Chapter Text
Someone is holding him down.
The thought registers dimly. Slowly. It sits there, at the forefront of his brain, and Simon doesn't quite grasp it, not at first. He's sleeping, or he was sleeping, and he's drowsy with it, slow and lazy.
Someone is holding him down.
It snaps into focus like a wound.
Simon jerks. He moves, lashing out with an elbow, pushing the full force of himself backwards, into whoever is pinning him, and he snarls- feels the panic of it crawl up his throat- and surprisingly, it works. The person holding him down flails backwards, makes a choked, shocked, sound, and Simon doesn't give a shit, because he's free.
(he's not free he's not free but he's not on the ground he's not being suffocated into the floor that's enough for now that has to be enough for now)
He stumbles backwards. Falls off something, whatever they were on (a bed, he thinks, and bile rushes up his throat) and manages to catch himself, hand scraping across something hard and cold and smooth, and he staggers. Manages to regain balance, except he's lopsided, why is he-
Someone shouts something. The person. They're yelling, they're calling for help, they're going to get him hurt, and Simon doesn't- he thinks he lashes out, hits the back of his knuckles against something hard and warm, and the voice cuts off sharply, a wounded sound, and he's so stupid, why is he so stupid, this is just going to piss them off-
He can't escape. He knows he can't. The truth of it is in his body, in the very skin of him, but he still tries. He still tries, staggers across the floor, breath hitching in his chest, panic an endless spiral, a deep maw, an ocean he is falling into-
The person calls out.
His shin bangs into something hard.
Simon trips.
He hits the ground, and he doesn't know why he doesn't catch himself, why it hurts, a blinding pain that drives all thoughts from his head. He just knows it does, and he gasps, struggles for breath, lies there and feels it all rock through him, sharp and fresh and like digging his fingers into open wounds, just to feel something, anything.
He's so fucking stupid.
The floor is cool, and the pain is sharp, and he lies there, knowing, how stupid he's been. Why'd he fight back? Why'd he bother? He's not going anywhere, he's not escaping, he's just made it worse-
(he does that, sometimes. sometimes it's not on purpose, sometimes it's panic and fear and desperation, this broken thing of Simon he can't get out, and sometimes it's because at least making it worse is a choice)
"I'm sorry-" he registers himself saying, mumbled and frantic. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"
He doesn't know why he's bothering. It never fucking helps.
"-Simon-"
He freezes.
He knows that voice.
Simon knows that voice.
And then reality rushes back in.
Simon is lying on the floor. He's lying on the floor of the Hail Mary, and he's not trapped, not like he was, and he's not alone, and he's not with the Consolidation, and he's-
"Simon okay? Simon okay??"
That's Rocky. That's Rocky, artificial voice and pitched-high musical notes, and he stares, blind, as everything clicks itself together.
"-mon, please, can you say something-"
And that's Grace.
Simon squeezes his eyes shut.
"I'm here," he manages. It comes out sounding all wrong. Choked. Distressed. He wishes it wouldn't. He wishes he wouldn't. "I'm- sorry. I'm sorry."
What'd he do? He remembers lashing out, remembers the distant-sharp shock of something across his knuckles. He hit Grace, he thinks. He hurt Grace.
"Hey, hey, no, Simon it's okay-" there's movement, hesitant feet making their way towards him.
"It's really not," he chokes.
Grace goes quiet. Simon can hear him fidgeting, can hear the hum of Mary, all around them.
"Simon did not mean to," Rocky says.
"I still did," he snaps, curling fingers together.
"You didn't mean to," Grace echoes, and Simon can hear him sit himself down. Can almost feel the warmth of him, just out of reach. "And it's not that bad! Really!"
Simon opens his eyes. Cranes his head, and the ship is a blur, at first, smeared out and shapeless, but then there's Rocky, and then there's Grace.
There's a streak of blood across his mouth.
"You're bleeding," Simon says, or maybe keens, and he closes his eyes tight, presses his palm against the soft of his eyes, and then scratches nails across his forehead.
