Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The word normalcy had quickly lost its meaning when the world fell apart—and yet, nothing could ever truly kill the human urge to fear what one doesn’t understand.

In a ruined landscape filled with radiation, rubble, and shambling monsters, there was very little left to understand in the first place. In most cases, the incredibly fragmented survivors were only alive due to having a closer connection to the unknown to begin with—but even that sliver of understanding was hardly enough to build trust in a broken, blinded world. The first few years after the war would be rife with misunderstandings and fear, violence and distrust, suspicion and blame. There was no one left to fight but themselves. Before anyone could even begin to recover, there would have to be a terrible wound healed from within.

Some of them, with appearances already changed by the wickedness of a new world, were easier to blame than others. Some old superstitions died hard.

Marceline was sick. And it was clearly getting worse.

That much was obvious, in the next few days following their narrow escape from the oozing beasts of the alleyway. Simon wasn’t entirely sure when his focus had narrowed so sharply, or when he’d forgotten what he’d truly been looking for—regardless, the realization had come slowly and painfully as they finished setting up their campfire for the night. He’d been overjoyed to give Marceline a warm meal for once, even if it was only soup, but she’d only ever managed a few hesitant spoonfuls. There was a trembling shudder in her small frame, and the cough that remained left her looking tired and queasy. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t convince her to eat. A good meal would not be enough to make her feel better.

And he should have known that, but… Even on his better days, he had the tendency to fixate on the most inane of things. Perhaps, in his efforts to convince Marceline that this could all go away with a good can of chicken soup, he’d somehow convinced himself of it too.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid. This was his fault. If he’d been able to focus on something more important, like- Medicine, or keeping Marceline out of the cold, it might not have gotten this bad so fast. She’d never gotten sick before, not like this, and Simon…

Simon didn’t know how to help her. He didn’t know if he could. Just like how the crown had- Changed him, down to every cell and molecule, Marceline was… Special. Different, in a way that neither of them fully understood. He supposed they had that in common.

But unlike his own deteriorating condition, he had never been afraid of her for it. She was human in all the ways that mattered—bright and kind and clever, just a little girl who deserved so much more than Simon could ever give her—and he’d only ever feared the fact that he wouldn’t be able to help her make sense of the part that wasn’t. While Simon lost himself, Marceline would continue to grow into something new. And while so far that had only consisted of occasional complaints about aching fangs, this time… This time would be much, much more serious.

Of course, it wasn’t like he fared much better when the human side came into play. Besides the few things she’d told him here and there, Simon knew woefully little about Marceline’s life before he’d found her. His best—and most hopeful—guess was that, given her sweet personality and positive outlook, she’d been well looked after while her mother was still in the picture. And yet, her first couple years or so must have been before the war had started. Simon couldn’t imagine Marceline’s mother, whoever she had been, doing anything other than hiding her daughter from the cruelty and judgment of the world. It was a terrible thought, but a realistic one. He’d seen people hurt others for far less difference than the matter of their humanity.

Not that it mattered now, but it did call into question whether or not Marceline had ever seen a doctor before there weren’t any left. He doubted she’d ever gotten a vaccine for what had used to be an array of dangerous childhood illnesses. In truth, he was almost more worried about how she’d react to the needle if it ever came down to it.

He really, really hoped things wouldn’t get bad enough for that to be a present concern.

The air was cool that morning. Past weeks had felt uncomfortably hot as glowing sparks had blown through the wind, bits of electricity and radiation crackling in the air, but today was overcast and cloudy—a bit like the transition from summer to fall, in some twisted sense. Simon had forced himself to start packing the moment he awoke, if just to keep his mind busy. Getting lost in a task, a helpful one at least, was better than getting lost with his thoughts again. It was easier now, with Marceline around. Having someone to focus on helped, unlike those lonely months when…

Well, when… He’d wandered, alone, and…

Simon felt his feet pacing the same circle, a loop he’d unknowingly created, and ground himself to a halt. The empty corner and the weight on his back were testaments enough to the fact that he was done, that everything was packed, and that it probably had been for a little while now. For once, his usual fears over starting to lose time didn’t come to light—instead, he took extra caution and concern in leaning down next to the one object that still remained. He’d unconsciously avoided the sleeping bag lying up against the wall, taken lighter steps whenever it had been necessary to tidy up the immediate surroundings.

“Marcy,” Simon whispered, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Time to get up, darling.”

He’d let her sleep in as long as possible, but even that didn’t stop the spike of guilt upon hearing her whimper quietly in protest. Her fever had fluctuated over the past couple days, but had never once broken, and Simon could feel just how uncomfortably warm she was through her sleeve alone. She had to be feeling horrible, and there was hardly anything he could do about it—not here, at least. It pained him to wake her, but if they couldn’t find something then this would only get worse.

It took a couple moments more for Marceline to stir, slowly emerging from her sleeping bag with Hambo clutched tightly to her chest. The poor stuffed animal had taken the brunt of her coughing and sneezing—he was in desperate need of a wash, but Simon was reluctant to take away one of Marceline’s only sources of comfort, even if it was just for a little while. That hesitation stayed as he helped her get to her feet, every step wobbly and uncertain under the haze of some exhausting illness.

“... G’mornin,” Marceline eventually managed, her voice little more than a tired wheeze. She was leaning heavily against his leg, as if the energy it had taken to stand up was already too much.

Still, Simon forced a wavering smile onto his undoubtedly bedraggled expression. “Good morning to you too, Marcy,” The fake cheer was obvious to them both, but neither of them commented on it. “How are you feeling, dear? Do you think we can try breakfast today?”

His miniscule hopes were dashed as Marceline slowly shook her head. Her grip on Hambo was starting to slip, like it hurt just to hold him up against her chest. She looked so tired—Simon’s once cheerful and energetic companion had become so quiet over the past few days, a mere shell of herself. He wondered if that was how he appeared to her, whenever he put on the crown. He wondered if she felt the same gnawing worry, the kind that lingered in your guts and never went away.

“Marcy…” Simon wasn’t disappointed, just sad. It killed him to see her like this. “You really need to eat something, darling. So you can keep your strength up. We might be walking for a while today, and…” He trailed off at the sight of quiet tears building up in Marceline’s eyes, as she buried her face even further into his pant leg. She sniffled, little tremors running through her shoulders, and for a moment—just a moment, and nothing more—Simon felt like a real father, something he’d desperately wished he could be for her from the moment they’d met. He wished things were normal, that the world hadn’t ended, that he could go down to a pharmacy or a doctor’s office or do anything to help this poor little girl feel better. He wished he could talk to her mother, even for only a moment. He wished Betty was still here.

Oh, Betty. Perhaps things would’ve never gone so wrong, if only she’d been there to stop it.

“... Does it really still hurt that bad?” He eventually whispered, and winced when Marceline let out a sad and affirmatory whine. The last time she’d eaten anything had been yesterday night, and it hadn’t gone over well. It was Simon’s fault, he should’ve known that the hard-packed granola bar would have been too rough on her stomach, but- There hadn’t really been any better options, in the end. She’d managed a couple hesitant bites, flinching at the texture of dried almonds against her sensitive fangs, before having to stop about halfway through. The rest of the night had been spent trying to distract her from the waves of nausea that came with every inevitable coughing fit. Songs, stories, meaningless tasks—none of them were able to keep her mind off her miserable discomfort for very long. As Simon failed to help her again and again, he didn’t feel much better either.

“Yeah. Hurts,” Marceline rasped, the noise itself muffled by his pant leg and being more felt than heard. “M’ Sorry, Simon.”

His heart broke a little, like the fracturing of ice on the surface of a lake—splintering and coming apart at the seams. “You have nothing to apologize for, darling. I just want you to be feeling better,” Simon reassured her, and in one swift movement lifted her up to sit atop his shoulders. The weight of her small frame combined with their remaining supplies was heavy against his spine, but… As of late, Simon had been feeling less and less of the physical strain. It was almost like his body, made cold and alien by the crown, was slowly freezing over on a cellular level too. It made him stronger, but with every day that passed the more he felt like a stranger in his own skin. Unidentifiable, unrecognizable. He was scared for the day when there would truly be nothing Simon left.

But Marceline had never known him any different—and he took a slight bit of retrospective comfort in the way it stung when she grappled with his hair, one of the few pains that had never faded. “Ow, ow- Please be gentle, Marcy-” She eventually loosened her grip, settling sleepily onto his shoulders, her reaction time much more sluggish than usual. Gods, that poor girl was so sick. “... Alright, thank you. How about you stay up here for now, and keep resting for a while? Let me know if you don’t feel well.”

She nodded, again. With nowhere to go other than forward, Simon gathered the rest of their belongings and left their ruined shelter behind—eyes on the horizon, thoughts racing in parallel lines. He needed to stay focused today. He needed to be focused, for Marcy.

He couldn’t focus.

At first, he’d blamed it on the weather. The cold and the clouds were messing with his thoughts, diverting his attention—even if, in reality, the radiating heat from before had hardly been much better. Then, he’d chalked it up to stress—because he felt so helpless, of course he’d want to turn to the thing that made him feel most powerful. It was a psychological urge, nothing more. Just the desire to be useful, to do something, to take away the pain of the last person he had left to care for. To take away the pain of being unable to make her better. To take away the pain of being there, in general.

The crown was a heavy weight against his side, like always. Today, that icy draw felt even worse.

Granted, Marceline sleeping against his shoulders was just as noticeable. It was hard to ignore her heavy breathing, congested hisses, and shaky wheezes when they were right up against his ears. Simon was glad he hadn’t made her walk—she was clearly exhausted, and in no condition to be up and moving on her own—but the longer he had to listen to her obvious discomfort, the more anxious and disorganized he became. The goal had been to look for medicine, antibiotics, anything. That focus had quickly drifted from his mind as he combed through the devastated city streets. His unconscious reasoning got more and more nonsensical the longer he searched—from looking for abandoned convenience stores and pharmacies to worrying about what she might be able to eat, what normal young children liked to eat, before setting his mind on red liquorice and caramel candies of all things. He’d only shaken himself out of the ridiculous notion once he’d realized just how warm she was up on his back, her fever having undoubtedly worsened as the day went on. She would need something to help cool down. Ice, maybe. If they could even find it in this horrible wasteland world, filled with static and radiation and burning ash.

