Natural Blonde | cw: 18+, angst, mentions of depression, death & abuse, ptsd, (loosely) 2009 backstory, 30s Simon, fluff at the end.
That’s the first thing that popped up in Simon head as he looked himself in the mirror after four days. Baggy, tired eyes, messy hair with brunette roots— the ambassador of exhaustion.
He needs to get himself in order. Upright. Try. Try and take a step forward instead of letting himself sink further. Simon huffs, going through the cubbord under the bathroom sink, gathering the proper tools.
The bleach, the developer, toner, gloves, a bowl, shower cap, and a brush.
Simon Riley’s saving grace at a time like this.
If anyone was concerned, weather it be the recruiter who got him in the military, to his peers that trained with him, to the men and women he trained, to Kyle, to Johnny, to John— the man that guided him through his own head time and time again— Simon was a natural blonde.
Maybe it was a mask, even at his age, deep down, in the far end of his brain, there was that scared and trembling little boy. That little boy that would take the slaps and the punches to protect his brother, the one that could hear the never ended yelling of his parents in the next room over and his mothers cries. The little boy that was just fucking hungry and would creep down the steps to go steal the food that should’ve been given to them.
That damned bleach was, in its own way, a mask that protected him, it protected that little boy that couldn’t do it himself. A sure fire way to prove that he wasn’t a Riley— no— that he wasn’t his father.
With the blonde, he could be a different person. Simon could be that strong person that younger him and his brother needed so desperately— the man that could protect, the man that could speak his mind without hesitating, could hug and love, be strong and provide— do what his father couldn’t do. That’s what Ghost was.
But that mask would shrivel up on its own sometimes.
It’s when Ghost had to be Simon, and no not the one that could give a stupid joke, talk about his favorite film franchise for an hour, who likes quiet jogs with the dogs, take out on Sunday nights, wants to endlessly listen to whatever you had to say because he was eager to hear from you.
It’s the one that can’t stand to look at himself or get out of bed. The one that’s walking in circles in his mind, trudging the weight of that long carried despair since childhood. The one who can’t get the words out, and prays to God you don’t leave him because this isn’t who he wants you to see but he can’t help it.
He hated it. How no matter what he did, no matter how much time had passed, Simon could look in the mirror and see his father’s blue iris’ in his own brown ones. He’d see his fathers over bearing, shadowing build— and now, the fresh strands of brunette that had grown out— his father was right there looking back at him in the mirror.
It made Simons heart jump out, stomach coil— fuck, fuck, fuck, here we go again. There’s a loud ‘boom’ and ‘crash’ that makes Simon’s ears ring, his eyes squeeze shut and it’s like he’s back on the battlefield again. The gunshots, the yelling, the bombs, the sound of a helicopter close by, fire blazing, sounds of agony, but the only difference?
The only real enemy here was his father, and yet, even on this field, was that little boy again. Quivering in fear— hungry, hurt, in need of reassurance.
Simon has to think, fight or flight, he stumbles back from the sink till his back hits the cool tile of the bathroom wall. There’s contemplation, the smallest or small voices whispering in his ear all while he’s seeing his father walking, breathing in the flesh. Those flared nostrils, flushed face and glaring eyes he gave Simon and Tommy when he was about to smash another replaced vase against the wall— perhaps God speaking— ‘hey, it’s alright’ ‘you’re alright.’
A reminder, that there wasn’t a need to be afraid anymore. That Simon could stand on his own too feet and that monster that haunted him, wasn’t him. He wasn’t attached to it, he was long gone and dead. Most likely drunk himself to death. Simon could just be.
Simon dares to open his eyes, just a peek, as if checking like the cost is clear. His brown eyes flicker directly to the floor. He’s still here. In his house. The faucets dripping, the house is creaking like it always does, he can hear the music you like to play trickling it’s way upstairs, the nails of the dogs hitting the scratching up wooden floors, the soft bathroom rug you were so adidment about getting in between his toes— he’s okay.
And even if it’s just for the next moment that he feels this stillness— Simon Riley bathes in it. Wraps himself in it like much needed blanket on a freezing night in an undisclosed safe house.
Simon stands up, gives himself a quick glances at himself— and only himself— in the mirror before getting in the shower. He doesn’t know how long he stays in there, but he’s refreshed and squeaky clean when he gets out. He slides a pair of clean sweatpants on, gathers the materials that sat on the bathroom sink and heads down the stairs of the second floor.
Your eyes snap towards those heavy footsteps from the couch, your dogs, Slugger and Fish, already up and eager to circle around him since they haven’t seen him up in days.
“Hi.” You say softly, giving him a quick glance. Better.
“Hi.” And it’s just as soft, weary and deep, but there.
He clears his empty throat, slightly nervous, and gesture to the small pile of objects in hands, “Mind helpin me?”
And it’s the signal, an ‘I’m okay right now’ and you grasp at it like a flag in flag football.
You give him a lazy smile and a shrug, “never gotta ask.”
And it’s like you two are back in routine again, together without a misstep. Simon’s hands rubbing and holding onto your waist as you start bleaching his hair. Only you could see the man this raw, bones and all, everything that Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley was and wasn’t. touching your thighs as you stand between his legs in the kitchen, getting a sense of you as if you changed while he was stuck in his own mind. But you’re constant, just as you’ve always been, smearing every root of his scalp with the mixture that was in the bowl while humming some Kacey Musgraves song. Helping Simon put the pieces back together. Just as he’s done with you.
You’ve rinsed the toner out after the long process, Simons drying his hair with a towel, the blonde fresh and perfect on him. Sun glistening on him through the kitchen shades, face damp, a few lashes with water in them. He’s practically shining. A natural blonde.
a/n: I’m indulging myself by getting angsty but this is dog shit and no one’s reading this.