Chapter Text
In the Edenite tradition, a saint must perform three miracles before they can be canonized. On Earth, it’s two. On Erid, there aren't any saints at all; the Eridians don’t really go out for that sort of thing.
Ryland Grace’s first miracle is the resurrection of Simon. On the first day there was light, and it was not good.
Simon’s eyes flutter open to a bright white light, and he bolts upright. A quick scan reveals he’s spotlighted on a cot in the darkness. It’s shooting pain from his spine to his teeth when he tries to get up, his left arm— oh, he remembers now. The monitor next to him has half a dozen IV bags hanging off of it, and it goes wild when he moves. A robot arm whirs above him.
“Please remain stationary for your wellbeing,” the thing tells him, and Simon is not interested in taking orders from anyone at the moment, robots included.
“Hey, don’t hurt yourself!” A man unfolds from a chair he hadn’t previously noticed. He’s tall, lanky, blue eyes cloudy with sleep. Angelic is his first thought. Warden is his second.
“You’re on Erid!” He says, as if this should come as a relief. “I’m Doctor Ryland Grace, and this is”— he gestures to a creature next to him, but Simon doesn’t hear the rest.
He grabs the IV pole and lunges from the cot, stumbling when his ankle screams as it hits the ground.
“I won’t go back down,” he tries to shout, but his voice rips out of his chest, weak and raspy and painful.
Grace holds out his hands placatingly, and Rocky chitters and rolls towards him. “Welcome new human, my name is”—
“Rocky, wait, he’s”—
It’s too late, Rocky is already rolling forward and the man is struggling to grip the pole, hefting it up with only one arm— good gosh, Graces brain supplies— pulling it back to swing at his best friend—
Grace moves on instinct without any real though, ducking to the side, grabbing a syringe full of tranquilizer from the basin under Armando— truly insane to have prepped so many, Stratt, he thinks— and then he hears the ugly crash of metal in xenonite, and then he’s driving the syringe into the syringe into the man’s neck, and then everything goes still.
Grace stands over the man crumpled on the floor, panting. His arms are too heavy and his head is too light, he drops the syringe and kneels, hands tracing the panels of Rocky’s xenonite ball.
“Rocky okay,” Rocky tells him before Grace can ask. “Xenonite too strong even for more muscular human, Grace dumb when panic,” he chirps, but presses his carapace against the glass towards Grace’s hands all the same. “Rocky okay Grace okay,” he says, and Grace takes a long, shakey inhale.
“Rocky okay, Grace okay” he repeats, and they look down at the stranger in a pile on the floor beside him.
“Stranger okay, question?”
“Stranger okay, he shouldn’t be out too long,” Grace tells him, examining the syringe. “I barely gave him half.”
“Sleeping medicine?”
“Yeah.” Regrettably, Grace realizes, Stratts tranqs are batting two for two.
“Mmmm. Stranger sleep feel better after sleep. Not dumb not try to hurt Rocky Grace.”
“Yeah bud, maybe.” Eventually, Grace manages to drag the man back over to Armando. There’s no hope of lifting the stranger back onto the cot—
“Why Grace not strong enough question, stranger look like stranger strong enough to lift Grace. ”
“Shut up, man!”
— so he drags the thin mattress onto the ground, and repositions Armando over him. The robot goes to work, checking the IV lines and injecting fluids.
“Administering sedative, patient estimated wake time twelve hours.”
“I think we need a better solution twelve hours from now, Rock.”
“Big agreement yes yes yes.”
That night, Ryland Grace dreams. It’s not a new dream, really, but a variation on a theme. He knows how it goes. He sees Stratt’s face, her mouth pressed into a thin line, hears his friend call him a coward. Then he’s running, his legs ache, his lungs ache. In the dream he never makes it out of her office, he falls hard, the carpet transforming into grass, weeds in his mouth as he splutters and begs. Even though he knows that this isn’t how it happened, he always sees her stalking towards him, it’s always Carl's hands on his shoulders pinning him down. In the dream, he feels himself thrash uselessly in the dirt as he floats above the he scene, watches the sharp glint of the needle at Stratt inserts it into his neck and smiles.
Tonight he’s standing in Stratt’s place, kneeling over the man and he struggles, watching him squirm in the dirt as he uncaps the syringe, feels himself smile as he plunges it into the stranger’s neck—
Grace wakes up with a gasp. His face is wet from tears his shirt and boxers are soaked in sweat and cling to his body, the sheets are too heavy, he can’t breathe right—
“Grace okay now,” he ears the click click of xenonite on the floor as Rocky crawls towards him. Rocky climbs on the bed, laying a claw over Grace’s ankle. “Best friend only dream, must also breathe,” he says, rubbing his best approximation of soothing circles onto his leg.
Grace takes a shuddering breath, and then another, listening to the hum of the filter in Rocky’s suit. He’s safe here, at home in his bed, the artificial sun just starting to light the sky outside his window.
“Grace breathe normal now good,” Rocky tells him, and Grace gives him a thumbs down.
“Thanks, bud.”
“Rocky bestow human hug?”
