simon, who found out how easily you fall asleep when hearing his voice whispering.
simon, who secretly takes an hour each day while he is on deployment to record whispering audios for you and sends a new one to you every day.
simon, who knows how anxious you get when you‘re alone and he‘s deployed.
simon, who asks you how your day is going, that he hopes you‘re not missing him too much and who always ends with "i‘ll come back. i love you." even though you never hear it because you fell asleep before the 10 minute mark.
simon, who knows if anything goes wrong, you‘ll find his hidden messages.
simon, who doesn‘t get the appeal of asmr at all.
simon, who as he gets wheeled into the military base’s er can only think about how he wished for you to be here.
simon, who knows how you‘ll react when he gets home with a bandaged arm,
simon, who will never tell you that the bullet barely missed his heart.
simon, who keeps whispering stuff into your ear if you can‘t fall asleep at night.
simon, who buys a better microphone so you can experience his voice with 360° spatial audio.
ghost opens the dresser after doing laundry (for once). he puts the folded and ironed clothes into their right places, always the neat man. he stops and notices something.
"where're yer bikinis?"
"got rid of them."
"why?"
"it‘s not a big deal, simon."
he sets the laundry basket down and sits down on the edge of the bed, where you laid with the fan fully blasting into your face because of the atrocious heat.
"wha‘ is it? why‘d ya throw them out?"
"it‘s really nothing."
even his glasgow smile was now frowning.
"tell me. i‘ll get yer any bikini ya want. i‘ll go to a tailor and have one made f'ya."
"but why should i need one? i‘m not in shape for a bikini."
he now looks at you like you‘ve grown a third eye.
"i don‘t care if ya do or if ya don‘t. i wanna se ya happy in whatever clothes that make ya happy."
"it‘s not a bikini that makes me happy."
"what is it then?"
"not a bikini."
he sighs.
"yer always beautiful to me. in a bikini, in ski clothes, with my clothes, with yer clothes, whatever ya wear. and anyone who dares judge ya for it, they‘ll get to know me. and they don‘ want that."
"sap."
"just telling the truth. and realistically, i know ya feel otherwise, but nobody really cares about how ya look, they‘re probably only more concerned they don‘t look too fat in their clothes."
the key turns in the lock and the door opens. heavy boots walk over the floorboards. not his.
his boots sound weighted, not just physically.
these sound lighter. more eased up.
you couldn‘t bother to get up from under your weighted blanket.
you recognized the man by face.
"aye, lass. b'fore yer mind runs circles, he‘s livin' an' well. yer old cranky sime needs a bit of calm. said he didn‘t wannae load off his… ya kno‘… tha‘ op wasn‘t exactly… smooth, ye know? jus' comin' over tae… he said tae ease yer mind, cuz he knows ya tend ta‘ get… giddy when yer not hearin‘ of 'im."
"you know when he‘s back?"
"won‘t be long, lass."
"week?"
"dunnae."
"then don‘t say it won‘t be long" you turn away from him"
soap sighs, "lassie, c'mon, dunnae turn away from meh! don‘t shoot the messenger!"
"at least i know he‘s alive. thanks."
"want me tah go to tesco or som'in? get yer sum ice cream?"
"no need. have enough."
"ya still have sum in yer bucket?" he points at your ben and jerry‘s.
you shake your head.
"lemme get yer sum more."
"no. i‘m eating too much ice."
"well, if yer in need of anythin‘, i‘m in the guest room."
"i can handle myself."
"yer man knew you‘d say tha‘, so he left me a message for ye."
he pulls out his phone and presses play on what you assume is a voice message. as his voice comes through soap‘s phone speakers, your body turns on the bed, now facing soap again. what 6 weeks of not hearing your man‘s voice does to a girl.
"love, if yer hearing this, then you‘re refusing soap to help you. i know you wanna se me right now, but i can‘t let you see me like… like this. it‘ll be a little while before i‘ll come back, but i will, 'kay? love yer."
you‘re not particularly messy. you like it clean, tidy, to find everything where you left it the day before.
but whenever he‘s gone, that whole thing falls apart. the dishes become a "i‘ll do it tomorrow" thing, the dust builds up on top of your guitars hanging on the wall and the garden grows like nature intended it to. wildly.
so, soap helps. does the dishes. cleans every speck of dust up, mows the lawn and cuts the wild flowers. he charges your replacement pair of anc headphones. he crawls under the bed to grab the tv remote you under there lost a week ago. he throws out the empty bags of chips (crisps) that have been laying on the ground. he‘s an angel to you.
it does annoy you a little, he‘s always hovering, asking if he can help, and you‘re agitated by it. you‘re not letting it show, but you‘d rather be alone. although you know he‘s not being annoying with ill intent.
a week passes by…
your nap gets rudely interrupted by a large hand shaking your body. the noise canceling headphones shut out your man loudly calling your name.
you push away the blanket to find your man - simon - your simon - yours truly - calling out your name.
