A/N: Welcome to Emotional Damage the Chapter! This was a fun time to write, and I have the feeling that every single one of you is going to be screaming at me. I welcome it gladly, I know what I did.
Part of Simon's internal monologue is inspired by the musings of one of my commenters over on Ao3, Little_RedHots_Riding_Hood!
Credit as always the lovely @uzmacchiato for the divider, who I'm sure is tired of me tagging them!
Simon is shaking. He slumps against the airlock door as the gravity returns, feeling everything settle around him. But he can’t stay put, he can’t, he has to go find Grace.
Terror buzzes in his veins even as he moves forward toward the cockpit, deliberately trying to make noise as he walks. He doesn’t want to scare him. The last thing he wants is to scare him.
He finds Grace and Rocky in the lab. The alien is pressed close on the other side of his glass enclosure, no longer in the strange glittering suit, while Grace paces around, muttering to himself, his glasses pulled down and hanging precariously by one ear.
He exhales shakily when Simon appears. “We’re orbiting Adrian now, we should be safe. We gotta keep an eye to make sure they don’t come back.”
Simon lowers his head. He can’t bear to see the look in Grace’s eyes.
If he sees the hatred and fear he knows will be there, he might just give up. “They won’ follow us,” he rasps. “Probably.”
Grace runs a hand through his already messy hair and turns away.
Simon swallows. He has to start talking right now, before it’s too late.
“I-I’m sorry I didn’ tell you,” he starts. “I should’ve, you had a right to know what you were wasting supplies on. Shouldn’t’ve done that, I just— I-I needed a little time to heal before I- before I left.”
This elicits no reaction from Grace, who still has his back turned.
Simon continues, practically forcing the words out at this point. “I can be useful, I swear, an’ I don’t take up much space. You won’t even have to see me if you don’ want to.”
Grace folds his arms, and Simon hears a little hitch in his breathing.
Bad. Very bad.
Grace turns to look at him and Simon snaps his gaze back down to the floor. He winces. Everything is hurting and despite how scared he feels the adrenaline is beginning to wear off.
He realizes with a start he’s still holding the knife he’d pulled off that guy. How must that look?
He lowers himself to the ground, moving slow, keeping his hands in sight. It’s less graceful than the last time and he half-falls the last few inches because his knees almost give out, but Simon ends up kneeling on the floor anyway.
He sets the knife as far from him as possible, where Grace can reach it easily, then draws back, curling in on himself, hunching his shoulders, trying to make himself small.
His ribs are aching from that punch to the gut, but he tries to force words out anyway. “I-I won’t hurt either of you, I’ll be good, you don’t have to— to—“
He can’t figure out how to say it. How can he express that he is terrified, not of pain, because pain is an acquaintance he’s known all his life, but of cold?
That he is so scared that if he looks up all the compassion will be gone from those brilliant blue eyes?
That Grace will look at him with judgement and with none of the warmth?
Simon doesn’t think he could survive it.
Somewhere in the last day or so he’s gone and gotten too dependent on the light his savior has provided, and reminding himself of the fact that it could never last feels like ripping teeth out by the root, raw and bloody and all exposed nerves.
He inhales shakily. “What they said— it wasn’t supposed to be like that, it-it wasn’t— I didn’t know—“
Simon bites the inside of his cheek to force back tears. They won’t help him here. “I didn’t know.”
It’s not good enough, it’s never been good enough, no one has ever believed him, but it’s all he has.
Grace still doesn’t speak. Simon wonders to himself if he’s contemplating what to do with him, weighing his potential worth against the danger.
It would be the logical thing to do.
He fights back a whimper when the pain in his side spikes. It’s been years since he was scared like this.
The eel had scared the crap out of him, yes, had made him nearly collapse in on himself, but it wasn’t like this. This is visceral terror that he has somehow ruined the only kindness he’s been afforded in decades.
For years Simon has gotten used to the idea that no one cares to see him for him. Always Butcher, never just Simon.
He’s just a tool, a weapon, a body to be used and discarded, but never a person. Not for a very long time has he been a person.
And Simon’s tried to rage against it plenty but every time someone ends up hurt whether he meant to harm them or not.
(He still feels worms of guilt twisting in his stomach thinking about the radiation from the camera. He didn’t know. He didn’t know. Doesn’t that count for something?)
But then Grace had appeared, a light in the darkness, and had offered an outstretched hand like Simon was someone worth saving. Like he was an actual person.
Maybe that’s why Simon’s so terrified, because that hard reminder of his worth will hurt so much worse now that he’s had a taste of what compassion feels like.
He feels a chill creep over him along with the ice cold certainty that he’s not going to survive much longer.
Instead of being measured in months or days, Simon’s life is ticking by in hours now. He can feel it.