Grace nods in the dark. “Please,” and Rocky climbs carefully into his lap, holding most of his weight on three legs as he wraps two limbs around Grace’s shoulders, pressing his carapace into his chest.
“Soothing words,” Rocky tells him, and Grace grips the angles of his suit, pulling him close.
“Soothing words,” Grace agrees, and after a few long moments, he lets go, leaning back against his headboard.
“New human in living room Adrian watch,” Rocky says. “Approximately twelve hour elapsed, Grace replace with dry clothing and attend new human wake up.”
“Already?” Grace checks the clock on the bedside table, and Rocky’s right, the poor guy Grace knocked out should be waking up soon. “Yeah okay, I’m up,” he says, untangling himself from Rocky and getting out of the bed.
Rocky scampers off the bed and clicks out of the room. “Rocky provide privacy Grace hurry.”
Simon opens his eyes for the second time on planet Erid, this time to soft golden light in a cozy living room. I’ve never seen so much furniture, he thinks sluggishly, this can’t be Eden, he must be—
“Am I dead?” He slurs, tongue heavy in his mouth, and a man steps into focus. He glows golden, bright blue eyes and glasses with real glass lenses!
“You’re not dead,” the angel is smiling at him, and Simon likes to be smiled at. “It took some doing, but you’re alive and you’re on Erid, I’m doctor Ryland Grace, this is”—
“Am I drugged?” Ryland Grace grimaces at him, and he looks like he’s about to answer before a large green boulder shifts beside him.
“Whoa, the fuck,” he giggles, and the rock sings at him.
“Sorry, sorry! One second” Grace produces a laptop and taps at it for a moment. “Okay, now we can all understand each other.”
“New human is on many drugs,” the green rock tells him, and yeah, he must be if rocks are talking to him. “New human scare Grace try hurt Rocky when wake up first time.”
Something cold and hard flashes through Simon’s stomach that even the sedatives can’t mask. Of course he tried to hurt someone. He’s always bit the hand that fed, not even aware that he was locking his jaw. To his horror, he feels tears start to prick his eyes.
“I hurt you?”
The rock shudders at him. “No, am Adrian. That Rocky,” the rock, Adrian, gestures as well as a rock can to another, smaller brown rock.
“New human try to hurt Rocky, can not,” Rocky announces.
“I’m sorry,” he hears his voice break as he looks at the assortment of beings around him, “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
Rocky nods at him. “Is okay,” he says, “Grace says new human afraid, try hurt is normal. But if new human try again hurt Rocky hurt Grace Rocky put new human back in craft and jettison”—
The robotic voice cuts out suddenly as Grace taps at the laptop. “Okay! Cool apologies all around!” he says. “C’mon man, be cool,” he taps Rocky's suit with his foot. Rocky sings something at him and Grace grins at him. “Okay Rock, I get it.” He turns back to Simon and smiles. “I’m sorry about… everything,” he says and Simon nods, “but you’re safe here.”
Simon can’t help but believe him, and he doesn’t think it’s the drugs.
“What’s your name?”
“Simon.”
“Nice to meet you, Simon,” Grace tells him, and Rocky and Adrian coo at him. “Are you hungry?”
–
Simon shakes his head in a way that he knows is certainly petulant and probably ridiculous looking, but he doesn’t really care. “I don't want it to touch me,” he says, looking at the arm. “I don’t– just no.” he decides. “I’ll change the bandages myself, just gimme the gauze or whatever.”
Grace has his hands up in a placating pose. “No robots, fine. Armando, power saving mode, please,” he tells the robot, and the arm whirs as it powers down. “I can get you gauze, but what’s your plan for changing the bandages on your right arm when you’ve lost your left?”
It’s an infuriatingly good point. “I’ll figure it out,” Simon huffs. He’s definitely being a little ridiculous now, he thinks, but Grace's gentle expression doesn’t change. God, this guy really was a middle school teacher through and through.
“Can I do it?” Grace asks, “I’m one hundred percent human, I can't even do the robot,” he demonstrates, letting his arm hang loose at the elbow. Simon doesn’t laugh, but that’s fine, Grace is used to tough audiences. “I’m a doctor,” he assures Simon.
“Doctor and middle school teacher?”
Grace makes a wavey motion with his hand. “Doctorate of biology,” he admits, “but what is a human body if not just some really big biology?” he grins.
Simon allows a hint of a smile. “My bandages are itchy,” he admits, and sits at the table next to Grace, holding out his arm. “Knock yourself out, Doc.”
Grace snaps on a blue pair of gloves, and unwinds the wrapping covering what remains of Simon’s left arm. “Just let me know if anything hurts, alright?”
“I can take it.”
“What?” Grace’s hands still, and the way he looks at Simon makes him feel as though he’s misstepped somehow. “No, just tell me if it hurts. I mean, I have a truly questionable stock of morphine, this doesn't have to hurt.”
Grace keeps looking at him with bright eyes lit from within, and Simon finds himself agreeing. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Grace goes back to removing his bandages, hands so gentle Simon can hardly feel them. “You’re healing fast– faster than expected,” he says, and then chuckles to himself, “though I’m not really sure what's ‘expected’ anymore these days. Is this normal for you? Have you always healed so fast?”
