Omggg I need a fanfic of Simon retired and trying to fit into normal society and start settling down with someone!! Especially a kind innocent girl for funsies 🥺 probably a girl that also works at the bar??? Bartender reader??!?! Idk bestie
Thanks for your request, sweetheart 💖Phew... this really isn't my writing style at all, and I'm so behind on my own stories 😩, but I love requests 😉 so, did my best... I hope you like it ☺️
The first weeks after leaving the military felt wrong in ways Simon could not explain.
Not loud wrong. Not dramatic. Quiet wrong.
Like walking through a world that kept moving while he stood still somewhere behind it.
No missions. No briefings. No comms crackling in his ear at three in the morning. No weapons to clean. No men depending on him. No adrenaline sharp enough to silence his thoughts.
The small flat the government arranged for him sat above a row of shops in Manchester, old pipes rattling in the walls whenever someone downstairs turned on hot water. The place smelled faintly of dust and rain no matter how often he opened the windows.
Some nights he woke reaching for a weapon that was no longer there. Other nights he simply stared at the ceiling until dawn painted pale grey light across the room.
People talked about retirement like it was peace.
They had no fucking idea.
Peace was harder than war.
War gave him purpose. Rules. Distance. Structure.
Normal life expected him to smile at cashiers, remember passwords, and somehow pretend his body didn’t still react to every sudden noise like a loaded gun.
The worst part was the feeling that he no longer belonged anywhere.
Not fully military anymore.
Just… something in between.
Rainy streets. Empty parks at night. Convenience stores at two in the morning. Anywhere that kept him moving long enough to stop thinking.
That was how he found the bar.
A small place tucked between a laundromat and a tattoo studio. Warm amber light glowed through fogged-up windows while rain tapped softly against the glass.
The kind of place people disappeared into instead of celebrated in.
Simon stood outside for a moment, hands buried deep in the pockets of his black jacket, staring at the neon sign humming faintly overhead.
Low. Old rock. Something familiar enough not to irritate him.
The bartender behind the counter glanced up briefly as he entered.
You looked young. Too young for late-night shifts and drunk customers. Warm light spilled across your oversized sweater while you wiped down the counter and offered him a small smile.
Not forced. Not flirtatious. Just… kind.
Simon almost forgot people expected answers now. “Whiskey.”
You gave a small nod and poured the drink without another question.
That alone made him stay.
No nervous chatter. No awkward attempts to fill silence. No staring too long at the scars visible above his collar.
Just quiet understanding.
Simon sat at the far end of the counter for nearly an hour, nursing the same drink while reflections moved through the rain-streaked windows.
You moved easily around the bar, greeting regulars by name, wiping glasses, laughing softly at something an older man near the dartboard said.
The strange thing was… You noticed everything.
Every empty glass. Every uncomfortable customer. Every shift in mood.
And Simon noticed you noticing.
His gaze drifted toward a paper taped crookedly beside the register.
HELP WANTED - BARTENDER NEEDED
He stared at it longer than he should have. Because the idea was ridiculous.
Simon Riley behind a fucking bar.
But another thought settled heavier beneath the sarcasm: You need something.
Not purpose exactly. Nothing would replace the military. Nothing could.
A reason to leave the flat besides wandering through rain at midnight.
You caught him looking at the sign.
“You searching for work?” you asked gently.
Simon grunted faintly. “Maybe.”
His eyes lifted slowly to yours.
That should have ended the conversation.
Instead, you smiled a little.
“You look like you could throw out drunk idiots though.”
For the first time in weeks, Simon almost smiled back.
You slid a fresh napkin toward him before leaning lightly against the counter.
“Our other bartender quit last month. Boss is desperate.”
“He said - and I quote…” You lowered your voice dramatically. “‘People cry too much in hospitality.’”
Simon stared at you blankly.
You laughed softly at his expression.
And somehow… Somehow that sound settled quietly somewhere under his ribs without permission.
