that night stretched on after the conversation, some words still unsaid. the match ended. the tv clicked off. you stayed tangled together on the couch, not sleeping so much as resting in that quiet, fragile space where neither of you wanted to be the first to move.
it's quiet for a few days after that, slow and less grating on your nerves now that you know where you and him stand.
it doesn’t happen right away.
that’s almost worse.
you're eating breakfast together, sat at the kitchen counter on a pair of stools. at some point, his phone buzzes.
it’s subtle. just a vibration against the countertop. if you hadn’t been looking at him already, you might’ve missed it entirely.
you look away at the sound, catching yourself staring like a creep, but simon stills.
not dramatically. just freezes, like something has gone taut inside him. his phone only buzzes for you, and for work.
you hear it before you see it. the way his breathing changes. the way he sets his fork down.
“simon?” you murmur.
he exhales through his nose and reaches for the phone. doesn’t look at it right away. just holds it in his hand, thumb hovering like he already knows.
then he checks the screen.
and you watch his shoulders set.
there it is.
you don’t ask what it says. you already know. part of him appreciates it.
“bad?” you ask softly.
he swipes the notification away, face carefully blank. “not bad.”
you lift your head to look at him properly. “that wasn’t convincing.”
he meets your eyes then, and something apologetic flickers there. not for leaving. he can't apologize for the things he can't change. but he can for the timing.
“not bad," he reiterates "just...soon.”
your stomach drops, but you keep your voice steady. “soon as in—”
“couple days.”
you swallow. chew your lip to stifle a more selfish reaction that flares in your gut.
the silence that follows is different from before. tighter. loaded.
“so this,” you say quietly, gesturing vaguely between you, “this-”
“doesn’t change,” he says immediately.
you search his face. “that wasn’t what I was going to say.”
he frowns slightly, lips twitching at the corners before correcting itself. “then what were you going to say?”
you hesitate, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. the toast in front of you has gone untouched, butter melting slowly into the surface.
“that it feels… unfinished,” you say finally. “like we opened a door and now it’s just, like hanging there.”
he watches you carefully, like he’s bracing for something sharp.
“unfinished how?”
you shrug, small and helpless. “like I don’t know what i’m supposed to do with the next few days. pretend everything’s normal? count them? stare at you all the time to try to engrain your face in my brain?” you try to tack the last part on to lighten the sentence. it doesn't work.
his jaw tightens.
“you don’t have to do any of that,” he says.
“that’s easy for you to say.”
his brows knit together. “why's that?”
“because you know where you’re going,” you reply softly. “you always do. i’m the one staying behind, wondering which version of you i’ll get back.” you don't like how spoiled you sound. like being stuck at home while he's in a gunfight somewhere is the shit end of the stick.
that lands. you see it in the way his shoulders drop just a fraction, like the weight shifted. apology rises in your throat.
“i don’t change that much,” he says, not defensive. just tired.
you meet his eyes. “you do. just… not in ways you notice.”
he exhales, slow and measured. sets the phone down face-down on the counter, like he’s deliberately removing it from the conversation. he doesn't speak, do you do.
“it’s bad timing. not the orders. just… us figuring this out now.” you continue, before you lose the nerve.
he nods once. “yeah.”
“you regret it yet?” you ask quietly.
“no,” he says immediately.
“not even a little?”
he considers it, then answers honestly. “i regret that i don’t get more time. i don’t regret talking when we did.”
that helps. again, not enough to make it easy, but enough to give it clarity.
you glance down at your hands. “i don’t want to spend the next few days pretending this is casual again.”
“we won’t,” he says.
“and i don’t want to spend them acting like it’s a goodbye.”
that makes his mouth press into a thin line. “neither do i.”
silence settles again, thick. he reaches for his fork again, using it to nudge your untouched toast toward you.
“eat,” he murmurs. “you always forget when you’re anxious.”
you huff softly. “you say that like you’re not the cause.”
a corner of his mouth lifts. “I'm multifaceted. problem and solution.”
you take a bite, chewing slowly, not really tasting. “so what do we do?”
he shrugs one shoulder. “same thing we’ve been doing.”
“which is?”
“be here,” he says. “cook. sleep. argue about what to watch. i leave when i have to. i come back when i can.”
“and the talking?” you ask.
his gaze softens. “doesn’t stop.”
you nod, absorbing that. "so you'll write?"
"when i can."
you nod again, processing. you take a beat before murmuring "can't believe i finally know where we stand,” you pause, “and now there’s a clock on it.”
he glances at the phone again, still turned down on the counter, then back to you. “there’s always been a clock, birdie.”
“yeah,” you say. “but now i can hear it.”
that earns a quiet huff from him. not amusement. recognition.
you exhale, some of the tension bleeding off. “i don’t want to fight.”
“good,” he says. “because i don’t have the energy.”
you push your plate aside. “i just don’t want the last thing we talk about before you leave to be high pressure or reassurance or—”
“or me tellin’ you i’ll be careful,” he finishes quietly. “because that’s a lie.”
your chest tightens.
“i know,” you say.
he reaches out then, resting his hand over yours on the counter. no squeezing. just contact.
"i’m not going to make this easier by pretending,” he says. “and i’m not going to make it harder by disappearing.”
you lace your knuckles loosely around his. “’s all i need.”
a beat.
“you’ll still sleep,” he asks, “once I’m gone?”
you nod. “eventually.”
“eat?”
“mostly.”
“good,” he murmurs. “i worry.”
you give him a look. “that’s new.”
“it’s not,” he says. “i’ve just stopped hidin’ it.”
that makes your throat ache.
the moment stretches, then he clears his throat and straightens, reaching for his mug like he needs something solid in his hands. you both pull your hands back.
“i’ll pack tonight,” he says, back to being practical. grounded. real.
“okay.”
“and I’ve got some admin stuff tomorrow. i’ll be in and out.”
“i’ll be here.”
he nods once, like that matters.
the phone stays where it is. the food goes cold. the morning keeps moving.
nothing is undone.
“we’ll talk when i come back,” he says. “properly.”
you look up from your half eaten toast. “this wasn’t proper?”
“this was honest,” he corrects. “different thing.”
that night stretched on after the conversation, some words still unsaid. the match ended. the tv clicked off. you stayed tangled together on the couch, not sleeping so much as resting in that quiet, fragile space where neither of you wanted to be the first to move.
it's quiet for a few days after that, slow and less grating on your nerves now that you know where you and him stand.
it doesn’t happen right away.
that’s almost worse.
you're eating breakfast together, sat at the kitchen counter on a pair of stools. at some point, his phone buzzes.
it’s subtle. just a vibration against the countertop. if you hadn’t been looking at him already, you might’ve missed it entirely.
you look away at the sound, catching yourself staring like a creep, but simon stills.
not dramatically. just freezes, like something has gone taut inside him. his phone only buzzes for you, and for work.
you hear it before you see it. the way his breathing changes. the way he sets his fork down.
“simon?” you murmur.
he exhales through his nose and reaches for the phone. doesn’t look at it right away. just holds it in his hand, thumb hovering like he already knows.
then he checks the screen.
and you watch his shoulders set.
there it is.
you don’t ask what it says. you already know. part of him appreciates it.
“bad?” you ask softly.
he swipes the notification away, face carefully blank. “not bad.”
you lift your head to look at him properly. “that wasn’t convincing.”
he meets your eyes then, and something apologetic flickers there. not for leaving. he can't apologize for the things he can't change. but he can for the timing.
“not bad," he reiterates "just...soon.”
your stomach drops, but you keep your voice steady. “soon as in—”
“couple days.”
you swallow. chew your lip to stifle a more selfish reaction that flares in your gut.
the silence that follows is different from before. tighter. loaded.
“so this,” you say quietly, gesturing vaguely between you, “this-”
“doesn’t change,” he says immediately.
you search his face. “that wasn’t what I was going to say.”
he frowns slightly, lips twitching at the corners before correcting itself. “then what were you going to say?”
you hesitate, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. the toast in front of you has gone untouched, butter melting slowly into the surface.
“that it feels… unfinished,” you say finally. “like we opened a door and now it’s just, like hanging there.”
he watches you carefully, like he’s bracing for something sharp.
“unfinished how?”
you shrug, small and helpless. “like I don’t know what i’m supposed to do with the next few days. pretend everything’s normal? count them? stare at you all the time to try to engrain your face in my brain?” you try to tack the last part on to lighten the sentence. it doesn't work.
his jaw tightens.
“you don’t have to do any of that,” he says.