… It always came back to ice, somehow. Simon could feel the crown tugging at him, a frosty anchor in a land full of aches and pains—Let me help you. Douse these flames and build a world without suffering, without skeletons. I can keep you safe. I can help you forget.

He hadn’t even realized his fingers were grazing that gilded metal again until Marceline suddenly coughed, loudly, the sound making him flinch away.

“... S- Simon?” 

Marceline’s voice was shaky and confused. For a moment he was absolutely convinced she’d seen him considering it, the constant call of the crown, and felt another stab of shame—until Simon turned his head far enough to catch a glimpse of the way Marceline was now blinking blearily in the cloudy daylight, attempting to shake off sleep. Ah. He supposed there were worse times to wake back up, although he wished he had genuine good news to share by now instead of a weak promise to keep searching.

Nevertheless, it brought a slight smile to his face to talk to her again. “Hello, Marcy. How’s the weather up there?” 

She let out a tiny, croaking humph of indifference. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him try again—he wasn’t used to her being this quiet, and it made him nervous. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.” 

“Um…” He could hear the hesitance in her voice, rough and raspy. She really must not have been feeling well. “... C-Cold. A little cold.”

Simon winced, again. Even if Marceline had never once complained about it—at least not in so many words—he tried to limit his touch to only when necessary, and some brief moments of comfort. He’d known he was getting- Colder, physically, to the point where he could watch thermometers drop when he entered a room, but he hadn’t realized how drastic the difference was until the first night after finding Marceline. In his attempts to ensure she could at least try to sleep comfortably, he hadn’t even noticed he was making her shiver just from sitting by her side. By the time he did, the damage had already been done. She had spent most of that first day crying on-and-off, and without even trying Simon had given her another justification why—cold and frightened and stuck with a stranger, the only other person in sight, who was so woefully unprepared to look after someone else that it had nearly made him cry too. 

She didn’t talk much about what things had been like before he’d found her. Simon didn’t have it in his heart to ask.

“Ah. I’m sorry, dear,” He sighed apologetically, feeling that old and quiet guilt creep up all over again. “I don’t think that can be helped.”

“No, s’ okay,” Marceline mumbled, just barely audible from where her face was half-buried in his painfully unruly hair. Out of every physical change that had come from wearing that damned crown, the hair situation was one of the worst—shock white and untameable, it felt as if some horrible arctic beast had made a home out of his head. Cutting it off did nothing. It would grow back hardly hours later, just as bad as before, and every time he managed to stumble out of the crown’s grasp it seemed even worse. The singular silver lining was that, in lieu of any other activities, the formidable challenge of trying to tame it was one that could occupy Marceline for hours. Simon humored her efforts to tie his hair back in a variety of different ways—the same kinds of braids and hairstyles he’d clumsily tried for her, when she would sit still long enough—even if they never truly worked, and there was no one else around for him to feel self-conscious about it. “I’m warm, you’re cold. It balances.”

“Like wind currents,” Simon mused quietly. “Cold air is more dense, so it tends to sink downward. While warm air…” He reached up briefly, just to check on her more than anything else, and in response Marceline grabbed his hand and shook it around—while incredibly cute and charming, it also confirmed his looming fears. Her fever was just as bad as before, if not even worse. “Warm air rises to the top. And their cycling creates currents in the air, just like the ones in the water. Marcy, do you remember what it’s called when the sky and sea form a cycle of their own?”

That got her attention. “It’s, um- It’s-” She had to stop to cough, but kept on trucking as soon as she physically could. “-The water cycle! Water cycle.”

“Very good,” He smiled, even if it was just for a moment. He took the time to pat her on the head while she was still holding onto his hand. “Full points, sweetheart.”

Simon quizzed her for a little while longer, until her fleeting burst of energy inevitably ran out. They played games like this often, to break the silence on the road—he loved to listen to her laugh and smile, and chatter endlessly about whatever crossed her mind, as strange as it sounded. In a world that had become so desolate so quickly, one where he could be hurt over and over but never seem to die, wandering pointlessly through the ruins of a place he still couldn’t fully believe was gone—Marceline was the singular bright speck of light he could focus on when there was nowhere else to go. Instead of marching solemnly through this gutted landscape, he could look for things to teach her about as they made their way through burned cities. Instead of mourning the way things had used to be, he could focus on finding a way to help the both of them go on a little longer. Instead of pondering the crown, that damned item occupying every corner of his thoughts, he could try to find another way to get her to laugh and smile and sing. She was such an incredibly bright young girl. Creative, too—although the opportunities to do so had been few and far between, Marceline had loved to indulge in music, even if that just meant making up some silly song as they went. She could be quite the star someday. Whenever she was feeling down, he liked to remind her of that.

Eventually, Simon ran out of questions to ask, and Marceline ran out of energy to answer them. While a nice enough distraction for them both, it hadn’t been enough to alleviate his frustration over not finding anything useful in this hollow shell of a former suburb. He knew, instinctively, that they’d have to head deeper into the city if they wanted results. But the cities had those- Those things, the monsters made of ooze and slime, and the only way he even had a chance of taking them on was…

The crown still rattled with every step he took. Despite everything he’d done to take his mind off it, the droning sound of clanging metal had never left him be.

“Marcy,” Simon called out to her, although he couldn’t tell which one of them it was meant to be a lifeline for. “How are you doing, dear? Please be honest with me.”

She was quiet for a little while. Simon almost thought she’d fallen back asleep until he heard her start to sniffle—and when she did eventually speak, her voice was filled with the kind of congestion that not a single tissue substitute he’d offered her over the past few days had been able to put a dent in. “... Simon,” Marceline said hoarsely, heartbreakingly. It was painfully obvious how hard it was for her to breathe. “Simon, I really don’t feel good.” 

Her worsening condition had been horrible to see, but it was that wheezing that frightened him the most. It was a constant weight on her, draining the light from what had once been an energetic young girl—she tired so easily now, even short conversations being too difficult to maintain for long. She had coughing fits that could last for minutes at a time, fighting relentlessly for an even breath, and even when they ended she was left enduring waves of nausea that were unfortunately starting to overpower her more often than not. Simon knew it was serious. This wasn’t just a cold, not anymore. The supernatural part of Marceline wasn’t strong enough to stop this sickness from threatening her life.

“I know,” Simon whispered. He couldn’t hide the sadness in his voice this time. “I’m so sorry, Marcy. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

He’d stopped walking, now. He couldn’t fully remember when, just that he’d come to a halt on the corner of what once had been an intersecting street—a collapsed gas station on one end, broken-down brick buildings on the other, all left exposed to the wind and sky. There would be no shelter to be found in these hollowed structures, and he doubted the elements had been kind to whatever was left inside. By the time Marceline finally spoke up again, Simon had almost become too distracted to hear it. “Oh. Um... Anything?”

“Of course,” Simon echoed, unable to stop himself from giving promises he knew he could never keep. “Anything.”

And even then, Marceline seemed hesitant. Embarrassed, maybe—for how hard he’d tried not to discourage her of anything, or ignore what she had to say, there were a couple things that even now made her clearly anxious to ask for or talk about. Simon wanted to think it was just a symptom of her growing up, hoping to look tough and responsible, but… He worried, sometimes. The thought that something had happened to that sweet little girl to make her fear reaching out was just heartwrenching. She could have gone through anything before they met, and Simon would never know.

“... My- My mommy, she… Used to let me sleep on th’ couch with her. When I was scared,” It was a soft, quiet admittance to so many different vulnerabilities at once—the topic of Marceline’s mother, which she hardly brought up. What had caused them to become separated in the first place. The fact that she was scared. “It made me feel better. D’ You think I...”

One day, Simon would lose his battle with the crown. He’d fought for so long, clung to every hint of himself with as much strength as he could muster, but… Eventually, he’d lose himself. The reality of it had only become even more horrifying when Marceline came into the picture. He was so, so afraid to get too close to her. To let her see him as a parent, when all he would ever do was inevitably transform into an unrecognizable monster. It was already happening. He didn’t have forever, and- He needed Marceline to be ready for that, when that day came.

But not now.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Simon reached back to hold her hand, briefly. She was so small. “If you want it.”

In hindsight, the decision had probably saved her life.

Simon awoke to the feeling that something was wrong.

For just how strongly the sensation churned in his gut, frightful and demanding, it took him a little while to come back to himself enough to remember why. As he dazedly blinked back to awareness, his dark and dingy surroundings slowly began to fade in—brick walls, overturned tables, holes in the ceiling where faint moonlight filtered in from the sky. They’d taken shelter in the least-trashed building on the street, which had turned out to be some kind of local diner. Maybe a pizza place, if the flaking wall decorations were any indication. Most everything edible in there had already gone bad, unfortunately, but other than that it made for a decent campout spot once he’d shoveled the broken glass into a corner. He’d been taking extra care to find places indoors—or at least had used to be indoors—if just to keep Marceline out of the elements. He didn’t want her to-

Marceline.

Why was it so- Quiet?

It was an odd thought, but only until Simon started to remember where they were. As per Marceline’s request, he’d set their bedrolls side-by-side in the most concealed corner of the building he could find. While Marceline had been content to curl up for the night as soon as possible, Simon’s own scavenged sleeping bag had seen considerably less use. He didn’t really have a specific reason why. Whether from worry, or the notion that someone needed to keep watch, or because that damned crown had a constant pull that only strengthened when he closed his eyes, he simply… Didn’t sleep, sometimes. The consequences were surprisingly minimal. The crown kept him alive, no matter what, and he supposed that had to include things like the inherent need for rest. 

But it had still been nice to sleep for a while. Now that he was thinking harder about it, he could recall a sliver of a memory from before he’d drifted off that night—lying down and staring at the ceiling, Marceline clinging to his arm just as tightly as she would’ve held Hambo. For how terribly cold he’d become, she was like a little space heater curled right up against his side. Simon had worried, for a while, whether or not she’d be able to sleep well—but she’d never once woken up, not even during the occasional unconscious coughing fit that hurt to listen to but would eventually go away. The poor girl’s breathing was so heavy and tired, even in her sleep. He’d fallen asleep to the sound of her raspy wheezes, painful yet comforting, because at least he had veritable proof that she was still somewhat safe and sound at his side-

But now, it was… Quiet. 

