Synopsis: After leaving the military, Simon 'Ghost' Riley becomes a nurse in a mental hospital trying to heal by helping others. When he meets a deeply traumatized patient who mirrors his own past demons, he's forced to learn to become gentler and soon finds himself caring more than he should.
cw: a lot of mental health talks (a lot about sh, depression and ptsd), displays of mental illnesses, takes place in a psych ward, reader dates men, SUICIDE ATTEMPT, reader struggles with sh and it is mentioned, abandonment issues, reader being strangled briefly, reader is lonely (no friends or family)
wc: 4,8k
˚₊‧⁺⋆♱ see the end for author's notes ˚₊‧⁺⋆♱
The reassessment sticks.
Enhanced observation again which once more means more checks, fewer privileges and tighter structure.
Simon tells himself that structure is good, that it's necessary, but over the next few days he starts noticing the shift in himself before he notices it in you.
He checks your chart first, volunteers to do your vitals, finds reasons to be the one walking past your door during fifteen-minute checks, lingers half a second too long during handover when your name comes up.
He tells himself it's vigilance after an incident, that consistency matters, but consistency doesn't explain why his chest tightens when another nurse laughs softly at something you say during art therapy.
Or why he feels relief, relief, when you look for him in a room and not someone else.
It's subtle, insidious and it feels familiar in a way he doesn't like—this hyperfocus, this over-responsibility, the old pattern of choosing one person to anchor to.
By Friday, you're quieter again, subdued almost with no other incidents.
He kneels beside your chair during a supervised evening activity, keeping his tone low.
"Eating better?"
You nod.
"Sleeping?"
"Mostly."
He studies you longer than necessary.
"You can talk, you know."
"I know."
But you're looking at him the way you were in the corridor that noon—like he's something solid in a room that keeps shifting and he feels himself lean into it.
The following day he come in shortly after lights out for his night shift, the ward already settled into its dim and humming quiet.
Enhanced observation means more walking, more checking, more proximity.
At 01:15, he's the one assigned to your corridor.
You're awake, sitting up in bed and your door cracked open per protocol.
When he passes, your eyes flick up immediately.
"You're still here." you whisper to not disturb anyone else and to not sound loud in the silence over the otherwise quiet institute.
"For now." Simon replies.
You relax back against your pillow like that answer was enough.
It shouldn't feel like something, but it does.
By 03:40, after two more rounds, he finds Mara at the nurses station with a mug of stale coffee and unfinished notes.
"You're hovering." she says without looking up.
"I'm doing checks."
"On one door."
He exhales through his nose.
Silence stretches.
"I'm screwing this up."
That gets her attention and she sets her pen down, looks at Simon.
"Explain."
He doesn't sit—stays standing, arms folded tight across his chest like he's bracing against cold.
"I backed off, did what I was supposed to. Now I'm right back in it." his jaw flexes.
"In what?" Mara questions.
He hesitates, then says it plainly.
"I care about them."
Mara studies him carefully, doesn't quiet need to hear your name.
"You care about all of them."
"Not like this." Simon says before he scrubs a hand down his face, perhaps in frustration.
"I feel it when they're not in the room, I look for them first, I-" he stops, recalibrates.
"When they almost went down in that corridor, I didn't think about protocol. I just-"
"Caught them." Mara finishes for him.
"Yes."
"And you think no one else would have?"
He doesn't answer and his silence speaks volumes.
Mara leans back in her chair.
"Are they attaching to you?"
He thinks about the way you scan for him, the way your shoulders relax when he speaks, the way you swallow disappointment when he redirects you.
"Yes."
"Are you encouraging it?"
Simons silence is shorter this time.
"...I don't shut it down fast enough."
Mara nods slowly.
"You can't be their only safe person."
"I know."
"And you can't be the person they're trying to get better for."
His throat tightens, he hadn't said that part out loud—hadn't quiet considered it could be.
Mara's voice softens but not by much.
"You need to consider reassignment."
The word lands heavy again even though it's the second time he's been suggested it.
Reassignment.
Another nurse taking over primary contact, different corridor coverage, reduced direct interaction.
His stomach drops slightly.
He had talked with Dr. Adams about it but had thought he could manage it, realizing now that he may not be able to makes reassigning a real option.
"That'll feel like abandonment to them."
"It might." Mara agrees.
"Or it might model something healthy." she adds.
He looks away toward the dark hallway.
"I already pulled back once."
"And you survived it."
"They looked at me like I'd taken something from them."
Mara's gaze sharpens.
"That's the point, Simon."
Silence again, longer this time.
"You can't withdraw as easily now." she says quietly and it's not a question.
"No."
The first time he created distance it felt sharp but manageable, now it feels like peeling something off skin.
"I don't trust myself to stay neutral." he admits.
Mara nods again in acknowledgment.
"Then you escalate it before it escalates you."
"You're telling me to tap out." Simon huffs humorless.
"I'm telling you to protect both of you."
That hits harder than anything else because this isn't about him feeling something inconvenient, it's about the risk of becoming essential—of being the pillar that collapses.
He thinks about your voice at 01:15, about the way you'd sagged against him in the corridor, about how quickly he stepped forward—too quickly.
"Temporary reassignment is an option too. Rotate primary, let them build trust with the rest of the team." Mara says.
"And if they spiral?"
"They might." Mara says honestly "Or They might learn they don't have to."
He leans back against the counter, looks down the dimly lit corridor where your door is cracked open.
Simon feels it again, that pull—protective, personal and he hates that last one especially.
"I don't want to disappear on them." he says finally.
"Then don't disappear, just don't be the center." Mara replies.
He closes his eyes briefly.
Reassignment means stepping out of night checks on your corridor, letting someone else respond first, letting someone else steady you if you sway.
The thought makes his chest ache which tells him Mara is right.
At 04:00, he does the next round, stops at your door.
Fifteen-minute check.
You're asleep, peaceful for once.
He stands there a second too long then forces himself to move on because if he doesn't choose the boundary now, it will be chosen for him later.
***
The next morning, after shift handover, he doesn't put in the request and hovers over the staffing board instead.
Primary assignments for the week are written in dry erase marker, his name still next to yours.
It would take less than a minute to change it, less than that to speak to the charge nurse or request another nurse to exchange shifts and therefore primary assignments.
He tells himself he'll decide after sleep, after clarity—after he doesn't feel like he's made of raw wire and even rawer nerves.
But clarity doesn't come with rest.
It comes with watching you sit at breakfast and deliberately choose the chair with a sightline to the nurses' station the next morning.
It comes with noticing that when someone else answers your question, you nod but when he answers you actually listen.
It comes with the small crease between your brows when he redirects you to 'bring that to your one-on-one'.
And instead of softening, something in him tightens.
He becomes sharper, clipped—frustrated by his own inability to do the right thing.
On Monday, a different patient refuses medication and Simon's patience runs thin far faster than it should.
"You know the protocol, arguing won't change it." he presses out through clenched teeth.
The patient flinches.
Later, during group, someone starts spiraling into repetitive negative self-talk and he interrupts too quickly.
"Challenge it." he says, tone edging toward command instead of guidance.
The room shifts and he feels it—too forceful.
He tells himself it's exhaustion but exhaustion doesn't explain why his gaze keeps snapping back to you to check your reaction.
You're watching him, not afraid, just...confused.
By midweek, the distance he's trying to manufacture starts coming out sideways.
You approach him after lunch, slower than usual.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yes." his tone is neutral but there's steel under it.
You hesitate, blink at him a few times.
"Never mind." you breathe out quietly after a few moments.
He should leave it there—he doesn't.
"What is it?"
You swallow, gather your courage.
"Did I...do something wrong?" you ask almost hesitantly.
The question lands like a weight dropped from height—hard, heavy and loud.
"No." he frowns.
"You're different." you observe.
"I'm consistent."
"That's not the same thing." you argue softly.
Simons jaw tightens.
"This isn't about me." he says gruff, a little too low and a little too fast.
"I know. Sorry." you nod quickly, backing off with two steps before you even speak.
Sorry.
The word needles under his skin—it pricks, burns and stings.
You apologize too easily when you think someone's pulling away, he knows that from your file—from your sessions and from watching you too.
He hates that he's the one triggering it now.
That evening, a patient down the hall has a panic attack.
Simon responds automatically, efficiently.
Grounding techniques, getting the patient away from the trigger, steady voice, controlled breathing.
But when the patient clutches at his sleeve in distress, he feels irritation flash before empathy.
He detaches their hand firmly.
"I'm right here. You don't need to grab."
Technically it's appropriate, but the edge that isn't supposed to be there isn't.
Mara catches his eye from across the corridor with a look of assessment, not judgement.
You see it too.
He notices you watching from your doorway during your allowed out-of-room hours—you look worried, for him and not the patient in distress which unsettles him more than anything.
Now it's not just that you're attaching, you're tracking him.
By Thursday, the internal debate turns vicious.
Temporary reassignment means modeling boundaries.
Complete reassignment means cutting the cord entirely.
Temporary might ease you into broader trust, complete might protect both of you faster.
Temporary might keep him close enough to monitor.
Complete would mean not being the one you look for at 01:15 in the morning.
He runs through outcomes like tactical scenarios—risk assessment, emotional fallout, stability probability.
But this isn't a battlefield, it's a psych ward and he's not neutral.
During handover that night, when your name comes up, he forces himself not to ask the follow-up question he wants to.
Mara answers it anyway.
"They ate. No ideation reported. Engaged in afternoon group."
Professional, stable—not his.
He feels the thought as soon as it forms and despises it.
Not his, you were never his and that's the problem.
Near the end of his shift, he passes your room during checks.
You're awake again.
"Hey." you say quietly, most of the ward having started to settle into their rooms for the evening.
He nods once in acknowledgment, then speaks.
"How was group earlier?" he asks, sticking to structure.
"Okay." you say, pause for a moment.
"You seemed mad today."
"I wasn't." Simon says immediately.
"You were." you push, still quiet and soft, and his patience frays.
"I'm not the focus here."
You go quiet immediately.
He sees it, the retreat—the way your shoulders curl in.
And suddenly, he recognizes the pattern.
He's not pulling away cleanly, he's swinging.
Close, cold, sharp and gentle—that unpredictability is worse than distance.
He steps back from your doorway.
"Get some sleep." he says, softer but still restrained.
You nod but you don't relax the way you used to when he said that.
At his shift end, alone at the nurses' station while the night nurse makes his first round, he stares at the staffing board again.
He thinks about Dr. Adams asking him who this is really for.
He thinks about Mara saying 'protect both of you'.
He thinks about the way he snapped at a patient who needed steadiness, not command.
His feelings aren't just contained inside him anymore, they're leaking into the ward—that's the line.
Not the ache, not the jealousy, not even the attachment—it's the impact.
He picks up the marker and holds it there but doesn't write, not yet.
The question shifts.
It's no longer whether reassignment will hurt, it's whether staying will hurt more.
He doesn't erase his name, not that evening and not the next one either.
Instead, Friday night finds him in a bar at the start of a weeklong vacation he'd agreed to months ago—before your re-admission, before scissors on linoleum floors, before staffing boards felt like moral battlegrounds and before his feeling for you even developed.
The bar is engolfed in low lights, loud laughter and the sharp scent of beer and cigarette smoke.
Across the table sit the only three men who knew him before he learned how to speak in therapeutic tones, who accepted him even before it.
John Price leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled, eyes still assessing even in civilian clothes and life.
Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish is halfway through a story, hands animated while grinning easily.
Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick listens more than he talks, gaze sharp and steady.
They meet like this every so often.
No ranks, no orders, just history and some exchanged stories of their current lives after the military.
Simon thought the noise would quiet his head, but it doesn't.
"You're miles away, L.T." Soap says finally, nudging his glass toward him "Either the beer's rubbish or you are."
"Work." Simon huffs in response.
"That so." Price states more than he questions, lifting a brow.
Simon debates brushing it off but ultimately doesn't—he's too torn, he needs more opinions.
"There's a patient." he says flatly and the men react.
Soap's grin fades immediately, Gaz sits up a fraction and Price doesn't move at all.
"And?" Gaz prompts.
"I'm too involved."
"Mate, you're a psych nurse. Involvement's in the job description." Soap snorts lightly.
