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Simon had been living in the biodome for little over a few months now. Consciously, at least. He’d been found by the Eridians, Ryland still wasn’t really sure how—the thrum that found him was still rather cagey about it—and Ryland had assisted in tending to the man’s wounds. Ryland desperately wanted to know more, study the blood and the submarine they found him in, maybe look at the mutations Simon himself had developed, but when Simon woke it was clear that this wasn’t something he could bring up in casual conversation.
Simon had been volatile, switching between believing himself dead and thinking he was hallucinating. It took a few weeks before Ryland got him to believe he was, in fact, alive. It was another week after that before he coaxed the name ‘Simon’ from him. Simon seemed dazed for quite a while during the recovery process, slipping in and out of consciousness and saying the wildest things.
Admittedly, Ryland hadn’t seen much of him, all things considered. Between his classes, his passion projects, and gardening, he’d only really see the man at lunch or dinner. That is, when he remembered to eat. Otherwise, he’d make a quick breakfast in the mornings, leave it on the counter for Simon, and leave for class.
Even when he was free, Simon stayed sequestered away in his room, and he couldn’t talk to him. He’d leave meals at his door, with soft knocks and invitations to sit in the living room, but Simon rarely ever interacted with him directly, and when he did it was with such a politeness Ryland wanted to spontaneously combust. The meals they shared were filled with Ryland talking probably far too much, and receiving grunts and one-worded answers whenever he tried to include Simon. It was hell.
It was during one such meal that Ryland extended an olive branch. Or, what he hoped was one.
“Hey, so uh, If you’d ever want to watch me teach a class, or even just walk along the beach with me, you’re always welcome to! You’re not, like, confined to the house. There’s also the greenhouse, if you don’t like sand.”
“What’s a…greenhouse?”
The absurdity of the question is so jarring, he almost forgets the giddiness he feels at having Simon finally engaging in conversation. With a bashful smile and a hand rubbing awkwardly at his neck, he collects himself enough to respond to Simon.
“Oh-! I just- Uhm, geez, I’m such a bad host. I never even really gave you a tour of the biodome! I could show you after we’re done here, if you’d like? It’s just behind the house.”
“...Alright.”
The rest of the meal is held in relative silence, made a little awkward by how quickly Simon finishes his own meals. Ryland almost tries to match his pace before he slows, not wanting to risk nausea from eating so fast.
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Simon would be lying if he said he wasn’t mildly afraid of Grace. He was the saviour of the planet they were on, if what the odd rock-like creatures were saying was true and the translations accurate. The fact that Grace’s ‘saving’ of Erid was enough to extend care to him, the random human they found floating through the void of space.
It was still odd, getting used to the fact that there were planets and stars here. Admittedly, he still partially believed he was dead and that this was some sort of afterlife. However, he didn’t want to risk anything. If Grace really was the saviour of Erid, then he should stay on the guy’s good side, lest he be sent back into the vacuum of space.
Grace had been extremely nice to him, it made his insides roil. He was a convict; The Butcher. He kind of wanted to tell the man that, but feared it might be his execution. Who’d want to live with an expendable C.O.I convict? Who’d want to live with a murderer?
Needless to say, Simon kept his distance. The man was too kind for his own good. He offered him food; three meals a day, no less. He had a bed, his very own room, Grace even allowed him access to books and gave him what he’d called a ‘laptop’. Shown him how to work the thing, too. He didn’t want to taint the man with his filth. He couldn’t do that to this angel of a man, he wouldn’t.
Thankfully, Grace didn’t spend too much time at the house. He talked about ‘classes’, so Simon assumed him a teacher of the Eridian children. He left early in the mornings, then again in the afternoons. Simon was ever curious about the man’s schedule, but he didn’t dare ask. As long as it kept him out of the house, no matter if Simon secretly liked the man’s rambling.
When he was around, though, Simon couldn’t help but default to politeness. It took quite a while for him to realize that questions were welcome here, and that he wouldn’t be punished for choosing certain things. Didn’t mean he actually wanted to try having an opinion most times, it was easier this way. Whatever was safer. He didn’t really have the means to fight his way out of anything, anyway. Mutations from the Iron Lung, his missing arm, and the fact that he was still recovering made that awfully clear.