Quiet, except for the tiny, weakened sound of- Heaving, choking-

And then suddenly Simon was sitting upright, a vicious cold shock electrifying his body and mind, the taste of fear heavy in his throat as he reached frantically for where he thought Marceline would be. He was a little off, as she’d curled up into herself even further in the midst of the attack—her only noises being desperate little half-breaths, so sticky with congestion that he could hardly tell the inhale and exhale apart. She was so- Still when he touched her, so horribly silent and lifeless, that Simon started to truly panic. “Marcy- Marceline, please wake up, please, I-”

It was funny, just how quickly he’d been unable to imagine life without her. Knowing that, inevitably, any semblance of familiarity would be ripped out of his mind piece by irreplaceable piece—but it wasn’t that long ago that he hadn’t been able to imagine living at all, either. Wandering in search of Betty for as long as he dared. Shutting himself in his apartment, their apartment, in an attempt to contain whatever unrecognizable beast he was slowly turning into. Silence, loneliness. Listening to reports of the war raging on, and then- Then one day, when the sky had lit up with acid, burning the world to the ground, he’d been almost grateful for his struggle to end. But the crown had tugged him forward through the ashes, made him a mere puppet forced to dance amongst the ruins of everything he’d known and loved. There was nothing left in this broken world to love. And he’d tried to take himself out of it, again and again, but whether by his cowardice or the crown’s taunting power it never worked- And then there was Marceline, and she’d needed him, needed anyone, but what he could never bring himself to admit was that he needed her just as badly. Please, Marceline, wake up. I don’t know if I can keep going without you.

She didn’t respond right away. There were a couple horrible moments where Simon was desperately shaking her by the shoulders, in hopes she’d do anything, consumed with so much fear that he could hardly even think straight. It only got worse when she did finally crack open one eye—because although she was at least somewhat awake she was also now horrifyingly aware of the fact that she couldn’t breathe right. The heaves turned into sharp, frantic gasps for air, which turned into desperate wheezes that just couldn’t do enough to clear the suffocating weight from her chest—Simon moved quickly to put a hand on her back, to help her sit up. The panic in her face was so powerful and crushing that it almost physically hurt for him to see.

Eventually, after what felt like a lifetime of struggling, she started coughing. And coughing, and coughing, and- It went on for so long that Simon was afraid it’d never stop. Every time the fits seemed to slow down, she would breathe just a little too deep and start that painful cycle all over again. It didn’t seem possible for there to be so much in there, clogging up her lungs—but it just kept coming, no matter how many times Simon used his sleeve to wipe the gunk away, to the point where he knew it had to be speckled with blood despite the moonlight not being strong enough to let him see it. She was shaking so badly. He patted her on the back, rubbed soothing patterns against her shoulder, but he was powerless to stop this. His little Marcy was fighting for her life, and there was absolutely nothing he could do.

But everything inevitably ended. What had seemed like unbearable ages had really only been minutes, as hard as they’d been to sit through. Every moment of it was horrible, but finally—finally—Marceline’s pained coughing slowly started to taper off, getting quieter and quieter until she could eventually breathe uninterrupted. Even then, Simon knew with a sinking heart that her struggle was far from over. Almost as soon as she’d been able to take a couple hesitant, shuddering breaths, her undoubtedly scraped throat had started to hitch again—not from coughing, but from tears. Marceline managed just one glance up at him, eyes wide and frightened and watery, before letting out the most heartwrenching sob he’d ever heard. She buried her tear-stricken face in his chest almost as quickly as he decided to pull her in for a hug. It was a cold embrace, but she clung to him anyway. Simon reached up to run a hand through her hair in a desperate attempt at comfort.

“I’ve got you, sweetie. I’m right here,” He whispered slowly, softly. He could feel Marceline’s heart hammering as he held her, a frightened sound that echoed with every one of her pained whimpers. “You’re going to be alright. Just breathe for me, Marcy, you’re doing so well. So well. I’m so proud of you,” He really and truly was—he felt so much pride in seeing her grow up, day by day, living proof that there was still something in this world worth sticking around for. He felt so much sorrow that he couldn’t give her something more than a sick old man and countless hollow promises. “You’re safe, darling. I’ve got you. I know it hurts, but you don’t have to be scared,” Simon pressed a brief kiss to the top of her head, more out of instinct than anything else. “Please, don’t be scared.”

They stayed like that for a very long time. Poor Marceline just couldn’t stop crying. It reminded him of the first day he’d found her, and how helpless he’d felt when her tears had never stopped coming. Now, he was at least a little more prepared. He tried to wipe her face clean whenever she was able to un-bury herself from his chest. He fished Hambo out of the sleeping bag, so she could have something soft to hold. He had her drink a little water from their stores, an endeavor easier said than achieved. You lost a lot of water, sweetheart. Let’s try putting some back. All the while, she never once let go of him. Even as she started to give back into her exhaustion, eyes closing with every sleepy wheeze, it was his chest that she curled up against instead of the sleeping bag at their feet. Simon didn’t have the heart to move her, or to even say anything at all.

She could have died tonight. He realized it properly later, when he was less panicked and exhausted and in a clearer state of mind, but the thought alone was enough to terrify him to his very core. If Simon hadn’t woken up early enough, if he hadn’t recognized what was happening—he almost hadn’t, he could have gone right back to sleep and done nothing—Marceline might have suffocated quietly, right by his side, and he wouldn’t have even known why. He would’ve woken up in the morning to her- Cold and still and gone, and he… He would’ve-

Gods, what would he have done? What would the grief have made him do?

But that wasn’t what happened, at least not yet. For now, she was alive, sleeping in his arms—she was breathing weakly, and shaking all over, and burning with a horrible fever, but she was still here. They were running out of time. Simon needed to find something, do something, that could help her get better, and he didn’t care what it took to make that happen. Although he had never gotten the chance to be a father, and would never truly be hers, he understood—in a singular moment of crystal clarity—what it would’ve been like, to have a daughter even half as lovely as her. It’s going to be okay, Marceline. I’ll find a way.

He spent the rest of the night trying to convince himself that was true.

Simon got up early. Not to say that he’d slept—on the contrary, he’d spent almost every moment until the sunrise hugging Marceline to his chest and fretting—but in the sense that, as soon as the sky started to lighten, he began the arduous task of packing up as quietly as possible. They hadn’t exactly spread out all that much for the one night they’d planned to spend here, and Simon had mostly focused on getting Marceline to bed as soon as possible, but the real challenge was leaving her be in the few moments he needed to clean it all back up. Even her being briefly out of sight was stressing him out. And the longer he stayed that way, anxious and worried as he rolled up their sleeping bags, the more he automatically began to gravitate towards the crown—that damned artifact was calling to him, promising to clear his mind. To calm him, to keep him cold and confident in the face of so much stress. With its power, he could soar high above and sweep the city, and be back before she even woke up. It would be easy, so easy. And she would never even have to know.

He exited the ruined building with Marceline in his arms, her head resting against his chest once more. Simon’s logic was simple—if he carried her, he couldn’t hold the crown. 

As the depths of the city loomed in front of them, he desperately hoped that this would work.

Marceline hadn’t woken up again since last night, at least not completely. It was a fact that both reassured and frightened him to no end. On one hand, she needed the rest badly—and Simon had learned his lesson a few days back when she’d started to stumble and fall on their travels, too weak to walk for very long. On the other, the absence of her chattering little voice and resulting silence was almost agonizing. It put into a horrible perspective just how badly she was doing. Every so often, she’d squirm a bit in discomfort and crack open one glassy eye. Simon did his best to talk to her—he would ask how she was doing, if she needed anything, only to be met with quiet murmuring and confused whispers. From what little she did say painted a picture of a feverish haze, just conscious enough to hurt but not enough to know why. He tried, and failed, to comfort her through it. Just a little longer, Marcy. Hold out a little longer.

Simon kept searching throughout the day. He found nothing.

There were several very, very important factors stacked against him at the moment. One: With Marceline in his arms, his mobility and reach was significantly limited. But he was afraid to have her out of sight, or even worse, leave her behind to look on his own—she would be all alone, and he just couldn’t do it. He was afraid of what he might do if he did it. Two: They were looking in all the wrong places. Marceline had some kind of serious infection, and even though Simon was far from a doctor, he knew enough to understand that most basic pharmaceutical medications weren’t going to cut it. She needed antibiotics at least, maybe even some kind of specialized treatment, although he desperately prayed that wouldn’t be necessary. And as for three… While he knew it wasn’t possible, the further he got into the city the more purposefully bare any useful buildings seemed to be. Simon had been unfortunate enough to start to see people rip into each other out of fear, for the sake of hoarding valuable supplies they thought might be their last, but after the last of the bombs had come down… The world had become silently, eerily empty. He’d seen animals, and strange monstrous beasts emerging from the wreckage, but Marceline was the only other human he’d found in all his wandering.

He wondered if they were alone now, in the wreckage of the world. That there was nobody left to find. The thought terrified him, kept him up at night, lingered unshakably at his very core.

… However, it didn’t line up with what little evidence he had to prove otherwise. If Marceline’s fragmentary accounts were true, then her mother had survived alongside her for a little while too—and although she might not necessarily have been fully human, it was something Simon was willing to take. But the fact that Marceline didn’t like to talk about her was just as worrying. He’d never pried too hard, not wanting to make her upset, but she had always had a bit of… Fear, in a sense, of being left alone. Of course, she resolutely tried to hide it. Yet Simon could see it in the way she pleaded with him to stay by her side, to not send her away in the face of danger, to not put on the crown. She never strayed too far from him either, as if she was afraid he’d run away if she wasn’t careful. And there had always been a kind of… Hesitance, in the way she acted. Like she was worried about doing something wrong. Like she had to hold back, although Simon couldn’t possibly imagine why. 

She’d never said it in so many words, but Simon got the impression that in order to get separated from her, Marceline’s mother had to have either died or left her intentionally. Both options hurt to think about. The poor girl shouldn’t have had to grow up like this, where she ever had to doubt whether or not she was loved.

(Simon pressed another quick kiss to her temple as they walked, just to be sure. He could never be too careful about it.)

