I regret teaching you anything about Earth slang.”
Rocky titters loudly in laughter, not even pausing his work while the harmonic sounds echo in the room. Ryland drops his head backwards against the chair, rolling his eyes at his best friend before his mood sobers.
“Rock, I… I think I’ve got my work cut out for me with this new guy.”
The Eridian actually pauses, front arms lowering in a sure sign he's paying Ryland his full attention. His carapace tilts in a way Ryland has come to recognize as a silent “I’m listening” gesture.
“I know you've been excited to meet the guy, but… until I was somehow able to calm him down, I thought he was going to rip his other arm off trying to escape the safety restraints! Thankfully Armando got the sedatives administered once he stopped flailing, but… gosh, he was this close to hurting himself.”
“Bad bad bad, alarmed! New human hurt Grace, question?”
“No, no. I'm fine, Rocky. If anything the only one who got banged up is Armando. I'm also pretty sure he lashed out from fear.”
There’s a long pause as the Eridian seems to carefully think over his next words. “Human act scared, question?”
“Yeah, he’s probably terrified. I mean, I would be too– I remember being terrified, actually… waking up out here on the Mary after nearing Tau Ceti, alone, no memory? I–” Ryland pauses, fighting the urge to shiver. “He’s not alone, nor missing memories like I was… but even so, it's no doubt a completely foreign environment for him. A spaceship is nothing like Earth… if that's even where he comes from.”
Ryland sighs, pushing his glasses half off his face as he rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “He… he reminds me of those feral street animals, so afraid to trust but still desperately seeking a kind hand. You know?”
“Rocky not know.”
“Rhetorical, bud.”
Rocky makes a disgruntled discordant noise at Ryland’s teasing tone, but quickly the Eridian returns to a serious state, swaying slightly in his separate environment as he seems to ponder the new information Ryland has given him. The two of them sit in silence for a long time. Ryland honestly finds himself at a bit of a loss, he’s never been great at people, but that’s… that’s kind of critical at their current juncture. He has to, for the new guy.
“Rocky stay away from new human. Rocky remember Grace scream when first see Rocky.”
Ryland is about to protest his best friend’s slanderous accusations (no matter how true they are, shush) to defend his reaction to meeting an actual freaking alien in the flesh, but the Eridian barrels onward.
“New human Grace responsibility, make new human safe. Grace tell Rocky when introduce.”
And just like that, Ryland has a new role to play. Although, thanks to Rocky’s words, he’s got a pretty good idea on how to approach.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
“Stop moving,” the blonde guy huffs out, his eyeglasses slipping precariously down his nose. Simon doesn’t respond, instead clenching his jaw and pulling away from this– this too-gentle man’s touch. It’s too much, and the softness burns more than the COI’s brand did.
“Seriously, you're making this harder than it has to be. I have to do the wrapping myself because I cannot have you damaging Armando when the guy’s just doing his job—you know he’s the closest thing we’ve got to a gosh darn medical doctor on the ship, right?”
Simon tenses at the man’s reminder, wanting nothing more than to forget his violent, impulsive, foolish actions upon waking in this strange place for (apparently) the second time.
—wakes to the sound of a feminine, robotic voice and the sensation of something moving over his wrists, his ankles. He can’t tell if it's coming or going and he can't take any chances. He jolts upright, body snarling, swinging, clawing immediately at the fucking robot trying to hold him down. Fuck you! He’s not going back there, you can’t make him!
“No! Dang it, stop! Armando, stand down! Turn off!”
The voice that chastises him barely registers, although for some reason his brain flags it as familiar. He’s still fighting when the robot retreats, pulling away to allow a golden-haloed man to step between him and the metal arm. He’s halfway through a swing, the momentum too strong to stop at the midway arc, and the man honest-to-god squeaks, ducking the incoming blow with a haphazard dodge… but that reaction is so out of the norm that Simon just stops—
Something about disappointing this kind, soft man tending to the ripped open, fucked-up wounds on his useless stump of an arm feels wrong in ways Simon does not want to examine at the moment.
“I’ll be done in a second and you can go right back to your brooding, pinky promise.”
No one has treated Simon's wounds without expecting repayment in years, and the soft, careful touch this other man has is completely foreign. How can he sit so close and act like Simon didn’t try to kill him when he’d interfered earlier? The memory of this nigh-angelic man stepping between the asshole robot and Simon while pleading for him to stop rings true in his mind, and it confuses him. This man, so carefully tending Simon’s injuries like some sort of goddamn saint, had shown very little fear when he’d intercepted Simon and the robot, and what fear was present at the time was not directed at Simon. It’s… fucking novel.
“Okie-dokie!” Simon’s caretaker pats gently over the re-applied bandages (pristine, new, like so many other things around him) before sitting back in his seat with a smile. Simon can’t look away. The man can’t be real… Eden would have swallowed him whole and spat out his bones, and the COI would have beaten this kindness out of him so incredibly quickly. Those facts are another point in favor of Simon being dead, and this whole… scenario being the, what? Last seven minutes of brain activity that exist before you get snuffed out forever? It has to be, because the alternative would be Hell, and there’s no way someone this angelic would be in Hell.
(The Butcher wouldn’t be allowed into Heaven, after all.)