Grace will force him into the airlock, will send him out into that infinite dark abyss to die screaming and silent, freezing over as his body loses the last scraps of its heat.
…but no, Grace could never be so cruel, right? He is good, he is good and kind and he wouldn’t be that cruel…right?
Maybe he could spare just a shred or two of mercy, could gently put him down like a dog that bites. Could let him die somewhere warm and quiet. That would be enough.
If Grace allows him that kindness he’ll take it. He’ll take whatever his savior gives, it doesn’t matter, he’ll do it.
If Grace decides to put him down he’ll hold still, be quiet and docile and tip his chin up to let him fit the mask over his face without a fight, and if what it takes to stop struggling is digging his nails into his palms he’ll do it until the blood runs down his wrists and the darkness envelops him.
Simon clears his throat. “I-It’s okay if… I get it, it’s not—“
The words aren’t making sense. “Please, I-I’ll be good, I can be useful, you won’t have to—“
He’s trying anyway, trying to convince his saving grace to spare him one more time because there is something desperate in his chest that cannot help but want to live despite it all, but he knows that the chance it works is so very slight.
He’s tempted to lay down right here on the grating, expose the soft, vulnerable skin of his throat and wait for Grace to plunge the knife in, literal or metaphorical, whichever comes first.
Simon doesn’t want this beautiful, impossible man to have blood on his hands, though, not his blood, too filthy even to become dirt for the Tree.
(He’s never going home. He’ll never get that burial. His home is gone, was when Eden cast him out.)
He’s rapidly losing energy, the cold certainty that he’s not making it out of this draining the adrenaline away, and with every passing second he’s starting to feel his injuries more.
Grace paces agitatedly back and forth across the floor, rifling his hands through his hair and making it stand up in all sorts of directions. He comes to a stop with his back to Simon, bracing himself on a work table, and everything falls still.
Simon exhales shakily. “I-I don’ have to go with you, you can—“
In a moment Grace whirls around. He is a mess, his glasses hanging askew, stress lines crinkling the corners of his blue eyes, where crystalline tears threaten to fall.
“This is a suicide mission, Simon!” he half-shouts, all in a rush.
A pause. Dead silence.
Grace sniffs and looks away, his voice cracking. “I don’t get to go home.”
***
As soon as he says it Grace knows that he shouldn’t have. He sinks to the floor and wipes his eyes.
Rocky stirs, stamping at him agitatedly. “What? What mean? Grace die?”
Grace winces. This is why he didn’t tell Rocky, he doesn’t want him to hurt any more than he already has. But he’s done it now.
He buries his head in his hands. “Yeah… sorry, pal. We had enough fuel to get here, but not enough to get back. For me this is a one way trip. After we’re done I’m… I’m gonna die.”
He’s had more nightmares about it than he thought possible, when he does manage to get to sleep at all.
They’re always the same.
He watches Rocky’s ship disappear into the darkness, and then he just sort of… curls up and waits for the end to come.
It varies depending on the dream —he’s died of starvation, a long, agonizingly slow process, suffocated to death when the oxygen recycler broke, even gotten high off heroin. It’s not the scariest part of the dream, though.
The scariest part is that almost always, Yao and Ilyukhina are waiting for him, and Grace is terrified that when it happens for real he’s not going to be measure up.
Rocky is still behind his xenonite glass, and Grace winces. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
There is something fragile in his voice even through the translator.
Grace shakes his head. “I-I didn’t want to hurt you any worse.”
He turns to face Rocky, ignoring Simon for the moment. (He can’t deal with that. He cannot deal with that, not right now and probably not ever.) “Look, bud, i-it’s okay.”
Rocky turns away from him, chittering agitatedly something the computer doesn’t translate.
Grace is fairly sure he’s swearing.
“No. Not okay.”
Grace sniffs and leans on the xenonite barrier, feeling the warmth seep into his bones. “Look, I got to meet you, I got to do all this amazing stuff, I’m alright. I’m making peace with it.”
Rocky turns back to him, moving closer almost without thinking, still sounding frantic. “What mean? What mean make peace?”
Grace looks down at his hands in his lap. “It means… I know I’m not going home, I know why… and it’s okay.”
He’s trying to stay calm, to not let Rocky know how he will probably go to his death sobbing and afraid, and honestly he thinks he’s doing a pretty fair job of it. The only reaction he gets is Rocky’s carapace sinking a bit.
He tilts his head. “Thumbs up?”
Rocky curls in on himself a bit. “No.”
Grace taps at the glass absentmindedly. “Tiny thumbs up?”
No reaction. “No.”
Grace sighs, and leans his head back against the wall. It’s warm, he can feel the heat radiating into his body. “C’mon, we got stars to save, okay?”