But when he left the bar later that night, rain dripping from the edge of his hood as he stepped back into the cold street, he folded the little phone number you handed him into his pocket instead of throwing it away.
Simon called three days later. Not because he wanted to. Because the number stayed in his pocket. Folded in half. Still there. Still impossible to throw away.
And that alone irritated him enough to finally dial it before he could change his mind.
The owner hired him after one look. Didn’t ask many questions either, which Simon appreciated.
“You ex-military?” the older man asked while wiping down the counter.
“Good. Means you’ll show up on time.”
That had apparently been enough.
So somehow Simon Riley ended up standing behind a bar on a cold Thursday evening wearing a black T-shirt with the pub’s name stretched across shoulders that looked entirely too dangerous for hospitality work.
You nearly dropped a tray when you saw him. “You actually came back.”
Simon shrugged once. “You sound disappointed.”
“I’m shocked, not disappointed.”
You smiled at him again. Always that soft smile. Never nervous. Never forced.
It unsettled him more than fear would have.
Most people looked at him and immediately adjusted themselves. Became cautious. Careful. Defensive.
You just… talked to him. Like he was normal.
“Alright,” you said, clapping your hands together lightly. “Training day.”
Simon stared at you. “You’re training me.”
“You look too young to work nights.”
“And yet here I am surviving.”
“That sounded judgmental.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically before motioning for him to follow you behind the counter.
And that was how his first shift started.
Painfully. Not physically. Socially.
“You have to smile at customers sometimes,” you told him while stacking glasses.
“Because you look like you’re deciding who to bury first.”
Simon looked toward the loud group near the dartboard. “…Might be.”
You pointed toward a man approaching the counter. “See? Customer. Friendly face.”
The customer slowed immediately. “…Actually never mind,” the man muttered before turning toward the other bartender.
You burst out laughing so suddenly you nearly snorted.
“You just scared away your first customer.”
“You’re terrible at this.”
He should have hated it there.
Sticky counters. Loud drunks. Music too low to drown out thoughts. Too many people moving around him all night.
But strangely… The bar made sense. Routine made sense.
Cleaning glasses. Carrying crates. Watching doors. Noticing tension before it escalated.
His body slipped into observation automatically.
Three exits. One blind corner near the bathrooms. One man already too drunk. A woman alone near the back table visibly uncomfortable with the man leaning too close.
Simon noticed everything without trying.
By the second week, people stopped causing problems when he stood nearby.
Didn’t even need to speak. One look usually solved things.
“Terrified half the regulars already,” the owner told him one evening, sounding oddly pleased about it.
You seemed strangely immune to intimidation. Completely.
You talked while working. Hummed softly to songs on the radio. Slid cups of coffee toward him during breaks because apparently. “You look less dead with caffeine.”
Simon never asked you to.
You just started doing it.
And somehow he started expecting it. That part bothered him most.
Attachment was dangerous. Even now. Especially now.
One rainy evening after closing, you sat cross-legged on the counter counting tips beneath the dim amber lights while Simon cleaned glasses beside you in silence.
Outside, rain hammered softly against the windows.
“You know,” you said eventually, “when you first walked in here, I thought you were either a serial killer or incredibly depressed.”
Simon dried another glass slowly. “Which one did you settle on?”
You tilted your head thoughtfully. “Incredibly depressed serial killer.”
A rough sound almost escaped his chest. Not quite a laugh.
Close enough that your eyes widened slightly.
“Oh my god. Was that humor?”
Simon looked down at the glass in his hands instead of at you. Because something unfamiliar tightened quietly in his chest.
Not desire. Not yet. Something softer. Something more dangerous. Comfort.
And after years of surviving by never needing anyone… That frightened him far more than any battlefield ever had.
The thing about you was that you genuinely seemed to believe good existed in everyone.
Simon found that deeply suspicious. Not stupid.