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Cleaning the guy’s injuries had been like pulling teeth, but it really sharpened the few hypotheses Ryland’s been building about his mysterious new human passenger. One, he’s definitely built like a man used to physical labor. Two, he’s stubborn as hell but will acquiesce surprisingly easily when Ryland can supply adequate logic. And Three, he’s not used to receiving touch that isn’t intended to harm. That last fact breaks Ryland’s heart. He uses the excuse of getting clothes for the new guy to step away, and thankfully is not called out on it.
“You're not… afraid of me?” the other man asks when Ryland returns to the med bay with a change of clothes, much of which was pilfered from Yáo’s wardrobe due to the similarities in their statures. (He may have used it as an excuse, but he wasn’t going to not follow through with it!) Honestly, he’s confused by the unprompted question.
“Well… maybe a teeny bit afraid at first,” he hums in thought, “but I wasn’t especially afraid you'd hurt me as much as I worried for Armando's continued survival.”
He internally cringes when his statement seems to land in a way that somehow harms his strange new passenger more than if he had admitted he was afraid of the other man. But it’s the truth! Ryland wasn’t afraid of him, for him sure, but how could he possibly be afraid of someone even more scared of Ryland? Even at their second encounter when he’d returned to unstrap the guy from the medical bed and the well-built man immediately started swinging, Ryland didn’t think the guy was actively trying to hurt him.
It was blatantly obvious that this guy was afraid. Cornered animals lash out; there’s the instinctive fight or flight response (well technically fight-flight-freeze-fawn, but that’s not especially relevant at the present moment, Ryland, come on–) so it’s almost to be expected that fists might be flying in such a circumstance. He himself might be more of the flight or freeze inclinations, but quite frankly Ryland doesn’t have the heart to be upset about this other guy’s knee-jerk reactions to an unfamiliar and potentially terrifying situation.
Especially if his hunch is right and this poor guy has gone through some seriously traumatic stuff.
Ryland sits in the silence that falls between him and the Mary’s new inhabitant, fighting the rising urge to fidget. He does his best to keep from staring at the guy, cause he doesn’t wanna make him uncomfortable or anything, but he has a sneaking suspicion that there’s something the new guy wants to say—
The new guy just ducks his chin in response, shoulders hitching up by his ears. It’s a defensive, self-protective action, and Ryland recognizes it instantly. He taps his thumbs together where his hands rest in his lap as he ponders the unbidden apology.
“Is it… for almost punching me?”
Those broad shoulders hitch a bit further, the guy’s spine curving in a way that makes Ryland’s heart hurt just looking at him. For a guy built like such an absolute brick house, at the moment he looks more like a sad, kicked dog. The reply he gets to his clarifying question is so quiet that Ryland almost misses it.
“...Yeah.”
“Oh.”
Ryland flusters, trying to find the appropriate words. “Well, gosh… you're forgiven! I certainly wasn't mad about it. You were clearly scared, a normal human reaction. Honestly, I can't fault you for that. Heckuva swing by the way!”
The guy sitting across from him straightens out slightly but by the wary, haunted look in his eyes he probably thinks Ryland is insane. It's not easy to convince someone who has very little trust in you that you mean them no harm. So Ryland makes a decision to reintroduce himself.
“Well, let's start over, shall we?” he pats his chest. “My name is Ryland Grace, but you can call me Grace if you want.. or Ryland! Whatever you prefer, I'm fine with either.”
He tries to offer the other man sitting across from him a reassuring smile, but he's not sure he hits the mark. It's the thought that counts though, right? When he is continued to be met with silence, Ryland poses another prompting question.
“Do you have a name you would like to go by? Only if you wanna share, of course?”
The dark-haired man just continues to stare and the silence stretches as no verbal response is forthcoming. Honestly his silence is more than a bit frustrating, because Ryland knows that the new guy speaks English, but he's purposely withholding information: his name! On one hand, it could be a cultural thing; maybe where he comes from it's taboo to just give one's name to strangers, like some holdover from fae myth—the whole “names have power” and all that nonsense—but without a name, Ryland has no way of addressing this new guy. Heck, he may not even be a he! Could be a they or sheesh, even a she. Ryland certainly won't know until he's told, but he continues to run the risk of offending his new passenger without more information.
“I mean, look, I get it if you don't really want to share your name with me. Cause you don't know me from Adam, but I wanna make sure that I address you properly. You're your own person, and I don't want to just keep calling you the new guy in my head, or have to address you as hey, you because that's kind of super rude, you know?”
“...”
“It just seems so… dehumanizing, you know? Like, if you're not even a fully fledged human being, you're just designated by perceived gender or something. I– I really don't want to dehumanize you, because you don't deserve that.”
“...”
“You should get to be called by what you want to be called, and I don't want to make you feel unwelcome here, because you are! You– you're very welcome here!”
“...”
“I mean, there's not much to do here anymore on the Hail Mary ‘cause the mission's over and we're just on our way to Erid, but I mean, still– you're still welcome. And I– I'm sure you'll become a valued part of our crew, if– if that's something you want, of course. You do get the choice. I would never– We don't take away people's autonomy like that. That's– That's not how we do things around here—”
“Simon.”
“—I, uh. Wh- What was that, I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you clearly?”
“Simon.” The man—Simon—repeats himself, his voice stronger the second time. “My name is Simon.”
“Oh.”
