Chapter Text
“Eye movement detected.”
What the fuck? Is someone talking to him? But that’s not the thing that strikes Simon the most; Simon is warm.
Warmth isn’t something Simon is very familiar with. All the space stations are freezing cold, and the sub was blistering hot. The last time he could recall being warm was in the arms of a woman whose face he can’t quite remember.
He misses his mom.
As quickly as that thought came, it drifts back into the comfortable fuzz. Consciousness returns in slow waves. He realizes he’s lying on his back in a bed of sorts… Something is weighing him down; he pulls it a little closer. It smells clean, like soap with an undertone of something else he can’t place. Maybe something citrusy?
“What’s two plus two?”
Hmmm… that's probably bad. But Simon can’t really be bothered to care. He is so comfortable, and every part of him feels good. It’s kind of difficult to think; every thought is staticky and slow. Simon feels no pain at all, which he definitely should, so that's weird. He has no idea what the fuck is happening, and it's really freaking him out. The panic, too, feels small, silly, and oh so far away.
He almost lets himself drift back to sleep when he hears gentle rustling, and he feels eyes on him. His skin prickles at the thought. That certainly gets his attention. His eyes shoot open, and he's surprised when fluorescent lights don’t assault his vision.
Simon’s lying on a bed, but it's the weirdest fucking bed he has ever seen. Five pillows are strewn across the room. He pushes himself up to see better. It’s difficult; Simon feels like there’s an anvil on top of him. The bed is pushed up to one corner of the room and is ginormous! He has a… quilt– yes, that's the word!- the quilt itself is a bunch of colorful squares with doodles on them.
He’s… wearing a shirt; it's a little tight on his arms– arm.
Arm, just one, dammit.
The shirt itself is black, and on it he can see a little design. It takes him a second to figure out what the words are since they’re upside down: I had potential it reads. It has a squiggle and a circle on it, and he has no idea what that part is about. It's rude, and Simon normally would be a little ticked off about it, but right now, he doesn’t mind.
Just on his left, there's a robot with three arms… You think I can get away with taking one of those? He quickly pushes the thought away because it's really fucking dumb. That's when he finally realizes that the robot had been the one speaking to him.
“What's two plus two?”
Simon is getting extremely irritated because this stupid robot is asking him math. Basic math too! Does this fucking box of wires think he’s incapable of addition? He knows how to fucking add; why does everyone think he’s slow? Does he have moron written on his forehead or something? “Four.” He chokes out, only then realizing how fucked his throat is; he feels like he’s been screaming his throat raw.
“What’s the cube root of 8?”
Yeah, fuck that. He’s not a fucking calculator. That robot can take one of its arms and shove it sideways into its charging port!
To his right, there is a giant half-circle-shaped window. On the bedside table, there's an odd
little contraption. On the dresser, there's a bunch more stuff: a clock that reads 10:30 AM, a ton of miniature statues, a pile of books, a pot, and a crudely drawn… something? Various medical-looking supplies are spread across the room, within reach of the robot. The floor is really fucking strange. It’s like someone put a super hairy blanket all over the floor.
Simon lets his eyes follow the beam of light streaming through the window. Right where it ends is his angel. The warm light illuminates it carefully. Simon, for a few moments, thinks Grace is the one producing the light. It is curled up in a very large plush armchair. In its hands, there is a white square covered in more little drawings.
I’m starting to sense a pattern here.
Grace then reaches to the top of it and pulls it towards itself, which then folds down and shuts with a small click. It lightly sets it down on the bedside table, then rests its head on its knees delicately. It peers at Simon over its glasses, which rest on the very tip of its nose. It looks at him curiously with a speck of amazement. Simon’s eyes drift to meet Grace’s, only to his horror to see
Grace has a black eye.
When the fuck did that happen? Simon would definitely remember that if he had seen it last time.
He must have been pulling a face because Grace says, “Oh! My eye?” It brings its hand up to his eye and smiles weakly with a tiny wince. “It’s okay, I promise. Please don't feel bad.”
Shit!