"Not like this." Simon murmurs and his words land.
"How bad?" Price asks, setting his glass down with deliberate quiet in the loud bar.
"I'm thinking about reassigning myself." Simon says, staring at the condensation on his bottle.
"And you haven't." Price observes.
"No."
"Why?"
Because when they look for me, I feel necessary.
Because when they steady against me, I don't want to let go.
Because stepping back feels like abandoning someone who already expects people to leave.
He doesn't say any of that.
"I don't know if it's better to stay consistent or cut it clean."
Soap leans forward, elbows on the table.
"Are you crossing lines?" the scot asks.
"No."
"Thinking about it?"
Simon's jaw tightens.
"Yes."
Silence, but not judgmental—measured.
Gaz speaks up first after that.
"Is it affecting the rest of your patients?"
There it is, the same question Mara never asked directly but implied.
"Yes."
"How?"
"Shorter temper, less patience. They're tracking me, the patient I mean. Watching for me." he exhales.
"And you like that." Soap says, tilting his head in a way that would usually suggest a question even though this isn't one—it isn't accusing, it's clarity.
Simon doesn't answer so Price does it for him.
"Course he does."
That makes him looks up sharply but Price's expression is calm, almost tired.
"You spent years being the one everyone relied on, the one who caught them before they hit the ground. Hard habit to break." the former captain says, holding Simon's gaze.
"That's not what this is."
No one argues.
"Is this about them or about you not wanting to feel like you've walked away?" Gaz asks, barely loud enough to be heard over the turmoil of the bar.
The question is cleaner than any advice he's gotten all week.
Soap drains his glass before he speaks.
"If you were still in and you were too close to someone on your team, too reactive and too personal, what would Price do?" he asks, tone lighter but eyes serious.
"Pull me." Simon answers without hesitation.
"Why?" the scot presses.
"Compromised judgment."
"There you go." Soap shrugs.
"It's not the same." Simon snaps before he can stop himself.
Price's gaze sharpens slightly at the edge in his tone.
"No." Price agrees calmly "It's not war, but it is responsibility nonetheless."
Simon leans back, running a hand over his mouth.
"They already struggle with abandonment and if I get myself reassigned to a different institute or a different ward or patient that would only confirm that." he says finally.
Gaz shakes his head, his fingers toying mindlessly with the label on his beer bottle.
"Or it shows them that care doesn't disappear when one person steps back." he argues.
"You don't have to quit the job or leave entirely, you just have to shift roles." Soap nods in agreement to Gaz.
Price studies Simon in that infuriatingly quiet way, scrutinizing the younger man for a few long moments.
"You want someone to tell you to stay." he says.
Simon's eyes flick up, because...yes.
He's heard 'reassign' from Mara, from his therapist, from his own instincts at 03:00 in the morning when the fear of nightmares wouldn't let him sleep.
He came here wanting one of them to say 'You can handle it', 'You've handled worse', 'Stay'—Price doesn't give him that.
"What's the mission?" Price asks instead.
Simon exhales slowly, needs to collect himself.
"Stabilize them, build resilience, broaden support network." he murmurs.
"And where do you fit in that?" Price continues.
"...As part of the team."
"Not the center." Gaz says quietly.
The same words as Mara, it's almost irritating.
Soap nudges him again, softer this time.
"Mate. If you're snapping at other patients, you're already past the line."
Simon doesn't argue because he knows it's true.
Price finishes his drink and sets it down.
"You don't get to be the hero in this one, you get to be the professional." he says evenly.
The words sting, but Simon sits with it.
The noise of the bar swells around them—laughter, clinking glasses, music bleeding from bad speakers.
He thinks about the way you apologized when he pulled back, about the way his temper flared at someone who didn't deserve it.
If this were tactical, the answer would already be made—reduce risk, redistribute responsibility and preserve operational integrity.
He exhales again.
"I hate that it feels like quitting."
"It's not quitting, it's containment." Gaz says.
Price stands, claps a firm hand on Simon's shoulder.
"Make the call before someone else makes it for you."
"And if you don't, we'll come down there and write it on your whiteboard ourselves." Soap grins which almost makes Simon chuckle in response.
Almost.
But when they leave the bar and the cold air hits his face, the noise gone, the decision feels heavier—clearer but not easier.
He pulls his phone out, opens the staff scheduling app and stares at his upcoming shifts.
Primary assignment: you.
His finger hoovers over your name for a moment, considering to change it or delete it so your slot is empty and free for someone else to take...but he doesn't—he can't.
His former military buddies help him from spiraling the rest of his weeklong off-work time, from going off the deep end due to being unable to decide if he should go or stay.
Simon knows that the right thing to do is get distance from you, give the rest of the staff the chance to be the support you need and give you the chance to take it.
But it isn't that simple, of course it couldn't be.
You're a walking wound, scars layered on scars, a broken bird with wings too torn to fly and he's a man with his own share of scars and demons.
Buried deeply in Simon's subconscious, the two of you are broken pieces of the same shattered and jagged edges glass—he'd be dammed to let you become like him.
He'd be dammed to let you have sleepless nights because your thoughts are running themselves raw, to let the rest you get be unsatisfying and never enough due to nightmares.
Simon Riley would be dammed to allow you to think that you have to offer to be loved.
The rest of the week passed agonizingly slow for Simon.
It's was nice having Price, Gaz and Soap around, but to know he'll get to see you again was the only thing truly making him push through.
He had shown the guys around town, they even drove past the institute where Simon had half a mind to storm inside just to see you but luckily decided against it, and the consistent thoughts of reassigning or not kept torturing him.
When he enters the ward again once the guys drove back home and his vacation ended, he goes through the same motions as always—swiping his badge to gain access to the building along with his keys, write himself in and exchange a few words with his coworkers while checking charts.
Breakfast and morning meds have already passed, so Simon takes it upon himself to do checks.
The door of your room is opened a crack and when Simon pushes it open it's...empty.
Not only are you not there, none of your belongings are.
Your bedding is gone, the closet is open and empty and there's nothing on the desk or nightstand either.
He frowns deeply, turns back around with a pounding heart of panic.
Did you do it again? Did you try once more?
When he reaches the nurses station, frown still on his face, he asks for you.
"Reassigned." the other day nurse, Olivia, tells him flatly.
He stares at her for a few moments, unable to process it.
"What?" he asks sharply, his brows furrowing even more and resembling more of a scowl.
Olivia blinks at him, taken aback by his tone.
"Yeah...the patient requested reassignment last Friday rather urgently and it was granted a day later. They left on Wednesday." she informs him.
Wednesday? You're already gone since Wednesday?
You weren't even here when he drove past with Gaz, Soap and Price.
"Why wasn't I informed?" he almost barks at the other nurse, anger and hurt mixing hot and bursting under his skin.
Before he knows it, he finds himself in Dr. Patel's office—your now old therapist.
Dr. Patel looks up when Simon steps in, he doesn't look surprised and instead looks...almost prepared.
"Close the door, please." he says and Simon does, perhaps a little harder than necessary.
"They've been reassigned?" he asks with a tight and clipped voice that has nothing to do with professionalism.
"Yes." the therapist answers calmly, gesturing to the empty chair—Simon doesn't sit down.
"Since Wednesday?" he continues instead, shifting his weight from one foot to the other restlessly.
"Yes." the doctor confirms again.
He feels it then.
Not the clean detachment he's been trying to practice, something much much sharper.
"You could've informed primary staff." Simon grunts.
"You were on leave." Dr. Patel says, studying him carefully.
"That's not the point."
"It is partially the point." the man shoots back immediately, making Simon's jaw flex in anger.
"They requested it after a long session on Friday." Dr. Patel continues evenly.
Friday—the same night he was sitting in a bar discussing whether he should pull back.
"They initiated it?" Simon asks.
"Yes."
That knocks something sideways in his chest.
"They noticed their attachment to you specifically and they were concerned it was interfering with their treatment." Dr. Patel explains calmly.
Simon says nothing.
"They were very clear." the therapist adds "They don't blame you. They weren't angry. They were...aware."
Aware—the word burns.
"We discussed options. They concluded that distance would help them focus on healing rather than on managing feelings."
Simon swallows hard to try and rid himself of the lump in his throat—it doesn't work.
"And you agreed." he states more than he asks since he saw your absence.
"Yes."
Silence thickens in the office.
"The only reason I'm telling you this is because they asked me to. They wanted you to know it wasn't impulsive and they didn't want you to think they've been discharged." Dr. Patel continues after a few moments.
"Where?" Simon asks, staring at the bookshelf behind Dr. Patel instead of looking at him.
"I won't disclose that."
"I'm not asking for contact." Simon frowns—a lie, maybe.
"I didn't say you were." Dr. Patel says gently "But location is part of confidentiality, they were clear about that boundary."
Boundary.
Of course you would do it properly, of course you would think it through.
"They didn't want to leave without a word, but they felt saying goodbye would complicate it." the other man adds.
Anger flares hot and fast again.
"That wasn't their decision to make alone." Simon snaps, Dr. Patel doesn't rise to it.
"They are allowed to make decisions about their treatment."
Simon exhales sharply through his nose.
You left without letting him see you, without letting him respond, without giving him the chance to-
To what?
Convince you to stay?
Promise to step back?
Make it harder?
"They were proud of themselves. It took insight to recognize the pattern and act on it." Dr. Patel says quietly.
Pride—that's what cuts deepest.
Because under the anger, under the sting of being left out...he is proud.
You saw it, you named it and you chose your healing over proximity.
It's exactly what he'd wanted you to learn, just not like this.
"So that's it." he says finally.
"For now." Dr. Patel confirms with a single, slow nod.
Simon nods once in response—controlled, professional.
"If they progress we'll receive a summary report eventually if they agree, but they won't be returning here."
The finality lands heavy.
He doesn't trust himself to speak again, so he leaves.
The corridor feels different without you in it—too quiet, too neutral.
Your old room is already reassigned by the end of the week to one new patient and one who requested a room switch.
New bedding, new names on the chart of the room that was once yours.
The chair at breakfast is taken by someone else who doesn't care about sightlines to the nurses' station.
Simon doesn't erase his name from the staffing board, it's erased for him and somehow that feels worse.
For a few days, he's angry—at you, at himself, at Dr. Patel, at the timing.
You left while he was debating whether to step back, you made the call he couldn't without consultation and without goodbye.
He replays your last conversation at your doorway.
'You seemed mad today.' - 'I'm not the focus here.'
He wonders if that was the moment you decided, if he pushed you into proving you could leave first.
The hurt comes quieter and in flashes—when he turns a corner and expects to see you sitting cross-legged on the floor, when he hears a laugh that sounds almost like yours and looks up before he can stop himself, when 01:15 rolls around on night shift and no one is sitting up waiting for him to pass.
And beneath all of it is pride.
You chose yourself, you did what he couldn't and you protected both of you.
He should feel relieved but instead, he feels hollow.
So he does what he's always done when something inside him starts to splinter; he works.
He picks up extra shifts when someone calls in sick, volunteers for doubles, covers weekends and nights and holidays.
If he's on the ward, he doesn't necessarily have to think about the room down the corridor.
If he's exhausted, he doesn't have to sit with the ache.
Mara notices first.
"You're burning yourself out." she says one evening when he agrees to stay four hours past shift end.
"I'm fine." he murmurs.
"You're not." she disagrees but he doesn't engage.
Because if he slows down, if he has an empty evening with nothing but his own thoughts, he might ask himself whether you waited for him to choose distance and when he didn't when you chose it yourself.
He tells himself this is what professionals do, that they respect decisions and don't chase nor interfere—he will not interfere.
He will not try to find out where you went, he will not ask Dr. Patel for updates, he will not look you up in transfer reports and he will not make your hard choice harder.
So he buries it.
Under twelve-hour shifts, under charting, under de-escalations and medication rounds and safety plans.
He becomes efficient again—calm, controlled and comfortably firm.
No sharp edges in group, no clipped tones, no hovering at one specific door.
Balanced, neutral, professional.
The ward stabilizes around him.
Patients respond, Mara stops watching him quite so closely.
On the surface, he looks steady.
But at 01:15 when he passes down a corridor that no longer holds your cracked-open door, he still feels it—that absence.
Sharp, quiet and earned.
