Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

✦

Life on Erid is darn near perfect. Ryland Grace has a cozy home on a simulated beach, his very best friend usually within arm’s reach, and a class full of minds eager to learn from the alien savior from Earth. He and Rocky saved the day, and all the ones to come for their homeworlds. It's quiet, calm, peaceful in a way that Grace never thought possible.

And then– it's not.

“Grace!” Rocky crashes into the house, rolling in his clumsy rush and nearly tossing himself into the coffee table before he regains his footing to scramble close. “Grace! Object in distance, close to sun, need immediate retrieval, exclamation!”

Grace frowns ever so slightly. “Could just be space debris,” he says around a mouthful of cereal. “A broken asteroid, or–”

“I am not stupid,” the alien says. “Rocky smarter than you. Not asteroid, but metal. Iron.”

“Oh?” Now that's interesting. “An old probe, maybe? But those are usually made of aluminum and titanium–”

“No, not probe. Vessel,” Rocky corrects, his arms flapping up and down. “Ship!”

The cereal stops halfway to Grace's mouth. “How do you know?”

“Heartbeat detected.”

Grace drops his spoon.

“That,” Grace says, “is a gosh-darn submarine.”

It took nearly a month to reach the vessel, and during the whole trip, Grace wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting. There was always a chance that Earth might have sent another team if they thought the Hail Mary would fail, but considering how he was brought into this whole astronaut thing, he sincerely doubted it.

But the very last thing he expects to be drifting in space is a submarine: dark, rusted, crudely made and welded shut entirely. There are dents along the sides of it, but seemingly no punctures. Something about it makes Grace feel… uneasy, like there’s a darkness looming over his shoulder.

He swallows nervously as they peer at the sub through the window. “You’re sure there’s a heartbeat on that thing?”

“Positive. Stupid question.”

“Could be a recording of, like, bongo drums.”

“That make no sense.”

“It makes more sense than a freaking submarine drifting through space!”

“What is submarine?”

“A submersible,” Grace says. “Uh, a ship to go under the sea instead of up in space.”

“But… is in space.”

“Yeah. That’s why it’s weird.” Grace sighs, drags a hand over his head. “Alright. Can you guys figure out a way to get inside?”

Rocky just chirps with confidence as he rolls away.

It takes a few hours, but eventually the handful of Eridians that came along for the mission have successfully gotten into the submarine– which was literally welded shut, like there was no chance of ever escaping, and Grace’s growing feeling of dread turns into full-blown horror when he steps inside.

It’s a scary movie that’s come to life: foul and rotten, decaying and dangerous. Just screaming wrong, bad, turn back from every terrifying angle.

The entire interior is covered in rust and what almost looks like blood, caked on the metal walls and dripping from the pipes above. There’s a hand-made map with what seems to be the detailed layout of an ocean floor, and under the red stains Grace can just barely make out the only words scribbled on it.

ALIEN SHIT

Grace swallows nervously, and tries not to vomit. He's obviously familiar with alien shit, but not whatever this is– something otherworldly in the deep sea kind of way, which always freaked Grace out far more than what could possibly exist on other planets. His boots splash in the blood that floods the room, and he grimaces as it goes all the way up to his ankles. It isn’t until he takes a few steps closer that he spots something in the middle of the pool, large and unmoving, and it almost looks like–

“Ohhh, what the actual fudge–!”

Grace stumbles back with a sickening splash, gagging in his space suit as he stares down at the lifeless man below him.

There isn't an inch of him that isn't covered in blood. It's in his hair, soaked into his clothes, coating his skin as he lies unmoving in the horrifying puddle of ichor and gore. There are nasty cuts along his cheek, like they tried to heal on their own and gave up halfway through, and one of his arms is missing entirely. Logically, there is absolutely no way that this man is still alive.

“Nope, no, that guy is dead,” Grace says bluntly, stilted from the dry heaving he's trying to force back. “That guy is so very, very dead–”

“Heartbeat detected,” Rocky counters. “Faint, but there. Alive.”

Grace stares down at the man for a moment longer, the stranger in a blood-filled submarine drifting through space. Everything about this screams bad idea.

“We help, question?”

Grace sighs. “We help, statement.”

Getting the guy into the Hail Mary is a feat all in its own. There's no telling what the blood in the submarine really is, not until Grace has a chance to play with it under a microscope. But Armando and Rocky in his crystalline suit manage to get him quarantined in the med bay for decontamination, testing, and medical care until they can finally detach from the submarine and start their trip back to Erid.

Grace is somewhat tempted to burn the suit. There was something about that sub– something that's dark and eerie and makes your butthole clench. Something that has Grace taking three showers in a row just to get that feeling of wrong off.

When he knows he won't be able to sleep anytime soon, he hunkers down in the lab with the samples they took from the sub. There's traces of decayed radiation in the metal, and horrifyingly, the red liquid is indeed blood. Human blood, from far more than just one person, except the only one in that sub was the man in the med-bay. No slaughtered bodies, no detached limbs– except for the one they found fused to the pipes in that metal coffin. Maybe it kept the man alive, or maybe it made him sick in the first place.

Grace destroys all of the samples, and decontaminates his lab twice.

Sleep still doesn't come easy that night, but he does manage to get a few hours in before Rocky rolls in and announces, “Human stable, exclamation! Applause applause applause.”

Grace is out of bed so quickly his head spins, tugging his sweater on as he follows Rocky to the med-bay.

He isn't sure what he was expecting, but it certainly isn't the man lying on the bed before him now. He’s young, but harrowed, like a seasoned soldier of war. His hair is long, curling around his shoulders, and his face is handsome, even considering the healing wounds on the right side of his cheek. They appear to be burns, but there's odd raised marks too: about five in a row, along his cheekbone and close to his jawline, almost like angry exposed gums. His ear is slightly unusual, lumpy and almost fused shut, and it grimly reminds Grace of the Chernobyl mutations.

There's a bandage around the stump of his arm; apparently it was torn off at the bicep, not cut or professionally amputated, and it's so upsetting to think about how that could have happened that Grace is already planning models for a possible prosthesis for the guy. He's broad-shouldered and has a sort of buffness you don't get at the gym, the polar opposite of Grace's build. Where Grace is built like a scientist, this man– the survivor, Grace thinks, of whatever the heck happened in that submarine– is a hard-working laborer, strong and worn from trauma and time.

