Can we get ashamed/embarrassed Simon? Something mundane but it upsets him, maybe not being able to do something after being injured or being uncomfortable doing something with reader because of his sad lil guy past? We comfort him ofc he bullies himself enough.
Reader sounds.. Funky? Idk how else to reference the person reading/perspective it's from though
this is so sad :( im gonna kiss ur brain dude
tw: blood and injury, simon's shitty view of sex
It’s quiet other than the hum of the bathroom fan above your head, the slow sloshing of water as Simon shifts his too-big body in the too-small tub. His head rests back against the cool wall as you run the washcloth gently over the deep scrape on his elbow.
It’s been nearly a week since Price pulled Simon out from under that convoy and he still can’t walk right. Still can’t quite hear your voice when you talk, still isn't all there. Confused and disoriented, most days. Not that he's been exactly helping; trying to speed things along so much it worries you. Walking when he shouldn't, working when it hurts his head, changing bandages with tremoring hands.
“C’mon, up,” you say. Not unkind but done. Done with his bullshit complaining, done with him hurting himself. He supposes he can't blame you.
He takes a deep breath and sighs it out. Obliges with a grunt, his world tilting forwards as he grips the edge of the tub and pulls himself upright. Water dribbling down his face now that his hair is buzzed off, the five staples up the back of his head pulling slightly with the movement of his neck.
You scrub the cloth gently over where sweat has accumulated on his back and he grits his teeth, bows his head.
“It’s been a fuckin’ week,” he manages, voice raspy with misuse. It's the first word he’s spoken to you since you both fought over the fact that he tried to shave his own face, an hour ago. “I should be better.”
You sigh. This time, it sounds tired. “Doesn’t work like that, you can’t plow through recovery."
“Still,” he swallows roughly, closes his eyes as his hands go white-knuckled against the edges of the tub. “Can’t look at anythin’ too long, can’t read or write, can’t shoot a gun until my hands stop fuckin’ shaking, can’t eat, can’t shave, can’t even…can’t even do anything right in return, for all this.”
The washcloth pauses on his skin. He still doesn’t look at you. His bruised shoulders rigid, his head bowed low as water drips from buzzed hair down into the tub. Your heart aches in your chest as all that anger towards him softens.
“Simon…” You set the cloth down. Shift to the other side of the tub. “You actually think you’re a burden, right now?”
He finally glances up at you, grey eyes heavy over dark bags that still won’t go away no matter how much he sleeps. Looks at you in a way you’ve never seen him look at anyone else before. Eyes shiny with what almost might be unshed tears, before they quickly look back to where old blood swirls with the water in the tub.
“You don’t want me…like this,” he rasps, like the words burn in his throat on the way out. A breath is punched from you as you finally realize what this is really about.
You sink onto your knees, rest your arms over the bath as you level yourself with him. Gently take his hand from and use the other to tilt his head back up, hand brushing patchy stubble as you meet his unfocused gaze again.
“I only said no because you’re hurting,” you tell him, low and even. Sincere. And then, softer; “I don't like seeing you hurt yourself for me. Sex isn’t fun like that."
He scoffs lowly. Averts his eyes and goes to turn away again, but you don’t let him. Instead, you lean forward to brush your forehead against his, letting your shirt get wet.
“I’m serious,” you press. “You don’t owe me anything, for this. Especially not that.”
His eyes soften as he swallows thickly. Reaches up to place his hand over yours and squeeze it.
“What if I’m never better,” he counters, quiet and unsure. “Doc never gave me a return date. Said I could be screwed up for months.”
“That’s fine,” you press a kiss to his forehead and that stiffness in his shoulders melts away, just a little. “I’m happy to help you with anything in the meantime. Just let me do this for you and that's all I ask, okay?"
He doesn't say anything for a moment, but eventually he sighs. Low and shaky. Leans into you as you help him get clean, and you know he still doesn’t quite believe you, not yet. But he lets you help him now without guilt; relaxes into your doting just a little as you pour warm water over his shoulders. Wash the grimy soap from healing wounds.
And, for now, that’s a good a start to healing as any.
vampire! ghost x reader
cw: mentioned (non-selfharm) scars on wrists
“It’s rude to stare, y’know.”