"y/n? lassie? i‘m back and now yer not lookin‘ me in my eyes anymore?" he seems lighter, the weight of the military off of him for at least a good while.
"siiiiii."
"'m back now, dove."
"siiiiiiiiii."
"yeeees?"
"soap is annoyiiiiiing."
"oh, you don‘t say."
"it‘s not his fault tho."
—————
a/n: if i messed up the scottish accent pls don‘t murder me lol i don‘t know how to write it 😭
your bags fall on the ground of your new flat and you let out a sigh of relief and exhaustion.
"almost there, love. just gotta get yer in the bedroom."
"can‘t believe it‘s finally done."
"we made it work, see?"
you look up at him, "more like you made it work. you bought everything, painted the walls, assembled the furniture-"
"and who chose the furniture?" he says as he picks up both your bags and carries them to your bedroom.
"pinterest?"
"you did. don‘t diminish your part in this."
as you flop down onto the new queen-sized-bed with the mattress you and simon almost fell asleep on in the mattress store, he goes over to the kitchen, opens the refrigerator and takes something out.
he comes back into the room with a cupcake that has a lit candle on it. "happy birthday."
"my god, you didn‘t have to-"
"nuh uh."
you blow out the candle and peck his cheek, just before taking a part of the cupcake and handing it to simon.
"'ts your cupcake."
"i‘m paying you back for paying the flat until i got a job."
he begrudgingly pulls his mask up to eat his share of the cupcake.
"want a beer?" he mumbles out of his cupcake-full mouth.
"sure."
"so… now we can do whatever we want, eh? no mother who invades my privacy and rummages through my post, no dad who doesn‘t care…"
you expected him to continue the pattern, but he didn‘t. just after a second, you realized why.
"oh, yeah. sorry."
"all good. at least we‘re free now," he says as your beer bottles clank together and you toast to your newfound freedom.
"you ever think about marriage?" you ask simon while watching kelly severide propose to stella kidd in the midst of a fire.
"why?"
"just curious if you‘d be interested to ever settle down with someone. like… seriously."
"dunno."
'dunno'. you knew he was trying to avoid answering your question.
"'dunno'? i mean, you must‘ve given it it some thought in 30-somethin‘ years."
"'aven‘t had the time to."
"what‘d you say right now? just… on the spot?"
"dunno. like i said."
you sigh. this was getting real frustrating, real fast.
"and if you had to answer?"
'if it were about life and death?' you were about to ask, but he‘s been creating death with his hands ever since he got out of school and joined the army. he‘s not intimidated by death anymore.
"in what scenario would i have to answer?"
"uh, in this?"
now he‘s sighing.
"don‘t ya get the hint?"
"what hint, simon?"
"don‘t ya know what my image of marriage is from my childhood? how my father was to my ma? how-…"
"you never told me before. and i respected that. i still do. the thing is, you‘re only looking at this from one perspective. what about price and his lass? they‘re happy, aren‘t they?"
"he‘s not me. i wouldn‘t know how i were if i became a dad. i don‘t think i could even do 'em right."
"aside from children?"
"i‘m probably an even worse husband. i‘m a bad boyfriend as is, so why should i be a good husband?"
"you‘re not a bad boyfriend."
"yeah? i’m always away, ya never know if i‘m alive, i‘m closed off, quiet, antisocial, depression and darkness personified, so why should i-"
"first of all, most of those aren‘t true. second of all, do you think i care about that? i mean, i do, but you‘re not a rookie, you can handle yourself out there."
"i can. but what if that‘s out of my hands?"
"don‘t talk like that, or i‘m gonna… do something until you resign."
"real threatening."
"i‘m serious."
"i‘ll think about your whole marriage stuff, okay? but yer arse needs to go to sleep. mine too."
you managed to gulp down a little bit of water after the show, your trembling hands show that you‘ve been depriving yourself of what makes you be yourself on stage. or used to.
you‘ve been off coke for 2 weeks now.
