Chapter Text
When Grace was 35, news of a discovered cult, “Eden,” went nationwide. Some undercover cop managed to get into their hidden village in the middle of nowhere in America, so nowhere that their leaders managed to spin a reality for their people that they were the sole remaining humans left.
Pictures of a bloody, horrifying, and fanatic life, where adults get executed for disobeying their elders and children get beaten for asking the wrong question, got leaked online, and the rest of the nation is outraged. It took some time and effort, but in the end, the cult was successfully taken down, and its victims have been brought back to society.
“We can’t thank you enough for volunteering at the Eden rehabilitation adoption program, Mr. Grace,” says one of their social workers as she leads Grace down the hallway. Grace hurries after her, nearly tripping over as they round a corner.
Grace had seen the promotional videos online for the new organization, founded specifically to rehabilitate the victims of Eden and ensure they can find a new life. One of the departments was the adoption program, allowing citizens to adopt underage Eden victims. Grace had taken one look at the pictures and impulsively signed up.
Before his regret and hesitation could even settle in, his outstanding and flawless home background was approved, and he was swiftly taken here to pick his ideal…child.
Oh my god. I’m going to have a kid. Grace can barely wrap his mind around the idea. He’s thought about having kids, sure, but he’s never actually considered taking the steps to get one, and his slight issue with romance and dating and marriage and all that kind of gets in the way, too.
“Alright, as we’ve already told you, we follow a choice-blind procedure for the initial adoption process,” the woman says briskly, “we’ve matched you with a child that we believe best suits his needs and your selected characteristics.”
“Oh, ok, that’s good,” Grace stammers. He distinctly remembers setting a very wide range for a lot of different options. He was in an impulsive state at the time, alright?
She stops in front of a door, then turns to him with a serious yet kind expression.
“We understand that this may be a lot, and you can always come to us for assistance. But in the meantime, always remember that these kids have been through a lot, and it will require extra care and love from the parents to help them grow.”
Love. Grace tastes the word in his mouth. Bitter, sweet, foreign. He really hopes his trepidation doesn’t show on his face when he nods.
“Of course. I wouldn’t even think of doing anything harmful to them.”
“And we appreciate it.” The woman knocks the door. Gently, she raises her voice slightly and says to whoever’s in the door,
“Simon? Your adoptive parent is here.”
Simon is cold. And hungry. He knows these strangers, these people he never thought existed, with seemingly genuine smiles on their faces, have been feeding him more and better than he’s ever had, but the coldness and hunger at this point are just the natural state for him.
He grips the hem of his sweater—faded, soft, not battered or torn—when he sees the door open, and shrinks more into his seat.
“Hey, Simon, how are you feeling?” The woman asks. Her voice is as gentle as ever, but he just can’t relax.
“Fine,” he grunts. He spots a man standing behind her, and for a moment, he sees his Elders, tall and imposing with a whip raised—
Simon jumps out of his chair and backs to the nearest wall, hands raised clenched in defense as the two adults startle.
“I—I—” he doesn’t know what to say as shame and anger flood him. Beg for mercy? Apologize? Snarl something nasty?
Before he could decide, the man behind the woman stepped out with his hands raised. He’s got dusty blond hair, crooked glasses, and a look so gentle in his blue eyes that Simon’s throat seizes.
“Hey, hey, you’re alright,” the gentle man says softly. He approaches Simon like he’s something precious, like he matters, until he’s within reach of him.
“I’m Ryland Grace, your…” the man chuckles awkwardly as he half crouches down, “your adoptive dad. Most people call me Grace, but you can call me whatever you want.”
Simon stares at him. Grace feels and looks soft, from the clothes he’s wearing to his entire presence. Even compared to the people who has been taking care of him since he was brought out of Eden, Grace feels nothing like anyone he’s ever met.
“I—I know it’s a lot for you right now, but I promise that I won’t do anything bad to you,” Grace promises. He reaches a hand out, palm up. “I only want you to be happy.”
His hand looks clean, unscarred, someone who hasn’t been in hell their entire life. It would be a sin to touch that hand, Simon thinks.
Grace's gaze never leaves his face, and it’s so soft, so caring, that Simon is torn between looking down, because he doesn’t deserve to be seen like that, and never looking away, because he wants it, he needs it.
“Are you willing to trust me, Simon?” Grace asks. His hand is raised patiently for Simon’s response, and it’s so strange that someone is willing to wait for him.
“I…I don’t know,” he mutters, then immediately regrets it. “I—I mean—”
Grace doesn’t show disappointment or anger and immediately walks away. Instead, he simply smiles and says, “It’s okay, Si.” He pauses. “Is it alright if I call you Si?”
Simon’s entire soul lurches at the nickname, and he nods shakily. He didn’t know his name could sound like that, much less from an angel.
“Si, I understand if you don’t trust me yet,” Grace says, unaware of how Simon’s breath catches at the nickname once more. “All I’m asking you is that you let me be here. If you want to talk, I’ll listen. If you want space, I’ll leave. I’ll always be here whenever you need me.”
He stretches out his hand a bit closer to Simon. “Does that sound like a deal?”
Simon can barely breathe. His instinctual urge, one forged by fear and blood, was to punch something. But he takes a look at the waiting man in front of him, and his heartbeat suddenly calms down.
He remembers something that his Elders used to preach. Angels. Angels will save them from all suffering, and all their pain and suffering is the anchor to attract their attention. Without pain, there will be no angels to save them.
“Deal,” he croaks out. With trembling fingers, he accepts his new father’s hand.
When Grace was 35 years old, he adopted Simon.
When Simon was 17 years old, he found his angel.