He saw how Grace looked at him, somewhere between a bug under a microscope and like he was the most beautiful thing in the universe. It made him nervous; it made him feel oddly giddy. He’d learned, from Grace’s own introduction, that he was a microbiologist. He knew what that was, from all he’d learned from before the Rapture. He knew Grace wanted to study him so desperately.
He was not too greatly opposed. That in and of itself unnerved him.
He listened to Ryland’s rambling at meals, rarely ever butting in. The man seemed to air much of his thoughts aloud; a trait that would have him killed in the C.O.I or Eden. He seemed so nervous about it though, but Simon didn’t want to unpack that at all. Ever.
⭑ ๋࣭︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑
Ryland walks half a step ahead of Simon as he leads him to the greenhouse, talking all the while. He’s never been good with silences.
“Right, so, there’s not much, really. My gardening skills are truly appalling, and it’s mostly just food crops, flowers weren’t a real priority, I guess, so-”
“Holy shit.”
Ryland cuts his little rant at the awed sound of Simon’s voice. He half wants to chide the man for using vulgar language, but Simon looks so utterly stunned, he can’t bring himself to.
“Something wrong...?”
He’s worried he’s overstepped in some way. After all, he doesn’t know much about Simon or what things were like where he came from; wherever that is.
“You just…have these? They’re real?”
“Last time I checked, yeah.”
Ryland tries to joke, but Simon just looks about the greenhouse silently. He walks over to the nearest plant dazedly, a modified cilantro plant, and ever so delicately touches the leaves on its stem.
“...Simon?”
That jolts the man back into his body, apparently, if the way he jerks back from the plants is anything to go by.
“Sorry. Did you say something?”
“No, I just- Are you alright?”
Simon nods, and Ryland chooses not to press. Instead, he takes him through a very in-depth tour of the greenhouse. Simon listens with rapt attention, hanging off of Ryland’s every word. It almost worries him. He finishes the tour with a reminder that Simon can return here whenever he wishes, and hopes Simon chooses to take the invitation for what it is. Staying in one room all day can’t be good for him, after all.
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Simon is utterly fascinated by the greenhouse. He can’t even hide it. It becomes his new favourite spot in the biodome, with the added advantage that he can’t hear the artificial ocean from inside the structure. Just after Grace leaves for class in the morning, he goes to the greenhouse and prays. He digs his hand into the soil by the roots of the plants that seem the most unwell, and he prays like god will listen. He prays to a god he’d stopped believing in, and he hates himself for it half the time, but he won’t let this miracle slip from his hands if he can help it. He will pray if he has to, he will worship at an unforgiving god’s feet and give himself up if it means he gets to keep this miracle.
He spends his days praying and learning all about gardening on the laptop Grace gave him. He starts tending to the plants in the greenhouse, a hobby he builds out of devotion and genuine intrigue. The plants start to thrive, he’s convinced it’s the prayer. He doesn’t say anything about it to Grace, only subtly tells the man to stop worrying about gardening so much.
Grace watches him garden occasionally, complimenting him in a way that makes him feel disgustingly warm and fuzzy inside. He wants to repay the kindness by taking Grace up on his own offer to watch him teach, but he’s far too afraid of the waves to do so. It only makes him feel guilty when he thinks of it.
It comes to an unfortunate head one day, when Simon is in the greenhouse. Grace is watching him garden, handing him pruning shears for the blackberries he’s tending to. There’s a largely one-sided conversation happening; where Grace rants and Simon offers grunts and one-worded responses where appropriate. It’s nice, not that he’d say that aloud to Grace. Not yet at least.
“So, the pebbles are still egging me on. They keep asking when you’ll come see them, asking if you’re afraid of them or something. We got to a topic discussing Earth religions and cults, and they mentioned something about you praying? Something about a member of the biodome thrum hearing what they thought was prayer from in here, and that getting to the pebbles through a parent. Though, I’m unsure if they’re just stringing up stories like kids usually do. I was hoping maybe you could tell me about— Simon-?”