Ryland blinks for probably an inappropriate amount of time as the dark haired man’s—Simon's—response processes in his mind. He clears his throat, a genuine smile blooming across his face so hard his cheeks ache.
At this point, Ryland has spent years of his life solving impossible scientific problems, so the wackadoodle arrival of a (most likely majorly traumatized) human? Yeah, sure, why not?
Up is down, left is right, xenon's a solid, and aliens are real… so why can't this be normal too?
He closes the door behind him as he enters the lab where Rocky is tinkering away on yet another piece of jewelry he’s making for Adrian (by Ryland’s count, he’s up to piece number 147). He sighs heavily, drags himself over to his chair and drops into it, the momentum sending him idly spinning as he considers the situation he finds himself in.
“Why Grace drama queen, question?”
“I regret teaching you anything about Earth slang.”
Rocky titters loudly in laughter, not even pausing his work while the harmonic sounds echo in the room. Ryland drops his head backwards against the chair, rolling his eyes at his best friend before his mood sobers.
“Rock, I… I think I’ve got my work cut out for me with this new guy.”
The Eridian actually pauses, front arms lowering in a sure sign he's paying Ryland his full attention. His carapace tilts in a way Ryland has come to recognize as a silent “I’m listening” gesture.
“I know you've been excited to meet the guy, but… until I was somehow able to calm him down, I thought he was going to rip his other arm off trying to escape the safety restraints! Thankfully Armando got the sedatives administered once he stopped flailing, but… gosh, he was this close to hurting himself.”
“Bad bad bad, alarmed! New human hurt Grace, question?”
“No, no. I'm fine, Rocky. If anything the only one who got banged up is Armando. I'm also pretty sure he lashed out from fear.”
There’s a long pause as the Eridian seems to carefully think over his next words. “Human act scared, question?”
“Yeah, he’s probably terrified. I mean, I would be too– I remember being terrified, actually… waking up out here on the Mary after nearing Tau Ceti, alone, no memory? I–” Ryland pauses, fighting the urge to shiver. “He’s not alone, nor missing memories like I was… but even so, it's no doubt a completely foreign environment for him. A spaceship is nothing like Earth… if that's even where he comes from.”
Ryland sighs, pushing his glasses half off his face as he rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “He… he reminds me of those feral street animals, so afraid to trust but still desperately seeking a kind hand. You know?”
“Rocky not know.”
“Rhetorical, bud.”
Rocky makes a disgruntled discordant noise at Ryland’s teasing tone, but quickly the Eridian returns to a serious state, swaying slightly in his separate environment as he seems to ponder the new information Ryland has given him. The two of them sit in silence for a long time. Ryland honestly finds himself at a bit of a loss, he’s never been great at people, but that’s… that’s kind of critical at their current juncture. He has to, for the new guy.
“Rocky stay away from new human. Rocky remember Grace scream when first see Rocky.”
Ryland is about to protest his best friend’s slanderous accusations (no matter how true they are, shush) to defend his reaction to meeting an actual freaking alien in the flesh, but the Eridian barrels onward.
“New human Grace responsibility, make new human safe. Grace tell Rocky when introduce.”
And just like that, Ryland has a new role to play. Although, thanks to Rocky’s words, he’s got a pretty good idea on how to approach.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
“Stop moving,” the blonde guy huffs out, his eyeglasses slipping precariously down his nose. Simon doesn’t respond, instead clenching his jaw and pulling away from this– this too-gentle man’s touch. It’s too much, and the softness burns more than the COI’s brand did.
“Seriously, you're making this harder than it has to be. I have to do the wrapping myself because I cannot have you damaging Armando when the guy’s just doing his job—you know he’s the closest thing we’ve got to a gosh darn medical doctor on the ship, right?”
Simon tenses at the man’s reminder, wanting nothing more than to forget his violent, impulsive, foolish actions upon waking in this strange place for (apparently) the second time.
—wakes to the sound of a feminine, robotic voice and the sensation of something moving over his wrists, his ankles. He can’t tell if it's coming or going and he can't take any chances. He jolts upright, body snarling, swinging, clawing immediately at the fucking robot trying to hold him down. Fuck you! He’s not going back there, you can’t make him!
“No! Dang it, stop! Armando, stand down! Turn off!”
The voice that chastises him barely registers, although for some reason his brain flags it as familiar. He’s still fighting when the robot retreats, pulling away to allow a golden-haloed man to step between him and the metal arm. He’s halfway through a swing, the momentum too strong to stop at the midway arc, and the man honest-to-god squeaks, ducking the incoming blow with a haphazard dodge… but that reaction is so out of the norm that Simon just stops—
Something about disappointing this kind, soft man tending to the ripped open, fucked-up wounds on his useless stump of an arm feels wrong in ways Simon does not want to examine at the moment.
“I’ll be done in a second and you can go right back to your brooding, pinky promise.”
No one has treated Simon's wounds without expecting repayment in years, and the soft, careful touch this other man has is completely foreign. How can he sit so close and act like Simon didn’t try to kill him when he’d interfered earlier? The memory of this nigh-angelic man stepping between the asshole robot and Simon while pleading for him to stop rings true in his mind, and it confuses him. This man, so carefully tending Simon’s injuries like some sort of goddamn saint, had shown very little fear when he’d intercepted Simon and the robot, and what fear was present at the time was not directed at Simon. It’s… fucking novel.