His words echo softly across the empty gym. Late at night, it's silent, and the sudden voice almost makes you jump.
“Jesus,” you huff, flushed. Simply caught off-guard by the softer, skull-patterned balaclava. Yeah, you were staring, but only because you weren't used to seeing him this way. The thick gear and armored mask now gone—teasing the man underneath. One sickly pale, muscled arm inked in tattoos. The other dotted and lined with scars of all kinds.
The untouchable Ghost. The ace up 141’s sleeve. A sentient bioweapon. Dead man walking. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little tense, in his presence. Even if it was your job not to be.
He chuckles.
“Shouldn’t be up so late, Corporal,” he comments, red irises gleaming in the dim room as he onces you over. Leans against the door, arms crossed in a way that grates at your nerves for some reason. “We ship out at 0400.”
“Could say the same to you.”
“I don’t sleep.”
“Just like you don’t drink from humans?” you zip up your bag and throw it over your shoulder. “You’re a shit liar, L.t.”
It’s the first conversation you both share since meeting in Price’s room. You’ve seen him here a few times, too late for anyone else to be working out. Anyone sane, anyway.
He huffs, nods his head just a little as he observes you quietly. Like he really wasn't expecting you to know.
“Y’did your homework.”
You click your tongue, turn to face him. “They don’t exactly hand out the term specialist like candy.”
You see his eyes crinkle under the balaclava. A smile, maybe, before his eyes flicker down.
You follow his gaze down to your wrists. The scars there, rows of little dots. Teeth. You haven’t really bothered to hide them—the team knows what you do.
“You don’t wanna be here,” he rumbles. When you look up, he’s suddenly only a few inches away, looming over you, tilting his head just a little as he meets your eyes. A distant fluorescent light halos against his head as he reaches out, brushes a hand against the scars on your wrist. His eyelashes are blond. “Do you?”
It’s not a question, not really. You haven’t exactly been bothering to hide it. How quiet you’ve been, lost in thought. In memories not yet healed over.
His hand is cold, thumb running over the silver-pale dots on your wrist like it could tell him who left them there. The feeling is familiar, too familiar. Reverent, like if he pressed too hard they would ache again. Almost like what he used to—
You yank your hand away and step aside.
Ghost doesn’t follow you. Just watches in quiet curiosity as you slip past him and out the door, eyes burning into the back of your neck.
vampire! ghost x reader
cw: self-inflicted starvation & human experimentation mentioned & murder & ghost’s past
“Do you know what a bleeder really is?”
You pop the question after three days of radio silence. Three days of staying locked in his room, only interrupted by Soap trying to coax him out of hiding and check-ins from Price. He had thought for sure that he had successfully scared you away, that Price was a hair away from calling the whole thing off and putting Simon back on bloodbags.
He isn’t sure if he’s relieved or terrified to hear your voice again.
It's late at night. He hasn’t seen or heard from you at all until now, the soft bump of your head hitting his door and a sigh that says you’ve given up on him. Only then do you start talking.
And no, he doesn’t know your job. Never cared to read your file, never cared to look into your job because he doesn’t need the blood.
He opens his eyes when you speak, though. Breathes deep through cracked, dry lips.
“It’s a bit more taboo than just giving blood,” you explain, voice tired. Heavy. “You need other people, more than you think you do. Need people close to keep you warm, keep you fed, watch your six. In turn, you feel a subconscious need to protect—to heal. A symbiotic need created when your DNA was altered. Survival instinct. A bleeder is more of an…assigned mate, more or less. Invasive, but necessary for your wellbeing.”
The floor creaks when you shift, shadow lengthening against the bottom of the door as you sit against it.
“Soap filled me in a little, today. About what you’ve been through. The lab in Mexico,” your voice grows quiet. “Price warned me you’ve been through a lot, but god, your family…”
He feels nausea lurch in his throat at the memory. Waking up with their blood in his mouth. On the walls. The Christmas tree. He squeezes his pillow under his hand, curls into himself a little more.
“My last assignment was shot,” you explain. “He could be a monster. Killed people just for the sake of the taste. I was assigned to him in hopes that the consistent blood would calm him, and it did for a while, until it didn't. The Staff Sergeant I was working with shot him in the head when he threatened to kill me.”