You weren’t naïve enough to trust drunk men automatically or walk home alone through dark streets without checking over your shoulder.
But there was still something soft about you. Something untouched by the uglier parts of the world.
You smiled at old people on the street.
Fed stray cats behind the bar.
And apparently cried during sad animal commercials, which Simon unfortunately learned after walking into the staff room one evening to find you angrily wiping at your eyes while staring at your phone.
“It’s a rescue ad,” you mumbled defensively. “The dog only has one eye.”
Simon stared at you for a long moment. “…Right.”
And somehow you grinned anyway.
It got worse over the next weeks. Not the job. You.
You kept doing things that quietly dismantled his defenses without even realizing it. Decorating the employee fridge for holidays.
Bringing homemade cookies for staff because: “People are less grumpy with sugar.”
Simon had eaten exactly one.
Now you kept leaving extra beside his coffee without comment.
The first time you touched him accidentally, you apologized immediately. Your fingers brushed his wrist while reaching for a bottle opener.
Like he was the one fragile enough to break.
Simon stared at the place your skin touched for half a second too long before continuing to clean glasses.
You noticed everything. That was the problem. Not in a tactical way like him. Emotionally.
One particularly slow evening, you leaned against the counter watching him restock liquor bottles with military precision.
“You always organize them labels forward.”
“And tallest to shortest.”
“And the expensive whiskey stays closest to your side.”
“You know that’s weird, right?”
Simon glanced sideways at you. “You alphabetized the straws.”
He looked at you for a moment.
Standing there in an oversized knitted sweater with little moons stitched near the sleeves, you looked more like someone who belonged in a bookstore café than serving drunk football fans at midnight.
“You ever gonna tell me why you work here?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You blinked. “Work where?”
Instead of getting offended, you looked strangely thoughtful. “My dad owned bars.”
“He died when I was nineteen.” Your voice softened slightly but never broke. “This one was struggling after the owner changed. I started helping temporarily and then… never really left.”
Simon nodded once. No pity. People hated pity.
You seemed to appreciate that. “And you?” you asked carefully. “You ever gonna tell me what you did before this?”
Simon’s hand paused briefly on the bottle he was holding. The old instinct rose immediately.
Don’t talk. Don’t explain. Don’t let people close enough to ask questions.
You noticed the shift instantly. “Sorry,” you said softly. “You don’t have to tell me.”
That should have relieved him. Instead, something about the way you backed off without pushing made the silence feel heavier somehow.
After a moment, Simon placed the bottle down carefully.
Your eyes lifted to his again. “That all?”
And for the first time since he met you… You looked at him like you understood there were things beneath the surface you did not want to uncover carelessly.
Not fear. Respect. That hit harder somehow.
Then the front door burst open loudly. A group of drunk men stumbled inside laughing too hard, already irritating Simon on sight.
You sighed quietly. “Oh no.”
One of the men spotted you immediately and leaned heavily onto the counter..“There’s my favorite bartender.”
Simon watched your posture shift subtly.
Smile still there. Shoulders tighter now.
The man’s gaze dragged over you slowly in a way Simon instantly disliked. “You work too hard, sweetheart.”
You gave the practiced customer-service laugh. “What can I get you?”
Simon kept wiping the same glass.
The man didn’t notice the sudden silence settling nearby.
You smiled politely. “Not on the menu.”
Unfortunately, the idiot took that as encouragement.
“Aww, come on. Don’t be like that.”
Then he reached across the counter and caught your wrist lightly.
Not violent. But Simon moved anyway. Fast enough that the man visibly startled when a large hand suddenly closed around his forearm like iron.
Simon slowly lifted his eyes toward him.
The entire bar seemed quieter suddenly.
“Let go,” Simon said calmly.
And for the first time since leaving the military… Simon felt that old coldness slide effortlessly back into place beneath his skin.
The man let go immediately. “Alright, mate. Relax.”
Simon released his arm just as quickly. No scene. No shouting. No threats. Didn’t need them.