“Okie-dokie!” Simon’s caretaker pats gently over the re-applied bandages (pristine, new, like so many other things around him) before sitting back in his seat with a smile. Simon can’t look away. The man can’t be real… Eden would have swallowed him whole and spat out his bones, and the COI would have beaten this kindness out of him so incredibly quickly. Those facts are another point in favor of Simon being dead, and this whole… scenario being the, what? Last seven minutes of brain activity that exist before you get snuffed out forever? It has to be, because the alternative would be Hell, and there’s no way someone this angelic would be in Hell.
(The Butcher wouldn’t be allowed into Heaven, after all.)
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Cleaning the guy’s injuries had been like pulling teeth, but it really sharpened the few hypotheses Ryland’s been building about his mysterious new human passenger. One, he’s definitely built like a man used to physical labor. Two, he’s stubborn as hell but will acquiesce surprisingly easily when Ryland can supply adequate logic. And Three, he’s not used to receiving touch that isn’t intended to harm. That last fact breaks Ryland’s heart. He uses the excuse of getting clothes for the new guy to step away, and thankfully is not called out on it.
“You're not… afraid of me?” the other man asks when Ryland returns to the med bay with a change of clothes, much of which was pilfered from Yáo’s wardrobe due to the similarities in their statures. (He may have used it as an excuse, but he wasn’t going to not follow through with it!) Honestly, he’s confused by the unprompted question.
“Well… maybe a teeny bit afraid at first,” he hums in thought, “but I wasn’t especially afraid you'd hurt me as much as I worried for Armando's continued survival.”
He internally cringes when his statement seems to land in a way that somehow harms his strange new passenger more than if he had admitted he was afraid of the other man. But it’s the truth! Ryland wasn’t afraid of him, for him sure, but how could he possibly be afraid of someone even more scared of Ryland? Even at their second encounter when he’d returned to unstrap the guy from the medical bed and the well-built man immediately started swinging, Ryland didn’t think the guy was actively trying to hurt him.
It was blatantly obvious that this guy was afraid. Cornered animals lash out; there’s the instinctive fight or flight response (well technically fight-flight-freeze-fawn, but that’s not especially relevant at the present moment, Ryland, come on–) so it’s almost to be expected that fists might be flying in such a circumstance. He himself might be more of the flight or freeze inclinations, but quite frankly Ryland doesn’t have the heart to be upset about this other guy’s knee-jerk reactions to an unfamiliar and potentially terrifying situation.
Especially if his hunch is right and this poor guy has gone through some seriously traumatic stuff.
Ryland sits in the silence that falls between him and the Mary’s new inhabitant, fighting the rising urge to fidget. He does his best to keep from staring at the guy, cause he doesn’t wanna make him uncomfortable or anything, but he has a sneaking suspicion that there’s something the new guy wants to say—
The new guy just ducks his chin in response, shoulders hitching up by his ears. It’s a defensive, self-protective action, and Ryland recognizes it instantly. He taps his thumbs together where his hands rest in his lap as he ponders the unbidden apology.
“Is it… for almost punching me?”
Those broad shoulders hitch a bit further, the guy’s spine curving in a way that makes Ryland’s heart hurt just looking at him. For a guy built like such an absolute brick house, at the moment he looks more like a sad, kicked dog. The reply he gets to his clarifying question is so quiet that Ryland almost misses it.
“...Yeah.”
“Oh.”
Ryland flusters, trying to find the appropriate words. “Well, gosh… you're forgiven! I certainly wasn't mad about it. You were clearly scared, a normal human reaction. Honestly, I can't fault you for that. Heckuva swing by the way!”
The guy sitting across from him straightens out slightly but by the wary, haunted look in his eyes he probably thinks Ryland is insane. It's not easy to convince someone who has very little trust in you that you mean them no harm. So Ryland makes a decision to reintroduce himself.
“Well, let's start over, shall we?” he pats his chest. “My name is Ryland Grace, but you can call me Grace if you want.. or Ryland! Whatever you prefer, I'm fine with either.”
He tries to offer the other man sitting across from him a reassuring smile, but he's not sure he hits the mark. It's the thought that counts though, right? When he is continued to be met with silence, Ryland poses another prompting question.
“Do you have a name you would like to go by? Only if you wanna share, of course?”
The dark-haired man just continues to stare and the silence stretches as no verbal response is forthcoming. Honestly his silence is more than a bit frustrating, because Ryland knows that the new guy speaks English, but he's purposely withholding information: his name! On one hand, it could be a cultural thing; maybe where he comes from it's taboo to just give one's name to strangers, like some holdover from fae myth—the whole “names have power” and all that nonsense—but without a name, Ryland has no way of addressing this new guy. Heck, he may not even be a he! Could be a they or sheesh, even a she. Ryland certainly won't know until he's told, but he continues to run the risk of offending his new passenger without more information.
“I mean, look, I get it if you don't really want to share your name with me. Cause you don't know me from Adam, but I wanna make sure that I address you properly. You're your own person, and I don't want to just keep calling you the new guy in my head, or have to address you as hey, you because that's kind of super rude, you know?”
“...”
“It just seems so… dehumanizing, you know? Like, if you're not even a fully fledged human being, you're just designated by perceived gender or something. I– I really don't want to dehumanize you, because you don't deserve that.”