"Only because I bit my tongue!" Grace rallies, and Rocky chimes in agreement, and Simon can recognise it's not that bad. It's really not. He's done worse, not just in general, but to Grace.
You should get rid of me, he thinks, so loudly it's all he can hear. You should throw me out the fucking airlock and never have to put up with me again.
"Simon-"
"I'm sorry," he repeats. It's all he's got. "I'm sorry."
Grace inches a little closer. Simon can hear his butt scraping against the floor, and he almost snorts, except there's no energy for it. He feels carved out. He feels sick.
"Are you okay?"
Grace's voice is gentle.
"I'm fine."
"Simon not okay!" Rocky admonishes, his ball scraping across the floor with his movements. "Simon scream and yell and scared! Why, question?"
"You don't have to talk about it," Grace says, and Simon doesn't even have to look at him to know he's throwing Rocky a look. It's scary, the way he knows these people.
He doesn't want to talk about it.
"I'm sorry," he says, at a loss for anything else.
"It's fine," Grace repeats, and it's not. "It really isn't that bad, Simon. Okay?"
Simon closes his eyes. Doesn't want to say okay, because it isn't, it really isn't, but he doesn't have anything else to say. He doesn't want to talk about it. Doesn't want to think about it.
"A nightmare?" Grace guesses, or maybe offers. A distraction. A question that's easy enough.
He nods. He doesn't even really remember the details of it- doesn't need to- because it's not about that. It's about the mindset. It's about being small and caged and it's about shadows on the wall, and it's about being held down.
"Simon not hurt Grace before," Rocky needles, and if he wasn't feeling so fucking empty, Simon thinks he'd laugh. "What change, question?"
"Rocky-"
"It's fine," Simon cuts in. "It's the least I can do."
Grace sighs. "You really don't have to," he says, and it's funny, how he thinks that matters.
"It wasn't about-" he still chokes on it, the very thought so big and so sharp and so much he can't even swallow around it, can't get his tongue around the shape of it. He manages to swallow, squeezes his eyes shut. Tentatively, carefully, a hand settles itself on his ankle.
It makes his brain blare. Makes alarm signals scream in his head, and he flinches, feels the violence of it as he bangs against the floor, and Grace stutters out a not-curse, an apology, and Simon bites down on his lip so hard it hurts.
"I'm sorry," he croaks. Forces himself still- it's better if he's still- and shudders in a breath. "I-"
"No," Grace cuts in, and he sounds fucking distressed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have touched you, I should've known better-"
Usually, when Grace touches him, it feels grounding.
It's a reminder. If Grace touches him, that means he isn't alone- that means he isn't in the sub, he isn't in the ocean, he isn't trapped and dying. But now it's all tangled, it's crossed with the past, and Simon can't think of anything but pain.
"It's fine," he says, and he sounds exhausted, even to his own ears. "It's- you didn't know."
"You just hit me in the face for touching you," Grace snaps, and Simon flinches. "Wait, no, Simon, I'm sorry-"
"It's fine!"
He presses his palm to his face. Tries to breathe around the fist in his chest.
"Grace stupid," Rocky says, after a beat, and Simon can't help it- he laughs.
Grace splutters. Rocky preens at the sound of it, of Grace thrown off-course and making Simon laugh, and there's still something heavy and sharp in his chest, something pained and wounded, but Simon can- he can almost breathe around it, now.
Grace sighs.
"Grace stupid," he echoes, apologetic, and Simon snorts. Finally manages to find something like energy, and he pushes himself upright, muscles flexing and aching, and sitting upright makes his head spin, just a little.
It suddenly doesn't feel quite real.
Being on the floor- it hadn't been nice. It hadn't been grounding. It had felt too much like being back there, like he was waiting for the first fist to land, like he was bracing for the pain. And now he's sitting upright, and the Mary is so very clean around him, all splendour and impossible to mistake, and how could he ever think he was anywhere else?
He rubs a hand cross his face. Winces, slightly, as he brushes across tender flesh.