“that’s easy for you to say.”
his brows knit together. “why's that?”
“because you know where you’re going,” you reply softly. “you always do. i’m the one staying behind, wondering which version of you i’ll get back.” you don't like how spoiled you sound. like being stuck at home while he's in a gunfight somewhere is the shit end of the stick.
that lands. you see it in the way his shoulders drop just a fraction, like the weight shifted. apology rises in your throat.
“i don’t change that much,” he says, not defensive. just tired.
you meet his eyes. “you do. just… not in ways you notice.”
he exhales, slow and measured. sets the phone down face-down on the counter, like he’s deliberately removing it from the conversation. he doesn't speak, do you do.
“it’s bad timing. not the orders. just… us figuring this out now.” you continue, before you lose the nerve.
he nods once. “yeah.”
“you regret it yet?” you ask quietly.
“no,” he says immediately.
“not even a little?”
he considers it, then answers honestly. “i regret that i don’t get more time. i don’t regret talking when we did.”
that helps. again, not enough to make it easy, but enough to give it clarity.
you glance down at your hands. “i don’t want to spend the next few days pretending this is casual again.”
“we won’t,” he says.
“and i don’t want to spend them acting like it’s a goodbye.”
that makes his mouth press into a thin line. “neither do i.”
silence settles again, thick. he reaches for his fork again, using it to nudge your untouched toast toward you.
“eat,” he murmurs. “you always forget when you’re anxious.”
you huff softly. “you say that like you’re not the cause.”
a corner of his mouth lifts. “I'm multifaceted. problem and solution.”
you take a bite, chewing slowly, not really tasting. “so what do we do?”
he shrugs one shoulder. “same thing we’ve been doing.”
“which is?”
“be here,” he says. “cook. sleep. argue about what to watch. i leave when i have to. i come back when i can.”
“and the talking?” you ask.
his gaze softens. “doesn’t stop.”
you nod, absorbing that. "so you'll write?"
"when i can."
you nod again, processing. you take a beat before murmuring "can't believe i finally know where we stand,” you pause, “and now there’s a clock on it.”
he glances at the phone again, still turned down on the counter, then back to you. “there’s always been a clock, birdie.”
“yeah,” you say. “but now i can hear it.”
that earns a quiet huff from him. not amusement. recognition.
you exhale, some of the tension bleeding off. “i don’t want to fight.”
“good,” he says. “because i don’t have the energy.”
you push your plate aside. “i just don’t want the last thing we talk about before you leave to be high pressure or reassurance or—”
“or me tellin’ you i’ll be careful,” he finishes quietly. “because that’s a lie.”
your chest tightens.
“i know,” you say.
he reaches out then, resting his hand over yours on the counter. no squeezing. just contact.
"i’m not going to make this easier by pretending,” he says. “and i’m not going to make it harder by disappearing.”
you lace your knuckles loosely around his. “’s all i need.”
a beat.
“you’ll still sleep,” he asks, “once I’m gone?”
you nod. “eventually.”
“eat?”
“mostly.”
“good,” he murmurs. “i worry.”
you give him a look. “that’s new.”
“it’s not,” he says. “i’ve just stopped hidin’ it.”
that makes your throat ache.
the moment stretches, then he clears his throat and straightens, reaching for his mug like he needs something solid in his hands. you both pull your hands back.
“i’ll pack tonight,” he says, back to being practical. grounded. real.
“okay.”
“and I’ve got some admin stuff tomorrow. i’ll be in and out.”
“i’ll be here.”
he nods once, like that matters.
the phone stays where it is. the food goes cold. the morning keeps moving.
nothing is undone.
“we’ll talk when i come back,” he says. “properly.”
you look up from your half eaten toast. “this wasn’t proper?”
“this was honest,” he corrects. “different thing.”
it’s late when you finally break the peaceful silence of the evening.
you’re curled up against his chest on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, the glow of a football match flickering across the living room. you’re only half paying attention, more aware of the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the warmth of him, solid and grounding. simon’s been on leave for a few days now, long enough that the edges of his absence have softened, long enough that he feels here again.
and long enough that you’ve been working up the courage to ask.
you and simon have lived together for almost a year. it was supposed to be temporary. casual. you had a spare bedroom, he needed a place that wasn’t a barracks or a hotel. that was it. easy.
except shared space turned into shared conversations. late nights in the kitchen with tea gone cold or bourbon gone warm. it turned into you waiting up when you knew he was flying back in, pretending you weren’t counting the hours. him bringing you back small things from wherever he’d been. sea glass smoothed by saltwater he had to wade through, biceps burning as he carried his gun above his head, a bullet casing etched with something simple, crooked from the blunt tip of a knife, a flower he’d kept folded into his kit so it pressed flat.
it turned into domestic things. cooking together. sitting on opposite ends of the couch that somehow always ended with you leaning into him. him fixing the leaky pipe in your bathroom sink while you sat on the counter, feet brushing his hip as you talked his ear off. you handing him tools. him pretending not to like the company.
and then there was that night.
a long op. nothing particularly horrific, just exhausting in the bone-deep way that leaves him quieter than usual. you’d both been drinking, a movie murmuring in the background. he fell asleep mid-conversation, head tipped back against the couch. you’d draped a blanket over him, told yourself you’d head to bed after the credits rolled.
you didn’t.
you fell asleep there too.
he woke with your weight pressed into him, skin warmed by the thin morning light filtering through the blinds. legs tangled. blanket on the floor. he was pretty sure he’d drooled in your hair. you had definitely drooled on his shirt.
it hadn’t been casual since.
at least you think it hasn’t.
but you don't know what he thinks.
you haven’t been on dating apps in so long they’ve automatically offloaded themselves from your phone. you don’t really look at anyone else anymore. but you’ve never asked him. never said the words out loud. and now, curled up against him, your thoughts won’t settle.
you squirm just enough that he notices.
a warm hand comes up, curling around the back of your neck. gentle pressure. familiar. possessive in a way that doesn’t feel threatening.
“stop movin'.” he murmurs, eyes still on the TV.
he pulls you closer anyway, drawing your legs up into his lap. his hand drags slowly up and down your thigh, absentminded but intentional enough to make your skin prickle.
“sorry,” you whisper, resting your cheek back against his chest. you try to focus on the game. you really do.
you last maybe two minutes.
“simon?” you murmur, pulling back just enough to look at him.
“birdie,” he answers just as quietly.
you chew your lip, gaze dropping to his collarbone instead of his eyes. a deep sigh leaves you before the words tumble out, unpolished and too honest.
“do you ever think about us?”
he glances down at you then, brows lifting slightly. “about us?”
you nod, heat creeping up your neck.
he looks at you for a long moment. long enough that your stomach tightens.
“yeah,” he says finally. “all the time.”
it helps. a little. and also not at all.
because 'all the time' could mean anything. it could mean you’re convenient. easy. a warm body waiting at home. or it could mean something heavier, something he doesn’t know how to name either. you don’t know which is worse.
you hum softly, then lift your eyes to his. “what do you think?” you ask, voice barely above a breath.
his fingers trace lazy patterns along your thigh. goosebumps rise in their wake.
“depends what ‘think’ means,” he says.
there’s a pause. the crowd on the TV roars faintly in the background.
then, gruff and unembellished: “think I’d die for you.”
no poetry. no tact. just truth, dropped between you like something solid and irreversible.
you exhale a soft, disbelieving sound, half laugh, half breathless noise. it’s heavier than you expected. real in a way that presses against your ribs from the inside.
simon huffs, amused, the tips of his canines showing briefly.
“simon,” you say again, quieter now. “that’s… a lot.”
“yeah,” he agrees. “didn’t say it wasn’t.”
his thumb keeps moving at your waist, slow and grounding, like he’s reminding you he’s real. present. not going anywhere while you catch up.
you hesitate, then ask the question that’s been sitting under everything else. “do you think about… after?”
he stills. just for a second.
“after what?” he asks carefully.
“after deployments,” you say. “after the uniform. after...all of this.”
his jaw tightens, not in anger, thought. consideration.
“i try not to plan too far ahead,” he admits. “job teaches you not to.”
“that’s not an answer.”
“no,” he says. “but it’s the truth.”
you nod, accepting that, then press a little more. “do you see me there?”
this time he doesn’t answer right away. your stomach twists around itself.
when he does answer, his voice is lower. “i see you everywhere.”
your breath catches.
“kitchen,” he continues quietly. “half-asleep on the couch. standing in the doorway when i come back. you’re not… a future version. you’re just there.”
you swallow hard. “that sounds like imagining a life.”