That explains it. The trepidation, the attachment. Also makes something hot and solid lodge in Simon’s throat, thinking of those marks on your wrists. Your neck. How deep they were. His nose wrinkles at the disgust that floods his chest, the anger.
“I’m sorry the Brass assigned you to me. That you weren’t given a choice,” you murmur, voice unsteadier like you’ve somehow failed him. “And I’m sorry for pushing boundaries. But I need you to understand that I’ve seen what happens when vamps starve, seen what happens when they grow too desperate. It gets to a point where their humanity can’t be recovered even with a fix.”
You pause for a moment, let your words fester and take root in Simon’s fucked-up, foggy head. Sprout a sapling of hope he didn’t think he was capable of—one that you’ve surprised him with time and time again. He curses under his breath, turns into the pillow.
“You’re not a monster. Not like those fuckers in the lab, nor in Mexico,” you continue softly, a waver to your tone. “You have to let me keep it that way.”
He doesn't say anything, but his hands shake. You linger for only a few more minutes before the shadow under Simon’s door shifts, fabric rustling on the other side.
vampire! ghost x reader
cw: blood & violence & sexual undertones
The first OP with you goes smooth. Smooth enough for Simon to question why Price didn’t bring someone like you on board to begin with. You fit right in; a medic with speed that's almost as deadly as your tongue, with the way you return Soap’s banter like you were made to do so.
I'll take her, L.t., if ye won't bite, Johnny had teased with a wink. Ghost can’t quite determine why it irritates him, but it does.
The second mission goes even smoother.
He keeps his distance. Keeps communication to a minimum outside of professionality even when he feels your eyes linger like you want to say something, but never do.
It's your third OP with the team that something finally goes awry.
A third consecutive firefight breaks out as everyone is trying to make it back to the safehouse—mission botched and aborted. Price got separated, relaying the situation to Laswell through the comms. Exhausted men lead to sloppy work and therefore, Gaz takes a fall. A bad one. Price gets a rock through the palm by the time he finally makes it to the safehouse and Soap, soaked from the rain with a twisted ankle.
By the time Ghost leaves the room he and Price had been debriefing in for the last hour, the sun has set and the smell of blood fills the air. Soap’s is Earthy. The same bloodtype as Simon before he turned, and tastes like licking a rock. Price’s is deep, rich. A rarity splattered against the rotted wood of the barn they’ve taken shelter in. Gaz’s is metallic like stream water. Distinctively B-negative.
And then there’s yours. Saccharine. Sweet. Thick on the air. Wafting in waves tangling with the smell of distress that’s every bit as tempting as it is concerning, and he suddenly understands why that bloodthirsty bastard marked up your wrists and neck like he had. Territorial prick.
You’re bleeding, perched on a bench in the corner with a lantern where you treated Soap just a moment ago. Fist clenched, shaking; coated in thick, congealed blood that drips to the floor. A deep bullet graze gone hidden and unnoticed, now about to get stitched up by your other unsteady hand.
Simon swallows back any impulsive thoughts. Bites his fangs into his tongue to reel himself back in.
“Red,” he says, voice just a little rough, and it makes you jump. Eyes wide when you whip around, face a few shades paler than the norm—like he was the last person you expected to hear your bitten curses and pained grunts. It's the first time he's seen you anything but put-together.
That something he thought was long dead and gone warms over in his chest. Worry, he thinks. Care.
He gestures to your wound, “shouldn’t be doin’ that yourself.”
You sigh tiredly. Wipe sweat and tears from your eyes. Voice clipped when it comes out, strained. ”Didn't-....didn't mean to bother you."
Wordlessly, he steps forwards. Careful, like he’s wary he might scare you away again. The sweet smell gets stronger as he approaches. Sits in front of you, takes your arm gently in his hands.
“You don’t have—”
“It’s still our job to look after each other, yeah?” he murmurs, looking up to meet your gaze. “Don't need your blood. Still need my medic."
You soften, then. Relax in his hold. Let out a shaky breath as you study him, gaze deep into his dark eyes. There’s something new, there—something he can’t quite read. Something sadder, softer, as you nod in agreement.
“May I?” He asks, lifting your arm up a little. One of the rare blessings of his ability; that he can choose whether or not it heals or hurts. Teeth or tongue. Life and death.
