Chapter Text
He wasn’t supposed to survive. The submarine was supposed to run out of oxygen and implode. The black box of the SM-8 was the only thing that would reach the surface of the sea of blood. A part of him knew that hope was futile. They were supposed to get their execution.
Instead, he got his freedom.
Simon woke to the lingering taste of congealed blood on the roof of his mouth—maybe his own, maybe not. His head screamed. His lungs wheezed. The pain was crueler than death in its own way—dead men don’t suffer. Dead men have the hard part out of the way early. He did not possess that luxury.
Though the room was dim, his eyes burned as he forced them open. Everything was bleary silhouettes and harsh shadows. The faint hum of electricity and the steady beep-beep-beeping of the technology around him scratched at his ears. His chest rattled with a cough so brutal that his vision went white for a moment. He then became acutely aware of a muscle twinge in his shoulder, and when he shifted to investigate—
Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Simon’s stomach lurched as he stared at the gaping space that should have been his arm. No. No. No. No.
No.
The puke was heaved up before he realized it—black, bloody bile that stole his breath and seared his throat. Sweat stung his eyes—why the hell is it so hot in here, anyway?—and the sight of the mess seeping down the front of his shirt sent him over the edge. The rapid beeping of whatever wretched machine was hooked up to him somewhere nearly drowned out his hoarse sobs and curses.
Why did he want to live so bad, anyway?
Seconds stretched as the last of the stuff spewed out—they should have left him there, let the blood and hypoxia swallow his last thoughts, should have given them what they wanted—because they wanted him dead, Ava was supposed to be lying, oh fuck, that fucking beeping—
“Convict? Was nobody on duty? Jesus fucking—gimme a minute!”
Simon’s head spun as the frenzied voice of Captain Ava cut through him while he choked up what remained of his sick. Before he could protest, an abrasive rag was scrubbing at his jaw and a cold pack was briefly pressed to his forehead.
“I’m gonna have to write Ezra up,” Ava hissed, “he was supposed to be monitoring you for POL and alert me when you came to. Useless dolt.” She paused, brows furrowed, before resuming her work with the same desperation she began with. “How long have you been conscious? Have you experienced anything beyond emesis? I can look into an anti-emetic, changes in pressure and undernourishment have likely wreaked havoc on your system, is there—”
The words croaked out of him before he could stop them. “Shut the fuck up. Please.”
Ava went rigid. Her eyes flashed. “Excuse me?”
“Just shut up for a second. My head hurts.”
The air left both the room and his lungs. For a horrible moment, he longed for the submarine and its insulation from bullshit like this. Ava’s expression could have shattered glass. Shit.
Simon cleared his throat as best as he was able. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Ava exhaled, shaking her head. “It’s fine.” Her eyes skimmed over him. “Take your shirt off, I’ll give you one that isn’t soiled.”
He nodded, drawing back the blanket to reach for the hem of the shirt, and—fuck. He stared at the limp sleeve where his left arm should have been as though he could will it back on. Still, his remaining fingers pawed at the hem, trying in vain to inch it over his torso—his stomach was bandaged, the vomit had glued the thin material to his chest, and his cheeks flushed as it only seemed to twist and tangle—Christ, he can’t even take off his own shirt, the woman he begged to let him live is seeing what her promise bought, a crippled criminal, so much for lives not being wasted—
“Stop—you’re gonna hurt yourself. Stitches are expensive, don’t tear them. Let me do it.” Ava set down the rag she’d been cleaning him with and sat beside his bed, increasing the incline until he was almost sitting upright. Her hands, fine-boned and scarred, eased his shirt up, careful not to disturb his dressings. Simon choked on a sob when her nail accidentally grazed some of the welted sores from the blood along his ribs, and after a brisk “sorry,” she reached for a tub of salve on the bedside cart, spreading the cool paste over the stinging rashes. The intimacy of the act made his breath catch, and if Ava noticed, she said nothing.
“The doctor thinks they’re caused by a reaction to a bacterial irritant in the ocean,” Ava said, wiping off her hands before continuing to peel off the shirt. “They don’t think there’s any longterm health risks. Fortunately, most of your injuries, while severe, are not complex; if we are diligent, you should be on the mend soon enough.”
“What about my arm,” Simon sneered, voice hoarse. “You got a cure for that?”
“We have prosthetics. We can probably get you fitted for one at some point.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Ava stopped and looked at him, her expression unreadable, before she finally inched the shirt over his head, cautious of his amputation wound, and dropped it in the hazardous waste disposal before continuing. “No,” she said, “I suppose it’s not.”
Ava didn’t allow the silence to linger. She tore off a stretch of bandage and spritzed it with a solution from a bottle on the cart. “The medic missed a gash on your waist when they were stitching you up. This is gonna sting a bit, but it’s better than gangrene.” Without warning, Ava slicked the bandage across a wound just above his pelvis, and Simon screamed, his his back arching as the pain seized him. Tears flooded his eyes as he clawed back a wail. He bit his tongue so hard it bled.