But he can’t stay sitting here forever, if he does he’s going to actually break down and start crying and then the whole thing will be a mess.
He levers himself up from the floor.
“Grace?” comes the voice of his friend.
Grace turns around. “Yeah, bud?”
Rocky rattles his vents. “You are—“ He cuts off and trills a word they don’t have yet. “Need word.”
Grace nods. He can do this, he can keep it together. “What word do you need?”
Rocky thinks for a moment. “To risk self to help another.”
Grace exhales and goes over to input it into the translator. “Brave. The word is brave.”
He can’t do this.
He can’t stay still anymore, he gets up and paces over to the hallway, turning his back to the room for a moment. Maybe it’s not the most correct thing to do, but he has a hard time dealing with overwhelming emotions sometimes.
He feels eyes on his back and assumes they must be Simon’s (because Rocky doesn’t have eyes). He exhales slowly and tries to pull himself back together.
They’ll find a way to get Simon home, somehow. He’ll figure it out.
***
Simon watches their exchange, his mind reeling. He braces a hand on the floor, attempting not to collapse as his head spins, and watches Grace’s back.
…it makes sense, why he wouldn’t want Simon around. One more person to take care of.
He can’t die. Grace can’t die.
If there was someone to be sent on a suicide mission it should be Simon, should be someone who no one will miss.
He can’t bear the thought of Grace dying, of that radiance being snuffed out, not now, not when there’s so little light and warmth left in the universe.
Surely there has to be some way, something to do—
The little alien is silent for a long time, but finally: “Grace very brave.”
Simon stares at the man who saved him, who appeared out of the sky like some kind of merciful angel and pulled him up out of hell, who is so very patient and kind and warm.
He nods. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “He is.”
Rocky trills softly in agreement, a wordless hum that doesn’t get translated.
Grace bows his head, and Simon thinks to himself that he will find a way to get Grace home, wherever that is, if he has to give up his life for it.
Maybe they could steal fuel off the COI… that’s the problem, right? If he can find a decent fighter the right size it wouldn’t be impossible— wait, no, he doesn’t know what Grace’s ship runs on. That could be a problem.
Additional problem: ow.
Everything is aching now and Simon has no idea where the pain is actually coming from. He feels weak and shaky and disoriented, and it’s getting worse by the minute.
But Grace can’t die. He has to live. He has to.
***
Rocky is quiet a long time, and when Grace turns back around he can see he’s clicking his claws together contemplatively. Eventually he speaks again. “How much astrophage you need, question?”
Grace exhales. “Two million kilograms.”
It’s a lot, even to his own ears. It’s too much.
Rocky is calculating something, clicking his claws together like he’s counting. “I can give,” he says very softly.
Grace whirls and stares at him, his traitorous heart giving a lurch. “What?”
Rocky shrugs. “I can give. I go home six years slower.”
Grace shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. No, no way, Rocky shouldn’t have to give up anything else for him. “It’s too much…”
Rocky trills softly and moves closer. “Rocky watched crew die. Could not fix. Grace say Grace will die. Rocky fix.”
Grace stares at him for a moment, at this alien creature who is willing to sacrifice so much for him, and he cannot fight the tears this time.
Rocky presses his three-clawed hand to the glass. “Grace go home,” he says stubbornly.
Grace exhales shakily. He sinks down to the floor beside the xenonite barrier and presses his hand to glass over Rocky’s. “…okay.”
He’s shaking now, and he leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes. Finally, finally, he lets the tears come, and it feels as though something in his chest has come uncoiled, like a tight spring finally allowed to unwind.
There’s a thunk as Rocky leans against the barrier on the other side.
Grace lets himself shake for a while, relief coursing through his veins in little fireworks, and it’s almost more painful now than it was when he thought he was going to die because that was numb fear, this is the startling realization that he will step foot on his planet again. He can deliver the taumoeba to Stratt in person.
He can go home.
It’s a little like the pins and needles that come after your foot falls asleep, and the pain is so sweet that he cannot help but feel like he’s floating.
He opens his eyes and wipes away a few tears, only to see Simon a few feet away, still curled on the floor. He looks exhausted. (And that makes sense, Grace’s brain supplies, considering the effort he expended to keep them alive.)
Grace beckons to him. “C’mon, join us, you look tired.”
***
Simon isn’t sure what to do. But… god, he’s exhausted. Everything hurts.
He crawls over to Grace slowly and carefully, but his arms start shaking too much to hold him up.
He sinks onto an elbow, and then just kind of gives up. Grace guides him with a light touch and Simon lays his head on his lap.
He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be allowed this close, he shouldn’t be accepting affection like this until he finds out what will become of him, but he’s just thankful that Grace isn’t going to die.
