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Ryland Grace sat by the control console of the projector room, his fingers dancing across the interface as he cycled through the saved Earth media. In the center of the room, the holographic projector hummed, casting vibrant light into the space. Sitting nearby was Simon with his knees pulled up slightly toward his chest.
Next to Simon and separated by the clear frame of his own body sized barrier was Rocky. The Eridian was perched happily, his carapace clicking rhythmically as he watched the human display.
Grace clicked a button, and the current image - a sprawling view of the Amazon rainforest - flickered and shifted. The projector hummed, reconstituting the light into a massive, ancient structure of gray stone set against a rolling green field under a somber English sky.
"Oh, Stonehenge," Grace said with a grin, leaning back in his seat. He glanced at Rocky's crab-like silhouette and let out a soft chuckle. "Hey, Rocky. Look at that. It's you buddy."
Rocky tilted his body, taking in the dimensions of the holographic stones. He let out a series of melodic, synthesized chords through his translator.
"It bigger than me, Grace friend," Rocky noted, his digital voice sounding perfectly matter-of-fact.
Grace burst into a warm, genuine laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, I guess it has a few tons on you."
The laughter in the room was instantly cut short.
Beside Rocky, Simon flinched violently. It wasn't just a startled twitch; it was a full-body convulsion, as if an electric current had snapped through his spine. His breath hitched sharply, a ragged, desperate sound that caught in his throat. The color drained from his already pale face, leaving him looking like a ghost in the artificial light of the prehistoric monument.
Simon scrambled to his feet, his boots scuffing loudly against the floor. His eyes were wide, unseeing, locked onto some internal horror that neither Grace nor Rocky could perceive.
"I... I need to..." Simon choked out, his voice barely a raspy whisper. He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't look at Grace, and he didn't look at Stonehenge.
Silently, with an agonizingly rigid posture, Simon excused himself from their presence. He turned on his heel and quickly left the room, his footsteps fading rapidly down the metal corridor of the ship.
The door slid shut with a soft hiss, leaving a heavy, stunned silence in its wake.
Rocky’s clicking stopped. The Eridian shifted his weight, his technical hands tapping nervously. “What wrong with Simon, question,” the translator droned, capturing the worried cadence of Rocky's notes.
Grace’s smile had vanished entirely. He stared at the empty doorway, his brow furrowed with deep concern. He knew the signs. Over the last few months, he had become intimately familiar with the phantom terrors that chased Simon through the halls of the Hail Mary.
"I don't quite know, bud," Grace murmured, his mind racing to figure out what exactly had triggered the sudden spiral.
Rocky stood his upright, his heavy body shifting as if he intended to follow or find a way to help.
"Stay here," Grace said quickly, holding up a hand to stop his alien friend. He gave Rocky a reassuring, albeit tense, look. "I'll figure it out. You just keep looking at Stonehenge pal. I'll be back soon."
Rocky paused, his body tilting sideways in understanding. “Understand. You help Simon friend.”
Grace nodded, then turned and hurried out of the projector room, the automated door opening for him.
As he walked down the narrow corridors, Grace's mind analyzed the situation with the precision of a scientist, though his heart was heavy with the empathy of a schoolteacher. He had helped Simon through several panic attacks since they first rescued him. Usually, the anatomy of Simon’s episodes followed a predictable pattern. Whenever the crushing weight of his trauma caught up to him - whenever the phantom smell of rust, the imagined sound of creaking hull metal, or the oppressive memory of the blood ocean overwhelmed him - Simon would seek out proximity.
He would draw closer to Grace, sometimes gripping the fabric of Grace's sleeve as if it were the only anchor keeping him from drifting into the abyss. He would look at Grace with pleading eyes and ask him to talk. Anything, Simon would say. Just talk about your day. Talk about science. Talk about the sun. Keep talking. And Grace would gladly oblige, babbling about stellar physics, biology, or childhood memories until the trembling stopped and Simon’s breathing normalized.
But this was different. This was the very first time Simon had actively excused himself from Grace’s presence. Instead of seeking an anchor, he had fled.
Why run away? Grace wondered, his pulse quickening as he checked the laboratory, then the crew quarters.
He finally tracked Simon down to a small, quiet observation alcove near the secondary storage bays. It was a secluded spot, away from the hum of the main engines and the active work areas.
There Simon stood, pressed against the cold bulkheads, staring out of a small, thick glass window into the absolute blackness of space, dotted with the distant, unblinking piercing points of the stars. His shoulders were trembling, his hand clamped tightly over his mouth as if he were trying to physically hold himself together.
Grace slowed his pace, taking soft, deliberate steps so he wouldn't startle the man. He stopped a few feet away, keeping his posture open and entirely unthreatening.
