I also really like the idea of Simon actually being super fixated on skeletons and bones so he’d info dump the FUCK out of bone structures and strengths and weaknesses of each structure. Goes bone hunting off base on the weekends and collects them in jars depending on species, likes to piece bits back together . Constantly smells like something old and dusty, all of his death and skull stuff is due to that fixation. He even did it when he was a kid, when he found a rotting bird corpse in his backyard. The head had been eaten away, maggots wriggling across its body as the boy slowly pulled it apart, leaving the rotted meat for the bugs to feast on while he washed what was left of the skeleton off. His mother screamed when she found it, and Simon was locked in a closet for two days for it at six years old by his father.
He never showed anybody his collection after that, well into adulthood.
Nobody’s ever asked about it. Even 141, whose had the privilege of seeing inside his room. They had never questioned what he goes out into the woods for on weekends, or why his shelves and walls are lined with jars of different sizes filled with bones. He likes the spine the best across mammals, and keeps a deer vertebrae in his pocket like a worry stone.
Enter you. A civilian on base, working as a technician that would babble on and on about your work for anybody who would hear. Simon seemed to be the only one who actually listened, if only because your actual conversation was better than the agonizing small talk people would try to do with him.
“Ghost?” Your voice echoes through his head, and the man looks up from the ground. Your eyes are soft, oil smeared on your cheek as you yanked off your glove. “What’re you fiddling with in your pocket? You keep moving your hand, I thought you were scratching your nuts through it for a second.” You said, and the man stills completely against the vehicle he’d been leaning on. Nobody had ever asked that question, but- you seemed to ignore a lot of social cues. Kind of like him.
His mother’s terrified scream rings somewhere from years ago, and the scent of rotted meat almost hits his nose again before he slowly pulls out his gloved hand and shows you. He knew you wouldn’t scream or judge, but he still couldn’t help but loosen his shoulders when you just hummed and plucked it out of his hand instead. Unafraid to touch it with your bare hand, feeling the grooves with your thumb as you glanced up at him.
“Deer.” He grunts, and you let out another satisfied hum. “What, like a piece of the spine? Where’d you get this? I see why you fiddle with it, it’s nice,” you say, dropping it back in his hand and thankfully not seeing the way he straightened a little at your compliment. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, watching you turn back around to check something else on the electric board you’d been fiddling with. Allowing him time to think, occupying yourself but still listening as he’s learned- the first time you asked him a question and then turned around and did something else was confusing, but he figured it out quick.
“…. Side of the road. Been hit. Scrapped it clean, bleached it.” The lieutenant grumbled, and you laugh. It’s not cruel, it’s not nervous- just tickled at him. His fist still clenches, irritation rising up-
“Like dumpster diving but for bones. Y’know- back where I’m from, it’s actually legal to eat roadkill? I mean I never had to, but people said you could. Most people just wanted them gone- oh, do you work for your local public works department? Is that why?” You babble, not judgmental in the slightest. It’s.. well, it’s the closest Simon’s ever felt to euphoria. He stalls for another moment, then speaks.
“No- um. I like bones. Don’t work for no one, just like keepin’ what I find. Found a snake about a week ago- adder. Half eaten, 120 ribs. Jaw was intact with muscle tissue, but I boiled it off and restock it with resin to keep it clean,” he starts to talk, then stops short when you turn around to look at him.
“Oh wow- is that why you wear the skull mask and the gloves? Do you wear those when you’re out hunting?” You ask more excitedly, and Simon twitches like he’s been perceived for the first time. He looks away with a shrug, twisting the fabric of his glove between his fingers.
“No- these are my favorites, they stay here. You have to wear rubber gloves out, bodies are contaminated,” he answers back quicker than he ever has before. There’s something warm and very fragile in his dead heart that blossoms under the canopy of the garage door, the two of you yapping over his interest. Your own little safe haven, together.
You’re the first person to ever be given one of the deer vertebrae he’d kept in a jar, later.
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