As they headed deeper into the city, the imposing skeletons of a few dilapidated skyscrapers loomed over them like ghosts. Simon wasn’t sure where they were, exactly—perhaps this had used to be Tacoma? Maybe Portland, if they’d somehow made it that far? Of course, there was still a decent chance he’d never left Seattle at all—everything looked the same now, any potential landmarks buried underneath ash and rubble. And even if they weren’t, he didn’t fully trust his crown-addled memory to be able to identify them correctly. He had no choice but to keep looking.

It happened when they were scaling a shard of upturned pavement, hoping to get a better look at the ruins around them. Simon had been focused on trying not to jostle Marceline as he made his way to the tip, something easier said than done when he couldn’t use his arms to balance himself. More than once he’d felt an urge to take the crown, to use it to make a pillar of ice he could then look down from over the desolate land, but it faded whenever Marceline let out a quiet, weakened cough. He was doing this for her. He needed to be Simon for her, not whatever monster the crown would force him to be.

It happened when he was looking out over the ruined street, for anything that could be of use. It happened when he stared across to the other side, and saw a bit of movement catch his eye. It happened when he stood there and saw a person—not a monster, not an oozer, not an animal, but an undeniable person—step out from behind the rubble, and look upwards to meet his gaze.

Simon immediately dropped down to hide behind the broken pavement, petrified in fear.

Because- Even before everything had ended, he hadn’t interacted with another person in months. Until Marceline had come into his life, he almost thought he’d forgotten how. When he’d locked himself away in his apartment, it was just as much in fear of what others might do to him in comparison to whatever he was turning into—his body temperature dropping supernaturally low, skin paling to an inhuman blue, even his teeth sharpening so quickly that he’d had to re-learn how to speak without cutting himself on those fangs. If anyone saw what was happening to him… He’d be locked up in a hospital, or imprisoned, or maybe even taken to some kind of secret government lab if he was really unlucky. So Simon had made sure it never happened. He hid himself away, for his own good. For everyone’s good.

Marceline wasn’t like that—there was nothing to hide from her, at least not in a physical sense, because they were both… Different. In a way they didn’t fully understand, although the conditions of which couldn’t possibly be farther apart from each other. Between Simon’s blue and Marceline’s gray, there was a comfortable camaraderie in being just a little odd. Maybe just a bit like family.

But this, as far as he could tell, was just an ordinary person. Which meant he needed to hide himself, and now.

He was gentle in setting Marceline down against the curve of the upturned street, but almost frantic in digging through his backpack for what he was looking for. Eventually, he found it—a pair of gloves he’d brought from home, and an incredibly condensed winter coat all the way at the bottom that he’d had to fight to bring to the surface. In Simon’s fear-addled mind, the plan was practically foolproof. The gloves would hide his hands, and the deeply unsettling chill they gave off, and the hood of the coat would hopefully keep enough of his face concealed to blame any odd tinting on the shadows. And, oh- He could use his absolute mess of hair to his advantage for once, keeping even more of his skin out of sight. Instead of looking frightening and inhuman, he’d just look… Old. Well, he supposed there were worse things to be.

(It would only be afterward, when the dust had settled, that he’d kick himself for not thinking about Marceline. A girl with gray skin and pointed ears and fanged teeth—how had he forgotten what the most fearful of people would think of her? The answer was simple, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Marceline was not a monster in his eyes. He was.)

Simon had just barely managed to put it all back together and pick up Marceline again when the sound of hurried footsteps came from across the pavement, and then- He turned the corner, and for the first time in ages was standing face-to-face with another human being.

… The stranger was shorter than him, by just a few inches or so. A little more heavyset, although that wasn’t difficult to achieve when compared to Simon himself, with deep brown hair and a scattering of freckles across her face. From time spent in the sun, perhaps. She wore tattered overalls, and had more than one bag slung across her shoulders, and for a couple of painfully tense moments all she did was stare at him. And when she did move-

“Wait!” Simon exclaimed, somehow caught off-guard and instinctively jumping back to get a little more distance. His hold on Marceline tightened, readjusted itself, made sure that she was still as comfortable as she could be. “We- We won’t hurt you, but- Don’t get closer-”

She was looking directly at Marceline. For a single heartbeat, Simon was in nothing but pure panic—the surge of sudden protectiveness that had come over him was a completely alien feeling in this scenario. He’d never imagined himself trying to defend her from other people. It was only when her expression softened, eyes creasing gently in sympathy, that Simon started to let himself believe for the very first time that perhaps everything would be alright.

“... Oh, you poor little thing,” She whispered, reaching out on instinct but stopping at the sight of Simon’s undoubtedly frightened gaze. Then, she glanced up to look him directly in the eye. “What- What happened to her?”

Simon stared at her uselessly for a moment before her words finally processed in his mind. “She’s sick,” His voice sounded stilted even to himself, and he remembered to speak as softly as possible in fear his sharpened teeth would show. “Has been for a couple days now.”

She stepped closer, and this time Simon let her. When she reached out again to ghost a hand over Marceline’s forehead, checking for the fever he already knew was there, his entire body tensed and trembled—but he let it happen, as a tentative show of trust. He watched her frown with a deep, empathetic sadness. “I didn’t… Think there were others,” She said quietly, lost in her own thoughts. “When the other group left the shelter, and we… Found their… We thought that nobody else could live out here.”

It painted a grim picture, but the tragedy of it all was overshadowed by the realization that they were not alone. There were other survivors out there, with seemingly no magical ties at all—at least, not that Simon could see. It was a miracle. It was everything he’d ever wanted.

“My name is Sarah,” The stranger—Sarah—said with a start, almost as if she’d forgotten how to introduce herself. Simon could relate. “Who… Who are you?”

“I’m- Simon. Simon Petrikov,” He whispered back, just as awkwardly. “And this is Marceline.”

They spent yet another moment staring at each other in disbelief. It just didn’t feel real—after months of wandering the wastelands, finding nothing but beasts and bones and corpses, to have another human standing alive and well before them seemed like a delusional impossibility. The silence was broken when Marceline suddenly let out another little sharp cough, short and pained, and Simon found himself glued to her all over again. She was so out of it, even worse than before. She’d hardly even moved at all during this entire encounter. As he readjusted his hold, Sarah took yet another step closer—this time, Simon was less frightened. It was clear by her hesitance that she perfectly understood why he was so worried.

“... May I see her?” Sarah asked, only a single pace away. Her eyes were full of concern, but in a way that was somehow sharp and knowledgeable at the same time. “I- I used to be a nurse. I want to help her, if you’ll let me.”

Simon could have actually cried. 

Instead, they both lowered themselves to the ground—Simon kneeling in the rubble, holding Marceline as carefully as possible, while Sarah crouched down to carefully hover over her as close as she dared. There was only so much she could do in the first place, but Simon watched her try—went through the motions of what he could only assume were supposed to be testing vital signs, but her lack of equipment and his lack of expertise left them both relatively helpless. The one thing he did recognize was when she gently felt Marceline’s wrist, and kept still for a while listening to her heartbeat. When she flinched a little at the touch, Simon cradled her a bit closer. He supposed they were both a little scared right now.

“I can’t do much. Not here,” Sarah eventually said, as she watched Marceline curl ever closer into his chest. “But we’ve been staying in the lower floors of the general hospital—the basement was left mostly untouched, and it was used as a storage space. We have supplies there. We might be able to help her.”

At another time, perhaps Simon would have thought it was too good to be true. That it was just too much of a miracle, that he would never be this lucky, that things like this just didn’t happen to him. But he was exhausted and desperate and afraid. Afraid to lose Marceline, afraid of it being all his fault. He had no other choices. There were no other options. And for the first time in a very, very long while, a tiny flickering candle of hope had lit itself in his chest.

So instead, Simon said “... Yes. Yes, okay- Please, yes.”

Marceline needed this. It was the only thing he could possibly say.

The walk back wasn’t necessarily long, but it was made cautious and slow by the rubble-ridden streets and the fact that—once they both began to feel comfortable enough for it—Sarah would not stop talking to him. It wasn’t unwelcome, just… Overwhelming. At multiple points, Simon had had to forcibly clamp down on the urge to speak in fear his sharpened teeth would show, or his aggravatingly pointed nose would stand out from the mess of hair he’d jammed inside the hood of his coat. Seriously, some of these morphological changes were just ridiculous. He could’ve laughed at himself if he wasn’t so genuinely frightened of the thing he was becoming.

Instead, Sarah asked him question upon question upon question as they walked. Who are you? Or, who were you? (An antiquarian, a term he’d had to explain to her briefly. It was far from the first time). Is there anyone else? Have you seen the… The monsters? (No, and yes. It might have just been him and Marceline, but they were anything but alone in this ruined world). Where did you come from? (In all honesty, he had no idea. They were mostly just wandering on foot at this point. He didn’t have enough mechanical knowledge to try and fix up a car, and the vast majority of them were burned and battered and in overall terrible shape). How did you even survive? (... He’d avoided answering that one. The crown was still on his belt, in plain view, but she hadn’t yet mentioned it. Perhaps she thought it was just plastic, or some kind of keepsake. He wouldn’t have told the truth about it anyway).

The conversation, inevitably, had turned towards Marceline. Sarah appeared almost as panicked over her condition as Simon was—How long has she been sick? What are her symptoms? The poor thing, she looks so pale, has she been eating and drinking enough? Any trouble breathing? Again, it was very overwhelming, but Simon pushed through at the promise of finally being able to discuss this with someone who could actually help. He tried to go into as much detail as he could, as he could bear to recall. It started a couple days ago as a cough and a low-grade fever. It’s only gotten worse. She’s been getting chills and nausea and fatigue, she’s hardly eaten anything over the past few days, and- Oh, it just kills me to hear her struggling so hard. Last night, I woke up to her- Practically choking, and I- It could’ve been bad, really bad…

Sarah had put a comforting hand on his shoulder, then. His frightened stammering had slowly trailed off as Simon took a deep breath, then another, then paused to hold Marceline just a little bit closer. Throughout their entire walk together, she’d hardly done as much as stir. I don’t know what to do. She’s been such a trooper, but I… I can’t help her. Not with this. With a soft, shuddering sigh, he reached to brush a bit of hair off Marceline’s forehead, as if to reassure her that he was still there. Or, perhaps, to reassure him that she was still wheezing weakly in his arms.