“What're we looking at?” Grace asks quietly, his eyes still scanning over the stranger in worry.

“Dehydration, starvation, broken ribs, broken brain–”

“Concussion,” Grace corrects Rocky.

“First- and second-degree burns, carbon dioxide poisoning, alcohol poisoning, radiation sickness–”

“Jesus, that's a lot–!”

“And has no arm.” Rocky waves one arm, and then tucks it behind his back. “I made joke.”

“Bad joke, buddy. Don’t do that when he wakes up.”

“Bad joke. Won't do.”

Grace sighs, staring down at the man who has seemingly defied all laws of life, death, and reality itself. Somehow this is even weirder than cells that eat stars, and spider-like rock aliens that talk via singing. “What the heck happened to you, big guy?”

A week passes. The survivor stays asleep, seemingly comatose, but he's already looking healthier with the liquids, nutrients, and antibiotics that Armando has been supplementing him with. And while something about the man does set Grace on edge, he also finds himself drawn to the guy. Grace hasn’t seen another human in years, aside from photos and videos, but this is a real person on the ship with him, seemingly just as lost as Grace was when he was forced onto the Hail Mary expedition. Grace spends his days and nights wondering who this man was, how he survived, what the heck he went through to end up– how he did.

Grace finds himself obsessing over the stranger’s recovery, and is ashamed at how selfish his reasoning is. He has a million questions, and a sleeping man that can't answer him. But lying beneath that is a niggling feeling of fear and dread, because– there's always a chance he'll never wake up. Sometimes Grace worries that he's getting his hopes up, that the man will suddenly succumb to the damage he's taken, that– once again, Grace will be the only living human in a reasonable universal radius.

So Grace stays with him. Rocky is right; there is something comforting about knowing someone is looking out for you while you sleep, keeping you safe, keeping you alive. There was a massive chance that Grace could have ended up like Ilyukhina and Yáo, dead before arrival, with no one to watch over him. But Rocky found him, and Grace found Rocky, and now they found the lost soul in the submarine that Grace is admittedly fascinated by. So he spends his free time in the med-bay, sometimes reading quietly, but more often than not, he would just… talk.

“I was thinking about it more last night,” Grace says to the man who hears nothing, while being overheard by the alien that hears everything, as he scribbles on his whiteboard and straightens his glasses. “So, obviously, you should have run out of oxygen, like. Weeks ago, right? We don’t know how long you were in there, and either way, there were zero back-up oxygen systems. But, hear me out– what if we considered it an iron lung, instead of a submarine?”

“What is iron lung?”

“Glad you asked, Rocky,” Grace says, already fully into his teaching groove. “It’s a negative pressure ventilator that we used to use to assist in breathing, usually when someone had a disease like polio. The pressure alternates between high and low densities, so–”

“Decrease pushes air in, and increase forces out.”

“Exactly!” Grace exclaims. “And that red liquid, we know for a fact it was blood. Now, what does blood do? It carries oxygen, and iron is what carries the oxygen through that blood–”

“Grace rambling.”

“Right. Yep.” Grace takes a deep breath. “I think the submarine was breathing for him, somehow. Keeping him alive, and healthy enough to… survive whatever the heck he went through.”

“You are human,” Rocky says. “You are in wheelhouse. You know what could have happened, question?”

Grace looks down at the man again, sleeping peacefully like a man recovering from war, and sighs as he takes his glasses off to wipe them clean.

“Hell,” Grace replies. “I think he went through hell.”

A week, plus three days. The stranger’s face has healed nicely, as has his arm, and he's slowly gotten his nutrition back to semi-healthy levels– the vitamin deficiencies on their own were baffling, like he'd never seen a touch of sunlight or had a goshdarn fruit in his life. Grace has started to think that maybe the man won't wake up anytime soon, if at all, but he finds himself in the med-bay more often than not, usually racking his mind with theories about who this mysterious man is. 

A navigator, maybe. Grace wonders if his crew died, too, but how could there possibly be that much blood and no bones? It's hard to imagine that the man is responsible for the blood, especially when it seeped down from above. Besides, the guy looks… sweet, in a way that's also kind of terrifying. Maybe he was just a researcher like Grace.

But then he thinks of that harsh welding job, and the horrors that were contained inside, and can't help but ask– was he really the same as Grace? Just a man who wanted to help, and got forced into a mission there was no way to come back from? Just an endless amount of questions, and a man who can't answer a single one of them.

“What is two plus two?”

“F’ck off…”

“Incorrect.”

Grace whips around from his whiteboard at the unfamiliar voice, a human voice, something he hasn't heard outside of a video in years.

The man is awake. His eyes are slowly blinking– they're dark, squinting at the lights, full of delirium and trepidation.

Grace drops his folder. “Oh my god. Holy crap.” He quickly puts his glasses back up from where they were dangling beneath his chin. “You’re awake! You’re actually… are you, um–?”

“What the fuck is this?”

If looks could kill, Grace might as well be six feet under, courtesy of the stranger who’s bristling more and more by the second as he sits up in the bed. He’s tense, hunched in on himself, his eyes frantically darting around the room like he’s looking for the closest exit.

“Is this real?” The man's voice is deep, choked, raw from disuse. “Am I– am I dead?”

“Whoa, hey, no!” Grace throws his hands up, an attempt at showing that he means no harm. “No, you're very much alive! We found you drifting around in that, uh–”

“Fuck,” the man huffs out, his eyes darting around the room. “The sub, this is– where the hell am I?”

“The Hail Mary,” Grace says, as calmly as he can. “It's a research vessel from–”

“Oh, fuck no.” The man starts shoving the covers off, growling in frustration when his other arm isn't there to help, and then he starts reaching for the darn vital monitors on his chest. “No, no, I'm not fucking doing this again.”

“Hey! Hey, let's maybe– not do that?”

“No, I'm not going back in that fucking coffin, you're not sending me back–!”

“Whoa, let's just pause for a second, okay?” Grace takes a step closer, then quickly retreats when the man looks close to full-on attacking him. “Look, I know this must be super confusing, but– those make sure that you're healing alright, and they should really stay on until you're more lucid. I swear, I'm not trying to hurt you. We just found your… submersible, and got you the heck out of there. Whatever you went through, it's over now.”

