today i learned that the finnish word for ‘hazardous waste’ is ongelmajäte, which can also translate as ‘problematic garbage’ and my roommate and i immediately agreed this is a word that belongs on tumblr.
Considering that Simon comes from a world where space travel has been a thing for centuries, he knows his way around a spaceship pretty well.
Since they found him, he's made it his mission to maintain the ship until they make it to Erid. He's been working diligently since his health stabilised. Grace and Rocky tried to tell him to rest more and that it wasn't necessary. But he said working is the only thing preventing him from thinking about what happened to him and keeping him sane. They couldn't really keep arguing with him after that.
He tends to lose track of time while he works, too absorbed in it. It’s like everything around him disappears for a moment. Grace completely understands; he's exactly the same. Though Simon is still recovering, he checks on him often and tries to encourage him to take breaks.
He's been running diagnostics and recalibrating things. Grace often hears him grumble about how ancient this ship is and how unnecessarily complicated everything is. Grace once asked him where he learned to fix spaceships and he paused for a moment before answering. As if he were considering whether to tell him or not.
"There weren't enough people left to have a specialist taking care of or fixing ships in every space station and we couldn't afford to lose one. So, if something broke down, you had to know how to fix it. Especially if you happened to be travelling alone. Otherwise, you're dead. Couldn't afford to waste anything on a rescue mission. Not to just save some useless dumb bastard, they said. It would cost more than a spaceship. So, I read what I could about it, which isn't a lot, watched how the best did it and studied how they were built. That's it."
Grace had been floored. Simon basically explained being a self-taught aerospace engineer, like it was nothing to write home about.
"I know how to fix machines and ships are one of them. That's it. It's not like I'm a genius or something. I just did things that felt right, hoped it wasn't going to blow up and when it didn't, assumed I did it right."
Grace blanched at that and Rocky paused the tinkering he had been doing.
"Calm down," Simon said with an eye roll, "This was when I was still learning. This isn't what I'm doing right now. I know what I'm doing. I have the manual and your ship is outdated, but in perfect condition. It won't blow up if I change something. I've worked on way more advanced ships in shit conditions that could explode if you breathed on them wrong because it was held together with duct tape and desperation. You're fine."
Grace relaxes and Rocky continues working. He remembers telling Simon about the manual. Since he started reading it, he's been catching Simon putting it down and complaining about how unintuitive this ship is or loudly asking, "Who made this?" Grace keeps telling him that the best of the best made it, and he sighs that this version of humanity still has so much to learn about space travel.
Today, Grace is checking on how far along they are in their journey to Erid, making sure everything is going smoothly. He is sitting in the pilot seat, trying to push the buttons on the ceiling, but they're not working. He hears Simon climb the ladder and stops to watch him once he reaches the top.
"What is it?"
"They aren't working,"
"Fuck, okay, let's see."
His eyes lock on the dysfunctional panel as he joins Grace under it. Before he can register what is happening, Simon climbs onto the chair, straddling him. He stretches out to reach the panel above their heads, takes off the cover. He starts working on it and Grace forgets to breathe for a second. He's now on eye level with his um impressive pecs and wide shoulders. He can see the outline of his harness and nipples under his shirt. Grace digs his nails into the armrests. This is too dangerous. He needs to look somewhere else.
He looks down and immediately has to close his eyes for a second to calm down. This isn't better. Simon's shirt rode up, exposing his navel and a part of his stomach. The happy trail and the healthy layer of fat on his stomach make his gums tingle with the desire to just bite and–No, he's not finishing this thought.
He looks lower and the sight of his bulge shoots heat throughout his body. Why does he wear his jeans so low? Stop! He needs to get it together! To look away! He can tell through his jeans that his thighs are huge and probably muscular. Okay, down is bad, maybe up his better.