"I'm sorry," he repeats. This shouldn't have happened. Simon shouldn't have happened.
(and yet he always does)
"It's okay," Grace says, and his face is sad. Understanding gleams in his eyes. It makes Simon feel worse.
"Simon okay now, question?" Rocky asks, and he's leaning towards him, and Simon's pretty sure that's concern, written all over his carapace, and yeah. Simon feels worse.
"Yeah," he sighs. "Simon okay now, Rocky."
"Do you-" Grace hesitates. Shares a look, or whatever one could that, with Rocky. "-want to talk about it?"
No.
"You don't have to!" Grace rushes to clarify, waving his hands like he can physically shoo the question away. "I'm serious, Simon, you really don't- it's just, it if helps-"
"It was about before."
His statement falls like a rock.
It makes Grace go still, makes Rocky perk up in interest, and Simon stares down at his hand, at the reddening skin across his knuckles, and thinks of somewhere small.
At first, when they had put him in the sub, it hadn't even felt cramped.
"Do you mean…?"
Simon touches the ragged tissue on his neck. Doesn't even mean to. But he feels it beneath his fingertips, and the texture is so familiar it makes him sick.
"No."
Simon dreams of Eden. But those dreams are different, are less of a physical thing, a nightmare haunting his brain. Eden is- Eden is Eden, and Simon doesn't like those dreams, but at least he knows them.
He's never dreamt of the cell before.
He swallows. "It was- before the sub." He stalls. Feels the weight of that word and shivers, breathes out clumsily, desperately. The ocean is not just a wound. it's a gaping thing, it's every soft part of him torn apart, made raw and wet, and despite the fact that he's been out for over a month at this point, despite the fact that Grace has been there, grounding, it still feels like just thinking about it is going to send him spiralling.
He misses Grace's palm against his skin.
He thinks if Grace touched him, he'd throw up.
"Hey," Grace's voice, low, quiet. "I'm here. You're safe. It's okay, Simon. You're not there anymore."
"Simon safe," Rocky echoes, and their voices are a lifeline, something real he can hold on to. "Simon here, with Grace Rocky."
Simon exhales. Shaky, stuttery. Clenches his fist, squeezing his nails to his palm, once, twice. Breathes in, out again.
"Before," he says, steadier.
"But not Eden?"
Grace sounds confused. Simon's not- he should have seen that coming. He's told Grace things, of course he has, but there's so much to tell, so much he'd have to unpack and make clean, and Simon doesn't know how he'd make this presentable. How he could possibly dress this up.
"No," he echoes, and looks at the back of his knuckles again. A reminder. You owe them this. "I was-"
He doesn't know how to say this.
"Hey, you don't have to-"
"They held me prisoner."
He drops the statement like it might blow up. Lets it fall from his lips like a curse, like ripping off a band-aid. Get it over with. Just get it done.
"I don't know how long," he says. "Years, maybe? I don't- there wasn't really a way to keep time. I think I tried, at some point, but it kind of fell apart, and they wouldn't really- well, they didn't like me much, that's for sure, and asking was such a gamble, I kind of just didn't bother-"
"For years?"
Grace sounds horrified.
Simon looks up. And yep, that's horror written across Grace's far, so stark and recognisable Simon can't even doubt it. For a second, he's lost. Why would Grace feel horror?
And then he remembers.
And he knew. Of course he knew he hadn't shared this, he had not wanted to, but it still feels like the ground gives out beneath him, and his stomach swoops, and Simon stares, numb, as Grace's face blurs at the edges.
"I deserved it."
He doesn't mean to say it. Or maybe he does. But it comes out, either way, and Grace's face, what little Simon can see of it, seems to just screw up even more.
"Simon-"
"No."
He curls his hand into a fist. Blinks, hard, and breathes in, shaky.
"I did, Grace. You don't- I was a monster."
Grace goes quiet. Simon still can't see him too clearly, and maybe he doesn't want to, so he looks back down at his knuckles, at the patch of skin, and it isn't even red anymore, is settling back into something untouched, like he hadn't even hurt Grace at all.