The man is panting, his eyes trained on Grace like he’s a looming predator. There's a grittiness when he asks, “Who are you?”

Good. Awesome, even. There's a little bit of approachability to work with.

“Dr Ryland Grace,” he says. “I was the, uh, scientist for the Hail Mary. And the pilot. And the captain, I guess. Your resume really starts bulking up when you’re the only one left.”

The man winces at that, and Grace immediately feels awful. There's no knowing what this guy went through to get here, but mentioning dead crewmates probably isn't the best way to go. Then he's blinking, glancing around the room again, down at his missing arm, and it's almost heartbreaking how lost he looks.

“But… you saved me,” the man breathes, his eyes wide and so full of agony that Grace’s chest clenches harder. “You really– it’s over? You really got me out?”

“Well, yeah.” Grace shrugs, biting the bullet and stepping closer until he’s right next to the bed. “Seemed like the neighborly thing to do– oh.”

For a brief moment, he’s scared that he’s being tackled, except– the guy doesn’t let go. His arm is wrapped around Grace so tight, so firm, so incredibly warm in a way that he hasn’t felt in years. He freezes at first, still reeling from the whiplash of this whole dialogue, but then he tentatively hugs back, wrapping his arms around the stranger from the submarine, squeezing his eyes shut as he breathes in warmth, disinfectant, and that lingering smell of iron that never really went away.

“Wow,” is the only word that comes to mind.

The man lurches back, starting to drop his arm. “Shit, I’m sorry, just– it feels like it's been so fucking long since I’ve seen someone right in front of me, and–”

“Don’t,” Grace murmurs, just holding the guy tighter until that tension finally melts. “Seriously, man, I’m right there with you. It’s been years since I’ve talked to another human, let alone hugged one.”

And the guy does pull away at that, frowning at Grace as he stiffens up again. “What do you mean, another human?”

And of course, that’s right when Rocky rolls in, completely disregarding the whole soft introduction thing they talked about earlier. “Guest awake, exclamation!”

“Oh, what the fuck is that–!”

✗

It feels like mere hours ago when Simon the Convict was trapped in an iron tomb, drowning in the blood of a cursed ocean, screaming at a god that was surely about to sink its spiny teeth into the submarine and finally end his torment.

He was half-convinced that Ryland Grace was an angel, at first. A kind-eyed man framed in white light, watching over him while he slept, easing him into the peaceful afterlife that he rightfully earned.

That's not what happened. While the Hail Mary is an Eden in its own right, clean and white and untouched by the ravages of loss, Grace is admittedly… a dork.

It's endearing, once Simon stops fearing for another forced mission into hell. The doctor is a genius, obviously, rattling off tons of information that Simon only understands bits and pieces of. He's still a little drowsy from the meds he's been pumped full of– a privilege that he never had on Eden. And apparently one of the people, if you can call it that, responsible for his recovery is another goddamn alien.

“I'm so sorry about that,” Grace moans into his hands. “I really did talk to him about boundaries and post-traumatic stress and not everyone immediately sees an extraterrestrial and assumes ‘friendly,’ Rocky.”

“It's fine,” Simon mumbles, but it sounds like a lie even to himself. Rocky would probably be fine, if Simon didn't just play cat and mouse with a fish monster that can get inside your head and drive you fucking crazy.

Grace sighs, lifting his head. “It's not. You've already gone through enough. Can I ask what–?”

“No.”

“Yeah, okay, fair.” Grace nods, awkwardly slapping his hands on his own thighs. “Well, um. You know me, and Rocky, so. Do you… remember your name?”

“Yeah.”

Grace pauses. “Do I get to know it?”

“No.”

“Oh.” He nods, adjusts his glasses, plasters a smile on his face. “No, that's fair too, I guess. Like I said, this has to be pretty jarring for you, huh?”

“I thought I died.”

It's weak, broken, full of misery even in his own ears, and Grace winces in sympathy. “I'm sorry, for– whatever happened in there. If you want, whenever you feel more…” Grace waves a hand, “you, we could always set up with a trip back to Earth. It'll take a couple of years, but if you tell them Ryland Grace sent you, I bet they'd set you up right.”

Simon short-circuits at that. Makes sense that this guy came from a planet with wealth, but–

“But it's gone,” Simon says. “All the planets are– how long have you been on this ship?”

Grace blinks. “You mean the astrophage? We fixed that! All good now.”

“No. The Quiet Rapture,” Simon murmurs. “All the planets and stars, they disappeared.”

“Not here, they didn't.” Grace is frowning now, too, and asks, “Hey, um. Can I at least ask what year you think it is?”

“This is crazy,” Grace says, far more enthused and excited than Simon as he scribbles down tons of notes that the convict barely understands. “It's gotta be a wormhole. Whatever that light was in the blood ocean– which, still crazy as fudge, by the way– it must have sent you here. Just spat the submarine out in space, and the liquid that was inside–”

“It was blood,” Simon mutters, thumbing over the glass case of the saplings on his bracelet. It was next to him when he woke up, cleaned and polished but otherwise untouched, and immediately went around his wrist.

“I know, but that still barely makes any sense, so I'm circling back to it later.” He whips around and snaps the cap back on his marker. “Mars, really?”

“Yeah. It was a shit-hole,” Simon sighs. “The stations were worse. But the submarine–”

He shakes his head, tries to get the sight of red, blood, death out of his eyes. Then he looks up at Grace. “Thank you. For saving me.”

Grace’s expression softens, his brows drawing together, and he smiles warmly. Kindly. Every way that Simon doesn't deserve. “Uh. You're welcome.” He cocks his head. “Look, I-I get that you don't wanna tell me your name. It's totally fine. But I've been calling you the stranger in the submarine for almost two weeks now, and that just sounds like an admittedly awesome Nancy Drew book, so… is there anything I can call you?”

“‘S fine. I am a stranger.”

“Wh– no, I'm not calling you that. And if we don't pick something, then Rocky will, and his list of names is already getting– just, no.”

Simon doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to give his real name, not yet, not if this is still a trick. The only other name he had was Convict and if he has to hear that again, he might throw up, or punch this nice ship that doesn't deserve that kind of treatment.