Oh gosh, why out of every person Grace could have found in space did it have to be the only person who manages to look good from this angle? Simon is fearful and makes himself small except when he's working. The way he breathes confidence, quick-thinking and resourcefulness is beyond attractive. It doesn't help that he's stunning with his sharp nose, defined jaw, gentle eyes and soft-looking hair. Or that he's incredibly gentle with everything he touches, patient and extremely smart, unlike what he says.
He's also talking but Grace isn't listening; he can't. The smell of his skin slips down his lungs and Grace has never done drugs in his life but right now he gets it, he completely understands why it's so easy to get addicted. Higher. His bulging bicep. He swallows with difficulty. Forearm muscles are dancing under his skin. His breathing is getting heavy. Hand, veiny and visible tendons working. Calluses that would feel divine tracing naked skin. Meticulous fingers harbouring countless tiny scars that Grace wants to trace with his tongue. He just knows that the metal of his prosthetic will feel delicious on his feverish skin.
"Are you even listening?"
It shocks him out of his fantasy and when his eyes meet Simon's, shame overtakes him. He looks down, again, big mistakes and tries to concentrate on his own laps. A hand cups his jaw and makes him look up. His touch feels like sunlight on his touch-starved skin. His brain splutters, overwhelmed by the feeling and Grace has to swallow a whine back down. His eyes fall into his and Simon's face is firm and serious but his eyes stay gentle. They always are. They are so close, his heart is threatening to beat out of his chest. This is bad. He wants to reach out, cup his face in his hands, guide him down, devour his lips and lose himself exploring his skin.
"Look and listen. You need to know this in case it happens again and I can't help you," he chastises. He then angles Grace's head so that he can see inside the panel again. This is really bad. He feels himself lean into it. Oh, he knew it, the calluses do feel amazing. His grip is rather strong. He could easily force his jaw open by pressing his fingers in his cheeks. Oh gosh, is he getting hard? Please, not right now!
"Grace! Really? What's with you? Am I boring you or something?"
Crap, he's pissing him off. He needs to fix this. Say something.
"You're sitting in my lap,"
Simon goes completely silent and Grace freezes at his own words. He watches as Simon slowly and carefully looks down at their position. Next thing Grace knows, Simon is on the other side of the room. Wow, he's fast. He didn't even see him move.
"Why didn't you say something sooner?" Simon exclaims but then rubs his hand on his face. "No, it's not your fault. It's me. I did this and made you uncomfortable. Fuck! I'm sorry, Grace. I can't believe I did this," he continues, looking embarrassed, not angry.
"It's fine, I wasn't uncomfortable. I was just-," Grace interrupts himself before he says something stupid.
"What?" he asks, his voice wavering."Too scared to speak?" Simon asks and he looks heartbroken at the idea. Shoulder down and fear in his eyes just at the thought of scaring him. His body curls on itself with crippling guilt.
No, no, no! They made so much progress, he can't let this destroy it. He needs to say something! Fix it! He's the one who was perving on a man recovering from severe injuries, PTSD and who was just doing his job... While being on top of him, but still.
"No, I wasn't! It was just um distracting," he splutters, digging himself into a hole.
This is so incriminating, he's done for. Okay, he can fix this!
"Since, you know, it's been a while since I was last touched," Grace continues.
Terrible phrasing, Simon will never want to speak to Grace again. Simon stares at him in silence and Grace watches in horror as his eyes widen in realisation. It's over for him.
"Oh. Oh! Oh, okay. So, that's, um, that's why uh?" he stutters, looking away.
Is it too late to throw himself out of the airlock? Hasn't this man been through enough? Now he has to put up with Grace's stage four horniness. What is wrong with him?
"I'm so sorry," is all Grace finds to say as he buries his face in his hands. Ashamed of himself. He literally has no excuses.
"It's fine."
"It's really not."
"Grace," Simon starts but he interrupts him.
"I'm just going to go now," Grace says, unable to look him in the eyes right now.
He turns around to walk to the ladder.
"Okay, but you better not make this a bigger deal than it is, Ryland. It's fine really, I mean it," Simon says firmly but with a warmth in his voice.