“sounds like,” he agrees. “i don’t label it.”
“why not?”
he glances away, just briefly. “because labels make promises. and i don’t make promises I’m not sure i can keep.”
that stings. even though you understand it.
“so where does that leave me?” you ask, softer now. not accusatory. just tired of carrying the question alone.
he turns back to you immediately. “here. with me. if you want to be.”
“and if I want more?” you ask tentatively. "for sure, more than just right now?"
his hand tightens again, like he’s bracing himself. “then we talk about it, like this.”
you study his face, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the scar you trace with your thumb without thinking.
“you ever worry,” you ask, taking the opportunity to let him squash all your fears “that you’re just… passing through my life?”
his gaze locks onto yours. “i worry i'm not enough to stay.”
your chest aches at the honesty of his tone. the lack of self deprecation, just pure belief that he could be less than everything.
“you don’t get to decide that alone,” you say gently.
“i know,” he says. “that’s why I’m listenin’.”
you shift slightly, just enough to tuck yourself closer without fully committing. testing. “then listen,”
he nods once.
“i don’t need forever right now,” you say. “i just need to know you’re not already halfway gone.”
he leans his forehead to yours, breath warm and steady.
“i’m here,” he says. “right now. with you.”
you close your eyes, absorbing it.
“is that enough?” he asks.
you don’t answer immediately.
instead, you whisper, “ask me again in a minute.”
and he does what he does best, waits.
he doesn’t rush you. doesn’t fill the space just because it’s there. simon’s always been good at waiting, too good, sometimes.
a minute passes. maybe two.
the crowd on the TV erupts again, some play you don’t see, don’t care about. his chest so steadily you're almost jealous.
“alright,” he murmurs eventually. “minute’s up.”
you huff softly, more breath than laugh. “you were counting?”
“no,” he says. “just felt like long enough.”
you tilt your head back to look at him. “have you always been this patient?”
“with you?” his mouth twitches. “yeah.”
that alone makes your throat tighten.
“ask me again,” you say.
“is this enough?” he repeats, quieter now.
you think about it. about mornings where he leaves before you wake and nights where you pretend not to listen for the door. about the way he says your name like it’s a prayer that he doesn't deserve to recite. about how safe you feel right now, and how scared that makes you.
“it is,” you admit. “for now.”
he nods once, accepting it exactly as you give it. no push. no disappointment.
“but,” you add quickly, because you’re not done. “i need to know something else.”
“name it.”
“you ever feel like you’re holding back?” you ask. “like you’ve already decided how close you’re allowed to get to me?”
his eyes drop to where his hand rests on your hip. he exhales slowly. there's your answer.
“every day,” he says. “it’s how i survive.”
“that’s not what i meant.”
“i know,” he replies. “doesn’t change the answer.”
you trace a line along his forearm, feeling muscle shift beneath your fingers. “do you want to stop doing that?”
he looks at you again, really looks.
“i don’t know how,” he says honestly.
“that’s not a no.”
“no,” he agrees. “it’s not.”
silence settles again, softer this time.
“you scared?” you ask.
a ghost of a smile. “terrified.”
that surprises you enough that you blink. “you don’t look it.”
“yeah,” he murmurs. “i’m good at that too.”
you study him, then say, “i’m scared you’ll leave and not even realize you’ve done it.”
his brow furrows. “you think I’d just… disappear?”
"i think you’d convince yourself it was easier,” you say. “for both of us.”
his jaw tightens. “wouldn’t be easier for me.”
“you don’t know that.”
“i do,” he says firmly. “because i’ve thought about it.”
your heart stutters. “and?”
“and I hate it,” he admits. “hate the idea of comin’ back to a place that doesn’t have you in it.”
you don’t answer right away. instead, you tuck your hand into the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling there like you’re anchoring him.
“then stay,” you whisper. not pleading. just honest.
he leans in, forehead resting against yours again. “i am.”
“for real,” you press. “not just tonight. not just when it’s easy.”
he closes his eyes for a second. when he opens them, there’s something raw there.
“i can’t promise i’ll be perfect,” he says. “i can promise i’ll try. every time i come back.”
your voice wobbles despite your effort. “that’s all I’m asking for.”
he nods, thumb brushing under your jaw. “good. because that’s all i’ve got.”
the TV keeps playing. the night stays quiet. and for now, the conversation keeps breathing between you. unfinished, but exactly where it needs to be.
she’s a teacher, works with the young kids. they’re extra rowdy this time of year, antsy because it's almost time for break, but still in the throes of mid year assessments.
she spends half the day projecting her voice to catch their attention and the other half correcting their behavior. she comes home every day and puts on the kettle, before going to the shower, turning the water as hot as it can go, washing away the day.
it’s when she’s lying down for bed that night that she feels it. the little scratching in the back of her throat, dry like her pharynx has turned to sandpaper. She takes a few sips of water, hoping for it to just be some minor dehydration, only to be severely disappointed when it in fact does not go away.
she tries to get ahead of it, making another tea before bed, having a bit of medicine, and a vitamin c packet. but when she wakes up the next morning it’s gotten worse, she feels it all the time now, not just when she’s swallowing. it’s more of an inconvenience than anything, since it’s a saturday and she has nowhere to be, no kids or parents to talk to, but it’s still frustrating.
simon comes home that night, duffel bag on his shoulder, tac vest stuffed inside, his body covered in a thin layer of grime, dried sweat, mostly. she’s already asleep when he peers into their shared bedroom, buried beneath the blankets. he doesn’t wake her yet, going to take a quick shower before coming back to her.
he climbs into bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, creaking slightly as his sore body melts into the soft blankets, thick with the familiar scent of her lotion. the disturbance makes her eyes flutter open with a soft jolt before they focus on him.
“Simon!” she says excitedly, but her voice is raspy, clipped, like she’s in pain. she sits up to fling her arms around his neck and he wraps his arms around her, burying his face into her hair.
“yer sick.” he says into her hair as his hand rubs up and down her back, lifting her shirt so he can feel her skin.
“‘m not,” she rasps into his neck “just a sore throat, no fever.”
he hums softly in reply, and presses the back of his hand against her forehead, checking for himself. no fever. he presses a kiss into her hair, long and steady, his hands engulfing the dips and mounds of her sides and hips.
"you hurt anywhere?" she asks, voice scratchy. he shakes his head, "just fine, lovie." he affirms softly, his voice rasping as well, but differently than hers. "wha's got you soundin' like tha?" he asks questioningly as he shifts so he's laying back, propped up against the pillows, pulling her on top of him.
"exams week at school," she says dryly, a tired smile her lips. "can't keep the kids still for more than a second, and my class this year is huge, Si." she begins to ramble, pausing every few seconds to swallow or clear her throat. he loves this part of their routine, when he comes off a deployment mandate she rants about her day, and he gets to hear all about how she's spent her time, all the things she's excited to too together now that he's back. but it was a particularly shit op, one that left him with more than a few bruises and a hunger for his girl that he's normally able to tamp down.
"I mean it, twenty-six little demons, screaming all day long, begging me for the fancy bandaids and to sharpen their already sharpened pencils, pretending they can't see the board when it's time for math-" she's in the middle of saying when he tugs her down again, listening to her talk while he attaches his lips to her neck.
"Gonna wear your voice out," he murmurs against the column of her throat, squeezing her hips, the fabric of her sleep shorts bunching under his fingers.
"You asked me to talk." she says, smiling as her hands thread in the cropped blonde strands on his head. "Know what I said," he says, his tongue coming out to flatten against the junction her neck and shoulder, melting into a kiss. "Was talkin' about me, love." he murmurs as his lips travel up to her ear, gently kissing around it before taking the little piece of cartilage between his teeth.
it's only then that she becomes aware of how he's subtly been trying to rock her hips back and forth, his grip on them flexing. she know's he'd never interrupt her while she's so wrapped up in updating him, and if she wasn't beginning to feel that same heat licking down the base of her spine, driving her hips forward, she'd make a joke about his chivalry. "That so?" she asks with amusement as she slackens a bit in his hold, letting herself be dragged back and forth a bit more.
"Mhm," he hums lazily as his hand slips under her shirt, fingers grasping at the side of her stomach, beneath her ribs. "And do you plan on taking care of me when I've got to call out sick on Monday with a sore throat?" She asks with amusement, head tilting upward so he can press his face into the skin she's exposed for him. "Mhm," he gruffs as his hands begin to peel up her shirt. "Should call out for Tuesday, too."