"i 'aven‘t dealt with my alcoholic father only to fall in love with a crackie rockstar."
that‘s what he said to you.
that‘s what made you cry.
that‘s what made you quit.
the hollows in your cheeks had flattened out, the bags under the eyes decreased. the bed was no more a place of staring at the moving ceiling, but more a place to rest with the man you loved most.
a knock on the door pulled you out of your thoughts.
"yeah?"
the door opened, and a person you only saw for a split second dropped a package wrapped in black tape before it closed again.
you stepped closer to it.
and that‘s where your memory ended.
you wane up back in the tour bus, in your bunk. the curtains are closed. an almost empty beer bottle had spilled over the covers of your bed. great.
as you get up and out of the bunk to get an ibuprofen, you hear heavy steps. probably just a bandmate of yours wearing plateaus.
you go to the medicine cabinet, grabbing two ibuprofen. the last ones in the box, so you throw the empty box away. at the sink, you fill up a glass of water and chug down the pills. as you turn around, you run into a solid wall of muscle.
"oh-"
"what the hell were ya thinkin'?"
"what?"
"y‘heard me."
"i… don‘t remember what happened."
he obviously doesn‘t believe you. "fine. you relapsed."
"…"
the hum of the buses motor isn‘t helping you think clearly.
"i… remember there was a package in my room."
"it was almost 1/4s empty by the time i got there."
"what?"
"you could‘ve overdosed. could‘ve died."
"…"
"it went so well for 2 weeks. and now…"
"i won‘t do it again, okay-"
"i‘ve heard that enough from everyone in my life. tell me somethin‘ different tha'll change my mind."
"simon, i know… i know that you‘ve been around junkies all your life, okay? i- i‘ll… i just… don‘t wanna let go of you… if- if i do it again, then you get to leave. no begging, no crying. just acceptance, then that‘s my fault.
"so this isn‘t just your fault?"
"that‘s not-"
"sounded like it to me."
"i… i don‘t wanna guilt-trap you…"
"why?"
"if you go, it‘s only gonna get worse. i don‘t care what you do, o-okay? if you put me in rehab or if you‘re secretly a vampire and suck my coke-riddled blood out of-…"
he wasn‘t amused at your joke.
"sorry."
"i‘m not letting you out of my sight again. after this godforsaken tour, we‘re doing rehab. at home. these facilities don‘t work. they don‘t know ya like i do. you‘re just a file to them."
biker!simon x reader (who doesn‘t know anything about bikes)
if you‘re gonna set fire to the night
baby, lemme be the lighter
if you‘re already high and you wanna fly
i‘ll be the hit that takes you higher
if you wanna love when you touch the sky
you could be my midnight rider
if there‘s nowhere to go when you wanna go wild
i wanna be the driver
(måneskin - the driver)
the sounds of heavy drums, distorted guitars and a growly bass fill your car. it‘s needed, as you‘re on the brink of falling asleep, you hope the way too overpriced coffee from the gas station will soon work it‘s magic.
a motorcycle pulls up in front of you. you size up the guy in front of you. he‘s not bad looking, not in any sense. he has a nice build, even visible under his leather jacket.
he looks back at you over his shoulder for a second, and even though you can‘t see past the visor on the helmet that obscures his eyes, you‘re almost sure you see two brown orbs looking at you, even through the mirrored visor.
he‘s waving his hand at you to follow him, and you debate just speeding off past him… but only for a second as the rational part of your brain takes over, so you nod in response.
you park beside each other on the next service area‘s parking lot.
"why‘d you want me to follow?" you ask before closing the car‘s door. behind you.
"i could see ya starin‘ at me thru my rear-view mirror, luv," he says as he dismounts his bike.
"i… um… like your bike."
"tell me 'bout it then." he cockily leans against your car.
oh.
"oh, hah…" you definitely did NOT want to blow this chance. just act like you know something about bikes. "it‘s a…" you try to spy at his bike‘s model from some kind of lettering on it, but he blocks your view of any spots you would put it if you were the designer. almost like he knows you don‘t know shit about bikes. "a… yamaha… uh…"
"'lready wrong."
oh. well, that‘s awkward.
"oh, i um… must‘ve mixed something up." you could feel your face turning tomato-red.
shit. that‘s it. he‘s gonna drive off any second now… any second..
"mind givin‘ me yer number? i see yer from manchester too."
"o-oh, yeah, i‘ll give you my number, yeah, sure, um, totally!"
he hands you his phone, already on the creation screen for a new contact, almost like he planned this whole ordeal.