Simon grunts noncommittally. “Dunno, maybe it’s all the bandages. We never really had all this stuff,” he gestures to the gauze and ointments spilling out of the kit.
Another look. Simon can see Grace adding this to his mental tally, but he doesn’t press. Grace works his way through the bandages on his right arm, and digs around his kit until he finds a small white tube. “This should help with the itching, and with the scarring,” he says by way of asking, and Simon nods.
He rubs the cream in gently along the ridges etched up Simon's arm, across his shoulder and up the side of his neck. What used to be rough boils and scars had faded down to marbled skin, just barely raised. Grace traces the ropey vines of scar tissue up Simon’s arm, and maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but he thinks Simon’s jaw starts to unclench, just a little. He’s warm, and it’s nice to touch someone, to feel a pulse that isn’t his own. His shoulder, Grace realizes, is absolutely fucked. He presses down on the solid muscle, and Simon huffs out a gasp under his hands.
“Hurts?”
“It’s a little sore,” Simon admits.
Grace digs his thumb into what he’s pretty sure is the levator scapula (he nearly flunked anatomy), and Simon groans aloud. “It’s pretty sore, actually.”
“You’re probably overcompensating for your left arm,” Grace tells him, working his fingers into a knot. “I’ll talk to Rocky about a prosthetic, maybe?”
Simon shakes his head as he writhes under his hands. “Nah, don’t bother him.” Frown number three.
“I’ll ask him about it,” he says more firmly, stilling his hands so that Simon turns to look at him. “He won’t be bothered.”
He’s just so earnest, Simon feels pinned in place by his gaze. Again, he finds himself agreeing so that Grace will stop staring like that.
“Whatever you say, Doc.” Grace smiles at him, and Simon feels like he finally managed to get an answer right.
He continues with the ointment, painting gentle stripes up Simon’s jaw, across the bridge of his nose and down his cheek. He’s leaned forward in his chair, eyes massive behind his glasses and breathing softly, humming to himself when he finishes with one scar and moves on to the next. Simon has started to realize that Grace does everything with this sort of intensity, like everything he does is the most important thing he’ll ever do. Being the object of his attention is…deeply overwhelming. Not bad, but it’s a lot to feel so noticed. Simon gazes up at the ceiling to avoid his spotlight eyes. He breathes in and out in slow measured breaths, trying to remain still. This is all too much, he’s running up a tab that he has no real way of repaying. But he can do this, be a good patient. He’s going to get a good grade in whatever this is, which is normal to want and possible to achieve. Grace’s hands move more and more slowly as they near the teeth protruding from the side of his face, until his hands still, fingertips pressed against the dip between his cheek and his lips.
“Go ahead,” Simon tells him, and Grace starts against him.
“Hmm? Sorry, just wrapping up”--
“Go ahead,” Simon tells him again, eyes on the ceiling. “I know you’re dying to examine them.”
“Just a little, if it’s okay”-- He can tell Grace is trying to sound somewhere between nonchalant and embarrassed at being caught, but the enthusiasm with which he snaps on a fresh pair or gloves betrays him.
“I didn’t want to ask,” he explains, “I mean, obviously you’re more than a test subject, and I didn’t want to be weird about it,” he says, being weird about it, “but wow! Geez!” He runs a finger along the seam in Simon’s cheek. “Hurts?”
“Just tickles,” Simon tells him, and Grace nods, pressing a little harder.
“Can you move them?” Simon doesn’t get a chance to answer. “They don’t seem to be attached to any actual skeletal structure, could you open your mouth, actually?” Simon does– a good grade in whatever this is– and Grace presses a finger into his mouth. Fingers slick with his saliva, Grace examines his molars, feeling along the ridge of his lower jaw between his teeth and his cheek. He traces up the inside of his cheek, pressing his index finger to each tooth along the top row of Simon's teeth. With the other hand, he runs his fingers along the fangs on his face, poking and prodding as he tries to understand the skeletal structure underneath.
“Fascinating!”
“Wha ith”, Simon tries to say around Grace's fingers, and luckily Grace understands.
“They aren’t attached to your jaw, it's not a mutation, but a wholly original structure!” Grace says this like it’s great news. “This in incredible, I’d love to run an x-ray, or”-- he stops suddenly, reeling himself back in. Ryland Grace is also hoping to get a good grade in being a normal guy, as it turns out. He, somewhat reluctantly, removes his fingers from Simon’s mouth. “Do they bother you?”
Simon shrugs. “Not really, but sometimes I forget they’re there and slice myself,” he says, holding up his hand to show Grace a few scratches on his fingers, from when he had absently scratched his face or brushed away some hair.
Grace frowns. “I’ll bet we could do something, maybe file them down a little, just to make them less sharp? I mean, I could look into it, but I’m not sure how I would go about getting rid of them entirely.” He looks away, cheeks pink. “Plus, I think they’re actually kind of rad?”
Simon can’t stop a small smile, and feels absurdly relieved that his involuntary space alien roommate thinks his extra teeth are neat. He’s getting a great grade in whatever this is.