He's still a monster.
He hasn't changed at all.
"Why, question?"
Simon looks up. Rocky has scooted around, has sat himself at Grace's side, and it's gotten so very easy, to see emotions in him. Rocky is curious. Rocky wants to understand. Rocky doesn't, yet.
Simon wishes he wouldn't. Not ever.
But he owes them this. He can't keep them in the dark, not anymore. He shouldn't have ever kept it from them, really, but Simon had wanted to live, he had wanted that so badly, still does, the want a physical thing in his chest, in the thrum of his veins, but he can't-
He can't keep this from them. Not anymore. Not if it's going to be like this.
Not if Simon can't even control himself.
"I killed people."
Grace flinches back. Rocky doesn't, shifting on his legs, carapace tilted in thought, like he's picking this truth apart.
"Why, question?"
Because I'm a monster, Simon thinks. And that's the truth, that's always been the truth, but he knows that's not- that's not really an answer. Rocky'd never take it for one. So he licks his lip, swallows the dryness, and-
"Lots of reasons," it's like picking at a scab. "It was- it was part of my job. At Eden. And then I was good at it, and I was-"
He doesn't know how to explain it.
He rubs a hand across his face. Exhales, loud, and stares off into nothing. Trying to put it back together. Trying to remember why.
Simon remembers a knife in his hand. He remembers the silhouette of his mother. He remembers blood beneath his nails.
"I was good at it," he repeats. Doesn't that explain everything?
"Simon like?"
He flinches. "No," horror creeps up his throat, strangles him. Blood beneath his nails. Blood on his hands. Bodies around him, still and quiet and like that because of him, and Simon's never, never-
(a part of him had. a part of him had taken to it and thrived, and if that part of him had been suffocating Simon to death, what does that matter? Simon had liked the security, the strength of it. Simon had been a monster, and monsters was so very useful)
"Then why problem? Simon have to, yes?"
It feels a little like the world breaks.
Simon stares. He stills. He looks at Rocky, and he hears his statement, his question, his voice, and it sits right there, right in front of him, and it feels so very, very, simple.
"That doesn't make it okay," he croaks. His hand is shaking. He's shaking.
"Simon not hurt Grace Rocky," Rocky says, stamps his legs. "Simon scared hurt afraid and now Simon safe. Dying in past! Past no matter! Statement!"
Simon swallows. "It's not that simple," he says, and it has to be true, because if it isn't, then-
"Rocky's right."
Grace's voice is hesitant. Tentative. He says it like he's confirming it to not just Simon, but himself, and Simon looks at him- expect disgust and fear and hate, and all he sees is Grace.
Grace who didn't have to save him. Grace who's gone above and beyond to not just save him, but help him. Whose tried so, so, so, hard to patch the open wounds of him closed, who's done everything he can, who's shared his meals and his bed and his very air, who hasn't had to do any of that all, but still did.
Simon's eyes sting.
"It shouldn't be," he croaks. "I don't deserve that. Grace, I don't-"
He chokes on it.
The sob is a strangled sound. It keens out his throat, forces itself free, and he hunches down- digs his fingers into his stomach, and tries to breathe through it, to breathe it out, to not break apart at the fucking seams, because he doesn't deserve this.
"Simon," Grace says. His voice is strong. Steady. "I think you've suffered enough."
Simon sobs.
He shakes his head, but he's still crying, the rush of it so sudden and so fierce he can't keep himself together, and his shoulders shake and his nails dig, and that can't have been enough, nothing could be enough-
Warmth. A hand on his knee, through his pants, and Simon thinks safe, thinks pain, thinks both and then neither, because he's falling apart and he would really like something to hold him together.
"Please," he keens, and then Grace is there, is pulling him close and wrapping his arms around him, and he feels the smooth-warmth of Rocky at his side, pressing in close, and Simon doesn't deserve this, he doesn't, but-
He has it.