Info/Warnings: 18+ mdni | Zombie Apocalypse AU; plus–size!Reader; DD:DNE; eventual smut and romance; polyamory; blood & gore; survival horror; canon–typical violence; angst; hurt/comfort; tags may change per chapter ᵎ!ᵎ
Summary: When the world begins to unravel, it doesn’t make a sound—just a quiet shift in orders, in glances, in gut instinct. As a civilian working with Task Force 141, you’re used to chaos—but certainly not this.
⌞ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ⌝
Johnny slouches back in his chair with a quiet creak, stretching his legs out and tapping a pen against the rim of his notebook while Simon remains mostly still—mask on, shoulders tense, tawny eyes locked on the table like he is reconstructing every map of the UK in his head.
The kettle clicks off behind you.
You drain the pasta.
Your back is turned, but you can feel them. Both. It’s like your flat has shrunk down to nothing, and they’ve filled the whole thing with their presence alone. You focus on the hiss of the pan, the bubbling of the Bolognese sauce.
Stir. Stir. Stir.
Keep your hands busy so your mind doesn’t spiral.
“Might’ve... been a wee bit dramatic earlier,” Johnny says eventually, his voice breaking the silence like a sigh.
You glance over your shoulder, a crease between your eyebrows. “Dramatic?”
He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Aye. The whole ‘We’ve got a week’ thing. Probably made it sound like the fuckin’ asteroid was already overhead.”
“But you think it’s not?” you ask, arching a brow.
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite land. “I think people are slower to wake up than that. Takes more than a few torn throats and news blackouts to make the public shit their pants. Most folk will believe it’s a hoax. Or a cult. Or a new strain of rabies.”
“Or bath salts again,” you mutter, returning to the stove.
“Exactly,” he snorts. “Same song, different apocalypse.”
Simon finally speaks up: “Gives us time. To prep. Watch. Stay ahead of it.”
You serve up dinner quietly while they talk—three bowls, all uneven. You’re not sure who gets the biggest one, but you pretend not to notice when Johnny ends up with it and Simon doesn’t complain.
“You hear anything from Price yet?” you ask once everyone is settled.
Johnny shakes his head. “He’s pissed. Not at us—just… in general. He knows more than he’s lettin’ on.”
“He always does,” Simon mutters.
You all eat in silence for a while after that. It’s not awkward. Quiet. Focused. Tired.
Eventually, Johnny leans forward, resting his elbow on the table, fork pointed lazily in your direction, “Y’know, if I’d known the end of the world would involve pasta in yer kitchen, I wouldn’t have stocked up on MREs already.”
You snort softly. “Don’t get used to it. I’m rationing it starting tomorrow.”
Simon grunts, finishing his bowl without a word. When he sets his fork down, the click against ceramic sounds final.
“There’s no fixin’ this,” he says, voice calm as ever, like he has already made peace with the unfurling situation. “They’ll try containment. Martial law. But it won’t work.”
Johnny nods slowly, then his eyes get a certain gleam. “What’re ye thinkin’?”
“Rural. North. Smaller towns. Less population density. Easier to defend.”
You stare down at your pasta for a long second; fork teeth curling around one spaghetti.
“…You’re planning to leave.”
Neither of them answers right away.
“We’ll give it another two weeks. Maybe three. But aye, we are not waitin’ to be locked in when it hits,” confirms Simon.
You feel that in your chest. Tight. Sharp, and utterly and real.
Then Johnny adds, quieter: “We want ye with us.”
You look up fast, eyes big.
He shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “If ye want. I mean, we jus’ figured—”
Simon cuts in, “We’re not leavin’ you behind. That’s not up for debate.”
And you don’t answer right away. The room settles into a soft, tense silence, broken only by the distant hum of the base generators and the quiet clink of metal forks against ceramic.
Simon stills, gauges your reaction. Johnny doesn’t meet your eyes now—too busy pretending the rim of his bowl is fascinating. Meanwhile, your stomach coils again, though this time, it isn’t fear.
It’s something else. Something heavier. Warm, but dense. Sitting in your chest like a stone with a heartbeat. You’re aware it has been festering for a long while.
“…I can’t just disappear,” you answer finally, voice weak. “Not without warning them.”
Johnny looks up.
“My family,” you add, quieter. “They’re not here. They’re not even close. I can’t just run off and pretend that doesn’t matter.”
Simon’s dark eyes stay locked on you, unreadable as ever. His mask hides everything except that steady, narrowed gaze—sharp, but not cold. Calculating, but not cruel.
“They won’t let calls out soon. Not without monitorin’ and flaggin’ shite,” he remarks factually. “If they haven’t already started jammin’ towers.”
You nod, swallowing tightly. “I know.”
“They’ll be safer if you’re safe,” he adds, a little softer. “You get out. You get set up. Then you can get them out.”
It’s almost kind. The closest Simon Riley ever gets to kind. The logic in it is clean, clear—but it still sounds like a lifeline.
Still, your gut twists. “It feels like I’m giving up on them already.”
“No,” Johnny chimes in, setting his fork down carefully. “It’s survivin’, doll. And it’s plannin’ fer when the world stops burnin’ long enough to start puttin’ things back together. Which ye can’t do if yer six feet under and chewed to bits.”
You blink fast, trying to push down the sudden sting behind your eyes.
Simon leans back in his chair slowly; hands folded across his stomach. “We’re not pressuring ya.”
“Not yet,” Johnny mutters, lips twitching.
That gets a quiet grunt out of Simon, and a tiny smile from you—despite yourself.
“I just…” You trail off, hands curling in your lap while your shoulders begin to slouch with the weight of the situation. “I don’t want to be a burden. I’m not trained like you. I can’t shoot like you. I—”
“You don’t need to be us,” Simon objects flatly. “You’re not baggage. You’re the bloody reason we’re plannin’ ahead instead of waiting to be deployed into a bloody slaughterhouse.”
Johnny nods. “Ye think we’d be here, eatin’ yer spaghetti, if we thought ye’d slow us down?” He snorts, then pauses before his mouth pulls into a grin. “Well. Emotionally? Maybe. Ye are kinda distracting.”
You shoot him a look, and he grins wider—boyish, unapologetic, but it softens quickly. “We want ye with us. That’s it. Ye make yer choice, we’ll back it up. But if you say yes—if ye come with us—then we prep. We plan. And we don’t leave ye behind.”
Your throat feels tight again as you glance between them—one masked, rigid, unwavering. The other warm–eyed, tense, but open.
Both of them dangerous men.
Both looking at you like you matter more than the world they have spent their lives defending.
You stare down at the now–cold pasta in your bowl, jaw set. The words feel too big in your mouth at first, like they won’t fit past your teeth without choking you. But then—
“…Okay.”
Two heads lift. Johnny straightens, brows raised. Simon’s posture doesn’t change much, but his fingers shift slightly against the table—like his body reacts before he lets himself speak.
“I’m in,” you say, firmer now. “I’ll come with you when it’s time to leave.
A pause.
“Good,” Simon says simply, and somehow that one word carries more weight than any speech. Johnny exhales, loud and relieved, and scrapes back his chair. “Knew ye would. Too clever to stay behind, too fuckin’ stubborn to admit yer scared.”
You smile faintly as you start gathering plates. “I am scared.”
“Good.” Simon pushes his bowl toward you without being asked. “Means yer thinkin’ straight.”
You carry the dishes to the sink, and Johnny joins you after a second—shoulder brushing yours lightly as he reaches past to start the tap. “Least we’ll eat decent on the road. That sauce wasn’t bad.”
“High praise coming from someone who once ate cold baked beans straight from the tin.”
“You were there. Ye could’ve stopped me.”
You roll your eyes, and he elbows you gently in the side as he passes you a bowl to rinse.
Behind you, Simon starts clearing the rest of the table with that same methodical silence. Not because he’s antisocial—you’ve learned by now it’s just how he moves. Deliberate. Intentional.
You scrub a dish, then glance over your shoulder. “I want to go to the range tomorrow.”
Johnny pauses. “Oh, aye?”
“Not for fun this time,” you clarify, rinsing the next bowl. “I want to train. With both of you. I can shoot, but I want to get better. Faster. And maybe some hand-to-hand stuff, too.”
Simon turns from the table; brow raised behind the mask as his eyes settle on you.
“I’m not going to be dead weight,” you continue. “If I’m coming with you, I’m pulling my own weight. I want to be able to watch your six.”