"Simon?" Grace asked softly, his voice a gentle caress in the quiet corridor. "Are you okay?"
Simon didn’t turn around. He didn't look Grace in the eyes. He simply gave a microscopic, jerky nod of his head, staring fixedly at the stars. But his posture belied the gesture; he was wound as tight as a piano wire.
For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic life-support hum of the ship. Then, Simon’s shoulders slumped slightly, and he spoke. His voice was a fragile, thinned-out whisper, completely devoid of the gravelly resolve he usually tried to project.
"What Rocky said..." Simon breathed, his eyes wide and unfocused against the glass. "It... it scared me.”
Grace gave a soft, understanding hum in response. He didn't press. He didn't bombard Simon with questions or demand an immediate breakdown of his psychological state. He knew how fragile Simon’s psyche could be when the memories of then flooded back. He wanted Simon to go at his own pace, to navigate the rocky terrain of his own mind without being pushed.
Simon swallowed hard, his throat moving convulsively. When he spoke again, his voice changed. It lost its thinned-out quality and took on an eerie, hollow cadence - an almost monotone delivery, as if he were mechanically quoting a ghost, or repeating a mantra that had been burned into his soul.
"It's bigger than you," Simon whispered, his eyes completely blank. "It's bigger than me. It's bigger than both of us."
The words hung in the cold air of the corridor like ice.
Grace felt a chill run down his spine. Despite already knowing some of what Simon had gone through - having listened to Simon lay bare the horrific details of his forced conscription, the absolute isolation of the Iron Lung, and the incomprehensible cosmic dread of the blood ocean during a long, emotional breakdown a month prior - Grace just listened. He kept his mouth shut. He didn't interrupt, didn't try to rationalize, and didn't offer a platitude. He simply stood there, a witness to the lingering echo of Simon's torment, letting the man speak his piece into the dark.
Simon’s hands began to shake more violently. He tore his gaze away from the stars, staring down at his own boots, his breathing hitching again. The silence returned, heavier this time, suffocating.
Seeing the spiral tightening, Grace took a half-step forward, keeping his voice entirely gentle. "Simon... what can I do to help?"
But before Grace could even finish the offer, Simon snapped.
"Why do you keep me around?!" Simon cut him off, his voice suddenly sharp, cracking with a wild, volatile mixture of anger and profound despair.
Grace froze, completely stunned. In all the months they had spent together, through all the terrors and the quiet recoveries, he had never seen Simon angry at him. Simon had always been quiet, deferential, deeply grateful, and profoundly protective of the fragile peace they had built. To hear a jagged edge in Simon's voice directed at him was a physical shock.
"Simon-“ Grace started, but Simon wasn't listening. He turned around fully now, his back slammed against the bulkhead, his chest heaving as he stared at Grace with a wild, frantic intensity.
"Is... is there something you want, or - or need from me?!" Simon stammered, his words tumbling out in a desperate, chaotic rush. His hands flew out in a chaotic gesture before flying up to clutch at his own head. "What is it that you need from me, Grace?! You haven't told me yet, and I don't understand!"
"I don't need anything-“
"I don't know what you want from me!" Simon shouted over him, his voice choking up drastically on the last word. The anger was entirely gone, revealed to be nothing more than a thin paper shield over a vast reservoir of terror and deep-seated confusion.
Simon gripped his hair tightly, his fingers digging into the dark strands as he pulled down, his face contorting in agony. He was getting heavily worked up again, his breathing degenerating into shallow, rapid gasps. The walls of the Hail Mary seemed to be closing in on him, transforming in his mind back into the rusted, dripping, suffocating cylinder of the submarine. In his mind, everyone had a price. Everyone wanted something. The administration that threw him into the ocean wanted data. They wanted resources. They used him and then they left him to drown in a sea of blood.
Grace tried to step in, his hands raised pacifyingly. "Simon, please, just listen to me for a second-“
"Just tell me!" Simon shouted, a desperate, broken plea that echoed off the metal walls. "Just tell me what the catch is! Tell me what I have to do!"
Silence reigned over the room for a agonizing moment. Simon stood there, chest heaving, his fingers still locked in his hair, panting as if he had just run a marathon, staring at Grace with a look of absolute vulnerability and fear.
Grace didn't speak immediately. He let the echo of the shout die. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he took a step towards Simon.
As Grace stepped into his personal space, the defensive wall in Simon's mind completely shattered. The manic energy evaporated, and Simon started to actually cry. Large, silent tears spilled over his eyelashes, tracking down his pale, drawn cheeks. His shoulders shook as he began to weep, the absolute exhaustion of carrying his trauma finally breaking through.
Grace stopped right in front of him. He looked up into Simon's tear-streaked face, his own eyes filled with a profound, unshakeable warmth.