Simon tuned out a little after the mention of prayer, his cheeks heating up with embarrassment as his hand clenched into a fist around the thorny blackberry bush. Grace curses—or rather, exclaims worriedly, since the man seems to be allergic to cursing—as he reaches out to ease Simon’s hand off the thorny bush. Simon startles a little at the touch, jerking back from the plant with a look of utter devastation on his face. He’s tainted the plants. He’s crushed this beautiful miracle that he never deserved with his own hand, and the evidence of it is right in front of him.
Blood is smeared across the stem of the plant he’d been crushing, and it now tilts at an unnatural angle. Simon wants to apologise to the plant, to Grace; he wants to bury himself into a hole and perish. He wants to atone for his horrible sins.
“S-Sorry, sorry, I can fix this-”
Grace says something, but he can’t hear it over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He grabs the pruning shears he’d had in his hand, and hastily but carefully purges the damaged area from the plant. He makes an embarrassing sound in the back of his throat as blood drips into the soil, tainting it further. He shakes his head, pressing his hand into his chest to avoid tainting anything further. It hurts, the broken off thorns in his palm, but it’s what he deserves. It is how he ought to atone for this sin. All this and more.
He curls up into a pathetic ball, his torso over his knees as he kneels before the plant, hand to his chest, blood soaking into his shirt. He doesn’t know what to do, so he does the first thing he can think of. He prays.
“Our- Our father, who lay under the last tree, have mercy upon my soul though I do not deserve it. Allow me to be one with the soil as I am guided to the roots, and may my body rot and serve the last tree—”
“Simon!”
His head jerks up, turning to Grace, who he’d forgotten was there.
“Simon, give me your hand.”
He does as he’s told, expecting reprimand from Grace at least, perhaps a slap or to have the man’s fingers dig into the fresh wound. There’s jagged scratches from the bush all around his hand, but his palm is where the damage is centralized. It hurts like hell, and his hand shakes where it rests in Grace’s own palms.
“Holy- Simon, this- I need to get you to Armando. Right now.”
Simon doesn’t want that, at all. He hates the robot, and the idea of being treated right now seems like something he couldn’t possibly deserve. So he shakes his head. Grace makes an expression he can’t decipher, and he wants to take the action back, wants to apologise and agree with everything his saviour asks of him. But his tongue feels like lead and he’s pretty sure speaking right now would be a herculean task. Grace clicks his tongue, and Simon nearly flinches at the sound. He almost wants to rip his hand from Grace’s grip and run to a far corner of the biodome to recollect himself, but he doesn’t want to have to atone for that too, so he stays very still.
“Okay, that’s- Okay. I’m gonna try getting the worst of the thorns out, then, okay?”
This man must be an angel of sorts, still talking to Simon so tenderly when he just ruined something so sacred. He nods, because what else is there to do? Grace is so gentle with him, it makes him sick. He’s a convict. A butcher. His hands—his hand; it knows only to destroy, to taint, to maim, yet Grace treats him with such care that he almost believes himself deserving of it, at times.
The thorns come out as painfully as they’d gone in, but he doesn’t say anything, staying perfectly still. Grace’s pitiful expression is enough for the both of them. The thorns he pulls out range from around a quarter of an inch to nearly half an inch in length, and blood is starting to pool in the middle of his palm. Grace is murmuring something about infection, brows furrowed in worry.
“Shi- Shoot. Shoot. It’s not clotting as fast as it should.”
And isn’t that something? He nearly got the man to curse. He’d be smug about it if he wasn’t so terrified right now.
⭑ ๋࣭︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑
Ryland so desperately wants to redo the last ten or so minutes. Clearly something he said set Simon off. He should know by now not to run his mouth so much. He just was curious! Honest! He didn’t know Simon was religious, it was never really something he talked about.
Actually, there weren’t many things Simon talked about, now that he thought about it. Simon just absorbed whatever he’d say, and never offered much in return.
There were more pressing matters now, though! Simon was panicking, and injuring himself in the process.
“Simon-! Cheese and rice, you’re hurting yourself!”