Johnny’s grin stretches wide—genuine this time. “Damn right, ye do.”
Simon doesn’t smile, but he nods. Once.
“Good,” he says again. “We’ll start after breakfast.”
You exhale, slower this time. The fear is still there, but it’s not drowning you now. Not with them beside you. You’re still scared shitless, but you will be ready when it matters.
Dishes done. Counter wiped down. The flat smells faintly of garlic, tomatoes, and surface cleaner. It’s quiet again—but not in that heavy, end–of–the–world way.
More like the way things go quiet after the fire’s been put out. Not peace, exactly, but the absence of noise.
Simon is back in his chair around the small dining table in your kitchenette, posture slouched just enough to signal off–duty. Johnny leans against the counter, arms crossed, and you fish a bottle of whiskey from that emergency cupboard that has always been more coping mechanism than bar.
You don’t bother with glasses. Just three mismatched mugs—one with a cracked handle.
Johnny takes his with a dramatic flourish. “To the end of the world,” he toasts, “and our deeply questionable survival instincts.”
You snort and raise your mug. “To carrying trauma like it’s tactical gear.”
Simon raises his without comment.
The whiskey bites and burns. Settles like liquid heat in your chest, coating your tongue in notes of vanilla and oak.
You think that’s it—that the silence is returning, all gloomy and heavy—until Johnnh exhales through his nose.
“Alright. Question.”
You lift a brow. “This gonna be one of those weird hypotheticals again?”
“Maybe.” He scratches the side of his neck. “If this thing spreads like we think it will, and it gets real bad, full lockdown, no cure, all of it—what’s the one thing you’d wanna do before the world ends?”
The question hangs in the air.
It’s not flirty. It’s not light. But it is personal.
He looks at you when he says it—but the weight of it drags Simon into the line of fire, too, though the latter doesn’t answer right away. Just sips.
Meanwhile, your brain already short–circuits.
Like someone pressed play on a reel of chaotic, deeply inappropriate movie clips set to cheesy acoustic guitar.
First real kiss.
First time being touched like you actually matter.
First time hearing both of them groan your name in the dark—
And then something inside your mind screams “Abort!” when you start zoning out while your face steadily grows hotter. You blink hard, lashes fluttering, then take another sip of whiskey just to give your mouth something to do that isn’t confessing any of that.
Johnny's still watching you—still smiling, but curious, too. There’s real interest in his eyes, not his usual mischief.
Simon doesn’t look at you, but you feel him listening. Like his attention has weight, and right now it’s draped across your shoulders.
You force a smile while lying through your teeth.
“I want to see the northern lights,” you answer eventually, with a shrug and a little tilt of your head. “Real ones. Not on a postcard. Just… out in the cold, wrapped up in too many layers, looking up and gawking until my neck hurts.”
Johnny’s mouth quirks. “That’s bloody cute.”
You shrug again, nonchalant. “Well, fucking sue me, MacTavish. I am sentimental.”
Simon shifts in his chair. “Scotland,” he says after a moment. “Get far enough north. Clear skies—” He shrugs once. “Could happen.”
You glance at him, surprised.
“I meant it,” he adds, quieter. “We will head north. Highlands are easier to defend. Fewer mouths to fight through.”
You nod slowly. “So maybe I’ll get my lights after all.”
Johnny raises his mug again. “We’ll find a hill and watch ‘em together. Then ye can cross that off before the undead shite really kicks off.”
You laugh—because it’s easier than saying thank you, or you have no idea what I actually want, or you two already take up half my daydreams and I’m not sure how much longer I can pretend that you don’t.
Simon finally looks at you. Long enough to make your throat go tight. Then he lifts his mug—silent, unreadable—and drinks.
Johnny smirks around the rim of his mug like he has been waiting you to ask him next.
“Oh, I get to answer?” he says, hand on his chest in mock surprise. “Didn’t think anyone cared about me dyin’ wishes, but alright—”
You arch a brow and sip your drink. “Try not to say something that will haunt me when I’m trying to sleep later.”
He hums, head tilting toward the ceiling thoughtfully. “Right, well… if the world really does fall apart—and we’re all livin’ off squirrel meat and filtered piss—” He taps a finger against the scar on his chin. “I think I’d want to do something properly alive. Y’know? One last thing that proves I wasn’t just a soldier or a fuckin’ statistic.”
You watch him, bracing for a punchline.
But he shrugs and adds quieter, “I’d want to fall in love.”
Your heart does something stupid and traitorous in your chest.
Johnny raises his brows like even he did not expect that to come out of his own mouth. “Properly, I mean. No rush. No games. Just… someone I’d fight to survive for.”
Silence stretches. You don’t dare look at Simon.
And Johnny immediately tries to play it off. “And then I’d absolutely want head from someone I do love while watchin’ the northern fuckin’ lights. For dramatic effect.”
There it is.
You laugh into your mug, but your ears are burning. He grins like a schoolboy who got away with saying boobs in class. And then the room goes quiet again.
Simon hasn’t spoken yet.
You glance at him over your shoulder.
His mug is halfway to his lips, still. His eyes are unreadable, dark and flat under the mask, watching watching Johnny like he’s a noise he hasn’t quite placed yet.
“Well?” you prod gently. “You don’t get a pass just because you’re mysterious and brooding, Lieutenant.”
He’s quiet for a moment longer, then lowers the mug slowly.
“If the world ends—” he starts, voice lower and more gravelly than before, “I would like to go one day without thinkin’ like a soldier.”
That lands like a weight on the table.
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.
Johnny's smile fades just slightly, like it’s been knocked sideways. You feel something thump in your chest again, but this time it it’s not laughter.
It’s grief. Premature and quiet.
You reach for your whiskey again, because what the hell else are you supposed to do with that? “Guess we’re a sentimental bunch after all,” you murmur, trying to smile.
But Simon’s still watching you. And he doesn’t look like he minds it.
The world outside is unravelling—but inside your little flat, the air has turned warm and golden again, like the whiskey soaked into the walls and left behind a soft glow. The kind that only lasts if no one dares acknowledge it.
You all migrate to the living room without really discussing it. There’s no grand decision, no orders barked—just the mutual understanding that none of you want to be alone tonight.
You grab a blanket. Johnny grabs the remote. Simon takes the armchair like he’s choosing the one spot with the best visibility of all exits—because he is.
“Alright,” Johnny announces as he flips through your streaming queue with the slightest drawl to his speech. “We’re not watchin’ the news, not watchin’ a bloody war doc, and definitely not watchin’ somethin’ with cannibals.”
“I have excellent taste,” you deadpan, stretching out on the couch, blanket over your legs. “Don’t slander my algorithm, pretty boy.”
He clicks through titles with a little hum, then lights up suddenly.
“The Meg.”
You snort. “The giant shark movie?”
“Jason fuckin’ Statham wrestling prehistoric sea monsters? Aye. Absolutely. End of the fuckin’ world demands peak cinema.”
Simon doesn’t comment. You glance at him, like your eyes always find him naturally with the need to witness his reaction.
He’s leaning back in the chair now, one ankle resting on his knee, mask still on, eyes half–lidded and impossible to read. But he hasn’t moved to leave yet, and that’s answer enough.
The Meg it is.
Twenty minutes in, Johnny has kicked his boots off and wedged himself onto the couch beside you. Somewhere between the second over–the–top death scene and the predictably awful shark CGI, he stretches one strong arm behind you—casual, like he always does.
Though this time, his fingers brush the top of your shoulder.
This time, you allow yourself to lean in.
You let your cheek rest against the side of his chest, hear the dull thump–thump of his heartbeat. When his hand gently curls around your shoulder to pull you in closer, you don’t resist. You shift—just enough to tuck in, letting his warmth soak into yours.
You feel him sigh. Not tired. Not bored. Content.
And slowly—tentatively—you raise your hand to the side of his head and let your fingers scratch gently behind his ear. As your manicured nails drag along the edge of his mohawk slowly, across the shorter fuzz underneath, Johnny melts.
His body goes loose with a soft sound that slips from his throat, one he doesn’t even realise he made. His hand on your shoulder tightens just slightly, grounding him.
For once, he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t joke.
And from the corner of your eye, you peek at Simon.
Still seated. Still watching. One leg stretched, the other planted. Elbows resting on the arms of the chair. He hasn’t moved in half an hour. You can tell that he’s not watching the film. He’s not relaxed, but he’s not tense, either.
He’s just present in this moment of domestic peace.
You’re not sure how much time passes before your eyes flutter closed and you fall asleep with your cheek against Johnny’s burly chest; your hand curled against his scalp, breathing in sync with him.