"You," Grace said, his voice barely a quiet, steady murmur in the silence.
Simon froze, his hands slowly loosening their grip on his hair. He looked down at Grace, his expression utterly confused, blinking away tears.
Grace didn't back down. He took another step, moving even closer, closing the distance entirely until he was standing right in the man's space.
"I need you, Simon," Grace said, his voice ringing with absolute clarity and sincerity. "You. The person who calls me 'angel' when he thinks I'm not listening, or when he's too tired to filter himself. The person who laughs at Rocky's terrible jokes, mainly the ones about me in particular. The person who likes to listen to my rambles and loves plants. And the person who hates the feeling of it being too hot when we snuggle under the covers at night so he always uncovers his feet.”
Simon’s mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. He looked at Grace as if Grace were speaking a language he had never heard before.
"I don't know exactly all the details of what happened," Grace continued softly, his hand rising to gently rest on Simon’s trembling shoulder. "But I don't need you for some big mission, Simon. I don't need you for some treacherous expedition or to extract data for a dying world. I don't need you to be a tool."
Grace paused, his thumb gently rubbing against Simon's shoulder through his shirt.
"I need you, Simon," Grace whispered, his eyes locking onto Simon's with fierce, protective devotion. "Only you."
Simon let out a broken, shuddering sob and completely collapsed forward. He threw his arms around Grace, burying his face directly into the crook of Grace's neck. He clung to the older man with a desperate, white-knuckled grip, his entire body shaking as he cried softly, his tears hot against Grace's skin.
Grace didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms tightly around Simon’s back, holding him close, anchoring him to the solid floor of the Hail Mary, far away from the blood oceans, far away from the uncaring demands of a dead world. He let Simon weep, resting his chin gently against Simon's head, rocking him slightly in the quiet corridor.
A few minutes passed in that quiet embrace. The frantic, gasping breaths slowly smoothed out into quiet, ragged sighs. Simon didn't let go, and neither did Grace. Simon remained buried in Grace's neck, his grip loosening just enough to allow them both to breathe, but refusing to break the contact.
"I know you care," Simon whispered against Grace's skin, his voice muffled, thick with the aftereffects of crying. "I know you care... because that's just who you are as a person, Grace. You're good. You're a good person."
Simon swallowed, his hands tightening slightly on the back of Grace's shirt.
"But I just... I don't understand why you put up with me," Simon admitted, a deep, ingrained insecurity bleeding into the quiet air.
Grace closed his eyes for a second, feeling a pang of sorrow for the absolute destruction the SM-8 mission had wrought on this man's self-worth. He pulled back just a fraction, enough to look at Simon, though Simon kept his head down, staring stubbornly at Grace's chest.
"Simon," Grace said, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.
"I'm rotten work," Simon replied quietly, his voice heavy with a grim, factual certainty that broke Grace's heart. It was a label he had clearly accepted as an objective truth about himself. A broken machine. A piece of faulty equipment. Rotten work.
"No, you're not," Grace said immediately, vehemently disagreeing. His voice wasn't aggressive, but it carried an absolute, unyielding intensity that left no argument.
Grace reached up, placing his hands gently on either side of Simon's face. His palms were warm against Simon's cool, damp skin. With a gentle but insistent pressure, Grace made Simon lift his head, forcing the man to look him directly in the eyes.
Simon's eyes were red-rimmed and vulnerable, searching Grace's face for any sign of deceit, any sign of the ulterior motives he had been conditioned to expect.
"Not to me," Grace said, his voice dropping to a soft, reverent whisper.
He paused, letting the words settle between them, ensuring Simon was fully present to hear what came next.
"You're not rotten work," Grace said, looking deeply into Simon's eyes. "You're never rotten work, Simon. You're not worth more to me because of what you can do. I don't care about your utility. I don't care about what you can pilot, or what you can fix, or what you can endure."
Grace smiled, a small, incredibly tender expression that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"You're worth so much to me because you're you," Grace explained, his thumbs gently wiping away the remaining tracks of tears from Simon's cheeks. "You’re perfect the way you are, Simon. Just because you struggle sometimes, I hope you know that it doesn't make you less than. It doesn't make you broken. It just means you survived something unimaginable, and you're still here."
Simon stared at him, the heavy, suffocating fear in his chest twisting and finally dissolving under the fierce, unconditional warmth of Grace's gaze.
Without a word, Simon leaned forward again, burying his face right back into Grace's neck, wrapping his arms around him in a tight, silent embrace of pure gratitude and relief.
Grace held him just as tightly, resting his hand on the back of Simon's head, smoothing down his hair.
"I'll tell you this as many times as it takes," Grace murmured into the quiet dark of the ship, holding his lover close. "As many times as it takes."