Chapter Text
There’s blood.
He’s on his feet, heading in the direction of the smell before he’s even processed what he’s doing. He tries to ignore the mutations caused by his time in the blood ocean as much as he can when he’s brought face-to-face with the evidence every time he looks in the mirror. Jagged teeth, like an extra-wide mouth, extending across his cheek, something like the sprout of a sapling tangling with his hair, his entire missing arm. Then, of course, the instincts.
The physical alterations he can almost forget about, but sometimes his mind thinks things that aren’t his own, coming to conclusions and asserting instincts that he didn’t have before.
Like, the blood, for example.
There’s prey.
He’s got to find the intruder that invaded their space, that was dumb enough to come limping in, seeking refuge in the butcher's den. He’s going to find it and sink his teeth into their flesh, bones crunching beneath them like the breaking of a ship's hull, lavishing in their blood until nothing's left. Teeth, sharp and deadly, ready to pierce flesh and rip it apart, drop from his mouth like fangs as his mind goes hazy from the anticipation.
He tracks it to the source, energy coiling beneath his skin as he prepares to strike and finds—
Oh.
It’s Grace.
The urge curling under his skin stutters to an abrupt halt as it registers not a threat but a beloved, precious thing. The blood is no longer a thrilling meal but a serious problem. If someone else were around to smell the blood and try to attack their Grace, well, the thing in Simon’s chest shudders at the thought. They cannot allow him to get hurt.
He doesn’t really think about what he does next—not that he’s been thinking about much of anything so far—and just wraps an arm around Grace, lifting him into the air. Grace lets out a small noise, and the instincts inside him coax him to work faster. Of course, their Grace is afraid, out in the open, exposed, and somewhere unsafe. They need to get him somewhere comfortable where he can rest and heal while they protect him.
He settles him on the couch, somewhere soft and nearby and defensible, making sure to be gentle with him. He steps back, making sure not to crowd him, and the ball of otherworldly instincts that has decided to curl around his ribcage, tightening anxiously and making his head spin with a sense of urgency, seems to settle a bit. They content themselves for a moment, just watching Grace stare back up at him imploringly, like Simon might know what to do next.
He holds his hand out to Simon, offering him a better view of the blood that stains his delicate form. He says something, but Simon thinks his heart is still pounding too hard in his ears for him to be able to understand. He thinks it’s calm and meant to be reassuring, which is nice, even if it doesn’t work in the way that it probably was intended.
He grabs the offered limb, inspecting it closely, and a part of him buried even deeper than the instincts curled in his chest chants something dark and longing for the blood, but Grace pulls his hand away, and the voice is gone. Instead, the thing is his chest coos something happily that their Grace is calm and comfortable in the makeshift den they've created for him, but then Grace says something else, and it panics.
Grace tries to stand, to leave, and Simon is ready to fight, to threaten, except this is their Grace, and he doesn’t want to hurt him. Grace settles back down on the couch, and Simon figures he was just getting more comfortable, not actually trying to leave. That makes more sense, because certainly Grace wouldn’t try to leave the protection he offers. He knows they’ve only really recently become friends, only recently gotten to the point that they’ve established trust, but Grace, their Grace, has to know that they’d do anything to protect him.
Grace speaks calmly again, soothing the rage of protectiveness that’s welled up inside of him, and notices the way he leaves a space next to him on the couch. Stiffly, Simon forces himself into action, settling next to him. The thing in his chest sings silent songs of pleasure, watching over their Grace happily as they linger in his presence. They would be content to observe him like this, ensuring his safety and swift recovery, but Grace moves again, and Simon is quick to latch onto him.
He knows Grace can be a bit fidgety, but certainly trying to leave again is a bit much. Grace eyes him with a small smile, and Simon catches something about a remote as he cycles back into his own brain, loosening his grip just enough for Grace to be able to reach it. The instincts inside him don’t dare let them release him all the way, just in case, but settle happily when Grace leans against him, finally relaxing entirely.
“What do you want to watch?” Grace asks, and the instinct-driven, blood-fueled haze has finally receded enough that he can understand words again. That’s nice. He thinks his fangs have retreated some too, so he rests against Grace’s shoulder without fear of hurting him. “You want me to pick?” Grace infers, and Simon nods, not wanting to make a decision and not sure if he’s able to talk. He’s not tried to talk when he gets like this, because he can’t decide what's worse: if he’s unable to say anything at all, or if he talks in a voice not his own. If he opens his mouth and the words that come out sound like the blood eel, he doesn’t think he’d ever recover.
He shifts some, getting more comfortable and pulling Grace a little closer. While he’s feeling better, it’ll take a bit to fully come back to himself, and the instincts are still riding high, so he doesn’t feel comfortable leaving Grace alone just yet. He knows that there’s no one around who would hurt Grace, and if there was, Rocky would deal with them before he even had the chance to, but he can’t quite make himself untense.
“Are you cold?” Grace asks. “We can get one of the blankets if you want.”
Simon is rarely cold. He’s not sure if he always ran hot or if it’s another thing from the blood ocean. He knows Grace can get cold pretty easily and thinks it’s more human of him, even as he tries not to. Grace is also more willing to deal with the slight chill for the sake of convenience instead of going out of his way to ensure his own comfort.
“Okay. That’s alright then," Grace continues. “I’m a little cold, but I don’t want you to overheat."
This is what he was saying, Simon thinks exasperatedly and grabs a blanket, tossing it over him. Grace wraps it tighter around him and burrows a little closer to Simon’s warmth.
“Thank you, Simon,” Grace says softly, and the thing in his chest fluctuates in smug satisfaction. Simon buries his face into the back of Grace’s neck, peaking at the movie screen over his shoulder.
Simon is only half paying attention to the movie as his instincts continue to recede, finally content to fade away entirely as Grace falls asleep, curled against him and trusting them to look after him. Simon carefully adjusts them, so he’s sleeping in a more comfortable position, relieved that Grace is getting some rest. Grace tends to be fairly high-strung, a weird combination of calm about the most extreme emergencies and shaking with anxiety over little incidents, so it’s nice to see him rest.
For all he reassures Simon that he can come to him about his problems, Grace sure likes to hide his and instead throws himself into his work. Maybe Simon will have to make up other little things like this if it means getting Grace to rest. For now, however, he’s content to just watch over him, the movie in the background like a soothing balm of white noise.