And Simon—who could have left, could have chosen silence, could have said this wasn’t his to hold—remains where he is. Unmoving. Unwavering.
Watching over you both like he has for a while now.
finallyyyy my thank you for 300 post! tw: medical inaccuracies, military inaccuracies (sorry lol), gunshot wounds, i think that's all (this is also just chapter 1!! there will be more so forgive me if it's too short)
simon riley who's given most of his life to the service, enlisting as a teenager and working up through the ranks, foregoing a personal life of substance for his job. it's fulfilling work, kind of. saving people that need it, killing people that need it. it's become cut and dry for him, something he does without thinking. his muscles moving automatically, finger pressing down on the trigger of his pistol without a flinch. a good soldier, one of the best. so when he's caught off guard during a mission, a stray bullet hitting him in the gap at the side of his tac vest, he knows immediately that he's fucked.
he's bumrushed by all of his senses. hearing the gunfire around him echo slightly, a harsh ringing in his ears as his breath catches in his throat, and a burning sensation spreading through his chest. the wind being knocked out of him as he collapses, dropping his pistol and seeing Soap crowd over him, dragging him behind a shipping container, his blood soaking the gravel, he really knows he's fucked.
he's bleeding out, he thinks, his brain running through a hazy checklist of his life as johnny's voice becomes more muffled above him. his rent is on autopay, flat barely lived in, so that's easy for his landlord to take care of. no parents, pets, friends outside of work, check. he's in and out of consciousness as he tries to remember the last time an injury hurt this fucking bad.
it feels like fire spreading through his chest when he opens his eyes hazily. glaring lights and the smell of antiseptic greet him harshly as his brain struggles to grasp where he is. there's jumbled voices around him and all he can see is the ceiling flying past him. he thinks for a fleeting second that he's in a hospital, that somehow he didn't bleed to death when that bullet hit the one spot his vest doesn't cover.
the lights make him dizzy so he closes his eyes with a shaky exhale from his mouth, warm air passing over the chapped skin of his lips.
his mask.
he can feel the air on his lips, taste the blood on his tongue. his fucking mask is off - that's the last thing he thinks before he goes under again, with blurry figures leaning over his gurney, bleeding into fuzzy shapes and colors before his eyes shut.
there's beeping. a chill on his skin, like the air conditioning in the room has been pumping 24/7. the same antiseptic scent that he knows well, but not mixed with the grimy scent of sweat or blood. his eyes open slowly, squinting under the fluorescents. he's in a hospital room, one he assumes is back at base. his limbs feel heavy, and his tongue feels like sand in his mouth. his bottom half is covered by a thin hospital sheet, and he's been changed into a gown.
he lifts a weak arm, his right one. wiggles his fingers, seems fine there. but he was shot on the left side, and when he looks down, his left arm is in a sling. and he can't feel it.
that's cause for concern, and even though his face doesn't change, he can hear the beeping of the heart rate monitor pick up. he can't wiggle his fingers, or flex his bicep, nothing. it's like it's not even attached to him. he tries a few more times, his hazy brain trying to get any part of his arm to just fucking move.
when that gets him nowhere, he looks around, for anything on his bedside, maybe his balaclava back. nothing there. there's a small cord that's attached to the railing of his bed, a call button on it. He uses his good arm to press it, the buzzing sound alerting whoever it is that's taking care of him that he's awake.
enter you. a newer medic on base, only about six months of time here to your name before your first big case, this one. you were moved from your old base after it shut down, funds were relocated, long story short, you got transferred where they could use you the most.
you're at the nurses station when the central console buzzes, his room number lighting up the screen. you recognize it immediately, standing without hesitation and heading straight there. it hasn't been long since his surgery, but his injury was lucky if you've ever seen one so it's no surprise he's up already.
you knock softly twice on his room door before pushing it open, making eye contact with the hulking man. "You're awake," you say softly to him as you close the door. "Do you know where you are?" follows. You were told he fell into some gravel when he was shot, took a hard hit to the head as well.
"Base." Is all he says, voice gruff, like his throat is dry. You nod, "That's right." Your eyes trace over his monitors, checking his pulse ox, iv's, cardiac monitor. "You got a little roughed up, you remember what happened?" You ask as you pull your torch from your scrub pocket.
"Shit intel, got cornered, got shot." he says, his eyes tracing over your face, dropping down to follow the movement of your hands. You nod softly, "Good, you're cognizant. "All things considered, it could've been way worse for you." You explain to him as you check his eyes with the torch, his pupils dilating against hazel irises. "The bullet nicked your brachial plexus." You say as you pocket the little light.
"I can't feel my fuckin' arm." He gruffs. He doesn't mean to be so short with you, but what do you mean it could have been worse? He could be out of commission for life because of this.
"Some temporary weakness or paralysis is normal," you say to him softly as you round the other side his bed, towards his left side. "Let's check for sensation." You make sure not to jostle him too much when you reach for his left hand, gently opening his fingers, carefully minding the sling.
"Can you feel this?" You ask softly, eyes darting up to his temporarily as you gently drag your finger from the center of his palm down each of his fingers. He nods. "That's good," You say with a growing smile. "How about this?" you follow up with a light drag of your fingertip up his arm, slowly bringing it up to his bicep.
"It's dull," He says, looking down at his arm. "We'll see if you get stronger with some physical therapy and time, but I think your odds are good, Lieutenant." You say as you grab his chart from the end of the bed, notating that he's got mild sensation in the arm.
"My team?" He asks after a minute if silence while you write. "You want to see them?" Your eyes meet his, "They're all okay, waited for you during your surgery, they're still in the waiting area." He nods again.
"Alright, I'll go get them." You say as you hang his chart back up "Do you need anything else?" He shakes his head stiffly, the movement short and dishonest. You know he's probably still in slight shock, so you don't push. With a soft nod, you excuse yourself and make your way to the waiting area.
The three men haven't moved since they brought him in. The one with the mohawk is still covered in his blood. "Excuse me," you say softly to them when you approach, pulling their attention. "Lieutenant Riley, he's awake, he's asking for you all."
They move scarily in sync, standing up immediately and moving toward you. Price speaks up first, "He's okay?" Then man asks, his voice low. You nod "His surgery went well, the injury wasn't as severe as it could've been." You explain as you walk them down the hall. "He has some paralysis in his left arm, but the sensation is still there, so he should be able to recover with PT."
You knock softly again on the door of his room and push it open for the men, before making your leave.
"Christ," Soap says when he sees Simon, "Y'look like hell, Lt."
"Piss off," Simon gruffs weakly. Soap huffs a sound of relief, moving to the chair at the side of the bed. Price is standing there with a heavy look on his face, most definitely cataloging every visible injury on Simon.
"You scared the hell out of us, mate," Gaz says, settling into the windowsill. "Didn’t think you were gonna make it through the flight."
Simon doesn’t respond right away. He’s focused on his breathing, he's trying to keep it even, keep it calm. He isn't surprised, but he’s relieved that his team is with him, that they waited. But he can't say that, there's too much going on. His mask is still gone, and he feels like his skin’s been peeled away with it.
"Didn't think I was either." He finally mutters, not in a pitying or self deprecating way, but honestly.
"Got lucky, Lieutenant." Price says. "And that nurse o'yours, should've seen her when they brought you in. Practically jumped on your case, was the first one to your gurney." He says, nodding towards the door to Simon's room that you were in just minutes ago.
"Got yerself a fan, eh Lt?" Soaps asks with a grin. "Don't fuckin' start, Johnny," Simon says, leaning his head back against the lumpy pillows beneath his neck, head facing the ceiling. Soap just grins wider, but he doesn't taunt anymore.
They fall into a familiar silence, it isn't the first time one of them has been injured, and it won't be the last.
"She said you should recover," Price says to him, eyes cast on his arm in the sling. Simon grunts. "Feels like it." He mutters sarcastically as he closes his eyes again. They all stay quiet, letting him rest, the only sound in the room their breathing and the steady beep of his heart monitor.
Later that night, the team has left. Visiting hours in the medical wing ended, and you promised the men they'd be allowed to come in bright and early to see him. But for now, it's quiet, dim. Simon’s alone. The only sounds are the soft beep of the monitor and the distant hum of base generators through the concrete walls.
The door clicks softly, and then-
"Hi," You murmur softly, sweetly, as if approaching a stray cat, seeing if your presence in his room is welcome. Once you've deemed the coast clear you push the door open a bit more and step inside. You're holding a tray in your hands. "Thought you might want this," you say as you set the tray down on his bed table. There's a small paper cup of medication, another with water- and tea.