“Can we think about it after I get some sleep?” Simon asks eventually. “I know I was just out for a while, but–”

“No, yeah, absolutely!” Grace nods, flicking the soft lights he was using off and turning off the bright monitors. “Totally makes sense. Y’know, comas aren't actually restorative sleep? It's just… a state of unconsciousness, so your brain and body have to work hard to re-establish those connections–” His mouth snaps shut. “Sorry. I'm rambling. I do that a lot.”

“Hadn't noticed.” But Simon finds himself smiling, just barely, as he lays back down, and the grin Grace shoots his way is blinding. Then Grace is sitting back down in the soft-looking chair nearby, getting comfortable with a book and blanket, like he has no plans to leave at all. “What’re you doing?”

Grace's head snaps up, and his eyes widen. “Oh, shoot, uh. There's this thing Rocky and I do where we kind of– watch each other sleep? It's, like, a comfort thing. I guess I just got used to it. I'm sorry, I'll–”

“It's fine,” Simon finds himself saying, because there is something oddly… comforting in that. Grace seems like a genuinely kind person. “I-I don’t mind.”

“Oh.” Grace cracks a smile, carefully easing back into his seat. “Okay.”

“Just don't try to steal my liver in my sleep. ‘S probably shot to hell by now, anyway.”

Grace balks. “Did– has that happened to you?”

“Yeah.”

“What the fudge,” Grace breathes as Simon closes his eyes. He’s smiling to himself again, because it's funny that one of the smartest people he's ever met absolutely refuses to swear, considering the situations he's lived through. “Uh. Alright, then. I’ll be here when you wake up, okay?”

Simon is already half-asleep. The exhaustion has hit him like– something he doesn’t want to think about, but he feels Grace’s gaze on him all the same, reassuring and protective. He barely even knows what he’s saying as he slurs out, “Sure thing, angel,” before drifting to sleep.

✦

Grace stares wide-eyed at the stranger that has already passed out in bed, his glasses askew on the bridge of his nose.

Rocky taps the glass from where he's been hiding himself from Simon outside of the med-bay. “Why did guest call you ‘angel,’ question?”

“Because he's delirious and medicated,” Grace rushes out breathlessly. “Can we stop talking for a little bit, buddy?”

“Grace heart rate spiking–”

“Grace isn't having this conversation right now!”

“Interesting.” It's not, really. Just a poor, traumatized man confused by a bright light. “So what happen to guest?”

Grace sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It wasn’t good. I’m assuming he’s from a different reality entirely, somehow, because if he’s from the future, that’s a lot more to handle than just astrophage.” He lets out an astonished laugh. “He’s from Mars. An actual Martian! Do you know how cool that is? God, my class would have loved to ask him–”

Except, probably not, considering he left Mars pretty early to live on that horrible space station, from the sounds of it. Rocky quietly says, “Grace feel sad for him.”

“Of course,” Grace replies. “He doesn't seem that bad. Not bad at all, actually.”

“Grace face get warmer. Why, question?”

“Y'know, this really is just a one-man job–”

The stranger is an interesting man, to say the least, and that's not even including the part where he was trapped in a bloody coffin.

Grace knows the gist of his life before the submarine, now. Tireless hard labor, and no stars or sun to find the bright side with. It's what happened after, how he ended up being the sub’s only passenger, and the horrors that occurred inside, that he refuses to speak about. He gets a frown that looks like it's been there for years, and a hard, distant look in his eyes that haunts even Grace. So Grace doesn't push it.

He doesn't talk about the bracelet, either. Grace spent a week examining it when the stranger was still dead to the world. Truthfully, he half-considered popping the glass case open and running some tests on what plant they came from, because the leaf is similar to maybe a ginko, but has structures of a maple leaf. As far as Grace can tell, it isn't a plant native to Earth. Same, but different, so if the stranger is from a separate universe altogether, that would make sense. But the bracelet is clearly a comfort item, something he clings to and stares at often. Asking about it seems wrong, and opening it would have likely been a death sentence.

Well, he says that. But the stranger does seem… kind, in a way. Like he's been through too much for more bloodshed. Maybe Grace is a naive idiot for thinking so, and possibly just lost in the rose-tinted safety goggles that comes from being the only human around for so long. He sees good in the man, even with his few words and cautious demeanor.

The guy doesn't talk too much in general, but seems to find what Grace says fascinating nonetheless. He picks up most of what Grace says relatively quickly when it comes to how he might have gotten here, even shows interest in it like these concepts are brand new, and it reminds Grace of the shy kid who wants to learn, but can't bring himself to ask outright.

This comparison just burns brighter when he's cleared to start walking around, and most of the time is spent in bed.

“You can explore a little if you want, y'know,” Grace says as they eat lunch together, three days after the guy woke up. “Might run into a few talking rocks, but they're all really nice, and the translators work all throughout the ship.”

“I don't wanna… touch anything I'm not supposed to,” he says with an odd edge in his voice.

“Oh.” Grace adjusts his glasses. “That's… actually very considerate of you! The first time Rocky came on board, he was already pushing buttons and picking out his bedroom.”

When the stranger says nothing, Grace softens a bit and quietly says, “I won't be mad if you want to explore. Seriously, you're not a prisoner here. If it helps, I’ll throw some labels on all of the sensitive equipment so you know what it does, okay?”

The man barely nods, but some of that tension melts off of him, so Grace counts it as a win.

The first place they visit is certainly the right choice. The stranger stares with wide eyes out of the viewport window, his lips parted in awe as he looks at the starry expanse of space. They've been sitting here for almost an hour now. The scenery hasn't changed, but neither of them mind.

The guy is quiet, as usual, but it makes sense this time. He doesn't seem to mind Grace making the occasional comment, pointing out different moons and planets nearby, telling him stories about the stars.

“The Eridians have their own constellations,” Grace says quietly, pointing to a bright star off in the distance. “It's a bit askew from this angle, but that's The Mountain. They say it's where all life on Erid comes from, and where they return to when they pass. Did you… ever see them yourself, when you were a kid?”

“Not a lot. My mom used to tell me about them, though.” His eyes stay trained on that bright star as they soften. “There was too much dust to see anything in the skies. But she… she loved the stars. Had this book on ‘em that was worn to hell and back, but she'd set up little light shows with lamps, when we had resources to spare for it.”

“My students used to love stuff like that. She sounds awesome.”