The deck of old and worn uno cards stay untouched in the pockets of his scrubs and his jacket when he's not working, reserved for the day he might see you again.
my masterlist
a/n: god, now I want to write another part so bad but I also like open endings UGH
Synopsis: After leaving the military, Simon 'Ghost' Riley becomes a nurse in a mental hospital trying to heal by helping others. When he meets a deeply traumatized patient who mirrors his own past demons, he's forced to learn to become gentler and soon finds himself caring more than he should.
cw: a lot of mental health talks (a lot about sh, depression and ptsd), displays of mental illnesses, takes place in a psych ward, reader dates men, SUICIDE ATTEMPT, reader struggles with sh and it is mentioned, abandonment issues, reader being strangled briefly, reader is lonely (no friends or family)
wc: 4,1k
˚₊‧⁺⋆♱ see the end for author's notes ˚₊‧⁺⋆♱
The office smells faintly of tea and old books, muted colors and soft lamp lights adorning the waiting room.
Simon sits in the same chair he's been sitting in for the last three years—second from the window, back to the wall, clear line of sight to the door.
Some habits simply don't go away, especially not if they do not harm—Dr. Adams doesn't comment on it anymore.
"It's been about six months." she says gently after he's allowed in her office.
"Maintenance check-in?" she asks as she settles into her chair across from him.
"Something like that." Simon grunts in response, hands clasped loosely between his knees—neutral posture, controlled breathing.
He doesn't come in crisis anymore, he comes to prevent one.
"How have you been?" Dr. Adams asks.
"Stable." he answers automatically.
"That's the clinical answer." she shoots back, a small smile curving at the corner of her mouth.
He exhales faintly through his nose.
"I'm fine. Work's steady, sleep manageable." he corrects with a small shrug.
"Nightmares?"
"Occasional."
She nods, makes a note.
"And emotionally?"
There's a pause there.
He stares at the bookshelf over her shoulder for a moment before answering.
"That's why I'm here."
Her pen stills slightly.
"Okay." she nods.
"There's a patient..." he starts and even that feels like stepping onto thin ice.
"Go on." Dr. Adams presses when Simon pauses for too long.
"They've been under my care for a few months. PTSD, depression, history of self-harm." he continues finally, keeps it clinical for now.
"And?"
"And I'm...invested."
She doesn't react outwardly but the acknowledging nod she gives is slow.
"Invested how?"
"More than I should be." Simon admits, shifting in his chair.
Silence stretches—not heavy, just open.
"In what way do you feel it exceeds professional concern?" she asks.
He rubs his thumb once across his knuckles, a grounding motion.
"I think about them outside of work." he mutters.
"Wonder how they're doing on my days off. I notice when they don't sit in their usual spots. I..." he hesitates, then goes on "I was angry when they went on a date."
"Angry at them?" Dr. Adams asks, expression staying neutral and he confirms with a nod of his head.
"Why?" she probes.
"Because I didn't trust the man." Simon responds after a beat, jaw tightening slightly.
"That sounds protective."
"It wasn't just that." he goes on, looking down at his hands.
"I didn't like that someone else got to have parts of them I don't."
There it is—ugly, honest, aching.
Dr. Adams lets that sit for a few moments.
"And what does that mean to you?" she asks softly.
"It means I crossed a line in my head."
"Have you crossed one in your behavior?"
"No." Simon denies immediately, firmly.
He holds boundaries like they're law—or is, at least, doing his best to.
"I haven't said anything inappropriate, haven't acted on it...but it's there."
"Attachment isn't unusual in caregiving professions." Dr. Adams nods slowly, assuring.
"This isn't standard rapport." he sighs in response, shoulders drooping.
"No, it doesn't sound like it." she agrees calmly, her eyes narrowing for just a moment as she absorbs the words and reaction.
Simon exhales heavily, tension creeping back into his shoulders.
"They attempted last week..." he starts, voice lower now.
"After a breakup. I found out when I came on shift. I was angry at them for not telling me."
"And when you saw them?"
The image flashes uninvited—hospital bed, gauze, tears, your vulnerable form locked under a blanket in a too sterile and colorless environment.
He sometimes sees the scene flash in his nightmares between botched missions, mangled bodies of comrades, imagined gunfire and explosions.
"The anger was gone." Simon murmurs once he's able to find his voice again after letting the image settle.
"What replaced it?"
He doesn't answer immediately, has to think.
"Relieve, fear." he admits.
"Fear of what?" Dr. Adams prompts gently.
"That they wouldn't be there."
A pause.
"And that scared you because...?"
He looks up at her then, something rawer in his expression than he usually allows.
"Because I care about them."
There's no humor in it, no deflection, just a fact he normally wouldn't admit to out loud in this level.
"Caring isn't the problem, it is if it compromises judgment." she says, pausing.
"Has it?" she then asks.
He thinks about that.
He'd searched for reasons to deny the date, looked for policy loopholes, felt jealousy.
"I was tempted to but didn't." he says quietly.
"That's important." the therapist nods.
Simon leans back slightly, tension still coiled tight in his frame.
"I don't know where the line is anymore, between empathy and...something else." he says, the admission feeling strange on his tongue—fuzzy, heavy, shameful.
"Do you want something from them?"
The question is direct but Simon doesn't flinch from it.
"Yes."
The room feels smaller.
"And can you ethically have it?"
"No."
"Then your work is not about eliminating the feeling, it's about managing it responsibly." Dr. Adam says, folding her hands in her lap.
"That sounds dangerously close to permission." Simon frowns.
"It's not permission to act, it's permission to acknowledge reality. Suppression tends to make things stronger." she explains calmly.
He absorbs that, knows the truth in the statement.
"You relate to them." she continues.
"Shared diagnoses, shared trauma. That can intensify attachment."
"I know." Simon agrees.
'Trauma bonding'—he read about it in textbooks, saw it in patients under his care in the facility.
"It can also create a savior dynamic." Dr. Adams adds and Simons jaw tightens once more.
"I don't see them as helpless." he counters almost defensively.
"That's good. But do you see them as uniquely yours to protect?"
He thinks, doesn't answer fast enough.
Dr. Adams' gaze softens slightly.
"You left the military to stop being a weapon. Be careful you're not becoming a shield instead." she says quietly.
That hits hot and heavy, making Simon stare at the floor for a long moment.
"I don't want to hurt them." he says.
"Then you maintain boundaries."
"I am."
"Good. Then the next step is asking yourself what this attachment represents."
He looks back up.
"Meaning?"
"Are you drawn to them or the version of yourself you see in them?" she asks carefully.
The question lands deeper than he expected, making him speechless momentarily.
He thinks about the way you sit near exits, the way you go quiet when something hurts and when you're not sure how exactly you feel, the way you try not to be 'too much' and stay by yourself when you think you can't help.
He thinks about himself at that age—before, during and after his service.
"I don't know." he says finally says, honestly.
"That's something to explore." Dr. Adams says almost immediately as if she expected him to say that.
"You're not a bad person for feeling this." she adds.
"Feels like it." Simon huffs quietly in response
"It would concern me if you didn't examine it."
He nods at that, acknowledges it.
"I've thought about telling them, just so it's not...sitting there." Simon admits, voice steady but tight.
Dr. Adams doesn't answer immediately, doesn't look shocked when he says it.
"Tell them what?" she asks.
"That I care about them. That it's more than clinical."
Her expression remains calm, but something in it sharpens—not judgment, clarity.
"And who would that disclosure serve?" she questions.
Simon frowns faintly again.
"I wouldn't do it for me."
"Wouldn't you?"
Silence, then he adverts his gaze further.
"It would explain things." he says, shrugging slightly.
"Why I'm stricter sometimes. Why I...why I react." he adds with a heavy exhale like the words hurt.
"It might explain it to you, but what would it do to them?" she asks gently.
Simon doesn't answer so she continues.
"They are recovering from a suicide attempt." Dr. Adams says carefully.
"They struggle with abandonment wounds and you are a consistent authority figure in their life right now."
He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable by the thought he might not be anything but a nurse for you.
"If you tell them you have feelings, what are their options?" she goes on.
"They could say no." Simon says like it's obvious because it technically is—just not in this scenario.
"Could they? Without worrying it affects their care? Their privileges? How you document their progress?" Dr. Adams questions, putting weight into it.
"That's not how I operate." he objects firmly, almost offended his own therapist would suggest it.
"I know that, Simon, but power doesn't require intent to exist." she says, using his name which she rarely does—only when she says something she really needs him to understand.
He goes still and Dr. Adams leans forward slightly.
"You hold power in that relationship whether you want to or not. Disclosure shifts the burden onto them. They would have to manage your feelings while navigating their own."
That aches again and he rubs a hand over his mouth.
"So I just...sit on it?" he asks.
"No." the therapist shakes her head gently.
"You process it here, or in supervision with colleagues and your superior if need be. You examine what it means and you protect the patient from it."
"Protect them how?" he looks up at her, meeting her gaze again after several minutes of avoidance.
"Boundaries, consistency, shared staffing, no special treatment and no emotional exclusivity." she says simply.
Simon doesn't like the last phrase.
"You are not the only safe person in their world and it's important you don't become that." she continues.
"I don't want to hurt them." he exhales slowly, like that might soothe the ache.
"Then don't make them responsible for your internal conflict. If your feelings intensify, the ethical step is reassignment."
The word lands like a dull blade, making Simon stiffens.
"You'd rather step back than risk blurring the line further and stepping over it." Dr. Adams says gently.
"I hate the idea of leaving them." he says, staring at the floor again.
"What if...I waited..?" he adds quietly, uncertain.
"For what?"
"Until they're discharged. No longer under my care."
Dr. Adams studies him carefully.
"That's still complicated." she says.
"Timing alone doesn't erase power dynamics, but it becomes less immediately unethical once the care relationship is formally and fully ended—with clear time and distance."
He nods once, absorbs that.
"But right now?"
He already knows the answer.
"Right now it would be about me." he finishes.
"Yes."
He leans back, shoulders heavy.
"I thought honesty was supposed to be healthy."
"It is." the therapist agrees "With appropriate boundaries. Radical honesty without regard for impact can be selfish."
"So I don't confess." he says finally.
"No, you shouldn't." she replies.
"And if they sense it?"
"Then you redirect to their treatment goals."
Another pause.
"You care about them, that's not wrong. Acting on it in this context would be." Dr. Adams says.
He nods slowly.
"And if you truly believe this is something deeper, then the ethical path is distance and not disclosure." she adds.
Simon lets out a quiet breath.
"I'm still afraid I'll blur the line." Simon confesses.
"You came here, that suggests you won't." she reminds him and Simon sighs.
"I can manage it." he says, more grounded this time.
"I believe you can."
He stands a few minutes later, session ending the way they usually do—grounded, not fixed but steadier.
The feeling is still there, but now it has a container.
And he understands something clearly; if he confesses now, it wouldn't be brave—it would be selfish.
At the door, he hesitates.
"I won't act on it." he says, almost to himself.
"Make sure you also don't punish yourself for feeling it." Dr. Adams voice is calm behind him.
He doesn't respond to that, leaves with an acknowledging nod.
He can carry the feeling, he just can't let it carry him.
***
When Simon goes to work after that session, something about him is different.
Not colder, not intentionally, but sharper and contained.
He greets the team, reviews handover notes, asks the necessary questions.
When your name comes up, he doesn't let his jaw tighten and doesn't ask extra questions—he just listens.
Post-attempt protocol is in place, level one observation which means constant supervision.
For fourty-eight hours minimum, a staff member is assigned to you at all times—line of sight, including bathroom checks with modified privacy procedures and shower watch.
Your room has been stripped of anything non-essential.
No pens or paper, no personal chargers or electronic, no unsupervised phone access.
Meals are monitored now, medication administered and observed closely.
The common room couch you used to curl into is now off-limits unless staff are seated within arm's reach and your leave privileges are revoked indefinitely.
The first time he sees you after you're released from the medical wing a few days later, the same day he went to see his own therapist before work because that's the only time slot she was able to squeeze him in, you're sitting at the small table near the nurses' station—a healthcare assistant sits two feet away working on some papers while keeping an eye on you.
You look smaller.
Not physically but in the way you hold yourself—shoulders rounded, movements careful, like you're afraid to take up space.