You hesitate for a moment before nodding, permission.
Simon lifts his mask just a little. Brings your arm up, opens his mouth, and runs his tongue along the length of your cut. Your breath hitches at the pain of healing as the wound scabs under his tongue, feeling teeth scraping lightly against your skin.
Simon’s brow furrows, something hollow and twisted in his gut stirring to life at the taste. Lip twitching with restraint until his tongue leaves your skin and he quickly pulls his mask back down.
“There,” he says, pretending not to be effected. Pretending that your blood isn’t the best thing he ever tasted as he tugs your ripped sleeve over the newfound scar on your soft skin. “Good as new.”
Simon thinks it might be the last time anything ever goes smoothly, in your presence.
vampire! ghost x reader
cw: mentioned scars (non-selfharm) on wrists
Simon hates taking from humans. Always has, always will. No matter how much better it tastes, no matter how much energy it gives. He won’t do it—no, he’d rather ration off the stale, military-provided blood for the rest of his days. A lie he keeps telling himself, but never really lives up to.
He realizes this, even when he’s clenching his fists in barely-restrained anger as Price talks to him. Introduces you—what you’re here to do, that you’re the newest member of the team. A corporal field medic familiar with his…condition.
All because he lost his cool once, on the field. Killed two hostiles, drank them dry. They would’ve ended up dead, anyway. But for the sake of already treading the line of getting court-martialled, he bites his tongue.
A handler.
You’re a pretty thing. About Simon’s age, maybe a little younger. Trepidation wafts off you in gentle, lazy waves, even with your brows drawn and a guarded look in your eyes. Not quite fear, not quite hate. Just something wary.
Interesting.
“Ghost,” Price says, nodding towards you. “Meet Red. She’ll be supplying you, from here on out.”
Fat chance, Simon wants to say. But he doesn’t. Just watches as you take a breath, hold your hand out, and lift your head a little higher.
A smirk tugs at his lip. Not that you can see.
“Red, eh?” He repeats with distant amusement. “Wonder why that is.”
You don’t move, not an inch, but something flashes in your eyes. “Not because I’m a bloodbag, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He huffs, deadpan. Glances from you to Price, who crosses his arms expectedly. Simon feels the itch to walk away, reject this arrangement made behind his back. He knows better than to argue, though. Not with Price. Not with the brass.
He’ll prove it instead.
“Stay outta the way,” He says, and brings his hand up to shake yours, a firm squeeze to your palm as he meets your eyes. Intense, he has a sneaking suspicion that you’re less on board with this than he thought. “And we won’t have an issue, yeah?”
There’s a scar on you already when he pulls away. An ugly bite on your wrist. Old. Healed over. You pull away before he can look at it too hard.
Something something you're Price's only heir. Wicked smart, charismatic, elegant. Tongue sharp like a knife and an aim with a rifle that's even sharper. When your mother dies, you fill her void. Take up some of her duties to lessen the load on your father's shoulders. He hates the thought of leaving it all on you, if the day should come that he dies.
So, enter John MacTavish. A knight chosen by Price and the courtier Garrick themselves to be your right-hand. You like him, really. A great leader on the battlefield and a fierce heart. You admire him---grew up with him, even---but you feel something tight in your chest when he kisses your hand, promises nothing but loyalty and peace for your people, when the day comes you both marry.
You should love him, he's perfect, but you don't. Not like that.
Ghost is the only one who knows.
He's been your personal guard for about a decade, now, since Price caught you sneaking out of the castle to play with the common children. Back then, he approached the job with total indifference. Didn't do children. Barely did people. A legendary war machine retired after a long streak of merciless slaughtering in a war cast to avenge your mother's name. Now, reduced to a babysitter for an over-anxious, grieving king too busy for his only child.
Price's most trusted soldier, and Johnny's best friend.
You eventually grow of age, get more curious about the soldier stationed at your door every night and Simon shouldn't be getting so close. You're the softest thing he's ever had the priviledge of protecting, dragging him along for quiet talks, drinks, and exploration during the kingdom's quietest hours.
You're too sweet for a war-torn thing like him. Entrusting him with things neither Johnny or Price know, beconing him over and tucking flowers behind his ears like he hasn't killed kings with his bare hands.