“...”
“You should get to be called by what you want to be called, and I don't want to make you feel unwelcome here, because you are! You– you're very welcome here!”
“...”
“I mean, there's not much to do here anymore on the Hail Mary ‘cause the mission's over and we're just on our way to Erid, but I mean, still– you're still welcome. And I– I'm sure you'll become a valued part of our crew, if– if that's something you want, of course. You do get the choice. I would never– We don't take away people's autonomy like that. That's– That's not how we do things around here—”
“Simon.”
“—I, uh. Wh- What was that, I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you clearly?”
“Simon.” The man—Simon—repeats himself, his voice stronger the second time. “My name is Simon.”
“Oh.”
Ryland blinks for probably an inappropriate amount of time as the dark haired man’s—Simon's—response processes in his mind. He clears his throat, a genuine smile blooming across his face so hard his cheeks ache.
After death, Simon expects a final judgment; someone awaiting him to measure his sins against his virtues and decide his fate, a descent into the eternal suffering of Hell or even the abyss of nothingness following his death.
(Heaven is an impossible dream for someone like the Butcher, for someone like Simon with so much blood on his hands.)
Instead of eternal damnation, however, he comes to slow awareness, instead greeted by warm, shockingly clean air in his lungs… and a voice.
Eye movement detected.
Immediately, Simon panics, his experience telling him he’s still hearing that fucking Eel’s malicious words in his head, which means... No– no no no–! He’s done with the voices haunting him, tormenting him, he can’t be back on AT-5, in the blood ocean—that fucking sub—he sent them the black box, he’s done with that fucking mission, they promised!
No, wait… he’s...
He forces his eyes open, the effort astronomical, finding himself blinking at the foreign view of… a room? It has white walls, the ceiling covered with filtered lights, and the lingering aroma of valuable disinfectant—it’s too clean, too bright, and whatever tech they're using here is too new to be any of the COI’s rusted-out scraps of junk. It’s immediately apparent that wherever he is, there’s no blood ocean here, no SM-13.
The Consolidation doesn’t have him. So then, where—
Vaguely, as he blinks again to get his eyes to adjust to the sheer intensity of light in this room, he recognizes that same voice he heard early saying something to him again.
Good morning, Unregistered Biological Lifeform. Please stand by for—
He tunes out the weird robot lady voice as he comes to the horrifying realization that he’s been restrained. He’s lashing out before he even recognizes that he's moving. Body suddenly alive as the adrenaline flooding him with energy kicks in, and he’s fighting—it’s not so much an attack as it is an escape attempt, because his brain isn’t fully online, but all his instincts are screaming at him that he has to get the hell out of here, wherever the fuck here might be.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Ryland is in the lab checking the taumeoba farms when Mary’s announcement is broadcast across the ship. He’s not slept in nearly twenty hours now, and the only thing in his stomach is the disgusting taumeoba sludge he forces himself to choke down as often as possible to prolong the life of his food supply—at least until he can get the gosh darn greenhouse to a stable place and cultivate some edible plants to supplement his diet—so his fight-or-flight is cranked up to eleven.
Absently, he can hear Mary's attempts at what sound like conflict reconciliation over the comms as he’s running full tilt down the corridors, skidding and banging as he launches himself around corners, but he knows first hand how well those usually turn out.
By the time he manages to crash unceremoniously through the doors of the med bay, he’s met with… well, chaos would be an understatement.
Armando is doing his best to calibrate a new dose of sedatives but their mysterious patient is most definitely not cooperating, if the flailing Ryland is witnessing is any indication. Mary’s attempts at calming the thrashing, fighting guy tied down to the med bed are clearly falling on deaf ears—either that, or the guy doesn't speak English, which, well, that was always a possibility…
Ryland’s sleep-deprived, malnourished brain kicks in a heartbeat later when he realizes that if he doesn’t step in, his strange new passenger might very well rip out the IV lines that Armando so lovingly placed, and set the whole nurse-you-back-to-health plan timeline back to square one.
Dagnabbit.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Ultimately, Simon’s panic dies a quick death, as maybe a minute, two minutes thirty seconds pass before he finally realizes that a person—a golden-haired man—has appeared and is trying to calm him down, right there in the room with him.
“—shh, no no it’s okay, you’re safe here—”
He blinks, the sheer shock at the appearance of such a– a frankly fucking beautiful man enough to halt his fighting in its tracks. This guy is… he’s so clean? He definitely doesn’t look like he’s part of the COI, with clothes so new looking and… soft? Honestly Simon hasn't seen anyone like him before in his life– unlife? Post-life? Actually, is he dead and this is some weird Heaven or- or afterlife? Because if it is, then fuck, it’s not at all what was advertised— oh, wait, the golden-haloed guy, he’s… trying to keep Simon from pulling out IV lines..?
Huh. Okay then.
“Christmas Eve, you’re strong, even as injured as you are… um, please calm down?”
Shit, this guy has a nice voice. Maybe this is Heaven then? He sounds real pretty, and damn those are some blue eyes—
“I don’t even know if you speak English, but heck, if I can communicate anything I hope it’s that you understand that it's going to be okay, you’re safe now! I’m not trying to hurt you, scout’s honor—”
He stares at the golden man beside him, broad palms tapering to long narrow fingers form gentle hands that press down against Simon’s shoulders, the action using just enough force to ground him. It’s real nice, actually.