There's a faint hospital bracelet bruise still visible on your wrist where your sleeve isn't sitting right.
Simon feels the pull immediately, reins it in just as quickly.
Boundaries, consistency, shared staffing.
He doesn't go straight to you.
He finishes reviewing medication logs, signs off on incident documentation, talks with Mara about group assignments.
Only after that does he approach.
"Afternoon." he says evenly.
You look up.
There's relief there, quick and unguarded, but it's followed immediately by shame.
"Hi."
He doesn't sit too close, doesn't soften too much.
"How are you feeling today?" he asks in the same tone he'd use with any other patient.
"Okay." you shrug slightly.
"Any urges since this morning?" he asks after nodding.
You hesitate, think, then shake your head no.
"Any intrusive thoughts?"
"Less."
He acknowledges that with another small nod and makes a brief note on his clipboard—clinical, structured, steady.
Inside he wants to ask if you slept, if you're still replaying the breakup, if you're eating enough.
He doesn't.
"You'll remain on constant observation through tomorrow." he says instead "We'll reassess after."
"I know." you say quietly, brows furrowing and gaze adverting.
It's not anger, it's embarrassment.
"I'm...not a child." you add, still quiet.
"I know. This isn't punishment." he says calmly.
"It feels like it." you mumble, still staring down at the table.
He absorbs that without immediately correcting you.
"It's stabilization, short term." he says after a moment.
You nod but you don't look convinced.
The healthcare assistant shifts slightly in her chair, a reminder that Simon isn't alone with you.
He doesn't dismiss her, doesn't create privacy that isn't part of the protocol—no emotional exclusivity.
Later, during group therapy, he makes sure Mara facilitates instead of him.
He stays in the back, observes, documents.
When you speak quietly and carefully about 'feeling like a burden', he doesn't lock onto you the way he wants to and lets the group respond, lets someone else tell you that heartbreak isn't proof of worthlessness.
It costs him something to stay silent, but he does.
Over the next few days, your world shrinks.
No off-grounds privileges, no unsupervised showers, sharp objects locked tighter.
Night checks every fifteen minutes once you're downgraded from constant line-of-sight to enhanced observation.
Your room door stays partially open and you comply with it all, that's what makes it harder.
You take your meds without argument, attend sessions, sit where you're told, speak when prompted...but you don't laugh anymore.
Simon notices, makes sure he's not the only one who does.
He rotates check-ins with other nurses.
Encourages you, gently, to process the breakup with your psychiatrist instead of circling back to him after rounds.
When you drift toward him in the hallway one evening, hovering like you're about to ask something, he keeps his tone steady.
"Is this about your safety plan?" he asks.
You hesitate.
"...No."
"Then let's bring that to your one-on-one tomorrow." he says like a suggestion even if it's not and you know it isn't so you study him for a moment.
There's confusion in your expression.
He used to linger longer, he used to lean in.
Now he stands straight, professional, measured.
"You're being distant." you say quietly, not accusing and instead just softly stating.
The words hit but Simon doesn't flinch.
"I'm being consistent." he replies.
Your brow furrows slightly.
It would be so easy to step closer, to reassure you in a way that feels personal instead of procedural but he doesn't act on it—can't.
"You have a whole team, not just me." he says instead.
Something shifts in your expression at that.
Not rejection, understanding—small and fragile.
"Oh." you murmur.
He nods once.
"I'm still here, just not alone." he adds—but it's grounded, not possessive.
By the fourth day, supervision is downgraded once again.
You're allowed slightly more space, monitored but not shadowed anymore.
You seem exhausted by the scrutiny, quieter but steadier.
Simon remains careful.
No private jokes, no extended eye contact, no staying past shift to 'just check once more' no matter how much he wants to.
He documents objectively, asks the same safety questions he asks everyone, leaves on time without withdrawing care.
When you complete a full day without intrusive ideation, he acknowledges it.
"Good work." he says simply.
Your eyes search his face like you're looking for something extra he doesn't give.
Not because he doesn't feel it but because he fully understands now that if he becomes your safest place, he becomes something you might lose again and that you don't need another person who feels irreplaceable.
You need stability, consistency, a team.
He can carry his feelings, won't let them carry him and certainly won't let you carry them either.
***
It happens on a Tuesday evening during shift change, too many moving parts at once.
One patient escalates in the common room—shouting, throwing a chair while another starts crying.
Alarms go off, staff move fast, voices layered over one another.
In the middle of it, someone forgets to relock the art supply cabinet after occupational therapy.
No one notices immediately, not until Mara does a headcount.
"Where's-?"
She says your name and Simon's head lifts instantly before he already moves, the rest of the unoccupied nurses and healthcare assistants as well as wards doing the same.
You're not in the common room, not in your room and the bathroom is empty too.
His pulse kicks hard once in his throat.
"Check the time-out room." he orders over his shoulder, already moving further down the corridor.
The ward shifts into quiet emergency mode—controlled, fast, contained.
They find you in the far end of the corridor near the old storage alcove.
Not actively harming yourself but sitting on the floor, back against the wall and a pair of blunt craft scissors in your hand.
You're not using them, you're just...holding them while staring at nothing.
The healthcare assistant who spots you freezes in the doorway.
"Simon." he calls out and the ex-soldier steps in immediately.
Everything narrows.
He doesn't bark, doesn't rush.
"Hey." he says evenly, stepping into your line of sight with clearly visible hands.
"Put those down." he adds, pointing vaguely at the blunt craft scissors.
Your eyes move to him slowly, like it takes effort.
You look exhausted as you stare at him.
Not defiant, not volatile or violent, just worn thin.
"I wasn't going to." you say quietly.
He believes you, but that doesn't matter.
"Put them down anyway."
A long pause, then you lower your hand and set them on the floor as far away from you as your arm can comfortably reach.
He steps forward carefully and nudges them out of reach with his foot before bending to pick them up.
Your fingers are trembling.
"So much for progress." you murmur, voice hollow and thin.
Simons jaw tightens.
"This is a lapse in supervision, not yours." he says, controlled, reassuring.
"I didn't even do anything and I still wanted to." you chuckle breathlessly like you're disappointed in yourself.
And there it is, the admission.
He kneels down in front of you before he can stop himself, not trying to loom but level instead.
"You told someone?" he asks.
"Why?" you ask, shake your head.
Your gaze flickers up to his face and for a split second the answer is naked there—because you didn't want to disappoint him, because you didn't want more restrictions, because you didn't want to be 'too much'.
His chest tightens.
"You should have told staff." he says carefully.
"I know."
Silence settles, heavy but not explosive—no outburst bubbling under the surface.
Over his shoulder, he knows there are eyes watching—cameras, colleagues, policy.
He should stand up, should immediately call for reassessment, should reassign himself to avoid emotional entanglement—but you sway slightly before he can walk away.
Simon notices before anyone else does and as soon as it happens.
"Hey-!" he says sharply, reaching forward as your shoulders tip.
You didn't eat much since your supervision level was lowered which was over a week ago—he remembers.
Your blood pressure drops fast when you're overwhelmed, you go lightheaded.
Your body folds forward before you can brace, Simon catches you—arms around you automatically, instinct overriding distance.
You're lighter than you should be.
Your forehead presses briefly against his chest as he steadies you.
For a fraction of a second, you cling—not romantically, not intentionally, just instinctively.
Your fingers fist in the fabric of his scrubs and his entire body goes still.
Every boundary he so carefully constructed presses down on him at once, heart feeling constricted and hot as it aches.
"Easy." he murmurs, voice lower now—not distant, not clinical anymore.
Your breathing is shallow, thin and uneven.
"I'm okay." you whisper but your grip doesn't loosen and your words aren't entirely convincing.
He can feel your pulse against his wrist, fast and fragile.
He should pass you off, call Mara, step back but instead he shifts his hold—one arm firm around your back as he guides you carefully upright.
"Let's get you checked." he says.
"Please don't downgrade me again." you plead, shaking your head.
The plea lands straight in his chest.
He doesn't promise, can't—but he also doesn't immediately signal for level one reinstatement.
He helps you stand fully, keeping one hand steady at your elbow longer than necessary.
You look up at him.
Eyes glassy, vulnerable, raw from days of compliance and swallowed shame.
"I didn't want to do it." you say quietly "I just...didn't trust myself not to."
That honesty cracks something open in him because it isn't manipulation, it's fear.
He swallows hard.
"Thank you for putting them down." he says instead of everything else he wants to say.
Your hand is still loosely wrapped in his sleeve, he gently frees it and holds onto your fingers with a small squeeze just a second too long—the heat of your skin lingering on his.
"We're going to reassess your observation level. It's not punishment, it's support." he says, voice steady again.
You nod but your eyes don't leave his.
And for the first time since his therapy session, he feels it spike—sharp and undeniable.
Not just protectiveness, not just attachment but the undeniable reaction of having almost lost you again.
Not to action, to possibility.
He stands and helps you back toward the nurses' station himself.
He doesn't delegate, doesn't rotate out.
He conducts the vitals check personally because protocol now requires it after a near-incident involving restricted items.
He stays within arm's reach while you sit.
You're quiet, shaken, compliant.
When Mara approaches to take over documentation, Simon doesn't step away immediately.
He knows he should already have stepped away earlier but you glance at him once more before looking down at your hands and something in that look of fear, trust and exhaustion tangles together tightens around his ribs.
Dr. Adams' words echo in his head—'Don't become the only safe person.'
But right now, in this moment, he is the one who caught you.
The one who steadied you, the one whose chest you almost collapsed against.
Eventually, Simon forces himself to step back.
"Enhanced observation, reevaluate in the morning." he tells Mara evenly—professional, contained.
But as he walks away to complete the incident report, his hands are not as steady as he would like.
Because proximity like that, unexpected, physical and charged with vulnerability doesn't quiet feelings—it amplifies them.
And this time, he can't pretend it's abstract anymore.
my masterlist
a/n: I hope you all enjoy the long just Simon scene<3 I'm trying to write more dialogues (bcs I know I suck at it) and the urged of constantly writing '... says' were HORRENDOUS
Synopsis: After leaving the military, Simon 'Ghost' Riley becomes a nurse in a mental hospital trying to heal by helping others. When he meets a deeply traumatized patient who mirrors his own past demons, he's forced to learn to become gentler and soon finds himself caring more than he should.
cw: a lot of mental health talks (a lot about sh, depression and ptsd), displays of mental illnesses, takes place in a psych ward, reader dates men, SUICIDE ATTEMPT, reader struggles with sh and it is mentioned, abandonment issues, reader being strangled briefly, reader is lonely (no friends or family)
wc: 4,2k
˚₊‧⁺⋆♱ see the end for author's notes ˚₊‧⁺⋆♱
Simon is confused when you're all happy and bubbly a week later, basically spinning around staff babbling on and on.
He is even more confused when he isn't spared either, has you jumping and spinning around him as you almost giggle all happily while he tries to make his check up rounds.
"And what's gotten you so happy today?" he asks, forcing his tone softer halfway through when he realizes he might sound too gruff.
"I'm going on a date tomorrow!" you almost sing-song with a bright smile Simon has never seen on you before.
He doesn't know why, but the first feeling crossing him isn't empathetic joy—it's an ache stinging right in his heart.
"A date?" he repeats "With who?"
"With my boyfriend." you smile like it's obvious.
Boyfriend.
The word lands harder than it should.
Simon keeps his face neutral through sheer discipline, years of training make that part easy but the rest of him is less cooperative.
"I didn't know you were seeing someone." he says evenly.
"It's kind of new. Well, not new-new. We've known each other a while." you shrug, still smiling—almost a little embarrassed perhaps.
His brain is already rearranging timelines.
No visitors, no calls at the desk asking for you, no name listed under frequent contacts.
"You've been cleared for off-grounds?" he asks.
"Yeah." you practically beam.
"Dr. Patel approved it this morning. I've been here nine weeks, followed the rules, no incidents, take my meds, go to therapy and haven't-" you stop yourself, but the implication hangs there.
"I haven't done anything I'm not supposed to." you smile when you finish the sentence.
Self-harm.
You don't say it, don't have to.
He nods once in acknowledgment.
"What time are you expected back?"
"Eleven p.m."
