#(ha!

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price as a panelist on Hollywood Squares

[allastoredeer]

Secrets Exposed!

[hellengomes]

[f1-obsessed333]

[elmobloop]

[shotmrmiller]

John's never known Simon to be anything other than callous, even on a good day. His detachment wasn't born out of hardship or survival nor a shield constructed to protect himself— it's deliberate, calculated, and entirely self-sustained.

(This unapologetic indifference had been there even before Roba.)

There is no tortured soul in him, no broken man clawing his way toward salvation; there is no old wound that requires healing, no past wrongs to right. He doesn't carry such a burden— his shoulders always open and squared.

He doesn't wrestle with inner demons— morality is a concept he's neither embraced nor rejected when under his command. He'll bend it to suit the choices he deems most effective. Where someone might chew on a decision before making it, Simon doesn't. Efficiency over sentiment, results over ideals.

Even now, John had gnarled out a couple of words to Simon amidst the chaos— Get that civvie outta there, Ghost— and he'd done it, executed it with surgical precision. Simon hadn't rushed, hadn't made a grand display of heroism, just slipped through the cracks in the defense of the danger, effortlessly neutralizing anyone in his path, and when the civilian had looked up at him, eyes wide with gratitude and their lips quivering with fear, he hadn't offered any comfort.

He'd turned to leave without waiting for thanks, his back to the person he'd just saved, his focus already shifting to John, awaiting his next command.

Simon had chosen long ago who he was, a man unmoored from things that tethered others to their humanity, and to John, his choice was unassailable.

Or so he'd thought.

Until he caught sight of Simon eating a homemade lunch. Simon doesn't do lunch. He's still among the living solely because of those fluorescent energy drinks that could sear a pork chop and cigarettes. Simon didn't simply smoke; he inhaled tar as though it were oxygen, the orange glow of the tip as constant as the mask he wore.

But now there's actual sustenance added to his diet of fumes, grit, and spite— and it looks good. Steak, edges crisp with a tender center, the flushed pink contrasting the caramelized sear. Alongside it, potatoes, a perfect gold, soaking up the juices of the steak.

That isn't just a meal, it's a connection. A link to the kernel of humanity Simon's got tightly sealed away in that remote cabin he'd built with his own two hands a while back.

Interesting.

John doesn't pry; Simon's silence is of iron. Instead, he simply settles into the chair beside him, the quiet stretching between them two comfortable.

He'll find out just who domesticated Simon in due time and when he does, he hopes to finagle his way into a dinner invitation. John doesn't remember the last time some sweet, caring thing made him a home cooked meal.

[excitementshewrote]