“—was ever actually a scout, but that was so long ago the memory would probably be fuzzy even if I could remember it. I was definitely a weird kid, so I'm sure I would have been super psyched about doing all the scout-y things and whatnot—”
Simon tunes the sparkly guy’s yapping out and can’t help pulling half-heartedly one last time at the restraints. It's a weak attempt at communicating with his angelic captor man “hey guy what the fuck” despite his tongue feeling too big for his mouth and the fact that words are currently impossible. Thankfully, it seems to catch the attention of those pretty blue eyeballs. The light glints off the… are those eyeglasses, hanging off this guy’s chin..? The fuck—
“—oh, ah, right… sorry about those, but we’re currently traveling at lightspeeds, so we technically have gravity, but we had to keep you secured while Armando was treating you since there was always the chance you could have a seizure or something, which, well… would obviously be bad! Plus, you know, it wouldn't be great if we had to stop for some reason and you just started floating away—”
Damn, this pretty guy talks a lot. Simon is barely managing coherent thoughts through the soup currently composing his brain, blinking up into the lights at the man—his savior? An angel?—who just keeps going, not losing any steam.
“Frickity frack, you’re probably so confused! Ah, anyway, um, so I’m Doctor Captain Ryland Grace but I just go by Grace these days, which is my last name, obviously. Heh. I don’t mind which name you use, honestly—”
Simon hums quietly, allowing his head to loll to the other side as he considers the pretty man chattering on and on and on beside him. His brain is soup. Very very fuzzy soup, and his eyeballs feel heavy heavy heavy all of a sudden.
“—oh, looks like the meds are really kicking in now. Well, um. We can chat again when you wake up. Just– uh, just remember you’re safe here on the Hail Mary, I promise.”
Every hardwired instinct in him is screaming to bare his teeth, claw and bite his way to freedom where things actually make sense. This kind of softness and kindness is not something he gets to have in his life. Everything he has ever been given was not out of care or affection, but rather handed over with an intention behind it, whether it be to get him into someone’s debt or to put him into a position where he felt obligation towards someone else.
Kindness has no place in the world he knows, but… deep down, a small part of Simon actually wants to believe the words and softness of this strange, golden-haloed man who radiates kindness like some sort of angel out of the old bibles he remembers reading as a child. Be not afraid, right? Well, not like he has much of a choice with whatever stupidly valuable meds are currently flooding through his system, and so Simon's eyes flutter closed as he fades back into unconsciousness.
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After death, Simon expects a final judgment; someone awaiting him to measure his sins against his virtues and decide his fate, a descent into the eternal suffering of Hell or even the abyss of nothingness following his death.
(Heaven is an impossible dream for someone like the Butcher, for someone like Simon with so much blood on his hands.)
Instead of eternal damnation, however, he comes to slow awareness, instead greeted by warm, shockingly clean air in his lungs… and a voice.
Eye movement detected.
Immediately, Simon panics, his experience telling him he’s still hearing that fucking Eel’s malicious words in his head, which means... No– no no no–! He’s done with the voices haunting him, tormenting him, he can’t be back on AT-5, in the blood ocean—that fucking sub—he sent them the black box, he’s done with that fucking mission, they promised!
No, wait… he’s...
He forces his eyes open, the effort astronomical, finding himself blinking at the foreign view of… a room? It has white walls, the ceiling covered with filtered lights, and the lingering aroma of valuable disinfectant—it’s too clean, too bright, and whatever tech they're using here is too new to be any of the COI’s rusted-out scraps of junk. It’s immediately apparent that wherever he is, there’s no blood ocean here, no SM-13.
The Consolidation doesn’t have him. So then, where—
Vaguely, as he blinks again to get his eyes to adjust to the sheer intensity of light in this room, he recognizes that same voice he heard early saying something to him again.
Good morning, Unregistered Biological Lifeform. Please stand by for—
He tunes out the weird robot lady voice as he comes to the horrifying realization that he’s been restrained. He’s lashing out before he even recognizes that he's moving. Body suddenly alive as the adrenaline flooding him with energy kicks in, and he’s fighting—it’s not so much an attack as it is an escape attempt, because his brain isn’t fully online, but all his instincts are screaming at him that he has to get the hell out of here, wherever the fuck here might be.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Ryland is in the lab checking the taumeoba farms when Mary’s announcement is broadcast across the ship. He’s not slept in nearly twenty hours now, and the only thing in his stomach is the disgusting taumeoba sludge he forces himself to choke down as often as possible to prolong the life of his food supply—at least until he can get the gosh darn greenhouse to a stable place and cultivate some edible plants to supplement his diet—so his fight-or-flight is cranked up to eleven.
Absently, he can hear Mary's attempts at what sound like conflict reconciliation over the comms as he’s running full tilt down the corridors, skidding and banging as he launches himself around corners, but he knows first hand how well those usually turn out.
By the time he manages to crash unceremoniously through the doors of the med bay, he’s met with… well, chaos would be an understatement.