"That's late." Simon frowns lightly.
"It's a Saturday and it's in the city, we're just getting dinner." you counter gently.
The city means crowds and noise—triggers.
His jaw tightens slightly at that thought but he relaxes it quickly again before you can notice.
"Who's accompanying you?" he asks for now.
"It's unsupervised leave." you say proudly.
"I'm allowed, I earned it." you add, beaming even more.
He knows that, he signed off on part of the behavioral progress notes himself, spoke positively of your behavior during shift switch but still...
"How long have you been dating him?" he asks.
"A few months." you finally say after hesitating for half a second, as if you're rethinking your over joy about seeing your boyfriend again for just a moment.
"A few?" he repeats, eyebrows raised slightly—clearly unsatisfied with the vague time frame.
"He stuck around when I got re-admitted, we've been talking. He wants to take things slow." you explain.
So that's why there were no calls through reception—personal mobile access during approved hours, he remembers the policy.
"And he knows where you are?" Simon asks.
"Yes." you smile.
"And he's fine with it?"
Your smile dims slightly.
"Why wouldn't he be?" you ask in return, seemingly a little perplexed by the question.
He doesn't answer that.
Because some people don't handle this well, because institutions scare people, because mental health diagnoses come with stigma, because you deserve someone steady and he doesn't trust easily.
"He treats you well?" the question comes out lower than intended from him.
"Yeah." you blink.
A beat passes.
"He's...patient." you add, having looked for the right word—and it hits.
Patient.
Simon forces a nod.
"That's good."
It should be enough—it isn't.
He runs through protocols in his head, searching for something procedural, any reason to delay, to require another week, another evaluation, a risk assessment but he can't find anything reasonable enough to justify an intervention.
"You've had one physical altercation in the ward." he says carefully.
"I didn't start it." you say almost defensive.
"I know." Simon soothes immediately.
"And I didn't escalate." you add softly.
That's true too—he remembers you lying there, still as stone.
"You've been stable for four weeks..." he continues, almost to himself.
"Yes."
"Any recent urges?" he asks quietly.
You meet his eyes fully now.
"No." you say, shake your head.
It's steady, honest.
He studies you for a long moment, searching for cracks though there aren't any he can see and that should make him proud but instead something ugly twists low in his chest because the thought that keeps surfacing isn't clinical—it's personal.
No one visits you, no one calls the front desk but somehow there's a boyfriend waiting in the city.
Someone who gets to see you outside these walls, without observation checks, without fluorescent lights or wrecked after therapy sessions.
He doesn't like how that feels.
"I'll need the address and his full name." he says finally, straightening slightly.
Your smile fades another notch.
"Why?" you ask, brows furrowing and head tilting ever so slightly.
"Standard safety procedure." he justifies and it's not entirely a lie.
"Okay." you nod slowly, understanding, and give him the information that he jots down in his notepad.
He repeats the name once in his head, committing it to memory as he stuffs the notepad and pen pack into the small chest pocket of his uniform.
"And your phone will stay on." he adds.
"It has to, it's part of the agreement. I have to call in every thirty minutes." you say and he exhales slowly at that—satisfied.
You shift your weight, studying him now the way you sometimes do when you're trying to read his mood.
"You don't seem happy for me." you say quietly after a moment.
The accusation is soft, not sharp which almost makes it worse.
"I am." he answers automatically with an assuring nod.
Your head tilts once more.
"You look...tense."
He forces his shoulders to loosen, hadn't noticed they'd drawn up.
"I just want you safe." he shrugs, makes it seem like he worries the same way the rest of the staff does.
"I will be."
Another pause.
"You don't get to decide I'm not ready. I worked really hard for this." you add carefully, almost reluctant.
That hits clean because he knows you did and hates to feel like you don't think he does.
Nine weeks with no rule-breaking, no incidents.
You've been compliant, participating, putting in effort, making progress—everything he's been hoping for.
So why does it feel like losing ground?
"I know you did." he says finally, voice lower now and less rigid "And I'm not trying to take it from you."
You watch him for a second longer.
Then your smile returns—smaller but real.
"It's just dinner, I may be back before eleven. You'll barely notice I'm gone." you say lightly.
He doesn't answer that because he knows he'll notice.
He notices when you skip the common room, notices when you sit closer to the exit, notices when you're too quiet so of course he'll notice when you're gone.
You step back, rocking slightly on your heels.
"I should go tell Mara too, she'll be excited." you grin—of course she will.
Simon nods.
"Be ready fifteen minutes before you leave tomorrow, I'll run you through the check-out protocol. My shift ends at eleven, so especially I'll know if you're back late." he says, defaulting back to structure because it's safer.
You grin impossibly more.
"Yes, sir." you almost giggle and it's teasing, light, but something about it sends heat up the back of his neck.
You turn and hurry down the corridor, practically glowing.
Simon stays where he is, hands clasped behind his back and jaw tight.
He tells himself this is risk assessment, standard concern for a vulnerable patient re-entering an uncontrolled environment.
He tells himself that's all it is.
But when he realizes he's already thinking about the man's name you gave him—measuring it, weighing it, wondering if he's good enough—Simon feels something dangerously close to disappointment in himself.
Because this isn't just concern anymore, it's jealousy and that crosses a line he has no business even approaching.
***
The next evening, Simon keeps everything clinical, structured and professional.
You're ready fifteen minutes early like instructed, dressed in civilian clothes instead of your usual comfy sweats and the difference is jarring.
You look younger, lighter, happier and nervous in a way that has nothing to do with the nervousness you sometimes display before therapy sessions.
He runs through the check-out protocol with practiced neutrality.
"Phone charged?"
"Yes."
"Emergency numbers saved?"
"Yes."
"Good. Call the station every thirty minutes. If you feel overwhelmed, you remove yourself and contact us immediately."
You nod through each instruction, patient but clearly vibrating with anticipation.
He checks your bag himself.
Wallet, phone—no prohibited items.
When he finishes, he steps aside to let you pass through the final security door.
"Have a good time." he says and it almost sounds natural.
You smile at him—open, hopeful.
"I will."
He follows at a distance to the outer gate under the guise of completing the sign-out log.
A car pulls up at the curb—clean, well-kept.
The driver steps out and Simon studies him automatically—height, build, posture.
Civilian, average.
No immediate threat markers—casual clothes, hands visible.
You light up the moment you see him and it makes Simon's chest ache a little.
The way you move toward him without hesitation, the way he opens the passenger door for you—the easy familiarity when he brushes his hand against your back.
Simon memorizes his face without meaning to, then the car pulls away and the space you leave behind feels louder than it should.
He keeps busy.
Medication rounds, documentation, de-escalating a minor dispute in the common room, checking on another patient who refuses dinner—professional, focused.
But every time the station phone rings his head lifts before he can stop himself.
Mara answers the call, her expression softening slightly.
"Hi. Yes, you're right on time."
Simon pretends to review a file, listens anyway.
"Yes. That sounds nice. Okay. Call again at seven-thirty."
She hangs up and writes the time in the off-grounds log.
"All good?" Simon asks, tone deliberately casual.
"They're fine." Mara says, giving him a look he doesn't appreciate.
"Restaurant's busy but manageable." she adds and he nods once then goes back to his paperwork.
Seven-thirty, eight, eight-thirty.
Every call comes in on time.
Mara logs each one neatly—mood stable, voice calm, no distress noted.
Simon finds reasons to glance at the sheet.
"Just making sure the times are correct." he mutters once when Mara catches him scanning the notes.
"Of course you are." she replies mildly, suppressing a grin.
By ten-thirty, the ward is settling into its nighttime rhythm and Simon checks the clock more often than he should.
At 10:42, the outer door buzzes—he's already halfway down the corridor before he realizes it.
You step inside alone.
No bright smile this time, no spinning.
Your posture is tighter, shoulders slightly hunched, expression flat in a way that feels practiced.
"You're back early." Simon notes, brows furrowed slightly—feeling like somethings just too off.
"Yeah." you nod, give a half smile that vanishes before it can fully settle on your lips.
Mara conducts the re-entry protocol.
Bag on the table, phone surrendered temporarily again until approved hours, a quick pat-down to check for contraband or sharp objects—you comply with all of it without protest.
"Everything alright?" Mara asks gently as she straightens again after patting you down from head to toe.
"Yeah, it was okay." you say with another small, half-formed smile and a halfhearted shrug.
Just okay? That's not how you described it yesterday.
You collect your things once cleared and head straight down the corridor without lingering—no recounting the evening, no excitement.
Your door closes softly behind you and Simon realizes the shift like a pressure drop.
He waits ten minutes before knocking.
Professional reason is post-leave check-in, personal reason is that he needs to see your face.
"Yes?" you call softly from inside and he steps in.
You're laying on your side in your bed with your back turned to him, already changed back into your sweats—the civilian version of you packed away again.
"How was it?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe.
"Good." you say, the small shrug of your shoulders visible only due to the hallway light flooding in past Simon's frame.
A beat passes before you continue—quiet, almost uninterested.
"We got dinner, walked a bit, talked."
"That's it?" he presses gently.
You shrug again, still not turning around to him or sitting up or doing anything than just laying there.
"It just wasn't...what I expected." you admit.
"In what way?"
You go quiet.
Not the overwhelmed quiet he's learned to recognize, not the spiraling one either—this one is deliberate.
After a moment, you shift slightly under the blanket.
"It was fine, alright."
He doesn't move from the doorway.
"You don't seem fine."
"I'm just tired." your tone isn't sharp, it's closed off like a door gently but firmly shutting right in his face.
He studies the line of your back, the tension in your shoulders.
"Did something happen?"
"No."
Too quick.
He exhales slowly, forces himself not to step further into the room.
"You came back early." he continues, pressing again.
"I wanted to." is all you say, another dead end.
He tries again, even softer this time.
"You were excited."
Silence for a long moment, so long in fact that Simon is convinced you won't reply anymore—then you do.
"Yeah."
Nothing else.
He pushes off the doorframe and takes a few steps inside, careful, slow, measured.
"If he did something to you-"
"He didn't." you interrupt, calm and almost empty like this conversation isn't about you.
You finally turn slightly, not fully facing him but enough that he can see your profile in the dim light.
"Please don't do that." you add quietly, brows slightly furrowed and turned downward.
"Do what?"
"Interrogate."
The word lands heavier than Simon expects, his brown eyes blink a few times at the small ache in his chest and the surprise.
"I'm not-" he starts but you interrupt again, firmer this time while keeping your voice soft—reflex, possible damage control like you're expecting a blow because you're speaking your mind.
"You are. You don't have to fix it."
He stills, wishes there was accusation in your tone but there isn't—just facts.
"I'm not trying to fix anything." he says eventually.
Your eyes meet his briefly, tired but steady.
"Then let it be, okay?" you ask so quietly it might as well be a whisper.
Another wall, Simon doesn't like walls and especially not yours but he's starting to understand he can't force his way through.
A long pause stretches between you.
He doesn't nod, doesn't shake his head no.
"It was just...different, that's all." you say finally, a bit louder than the almost whisper again but still guarded.
"Different how?" he asks before he can stop himself.
Your expression closes again.
"I don't really want to get into it." you say with a small shake of your head as you turn to lay fully on your side again staring at the wall and there it is again—the clear, direct boundary you set with soft tones instead of firmness.
Simon hates how your behavior indicates you consider a boundary for yourself as a privilege, not a right.
"Alright." he nods with a tightening jaw.
"Thanks for checking on me." you murmur, already retreating.
He stands there a second longer than he should, wants to ask more.
Wants to know if your boyfriend said something careless, if he looked at you differently outside the ward, if he made you feel small and worthless, wants to know if you cried in the car on the way back.
"You call if you need anything." he says instead.
If you don't want him to press, or interrogate, he won't—trampling down your boundaries and loose the trust he's built with you over the past two months is the last thing he wants to do.
"I won't." you say and your lighter tone suggests is a joke.
Almost.
He glances at the clock on your wall.
10:57.
His shift ends at eleven.
"I'm off now." he says after clearing his throat softly to get back into focus, doesn't know why he tells you that.
You hum softly like it doesn't matter and maybe it shouldn't which doesn't mean it doesn't sting at all.
He moves back toward the door.
"Goodnight." he says softly.
