Chapter Text
There isn't a lot Ryland can do for the man he's just pulled from the darkness of space. Rocky isn't very happy with the decision given that the stranger had been covered in a godawful amount of frozen red fluid that Ryland could only assume was blood. Now it's everywhere inside the Hail Mary with a main red trail of melting chunks winding up from the airlock and into the med bay. The man sleeps on despite Rocky's complaining and Armando's fuss and bother over his condition. Ryland sits by the bed and watches him, silently.
"Grace sleep, question?"
Ryland doesn't respond. Rocky trills disapprovingly and leaves the room. Five minutes pass before he comes barreling back in.
"Grace sleep now, statement."
"Rocky, no."
"Stubborn human, no sleep, grumpy next day, stupid..." Rocky mutters as he rolls away.
It's not that Ryland isn't tired after dragging a strange man through space and trying to keep him alive. He sits in his chair and hangs his head, eyelids drooping, but he doesn't actually sleep. He can't. He just...with the first human he's seen since forever teetering on the edge of life and death...he can't. Rocky, of course, wouldn't understand.
"Armando, check his vitals again for me," Ryland sighs, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temple.
"Is third time Grace ask. Answer always same. Waste time asking when Grace should sleep," Rocky's insistant voice echoes from the next room.
"Rocky, please," Ryland groans in exasperation.
"Fine," Rocky snaps. "Rocky silent."
He can't die. He can't. Whatever he came here for, whatever his mission was, well, he's failed it by all means, but he has to live at the very least. Ryland scoots his chair forwards.
"You look like the fighting spirit type of guy," he murmurs, "so please, you've gotta pull through."
"Sleep, sleep, sleep," Rocky trills.
Ryland stands up abruptly and, taking the blanket that's hanging on the back of his chair, drapes it loosely over the form of the man. Rocky rolls in and stares at Ryland with what would've been an expectant gaze. Without a glance in his friend's direction, Ryland speaks to him, rather distractedly.
"You'll watch him for me then, right, bud?"
Rocky does jazz hands and spins around with a happy chirp. "Rocky watch as long as Grace sleep! Can trust Rocky!"
Ryland nods, absentmindedly, and collapses back into his chair. Rocky settles down beside him and fiddles with air for a while before falling still. He's awake, hearing trained on the stranger in front of him. Ryland is not.
Breathe in, oxygen, breathe out, air, breathe in, more oxygen, out, more air, in-
"Eye movement detected."
Breathe out-
There's a man in the room.
-breathe in-
What room is this? A heaven room?
-oxygen, air, oxygen, air, oxygen, pain-
Everything is white and sterile looking. Almost makes a guy want to throw himself into hell just for a sense of color and feeling. No, this can't be heaven.
"What is two plus two?"
Hell if I know, Simon thinks, miserably. Oh. My name is Simon.
And then it all comes flooding back along with a wave of red hot pain. He winces, squinting up at a protruding arm of white metal, hovering and wiggling above him. There's plastic in his throat and he could've sworn he's still covered in blood if it isn't for the clean white blanket draped over his body.
There's a guy in here.
He snaps his head to the side and freezes. The stranger is tall with transparent amber rimmed glasses and a cream cardigan. There's a coffee cup in his hand and he's staring intently at Simon from where he sists in an office like desk chair, knees hugged to his chest like that of a small child in distress. When he notices Simon looking back at him, his face immediately brightens with rare kind of smile.
"Look at that! You made it," he says, cheerful, almost as if he didn't believe it would happen.
Simon regards him, warily. He knows he's supposed to be wild with terror and confusion but suddenly, all he feels is mute numbness in not only his body but his mind as well. The awful idea that he's probably dead strikes him like a stray arrow.
I must be in transport, he guesses, dismally. This guy must be my escort. Angel of death or some crazy shit. He stares harder at the man as he stands up and turns to look at some kind of screen next to the bed.
Blonde hair that sticks up in the back, seemingly well built under the cardigan, looks almost like someone's half mad scientist but in lowercase. Weird angel.
"Armando tried their best to patch up your arm but I can't tell you how well it'll heal yet," the guy remarks, apologetically. "You lost a freaking ton of blood too. It's really a miracle you're even aware of me right now."
