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It's a cage.
… it's a nice one, Simon'll admit. Probably the best one he's ever been in. But he knows what a cage is- what's being trapped, and what's being free- and it doesn't matter what Grace told him, when he asked- this is yet another prison cell, and Simon's still the convict, branded and judged.
They're surprisingly shy about it, though. Simon doesn't get it. All of them- the three he's interacted with, at least- treats him like he isn't their prisoner, like he's another person. Like he's not being kept. It's fucking weird, and Simon kind of wishes they'd just drop the act already, except maybe he doesn't, really. It's-
Well.
Part of it is nice. Grace is- he's kind. Weirdly so. He's also bizarre, and likely to trip over himself at every opportune, and he treats Simon like something fragile, like if Grace looks at him weird, he'll shatter. That part's annoying as fuck, but it's- it's different.
Simon doesn't get it.
Grace acts like he's something out of a story, like he's myth personified- an angel, come to save him, except Simon knows an angel wouldn't save him, and an angel probably wouldn't also be so fucking awkward about it all, but it's-
He rubs a hand across his face.
It's weird. It's bizarre. The whole thing is like a dreamt, except not, because Simon doesn't remember dreams being this nice, this mundane. Mostly, when he sleeps, it's nightmares. It's darkness. It's the fucking sub, and it's the fucking blood, and it's drowning, again and again and again, being burnt alive as he's cupped in the palm of something bigger-
Nails across his cheek. Across gnarled scar-tissue, warped and tender, and he shudders at the pain. The waves shushes him, and the sound of it still makes his skin prickle, makes something small in the dark of his chest whine, but-
It's blue.
It's so fucking blue.
Simon sighs. Buries his hand in the sand, wriggling fingers into the grain, and that's the mystery of it too, isn't it?
Maybe it's just Simon that's the prisoner. Maybe Grace really isn't lying, when he says this is for their safety. Or at least for his.
The Eridians are- strange. He thinks he believes it, when Grace says their atmosphere is dangerous to humans. At least he believes that, if possible, Rocky and Grace would be attached at the hip, and the fact that there's even anything in the way of that, is something they cannot change.
Simon doesn't get why they'd put him with Grace. Why they'd risk Grace's safety like that. Why they'd look at Simon, and see something not-
He sighs. Again. Lets his body wilt, leaning forward and curling over his knees, tugging absently at the end of one of his pant legs.
This whole thing is weird. It's so fucking weird. Did he mention that it's weird.
Sometimes. When it's dark and he's curled up tight and Grace is snoring and the only thing in his head is an empty, quiet, expanse, Simon will think: maybe this is real.
Maybe Grace isn't lying, when he says he wants to help. Maybe he isn't playing at something, when he tells Simon that this isn't another hell, waiting to unfold. Maybe Simon isn't an animal, trapped in a cage, waiting for the noose to finally tighten.
Maybe. Maybe.
But the thing is- the thing is- Simon had believed that before, hadn't he?
He had believed Ava, when she told him he'd get out. That this wasn't a death sentence, that he could start over, that he'd get a blank fucking slate, and he'd be free, and he wouldn't die at the bottom of that fucking ocean, torn open and wailing at the light.
Even the Voice- whatever the fuck that had been- had sounded so sincere. He had believed it, too, and maybe it hadn't even lied. Ava hadn't, that last time. She had gone down there, too, to claw him out of that sub herself, and she had paid that price, and Simon-
Grace has to be lying.
Grace has to be playing at something, even if Simon doesn't fucking know what, because if not-
If not-
…
Simon doesn't know. He doesn't know if not, because the thought is so surreal, so out of his grasp, that he can't even find it's shape. If Grace isn't lying, what then?
He doesn't know.
Simon doesn't know what he is, without that.
He's spent so long in that cage. In that cell. In the dark of the COI's belly, as the monster, as the Butcher, and Simon isn't- he isn't anything, without that.
He had wanted to live. He had wanted that so desperately, for so long, and now that it's here, in the palm of someone kind and graceful and warm, he doesn't-
He can't have that.
He's not allowed that.
Simon jerks- warmth runs down his cheek, and for a second, he thinks- red- and then he's touching his fingers to it, and he laughs, the sound twisted and wrong and choked, because he's crying. Tears drip down his face, and he's crying like a child, the ocean a chasm just some feet away, and what is he, now, without that cage, without that knife, without the names they've put on him and the things that's been done to him?