"Night." you reply, no smile this time.
Simon pulls the door close behind him, shuts the hallway light out.
At the station, he gives the day's behavior records to the nightshift nurse and signs out mechanically.
Mara watches him but doesn't comment as she goes through the same motions.
Outside, the air is cool and sharp against his skin.
He stands there for a moment, staring at the dark parking lot.
He doesn't know what happened on that date, doesn't know if your boyfriend disappointed you or if reality simply didn't match the fantasy you'd built while confined behind locked doors.
What he does know is that you came back dimmer and that he hates the thought of someone else being the reason.
His shift is over but he leaves with the uneasy feeling that whatever happened out there in the city followed you back inside—and he has no right to ask about it.
***
When Simon clocks in at noon the next day, he feels it before anyone says a word.
The ward is too quiet.
Not calm, literally quiet.
Patients linger in corners instead of the common room, a television plays to no one and even the staff speak in lowered voices with their movements clipped and tense.
His eyes scan automatically.
Your usual chair by the window is empty, the far end of the hallway where you sometimes sit with a book also empty.
You're not in the common room, don't linger anywhere it seems and it makes his chest tighten.
"Where's-" he stops himself from saying your name too sharply "Where are they?"
The daytime nurse at the station looks up, hesitates just long enough to confirm his dread.
"They attempted during the night." she says gently.
"Around three in the morning. They're stable now and in the hospital wing." she finishes and for a second, Simon doesn't process the words.
Attempted, stable, hospital wing.
His jaw locks.
"What happened?" his voice is already harder than it should be, anger bubbling under his skin.
"Cut themselves. They were found quickly, intervention was fast. They're under observation." the nurse replies.
'Found quickly' echoes in his head a few times.
You said you were fine, said you didn't want to get into it even though you came back dimmer.
Anger flares hot and immediate—sharp enough to make him dizzy.
Why didn't you say something, brushed him off, shut him out?
He turns before the nurse can finish speaking, already moving down the corridor.
"Simon-!" she calls after him because he's abandoning his tasks, his duty towards the other patients right now, but he doesn't slow.
His boots hit the floor too hard as he heads toward the med wing, anger fueling his stride.
You should have told him.
He asked, he gave you openings, he would've-
The thoughts loop.
You know better, you know the warning signs, you've been in therapy for weeks, it's not your first time, you've made progress.
He's angry at you.
Angry that you scared everyone, that you didn't trust him—angry at himself that he didn't see it.
He almost crashes through the double doors of the med wing but freezes as the anger dissolves instantly.
You look so vulnerable and innocent in the hospital bed.
Smaller somehow, swallowed by white sheets and sterile light.
There's gauze wrapped around your forearm, wrist and part of your hand while a IV line is taped to your inner elbow—your skin looks too pale and too ashy.
Your eyes are open but unfocused, empty in a way he's never seen before—not spiraling, not anxious, just...hollow.
All the heat drains out of him, replaced by something cold and heavy.
He steps closer slowly, like he's approaching a frightened animal or sneaking closer to an enemy.
It takes a second for you to register him, and then your face crumples.
Tears spill instantly, violently, like you've been holding them back for hours or days or maybe even an eternity.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." you choke out, voice breaking—too high, wobbly.
The words hit him harder than any accusation could have.
Simon stops at the side of your bed, heart pounding, eyes widened slightly and brows turned downward.
"You don't-" his voice is rough and he clears it, tries again—softer.
"You don't apologize for this."
"I didn't mean to...! I didn't mean to make it worse, I just...I just...!" you sob, breath hitching and it sends painful stabs into Simon's heart—like a knife lodging in the organ, twisting and turning.
Your shoulders shake as he pulls a chair closer without thinking and sits.
"You were fine. You said you were fine." he says before he can stop himself, the frustration bleeding through.
"I know." you agree, face twisting even more.
That hurts more—to know and see the pain you're in without being able to take it from you.
Simon drags a hand over his jaw as he fights the urge to snap and to demand an explanation because one of that matters now.
You're here, you're breathing, you're alive—that's what matters.
"I didn't want you to be disappointed." you whisper through tears and the confession knocks the air out of him.
"Disappointed?" he repeats, stunned.
"You looked at me like I was doing so well." you say, voice cracking.
"Like I was getting better and I thought I was too. It just-" you swallow hard, need a moment before you can continue.
"He broke up with me after dinner." you say, the words small and fragile with a still too thin voice.
"He said he thought he could handle it but he can't, that it's 'too much.' " you add, voice cracking around the last two words.
Simon feels something cold settle in his gut—too much.
"That's why I came back early. I didn't want to cry in front of him or in front of you."
Simon's jaw tightens as his heart constricts even further.
"You asked and I just...I couldn't say it out loud. If I did, it would have made it even realer." you say, tears still falling.
Simon exhales slowly through his nose, trying to keep himself steady while his hands curl into fists in his lap.
None of this was ever in any protocol, in no textbook or class—he doesn't know what to do with himself, with you.
Tears keep sliding down your temples into your hair.
"I didn't want you to see that I'm still like this." you admit quietly and the words make Simon lean forward, forearms on his knees.
"You think I don't know what 'still like this' feels like?" he asks low and surprisingly gentle.
Your eyes flick up to his—red, swollen, terrified.
"I was angry when I heard what...happened." he admits carefully, heavy but honest.
"I'm sorry." you repeat, your face starting to crumble again.
"No, not at you." he quickly says, exhaling through his nose because he should've known you'd think he was mad at you.
"I was angry I didn't see it." he continues, correcting his earlier mistake.
"Angry I let you walk out of here thinking you had to handle it alone."
You stare at him like you don't quite believe that.
"I didn't want to be a problem again." you whisper, adverting your gaze as you start to fidget with the edge of the blanket.
"You are not a problem." Simon intervenes immediately, the words come out firm and almost fierce.
The monitor keeps beeping.
His gaze drops briefly to the bandage around your arm.
Nine weeks, nine weeks of progress and yet...
Healing isn't linear, he knows that—he's lived that and still is.
He just sits there while you cry and he tries to figure out how to get you to stop, not because you're holding back but because you're feeling less miserable.
Simon reaches into the pocket of his uniform, pulls out the deck of worn uno cards he's only ever been using with you since he started working here.
"You up for a round?" he asks, holding the colorful cards up so you can see them.
The tears linger in your eyes as your expression drops again and for a moment he thinks he's made it worse, but then you smile.
"Yeah." you agree with a small nod, eyes still glistening with tears that aren't pushed out by more of their kind anymore as the smile keeps your lips stretched.
Hours pass in which you and Simon play, occasionally talk as the sterile hospital light keeps buzzing overhead and by the time he's forced to go back to the ward to not loose his job he realizes with a clarity that unsettles him, that whatever line he was trying to hold before?
It's already blurred beyond recognition.
my masterlist
a/n: had to change it from 3 parts to 4 so it will fit. this is originally a one shot and now available on ao3 as well! check out my masterlist for the ao3 and wattpad version, or if you want to see more of my work <3
Synopsis: After leaving the military, Simon 'Ghost' Riley becomes a nurse in a mental hospital trying to heal by helping others. When he meets a deeply traumatized patient who mirrors his own past demons, he's forced to learn to become gentler and soon finds himself caring more than he should.
cw: a lot of mental health talks (a lot about sh, depression and ptsd), displays of mental illnesses, takes place in a psych ward, reader dates men, SUICIDE ATTEMPT, reader struggles with sh and it is mentioned, abandonment issues, reader being strangled briefly, reader is lonely (no friends or family)
wc: 5,7k
˚₊‧⁺⋆♱ see the end for author's notes ˚₊‧⁺⋆♱
Simon Riley learned quickly that silence was louder outside the military than it had ever been in it.
No gunfire, no shouted orders, o distant thud of artillery rolling across a horizon—just the hum of a refrigerator in a too-small flat and the ticking of a clock he didn't remember buying.
Civilian life wasn't peaceful, it was hollow and the quiet left too much room for memory.
He lasted three months before the nightmares started coming every night instead of every few.
Three months before he caught himself scanning rooftops from the grocery store car park, before he realized he hadn't spoken to another person or in general for days.
Therapy had been suggested by Price, strongly.
He went the first time out of obligation, the second out of irritation and the third because something inside him had cracked enough to admit he couldn't white-knuckle it forever.
He didn't talk much at first, sat stiff in the chair with his arms crossed.
Taking mask off was still making him feel uneasy, the habit of hiding still gnawing whenever eyes lingered too long, but he had decided that in order to try to get better he had to try to leave the mask and hiding behind.
He'd have to bare himself.
The therapist waited him out, asked careful questions and let the silences stretch.
Eventually, words came.
Not all of them, not the worst of them but enough to feel...lighter.
The sessions didn't fix him, didn't erase the ghosts that followed him into sleep but they gave him something else—language.
Names for the weight in his chest, explanations for the sharp edge in his temper, for the way he defaulted to control when he felt anything at all.
"You're not broken." the therapist told him once after he confessed that he felt like always staying this way.
Simon didn't believe that but he kept going anyway.
The idea to become a nurse came unexpectedly.
He'd been sitting in the waiting room after a session, watching a psychiatric nurse kneel in front of a trembling patient—no force, no raised voice but steady eye contact and quiet reassurance.
It looked harder than combat, braver, purposeful.
He signed up for training before he could talk himself out of it.
School was different from anything he'd known.
Structured, yes, but not built on dominance or survival.
He struggled with empathy, patience, de-escalation—causing his instructors to pull him aside more than once.
"You don't have to be stone-faced all the time, Riley."
"You have to speak quieter, softer."
"You can't instruct people to get better, Riley. You can only give them the tools and support they need for it."
But despite all of it, he passed.
He had studied harder than he ever had before, memorized protocols, learned how to read body language that wasn't telegraphing a fight.
Simon had learned that sometimes the most important thing you could do was lower your voice instead of raising it.
By the time he stepped into the mental hospital as a newly qualified nurse, his shoulders still carried tension like body armor but he stood a little differently—less like a weapon, more like a wall someone could lean against.
Support, not tank.
He told himself that was enough, doing alright.
Perhaps not perfect nor healed but functioning—working, sleeping more often than not and sometimes even through the night.
The nightmares still came but they no longer dragged him under every time.
He could handle this.
He could handle this job.
He learned, studied, memorized—he could do it and perhaps he really can become better.
***
The ward has its own rhythm.
Locked doors that click shut with finality, fluorescent lights that never quite dim and constantly buzz faintly, the low murmur of televisions in the common room.
Nurses move in steady patterns, charts and files tucked their under arms, voices pitched carefully between calm and authority.
There's quiet days, chaotic days, days in the ward where it almost feels like the world might end.
But Simon adapts the way he always does; by observing first, speaking second and taking things into his own hands third.
He kept his instructions clear, simple and direct—impossible to ignore, hard not to follow.
"Time for meds." - "Group starts in ten." - "Sit down." - "Look at me."
Most patients respond well enough, some test him, a few shout and one once tried to attack him during an episode but Simon had handled it cleanly—firm hands, controlled voice, no escalation which made the senior staff nod in approval.
"You're steady and firm, the need that." one of the psychiatrists at the ward told him.
Steady and he could do, better than quiet and soft anyway.
It had been a few months when your name appeared on the admissions board.
Re-admit, previous stay had lasted almost a year and you were discharged three months ago—a little before Simon started working here.
Simon pauses in front of the chart longer than necessary.
"You worked with them before?" he asks and glances toward one of the day-shift nurses, Mara.
"Yeah, multiple admissions over the years. Comes in bad, leaves better but it doesn't always stick." she sighs softly.
He only hums in acknowledgment.
He wants to get to know the person, not the file so he doesn't ask for a diagnosis.
When you arrived, it not dramatic like he's seen with other patients.
No shouting, no thrashing, bo police escort—just you.
Your shoulders curved inward, eyes unfocused and hurrying all over the place, your movements small like you're trying not to take up any space at all—a already controlled bag clutched too tightly in your hand.
He stepped forward, nods at the warden as a sign that he got you and the warden nods back before he leaves.
Simon keeps his posture straight, voice even.
"Simon Riley. I'll be overseeing your intake."