He doesn’t really care anymore, what happens to him. Grace will live, that’s more than enough.
His savior can decide what to do with him.
Simon stretches a hand out and his fingertips brush the handle of the knife. He grabs it lightly by the blade instead and pulls it closer, reaching up and taking Grace’s hand. Simon presses the knife into his hand, wrapping his fingers carefully around the hilt.
Simon exhales shakily and turns his head away into Grace’s side, closing his eyes and exposing the column of his neck. He waits, waits for the knife to plunge into his throat.
It’s okay, like this. It’s warm here. He’s okay.
The only sound is the rhythm of Grace’s breathing. He exhales slowly above Simon’s head.
There is a clatter, and Simon knows it is the knife being tossed away.
Instead of chill metal a hand comes instead, fingers light and careful as they brush his jaw, tuck a piece of hair behind his ear. The hand comes to rest, cradling his neck, the thumb rubbing little circles into the muscles at the base of his skull.
Every nerve under Simon’s skin lights up at once at the contact and he shudders, subconsciously pressing back into the touch. He can feel his pulse pounding under Grace’s palm.
Simon almost melts, his muscles giving up on him and relaxing in response to the dissipation of danger.
Grace cards his fingers through Simon’s hair again, moving slow, and takes a calming breath. “If I get to go home, you do too.”
Simon pries his eyes open to look up at his savior and shakes his head minutely. There’s nowhere left for him, nowhere that would want him, that much he is sure of.
Grace tilts his head. “There’s no one to miss you?” His voice is very quiet.
Simon just shrugs. “Not anymore.”
His savior thinks about this for a while, biting his lip.
“Do you wanna come with me?” he finally asks, and Simon has to bite back his first response, that he would follow Grace wherever he went, because that’s pushing it. He nods instead.
A grin breaks over Grace’s face and it is radiant. Simon exhales slowly. He’s not going to die. Not today.
They just sit for a while, not saying anything, and Simon tries not to move because if he does Grace might stop playing with his hair. Every touch is so overpowering that he wants to shiver, even though for once it is actually warm.
Eventually Grace shifts, stretching, and Rocky gets up and disappears. Grace helps Simon to his feet carefully and stretches an arm over his head, a slightly concerning cracking noise coming from his back.
He finds his glasses and puts them back on his head. “Alright, we’ve got things to do now,” he says, and Simon watches him move away.
….he wants to explore. He really wants to explore, he wants to see how the Hail Mary works and where they ended up.
He wanders away, looking around curiously and leaning against the walls to keep his balance. There’s stuff everywhere, and he’s still trying to process how clean everything is.
There’s a lab-looking room, and a lot of hallways, and the way he came from the medical area.
Simon peers toward the cockpit area, and then moves on, finding what seems to be a little hallway. He notices it has another window, and he tilts his head in surprise, and then—
he freezes. No. No way. This— this has to be a projection or a hallucination or something.
He creeps closer to the window slowly, his breath caught in his throat, and reaches out to brace himself on the frame.
Out there, beyond the windows, are stars.
They are bright and brilliant and so numerous that he can’t even begin to count them all.
Simon’s knees give out and he sinks to the floor, unable to tear his eyes away from the window.
Something large, too-large for his chest, is building inside his ribcage, something that feels like pressure and vertigo and awe.
He hadn’t quite believed Grace before, even when he had decided he wasn’t lying. How could he not be delusional, in that graveyard of darkness that Simon had grown up in?
But he believes him now.
The elders on Eden had told stories, about how beautiful the universe had been before the Rapture, and Simon had listened to every single one, imagining what it must have been like.
Not a single one of those stories measures up to this.
Everywhere he looks he sees another pinprick of light, another glowing beacon against the blackness.
They are all so bright, azure and frosted silver and molten gold and white like snow and burning red as fire, all flashing and sparkling and burning bright against the darkness.
They seem so strong, so real, all gleaming with heavenly fire, and Simon is struck by the realization that they’re not going anywhere.
The stars have been here the whole time, waiting for them to find their way back. He shudders, and realizes his cheeks are wet.
They didn’t disappear. The stars aren’t dying.
Staring out the window that feels impossible because they are right here, bright and stubborn and blazing with light.
Simon’s breath hitches, the awe settling deeper into his bones. Grace was right. They’re saving the stars. That means—
That means Earth is real. It’s still there, too. He and Grace are going there.
It’s almost too much. Simon leans his forehead against the window, unable to look away.
For the first time in years, he lets himself cry as the light pours over his skin.
Was anyone going to tell me that Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London, was the one who narrated Slay the Princess, or was I just supposed to feel bad for thinking all British guys reading horror sounded the same by myself?