The man lets out the smallest, stilted sigh. “She was.”

“Did she have a favorite? Constellation, I mean.”

He pauses for a moment. “Yeah.” His voice cracks when he says, “Cetus. She liked the story behind it.”

Grace thinks for a moment. “The princess gets saved from the sea monster?”

Shockingly, the man bursts out laughing, and he relaxes against the rim of the viewport. “Yeah. That's the one.” He glances over at Grace. “You come up with any yet?”

“What, constellations?”

“Plenty of unclaimed stars out there, doc.”

Grace cocks his head in agreement, and stares out at the abyss for a moment. There's one bright star close to a moon, with four below it and two above. If he tilts his head, it resembles a small quadruped animal. He leans closer to the stranger, their arms brushing together, and points. “That one. We'll call it Laika,” he murmurs. “The patron saint of one-way trips.”

The man trembles at that, just slightly, and shifts closer to Grace until their arms are solid against each other, as he silently stares at the stars.

Maybe watching over the stranger while he sleeps is– well, strange– but after meeting Rocky, the other astronaut that woke up to a dead crew, and both of them nearly dying themselves, and–

Anyway. The guy doesn't seem to mind. Lately he doesn't even seem to mind Rocky's presence, even though the alien clearly still wigs him out sometimes. Grace is guessing the reason has something to do with that submarine, but there's no way he's pushing without the stranger starting the conversation first.

Sometimes the guy gets nightmares. The kind that has him panicking in his sleep, gripping that bracelet like a lifeline, tensing so fiercely that Grace worries about pulled muscles. But right now, after they spent hours coming up with their own constellations, he seems… peaceful. Content. It's a good look on him.

Rocky's voice is low when he quietly rolls up to them, his suit reflecting softly onto the walls in the warm lighting. “So guest going to stay?”

Grace snaps up, his glasses nearly falling off, and he stutters out, “I, uh. We haven't really talked about it, yet. He probably still needs time to process anything before, y'know, committing to– I don't know.”

“Grace want him to stay, question?” Rocky taps his foot twice, and Grace sighs.

“It's not up to me. Plus, I mean, I barely know the guy.” He looks over at that content face framed by soft, long hair. “He's… he seems nice, though.”

Rocky makes a contemplative, harmonic humming noise. “Grace show him plants yet?”

Grace looks up inquisitively from his book. “What, the grow room?”

“Guest jewelry is plant.” Rocky gestures to the man's wrist. “I think he would enjoy.”

“Oh.” He didn't even think of that, not when blood oceans and new constellations took up so much of their conversations. “That's… a really good idea, Rocky. Thank you.”

Rocky preens. “Rocky know.”

In the morning– or more accurately, when the stranger wakes up next (and Grace has gotten a few hours of sleep with Rocky tucked away nearby)– Grace tells him to shut his eyes and let Grace take him somewhere. And he responds with a hard look, a shaking hand, and darting eyes.

Finally the guy says, “Swear you won't let go. The whole fucking time.”

Grace perks up. “Yeah, totally, I swear.”

“And you won't let me bump into anything. No windows, or equipment, or little rock guys–”

“Promise.” Grace beams.

So he slowly guides the stranger through the hall to the door typically kept shut, keeping his hands firm on his biceps and not letting go for a split second, and switches the lights on. Doesn't let go until he says, “Okay, take a look.”

The guy slowly opens his eyes, like maybe Grace is playing a cruel trick on him, but they widen at the sight of rows of plants on the metal shelves. Grace slowly lets go, and takes a step back.

“You have… plants.”

“Yep!” Grace dodges around at him, but they brush together from his clumsiness anyway, and thumbs at one of the saplings. “Managed to get a few growing on Erid, too, after a ton of trial and error. But I brought these guys to keep an eye on them during the trip. Plus, they help absorb CO2 and produce oxygen. I swear real plant air just feels better when you breathe it– oh, shoot, are you okay?”

He's… crying. Just barely, but his eyes are red and wet enough as his fingers twitch towards the shelf. “Yeah, um. Can I…?”

“Yes, yeah! Feel free to touch!” Grace takes a step back so the stranger can slowly edge closer to the plants before reaching out and carefully touches one of the vibrant green leaves. It's one of the saplings that Grace is most proud of, and he smiles softly. “You can come down here whenever you want, y'know. I've got a ton of notes about what we're growing here, and there's plenty of information in the files about plant life, in general. Actually–!”

Grace scurries to one of the desks, rifles through the drawers, and pulls out a bonafide textbook. “Here! They packed this, too, in case systems went down. It only covers the basics, but it's pretty freakin’ informative, nonetheless.”

The stranger looks at the book, then the plant, then Grace. His voice is a bit hoarse when he says, “Thanks, doc. This is– fucking incredible. I can't believe you actually–”

His mouth snaps shut, and he smiles in a way that makes Grace's heart beat a little faster. “Thank you, Grace.”

“Yeah, sure, absolutely,” Grace stammers, straightening his glasses just to have something to do with his hands. “Not a problem at all!”

After that, when he's not stargazing from the viewport or hanging out with the plants, the stranger mostly follows Grace around. He's not as up-close-and-personal as Rocky, who thankfully manages to tone down his excitement about new human around the stranger, but he lingers a few paces behind, keeps himself as small as he can with his broad physique in the corners of rooms, always tries to stay out of the way and not touch anything that looks too complicated.

Sometimes, like now, he’ll wait around the curve of the doorways, quiet and discreet so he doesn't interrupt anything Grace is doing until he finishes up.

But they're building a camaraderie, maybe even a friendship. They've only got about two weeks left on the ship; Grace is both excited and worried about what he'll think of Erid, and tries not to stress even more about the possibility of… the only human he's seen in years wanting to make a new life on Earth. But right now, the stranger seems content, sometimes even happy, and that’s enough for Grace.

Out of the corner of his eyes, blurry from askew glasses as he works on updating star charts, he sees that dark figure at the edge of the doorway, silent and waiting.

Grace smiles, just a soft upturn of his lips. “I see you.”

✗

I see you.

Pressure. So much pressure in the air, like lead in his bones, sweltering like an engine room, thick and cloying in his lungs like coagulating blood. All he sees is red, gushing and spilling over his eyes, filling his mouth until all he tastes is iron, until all he can breathe is the ichor of the damned. It chokes him like the realization that none of it was real; he's still in the lung, trapped inside that metal coffin he was never going to get out of, the one that's boiling him alive with radiation and insanity.