Somehow, the question that came next was the hardest of all. He hadn’t even been expecting it. Sarah had turned to him then, tilted her head, and whispered Is… She yours?

It had taken him a moment to process it, but once he had Simon was almost leaping to clarify. Oh- No, no. She’s not… My daughter. Marceline lost her mother at some point before we met, I’m not exactly sure how. So I’ve been taking care of her. He didn’t have to finish his sentence for the both of them to know what he’d meant—that if he hadn’t, there wouldn’t be anyone to take care of her. At least, not until now. He couldn’t be sure just yet, but Sarah seemed so- Normal, in a way that left him longing for home. A world where nothing had gone wrong, and nobody had ever been hurt, and maybe—just maybe—he might’ve found himself doing something like this, somehow. He had never gotten the chance to be a father. This, he supposed, was the next best thing.

They briefly stopped to rest only a couple shattered blocks from the hospital. It was brought on by another one of Marceline’s harrowing coughing fits—it lasted longer than usual, and it had worried him enough to warrant a quick little check-in to see how she was doing. She was so quiet right now, resting fitfully in his arms, and every so often Simon would be caught off guard whenever she squirmed or shivered or let out a grumble of protest. In this instance, she’d coughed weakly for almost a full minute—Simon had done his best to talk her through it, to place a hand on her back and give her a little space, but it had happened so many times now that even he could feel himself tiring at the strain of it all. She was still out of it, just like she’d been all day, but- For a moment, Marceline had opened one glassy eye to squint at him as he used a scrap of cloth to wipe her face clean. “... S- Sim’n-”

“Marcy,” He said softly, wincing at the strain in her tiny squeak of a voice. “Hey, Marcy. I’ve got good news, kiddo,” Simon took a moment to ruffle her hair, a playful gesture, and just barely heard the rumble of laughter that echoed from her stuffed-up chest. “I found someone who can help us! We’ll have you feeling better in no time.” He glanced over to Sarah, who had hung back to give the two of them their space—and despite his hesitance, eventually found it in him to wave her over to say hello. Sarah approached cautiously, carefully, as if she was worried about intruding. Marceline eyed her warily, and her general lack of reaction to another person didn’t bode well for how lucid she was at the moment, but Sarah gently reached out for a little handshake all the same. 

“Hey there, honey,” Sarah whispered, almost wistfully. She let herself tap Marceline’s hand just once. “You’re a very brave girl, you know. I’m sure Simon over here is so proud to have you with him. I would be.”

Simon realized, with a twist of sadness in his chest, that just like himself Sarah had never once mentioned family during their entire talk. To be where they stood today, they’d all lost something. Maybe even everything.

He thought of Betty, again, heart hurting.

They kept moving. 

“... I think she might have pneumonia,” Sarah said to him as they rounded the last corner towards the ruins of the city’s general hospital. They had been focusing on picking their way into the ground floor, and Simon once again found himself jumping at just how sudden her voice was. “Could also be bronchitis, but I’d be less confident about that. A cold or the flu wouldn’t have made it so hard for her to breathe under normal circumstances, but…” She glanced around helplessly at the wreckage surrounding them. “Nausea is a pretty good indicator that pneumonia is the problem. And the timing of her symptoms, at least in regards to what you’ve told me, match up with that as well.”

Simon blinked owlishly at her for a moment, before the slow and cold dread started to creep into his bones. Pneumonia. His poor little girl. “So- What does that mean? What do we do?”

Sarah shrugged, but not without worry embedded deep in her face. “Depends on the cause, and it’s not always easy to tell even with the proper equipment. Antibiotics would probably be a good start. I know we have amoxicillin, and I can try to see if there’s anything else…” She trailed off for a moment as they finally stepped within the barrier of broken glass, to what once would’ve been the windows of the general hospital. What lied beyond was even more of a wreck, except for one odd little corridor—where the rubble had been parted to form a path, leading to a downwards staircase. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to worry you. Just thinking out loud.”

“No, I’d rather hear it,” Simon managed. He tried to rationalize to himself that it was better to know, in case… Something like this ever happened again. “She’s been through so much over the past few days. It helps more than it… It…”

And then all of a sudden, as they stepped in front of a battered door, Simon noticed something. His voice trailed off as he looked it up and down. It was difficult to describe, but the amount of damage around this specific corridor looked… Fresh, almost. Burn marks and ashen gouges, like something had been clawing to get in. Sarah followed his gaze, and for the very first time her expression truly darkened. It brought a silent shiver creeping up Simon’s spine.

“... Simon,” She started, pulling open the door. Beyond was a barricade laid in front of the stairs—but as he watched, Sarah took it down piece-by-piece, in a careful and practiced fashion. It seemed a little excessive, but given the state of the door… “You’re not superstitious, are you? Religious?”

“Not necessarily,” Simon responded, not bothering to even begin to explain just how much the crown had changed that aspect of himself too. “Why do you ask?”

She looked at him, and then to Marceline, eyes haunted with a shadow he didn’t fully recognize. An odd expression briefly came over her face—remembrance, or uncertainty, or contemplation. Simon watched as she reached out to briefly touch a particularly deep gouge in the side of the wall. “These… Things. Something’s not right about them,” Sarah shuddered as she moved the last few boards, and plates, and other assorted junk that had made up one of her last lines of defense. “It’s like they’re from some other world entirely. Monsters, or zombies, or ghosts. Demons.”

There was something about the way she’d said it that made Simon hold Marceline a little tighter. It had been hard enough keeping her safe before the dead had started to walk again, so to speak.

“But- We’re gonna be okay in here. And even if something does try to get in, Antonio has always kept us safe,” As if sensing his anxiousness, Sarah tried her best to smile at him and chase away the bad memories—the unfamiliar and frightening reality of the world they now lived in. Simon hardly had a moment to even think about the new name she’d mentioned before she was starting to guide them down the stairs. “Now come on, let’s see what we can do for your little girl.”

The hospital’s basement was a connected series of storage rooms, mostly tile and stone with the occasional concrete wall that reminded him they were heading deeper underground. It wasn’t a frightening feeling—if anything, it actually made him feel safer to be enclosed on all sides. Protected. This was the kind of place Simon wished he’d found for Marceline, if just to keep them from having to weather the outdoors so often, but… In most cases, places like these were buried underneath tons and tons of rubble that they just didn’t have the ability to move—not without the crown. And with how many times Marceline had practically begged him not to touch it, he couldn’t bring himself to try, at least not while she was around.

Although, perhaps the sacrifice might have ended up being worth it. There were more signs of life down here than anywhere else they’d wandered during their travels—lit candles and neatly stacked supplies, organized equipment and rooms kept remarkably clean of dirt and dust. He thought he could even hear the faint rumbling of an electrical generator somewhere off in the distance. Sarah eventually led them into a larger, open room, which had clearly once been a storage space for beds and gurneys—although by now they’d mostly been pushed to the side, if only for the simple fact that there weren't enough people left to warrant them being out anymore. Simon watched her pull one over, and motioned to him to let Marceline lay down for a little while.

“Let her rest for a bit. I’m going to get some equipment, and let the others know I made it back safe,” Sarah let out a soft, relieved sigh. She seemed much more relaxed now that she was, well… Home, for all intents and purposes. Simon hadn’t felt truly at home since…

“How- Many others are there?” He asked quickly, if only to stop the sorrow of his own thoughts from overtaking his mind. Not now, not now. 

Sarah briefly hesitated. “Three,” She said quietly. “Including me. There were more, but… They got attacked on the surface, one day. It’s why we don’t go out in groups anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon whispered, because it was the only thing he could say. They’d all lost people. Anyone who had survived what had happened to the world had essentially lost everything.

Instead of truly responding, Sarah shook her head as if trying to shake the memory away. “I’ll be right back. We’ll get you two taken care of,” And with one last look back at where Marceline was lying on the plastic bed, she was gone into the corridors of the basement storage.

Simon spent a moment in silence. Then two, then three—and when that quiet was inevitably broken by the sound of raspy breathing, the kind that had been muffled by all the talking and movement that had occupied the last half-hour, he finally re-focused his attention solely and completely to Marceline. He’d almost forgotten just how badly she was doing right now, and the toll of remembering caused a painful spike of guilt to flare up in his chest. Her skin, already a cool gray under normal conditions, was awfully pale and soaked with sweat—in retrospect, Simon would be glad it at least made her decidedly odd skin tone a little less obvious to the average human eye. She’d curled up on her side again, and although he knew it would only make her struggle to breathe right worse he didn’t have it in himself to move her. The quiet whimper she made as she loosely cradled her stomach was reasoning enough to leave her be. He’d done his best not to jostle her too much as they walked, but all that movement had probably just made her feel more sick regardless.

He didn’t speak, so it was a surprise when Marceline shuddered a bit as he reached out to hold one of her little hands. It was so small, it only took three of his gloved fingers to hold it in its entirety. She let out a huffing sound as she tried to open her eyes—still obviously way too weary and feverish, but a valiant effort nonetheless. “Wh… Where…”

“Hi, sweetie,” Simon whispered kindly, giving her hand a squeeze. “Hang in there, okay? We’re with friends, they’re going to help you,” He doubted she remembered their talk from earlier, and the way she was squinting at him in quiet confusion all but confirmed it—the haze of the high fever had sapped away at her strength until she had nothing left to give. But finally, finally, he was going to be able to do something about it. “It’s really incredible! Other humans, living in the basement of the general hospital the whole time, and we never even knew! You know, we should probably ask to use their bathroom before we leave. They might actually have one,” He chuckled lowly, trying to get even the smallest reaction from her. Anything at all, just to know that radiant little girl was still in there somewhere.