He finds himself sendinh long looks your way when Johnny takes your hand, correxting his stance when you're stolen away from quiet talks in the garden. Pretending he doesn't notice how you don't quite have that same sparkle in your eyes, with Johnny. Pretending it doesn't ache, to hear the Sargeant gush over you.
Ghost had a job to do. Protect you, first and foremost. But still, he can't help but grow soft. Not when you're so unhappy, not when the politcal climate worsens by the day, not when it weighs on you more and more and Price does nothing but pace by his throne.
You come to him one night, teary-eyed and desperate. Saying your father has waged another war against the country who assassinated your mother, saying he's ordered that you and Johnny marry post-haste. Tugging on his hands and pulling him into a corner, away from the ears of rushing soldiers and Johnny's yelled orders. Saying you're running away, never coming back, leaving everything behind.
Come with me, it's the only thing you ever ask of him, voice cracking. I can't stand to see you dying for this stupid war.
He has a duty to protect you, to guide you, to see you off to get married and carry on this war for another decade, maybe two. He has a duty to fight, to serve your father, to die honorably for you.
But who is he to say no to the first person who's ever seen him as more than that?
vampire! ghost x reader
cw: blood & death & human experimentation
There’s a loud crack against the floor whenever Simon shoves a doctor to the ground, the back of his head hitting concrete with enough force to kill anything natural.
Simon doesn’t know his name. Doesn’t plan to ask. Just knows his face has been the one 141 has been hunting for over six months, now. Simon bears his fangs in the other’s face, breathing heavy as he puts more pressure on the arm that sits against his throat.
He isn’t here to kill. Not after Price’s quick going dark into the comms before following a lead of his own. No—that’s your job, but Simon is highly anticipating the order from your lips.
“Call off your fucking dog—” The doctor growls to you, breaths wheezing and strained as he claws at Simon’s arm. He’s much stronger than he looks. A twisted, lab-made undead scent wafting off him in waves that burns his nose like bleach. “You do this—kill me—they’ll come after you and your pet. All of you.”
You’re knelt down beside Simon, gazing down at the doctor below with an equal amount of disgust. Soap is behind you, aiming a handgun between his eyes and trying not to look too hard at the doctor’s too-long fangs and bloodshot eyes.
Snake-like. Newly-turned vampires always are. It makes Simon’s skin crawl.
You don’t respond, gaze steely. Cold. Just watching.
“You’re supposed to be a medic—” The doctor strains. "Just gonna stand there and let me die? You'll get canned for that-"
“Aye, just answer her fucking question,” Soap spits impatiently. “Maybe then she'll save yer sorry ass."
“I’ll ask you one more time,” You demand for the umpteenth time, ignoring him. Words hissed in his face. “What the fuck is this place?”
Simon knows what it is. Knows why every soldier in here is a monster just like him. Sterile walls stinking of stale pain, deep-seeded terror, old blood, deadly drugs. But Simon doesn’t have the stomach to utter the words. So, he lets the slimy fuck high off the blood of one of Soap’s operators say it for him with a red-stained smile.
“A regular-old hospital.”
“He’s lying,” Simon snarls, tightens his arm around the doctor’s neck. “The geezer's fuckin’ making ‘em.”
Surprised, you look at Soap, who only scrunches his nose up and looks away with a quiet steamin’ Jesus. Like he’s seen this before, or heard about it, and for once left without a word to put in.
You glance to Simon. “How do you know?”
He doesn’t answer. He can’t. Just shoots you a look he hopes says more than he can utter, right now.
You swallow and turn back to the doctor. “Last chance. Tell the truth.”
He smiles wider, lets out a choked sort of laugh from beneath Simon’s arm. Pointed teeth sharp, eyes gleaming. Blood-shot. Wild. Murderous.
“I think our friend here's got the jist.”
Your nose scrunches in disgust and you flick you head. Simon breaks the doctor's neck with one swift moment, and the room falls silent. The office is trashed, papers and blood spattered almost every inch of the floor. Dead operators and wounded soldiers.
Simon barely gives himself time to think.