"i‘m not originally from manchester, tho. my family lives in gillingham. i only moved there, that‘s why i don‘t have that extremely hot accent of yours."
"gilling-wot?"
"rochester?"
"uh…"
"north of maidstone, somewhere around there."
"ah. imma have tah look it up on google maps later."
"you‘re on your way to manchester too?"
"yup."
"wanna drive together?"
"sure dovie. i'll call ya so i can hear that pretty voice 'f yers. ya gon' pick up?"
"y-yeah, will do."
your legs were made out of pudding.
—————
a/n: lol can you tell i don‘t got no idea of motorcycles
his social media‘s bio is just like him, simple, straight to the point with no dilly dallying around the edges.
his instagram and tiktok accounts have been going quite well, ever since you told him he should make them and share stuff he knew about going to the gym, especially since he was the one who (finally) convinced you to overcome your anxiety and go to the gym.
you are fine with it so far, he’s finally found something he has fun with, but the comments…
some are (somewhat) respectful and actually read the description of his account
@|strawberryfieldsforever: do you do push pull legs or full body workout?
@|wrongostarr: thinking of switching gyms to one of the chain you‘re at, looks really modern
there also are the expected fellow "gymbros" (a term you know he hates being called)
@|rickthepr1ck: damn 💪🏻
@|user748292019593929: good lookin‘, lt.
and there are the people who obviously didn‘t read his profile description.
@|ihateikeafurniture: MY MAN MY MAN MY MAAAAN
@|chinosguitarpick: DAYUMMMM 🥵
you read most of the comments he gets. he‘s not a huge "influencer", but he averages about 100-200 comments on a video. he knows how self-conscious you are, so he never engages with the women thirsting over him in the comments.
when you do videos together, suddenly all the thirsty women disappear or call you his "best friend", they just don‘t wanna face the reality you have what they want.
he catches you staring at one comment from a thirsty user as you‘re sitting on the couch one night.
"don‘t let 'em get into yer head, luv."
"i know… it‘s just…"
"they‘re just jealous of ya, dove."
"yeah… sure."
he says nothing, but he‘s committed himself to block every girl who thirsts over him in his comments from now on.
you "walk" over to the couch with your crutches, lying down and pulling your top up to your midriff.
"why did i have to trip on the stairs and twist my ankle?" you mutter to yourself.
simon enters the room, with a paper towel with disinfectant on it and the syringe containing the thrombosis medication for you.
"si, do we have to-"
"i know ya hate needles like hell, but it‘s not gon' scratch ya ego, is it? make ya have clumps in yer lungs or sum shite, the doctor said. remember, dove?"
"only in fragments. 4 hours in the ER is no joke, si."
he kneels down on the floor beside you, and takes a pinch of your belly fat to put the needle into.
"hand?"
"ya see my hands're full, dovie?"
"i‘ll hold my belly fat myself, please?"
he sighs, "fine… here, my hand, ya scared cubbie."
—————
a/n: definetely not writing this because i twisted my ankle 👀
simon gets off the leg press, taking his towel with him.
"you wanna try 100 [kilos] on the leg press today?"
you hesitate. "eh… i- i don‘t know. i‘m still kinda struggling on 95," you say as you throw on your own towel onto the machine, getting ready for your first set.
"then show me how you struggle on 95, and i‘ll… evaluate."
you scoff playfully, "evaluate… 'm not a rookie."
"go on, then. let me see ya on 95."
so, you get into position, set the machine down from simon‘s (ridiculous) 145 to your 95 and begin your set.
he watches and analyses your every move, the way your muscles work, and the way your feet are positioned at the board in front of you.
on your next rep, he sees you positioning your foot slightly wrong.
"'ere, make yer foot straight." he takes a hold of your foot and makes it stand upright against the machine. "you‘ll 'ave more force to push."
and you feel it. the 95 only feel like 85 with the change of position, and he‘s shooting you a look that says 'told ya you could do it'.
before your last rep, simon talks again, "you ready for the 100 now?"
"well, are my feet positioned in the right way?"
"affirmative. now try. i've got ya."
so, you try. at first it feels impossible, but somehow a divine power his hand pushes the sitting platform of the leg press a little farther back, and that‘s where you pass over the threshold and are able to fully legpress 100.
as you end your last rep and rest on the machine‘s chair for a bit, you feel his hand tapping your thigh, a silent 'well done' in his books.
and the ear-to-ear smile you beam back up at him makes his whole week.