He kept talking as they waited, as a way to fill the space and silence. “... Or, maybe we could even stay here for a little while. Make some new friends, have some fun exploring,” Simon gestured loosely to the open room, which—although still very empty and barren—he could almost imagine Marceline poking around curiously once she started feeling better. “Sarah seems really nice, you know. Good with kids. She’s the kind of person I’d want looking after you when… When I…”

Simon was fighting a losing battle. Every day, he found himself- Slipping, changing into something he didn’t recognize. His memories were getting foggier, big blank gaps in what had once been the details of his childhood and career. So many faces of the people he’d once known had been wiped from his mind, so slow and insidious that he hadn’t even realized it was happening until it was already too late. It got noticeably worse every time he put on the crown, and yet… He couldn’t let go of it. That horrible thing was shackled to him by some kind of invisible chain, preserving his life but taking everything in return, and the shameful truth was that Simon was still too afraid to die. He’d wanted so much more out of life. Respect, recognition, a fulfilling career, a family, and- Betty…

The crown had taken away it all, and yet there was still a dark and cold part of himself that craved the damned thing. Desired the way it made him feel—powerful and important and right, the delusions of grandeur blocking out the anguishing pain that had plagued him ever since chasing his beloved Betty away. Just as much as he feared losing himself to whatever monster he was becoming, another voice said that perhaps it would be better this way. Let him lock himself in a cage of ice, sealed away forever, content to dance with his own delusions and forget what he’d lost. The world would not miss Simon Petrikov. And when he was finally too far gone to be helped, it would be better off without him.

The feeling of Marceline moving oh-so-slightly broke him out of his thoughts, and he glanced down in time to see her reach out to hold just one of his fingers in her little hand. A pang of sadness sounded off in Simon’s chest—then another, then another. The beating of his own heart was an aching rhythm that was suddenly bringing tears to his eyes, if only for a moment. It wasn’t fair to her. To have clearly lost her own mother, long before they’d ever met, only to be destined to lose him too. But what was the alternative? She was so scared of what the crown did to him, things he’d said and done that he couldn’t even remember, and it made him sick with worry to think of what he’d do when he couldn’t get away from its power over him anymore. What he might do to- To her. He would never, ever forgive himself if he did anything to harm her, and… She shouldn’t have to take care of him, either. It wasn’t right. Simon was supposed to shield her from the world, not leave her alone in it.

Maybe not, He told himself, as the sound of footsteps in the hallways came closer and closer. Maybe not.

When Sarah reappeared in the doorway, arms full of various equipment, she was joined by someone entirely new—a tall and thin young man, deep in some animated discussion with her that had clearly been going on the whole walk here. He looked at Simon with an expression of genuine curiosity, but when he noticed Marceline, the look in his eyes… Changed, ever so slightly. First concern, then uncertainty, then a sort of odd disbelief—it unsettled Simon, but not in a way that couldn’t be explained off as the shock of seeing a child in the ruins of everything. Sarah moved to set her things down on the edge of the bed, and while doing so waved the newcomer over to stand at her side. 

“Christopher! Come meet Simon and Marceline,” She gestured towards them both, either unaware of or totally unbothered by the slight hesitance that had filled the air. “I- I really never thought we’d find anyone else out there, but look! I still can’t completely believe it.”

But whether it was due to shock, or disbelief, or something, for a couple moments all Christopher did was stare at the two of them. Sizing them up, perhaps. There was a much more wary expression on his face than before, and Simon… He didn’t like it. He stared back, just as coldly. Trust was hard to give when he knew he had someone to protect.

Eventually, though, Christopher stuck out a cautious hand to shake. Simon accepted it, hoping the cold of his hands would be hidden by his gloves, and the silence seemed to finally be broken.

“Uh… Hey,” Christopher said, having shifted his focus once again to where Marceline was curled up on the bed. His voice was mostly soft and even, but… “Honestly, I- I have so many questions, I don’t even know where to start.”

On some kind of curious instinct, he leaned forward—but before Simon could even react, Sarah was already swatting him away. “Don’t be rude, Chris. You can interrogate them later,” She shot Simon a mildly apologetic look, as if to say Forgive my friend. It’s been a long time since we’ve had visitors. She had already started setting up some kind of thermometer, changing out its likely dead batteries. “This poor thing has been sick for days now. I’ve never seen a little girl look so pale.”

“Yeah,” Christopher said faintly. “She’s, uh… Really pale.”

“And that’s- Normal for her!” Simon finally broke in, unable to take the uncomfortable stares any longer. Even if Marceline was ultimately too out of it to process the words properly, he didn’t want them said. “I mean, obviously she looks a little worse for wear, but- She’s always been like that. It’s nothing to worry about.”

It did not have the effect he’d hoped it would. While Sarah had since looked up from her equipment, Christopher was now watching Simon carefully, scrutinizingly. “I- I guess, but she’s like… Basically gray. That’s not- Normal, is it Sarah?-”

“There’s nothing wrong with her,” Simon was more adamant this time, but the coldness in his tone quickly thawed under the ripples of fear that were starting to run through his body. “... Except for, well, you know- The fact that she’s sick, and…”

“Hey, Simon? You’re shaking a little. Why don’t you go sit down for a second, okay?” Sarah, having noticed his growing agitation, gave him a kind glance that—although well-meaning—did very little to comfort him while Marceline was all on her own on that table. “We’re only asking because we’re worried for her too. And you must be exhausted right now, especially after carrying her all the way here.”

… It was, unfortunately, very true. Simon had managed to shake off most of the effects while they were walking, but now that he was actually in a place where he could stop and breathe—his entire body ached from stress, exhaustion, and fear. The feeling wasn’t entirely physical or mental, more like a cold weight that hung from his chest and threatened to drag him down. He needed to sit down. And although he hated having to walk away, even if it was just a few steps, he… He wanted to trust them so badly. To believe he’d found someone who would truly help, who would take care of her no matter what, who would love her when Simon was eventually too far gone to remember her name. 

It still hurt to have to let go of her hand, and see the way Marceline suddenly tensed at the realization that Simon was no longer next to her. “Marcy, it’s okay,” He whispered gently, calmingly, trying not to let the sensation of overwhelming guilt crush his trembling resolve. They can help you better than I can. “It’s okay. I’m still here.”

Then he sat down on one of the metal gurneys in the corner, and quite nearly passed out on it.

He didn’t, not yet, but it was close. Simon had spent- So long looking after Marceline, and so much of his focus onto keeping her safe, that the moment he felt like he might not be doing it alone anymore it was as if the wind had been yanked out from under his wings. It was an incredible relief, but not a shameless one. Marceline had been suffering for the past few days now, and it still wasn’t over. He should be there. He needed to be there, right now. He would be there, but he was just… Gods, he was so tired…

Simon watched Sarah quietly run a few tests through half-lidded eyes. Christopher had backed off as well, and was now sitting on the opposite end of the gurney—not that he was paying much attention to him, in all honesty. For the most part, things seemed to be going… Fine. Completely fine. Marceline probably wasn’t happy to be poked and prodded like this, but she didn’t really complain either as a thermometer was stuck in her ear and a pulse oximeter got attached to her finger. The numbers were all either too high or too low. Simon wondered if this was almost calming for Sarah to do, in a way—as a nurse, this would’ve once been her normal, even if that normal was doing routine checkups on patients that most likely didn’t want to be there. 

And, for at least a little while, Simon could almost convince himself that it was. That he was taking Marceline to a doctor, and that she would be in good hands regardless if he was there at her side. That there was nothing wrong with him other than his exhaustion, and the chill that ran deep through his bones. Perhaps he’d caught whatever Marceline had. They could be sick together, and just focus on weathering the storm for a little while, and even if they both felt bad it would eventually be alright. They both had nothing to hide. Everything would be fine.

In that moment, Simon made a crucial mistake—he let himself close his eyes. He let himself rest in that imaginary bubble, and that was the kind of decision that could have cost them their lives. For just fifteen minutes, he gave in to his exhaustion and dozed off to the belief that they were safe among friends, and that nothing could go wrong.

When he woke back up, it was to the sound of screaming.

Simon would try to reconstruct the events later, after the dust had settled.

He wanted to believe it had all been an accident. That nobody had meant any harm, that it was just a series of misunderstandings that spiraled into something… Worse. Sarah had already told him her thoughts on Marceline’s condition, and he doubted they still had the kind of equipment required to diagnose her for sure, but maybe they’d had more to work with than he’d thought. Maybe even enough to process samples with. And one of the easiest, quickest, and most efficient ways to get one was to draw blood—and if it had been for an average child, maybe it would have even worked.

But Marceline had never been to a doctor. She’d never had a checkup, or gotten a shot, or been told that—even if it was going to hurt for a moment—this was all only because they were trying to help. And even if she had, her feverish haze was so strong by now that it probably would have just made her panic anyway. If Simon had been there, he could have calmed her down, but they hadn’t woken him. Why would they? He was exhausted from watching over Marceline, and for all they knew this could have been the first chance at real sleep he’d had in days. Sarah was a professional, and surely believed she had everything under control. He’d seen the gentle way she looked at Marceline on their way to the bunker—she might have even had children of her own, once. And Marceline was just a little girl. This was something she could handle.

But maybe she’d asked for a bit of help, just in case. She could have waved Christopher over from where he’d been leaning against the gurney, handed him some of the equipment, and utilized his extra pair of hands to make this as quick and painless as possible. To them, it was just routine. Even if Marceline had reacted badly, she was so sick and weak that the possibility of her threatening them was almost laughable. Simon knew firsthand just how tough and brave she was, and he wouldn’t have considered it either—but there was no way he could’ve known what she was able to do. What she had done everything to hide, in fear of rejection from the only person she had left.

When Marceline had been prodded awake, confused and scared and in pain, it would have been to a stranger putting a needle in her arm. To the sight of her own blood draining, no matter how small the amount. To Simon being nowhere in sight. And with no reason to hide—not when she was too out of it to put a sentence together, and fearing for her life—she would have tried to defend herself the only way she knew how. It might not have even been a choice. Her body had reacted for her, when her mind was too exhausted to respond, and in doing so crossed a line they could never come back from.

Simon woke with a start to the sound of Sarah shouting his name.

“... Simon- Simon, wake up-”  

He was up in an instant, even as the world around him blurred. He just barely noticed Sarah clinging desperately to his shoulder, terrified, staring in horror at something he couldn’t quite see just yet. Simon shook his head hard in an attempt to clear his vision, and would only later realize that the action had shaken off the hood he was using to hide himself with. “I- What? What’s going on-”

When he finally processed what was going on in front of him, he froze.