The drunk man muttered something under his breath before retreating toward one of the tables with his friends, suddenly very interested in his beer instead of you.
The tension in the room slowly loosened again. Music continued. Glasses clinked. Conversations resumed.
But Simon still stood motionless behind the counter, jaw tight, pulse steady in that dangerous way he knew too well.
Too easy. That was the problem. Violence still lived inside him like muscle memory. Waiting.
You looked at him quietly for a moment before nudging a fresh glass toward him.
“You scared him so badly I think he spiritually left the building.”
Simon exhaled faintly through his nose. “He grabbed you.”
“Yeah.” You rubbed lightly at your wrist. “Happens sometimes.”
Something dark flickered behind Simon’s eyes at that.
You noticed immediately. “Hey,” you said softer now. “I’m okay.”
He nodded once but didn’t look convinced.
The rest of the shift passed quietly after that. Simon spoke even less than usual.
And surprisingly, you didn’t push him.
You just worked beside him like always. Humming softly under your breath while wiping tables. Occasionally sliding him sarcastic looks whenever he glared at customers too hard.
By closing time, rain hammered heavily against the windows outside.
You groaned when peeking through the glass door. “Oh come on.”
Simon pulled on his jacket. “You got an umbrella?”
You held up a tiny folded thing from your bag. It looked pathetic.
Simon stared at it. “That’s useless.”
He almost rolled his eyes. Almost.
The walk outside hit them with cold rain immediately.
You squeaked when water splashed over your shoes.
Simon walked beside you silently, hood pulled low over his head while you struggled dramatically with the tiny umbrella that barely covered one shoulder.
“This thing betrayed me,” you complained.
“You bought a child-sized umbrella.”
“You say ‘hm’ like an eighty-year-old man.”
Simon glanced sideways at you. “You talk too much.”
“And yet here you are. Voluntarily walking home with me.”
That shut him up for a second. Because you were right. He could have left ten minutes ago. Instead, he was matching his pace to yours automatically through rain-slick streets at nearly two in the morning. The realization unsettled him quietly.
Eventually, you looked up at him through the rain. “You don’t have to keep doing that, you know.”
“Walking me home every shift.”
Simon shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “Not safe alone.”
“I survived before you showed up.”
“There’s that old man noise again.”
A tiny smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing beneath the shadow of his hood.
You caught it anyway. Your expression softened instantly.
Dangerous. That softness was becoming dangerous.
By the time you reached your apartment building, both of you were soaked.
You laughed breathlessly while trying to unlock the front door with cold fingers. “This is the worst umbrella ever invented.”
Simon stood beside you quietly, rain dripping from dark strands of hair near his forehead.
Then you finally got the door open and turned toward him with that same warm expression that always seemed to disarm him more than it should.
“Thanks for walking me home, Simon.”
He nodded once. Should have left then. Instead, his eyes drifted briefly upward toward the lit windows of your apartment above the bakery.
Warm light. Safe. Normal.
Something twisted painfully in his chest before he could stop it.
You noticed the look instantly. Of course you did. “You okay?”
Simon looked away first. “Yeah.”
The silence stretched softly between them while rain poured around the entrance.
Then you spoke carefully. “You know…” You hesitated slightly. “You don’t always have to go back to an empty apartment after shifts.”
Simon’s eyes lifted slowly back to yours.
“I mean - not weirdly,” you rushed out quickly, cheeks warming a little. “I just… if you ever wanted tea or something before going home. Or somewhere quiet after bad nights.”
Nobody had ever offered him tea like it was protection before.
And somehow that almost hurt more than the years of violence ever did.
Simon stared at you for a long moment.
You stood there soaked by rain with that ridiculous flower umbrella hanging from one wrist and concern written openly across your face for a man you barely fully understood.
Dangerous. So fucking dangerous.
Because for the first time since leaving the military… Going home suddenly sounded lonelier than staying.
