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Simon wakes up to a very naked Ryland Grace.
Well, that's what he initially thought, anyway. After blinking furiously and getting closer, he ends up seeing more than just Ryland’s naked back, and thankfully for his heart, he’s wearing boxers with a repeating design of a crude drawing of those ‘cats’ Ryland had shown him on his laptop before.
He’s sitting on the toilet, lid down, holding a fucked up looking gun, and… shooting his clothes?
Simon frowns at the stream of… weird light that Ryland’s meticulously aiming at every square inch of his (well, their after he declared Simon could borrow them) clothes. Simon recognizes some shirts he had worn previously, hanging on some sort of wire. He recalled apologetically asking Ryland how they could recycle the fabric after he’d worn one of them to filth while he was recovering from his wounds (and strange mutations), only for him to tell Simon that they’d wash it when they arrived on Erid with his apparently abundant water supply, also known as his artificial ocean, and it would be usable again. Or whatever the hell he had said back then. It barely made sense to Simon. All they did back on Eden was repurpose fabric too dirty to wear. They couldn't exactly spare a resource as important as water for regular washing.
Rocky makes a series of noises (Music, Simon reminds himself), greeting him. The translator activates almost immediately. “Good morning, Simon.”
Grace turns the fucked-up gun off and turns to him, blinking before his face flushed red. “Simon. I didn't think you'd wake up so early.” He attemps to cover up himself by putting his knees against his chest, but it barely does anything.
“Was kinda loud,” he replies, voice a little gruff from just having woken up. “What are you doing?”
“Grace is doing laundry.” Rocky replies, moving back and forth. “Grace always does laundry very late. Ship gets dirty dirty dirty.”
No kidding on that part. Now that he's a little more awake, he remembers some of the clothes hung up were ones he saw on the floor yesterday. And the late part explains Ryland’s state of undress. He guesses he ran out of clothes without realizing.
“I know what laundry is,” he says, remembering some of the elders that lament clean clothes. Though from what he heard, it typically includes soap and water. Not a gun. “I meant to ask about that…” He hesitates. “... gun.”
Ryland turns the gun in his hand, letting Simon observe its different angles. “It’s a cold plasma gun. It shoots out cold plasma that kills the bacteria that sticks to our clothes. Doesn't really get rid of stains, but it gets the clothes clean.” He offers the plasma gun to Simon with a smile. “Wanna try?”
Simon frowns at him. If he hadn't been witnessing this man ramble on and on about scientific equations he knew nothing about, chatting about his lived experiences that sounded like old-timey science fiction books, talking about impossible sounding things like wormholes and stars and entire galaxies, then he would think Ryland Grace is an absolute idiot. Simon is by all means a stranger to these two, just a human(?) that they'd rescued floating in the middle of nowhere in space. They had no idea who he was or what he’d done.
Simon doesn't know how powerful cold plasma is, whatever that is, but offering a gun to a stranger is probably one of the stupidest things he’s seen Ryland do, second only to letting Simon stay with them.
He eyes Rocky, who is facing him. The alien doesn't really have a face, so he can't read his expression, but he's always at least a little wary when Simon’s around. At least he was being cautious.
“No thanks.”
“Alright,” Ryland shrugs a little at his answer, turning to continue his plasma shooting.
“What woke me up earlier?” He ends up asking, because while the plasma gun whirrs a little, it's not exactly the loud bang he had heard that initially woke him up.
Ryland laughs, probably at himself. “I dropped the gun on the floor. Made a loud clang, sorry.” He turns the shirt over, getting the other side. “Didn't have my glasses on, so I tripped over something.”
“No, Grace had glasses, just wore them wrong.” Rocky argues, because he loves being right. Which he probably is, because Ryland looks like he's considering arguing back but stays quiet apart from a small scoff.
Simon stands there, feeling a little awkward but not sure where to go. Sure, it had been two weeks since he woke up in the Hail Mary, confused and horrified, but all he’d done so far was hover around either of his crewmates. Ryland, Rocky, and that weird robot arm doctor, all ordered rest from him ‘until he feels better’ which is way too unclear of a criteria, and so he has been stuck doing fuck all, itching to be at least a little useful if Ryland really is doing this all out of the kindness of his own heart and this really isn't a hallucination that blood eel decided to conjure up.