Of course Grace wasn't real– Simon's mind conjured a false memory, a fake life. Grace is the last hail mary, the kindest thing that Simon’s deluded mind could conjure up before he's gone like everyone else. His saving grace, Simon thinks deliriously. The symbolism was there the whole time, taunting Simon with its blatancy. A gurgled scream drags its way out of his throat as he tries to squeeze the viscous gore away from his vision, hoping to see one last glimpse of his false salvation before–

The eye stares back at him, wide and unblinking, the judge and jury to Simon’s inevitable execution. A false god waiting to rapture him next into the horrors that took the poor souls before him. He is nothing. He will be all.

I SEE YOU–

“Breathe.”

The soft voice cuts through the otherworldly thunder in his head, like it's right next to his mutating ear, and for a second– Simon can breathe.

“Hey, good, that's good, just like that,” the angel says, because that's the only thing it can be. There's a light cutting through the blood, a shimmering radiance that holds true salvation rather than the glowing false promises at the bottom of the ocean. The liquid in his throat trickles out as he lets in wet, shuddering breaths, his only hand reaching out in an attempt to just… live. “Breathe for me, c'mon, you're doing great. Just–”

“–breathe.”

The world snaps back into place. His vision is blurry, but Grace is in front of him, real and terrified and holding Simon's cheeks so tenderly he nearly weeps.

“My name,” Simon chokes out, “c-can you– I need to hear it, just, can you say– I need–”

“Uh. You never told me, remember?” Grace says, frowning slightly, but his voice is still kind and soft, and the only one that can give the name meaning again. “I'm sorry–”

“Simon, it's Simon, just–”

“Simon.” There it is. The breath in his rotten lungs, the peace in his broken mind. “Simon, hey, it's alright. I-I didn't mean to– I'm sorry. Are you okay?”

He's sorry. How many times has he heard that without the finality of death behind it? When was the last time someone asked if he was alright, for him, not the bullshit fucking greater good?

“Simon.” He must have frozen, like prey that doesn't realize the predator has given up its chase, because Grace ducks his head down, meets Simon's eyes, a hopeful blue in contrast to haunted darkness. “That's a nice name. Strong, tough. Solid, y'know? Suits you. I taught a Simon once; seriously, one of the smartest kids I'd ever met. For the science fair, he emptied out his garbage can and turned it into biogas. Didn't make enough to fuel a car, obviously, but it still knocked all the paper mache volcanoes out of the park.”

They just breathe for a moment, Simon matching Grace’s pace, and letting himself get lost in the soothing rambling.

Grace quietly says, “Can I ask… why you didn't want to tell me?”

Simon swallows the taste of bile in his throat. “It knew,” he mutters. “It knew my name, and– and I was stupid enough to fall for it. Made me think there was a chance of being saved, of surviving. I couldn't– I didn't want…”

He trails off as Grace frowns, probably trying to understand what Simon is even talking about. They don't discuss the submarine, but for once– Simon is tempted. Grace seems well-rounded, well-adjusted, everything that Simon isn't, but it's clear that he's haunted by something, too.

“I think there's a lot of power in names,” Grace agrees after a moment. “It meant a lot to me when I woke up here, what my name was, who I was in general.” He doesn't let go of Simon, doesn't pull away, just keeps him close like they both need this. “I think Simon means… smart. Tough, tenacious. Clever in a way that a lot of people aren't.”

“I'm not smart.”

“I saw your map,” Grace says softly. “You figured all of that out with no training at all. Don't sell yourself short.”

A shuddered breath racks through Simon's aching lungs, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“So what's Grace mean?” Simon murmurs. “Besides the obvious.”

“I dunno. Guy who wears cat sweaters, probably.”

That shocks a laugh out of both of them, and that feeling of dread starts melting away. Grace's laugh helps make Simon feel grounded. He's not in the sub. He isn't being tricked. He's on a ship with an actual angel of a man, who doesn't think he's the mud on the bottom of worn boots.

Then, the dread starts creeping up again. Because if Grace finds out what he's done, who he really is, Simon the Butcher–

“C’mon.” Grace hauls himself up, his knees popping, and he holds a hand out. “Let's grab something to eat. I got Rocky to replicate M&M’s for me this morning.”

“The fuck is an M&M?”

“Oh, Simon, my good man. You are in for a treat.”

Simon laughs again at Grace's never-ending catalogue of funny words, and takes his hand so they can both pull him off the grated flooring.

After the incident, Simon finds that Grace is following him now. He'll admit that he was sticking to the scientist like glue, but whenever Simon is exploring the ship or watching the stars, Grace seeks him out. Simon enjoys the company. It's nice, easy, something he hasn't had in decades.

Today, Grace finds him by the viewport. While Grace prefers the don't-go-crazy room, Simon likes watching the stars. They don't change their position, even though the Hail Mary is edging closer and closer to Erid. “Whatcha doing?”

Grace sits across from him on the curve of the window, kicking one of his odd sneakers (“They're Chucks, and my students said they were cool,”) up as he snacks on a twizzler. He has a bit of a sweet-tooth, the same way Simon enjoys the vegetables they manage to grow on the ship.

Simon flips the page, keeping the book propped open with his leg. He's still getting used to working with only one arm, but it's better than being crushed in the jaws of a fucking eel monster. “Reading the manuals for the Mary. It's fucking incredible how advanced this ship is.”

“Yeah, well, it kinda had to be. It had to take us far enough to reach Tau Ceti and keep us alive for however long after.”

Simon looks up, frowning. “Wait, what do you mean? You said we could go back to Earth whenever.”

Grace goes quiet for a moment, and Simon worries that he said the wrong thing. But then Grace says, “We can now. But when I was… assigned this mission, we only had enough fuel to figure out the astrophage problem. I sent probes back with the findings.” He shrugs, but there's a sadness in his eyes. “One-way trip, y’know?”

Simon knows all too well. He blurts out, “I was on a suicide mission in the SM-13. They told me they would get me out once I followed their orders, but– they didn't. They were never going to.”

“Oh.” Grace's eyebrows screw together. “I'm so sorry.”