—————
a/n: i saw someone do this today in the gym and it‘s lowk cute ngl 😔
as the door to your apartment opens, your daughter stands at attention with her little pink bag beside her and her favorite plushie clutched tightly in her hands.
as simon‘s dog, riley, practically bursts in, they recognize each other and she exclaims "doggie! wiley! hello!", before she looks up, "daddie!"
all the while, you go to grab her bag, handing it off to simon, trying to keep up the facade of being fine, able to handle everything on your own after the divorce. of course he notices.
"sit, riley." he crouches down to your daughter. "head to the car, okay? i'm right behind you."
"okay! bye mommy!"
"bye love!"
as your daughter skips out, he looks at you. "how're ya holdin‘ up?"
"i‘m… trying to."
"what d'ya need? 've got 'nough money on my hands, luv."
"it‘s nothing money could buy."
"jus' tell me. i won't judge ya."
"i‘m really alone, si."
oh.
"i just… miss having someone around… i miss having you around, too. having riley around. just… i just wished things would‘ve gone better."
he exhales deeply. "luv. you know what i said."
"yeah, yeah, 'you deserve to know if i‘m alive', 'you deserve a husband who‘s at home after work' and all that, but don‘t you think that‘s exactly why i hesitated to sign the divorce papers?"
"but you did sign 'em."
"because i love you, si. because i didn‘t wanna keep you back. because i wanted to do what you wanted."
"you… my god, you‘re-…"
"i tried to talk it into you that i don‘t want nor need better. but you weren‘t listening."
"look, i broke up with ya. i put ya in this shi'hole. why should i trust myself not to mess up again?"
"if i talk, you need to listen to me. look, i- i‘m wary to ask for trying again, because i‘m scared to- to seem desperate, but i‘m just- i‘m breaking at the fucking seams and- and-"
he saw that you were slowly spiraling and on the verge of a breakdown, so he slowly took you in his arms, "hey, hey, listen t'me. i would love to try 'gain, 'specially for her. if it‘s what you want, then i‘ll try for ya. but ya need t‘know that i can‘t promise it‘ll work, okay?"
you simply nodded, slowly calming down in his arms.
"pack a little bag for y‘self. we‘re goin‘ to my place, yeah?"
you wear hoodies all year round. most of the team just assumes that you find some sort of weird comfort in always wearing the same hoodie, your closet probably looks like peter griffin‘s, as you seem to only own one type of outfit you have 10 times, they think. but simon knows better.
he lasted 5 years, 7 months and 23 days in one, counting outside of assignments. he knows why you do it. when he swore himself that he‘d never be like his dad, that he‘d never touch a single butt of a cigarette, or a single drop of alcohol, not a single drug that wasn‘t sugar for his tea, there was no way to really take the pressure off of his mind, to really unwind and get all the dead bodies and trauma out of his head for a second.
soap once joked that simon ate razorblades every time after he shaved, since he went out to buy a 10 pack of blades almost every 3-4 days (germaphobe riley), so simon used his face as a punching bag (once, to be clear).
you rummaged through your bathroom, unable to find what you needed most after… that. the op had gone horribly wrong. many civilian casualties, many dead bodies you saw. the job hardens your mind, but only for so long.
"lookin‘ for this?"
"where- why- give me those!"
"i know you don‘t shave your arm hair with 'em, sergeant."
you scoff, "how would you know?"
he takes a hold of your arm, slowly rolling the sleeve of your hoodie up, giving you enough time to pull away (although he didn‘t want you to). and just as he had expected but hoped to be wrong about, he saw scars upon scars on your arm.
"come with me, sgt." he turns around and leaves the room, leaving you startled for a second before following him.
on the rooftop of the base, he held out a cigarette to you.
"no, thanks. i just wanna know why i‘m here."
"'m tryin' to help you 'ere, mate. take it,"
"smoking is unhealthy and-"
"ya think i don‘t know tha'?" he takes your hand, now not so gentle anymore. "before you start with that shit again, smoke. it ain‘t healthy, but the skin on yer arm only lasts ya for so long, eh?" he pulls up his hoodie‘s sleeve up too, showing you his scars. deep scars. " when i couldn‘t go higher-" he shows you how his whole arm - from over the wrist to right on top of his shoulder - is covered in deep scars, " - i went deeper. i don‘t know what‘s your reason for doin‘ tha‘. but i know tha‘ if i see someone else fall into the same hole i fell into, then it‘s my duty to help 'em out."
you could only stare at his arm, then at him, then at his arm again. he was now holding a cigarette out to you again.