Armando is doing his best to calibrate a new dose of sedatives but their mysterious patient is most definitely not cooperating, if the flailing Ryland is witnessing is any indication. Mary’s attempts at calming the thrashing, fighting guy tied down to the med bed are clearly falling on deaf ears—either that, or the guy doesn't speak English, which, well, that was always a possibility…
Ryland’s sleep-deprived, malnourished brain kicks in a heartbeat later when he realizes that if he doesn’t step in, his strange new passenger might very well rip out the IV lines that Armando so lovingly placed, and set the whole nurse-you-back-to-health plan timeline back to square one.
Dagnabbit.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Ultimately, Simon’s panic dies a quick death, as maybe a minute, two minutes thirty seconds pass before he finally realizes that a person—a golden-haired man—has appeared and is trying to calm him down, right there in the room with him.
“—shh, no no it’s okay, you’re safe here—”
He blinks, the sheer shock at the appearance of such a– a frankly fucking beautiful man enough to halt his fighting in its tracks. This guy is… he’s so clean? He definitely doesn’t look like he’s part of the COI, with clothes so new looking and… soft? Honestly Simon hasn't seen anyone like him before in his life– unlife? Post-life? Actually, is he dead and this is some weird Heaven or- or afterlife? Because if it is, then fuck, it’s not at all what was advertised— oh, wait, the golden-haloed guy, he’s… trying to keep Simon from pulling out IV lines..?
Huh. Okay then.
“Christmas Eve, you’re strong, even as injured as you are… um, please calm down?”
Shit, this guy has a nice voice. Maybe this is Heaven then? He sounds real pretty, and damn those are some blue eyes—
“I don’t even know if you speak English, but heck, if I can communicate anything I hope it’s that you understand that it's going to be okay, you’re safe now! I’m not trying to hurt you, scout’s honor—”
He stares at the golden man beside him, broad palms tapering to long narrow fingers form gentle hands that press down against Simon’s shoulders, the action using just enough force to ground him. It’s real nice, actually.
“—was ever actually a scout, but that was so long ago the memory would probably be fuzzy even if I could remember it. I was definitely a weird kid, so I'm sure I would have been super psyched about doing all the scout-y things and whatnot—”
Simon tunes the sparkly guy’s yapping out and can’t help pulling half-heartedly one last time at the restraints. It's a weak attempt at communicating with his angelic captor man “hey guy what the fuck” despite his tongue feeling too big for his mouth and the fact that words are currently impossible. Thankfully, it seems to catch the attention of those pretty blue eyeballs. The light glints off the… are those eyeglasses, hanging off this guy’s chin..? The fuck—
“—oh, ah, right… sorry about those, but we’re currently traveling at lightspeeds, so we technically have gravity, but we had to keep you secured while Armando was treating you since there was always the chance you could have a seizure or something, which, well… would obviously be bad! Plus, you know, it wouldn't be great if we had to stop for some reason and you just started floating away—”
Damn, this pretty guy talks a lot. Simon is barely managing coherent thoughts through the soup currently composing his brain, blinking up into the lights at the man—his savior? An angel?—who just keeps going, not losing any steam.
“Frickity frack, you’re probably so confused! Ah, anyway, um, so I’m Doctor Captain Ryland Grace but I just go by Grace these days, which is my last name, obviously. Heh. I don’t mind which name you use, honestly—”
Simon hums quietly, allowing his head to loll to the other side as he considers the pretty man chattering on and on and on beside him. His brain is soup. Very very fuzzy soup, and his eyeballs feel heavy heavy heavy all of a sudden.
“—oh, looks like the meds are really kicking in now. Well, um. We can chat again when you wake up. Just– uh, just remember you’re safe here on the Hail Mary, I promise.”
Every hardwired instinct in him is screaming to bare his teeth, claw and bite his way to freedom where things actually make sense. This kind of softness and kindness is not something he gets to have in his life. Everything he has ever been given was not out of care or affection, but rather handed over with an intention behind it, whether it be to get him into someone’s debt or to put him into a position where he felt obligation towards someone else.
Kindness has no place in the world he knows, but… deep down, a small part of Simon actually wants to believe the words and softness of this strange, golden-haloed man who radiates kindness like some sort of angel out of the old bibles he remembers reading as a child. Be not afraid, right? Well, not like he has much of a choice with whatever stupidly valuable meds are currently flooding through his system, and so Simon's eyes flutter closed as he fades back into unconsciousness.
Simon dies. Or… at least, he thinks he does. The last thing he remembers is blood, pain, impossible light... and despite his wavering faith from years of fatalistic indoctrination, his final thought before the seed and the Light consumes him entirely is half-prayer, half-delirium:
“Hail Mary... full of Grace…”
And then… nothing.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Something hears him.
Whatever it is—God, Eldritch horror, quantum nonsense, the threads stitching together the fabric of the very universe—has an odd sense of humor, as his final prayer is interpreted quite literally.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
The Hail Mary is three and a half years into her journey to Erid, her two inhabitants having fallen into a routine as they hurtle through space at light speeds.
Ryland is in the middle of attempting to rekindle the tiny greenhouse he discovered seven months ago. Honestly, he’s still shocked that Eva would consider giving them something like a garden, but it makes more sense when he finds the botany books tucked away in Captain Yao’s possessions.
Apparently their late captain was something of a hobbyist green thumb, who’d have thunk?
Ryland, on the other hand, is just as good at obliterating these seedlings as he was back on Earth—he remembers the plant biology module where he somehow managed to kill his bean sprout every time, without fail. Green thumb? Hardly.