Don’t feel bad? Fuck, Simon probably did that. He doesn’t know when, though, because it certainly wasn’t on the beach.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! You fucking idiot! You really thought you deserved redemption? You? Butcher? Really living up to your title, aren’t you? You just can’t stop hurting people; it’s the only thing you’ve managed to accomplish in your pathetic life! Father was right; it is your nature. All you’re good for. Breaking things. “Maybe you do deserve this.” Echoes in his head. Was the fucking eel right, too? The one good thing you had going for you, and you had to fuck it up.
Grace’s voice interrupts his spiraling. “Hey, hey, hey, buddy! You’re okay; it’s fine. I’m perfectly fine. Breathe, breathe, please.” It’s painfully sincere, soft, and maybe a little shocked. It only makes Simon feel worse, so much worse.
Before he can realize what he’s doing, he’s on his feet and by the time he crosses the room, his head is spinning. He’s crumpled in front of Grace’s chair in a bow. Simon didn’t even feel how hard he slammed his knees on the ground. He’s on his knees, forehead pressed to the ground, arm extended outwards. He didn’t even feel how hard he slammed his knees on the ground.
Good, that's the least I can do. This is where I belong.
He can see a thin red line of blood where he recalls tearing his IV out. That weird hairy blanket he's lying on is really soft, fluffy, and– Focus, you fucking idiot! He feels something wet roll down his cheek.
Am I crying? God, that's so fucking pathetic. I’m lying on the floor crying like a bitch because of stuff I already knew. Now get up off the ground and find a way to make yourself useful, you waste of air!
He weakly looks up through his hair, hoping it will hide his shame.
The angel has put one foot on the ground; its other leg is still on the chair but moved to the side so Grace can loom over him. It looks incredibly panicked and lost. It has its hands hovering anxiously over Simon, too afraid to touch him. Simon manages to choke out, “I’m sorry… –m so sorry. Please… Please don’t-!” He peters out into vague pleas.
“Hey, no, no, it's okay, it's okay. I’m fine; there's nothing to be sorry for. My eye is okay, just a bruise; it will heal. It's going to be perfectly fine.” Grace now sounds desperate as well.
Shit, you have to make it up to Grace before it does– Simon shudders, he doesn’t even want to think about it.
“Can we get you back to bed, please? You’re going to tear your stitches, Dave.” Grace shifts positions and holds out its hands for Simon.
What?
Oh. right… grace, undeserved forgiveness. What a gift he was given. He still feels the deep pit in his stomach for marring Grace’s skin. He didn’t know angels could be hurt. Well, maybe it isn’t hurt, and it's just a byproduct of its form. Maybe that's why Simon doesn’t feel any pain, because he really, really should.
Who the hell is Dave?
Wait, what does it mean by tear his stitches? Only then does Simon realize that his left arm– his stump has been stitched up. He really misses his hand. He can’t ruin Grace’s work, so he lifts his right hand… and misses.
What the fuck was that?
Arm, behave. Now that Simon thinks about it, all of his movements have been uncoordinated and jerky. What is happening to him? He tries again, slower this time, closing his left eye to focus better. Putting all his effort into making sure he actually does it properly this time. He lifts his hand again and this time makes proper contact.
Grace begins to pull him up and, about halfway, slides its arm around Simon’s back. Simon shivers at the feeling of it. A strange thought passes through Simon’s head.
Is Grace real and not just one last sick joke the blood ocean decided to leave him with?
He doesn’t want to be dead at the bottom of the blood ocean– well, Simon guesses he is dead after all; his body is just another feature of the landscape now. Another skeleton to scare the next poor convict sent down there to join him. Had he been navigating a graveyard that whole time?
Is– is he part of another creature down there? Doing what he does best, hunting. The eel had said, “Pray that you stay dead.” The idea is tempting… he doesn’t want his body to be hurting people even in death. Is something down there using his voice to trick someone in their last moments, give them false hope? Is this another hallucination to keep him distracted while something assimilates his corpse into a mass of the damned?
The thought of it is making his light headed, and he stumbles into Grace's chest.