"i don‘t even know how to smoke."
"'tis pretty intuitive."
and that‘s why you weren‘t awake the next day. instead of sleeping, you smoked with him, on the rooftop. way too much, so nicotine poisoning kicked in really heavily a bit after. but if it gave you more time to figure yourself out and seek help, you‘d gladly take it. he would help you, you knew that, and he told you. and you leaned on him.
—————
if you‘re struggling with anything, there is help, you‘re not alone.
content: fluffiest fluff of all fluff time, brief mention of abuse, maybe ooc ghost idrk, first 141 fic
summary: you‘re sick and he knows what you need
did you have to go to that 2.5 star-rated italian restaurant on the outskirts of manchester?
no.
did you do it anyways?
yes.
did you and simon joke about you getting food poisoning in the morning?
yes.
and who's the one with food poisoning, writhing and whining in your shared bed?
take a guess.
yeah, admittedly, the heating pad was doing a good job at keeping the pain and discomfort at bay, but it wasn't that relief you wanted - no, - needed.
a good, hot chicken soup, simon style, with a good cup of nettle tea, 60% hot water and 30% cold water so you could immediately start sipping away (a war crime in simon's humble british opinion). fuck yes.
but then again, he had some small errands to run, a bit of paperwork to do and still hadn't done leg day yet. not a lot of time for him to take care of you.
so, the final solution was napping. a whole lot of napping. every time you woke up, you hoped you‘d hear the heavy, meaningful steps of his military-issued boots, but to no avail. couldn‘t he just have skipped leg day for his girl?
your phone buzzes with messages shortly after you woke up from the terrible cramps no longer subdued by the heating pad, which had gone cold. three messages from simon popped up.
paperwork can‘t do itself, dove.
need to buy stuff for dinner.
i‘ll be quick.
(definetely not a so‘lek reference)
the messages were so him. precise, straight to the point, no dilly dallying. it made you smile weakly. you laid your phone back down, hoping the next time you‘d wake up, he‘d be back.
you got up to re-heat your heating pad, the nausea coming back almost instantly. god, how being sick bugged you. you shuffle back to bed exhaustedly, getting bad into the bed with the heating bad making a bad replacement for simon‘s body heat.
your snoozing was interrupted gently, as a big, calloused hand exchanged the semi-warm heating pad caged in by your hands to your stomach with a new, warm one. then, a little later, the smell of chicken soup filled your nostrils. either you died and were in heaven, or simon had just read your mind. you smiled in your sleep, earning a gruff scoff from the military man slowly starting to take shape in front of your eyes as you opened them.
"nettle tea‘s done soon."
"you‘re a lifesaver."
"don‘t mention it."
he was not one to coddle, to show vulnerability or emotion. breaking down his walls was a hard, year-long process, from when you first met him at the bar to now. it was still hard for him sometimes. vulnerability was something his dad had beaten out of him, so you had to coax it back in.
but now, he was slowly setting you upright on the bed, setting the soup in front of you.
"i hope i don‘t have to feed you." (you know he‘d do it without hesitation if you asked)
"i think i got this. but still, thank you, si.“
you only got a grunt in response as he went to fetch your nettle tea. and damn, the first spoonful of the soup, you could’ve melted into the sheets and basked in the feeling forever. his soup was heavenly.
and then, he brought the nettle tea.
"thank you, si."
"drink, dove."
and you did, emptying the cup at an insane speed.
"careful," you heard him say, almost too quiet to notice.
when you finished both the soup and the tea, he shot you a look that silently asked "want me to make more later?" and you answered with the strongest nod you could manage. he walked out and returned with melatonin drops, putting one down on your bedside.
"you‘ll sleep longer."
before he could go out, you grabbed his wrist after you took the drop..
"leavin‘ me alone?"
he looked at you with a seemingly agitated face, but you saw right through it. he wanted nothing more than stay with you.
"soup can wait, si."
he sighed, letting the tough act drop ever so slightly. his mask came off with a tug over his face, his hair tousled by it being worn for hours on end.
he dropped down beside you (leg day is really exhausting you know), being careful not to jostle you too much as to not upset your stomach. at first, he laid there a little rigid, but soon turned to you, scooted closer to you and wrapped an arm around your waist.
"go t‘ sleep, dove."
well, guess what. the melatonin drops already did their work.