“Take the wounded, get them out. That laptop, too.” he says, standing. Picking his gun up off the floor and making for the door. Hands shaking, angry. Too angry to breathe.
you accidentally ask your ex for a ride home after six months no-contact
tags: vomit, themes of ptsd and depression for both characters, alcohol, angst, fluff, soft simon
It’s raining.
Your hair pulls on the concrete whenever you adjust uselessly, tugging at the bottom of your dress so that you could sit on the ground in a way that won’t leave bruises you won’t remember. Balance clumsy as you sink against the stone and press your face against the soothing coolness of the bricks. Listen to the music that still pulses inside and try to imagine what your friends are doing, dancing and drinking.
Your phone slips onto your lap, the blue light obscenely bright against the dim, dingy alleyway and incandescent street lights. A text conversation pulled up and untouched for months suddenly dinging with updates. You barely realize you texted him to pick you up until you get a response to your drunken gibberish, short and sweet. Three little letters that bring more relief than you’ll ever admit.
Omw.
You’re surprised he’s able to read what you sent. You sure as hell can’t, from the combined effort of the rain and the dumbness of your fingers. And maybe some part of you would be fond of the fact that he had replied so fast, kept your number unblocked. Hadn’t just ignored it like he probably should have. Hadn’t discarded you completely.
Six months. Six months since he said he’d never marry, six months since you left. Time went by faster when you weren’t staring at your phone callender aching for his return. Waiting by the front door of your shared apartment like an anxious puppy when he was late to return, as usual.
Maybe it was muscle memory, tapping his contact. Maybe it was subconscious. Either way, you couldn’t go back on it now.
You hear it before you see it. That same old sleek, black car rolling around the block and stopping some ways in front of you. There’s a headache blooming in your skull and your hair is slick against your face whenever you open your eyes to the sound of boots.
He’s there, in front of you. Kneeling down in dark jeans and a darker T-shirt. More tattoos up his arm than you remember. A fresh, diamond-shaped one—stark against the faded sleeve of his forearm. A more sober you would have at least pretended not to stare, not to rake your eyes up lean muscle and tall stature to the permanently tired, grey-ish eyes of Simon Riley.
“You’re a mess,” He grunts, and his velvet, smokey accent really shouldn’t make your chest warm over as much as it does. Unearth memories and feelings you thought you packed away with the rest of your belongings whenever you moved out of his flat.
You huff, glance away. “Mess is an understatement.”
“You alright?”
You hum thoughtfully, reaching a dumb hand up to rub at your face. You’re not. You’re really not; not with him finally within arms reach. Not when nausea claws distantly in your throat and your brain feels like it's been knocked loose in your skull. But, as always, you lie.
“Yeah,” you breathe, and your voice is hoarse from yelling and singing. You curse yourself for drinking so much. Curse yourself even more for asking him to come pick you up; you wanted this interaction to be something else. Coffee, maybe, or a few drinks at the bar. Talking. Reminiscing. Discussing what led you to split in the first place; his job and your loneliness. Not getting baby-sat because you partied too hard and your ride got too drunk.
“Why’d you come?” You mutter, voice hoarse and slurred, and even to you it sounds pitiful.
He huffs in response. Quiet. Barely a breath and a twitch of his lips, but it still happens. Maskless, eyeblack still stained around his exhausted eyes. Stuck to his blond eyelashes and caught in his brow. He must have just gotten home from whatever he’s been up to the past few months, you probably don’t want to know. It might make you want to stick around more than you should. Make sure he’s alright. That he’s eating and sleeping. You’re probably the only one alive that knows he struggles, coming home and adjusting back to civilian life.
Simon reaches out, warm hand tenderly holding the side of your face and wiping away runny mascara.
“Because you called,” he says, genuine. Without an ounce of the annoyance you somehow expected, although he’s never once been annoyed before. “Can you stand?”
You swallow again, “probably not.”
He shifts. You watch as he shuffles closer, snaking a large hand under your knees and the other around your back. Lifting you with no visible effort other than a stifled grunt, tucking you close to his chest. Careful not to jostle you too much as the movement makes you dizzy and you clutch hard at his bicep. Hide your face in his collar and shut your eyes tight as your head swims. Try to focus on the pulse between his ribs. His shirt smells like cigarettes and old leather, something distinctly him.