He saw Marceline first, who was pushing herself up off the bed with one arm—the other was clutched tightly to her chest in an attempt to staunch a tiny trickle of blood—but something was wrong, horribly wrong. For once, it had nothing to do with the fact that she was sick. She was- Hissing, fangs bared like a frightened kitten, defensively curled up on herself like she was expecting an attack. Although he knew her eyes had the tendency to catch the light (tapetum lucidum, he remembered dizzily, and his short-lived attempts to explain that concept to her), they had never glowed—and certainly not such a fearsome, frightening red. And despite not even being close enough to touch him, let alone hurt him, through seemingly eye contact alone she had Christopher seizing and shaking on his feet. He was going to fall. From his eyes and nose and mouth a soft white mist was forming, and he was- Choking on it, hacking and wheezing and struggling for breath, screaming in some kind of horrible pain that Simon couldn’t even imagine. 

It was then that he realized that Marceline wasn’t hissing at all. She was inhaling, draining something crucial from Christopher’s body, but before he could even try to reach her that terrible sickness got to her first. He watched her breathing hitch, and just like that it was over—whatever power she’d been exerting snapped the moment she started to cough again, leaving her panting with exertion she didn’t have to give in the first place, and she collapsed back onto the bed in a trembling ball. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Christopher slam back against the metal wall, gasping like he’d been drowning, but otherwise unharmed and alive. At least, as far as he could tell. The only thing Simon could do was to crouch down at Marceline’s side and cautiously pull her close, soothing her desperate wheezes as if even the taste of… Whatever all that was had made her sick.

Simon looked up to see Sarah rushing to Christopher’s side, helping him stand. She was absolutely frantic as she looked him over, checking for any kind of physical damage, but Christopher was still staring dead-eyed at Marceline in pure terror. Fear. Disgust. Revulsion. Simon felt a nauseating chill run through his body, dread accumulating in his heart, and even though he knew exactly what Christopher would say when he caught his breath that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“... M- M-Monster,” He gasped, breathless and terrified. “Monster. Monster!”

He wasn’t sure why he glanced to Sarah, then. Maybe for help, to convey an unspeakable apology, to beg for some kind of forgiveness—but the look on her face was downright horrified. For a moment, nobody spoke. For a moment, all any of them could do was cower and stare.

Then, in the weakest and most worthless voice Simon had ever heard, he forced himself to whisper “It- It was an accident. You… Scared her.”

Christopher’s expression morphed into something wild and panicked and furious. “I scared her?” He was pressed up against the wall, entire body stiff with equal parts fear and revulsion. “I scared her?”

“I-” Simon was stammering, frozen in place. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if there was anything to say. The only tactile sensation he felt was the burning-hot weight of Marceline in his arms, who was letting out the most awful whimpers of pain, like she was stuck in a horrible nightmare. In a sense, they both were. “I didn’t- I didn’t know she could do that-”

“Simon, you… You knew?” Sarah whispered, staring at him in disbelief. It took him a moment to realize what she meant. That Marceline had never been fully human, that she was dangerous, that there was something wrong with her. He tried to shake his head in a desperate show of No, no, she’s not- She didn’t mean to hurt anyone. But the words died in his throat as her expression turned sad and scared—scared of him. 

“What are you- Of course he knew!” Christopher practically snarled, gesturing to where the two of them were curled up on the floor. “Look at him!”

He knew what they saw. A pale-blue face, wild white hair, and the glimpse of sharpened teeth with every panicked breath. The way each exhale let out a puff of cold, frosty air, chilling the room around them the moment he’d lost control of himself. Eyes that had gone silver and hollow and dead, no longer hidden by the shadow of his hood. They could see him now, and they hated him. Feared him. But that meant nothing in comparison to what they thought about Marceline.

“Please,” Simon said weakly, as he slowly and shakily tried to get to his feet. Both of them flinched as soon as he moved. “Please, you have to understand, we don’t- We don’t want to hurt you. I don’t care what you do to me, but Marceline is just-”

“-What the hell is all this noise about?”

A third figure stepped into the doorway. He was tall and broad, with still-healing wounds crisscrossing his face and arms, expression equal parts irritation and genuine worry. When he saw Simon and Marceline, all of that changed. In an instant, he was striding to the center of the room, pushing his two companions protectively behind. There was a fury and a hatred in his eyes that made it all too clear that this was personal. That he’d fought the monsters lurking in the shadows of this ruined world, and knew better than anyone else that there was no rationalizing with monsters.

“Demons,” He growled, and Simon felt his heart stop frozen in his chest.

Sarah and Christopher were both trying to say- Something, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—all Simon could see was the way they were staring him down, staring her down, in a way he’d desperately hoped she’d never have to witness. Marceline would have only been a couple years old before the war started, but that wouldn’t have stopped cruelty and fear from casting shadows across her short life. What was happening now was one of his worst nightmares. She should never, ever have had to live in hiding, or worry that people might be afraid of her, or question whether she was inherently bad inside. Simon had made his choices, but Marceline had never been given any option at all. She’d just been born like this. There was nothing wrong with her.

It hurt his heart to know that not everyone saw what he did.

When he looked back up, it was to the sound of threatening footsteps. Antonio, hold on, He heard Sarah pleading with the newcomer—Antonio—as she clung to his shoulder. Careful, they’re dangerous, He heard Christopher shout, from well behind the safety of his friend’s body. Antonio ignored them both as he came to a stop right in front of him, blocking any chance of escape, one hand gripping a leather holster strap slung across his chest. No way out. He wasn’t intending to let them leave alive.

“Enough of your tricks,” He stared Simon down with eyes of fire, barely even flinching at the sight of him tightening his hold on Marceline in a feeble attempt to keep her safe. “We’re not so blind to them anymore.”

Something was icing over in his heart, his lungs, his mind. What had once been panicked gasps for breath had evened out into forcefully frigid exhales. He heard Marceline’s frightened whimpers from where she’d collapsed against his chest, pained and scared and small, and suddenly Simon felt as if his entire world had gone dark. “... She’s- Just a little girl.”

There was silence, for a moment. He heard Sarah distantly calling out to Let them go, just let them go. They won’t make it without our help, just- Please, Antonio, not here. She looked to him in desperation—play along—but Simon couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see much of anything, anymore. Just the darkness of the bunker, and Antonio’s looming shadow, and the weight of Marceline in his arms. They were so afraid of her, but it was all wrong. Marceline was the brightest, most wonderful thing he’d ever met. She liked to draw and sing and tell stories for hours on end. She made them breakfast sometimes, even if it was terrible. She had a stuffed animal she couldn’t go a single night without. She was creative and kind and had stayed optimistic despite everything. She still ran to him for comfort no matter how much he changed, how unrecognizable he became even to himself. She would never hurt them.

“You’re both monsters,” Antonio snarled, as he pulled a gun off the holster on his back. “And we’ll never be safe until they’re all gone.”

But Simon could.

Show them what they should really be afraid of.

His fingers closed around the gilded metal of the crown.

Although Simon would never truly remember what happened after he put on the crown, the unseen memory would haunt him for hundreds of years.

Screaming. And- Laughter, howling laughter, as sharp and cold as the winter wind. His long hair brushing against a metal ceiling, the familiarity of a cave deep underground. Soaring above the masses, and filling the labyrinth with stalactites made of ice. Or were they stalagmites? No matter, he could do both. Cursing and begging and pleading. The tiny clink of bullets freezing the moment they touched his skin, dropping harmlessly to the floor as chunks of hail. How foolish it was to think they could hurt him, how far away the fear was now that he’d finally returned to rule his kingdom of snow.

First, to get rid of the riff-raff. His first few conjured avalanches were little more than warnings, and it brought a wicked grin to his face to see how they struggled in vain to escape them. A fitting punishment to those who dared to speak against him—he’d need cages to hold them in, so they could think long and hard about what they’d done. He brought up icicles from the ceiling and floor, interlocking like frozen fangs, and cackled wildly as they screamed and cried and ran away. How he loved a good chase! And where was Gunther? He needed someone to clean up that nasty bloody mess down there, so it’d be spotless by the time he got back. You know what they said about yellow snow, it was even worse when it was red-

He heard the bang bang bang of bullets, again, but this time they’d made contact with his crown. It clattered somewhere onto the cold metal floor. His attention snapped to the cowardly beanpole of a man shivering in the doorway, and felt a wide and manic grin come over his face. It didn’t even matter that he couldn’t fly—he strode across the room all the same and pounced, pinning him to the wall, laughing as he struggled and kicked against clawed hands to get free. The gun had clattered to the ground. The man whimpered as ice began to creep over his skin, spreading outwards from his touch. 

How do you like me now? He cackled, as his grip tightened on a soft and warm throat. Having fun with all my tricks?

Please, please, Came that frantic reply, breathless and begging. But they’d only just started! Please, I’m sorry- Simon, we’re sorry!

Simon.

Simon.

He didn’t come back all at once. It started with the way his hand suddenly lurched back, like he’d been burned, releasing Christopher as he crumpled against the wall. He could see his reflection in his wide, terrified eyes. Cold blue skin, wild white hair, sharp teeth bared in a manic grin. The worst of it was diminishing, but not by much—he looked haggard and vicious and violent, like a wild animal. A cornered beast. His chest heaved over and over again. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think. 

He spent a moment staring into Christopher’s eyes. There was nothing but fear. It was as if he was perpetually flinching, waiting for the final blow, somehow still cowering in his shadow despite being taller. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. Just a small, shaking gasp for breath, as the snow settled to the ground with no wind to propel it.

Then, he shoved Simon back, just far enough to slip through the doorway. He didn’t look back. The sound of his racing footsteps echoed through the corridors and faded, faded, until they finally went away.

Simon slowly turned around.

In a matter of minutes, the once sprawling storage room had become completely encased in ice and snow. Miniature avalanches sat in cascades in the corners, while sprawling ice sheets now covered the walls. Jagged icicles had risen from the ceilings and floors to touch at the tips. One of them was… Splattered, from top to bottom, in blood. In all the places where he hadn’t quite frozen it correctly, where it had stabbed instead of snared. A burly figure laid at the center, pinned between the spires, stretched unnaturally like an insect pulled apart. Antonio. His vacant expression was locked forever in a silent scream.

He was shaking. He was- Crumbling, falling to the floor, stomach churning hot and sick. The ground was cold against his hands, but it wasn’t enough. He was going to be sick, he was going to curl into a ball and die, he was never going to move again. He couldn’t make himself look back up. He couldn’t make himself see.