Your gaze flickers up at his height, 6'4ft, his broad shoulders and the scars barely visible on the top half of his face since he's resorted to wearing a medical face-mask for the past few years.
Simon notices how your gaze drops almost immediately again, how you avoid him with your eyes.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you." he say automatically, not quiet harsh but definitely firm and commanding.
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag.
Mara, standing slightly behind him, shifts her weight and watches the scene play out with caution.
"We'll get your vitals, go over your medication history and then I'll show you to your room. Routine's the same as before." Simon continues, already slipping back into quick and firm efficiency because he knows it works here.
At the word 'before' something in your expression changes, barely there but he catches it—a quick flinch.
Simon mistakes it for defiance.
"You understand?" he presses, deep voice even lower now.
A pause, a long one that almost makes Simon click his tongue in annoyance but you respond before he can.
"...Yes." you murmur, quiet and thin.
He marks it down as noncompliance in progress on his clipboard.
He takes you to the medical office where vitals and weight are taken every week, knocks on the door and the on-duty doctor opens.
During vitals, you startled when the doctor reached for your wrist—not violently, just a sharp intake of breath, shoulders jerking before you force yourself still.
"Relax. Doc's not gonna hurt you." Simon murmurs low.
The words are meant to reassure but they land like a threat.
Your pulse is recorded as fast by the machine, blood pressure a little too high for someone of your age.
Across the room, the doctor clears their throat softly as they jot down your vitals.
Simon doesn't see it yet, how he makes you feel by being him.
He only sees the tension, the avoidance, the way you seem perpetually braced and to him it looks like resistance.
He doesn't know that pressure makes you fold inward instead of standing your ground, that commanding tones scrape against old wounds, that every sharp edge in his voice feels like something about to strike.
By the time your checked and your intake finished, Simon leads you down the corridor—having already decided you were going to be a difficult case.
He doesn't realize yet that he is the one making it harder.
The room you'll be sharing is at the end of the corridor with the same layout as the others—two single beds bolted to the floor, two narrow wardrobe, two bolted down desks with rounded edges, a window that only opens a fraction with metal bars outside.
The room is safe, contained and just comfortable enough to sleep in without making one want to stay.
Simon steps inside first, a quick sweep out of habit more than necessity because old instincts die hard.
Your roommates not in the room, leaving the two of you alone in it.
"You'll be on standard observation for now," he says, turning to face you "Checks every thirty minutes until the psychiatrist reviews your case."
You don't nod to that, don't acknowledge it aside from a slight lift of your shoulders.
Simon notices the way you hover near the doorway, like crossing fully into the room means something final you can't turn back from.
"You can unpack. Dinner's at six, group therapy tomorrow morning. Attendance is mandatory unless you're medically exempt." he adds.
Your fingers slightly twitch at the word 'mandatory', he keeps going.
"If there's an issue, you speak up. Don't shut down. We can't help you if you don't communicate."
That makes your jaw tighten with a small nod.
"Good."
He mistakes the clench of your jaw for attitude.
A beat of silence stretches between you, the fluorescent light humming faintly overhead.
Somewhere down the hall, a patient laughs too loudly at something on television and another starts arguing with a fellow nurse about meds.
"Get settled." Simon says, gesturing to the empty bed.
You step fully into the room at last and he notes how you move—careful and quiet as if sudden motions might trigger something unseen.
When he finally turns to leave, he adds one last instruction.
"When staff address you, I expect eye contact. It shows you're present."
Your breath stutters, hitches for just a moment—startled and surprised.
"...Okay."
He nods in satisfaction once then steps back into the corridor, shutting the door with a heavy click behind him.
Mara is waiting a few feet away.
"You went in a bit...strong." she says carefully.
"I was clear." he frowns.
"They don't do well with that tone."
"They need structure." Simon shoots back immediately, harsher than intended.
"They need safety, not a drill sergeant." Mara corrects gently.
His jaw tightens at that, memories flooding back.
Yells, harsh tones, orders that had to be obeyed.
"I'm not a drill sergeant."
The other nurse recognizes the tone, the expression, and softens her voice.
"I know, but they're not defiant, Simon. When they avoid eye contact? That's fear. When they go quiet? They're overwhelmed, not challenging you."
"I wasn't harsh." Simon exhales through his nose, slightly irritated.
"No." Mara agrees without missing a beat "But you were firm and for some people, firm feels like danger."
That doesn't sit right with him.
Firm is stable, predictable and controlled—chaos is danger, loudness is.
And still, as he glances back at the closed door to your room something unsettles in his chest.
It's not quiet guilt, not yet, just...awareness and a pinch of recognition he won't admit.
Inside the room, you've slowly and quietly started to unpack—sorting clothes into the wardrobe, emptying the bag you brought.
Thirty minute checks, mandatory attendance, 'look at me when I'm speaking to you'.
Your pulse hasn't fully settled yet and for the first time, out in the corridor just past the room door, Simon Riley has mistaken fear for defiance and walks away thinking he handled it well.
***
Simon can't quiet get the hang of you, can't understand how you think and move.
Somedays you're quieter and he barely sees you and somedays you're more lively, conversing with staff and fellow patients.
Sometimes those days mix into one, sometimes your personality switches within seconds with no real reason—usually for the worse.
On the days where you stay in your room he checks on you every now and then but the times he tries to talk with you and get real answers on how you're doing, your responses are short and quiet and just one word.
Even on days you're more social, there's always an air of tension around you.
You're always quiet, closed off and for some reason it pisses Simon off—though he appreciated that you take your medication, go to your sessions and eat without protest.
He's so used to battling with new patients about eating and medication that he was genuinely taken aback when you did it all without question or resistance.
It's been three weeks since you were re-admitted and the week has been relatively quiet for a psych ward for now.
Simon is just about to return to the common room after walking down the corridor after his break, his badge and keys safely tucked to his body, when he hears it—noise coming from your room.
It's just a muffled thud, so quiet it almost drown out in the normal ward noises, but he hears it anyway.
Unease spreads in Simon's chest, his instincts telling him that something is wrong even though a thud is usually nothing of concern.
He glances down the corridor into the common room where nothing seems out of the ordinary, no one else seems as alarmed and concerned how he is.
For a moment he considers just continuing down the corridor, to return to the tasks he knows are ahead of him but he figures that in a psych ward it's better to be safe than sorry.
His footsteps are silent as he turns back around and closes the small distance to the door of the room you share.
He stops briefly in front of it, then knocks before entering a moment later.
The scene in front of him is so bizzare and unexpectedly hostile that it freezes Simon for just a moment.
You're lying there on the floor next to your bed, arms outstretched away from you and staring up at your roommate who's straddling your torso—their thumbs pressing into your windpipe as the rest of the fingers squeeze the sides of your throat.
Your roommates brows are furrowed, face distorted into anger and they don't even look up when the door opens.
And you? You just take it.
Simon is forced out of his momentary stupor at the realization and years of combat and military training kick in, react automatically to the violence.
"Hey!" he yells, alerting wardens and nurses nearby, before already stepping forward.
Perhaps, later on, he might admit to himself that his own display of violence was too much but for now it seems appropriate.
He grabs your roommate by the shoulders, wedges his leg below their elbows and moves it up to forcefully loosen their hands from your throat—he slams them onto the ground the second their hold is released.
From the corner of his eye, Simon can faintly see you scurrying under your bed before two wardens already burst in as well while another day nurse stands by at the door.
Short and clipped Simon tells the wardens what he saw happen as they take the thrashing and screaming patient from his hold into theirs, nodding in acknowledgment as they drag them out into the corridor—the nurse hot on their heels as she follows them to the confinement room down the hall.
Once the screams echo down the corridor, Simon straightens with a deep sigh.
He steps closer to your bed where you're hiding under, rolls his shoulders and neck to get rid of some of the tension in them before he speaks.
"Everything's alright now, you can come out." he say's gruffly, adrenaline still flowing and slowly subsiding in his veins.
Simon waits for a response or any kind of acknowledgment but none comes.
The only sound coming from you is your breathing that's a bit too fast and a tad too shallow for his liking.
Simon crouches slowly beside the bed, the metal frame cool against his knuckles.
He can't see much, just the outline of you curled tight against the wall and half-shadowed—slightly shaking, hugging yourself tightly.
"You're safe, they're gone." he says to try and coax you out from under the bed, his voice still rough around the edges.
Silence.
His jaw tightens, not in anger just out of habit.
He knows you're startled by the situation, hell you had been strangled just a few moments ago, but he needs confirmation that you're physically fine.
"You need to come out so I can check you. I need to take your vitals and get a look on your neck to make sure you're okay." he presses gently.
There's a pause until your voice sounds from under the bed, quiet as a whisper and scratchy.
"...I'm fine."
He exhales through his nose—you are not fine, even he probably wouldn't be after a situation like that.
He lowers himself further, one knee touching the floor so he's not towering even from this angle.
"I need to assess you." he repeats trying to moderate his tone, to sound patient and calm despite your behavior grating on it.
He knows you're probably overwhelmed, scared, but he needs you to see reason and let him check on you and doesn't understand why you just won't let him.
Simon inhales again, calms his nerves.
"Did you lose consciousness?" he asks and he can faintly see the shadow of your head under the bed shake no.
He lowers down further, extends a scarred hand under your bed to help you out but you flinch so violently that his hand freezes midair.
There it is again.
Not defiance, fear—of him.
Something unsettlingly sharp finds its place in his chest.
"Okay." he say's low, slowly retreating his hand again so you can watch the movement happen.
"I'm not going to grab you." he adds quickly, and for the first time since he started working here his voice isn't firm—it's careful, soft, gentle.
"You can move when you're ready, okay?" he assures before slowly sitting down on the floor next to the nightstand—keeping distance while still being close.
Right now, you're in an emotional state of emergency and even if you told him to he probably wouldn't leave.
He had learned that in such situations, a patient should not be left alone—so he stays.
For a few minutes, he just sits there.
Silently he let's the earlier incident replay in his head over and over again, taking a scrutinizing look at his own reaction to look for mistakes but he finds that there are none.
He reacted right, appropriately to the situation.
He pushed the patient off, freed you from the grasp, restrained the patient to stop them from doing further harm and now all that is left to do is make sure you're alright—physically and mentally, at least as much as the situation allows.
But you're silent, unmoving and he needs to find a way to get you out from under the bed without startling you again.
Slowly, Simon reaches into the pocket of his scrubs and pulls out a deck of cards.
It's...well loved, bend and dirty from extensive use—Soap had gifted it to him once, way before they left the SAS and missions were devoid of action and movement.
He always keeps it with him, toys with the cards or just stares at them when his nights get too lonely and his breaks at the ward too quiet.
"You know how to play uno?" Simon asks as he starts shuffling the deck—no response.
He doesn't try to look under the bed when you don't respond, keeps his eyes on the cards instead while keeping his movements slow and deliberate so the sound is soft—paper against paper, building a steady rhythm.
"I'm terrible at it." he continues after a few second.
"Break half the rules, drives the others mad." he adds, which is a total lie.
He's meticulous with rules, follows them without much question when they make sense but right now this isn't about winning or rules—it's about giving you the comfort and normalcy you seem to be needing.
Silence stretches as he keeps shuffling the cards to randomize them before he sets two cards face down on the floor between himself and the edge of the bed.
He leaves the space on purpose, doesn't push them closer.
"You don't have to talk, we can just play." he says quietly, then waits.
Another minute passes before you move, your arm extending hesitantly from under the bed before your fingers curl around one of the card decks and retreating again.
He doesn't look at you, doesn't comment and just grabs the other deck before flipping the first card onto the floor.
"Red seven." he murmurs, not quiet sure if you can see the card clearly from your position.
There's another long pause before your hand emerges again.
It's tentative, hovering first with a card between your fingers like you expect him to grab it.
When he doesn't move, you reach out farther and place down a red colored card in response.
Simon feels something unclench in his chest.
"Alright, my turn." he murmurs.
He keeps playing and so do you.
At first you stay hidden, then emerge a little more with your torso still beneath the bed, only your arm visible as you slide cards out.
He keeps his posture relaxed, back against the wall, legs stretched out, body angled away just enough that he's not looming over the opening.
No sudden movements, no sharp tones, no reprimands for you to come out—just a silent game of cards sliding over the polished linoleum floor.