Simon jolts out of his stupor, and begins to apologise. The sound of the man’s frantic apologies and shaky hands as he tries to fix the plant are devastating to Ryland’s poor soul.
“S-Sorry, sorry, I can fix this-”
“Simon, leave it. We can fix it later, okay? Give me your hand.”
Simon doesn’t seem to hear him, frantically grabbing the pruning shears and cutting the damaged part of the blackberry bush off. Then, inexplicably, he presses his bloodied hand to his chest and leans his torso over his knees and starts to pray. It’s a prayer he’s never heard before; something he’s pretty sure wasn’t in any doctrine he knows.
“Simon! Your hand is bleeding!”
He reiterates, worry making him frantic. He doesn’t want to startle Simon, but if he doesn’t do something quick there’s a risk of the thorns getting clotted in his palm, or infection, or-
“Simon!”
Simon jolts, and Ryland instantly feels guilty for yelling.
“Simon, give me your hand.”
He’s using his Teacher Voice, he knows, but he doesn’t know how else to make Simon listen. Simon jerkily places his shaking hand palm-up in Ryland’s cupped hands. His eyes widen at the extent of the damage.
“Holy- Simon, this- I need to get you to Armando. Right now.”
Simon shakes his head, and Ryland’s eyebrows scrunch in worry, and he inadvertently clicks his tongue at the sight of the thorns in Simon’s palm. He doesn’t want to make him any more uncomfortable, but he needs to do something. Now, preferably.
“Okay, that’s- Okay. I’m gonna try getting the worst of the thorns out, then, okay?”
Carefully, and as gently as he can, he pries the thorns from Simon’s palm, rejoicing internally when they all come out intact. One less thing to worry about. Simon stays perfectly still, hand only shaking minutely though he knows this must be painful. He murmurs under his breath about needing to wash Simon’s hand, rattling off things about infection. His words slow when he notices how much blood is pooling in Simon's palm, and he quickly pivots his worry to that, instead.
“Shi- Shoot. Shoot. It’s not clotting as fast as it should.”
He doesn’t know why he still bothers to keep up with not swearing, it’s not like any pebbles will overhear this. And if anything, this warrants at least one curse. Still, his subconscious prevents it, and he can’t bother to examine that right now.
“We really need to get you to Armando. Right now.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, gripping Simon’s wrist to hoist him up. The man comes willingly, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Once he’s standing, though, he blinks a little rapidly, as though dizzy.
“Simon-?”
“‘M fine.”
He says it so quickly, Ryland’s almost inclined to believe him. However, there’s a shake in Simon’s knees that makes him doubt. Ah, well. Time for distraction tactics.
“So, uh, wanna tell me your favourite colour?”
Simon looks over at him like he’s gone mad, and Ryland only smiles. If it worked for his kids back on Earth it should work here. He starts gently herding Simon towards the house, who’s starting to seem a little dizzy from blood loss and the sudden dip in adrenaline.
“Humour me.”
“...Blue, I guess.”
“Mhm, ‘kay, tell me why. In excruciating detail.”
Ryland leads them to the greenhouse’s entrance and exit, leaving little drops of blood as they walk.
“Your eyes are very…bright. Kinda like the pictures you showed me of Earth. Pretty.”
Simon blurts, clearly not thinking through his words like he usually would, and Ryland’s steps falter for a moment. His eyes widen as he looks over at Simon. Something to unpack later. Later. He needs Simon patched up right now. Focus, Ryland. Only, Simon catches the look, and starts spiraling again. Dagnabbit. He just can’t do anything right, can he?
“Fuck, I mean, the sky?”
Nice save, Simon. Ryland almost says it aloud, but he doesn’t want to put the poor man through anything more.
“Talk to me about gardening, then.”
Ryland pivots, choosing something more neutral. He just needs the man to talk, after all. Keep him distracted. Simon fumbles through an introduction to gardening. He talks about the basics and the simplest ways to ensure you don’t kill your plants, but his voice shakes and his words falter rather often. Ryland just wants to get them to Armando soon and for this ordeal to be over.