There might have been more there. He hadn’t seen Sarah leave, he couldn’t remember. Had he called forth a blast of snow to bury her alive? Stabbed her through with spears of ice? Had he laughed about it? Had he felt even a sliver of remorse? Had he even known? Had he-

He stopped everything. Even the chill in the room seemed to pause, for all of one second. Simon lifted his head to look towards a lone island in the middle of the snow, the only thing untouched by frost. A plastic bed, and a tiny crumpled body.

Marceline.

“M- Marceline!” Simon hoarsely cried, his voice run ragged by a strain he couldn’t even remember. He scrambled to his feet and half-slipped on the ice the entire way over. With every part of him trembling, he managed to stagger over to her side and instinctively put a hand on her back, wincing at the sheer contrast in their body temperatures. It took a moment for him to recognize, but- He felt a soft, shaky in-and-out rhythm, with all the hesitance of a child left out in the cold. He hadn’t hurt her. She was still alive.

Simon felt tears building in his eyes as he gathered her into his arms again, hating himself at every moment. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The urge to run conflicted with everything else as he fought to catch his breath, to not be sick, to not want to rip his own fingers off for daring to touch her when he was still like this. His gloves had come off, sometime after he’d put on the crown. The pale blue palms of his hands might as well have been stained with blood.

No, no. We can’t leave yet. To run would be a death sentence right now. Marceline was still sick, she’d- She’d die without help. That was the whole reason they’d come here, wasn’t it? Simon staggered to his feet, powered only by the fleeting warmth of Marceline’s little body curled against his chest, and scanned the room desperately. He didn’t even know what he was looking for, what he wanted to find. Something, anything. To prove that it hadn’t all been for nothing, to justify the unspeakable cost in his mind, to ease the pain of the little girl in his arms. If not for him, then for her. This was his fault. She’d done nothing.

He found it by accident, having almost tripped over it in his aimless pacing of the frozen room. A small white bottle that sloshed with some unseen liquid after he picked it up. Simon read the label, then again, then one more time for good measure—Amoxicillin. A flash of memory in his mind told him it was medicine, antibiotics. Sarah must have brought it over with the rest of her equipment, to use in the meantime while she shifted through test results. It couldn’t hurt. They didn’t have time to wait anymore. Simon pocketed it and gathered the rest of their things, feeling sick and rotten and cold all the way down to his core, and slowly made his way back up the stairs and into the light.

He didn’t look back.

Simon settled into a cautious routine over the next couple days. 

He’d made his way back to the city outskirts, somehow. In an attempt to block out the distant view of towering buildings, he’d taken refuge in the first relatively intact structure he could find—this turned out to be a half-collapsed motel, one he’d be hesitant to step into even before the war, but there were still a couple rooms free of debris and he didn’t have any other options. They couldn’t stay here for long. They simply didn’t have the supplies to do it, to make a long-term shelter in some remote corner of this ruined world, but- All Simon needed was a couple days. He needed a couple days to compose himself. He needed a couple days for Marceline to get better.

When Simon had first managed to get them settled, he’d been scared out of his mind. He’d nearly cried the moment he was able to put Marceline down, because- She was so, so cold, shivering and quiet and hardly breathing. He’d wasted no time at all bundling her up in as many blankets and sheets as he could find, even opting to stand in the corner of the room to keep his own radiating chill away from her. It was only when she got into another inevitable harsh coughing fit and started to cry, ever so slightly, that he snapped out of it. This wasn’t about him anymore. This was about Marceline, and- She needed him right now, needed him so much more than he could ever hate himself, and now wasn’t the time. He had to be there for her.

I’m here, sweetheart, He’d said soothingly as he wiped away her tears and ran a comforting hand through her hair. He would have to start dividing up the medication into portions, figure out how much she should take and when, but right now Simon was glued to her side. Just until he could make this up to her, just until he was able to apologize. I’m sorry. I'm so sorry. I promise that tomorrow will be better.

He spent the next few days taking care of her and almost nothing else.

Marceline spent the majority of it asleep, or otherwise out of it, but it was clear she’d desperately needed the rest. Even more importantly, she’d needed those antibiotics—he was able to see the change after only the first couple doses. Her fever went down, no longer as oppressive and uncomfortable as before. The worst of her coughing and wheezing sounded much less painful as of late. She’d even started eating again, just a little bit. She was still too exhausted to do much of anything, including staying awake for very long, but that was fine. All Simon had ever wanted was for her to start feeling better.

Focusing on her made him feel better, too. It allowed him to put those fresh and painful memories behind and concentrate on what truly mattered. He spoke to her, sung to her, shushed her when a feverish nightmare reared its ugly head. He made a little meal schedule to try and get her to eat again, helped her reach the bathroom when she needed it, read stories to her even when she was too tired to listen for long. He let her hold his hand to know he was still there. And he kept the crown on the table, a safe distance away—for a couple days, at least, things felt almost normal. It was hard, but Marceline seemed to finally be recovering. He wouldn’t lose her yet. It had all been worth it in the end.

It got a little more complicated the morning her fever finally broke.

After almost an entire week of too-hot temperatures, prickling discomfort, and letting Marceline curl up against his chilly body at night, Simon woke up without the little space heater he’d gotten used to having at his side. He only had to panic for a moment—a quick glance to the side confirmed she was still there, just sitting on a chair against the battered window and watching the hazy sunrise. She’d hardly been able to get up out of bed even with help over the past few days, but now- Now, although she was still sleepily resting her head in her arms, her dark eyes were bright and clear. She’d even left Hambo tucked in bed when she’d gotten out of it. When Simon slowly got to his feet, she turned a little to look at him—a tiny fanged smile on her face that he hadn’t even realized he’d been missing until he got to see it again.

“Simon!” Her voice was raspy and tired but happy. He felt like he was about to cry.

“Marcy!” 

Simon was over at her side in an instant, pulling her into a hug, and she laughed— still a little heavy and hoarse, but music to his ears nonetheless. Judging by the way she started trying to worm out of the embrace only a couple seconds later, that seemingly boundless energy was slowly but surely coming back. She might not have been completely well yet, but it was such a drastic improvement from their worst nights that Simon could hardly find it in himself to care about the logistics. My little fighter. I knew you could do it, Marceline.

He let her go after a moment, if only because she was admittedly still sick and the compression probably wasn’t making her feel any better. Simon ended up kneeling down on the floor so they could see eye-to-eye. “How- How are you doing, Marcy? I’m so happy your fever’s finally gone—does coughing still hurt? What about dinner last night, did that all go down okay?”

“Dinner” had been yet another try at the granola bar, so it was a significant relief to see her give a quick nod in response. “Yeah, m’ doing okay. Just a little sore,” Marceline had to stop to inhale sharply, but nothing ever came of it—a ghost of a cough still lingering in her chest. “And- Really stuffed up. Like a big, gross slimeball.”

“Hey, now. You’re not gross,” Simon put a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. “And that feeling should go away pretty soon, too. But just in case, we’ve got these,” He gestured to the small collection of dusty tissueboxes sitting on the nightstand—a quick excursion around what remained of the motel had netted him a decent amount of useful items, especially given the fact that he was sharing a room with a sick little girl. “So you don’t have anything to worry about.”

Marceline was still smiling at him, but there was a note of confusion in it now that put him ever so slightly on edge. “Okay. But, um… How did we…” She glanced around the room, and it was only then that Simon recognized the discomfort she was feeling—a lack of memory, and the sensation of having lost time. “Uh, how long has it been since…”

This would be the moment of truth. Simon took a slow, deep breath, and tried to keep his tone as even as possible. “What’s the last thing you remember, dear?”

She spent a second in silence, thinking hard, and then finally— finally —she gave a small shrug of defeat. “I… I don’t know. We were- Walking? I really didn’t feel good, and… You had to carry me for a little while. Um, sorry,” Before he could even begin to wave away her apology, Marceline’s expression furrowed into something even more contemplative. “And I had weird dreams. They felt really real- There was one where I was getting attacked by vampires! I got bit right on my arm, and I was like Noo, please don’t take my blood, and then I…”

Simon listened to her go on for a little while, the story elements quickly becoming more and more nonsensical, but there was just enough of the truth in there to give him pause. Although she didn’t know it, he’d cleaned the actual spot where the needle had poked her a couple days prior, and by now was probably unnoticeable unless he decided to specifically point it out—not that he ever would. He didn’t like lying to her, but the alternative was just… So, so much worse. He’d lost sleep worrying about whether or not Marceline had heard all the horrible things that had been said about her. To think that he’d be the one saying them was his worst nightmare.

“... You’re right, Marcy. That is a pretty weird dream,” Simon forced a soft, sad smile onto his face. “It’s okay, though. We’ve just been resting here for the past few days, so you didn’t miss much,” He chuckled quietly, before once again taking in the fact that she was here and healing and safe. He could’ve lost her several times over, and it- Scared him, it scared him so badly. “You… You weren’t doing so hot for a while, kiddo. I’m just glad you’re feeling better now.”

“Me too,” Marceline replied, a little quieter this time. He could tell she was starting to tire again—her energetic “vampire impression” (curling her fingers into claws and hissing in a way that was more endearing than it was fierce) must have tuckered her out pretty quickly. It was probably best to get her back in bed, but- First, the medicine. Simon had set aside a portion of antibiotics for the morning, and the sooner she took it the faster it would work. Better not to make her wait for it.

But there was one more thing he had to say, as he pressed that little cup of bubblegum-pink liquid into her hands. He wanted to make a habit of it, as long as he possibly could. “... Hey, Marcy?”

“Yeah, Simon?”

He couldn’t protect her forever. That was the part that hurt the most, in the end—that this was a battle he just couldn’t win, that she’d eventually have to face the world all on her own. He wished they had more time. He wished he was going to get to see her grow up, and become her own wonderful person, and prove the whole world wrong. He wished he could be there to tell her over and over that she was wonderful and creative and kind, no matter what anyone else had to say about it. But all he would ever have was here and now. Simon promised himself that, for her sake, he wouldn’t waste it.

“You’re a good kid,” He said gently, and for the first time in a while felt genuinely at peace. “And I love you very much.”

After all, there was no such thing as monsters.