And every day he's in the Hail Mary, looking out the window and seeing stars, real, shining stars, makes him believe a little more that this isn't a hallucination. How human of him to still cling to hope.
“Should I take off my clothes, too, then?” He looks down at himself. He doesn't smell too bad, he definitely smelled worse in Eden, but if Ryland’s doing laundry now, it should be better for him to do it all at once, right?
Ryland just stares at him for a second, then his gaze drifts down, probably surveying the damage. Maybe his clothes aren't dirty enough right now?
“Yeah,” Ryland says, voice a little hoarse. He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he repeats, “it’ll be better that way. So I can do all the laundry at once.”
“Good idea,” Rocky chirped in agreement.
Simon starts taking his clothes off, the shirt he’d borrowed from Ryland first, that his body undoubtedly stretched, and it’ll probably never fit Ryland the way it should again. He throws it on the floor as the sweatpants come next, and thankfully they're adjustable so at least Simon can return them unharmed. He keeps his boxers on, like Ryland.
He stops himself from reaching for a nonexistent harness, mourning it a little. It’s somewhere in storage, too bloodsoaked to wear, but he misses it. The constant pressure felt grounding.
Ryland is polite and doesn't look at him too hard, even if he knows he’s itching to ask about Simon’s mutations. Or about his scars and his recovery. Or about what happened to him to have all these scars and mutations. Rocky’s quiet too, was probably told off by Ryland after he asked too many questions and Simon punched a wall in frustration. The dent’s still there, and so is Simon’s guilt.
He steps forward to hand over the sweatpants, and the shirt he haphazardly threw on the floor earlier was already picked up by Rocky, diligent little guy that he is, handing it over to Ryland, who makes space for it and the sweatpants, hanging the articles of clothing as they're handed to him.
Then he starts up the weird gun again, and it becomes background noise. Simon sits on the floor next to Rocky, the heat coming from him comforting compared to the cold floor of the ship.
“Grace says they don't do laundry like this on Earth,” Rocky pauses for a bit, a little uncertain, but goes through with it anyway. “Is it the same on Eden?”
Simon shakes his head. “No. We didn't have enough resources on Eden to wash it like…” He trails off, swallowing. “Like they… do… on Earth.” What a concept. Being able to refer to that planet in present tense. “Pretty sure cold plasma guns are out of Eden’s budget too.”
That gets a smile out of Ryland. At least he thinks Simon is funny. Rocky seems to ease into less hesitant body language (at least, what Simon could tell) because his question wasn't met with a punch to the ship this time.
He just sits and watches Ryland for a while. He starts humming a song while he works, to Rocky’s disappointment. Apparently it sounds awful to him as a creature whose primary way of communication was music. Ryland tells him it's rude, but by the tone of his voice, it sounds like he's told Rocky that countless of times. The alien does what seems to be the Eridian version of an eye roll, because Ryland acts offended.
Simon sits there, silent. He’s considering his hallucination theory again, because he's at peace. Which has never happened before. The space stations had not known peace for years. For him, hope was all humanity had left, but under the dark sky, where there were no more stars to wish for better days on, it was dwindling. Dread was far and wide, reaching every corner of Simon's universe.
He wants to believe in the Hail Mary. Wants to believe in Dr. Ryland Grace, wants to believe in Rocky. That this is all real. That he somehow opened a wormhole while he was operating that torture chamber of a submarine in that ocean of blood. That now he was in a universe where the stars are alive, the solution was on its way to earth and that Simon was en route to a planet. Apparently a shitty one to live on, but a planet.
Maybe he does believe, because he's never felt peace before, and he's not sure if that emotion is something that blood eel can manufacture. That moon was restless, voices wailing in the blood. No way it could know this feeling.
Besides, he doesn't think whatever entity he met is capable of giving him a hallucination that includes a(n objectively) handsome molecular biologist sitting almost naked on a closed toilet seat, shooting his clothes with cold plasma to clean them, with a little rock alien standing beside him, offering idle chatter. It’s frankly too weird. Nothing his mind has ever or could ever conjure up.
Ryland gets him out of his musings eventually when he shoves his clothes from earlier, apparently cleaner now. They smell like nothing.
“You can wear those now that I’m done with them.”
Simon nods, putting them on. It’s still a bit of a challenge adjusting to his lack of an arm, but after having gone through a few clothing changes, he's able to do them faster.
