Wounded love. For this req!
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Not the good kind—the kind he’s trained to move in, to weaponize. This quiet is wrong. Hollow. Like something has been taken out of the world and hasn’t been replaced.
“—Ghost, we’ve got a situation—”
The air smells like metal and smoke, the aftermath of a mission that should’ve gone clean. It had gone clean—until it didn’t. Until someone slipped. Until intel was wrong. Until you were suddenly not where you were supposed to be.
He rounds the corner, boots pounding against concrete, and then—
For half a second, Simon forgets how to breathe.
There’s too much blood. It spreads beneath you in a way that doesn’t look real, pooling into cracks in the floor like it’s trying to disappear. Your body is twisted wrong, one arm bent beneath you, your chest barely rising—barely.
It comes out rough, stripped of the mask, of the soldier, of Ghost.
He drops to his knees beside you so hard it jars his bones. His gloves come away slick the moment he touches you, pressing instinctively against the worst of it, trying to hold you together like he can force you to stay.
“Stay with me.” he growls, low and urgent, voice shaking despite every ounce of control he’s built over years. “Stay with me, love. C’mon—eyes open.”
It’s weak. Barely there. But it’s enough to punch straight through his ribs.
“Yeah.” he breathes, too fast, too tight. “Yeah, I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Your lips part, but whatever you’re trying to say dissolves into a thin, wet cough. More blood. Too much. His hand tightens, pressing harder, like pressure alone can undo what’s been done.
“Don’t talk.” he orders, softer now, almost pleading. “Save it. Med evac’s coming.”
He doesn’t know if that’s true yet.
Your fingers twitch against his sleeve, weak, searching, your wedding band still shining faintly even covered in red, and he grabs them immediately, anchoring them in his grip like it’s the only thing keeping you here.
You always said you could read him even with it on.
“Yeah..” he admits hoarsely. “But you’re still gonna make it.”
A pause. A fragile, flickering thing.
Something in his chest breaks.
“Never.” he says, and it sounds like a vow carved into bone. “Not a chance.”
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The hospital is too white.
He stands just outside your room at first, because for the first time in years, he doesn’t know if he can walk in and handle what he’ll see.
He’s faced worse. Seen worse. Done worse.
The doctor had said things—words that didn’t sit right in his head.
He pushes the door open anyway.
That’s the first thing he registers, clings to.
Machines hum quietly around you, a steady rhythm marking your heartbeat, your breathing. Tubes, wires—too many of them. Your skin is pale in a way he’s never seen before, lips dry, lashes resting against your cheeks like you’re just… sleeping.
And that terrifies him more than anything.
He moves closer, slower than he ever has in his life, like something fragile might shatter if he doesn’t. His hand hovers over yours before finally settling, careful, almost hesitant.
His voice is low, stripped raw.
He swallows hard, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles where your ring still sits.
“You said not to let you go,” he murmurs. “so… you don’t get to leave me like this, yeah?”
Simon lowers his head, resting his forehead against your hand, mask pressing awkwardly between them.
He stays like that for a long time.
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You wake up to a body in the chair beside your bed.
Large. Still. Head tilted forward like sleep caught him mid-thought.
Even through the haze, you’d know him anywhere.
Your throat burns when you try to speak, but a small sound escapes anyway.
He’s on his feet, leaning over you, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where it’s safe to touch.
“Course I did.” His voice is rough, softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Where else would I be?”
The confusion turns slow. Heavy.
The words falter, but he understands anyway.
His jaw tightens beneath the mask, something dark flickering behind his eyes before he buries it.
“They said it might happen,” he says carefully. “Temporary. We don’t know yet. There’s swelling—damage—but it’s early.”
“Yeah.” He nods once, firm. “You hear me? This isn’t the end of it.”
But when you try again—when your legs still refuses to listen—it feels like something inside you cracks open.
“I can’t feel them—” it comes out broken, panicked, your voice climbing despite how weak you are. “Simon, I—”
His hand finds yours immediately, gripping tight.
“I’ve got you.” His voice cuts through it, steady, grounding. “Look at me.”
“You’re still here.” he says, firm. “That’s what matters. We deal with the rest after, yeah? One thing at a time.”
But it hits him harder than anything else.
His grip softens just slightly, thumb brushing over your skin in a rare, gentle rhythm.
“I know..” he murmurs. “I know, sweetheart.”
“But you’re not doing this alone.”
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Recovery is not a straight line.
Some days you feel like you’re making progress—tiny, fragile victories like slight sensation returning, like being able to sit up without feeling like your body is tearing itself apart.
Or you don’t feel anything at all.
Simon is there for all of it.
He learns everything—how to help you move, how to adjust your position without hurting you, how to read the subtle shifts in your expression when pain spikes before you even say a word.
He’s patient in a way no one would expect.
When you snap at him—frustrated, angry, humiliated—he doesn’t leave.
“Don’t look at me like that.” you mutter one day, turning your head away as much as you can.
“Like what?” he asks, calm.
You let out a bitter laugh. “Simon—”
“You’re not.” he repeats, firmer now. “You got hurt. That’s not the same thing.”
But his hand finds yours anyway.
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The first time your leg moves, it’s barely anything.
So small you think you imagined it.
He always sees everything.
The disappointment is immediate, sharp—
Simon exhales something that almost sounds like a laugh, shaking his head slightly.
“That’s it.” he murmurs. “There you go.”
Your eyes fill before you can stop them.
“Yeah.” he says, and there’s something lighter in his voice now, something you haven’t heard in a long time. “Told you. Temporary.”
You let out a shaky breath, something fragile and hopeful breaking through the fear.
“…don’t… let me give up…”
His gaze sharpens immediately.
“Not a chance.” he says. “You’re stuck with me, remember? Till death do us part.”
A weak smile tugs at your lips.
He huffs quietly, squeezing your hand.
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You don’t go back to who you were before.
There are scars now—some visible and some not. Some days your body aches in ways that don’t make sense. Some days you’re slower, weaker.
Leaning slightly into Simon’s side, your arm hooked around his as you take careful steps forward.
“You’re hovering.” you mutter.
“I’m spotting.” he corrects.
“You’ve been ‘spotting’ for ten minutes.”
“And you’ve nearly tripped twice.”
“I did not—” You wobble slightly.
His arm tightens instantly.
“…didn’t count.” you grumble.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling—really smiling this time.
But when you glance up at him, when his hand steadies you without hesitation, when he adjusts his pace to match yours without a second thought—
It doesn’t feel like something you lost.
But something you survived.
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