“Fuck—relax, you’re okay! Don’t—Jesus Christ.” Ava ignored his glare, stood up, and walked over to the dingy sink near the door to wash her hands. The sound of the running water reminded him how dry his mouth was. “You’ve survived worse.”
“Yeah, well, for your information, that stung more than ‘a bit,’ Captain.” Simon choked back the blood from the new welt on his tongue—blood, blood, he was so sick of blood…
Ava turned off the tap, dried her hands, and pushed her hair back, baring the scar that marred the left side of her face as she turned around. He expected a shrewd retort, some insult to his character, but he was met with none. She crossed her arms, evaluating him with those hard and unreadable eyes, and he was suddenly too aware of him being shirtless. Before he could speak, she unfolded a shirt stowed on a shelf and close the gap between them in three efficient strides. “Arms—uh, arm, sorry—over your head. Slowly. Please don’t tear the stitches.”
Despite his fury, Simon obeyed, grimacing as he tried to hoist up his good arm. After a few seconds of grunting and struggle, Ava sighed, resting her hand underneath his elbow and raising it with infuriating gentleness, guiding it through the sleeve. She set it down—again, that fucking infuriating softness—and pulled the shirt over his head. “We can’t afford much modesty here, but the illusion of decency is usually comforting,” Ava said, smoothing the shirt over his bandages. He winced as the salve on his ribs seeped into the fabric, but if Ava had noticed, she paid it no mind. She only stared at him afterward—it pissed him off how easily she could unsettle him—and sat down again, shaking her head.
“You’re tense. You need to relax.”
Simon scowled. “Thanks for the tip.”
“I’m serious, Convict. That kind of stress isn’t good for you right now, and we can’t give you any effective muscle relaxants because you’re concussed. Try to ease up.”
Convict. That’s what she’d called him earlier, too, before he was lucid enough to feel its weight. “Ah. So I’m ‘Convict’ again, is that right? I thought I was done with that. I thought I’m free now.”
Ava’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t—I… right. Simon. It’s Simon. I knew that. I, uh, I’m sorry, Simon. Sorry.” Her throat bobbed slightly as she swallowed and turned her face away from him, her cheeks reddened by something that eerily resembled shame. His chest twisted—it was jarring to see her as anything other than metal. It disquieted him more than he wanted to admit to himself.
Her eyes darted towards the door, then the ground, and then back to him. “I mean it, though. You need to relax.”
He forced himself to exhale, making an effort to loosen his shoulders. “Better?”
She swallowed again, managing a small nod. “Yeah. Better.”
Ava didn’t let the silence linger long; instead, she turned her attention back towards the cart, picked up the cold pack, and wrapped it in a fresh cloth. “You’re probably hungry and thirsty, but I can’t give you anything yet. We’ve got an IV in your thigh that’s topping up your lost glucose and electrolytes—your stomach had to be pumped when we got you out of the sub.” She leaned in, pushing back the matted hair and resting it on his forehead. The coolness of the compress combined with the gentleness of her touch made something stir inside of him that he didn’t want to name. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried not to cry.
Ava reached with her free hand for a band to tie the compress in place. As she adjusted the wrap, she made sure to avoid the bruises on the back of his head. Again, her fingers parted his damp hair, avoiding twisting any strands into the delicate knot she was making. Finally, satisfied with her work, she leaned back in the seat opposite his bed, taking him in for a moment before deciding otherwise and smoothing the collar of his shirt around his neck. Her fingers, so delicate and infuriating, grazed his neck, making him shiver. She smelled of antiseptic and something else that he couldn’t place.
Ava stood up from her chair and smoothed invisible wrinkles out of her pants, pressing a button near the rail of the bed that eased it back into a gentle recline. “I’m gonna leave you for a bit. You’re not so concussed that you can’t sleep, so try to get some if you can.” Her eyes flickered towards her feet so briefly he would have missed it if a part of him hadn’t been looking for it. “Uh, give a call if you need anything, Conv—um, Simon. If you need anything, Simon, just shout it out.” She bit her lip. “I’m… I’m gonna check on the heads working on the black box. Please, try to get some more rest. We can’t afford to throw lives away.” Before he could reply, she turned on her heel and walked out of the room, leaving the door ajar.
Simon gaped at the space left in her absence, his head spinning. The room felt too empty. He couldn’t have managed any clever retorts even if he wanted to. He had wasted the air and wasted their conversation. He should have asked her—he didn’t know what he should have asked her. He should have asked about the well-being of those he hit with camera radiation—her included. He should have asked her if they found anything else. He should have asked her how they got him out. He should have asked her what she risked to secure his freedom.
He should have asked her why she thought his life was worth saving.
Instead, he slumped back against the bed, wincing, his eyelids heavy, the crack in her composure playing over and over again. Her gaze averted. The slight bob of her throat. The flush of her cheeks. Her calling him Simon while choking on the name. The image burned into his brain as fatigue fogged the edges of his thoughts. He was so hungry. He was so thirsty.
Ava said sorry.
He was out again.