After a few rounds, you shift again.
Slowly, you slide fully out from under the bed and sit cross-legged on the floor opposite him.
He pretends not to notice the victory in that.
Your throat is marked, faint bruising blooming under the fluorescent lights.
He keeps his gaze level with your hands instead of your neck.
"You can call UNO, you know." he says when you're down to one card and clearly hesitating to speak.
"I know." you say quietly, your voice is still scratchy but definitely steadier and Simon nods in acknowledgment to your words.
You win that round and he acts mildly offended about it, huffing under his breath as he reshuffles.
The tension in your shoulders lowers by degrees—not yet gone but less coiled.
After the fifth game, you're sitting closer to the wall than the bed and no longer halfway hidden or relying on the bed as a measure for a quick retreat.
The silence between you feels different now.
It's not tense or strained anymore, instead it's just a acceptable quiet.
Eventually, Simon clears his throat softly.
"Does your neck hurt?" he asks, just curious enough to show your response matters while keeping it soft enough to not make you feel pressured.
"A little." you admit quietly after seemingly considering the question for a moment.
"I'll get ice after this." he suggests more than states in response and you nod.
Another round starts and halfway through, you stop fidgeting with your sleeve and just...sit.
He risks a glance at your face.
You're watching his hands shuffle.
You'r not avoiding him but not quite meeting his eyes either though neither are you shrinking.
He chooses his words carefully this time, the question having pressed at him for a good few minutes now.
"When I came in earlier..." he starts, tone even but low "you weren't scared of them."
It's not a question.
You pause mid-movement, card hovering over the pile—you don't respond, but you react.
"You were scared of me." he finishes and the statement lands heavy.
Your fingers tighten around the card an for a second he thinks you'll shut down again, that you'll retreat maybe even all the way back under the bed, but you don't.
You set the card down gently.
"I wasn't scared of what they were doing." you say quietly, avoiding his eyes and Simon can practically hear the words you're not saying—you've had worse.
The admission is so matter-of-fact it makes something inside him go still.
"But when you yelled..." you continue, eyes fixed on the cards "...and when you threw them like that-"
You pause, shoulders drawing in slightly again.
"You looked like you were going to kill them." you finally press out and Simon hates that they lack accusation, that they're just honest.
He doesn't defend himself, doesn't justify it.
He replays the moment again; the force, the slam, the instinct to dominate the threat completely.
"I know." you answer softly, eyes moving upward as second as if you might meet his gaze but you decide against it before the eye contact can happen.
"But you looked like it." you add, looking away slightly as if ashamed of your observation.
That's worse because you believe him and were still afraid.
He nods once, slow.
"Thank you for telling me."
Your gaze flickers up at that again—brief and searching.
Most people argue, dismiss and correct but he doesn't.
"I reacted, but I don't want to be someone you're afraid of." he says carefully.
The confession feels strange on his tongue, too vulnerable.
You study him for a second, longer than usual.
"You don't have to yell, I listen better without it..." you say quietly.
He huffs a faint, almost humorless breath.
"Yeah, I noticed."
A beat.
"I'm trying." he adds not defensive, just factual.
Your fingers tap the edge of the well worn deck of cards in the floor.
"I can tell." you nod so quietly that it might as well be a whisper.
It's small but it's the first time you've offered him anything that isn't compliance or quiet endurance—it's acknowledgment.
He deals the next hand slower.
"Next time I'll keep my voice down." he says, voice steady but softer than it's ever been with you.
You nod.
***
A few more weeks pass and Simon can't help but notice that, despite getting visitor clearance, there's no one coming to visit you.
You're still quiet most of the time but on the occasions you talk and share things about yourself, you never mention anyone outside of the ward—no family, no friends.
You keep going to group therapy, your sessions with your assigned psychiatrist and keep taking your prescribed meds which definitely improved your overall mood and social behavior.
Simon thinks that's a good sign, a really good one—perhaps you won't be re-admitted this time once you're released.
But the longer you stay, the more he notices the gaps.
Visitor hours come and go.
Other patients wait by the doors on Saturdays, fidgeting with nervous anticipation—some leave disappointed, some leave with tear-streaked faces and some leave smiling.
You never even wait, just sit in the common room with a book you rarely turn the pages of or you help another patient with a puzzle, sit with the patients with eating disorders to accompany then during their mandatory snack times or you simply watch the clock like the hours don't mean anything at all.
No one asks for you at reception, no one calls.
At first Simon tells himself it's none of his business but by the seventh week since you were admitted, it starts to feel like it is.
He finds Mara in the staff room one evening, both of them halfway through lukewarm tea.
The ward is calm for once—no shouting, no alarms.
"They hadn't had a single visitor." he says, casual tone forced as he stares into the murky liquid.
Mara looks up at him over the rim of her mug, knows who he means without him having to say a name.
"No." she confirms.
"Is that normal?"
"For them? Yeah." she says with a small shrug.
Simon's jaw shifts a little at that.
"No family?" he asks.
"Estranged."
"Friends?"
"Drifted."
The answers are short, clinical and he doesn't like them.
Mara studies him for a moment longer, scrutinizing him under her gaze from just over the rim of her mug.
"You've taken an interest."
"They're my patient." Simon shrugs.
"They're one of your patients." she corrects immediately as if expecting that kind of answer.
He doesn't respond to that and Mara sets her mug down with a small sigh after a few moments.
"You want to know the full chart?" she asks.
Simon hesitates.
He doesn't like reading patient files or being force-fed their diagnoses, he thinks there's more to people than what they struggle with and he can usually guess what people are struggling with—but you stay a mystery.
So, after a hesitating, he nods.
Mara reaches for the file on the table beside her.
"PTSD. Long-term. Not combat." she says while giving Simon a pointed glance, subtle but there.
"Chronic depression. Recurrent self-harm since adolescence. Hospitalizations started mid-teens."
Simon goes still.
Self-harm.
He thinks of the way you always wear long sleeves, even when the ward gets too warm.
"Triggers?" he asks, voice quieter now.
"Authority figures, raised voices, physical restraint, violence..." Mara pauses for a moment "...feeling trapped."
That lands heavier in Simon's chest than the rest.
She continues.
"They-" she corrects herself and uses your name instead, softer "-don't escalate outward. They implode. That's why they're compliant. It's not stability, it's survival."
Survival.
He knows that word intimately.
"They mirror a lot of you." Mara adds gently.
Simon's head snaps up.
"I don't self-harm."
"That's not what I meant." she eases immediately.
Silence stretches between them for a few moments, then tea growing colder.
"You both default to control, though you externalize it while they internalize it." Mara says carefully.
He doesn't like how accurate that sounds.
"They think they're a burden, thinks people are better without them around." Mara continues and this time the words mane Simon's stomach tighten.
He thinks about the way you never ask for anything extra, never linger after conversations, never assume space—how you thank staff for the smallest accommodations like you're apologizing for existing.
"They improving?" he asks because that's safer ground than continuing to ask more about what you're struggling with.
"Yes." Mara says firmly "The meds are helping, therapy too."
A beat as she hesitates, tapping the nail of her index finger against her mug once, twice and a third time before continuing—careful, soft.
"But...progress doesn't mean cured."
He nods slowly and Mara tilts her head.
"You need to be careful." she says and Simons gaze hardens slightly.
"I am." he says firm, almost irritated.
"No, you need to be careful with yourself." she says gently.
That makes him frown.
"You sit with them longer than your rounds require, you bring that card deck every shift now." Mara points out and Simon has to admit to himself that he didn't realize he was doing it until she said it.
"You watch them during group like you're waiting for something to happen." she continues.
He does because he is waiting for something to happen, knows how quickly a bad night can undo a good week.
"They're fragile and you don't...do well with fragile." Mara adds softly and Simon involuntarily has to think of you under that bed—of you curled up in the darkness, of your quiet voice saying 'I'll listen'.
"I can handle it." he mutters.
"That's not what I'm worried about."
The implication hangs there—attachment, projection, crossing lines that exist for a reason.
Later that night, Simon does his final round.
You're sitting on your bed, knees drawn up, a book open in your lap—your roommate had been reassigned to a single room due to their violent outburst, leaving you alone in the double room since there haven't been new patients.
You look up when he knocks.
"Evening." he says and you nod in acknowledgment—at first it bugged him that you wouldn't return the word, now he's gotten used to it.
Simon steps inside, checks the window latch, the bathroom and going over the usual protocol but his attention keeps drifting back to you.
To the way the fluorescent light catches faint, old scars along your wrist where your sleeve has ridden up, to the tiredness in your eyes that he recognizes too well.
"You sleep alright last night?" he asks.
"Better." you say quietly along with a small nod.
You open your mouth, clearly hesitate, then speak again.
"You?"
The question catches him off guard.
"I manage." he answers with a small shrug and you nod like it makes sense.
He lingers a second too long by the window before slowly taking a few steps back towards the middle of the room and subsequently the door.
"You know...if you ever need to talk outside of sessions-" he starts carefully but stops himself because that right there is a like he was about to cross.
But you just tilt your head slightly.
"I know."
And that somehow feels like you're reassuring him.
When he leaves your room, closing the door softly behind him, something uncomfortable settles in his chest.
It's not just professional concern, it's not just duty—it's the sharp, protective pull he felt in combat when someone on his team was exposed to gunfire or danger except you're not his responsibility in that way.
You're a patient and he is starting to care in a way that feels dangerously close to something else.
Back in the corridor Simon presses a hand briefly against the cool wall and exhales.
He tells himself it's empathy, shared experience, understanding and not attachment—not the kind of care that blurs lines and makes men like him reckless.
But when visitor hours come again that weekend and you don't even glance toward the doors, he feels the absence like it's his own which is when he realizes this is no longer just about doing his job well—it's about you and that's a problem.
my masterlist
a/n: I based this on my own experiences in psych wards so I won't really take criticism for it since experiences differ depending on institute, illness, country and so on. Feel free to share your own experiences though, I always find it fascinating how others found their stay in psych wards though I of course hope none of you ever had the need to go to one/be forcefully admitted.
Also, I've been switching between 2 different keyboards and my phone writing this+got sick halfway through so half of this may not make sense so I will proofread and edit this once I'm feeling better<3
happy ⠀black history month ⠀to all the black americans , the afro-caribbeans , the afro-latinx afro-natives , and other black diasporas. we’re strong and this was always about us <3
"PRETTY PRETTY PLEASE I DON'T WANT TO BE A MAGICAL GIRL" EPISODE 2 🌟
"I Want to be a Normal Girl"
SATURDAY, JANUARY 31ST @ 11AM PST!!!!!!!!!!!!
New episode animatic dropping! Planning on doing a stream right before to watch the pilot/episode 1 together and do a small QnA~ There will also be a lil announcement after the credits 👀
WE'RE SO BACK!!!
Make sure to subscribe so you know when the premiere goes live!
I opened Instagram today to the news that Shirley Raines, the CEO of Beauty 2 The Streetz, has died. Many people probably know her on here, even if they don't know her name. Her videos of feeding and providing other essentials for the homeless of her community have been reposted across many platforms due to her kindness and unending respect for people so often denied agency and personhood. She did so much for people in need and truly wanted to elevate others with what she had, building confidence and strength in those that needed it most.
The Beauty 2 The Streetz nonprofit has asked that you send love and support to her family, loved ones, and the community she has fostered. The beauty2thestreetz Instagram and Tiktok [able to be found here on Linktree] are both worth supporting and spreading awareness of her mission.
If you have the means, their website has donation options to further her cause and continue to provide necessary support in food, hygiene, makeup, and hairstyling to the homeless community. The utmost respect for a kindhearted woman that will be remembered fondly by those she helped. May Shirley Raines rest in peace and may the people she looked out for see the same time, effort, and kindness she was always prepared to give.
Yeah I said something similar yesterday but we can NOT let what happened to Renee Good cloud what happened to everyone else at the hands of these SS Demons!!!
Because we can’t disregard one person if we’re for human rights!
Alex was recording, which was well within his right, and was shielding other people from pepper spray. He was trying to help. You'll hear people blame him for having a gun, which he had a permit to carry and the only time it was out of the holster was when ICE took it before shooting him. You'll see people claim he shot at officers, but that is a blatant lie.
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