Grace freezes in front of the ladder and considers his words for a second.
"Okay," he whispers before climbing down.
Grace climbs down the ladder and throws himself on a chair next to Rocky. Grace is going to spend the rest of his life with Simon and he just had to embarrass himself in the worst way possible in front of him. This is a catastrophe. All of this because he can't control his feelings for Simon. Simon, who forgave him even after making things incredibly uncomfortable between them.
“It's not fair.” The little ghost kicks impotently at the chalk lines around her feet. “I ain't done nothing.”
I nod, setting down my chalk and spellbook. “It does sound like there might have been a bit of a misunderstanding.”
“She took against me, that's what happened,” the dead girl says with a scowl. She looks about fourteen, round faced and spotty, with whisps of brown hair peaking out from under her mob-cap. Her face and her crossed arms have a tell-tale bluish tinge to them. A cholera death.
“I been here for don't know how long and never gave any trouble. Nobody ever complained about me 'till her.”
…well, that's not strictly true.
Number 12, Barclay Street has been attracting rumours of haunting since the mid nineteenth century.
Sounds of faint singing and crying in the corridors at night. Cold spots. Doors that open and close by themselves. Animals acting strangely. Harmless, mid to low-level stuff, typical for a bored teenage poltergeist.
Still, pointing that out isn't likely to achieve much, and certainly the most recent complaints of blood running down the walls, screams in the dark and paralysing night terrors seem distinctly out of character.
The ghost toes the chalk again, more tentatively this time. It stays resolutely unbroken.
She could get out if she wanted to. I'm not one of those assholes who brings out their full arsenal of wards and sigils for a first meeting with a level 2 spectre. The summoning circle will keep her in one place for as long as I need her to talk, but it wouldn't hold for a moment if she really fought against it.
I take it as a good sign that she's still here. Pouting or not, she's clearly willing to work with me.
“None of the others could do this,” she says. “None of 'em even saw me.” She looks up. “Are you here to exise me?”
“Exorcise,” I say instinctively, and curse myself when she flinches. “Sorry, no, no! I don't exorcise people from their homes without good reason, not if they're happy where they are.”
“I was happy. Till she started calling in all them ghost hunters.”
Mrs Delaney had been quite persistent in her attempts to 'fix' her haunted house. Most of the people she found were charlatans, of course, but I'd still arranged an appointment as fast as I could once word reached me. It wouldn't have been long before she happened upon somebody with Talent, and unfortunately not everybody in this field knows how to behave like a professional.
“I think we might be able to help each other,” I say, careful to keep my voice calm and level.
“Don't see how. Not unless you can exorcise Her.”
“Not quite what I had in mind.” I pull out my phone and scroll through my photos. “You say that you're not the cause of the most recent incidents of paranormal activity?”
A pause. The ghost gnaws on her lip. I wait, patiently, keeping my body language open and nonthreatening. “I… I knocked her coffee cup over,” she admits at last. “She was being mean and talking on her telephone, saying I done all these things when I never did! So I decided to show her what I could do if I wanted.”
“Hmm.” The ghost eyes me nervously, as if expecting me to pull out a book, bell and candle and banish her on the spot.
“I only tipped it,” she adds. “I didn't break it or nothing!”
“You shouldn't have touched it at all,” I say sternly. “But… I can appreciate that you were frustrated, so let's say no more about it.”
The ghost looks relieved.
“My point is,” I continue, “if you weren't the one making blood rain from the ceiling or tormenting people in their sleep, then what was? There's no other ghosts on the property.” I find the picture I was looking for. “You can get anywhere around the house, right? Including behind the furniture and in the backs of cupboards?”
“Yes'm.”
I hold the phone up so that she can see the picture on the screen. “I'm going to let you go free in a moment, and I need you to see if you can find anything that looks like this.”
The ghost wrinkles her forehead. “What's that when it's at home?”
“Black mould,” I say, reaching out a foot to break the binding circle. “And I'm pretty sure it's the cause of this haunting.”
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