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What the fuck was wrong with him. Why did he even say that? Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was a fucking idiot. On what fucking planet would that be acceptable? Of course his brain had to falter in filtering the words from his mouth now of all times. His head hurt, his hand hurt, he felt dizzy, and now he was embarrassing himself? He felt like he ought to find a way to step outside the biodome. Right this second. But that would upset Grace and he wouldn’t do something like that to him.
Then Grace was asking him to talk about gardening, the thing that got them here in the first place, the stuff he’d tainted. He prattled on, reciting the ‘Gardening 101’ video he’d first seen when his interest was piqued. It was disjointed, very much so, but he was too busy trying not to freak out that he didn’t bother acting like he had it together. If anything, talking aloud helped him prevent hyperventilation, which was a plus.
Grace led him through the biodome, and into the house. Grace stopped them at the kitchen sink to wash his and Simon’s hands, then walked over to the medical robot and then past it to the couch, much to Simon’s confusion. Curiosity rose in him, but he wouldn’t ask. He was following orders right now, asking questions might just upset Grace further, and he didn’t want that. The man in question brought over a first-aid kit that he’d never seen before, opening it on the coffee table.
“Hand, please.”
He’s still using that Teacher Voice of his, Simon notes as he gives the hand he’d been cradling to his chest back to Grace. He felt a little like a child scolded, the memory of The Father scolding him for questioning Eden’s teachings reared up. Only, this scolding made him embarrassed, rather than fearful.
He watched with morbid curiosity as Grace worked, narrating his steps as he went. Cleaning the wounds, removing any debris left in the wounds, putting pressure to stop the bleeding and allow it to clot, cleaning off excess blood, putting on an antibiotic cream, wrapping the wound. He drank in Grace’s words like gospel. He always did.
“All done!”
Grace said it in that cheery voice of his, smile blinding and bright. It was disarming; it made him sick. Why was this angel smiling at him? Dread filled him. Was this some sort of trick? Something to let his guard down? No, Grace wouldn’t do that; he was too kind. Far too kind to a sinner like himself. Simon wanted to grovel at the man’s feet and apologise. To confess his sins at Grace’s feet and accept any punishment he saw fit. He managed none of that.
“Sorry, I- Sorry…”
A verbal apology was a start, he supposed, only Grace seemed so surprised at it he wants to curl up into a ball and die.
“Simon, what are you- If anything I’m sorry! I set you off, clearly, and you hurt yourself. Why would you be apologising?”
What?
“What?”
But he’d destroyed and tainted, no matter what had caused him to do so. A sin is a sin, regardless of what man wishes it to be. He would not be absolved until he atoned, yet Grace was apologising to him? Of all people? Surely he’d misheard.
“No, I’m sorry. I ruined the blackberries, tainted them, and you wasted resources on my hand. They were right about to ripen, too. So, I’m sorry. I’ll accept any punishment you see fit.”
Grace’s expression only morphed into horror. Odd. He’d expected him to be joyous at the idea of a willing recipient of punishment.
“...Punishment?”
Simon hates the odd concern in his voice. It makes him want to comfort the man.
⭑ ๋࣭︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑
Ryland’s first thought is ‘I should report this’, before he remembers he's not a teacher anymore—not in the traditional sense at least—and that there's no one to report to. He almost laughs at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Why would Simon expect to be punished? Has he been punished for ‘tainting’ things before?
No, focus. Reassurance, that was the biggest thing when he had to deal with this with kids. Part of him hates that he's using middle-school-teacher techniques on Simon, but it worked well enough then. Shoot, he's zoning out. What to say, what to say… Shoot. He’s so bad at this.
He’s blanking, and Simon looks about ready to bolt. Shoot, shoot, shoot.
“Okay. Okay, so, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’ll make us something to eat, then we can discuss what exactly you mean by ‘punishment’ afterwards.”
Bad. Bad bad bad, what the heck was that, Ryland? Avoiding the conversation? Really? But he’s already making some me-burgers for the two of them.
He feels Simon’s eyes at his back, tracing his movements like a cornered animal, and he hates every second of it. He doesn’t know how to make Simon know he won’t be punished. He doesn’t know how to get it through to the man that he doesn’t owe Ryland anything.