In a proper mug. He stares at it for a second, eyes flitting to yours silently. "I’ve been known to sneak in contraband comforts." You say. "Asked your friends how you like it, no sugar, a little milk. Figured you might not be a pre blended stress relief type." A small smile graces your lips after the witty comment.
"Thanks." He says gruffly, picking up the cup of pills with his right arm. It's a slow movement, strained a bit, and you waste no time stabilizing his arm with your hand. "I can manage." He says, his voice low and tired as you help guide the cup to his lips, keeping his shoulder from moving too much. "I know, doesn't mean you have to." You counter gently.
He tips the pills back into his mouth and you bring the water to his lips for him, not wanting him to sit with them in his mouth for too long. He swigs it back slowly, face tensed in a picture of exhaustion.
Simon finishes his water and shifts slightly, his jaw clenched as he adjusts to the discomfort in his shoulder. You don’t miss the wince that flits across his expression before he schools it away, eyes settling back on you. You set the paper cup back down, observing him quietly, watching the tick of his jaw, the way his throat bobs when he swallows.
“Didn't know anyone was coming back tonight” he says, voice raspier now that it’s been used.
You shrug gently, leaning on the counter beside his bed, careful not to seem too eager. “Didn’t feel right to clock out. You were in and out all day after your team left… figured if you woke up again, it’d be better if someone was here.”
He grunts in acknowledgment, but doesn’t speak. He doesn't remember waking at all, but he supposes that's a benefit of the medication. You sense he’s still on edge, not just from the injury, but from something deeper. You let the silence stretch a little, not forcing conversation. The soft clink of your badge and the distant hallway murmurs fill the room.
“I read your chart,” you say eventually, voice soft. “You’ve done some hellish tours. Can’t imagine this is your first time waking up with a wound.”
“It’s not,” Simon replies. Then after a beat, “But it’s the first time it’s felt like more than a setback.”
You nod slowly. “The arm?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is low, reluctant, only admitting this much because of the medication coursing through him. “I rely on precision. If I can’t pull a trigger, can’t steady a fuckin' rifle, then what the hell am I?”
“You’re still a soldier,” you say gently. “Still Simon Riley.”
That earns you a flicker of something in his gaze, surprise, maybe. Not many people refer to him by name. Nobody except his squad, really.
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” you continue, your tone casual but sincere. “There’s a lot more to healing than stitches and time. This is gonna be a hard recovery, but it's doable. If you want to get back to who you were… you’ve gotta let someone help you. It doesn’t have to be me, but someone.”
He doesn't respond at first, but you see the tension in his body slacken just a hair. Enough to know he's listening. Processing.
You stand after a moment, brushing your hands along the creases in your scrub top. “I’ll check in on you tomorrow morning. I’ll bring more tea, if you want it.”
Simon glances at the cup again, then back at you. “Same way?”
there are four grown men in your med bay and exactly zero of them have a legitimate reason to be here.
you’re pretty sure the only actual new injury is gaz’s paper cut, which—despite his dramatics—stopped bleeding about twenty-ish minutes ago.
soap’s sat on your exam table, kicking his legs like a kid at the pediatrician, absently munching from the emergency snack stash you’ve hidden in a drawer clearly labeled MEDIC ONLY.
“y’doin’ checkups, sweetheart?” he asks through a mouthful of granola bar, brushing crumbs off his lap. “or lettin’ us rot here while you work?”
“you’re all rotting,” you say, snatching it from him and folding your arms. “from the brain outward.”
“you wound me, darlin’,” he gasps, taking a bite despite it being in your hand. “you wound me.”
the place is technically just a converted storage room with a flickering overhead light and a radio that only plays static if you turn it past 92.7. there are at least three mugs that aren’t yours, a rotating stock of protein bars (some half-eaten. guess who), and a blanket price insists you need even though winters are your off seasons. you’re convinced it’s just for him.
somehow, it’s the coziest place on base. and somehow, you’re everyone’s favorite stop.
gaz is horizontal on your stretcher. he points at the band-aid you’ve given him when you look over.
“this isn’t even the good kind,” he whines. “where are the cartoon ones? i want spider-man.”
you sigh, giving in and letting soap have at his little snack. “gave you those last week, garrick.”
“they helped! he’s a mental health aid, i tell you.”
“well he’s not licensed, i’ll tell you.”
there’s only one not actively instigating, perched quietly at your desk like a gargoyle—arms crossed with his feet propped against it. yet even he’s not innocent. you clock the faint trace of blood on his glove at a spot you know you stitched up last week.
“simon,” you say sharply.
his head tilts, slow as his attention pans from your suture box to you. “yeah, doc?”
“you’re bleeding.”
he grunts. “tiny cut.”
you hold out your hand. “show me.”
simon sighs like a teenager, but obeys. the moment your fingers brush his, his shoulders relax the slightest bit. the old injury is just as you suspected, split open and just as easily patched up.
price strolls in last, of course, completely unapologetic and somehow already holding two mugs of tea. he takes a look around the room, raises a brow at you.
“crowded office you’ve got, love.”
“don’t start, captain,” you warn. “you’re next.” you say, even though you had absolutely zero intention of working at all today. seems to be something you get roped into often, anyway.
“i’m not hurt.”
“yet you’ve been limping all week?”
“old age,” he shrugs, sipping. “comes for us all.”
you look around. four soldiers. mud on their boots. scars on their skin. loud, ridiculous, and entirely too large for this room.
finallyyyy my thank you for 300 post! tw: medical inaccuracies, military inaccuracies (sorry lol), gunshot wounds, i think that's all (this is also just chapter 1!! there will be more so forgive me if it's too short)
simon riley who's given most of his life to the service, enlisting as a teenager and working up through the ranks, foregoing a personal life of substance for his job. it's fulfilling work, kind of. saving people that need it, killing people that need it. it's become cut and dry for him, something he does without thinking. his muscles moving automatically, finger pressing down on the trigger of his pistol without a flinch. a good soldier, one of the best. so when he's caught off guard during a mission, a stray bullet hitting him in the gap at the side of his tac vest, he knows immediately that he's fucked.
he's bumrushed by all of his senses. hearing the gunfire around him echo slightly, a harsh ringing in his ears as his breath catches in his throat, and a burning sensation spreading through his chest. the wind being knocked out of him as he collapses, dropping his pistol and seeing Soap crowd over him, dragging him behind a shipping container, his blood soaking the gravel, he really knows he's fucked.
he's bleeding out, he thinks, his brain running through a hazy checklist of his life as johnny's voice becomes more muffled above him. his rent is on autopay, flat barely lived in, so that's easy for his landlord to take care of. no parents, pets, friends outside of work, check. he's in and out of consciousness as he tries to remember the last time an injury hurt this fucking bad.
it feels like fire spreading through his chest when he opens his eyes hazily. glaring lights and the smell of antiseptic greet him harshly as his brain struggles to grasp where he is. there's jumbled voices around him and all he can see is the ceiling flying past him. he thinks for a fleeting second that he's in a hospital, that somehow he didn't bleed to death when that bullet hit the one spot his vest doesn't cover.
the lights make him dizzy so he closes his eyes with a shaky exhale from his mouth, warm air passing over the chapped skin of his lips.
his mask.
he can feel the air on his lips, taste the blood on his tongue. his fucking mask is off - that's the last thing he thinks before he goes under again, with blurry figures leaning over his gurney, bleeding into fuzzy shapes and colors before his eyes shut.
there's beeping. a chill on his skin, like the air conditioning in the room has been pumping 24/7. the same antiseptic scent that he knows well, but not mixed with the grimy scent of sweat or blood. his eyes open slowly, squinting under the fluorescents. he's in a hospital room, one he assumes is back at base. his limbs feel heavy, and his tongue feels like sand in his mouth. his bottom half is covered by a thin hospital sheet, and he's been changed into a gown.
he lifts a weak arm, his right one. wiggles his fingers, seems fine there. but he was shot on the left side, and when he looks down, his left arm is in a sling. and he can't feel it.
that's cause for concern, and even though his face doesn't change, he can hear the beeping of the heart rate monitor pick up. he can't wiggle his fingers, or flex his bicep, nothing. it's like it's not even attached to him. he tries a few more times, his hazy brain trying to get any part of his arm to just fucking move.
when that gets him nowhere, he looks around, for anything on his bedside, maybe his balaclava back. nothing there. there's a small cord that's attached to the railing of his bed, a call button on it. He uses his good arm to press it, the buzzing sound alerting whoever it is that's taking care of him that he's awake.
enter you. a newer medic on base, only about six months of time here to your name before your first big case, this one. you were moved from your old base after it shut down, funds were relocated, long story short, you got transferred where they could use you the most.
you're at the nurses station when the central console buzzes, his room number lighting up the screen. you recognize it immediately, standing without hesitation and heading straight there. it hasn't been long since his surgery, but his injury was lucky if you've ever seen one so it's no surprise he's up already.
you knock softly twice on his room door before pushing it open, making eye contact with the hulking man. "You're awake," you say softly to him as you close the door. "Do you know where you are?" follows. You were told he fell into some gravel when he was shot, took a hard hit to the head as well.