He’s in the middle of mixing a new batch of potting soil from the compost waste he stopped Mary from releasing into space as they travelled—he’d been both irrationally embarrassed and horrified that so much useful biomatter has been lost when he realized that’s what she’s been doing all this time—when Mary suddenly makes an unprompted announcement.
Unregistered biological lifeform detected in Cargo Bay Two.
Grace blinks, his smudged glasses sliding down his nose as he stares at nothing. “...What.”
Mary continues, the AI undeterred by his non-response.
Life signs are unstable. Recommend relocating to Medical Bay for treatment and monitoring, Doctor Grace.
Rocky comes barrelling down the corridor in his hamster ball, ricocheting off the walls of the ship in his excitement. Of course, he is immediately intrigued by the impossible turn of events.
“New human, question?”
“No!” Ryland sighs, “... probably not?"
“Amaze amaze amaze! Grace Rocky go to Cargo Bay exclamation!” he rattles off, trilling his excitement as he hurtles onward toward the tiny cargo hold.
Ryland is… considerably less so. He groans, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and shoving his smeared glasses up his forehead.
“Mary, I am blaming you for anything that happens because of this.”
Mary is utterly unfazed.
Acknowledged, Doctor Grace.
By the time he catches up with his Eridian best friend, the alien is practically bouncing his carapace with unrestrained energy. Ryland heaves a sigh and opens the cargo bay door.
What he sees defies possibility.
It should be impossible, something he’d long resigned himself to giving up hope on.
Because he sees a filthy, malnourished, horribly injured one-armed stranger bleeding all over the floor of his cargo bay.
Ryland closes the door, ignoring Rocky’s squawks of protest.
“...Nope.”
Silence reigns for one beat, then two as Ryland stares into middle distance, unseeing.
“Nope,” he repeats himself as Mary politely asks if she should explain the situation, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Mary… give me like thirty seconds to have an existential crisis.”
Ryland gusts out the exhausted sigh of someone who's already befriended a giant alien spider crab… thing. Blessedly, both Mary and Rocky grant him the requested thirty seconds.
Simon dies. Or… at least, he thinks he does. The last thing he remembers is blood, pain, impossible light... and despite his wavering faith from years of fatalistic indoctrination, his final thought before the seed and the Light consumes him entirely is half-prayer, half-delirium:
“Hail Mary... full of Grace…”
And then… nothing.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
Something hears him.
Whatever it is—God, Eldritch horror, quantum nonsense, the threads stitching together the fabric of the very universe—has an odd sense of humor, as his final prayer is interpreted quite literally.
------ °• ☆ •° ------
The Hail Mary is three and a half years into her journey to Erid, her two inhabitants having fallen into a routine as they hurtle through space at light speeds.
Ryland is in the middle of attempting to rekindle the tiny greenhouse he discovered seven months ago. Honestly, he’s still shocked that Eva would consider giving them something like a garden, but it makes more sense when he finds the botany books tucked away in Captain Yao’s possessions.
Apparently their late captain was something of a hobbyist green thumb, who’d have thunk?
Ryland, on the other hand, is just as good at obliterating these seedlings as he was back on Earth—he remembers the plant biology module where he somehow managed to kill his bean sprout every time, without fail. Green thumb? Hardly.
He’s in the middle of mixing a new batch of potting soil from the compost waste he stopped Mary from releasing into space as they travelled—he’d been both irrationally embarrassed and horrified that so much useful biomatter has been lost when he realized that’s what she’s been doing all this time—when Mary suddenly makes an unprompted announcement.
Unregistered biological lifeform detected in Cargo Bay Two.
Grace blinks, his smudged glasses sliding down his nose as he stares at nothing. “...What.”
Mary continues, the AI undeterred by his non-response.
Life signs are unstable. Recommend relocating to Medical Bay for treatment and monitoring, Doctor Grace.
Rocky comes barrelling down the corridor in his hamster ball, ricocheting off the walls of the ship in his excitement. Of course, he is immediately intrigued by the impossible turn of events.
“New human, question?”
“No!” Ryland sighs, “... probably not?"
“Amaze amaze amaze! Grace Rocky go to Cargo Bay exclamation!” he rattles off, trilling his excitement as he hurtles onward toward the tiny cargo hold.
Ryland is… considerably less so. He groans, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and shoving his smeared glasses up his forehead.
“Mary, I am blaming you for anything that happens because of this.”
Mary is utterly unfazed.
Acknowledged, Doctor Grace.
By the time he catches up with his Eridian best friend, the alien is practically bouncing his carapace with unrestrained energy. Ryland heaves a sigh and opens the cargo bay door.
What he sees defies possibility.
It should be impossible, something he’d long resigned himself to giving up hope on.
Because he sees a filthy, malnourished, horribly injured one-armed stranger bleeding all over the floor of his cargo bay.
Ryland closes the door, ignoring Rocky’s squawks of protest.
“...Nope.”
Silence reigns for one beat, then two as Ryland stares into middle distance, unseeing.
“Nope,” he repeats himself as Mary politely asks if she should explain the situation, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Mary… give me like thirty seconds to have an existential crisis.”
Ryland gusts out the exhausted sigh of someone who's already befriended a giant alien spider crab… thing. Blessedly, both Mary and Rocky grant him the requested thirty seconds.
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