He sets the two plates down, goes back for water. Simon looks at him all the while like a cornered animal, trying to decipher Ryland’s intentions. He hates it. He sits across from the man, tries to make eye contact. Simon won't look at him.
“...Simon you won't be punished for reacting. It was a mistake; a rectifiable one.”
“A sin is a sin whether the sinner means it or not.”
It's said with such conviction that Ryland hesitates.
“Simon…”
He sighs, looks down at his me-burger.
“Eat first, then I can help you… atone by cleaning the garden.”
He says, because what else is there to say? He can't break down a belief system over a single meal. Especially not one this deep-rooted.
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He eats, because food is always a blessing, and to waste it is profligate. He eats, because he doesn't want to disappoint Grace. He eats, because he doesn't deserve it but he wants to earn the man's mercy. It's the best thing that's ever passed his lips. It tastes like ash.
He stares at his empty plate and waits for Grace to finish his own. He does and stands, moving as if to clear the table. Simon rushes to take up the task.
“Simon-”
“I’ll clean up.”
It’s the least he can do. It’s the most he can manage at this moment. Grace jolts and gently stops his hand. He stills like a dog afraid to crack an egg placed in its jaws.
“The dishes can wait. Your bandages shouldn’t get wet.”
Why does that matter? Why does he matter?
Simon bites his tongue and nods. Grace leads him outside, and guides them back to the greenhouse. He wants to be sick. He can’t lose his lunch. He’s nauseated. He would rather die than throw up right now.
“Okay, I won’t interrupt. You were pruning the blackberry over here when I set you off, yes?”
Grace sounds so hesitant, Simon is almost unsure. The dull throbbing in his palm makes him nod.
“Then this can be your atonement. Prune the blackberries and purge the broken, bloodied bits.”
A stupid punishment; it pales in comparison to his misdeed. Simon says nothing; he gets to work. The ache in his palm stings with how hard he grips the tools. He uses the pain to ground him; to keep his hands steady. If this is his atonement he will carry it through diligently.
Sweat beads across his forehead, but he perseveres. It’s just pain. He redoes the entirety of the mulch on the patch containing the blueberries. He prunes them carefully and diligently. He even cleans up the dried drops of blood on the smooth concrete floor of the greenhouse. Scrubs any trace of himself from the area. Then he prays once more. He’s grateful Grace left him alone to do this. He wishes Grace never left. Simon puts the gardening equipment away.
He trudges back to the house, shaky on his feet. He neatly tucks away his shoes once inside, cursing internally at having forgotten to do so earlier. He notes the blood he’d tracked in earlier is gone, and part of him is disappointed. Another thing he couldn’t do right. The other part, however, is thrilled that Grace would do something like that for him. Something to shove into that box in his mind for never.
⭑ ๋࣭︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑
Ryland hears the door open followed by the most pitiful whine he’s ever heard. He finds Simon staring at the door handle like he’d wronged it, and catches the slight redness on the handle. Ryland grabs a washcloth and steps into the man’s line of vision. He offers nothing but a soft smile as he cleans the blood off, and he sees Simon’s shoulders relax.
He’s pleasantly surprised when Simon lets himself be led to the couch for a second round of bandages and antibiotic cream. Resists the urge to kiss the man’s palm like he would the dinosaur band-aids on his kids’ scraped palms. He wants to know this man so badly, and he’s nothing if not impatient, but by God if he messes this up he won’t be able to live with himself.
So he lets himself yearn, hoping small acts of care can patch the space between his want and his need, wrapping them up together in a bandaged-together parcel for Simon to hold.
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His hand comes away from the doorhandle, leaving it dotted with his blood. An aborted sound dies in the back of his throat. He’s tainting everything again. Then Grace is there, grabbing a wet cloth and cleaning the handle with a smile and Simon thinks, for a moment, maybe he’s allowed to want this.
Maybe he’s allowed to want him.
Fuck Eden’s teachings, and the C.O.I’s bullshit. He wants. He wants so bad it hurts, and maybe he can learn to accept his care. He lets Ryland lead him to the couch again, watching the man redo the bandages on his hand carefully.