"Base." Is all he says, voice gruff, like his throat is dry. You nod, "That's right." Your eyes trace over his monitors, checking his pulse ox, iv's, cardiac monitor. "You got a little roughed up, you remember what happened?" You ask as you pull your torch from your scrub pocket.
"Shit intel, got cornered, got shot." he says, his eyes tracing over your face, dropping down to follow the movement of your hands. You nod softly, "Good, you're cognizant. "All things considered, it could've been way worse for you." You explain to him as you check his eyes with the torch, his pupils dilating against hazel irises. "The bullet nicked your brachial plexus." You say as you pocket the little light.
"I can't feel my fuckin' arm." He gruffs. He doesn't mean to be so short with you, but what do you mean it could have been worse? He could be out of commission for life because of this.
"Some temporary weakness or paralysis is normal," you say to him softly as you round the other side his bed, towards his left side. "Let's check for sensation." You make sure not to jostle him too much when you reach for his left hand, gently opening his fingers, carefully minding the sling.
"Can you feel this?" You ask softly, eyes darting up to his temporarily as you gently drag your finger from the center of his palm down each of his fingers. He nods. "That's good," You say with a growing smile. "How about this?" you follow up with a light drag of your fingertip up his arm, slowly bringing it up to his bicep.
"It's dull," He says, looking down at his arm. "We'll see if you get stronger with some physical therapy and time, but I think your odds are good, Lieutenant." You say as you grab his chart from the end of the bed, notating that he's got mild sensation in the arm.
"My team?" He asks after a minute if silence while you write. "You want to see them?" Your eyes meet his, "They're all okay, waited for you during your surgery, they're still in the waiting area." He nods again.
"Alright, I'll go get them." You say as you hang his chart back up "Do you need anything else?" He shakes his head stiffly, the movement short and dishonest. You know he's probably still in slight shock, so you don't push. With a soft nod, you excuse yourself and make your way to the waiting area.
The three men haven't moved since they brought him in. The one with the mohawk is still covered in his blood. "Excuse me," you say softly to them when you approach, pulling their attention. "Lieutenant Riley, he's awake, he's asking for you all."
They move scarily in sync, standing up immediately and moving toward you. Price speaks up first, "He's okay?" Then man asks, his voice low. You nod "His surgery went well, the injury wasn't as severe as it could've been." You explain as you walk them down the hall. "He has some paralysis in his left arm, but the sensation is still there, so he should be able to recover with PT."
You knock softly again on the door of his room and push it open for the men, before making your leave.
"Christ," Soap says when he sees Simon, "Y'look like hell, Lt."
"Piss off," Simon gruffs weakly. Soap huffs a sound of relief, moving to the chair at the side of the bed. Price is standing there with a heavy look on his face, most definitely cataloging every visible injury on Simon.
"You scared the hell out of us, mate," Gaz says, settling into the windowsill. "Didn’t think you were gonna make it through the flight."
Simon doesn’t respond right away. He’s focused on his breathing, he's trying to keep it even, keep it calm. He isn't surprised, but he’s relieved that his team is with him, that they waited. But he can't say that, there's too much going on. His mask is still gone, and he feels like his skin’s been peeled away with it.
"Didn't think I was either." He finally mutters, not in a pitying or self deprecating way, but honestly.
"Got lucky, Lieutenant." Price says. "And that nurse o'yours, should've seen her when they brought you in. Practically jumped on your case, was the first one to your gurney." He says, nodding towards the door to Simon's room that you were in just minutes ago.
"Got yerself a fan, eh Lt?" Soaps asks with a grin. "Don't fuckin' start, Johnny," Simon says, leaning his head back against the lumpy pillows beneath his neck, head facing the ceiling. Soap just grins wider, but he doesn't taunt anymore.
They fall into a familiar silence, it isn't the first time one of them has been injured, and it won't be the last.
"She said you should recover," Price says to him, eyes cast on his arm in the sling. Simon grunts. "Feels like it." He mutters sarcastically as he closes his eyes again. They all stay quiet, letting him rest, the only sound in the room their breathing and the steady beep of his heart monitor.
Later that night, the team has left. Visiting hours in the medical wing ended, and you promised the men they'd be allowed to come in bright and early to see him. But for now, it's quiet, dim. Simon’s alone. The only sounds are the soft beep of the monitor and the distant hum of base generators through the concrete walls.
The door clicks softly, and then-
"Hi," You murmur softly, sweetly, as if approaching a stray cat, seeing if your presence in his room is welcome. Once you've deemed the coast clear you push the door open a bit more and step inside. You're holding a tray in your hands. "Thought you might want this," you say as you set the tray down on his bed table. There's a small paper cup of medication, another with water- and tea.
In a proper mug. He stares at it for a second, eyes flitting to yours silently. "I’ve been known to sneak in contraband comforts." You say. "Asked your friends how you like it, no sugar, a little milk. Figured you might not be a pre blended stress relief type." A small smile graces your lips after the witty comment.
"Thanks." He says gruffly, picking up the cup of pills with his right arm. It's a slow movement, strained a bit, and you waste no time stabilizing his arm with your hand. "I can manage." He says, his voice low and tired as you help guide the cup to his lips, keeping his shoulder from moving too much. "I know, doesn't mean you have to." You counter gently.
He tips the pills back into his mouth and you bring the water to his lips for him, not wanting him to sit with them in his mouth for too long. He swigs it back slowly, face tensed in a picture of exhaustion.
Simon finishes his water and shifts slightly, his jaw clenched as he adjusts to the discomfort in his shoulder. You don’t miss the wince that flits across his expression before he schools it away, eyes settling back on you. You set the paper cup back down, observing him quietly, watching the tick of his jaw, the way his throat bobs when he swallows.
“Didn't know anyone was coming back tonight” he says, voice raspier now that it’s been used.
You shrug gently, leaning on the counter beside his bed, careful not to seem too eager. “Didn’t feel right to clock out. You were in and out all day after your team left… figured if you woke up again, it’d be better if someone was here.”
He grunts in acknowledgment, but doesn’t speak. He doesn't remember waking at all, but he supposes that's a benefit of the medication. You sense he’s still on edge, not just from the injury, but from something deeper. You let the silence stretch a little, not forcing conversation. The soft clink of your badge and the distant hallway murmurs fill the room.
“I read your chart,” you say eventually, voice soft. “You’ve done some hellish tours. Can’t imagine this is your first time waking up with a wound.”
“It’s not,” Simon replies. Then after a beat, “But it’s the first time it’s felt like more than a setback.”
You nod slowly. “The arm?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is low, reluctant, only admitting this much because of the medication coursing through him. “I rely on precision. If I can’t pull a trigger, can’t steady a fuckin' rifle, then what the hell am I?”
“You’re still a soldier,” you say gently. “Still Simon Riley.”
That earns you a flicker of something in his gaze, surprise, maybe. Not many people refer to him by name. Nobody except his squad, really.
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” you continue, your tone casual but sincere. “There’s a lot more to healing than stitches and time. This is gonna be a hard recovery, but it's doable. If you want to get back to who you were… you’ve gotta let someone help you. It doesn’t have to be me, but someone.”
He doesn't respond at first, but you see the tension in his body slacken just a hair. Enough to know he's listening. Processing.
You stand after a moment, brushing your hands along the creases in your scrub top. “I’ll check in on you tomorrow morning. I’ll bring more tea, if you want it.”
Simon glances at the cup again, then back at you. “Same way?”
hi babies just an update! I've been working on the thank you for 300 Simon x medic! user piece, and it should be uploaded soon!! but I'm taking summer classes and start accelerated organic chemistry 2 this week, so updates might be a bit sparse for the next 5 weeks or so after this upload :)
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