“Couldn't you wear whatever you're done with now, too?”
Ryland looks down at himself, and, yes, he's still very much almost naked. He laughs. “You know what, I didn't think of that.”
“Grace dumb.”
“Well, I didn't have to be decent the last time I did my laundry! It slipped my mind!”
Rocky continues to make fun of him and his intelligence anyway and Ryland sets the gun down to pick one of the clean pants and shirts to wear. Simon finds himself almost smiling as he sits back down on the floor. Hopefully Rocky didn't notice the small twitch on his face at their antics.
He didn't realize before that such a menial task would feel so… warm.
——————
It’s his third day on Erid.
They’d sat like ducks for a while in the planet’s atmosphere, high up in the Hail Mary as Rocky and Ryland coordinated with the Eridians regarding their new guest. Simon spent most of his time staring out the window, gazing at the planet below. To think it’d be his new home.
Ryland briefed him on everything, already. After all, when Simon woke up they were a month away from Erid. It was plenty of time to get to know Ryland, Rocky, and the planet they live on.
Apparently Rocky’s atmosphere would actually kill them. Pretty fast, too. So the eridians’ solution was to make a giant biodome that would be able to house a human, complete with an artificial beach (Ryland showed him videos on the Hail Mary. He didn't believe him until he saw it up close) and realistic terrain.
They started preparing a house for Simon as soon as they were in radio range, started preparing clothes too, because he can't borrow Ryland’s clothes forever, no matter how comfortable his fox cardigans were.
Thankfully the house was farther away from the ocean than Ryland’s house. Trying to sleep with his memories haunting him was one thing, but hearing liquid slosh around constantly was a different kind of eerie. Ryland apologized to him profusely when they entered the biodome for the first time. His kindness was louder than the waves, so at the time Simon didn't think it would be such a big deal.
But the sound is still there, and it's agitating now, and it’s still just his third day. He might go crazy by the fifth. He should really bite the bullet and ask Ryland for a pair of earbuds so he wouldn't have to worry about the sound while trying to sleep. But that requires asking for something, and that's something that Simon would never get used to. When you ask for anything, you have to give something in return. Nothing is free, and the payment almost always hurts. That was the rule he had lived by, until one day he was in space and Ryland Grace was sawing open his submersible, carrying the bloody battered mess that was his body, setting him down on the medical bay of his ship. Not once had he asked for anything from Simon and he made it clear, too, that he wasn't looking for anything in return.
He hears footsteps approaching his home. Speak of the devil. Or, angel, more accurately, if you looked at his role in Simon’s life.
“Simon? You awake?” He knocks on the door. If Simon wasn't before, he would have risen pretty easily. It’s not hard to learn to be a light sleeper when you’ve been in prison.
Simon sits up. “Yeah?”
“I’m going out to do some laundry. Think you can join me?” Ryland pauses behind the door. “Uh, it’ll be done at the ocean, though. You don't have to come. You can just bring me any of your dirty clothes.”
Ah, the ocean. Now that one was the devil.
The sound it makes is… different. The sloshing around is lighter, for one. Blood is a lot thicker than water, and it leaves unforgettable stains in Simon’s memories. Sometimes it feels like he can still feel it on his skin.
Simon opens the door, and Ryland is carrying a laundry basket, filled with his clothes already.
“I’ll come with you.”
So they take Simon’s laundry basket as well and trudge their way to the beach, the waves getting louder and louder.
There are already two stools by the shore. They’re made of xenonite, and so are the supplies there. Some buckets and a few bars of soap.
Ryland scooches his stool closer to be in the water, setting down the laundry basket a bit farther from the waves.
Simon doesn't really know why he agreed to come. Probably something about proving himself, but he doesn't linger on that thought. Instead he takes a step and feels the waves against his feet, thinking.
Ryland watches him patiently. Watches as he takes another step, picks up the stool, and sets it down. Watches as he sits, and stares out at the ocean.
The water is clear. He can see grains of sand beneath them. He doesn't need a radioactive camera to see through a thick liquid, and there's no blood eel in the water, moving and rocking him around.
It’s fine. He’ll be fine.
“This is a washboard,” Ryland says gently, handing him the board of ridged xenonite. Ryland takes his own and stations it between his legs, digging a little bit into the sand so it’s more stable. Simon follows him, trying to focus on anything but the sounds of the ocean.