Simon glances at his own shoulder, bravely. He's missing his left arm, he notices with a strange calmness to what should be a horrifying realization. He looks back up at the man, angel, being, whoever the fuck this is, and illogically tries to swallow the plastic in his throat.
"Don't worry, you'll pull through now," the guy smiles at him as he reaches for a syringe.
Panic begins to set in and Simon attempts to sit up, flailing with the blankets as he tries to push himself away on the heels of his feet. He chokes on the plastic again, shouting for the guy to get away, but all that comes out was a disappointing gurgle.
"Hey, hey..." The guy's voice is achingly soft, just like Simon would imagine that of an angel. "I'm not trying to hurt you, just gotta have Armando take all your tubes out. It's gonna be really uncomfortable if you aren't sedated."
Against his usually much better judgement, Simon lets the guy stick the needle into his arm and give it an comforting pat when he's done.
"See? That wasn't so bad," Simon hears the guy murmur as his eyes start to droop.
A hand comes up to cradle his face and guides his head back onto the pillow. Angels sure as hell know how to give a dead guy butterflies, Simon thinks, ridiculously, before he's knocked out.
Waking up the second time is a million times more painful. His face hurts in random spots where he assumes must be cuts of some kind, his right leg feels slightly out of place and stiff as a dead cat so it's probably broken, and obviously he's missing an arm so there's that to add to the suffering.
Isn't heaven supposed to be pain free?
Well, he muses, I'm not there yet and that's probably not where I'm going so it makes sense.
At least he finds it easier to sit up and lean against the wall to observe his surroundings. Still a dreary white room full of medical looking tools and robotic machinery. Great.
"You're awake again! Feeling okay?"
Simon jumps as the same guy from before comes into the room with a laptop under his arm. Same messy blonde hair, same glasses albeit a bit lopsided, different shirt -this one is a white t-shirt with a strange logo, trimmed with red(oh shit, he really is well built under that cardigan-!)- , really doesn't look like any kind of angel Simon had seen as a kid.
He opens his mouth to ask.
"...hak...yaw...frk-!"
The guy raises an eyebrow then laughs, sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.
"Yeah, it might take you a while to get your voice back, sorry 'bout that!"
He speaks with ease, like he's used to guiding poor souls to whatever places there were beyond the light. Should I ask what hell's like, Simon wonders. Might be helpful to be prepared for shit.
"Ah, well, until then, I can tell you everything you should know," the guy suggests, shooting Simon another smile.
Never mind then. Blondie's got it figured out.
"My name's Ryland Grace but Ryland's just a formality at this point so you can just call me Grace," the guy begins then backtracks, "Or you can call me Ryland. Whichever you want."
Grace is such an angel's name, Simon thinks. It's hilarious, really.
The angel -Grace- pulls his chair up to the side of the bed, sits down, and opens his computer. When he turns the screen to face Simon, there's a strange looking craft staring back at him.
"This is where we are, on the Hail Mary." Grace points to the thing. "We're completely safe here, so don't worry about anything."
Hail Mary, angel ship, heaven or hell-
"...so vis...taks me to vhere I...need to vo?"
Grace cocks his head, questioningly. "Say that again?"
Simon attempts to clear his throat and tries again.
"This...takes me to where I need to go?" he finally asks in a much clearer voice.
"Uh...yeah? I guess so," Grace shrugs. He looks a bit confused now.
"Okay. Okay, that's fine," Simon mutters.
Something beyond the wall must've fallen because there's a crashing sound followed by what could only be described as a loud music note made by a frustrated musician. Grace hesitates, turning around to look at the wall before closing his computer and dragging his chair even closer to the bed.
"What's your name?" he asks, gently.
"Uh..."
Convict. Prisoner. Blue.
Grace's eyes are blue. Very blue. Simon stares, dumbly, but only for a moment. He leans against the wall and clears his throat again like it's still full of plastic. The feeling of blood washing over his face and into his lungs surfaces then drains as quickly as it came. What's left of his arm throbs. He's a dead man heading to his fate and a pretty fucking angel of death is asking what his stupid ass name is. What the hell.
"Simon," he spits out and closes his eyes.