Grace stiffens like a board, and it locks its gaze resolutely on the wall. He thinks he would tip over and fall if Grace let go. It might have stopped breathing; Simon dimly wonders if angels need to breathe. Simon can see the flush creep up Grace's neck. Simon decides it's a very nice color on him.
Simon is trying to get his dizzy spell to wear off when Grace speaks up stiffly. He can feel the vibrations of its words, and Simon shivers. “What’s your name?” Simon can feel himself speaking before he acknowledges the question.
“Mmmm, Simon, my name is Simon.” He’s still slurring, and that's probably a bad thing. Can he bring himself to care? No, not really. “Simon? It's really nice to meet you, Simon.” He said it slowly, like he was testing it out.
“Little late for introductions.” Simon says into Grace’s shirt. Grace chuckles in response. Simon can feel himself smile stupidly at the sound, but he's sure Grace can't see, so that's a relief.
People have always called Simon whatever they wanted. The Butcher of Eden, Convict, Inmate, Eden trash, The Mad Martian, Killer, Brother, Monster. Whatever was most convenient for them. Rarely did they ever call him by his name, and they only did so when he’d done something exceptional. They didn't even know his name when they welded him into that sub to die. He wonders when people will forget his name altogether, and Butcher will be all that's left.
So he wonders what a privilege he’s been given for Grace to call him Simon. He must have done something exceptional, but he doesn’t know what it would be. After a bit– how long have they been standing here? Grace speaks nervously, “You… uhh… probably shouldn’t be standing this much; you look pale.” Grace is probably right, and Simon’s not dumb enough to disobey a direct command from an angel. That’s how you– Actually, Simon doesn’t know what would happen. Nothing good, that's for sure.
He lifts his head back up and starts to walk back to the bed. On his way back, he notices a tipped-over IV pole with the tube lying limply on the ground. Grace tripped on it and almost brought Simon down with it. “Heh… whoops, sorry about that!” Grace says, scratching the back of its neck.
He sits back on the bed, and Grace picks up the IV pole, then says, “Can Armando put your IV back in?” It glances at Simon, and it must realize that Simon has no clue what it's talking about. “Oh! Dav– Simon, it’s what I call the robot. He’s a medical robot, you’re in good hands– err, claws. It’s safer if he does it instead of me. I mean, I am a doctor, just not the medical kind.”
What other types of doctors are there? Simon dimly wonders
Simon doesn't know why Grace bothered to ask if the robot could put it back in. It's not like Simon can stop it. He assumes it's just being polite, so Simon mumbles out a “Sure.”
Simon detests needles… It's not that he's afraid of them, he just doesn’t like them, that's all. Grace rights the IV before the robot does the whole process of inserting it. Simon grits his teeth and stares firmly past Grace’s shoulder.
Simon, for the first time since walking, can say he felt something that might classify as pain. He instinctively looks down at his wrist and sees the tube in his wrist. Ugh, I really shouldn’t have looked. You dumb piece of shit. He snaps his head up away from his arm because it's making him anxious. Grace had been hovering over Simon this whole time, but now it steps away, leaning on the dresser.
That thought quickly vanishes as he feels the IV start up. He can feel a warmth travel up his arm. Holy shit, that feels amazing. That's when it finally hits him: this isn't just a little saline; it's a painkiller. Ohhh, that's why he feels so weird! He’s high, and really fucking high on top of that. All things considered, he barely feels any of his injuries. “Whoa.” He mumbles before he can stop himself. Grace chuckles and says, “Yeah, hopefully you should be feeling better.” Simon nods a little, and the motion makes him dizzy. It's not that he didn’t feel good before; he barely felt any pain, but this is on another level.
Before he even realizes it, Simon is nodding off. He tries to blink himself awake. He really doesn't want to sleep, because he's only spent a few minutes in heaven actually conscious. There is so much he wants to do: stare at the landscape, see if he can find anyone he recognizes, take a walk, explore around a bit to hopefully see a tree, and talk to Grace. Simon hopes he doesn’t sleep too long, but he fears that's out of his hands – hand – at this point.