“And then a giant fish monster that could get inside my fucking head chased me around the bottom of a blood ocean, before it tried to crush me in the submarine,” Simon says, as fast as he can, nearly slurring the words together in his haste to get it out.

“Whaaat the heck–”

“And it put me in this fucking weird dream dimension where I kept losing time, and the blood was making me fucking crazy just like the team before me, and they said– they said I would finally be doing something good,” he says weakly. “But I fucked up, and gave them fucking tumors, and–”

“Whoa, hey, this is– a lot to process.”

“Fuck, shit, sorry.” Simon drops the book, buries his face in his hands– hand, fuck– until cool fingers gently wind around his wrist. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to–”

“Simon, don't.”

Simon's eyes are still blurry from pooling tears; he didn't even know when he started crying, but he's able to focus on Grace nonetheless.

The doctor smiles softly. “I've been waiting for you to open up for weeks, big guy. You don't have to be sorry, seriously. I'm just– this is the most I've heard you talk ever, and it was just jarring.”

“Sor–”

“Simon.” Grace gives him a firm look. “I'm about as self-depreciating as they come, but we can't keep apologizing for stuff that isn't our fault.”

“The tumors were my fault,” Simon murmurs. “They wanted me to– there was a camera on the front of the ship, so that I could take pictures for them, but no one was– no one was listening to me. I didn't matter. And it– I was so fucking scared, and I just wanted them to listen, so–”

“Oh, no,” Grace says quietly, realization flickering in his eyes. “A blood ocean. They used an x-ray camera.”

“I didn't know,” Simon says morosely. “I didn't mean to, I just–”

“You were scared.” Carefully, Grace reaches a hand out, carefully rests it on Simon's remaining one, and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Is that why you wouldn't touch anything when you woke up?”

“Didn't wanna fuck up again,” Simon mumbles. “Didn't want to hurt you. You're the only nice person I've met in a fucking decade; I wasn't gonna risk ruining you, too.”

“Oh, buddy.” Grace grabs him, tugs him close, breathes deep into the hug as Simon clings back just as desperately. “You have no clue how happy I am that we found you, Simon.”

Simon just squeezes his eyes shut, shuddering against the man who saved him from the sea monster, and they don't let go for a very long time.

There's only a week left until they reach Erid.

Simon is slowly warming up to the Eridians. He’ll probably always have that niggling feeling in the back of his mind, that this is too good to be true and the alien rocks will lock him away in a cave to rot and die alone again, but these creatures seem kind enough, if not a bit overenthusiastic.

He's coming around to Rocky more and more as time passes. Rocky is Grace’s best friend– the kindred spirit that risked his life to save the man, and if Grace is willing to risk his life for Rocky, he must be a pretty cool… rock.

Rocky, however, is not as subtle as Grace. Not by a long shot.

“What Simon doing?”

The alien rolls up to him just as he finishes marking the map Grace gave him. “Trying to learn how to chart the stars. It's a lot fucking harder than an ocean floor, but I got stuck on photosystems when I was checking out plant biology, so…”

“No need worry. Simon smart,” Rocky says. “Grace says so.”

Something about that makes Simon's chest go all weird and fluttery. He shoves that feeling down and asks, “Did he tell you? What happened in the submarine?”

“No. Says not his story to tell.”

That fluttering feeling turns into a pounding in Simon's chest that's so intense he almost worries he's having a heart attack. “Oh.”

On Eden, secrets could be traded for something as simple as extra food or less labor. He supposes Grace has no need for either; he always makes sure Simon eats more than him, and likes to stay busy for most of the waking hours. Still, it's a kindness he certainly isn't used to.

“That's… actually really fucking cool of him.”

“Grace cool. When he’s not–” Rocky pauses, seemingly searching for the right word, “–dork.”

Simon chuckles. “Yeah, that's Grace.” He pauses, and sets his map and pencil aside. “Did you meet any other… aliens, before him?”

“No,” Rocky says. “Grace was first alien. Was also only friend after years of no one.” He pauses, then says, “I think Grace show up right when Rocky needed most.”

“Yeah,” Simon laughs softly. “He seems to do that.”

“Simon like Grace, then?”

Simon almost drops his pencil. “Um. Yeah, I mean. Of course. Who wouldn't like Grace?”

“Grace once call a man ‘staggering waste of carbon,’” Rocky replies. “So maybe that guy.”

Simon barks out a laugh. It's been a lot easier, the laughing. Must be what happens when you're surrounded by good people. “Holy shit, Grace said that?”

“Grace have lot of feelings.” Rocky does something similar to cocking his head. “Grace seem happy to have another human to talk with.”

Simon shrugs. “I dunno. I mean, he's got you. You're his best friend.”

“Correct. But not same.” Rocky pauses, then says, “Grace like you, too. Rocky think you're good for him.”

That makes Simon's chest do something weird and fluttery, and it gives him the urge to fight or flee, just out of habit. Instead he says, “Y’know, you're pretty nice for a talking space rock.”

“Simon nice for Martian.”

“That's fair.”

✦

Their days on the Hail Mary are ticking down. Grace is excited and terrified all at once.

It feels like they've hit– synchronicity, in a way. Comfortability in the ship they've been staying on together, but soon they'll be back on Erid, and Grace is utterly terrified.

He likes Simon's company. He likes earning the information that Simon has given him, earning Simon's trust when he spent so long being lied to and betrayed. Grace can relate.

He's trying not to worry about the very real possibility that Simon will want to go back to Earth. It's justified, and earned, and makes sense; and of course Grace would let him take the Hail Mary in a heartbeat. But they don't talk about it. Grace selfishly doesn't want to bring it up, and Simon seems content with doing the same.

So instead, he worries about when they get to Erid.

“I just want to make sure you're… prepared for when we land.”

Simon sighs as he keeps jotting down notes in the composition book Grace gave him. He's really getting to plant splicing; Grace finds it oddly adorable. “Grace, you've told me a thousand times already.”

“But it's, like.” Grace gestures so broadly he nearly topples off of the stool he was already precariously perched on. “Everywhere. Seriously, the beach is massive, and the house is right next to it, so I'm sure if we give them enough of a head start, the Eridians could start building a–”

He doesn't want to say home. Because that indicates that Simon will say.

Rocky thankfully cuts in, “Simon could have own place away from water. Even though Grace house plenty big enough for two humans–”

“Not the point, Rocky.”