Ryland takes a shirt from his pile of clothes and rubs the bar of soap on it. He starts scrubbing the fabric against the washboard, one hand holding the washboard down. Simon follows his lead, but keeps the washboard stable with his thighs instead.
It’s not a hard task. Simon has done a lot worse for half a ration bar. Being able to do something with his hand puts him more at ease than he thought it would. At least it distracts him from the sea.
Ryland rinses the shirt when he's done scrubbing, squeezes it, and puts it in a bucket. “I’ll have to rinse those again back inside.”
That's right. They have water indoors. “Why do this out here, then?”
“I like the ocean.” His answer is so simple. “It’s probably bad for the clothes, all the salt and stuff. But I like the way the waves feel and I like watching the soap be washed away by all this water, even if doing it hurts and kinda sucks.” Ryland sighs. “I have a washing machine inside, but I wanted to come here today.”
Simon chews his cheek for a moment, considering his words, and lets the soap wash away on the shirt he was holding. The soap suds float away in different directions, lost at sea already. He squeezes the water out as best he can with one hand and puts it in the bucket with the other shirt.
Simon can't say he doesn't see the appeal. This is a piece of earth, after all. A home humanity once had. Still has, apparently. A home Simon will never get to experience, but still yearn for.
“Time to do that all over again for the rest of these.” Ryland smiles and grabs another shirt.
It’s a slow morning, then. The water bothers him less, now that it's been a while and nothing terrible has happened. Ryland keeps him distracted with stories, his voice something to focus on instead. Even Rocky comes by eventually while they're in the middle of working, chatting for a while until he eventually drags himself away to have another meeting (“This time with Eridian biologists. Curious about Simon.”) and skitters away.
His arm is tired and so are his thighs from keeping the washboard stable. Having to do all this at double the gravity he was used to was a pain.
“Here.” They're almost done when Ryland hands him his original bloodied clothes. They’re pathetic scraps of fabric compared to the soft clothes he’d been wearing, itchy and scratchy in the worst places. But they were familiar, even under the ugly brown that the blood had dried into, caking the fabric uncomfortably stiff.
He dips them into the water and watches as some of the blood and dirt come off. It’s a little disgusting, watching the blood in the water.
He rubs the soap on the cloth, and scrubs it against the washboard. The blood is tough, and it feels like it's actively fighting him with the way it refuses to get off the fabric.
“This seems like a losing battle,” he murmurs, squeezing out the water and rubbing more soap on the shirt. Ryland’s taken the pants, working on getting the blood off of it as well.
“The stains will be there unless we use some hydrogen peroxide, but it’s a start.” Ryland says, squeezing the bloody, soapy water out of the pants. “See? They're already looking a lot better.”
He’s right. It does look a lot better. The color is off, no longer that dirty green it originally was when he received it, but the fabric can actually breathe now instead of being under a layer of blood.
“Yeah,” Simon murmurs, looking down at the shirt in his hand. One arm is torn off and it’s covered in rips and shreds. “Is this even worth saving?” It’s not like he’s not getting new clothes.
“I don't see why not.”
Simon doesn't argue, because there really is no reason to not. Even if it's frayed at the edges, they have every way to fix it back up. The eridians could patch it up if they asked. They can remove the stains, later on. They have everything they could possibly need here to fix it.
“I guess you're right.” He squeezed the shirt tight, the mostly clear water dripping into the sea after many passes on the washboard. It feels better. He puts it into the second bucket with the shorter pile of clean clothes. Ryland follows with the pants.
“Well, that’s all.” Ryland gets up, stretching and letting his joints pop with a series of cracks. “I should bring these inside to rinse ‘em”
Simon watches as Ryland rearranges the pile of clothes to make sure they're more secure when he makes his way back. He picks up one of the buckets with a groan.
“Can I… come with you?”
Ryland is momentarily stunned by his request. Simon had never asked to come inside his house. In fact, Simon hasn't asked for anything at all until now.
“Of course.”
Simon nods and looks out at the sea for a moment. The blood that was washed away has largely dispersed, barely visible under the soap suds.
Maybe if Simon hadn't come out today, he wouldn't have known it was there at all.
He gets up, turns around, and picks up the second bucket of clean clothes. Then he follows Ryland home.