What the fuck is he, at the very heart of it all?
He scrubs his palm across his face. Sniffs, and the small of salt is grounding. There's no blood here. There's no monster in the deep, waiting to set its teeth in him. There's no oppressive heat, pushing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs and the thoughts from his head.
He hasn't told Grace everything. Hasn't mentioned the Butcher, and he wonders- what'd Grace do, if he finds out? What would Rocky? The Eridians?
Would they finally put him somewhere small?
… he looks out over the sea. Blinks the remains of tears from his eyes, and just- sits. Watches. It's beautiful. It's clear. It's so blue.
Grace had offered to teach him to swim.
Simon doesn't want to. He knows he doesn't want to, because the thought of going under there- of putting himself below water- it makes his chest go tight and his breath stop, and the world tilts, sometimes, like maybe if he blinks, he'll be back there, and this will have all been a pretty, fake, dream, and-
He had offered.
Why would he offer?
Simon looks up.
The sky is starting to darken. It's not quite a sky, Grace had explained, and Simon hadn't really cared, still doesn't, because what is a fake sky to a trapped thing? What does it matter? It's pretty. It's beautiful.
Grace had said it was based on Earth.
He had mentioned the stars.
Simon's seen the stars. He's seen their faded, distant, lights, and he has thought of them, death and gone and still there, hanging in the sky. He had seen some disappear, and he knows the sky is smaller than it used to be, but- they were still there. They would still be there, now.
Father had called them ghost lights.
Would it matter, if he got to look at them, and know this is still there. Would that change anything? Would it move something in him, make something real or better or worth being here, if he just looked at the stars, and knew they were still alive?
Would accepting that Grace is not lying matter?
He laughs. The sound is wrong, because maybe that's just what Simon is- something wrong, handed to Grace, left at his doorstep like some kind of gift, like a project for Grace to work at.
Fuck. Fuck.
He doesn't know! He doesn't know anything, and it's all- it's twisted up in his head, it's tangled together, it's a trap he can't get out of, and if he had just died in that fucking sub, maybe that would have been better. Maybe he was the wrong one, wanting to live. Maybe everyone had always been right, and something in Simon had been wrong from the very moment he was born, wanting and desperate with it.
I want to live, he had said, time and time again, and maybe he had just been wrong.
He scratches at skin. Feels scar-tissue warp and break and the blood is warm on his fingertips, and he laughs, clutches at the open wound till the pain is an ache in his teeth, till he can fucking feel it, and-
He closes his eyes. Screws them up tight.
What's an animal without the cage it's been raised in? What's a butcher without meat to slaughter? What's someone like Simon, without death hanging around his neck like a noose?
He doesn't know.
The waves hits the sand. It rises, it falls. Blood smears along his neck, along the brand, the scar, and he peels his hand away slowly, shivers at the tackiness at his fingertips. It doesn't burn. Doesn't even smell, here with the salt and the water and the wide open world of Grace's home, and Simon doesn't know.
The sky is darkening. Grace tends to show up, eventually, when he sits out here for long enough. He's awkward about it, fuzzy, like Simon isn't his pet that's wandered too far, but something he's worried about.
He never asks if Simon's okay. He tries, sometimes, and then aborts the action, like he's realised the stupidity of it mid-sentence. Sometimes he asks if he can sit. Like Simon could tell him no, and it'd matter.
Sometimes, Simon gets up and Grace will follow him back to the house, this look on his face Simon can't- won't- parse. Sometimes, Grace will stand there and Simon will sit there, and the silence will warp between them, and Simon will think, again and again, why.
He doesn't ask. Has already done so, and he doesn't think Grace's answer will change.
Maybe, Simon thinks, like touching at a wound unhealed, Grace never lied at all.
Maybe, when Simon asked why, and Grace answered you needed help, he had been honest. Maybe, when Grace looked at him like he mattered, Grace hadn't been lying. Maybe. Maybe.
Would it matter?
Simon closes his eyes. Imagines, for a second, stars.
And he doesn't know, but he sits there, eyes closed, thinking of a sky full of them, so bright it almost hurts, and-
Maybe it's something.