“Seriously, doc, it's fine,” Simon says, looking up from his work. “Is the beach made of blood?”

“Wh– no, of course not!”

Simon shrugs. “Then it should be fine. I'm not saying I'll go for a fucking dip anytime soon, or ever, but. With how fucking crazy our lives have been, a quiet, relaxing beach sounds like the last thing I should be worried about.”

Grace's brow draws together in concern. “Then what are you worried about?”

“I dunno. Waking back up in the submarine. Space pirates, maybe. Evil alien invaders that want to chop us up and use us for fuel or meat.”

“Well, all of those ideas sound pretty far-fetched,” Grace snorts. “In what universe would something that crazy–”

“Our universe, doc. You saved Earth from space amoebas and have a talking pet rock,” Simon points out.

“Not pet. Rocky is hundreds of years old.”

“Yeah, he doesn't like being called a pet.”

“Grace my pet. I built doghouse and everything. Has beach, remember? Fancy.”

“Wh– hey!”

“Grace good dog.”

“I'm not your– Simon, please stop laughing; you're only encouraging him.”

So that's that. In the meantime, on Erid, Simon will stay with Grace. For however long it takes him to decide to leave.

But right now, everything is… nice. Perfect. Simon is laughing at Rocky's jokes, keeping Grace within reaching distance, completely unaware that the only other human he's stuck with is quite possibly losing his mind over the idea of losing this now that he has it.

They're watching the slow approach to Erid through the viewport window. Grace feels like a live wire, like the bubble they've made on the Hail Mary is close to popping. But Simon just stares at the planet with interest, maybe even excitement. Even Rocky is tapping his feet in anticipation, no doubt eager to see Adrian again after months of being apart.

“So,” Simon says. “That's home, huh?”

“Sure is,” Grace sighs, but he's smiling, unable to look at Erid without unbridled affection. “More than Earth ever was, honestly.”

“You must really love it.”

“Of course.” Grace shrugs, and adjusts his glasses just to have something to do with his hands. “I love living there. And one day I'll join all the other Eridians in their mountain. Happy to do it, too.”

Simon hums, no doubt thinking about stars. “Sounds nice. I never thought I'd live this long at all, really.” He glances over at Grace. “Glad I did, though. Thank fuck for nerdy astronauts, huh?”

Grace snickers, rolling his eyes. “You were too young to die on a blood moon, man. Too much wasted potential.” He blinks. “Actually, how old are you?”

Simon shrugs. “Fuck if I know. We never really kept track of shit like that on Eden. No sun, no days, no years, y'know?”

“Sounds awful,” Grace says softly, but Simon ignores the pity.

“What about you? Still keeping track of your age, doc?”

“Grace getting up there.”

“Wh– hey! I'm only thirty-eight! Compared to you guys, I'm practically a baby.”

“Grace babyyy,” Rocky sings. “Little-big-old-baby Grace.”

Grace sighs dramatically. “I used to be respected back on Earth–”

“Lie. Rocky find articles.”

The roasting of Ryland Grace blessedly ends as a familiar female voice cuts through the comms, and he claps Simon on the shoulder. “C’mon, let's go get strapped in. The landing can be a little shaky.”

He spots the way Simon swallows nervously, the way his shoulder tense, and Grace gently takes his hand, squeezing reassuringly until Simon turns to him.

“Hey, I'll be here the whole time, okay? Not gonna leave you. Promise.”

Simon lets out a shuddering breath, squeezes Grace's hand back, and nods. Then he gets this intense look, one that Grace hasn't seen before.

Grace smiles nervously, because it looks like Simon kind of wants to murder him.

✗

Simon wants to kiss him.

It hits him like the rattling of the ship when the eel slammed into it. Like he's been stabbed, flayed open, drowned in bright blue eyes behind crooked glasses.

Grace was the angel that saved him. He's the one who refuses to leaves Simon's side, who insists on watching him sleep so he knows he's safe and not alone. He's the one good thing the universe gave him, besides the bracelet that feels like a weight around his wrist.

He can't do that to Grace. Obviously the man is lonely, starved for human company, and all he got was Simon in return. Simon can't force that shit onto the man who's probably too awkward to even turn him down properly.

So Simon nods. Swallows that lump in his throat again, simply says “Okay.”

That odd look on Grace's face vanishes, and Simon lets himself be dragged to the cockpit.

The air is clean when the doors to the Hail Mary hiss and slide open, and Simon– forgets how to breathe.

It's beautiful. A bright blue sky surrounded by nature and clean water. Nothing like he's ever seen. When he does take a tentative breath, it's like his lungs have been begging for this kind of fresh air for– fuck, probably forever. The chunky rocks that make up the ground crunch under his boots as he tentatively steps out of the ship, his eyes lingering on the expanse of trees that grow behind the tall, sharp construction that must be Grace's home.

“You okay, Simon?”

Simon jerks his head back, and finds that Grace is only looking at him. “Yeah, it's–”

His voice is hoarse, caught in his throat, and he clears it to utter out, “It’s fucking incredible. I get why you like it here so much.”

Grace's smile is blinding, and he carefully takes Simon's hand. Then his expression does an odd thing, like he's conflicted and nervous, before he ducks his head and says, “I mean. Yeah, I love it. But, um. If you change your mind, whenever you decide to head to Earth, see what they have to offer there, we can– I'll be able to–”

“Do I have to?”

Grace’s head snaps back up, eyes wide, mouth parted, glasses crooked as always. “You– you mean–?”

Simon musters up all of his courage. “Do you want me to go to Earth?”

“I–”

Grace swallows, bites at his lip, and manages to say, “I mean. No. No, not really, but it doesn't matter what–”

“I wanna stay.”

It's like a dam breaks. A taut cord has been snapped. The sub explodes all over again, but hope is on the horizon. Grace's eyes are wet, and his mouth is wobbling. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Simon carefully reaches out, grabs Grace's hand again even though he held it tight during the entire descent, and squeezes it with much more controlled strength. “Can I stay?”

“Yeah,” Grace mirrors him, laughing wetly, shoving his glasses up to hide the red in his eyes. “Heck yeah. I would– God, Simon, I would love that.”

Simon smiles softly, and earns a blubbering grin that makes his heart soar. “Then I'll stay.”