“Your heartbeat is fast,” you breathe.
Simon's boots splash against the puddles on the street.
“Mm,” he hums, adjusts his hold on you. “A little.”
“Why?”
He pulls the door open with a finger and sets you down carefully in the passenger seat. Gets you situated. Something about it shoots a distant memory through your brain; wrangling a wet German Shepherd into your old car. Thunder rumbling across the sky. Driving home with a very relieved Simon in the backseat, curled up and rain-soaked with the dog he thought he lost forever.
That was the first time you met. Spotting him dejectedly along the side of the M62 motorway, leash in hand. Trying to find his dog Riley who had jumped from his car in the midst of the worst rainstorm you’ve seen in years.
“‘Was worried,” he confesses, low and sincere. “Reckon you’d have to be real desperate to ask my sorry ass to get you. Thought I'd have to beat someone up."
Hurt wells, hot and upset, through your chest. Makes you clutch his shirt a little tighter as he gets to his car, even if he did intend for it to be a lighthearted joke.
“I’m sorry,” it’s genuine. You don’t exactly know if you’re apologizing for not staying in touch, the argument before he left, or bothering him in the first place. Either way, the apology is genuine.
He smiles. Warm, tired, sad. Much like he would whenever you’d drop him off at the airport or when he’d climb into bed after his return: sore, exhausted, and apologizing. Something you like to think is reserved for you, although you know might be wishful thinking.
“S’alright, love.”
The drive itself is quiet. You press your face to the cool of the window and let your eyes shut. You’re still shivering from the rain despite Simon cranking the heat up. A part of you is glad for it, it gives you something to zero in on. Keeps you from vomiting in his car as you listen to the rain tap against the windows. Watch the city lights come and go as he navigates traffic carefully.
“Where to?” He rumbles.
“Same flat,” you slur. “The one on 8th.”
He sends a glance your way. You meant to leave the city after you left but with money so tight you haven’t had enough time to go looking, so you moved back into the apartment complex you inhabited before the both of you got together. Easy, cheap. Sketchy neighborhood but close to work. Small, but you never needed a whole lot of space, anyway.
He doesn’t comment on it. Just flicks the turn signal on and takes you home. You’re a little grateful.
Simon carries you inside. Still avoids that one stair that is higher than all the others. Still ducking his head down just a little under that one doorway he hit his head on once. Water drips from his clothes and taps against dusty linoleum floors, boots squeaking as he sets you down carefully outside your door.
By the time your shoes hit the floor again, it seems to contort and dip underneath you. Your heartbeat pulses in your ears and hands shake as you fumble for your keys. Swaying as you clumsily press them into the knob and turn.
“Hm,” Simon huffs, blinking at the familiar, dark, empty living room around him. “Looks exactly the same.”
You barely register his comment before the lump in your throat grows unbearable, barely hearing what he says. Stumble across the room to the bathroom just in time to collapse by the toilet and retch a night of drinking, painfully, into the bowl. It hurts. The kind of vomit that only happens when you go too long without eating before having a drink. The kind of sick that carries a thick kind of shame with it—a kind of oh no, I’m getting bad again.
Simon's at your side in an instant, a roll of paper towels under one arm and a glass of water in the other.
“Bloody hell, easy,” comes his voice as he wipes at your face, fuzzy and distant behind the headache that pounds in your skull. You breathe and it burns down your irritated throat as you lean your head against the porcelain. Let him fuss over you as you recover.
“Fuck,” you curse yourself as the sobriety of throwing up brings with it a massive wave of clarity. You run a shaky hand over your eyes, swallow thickly. “I’m sorry, Simon, I—”
“It’s fine."
“I shouldn’t have texted you,” you continue, voice cracking as you grimace. “Should’ve just walked home or Ubered or something.”
He sighs, “love—”
“I’m a fucking mess and I really didn’t want to—”
“Stop,” Simon finally says, stern but never mean. You shut your mouth tearfully. Look up at him with that look that he knows all-to-well by now; from date nights he had to miss to disappearances without goodbyes. Nights you needed him to stay but he couldn’t because the job needed him more. When he shot down your suggestion of getting married because he didn’t want you in harm’s way should anything happen to him.
He wasn’t mad when you got tired of it, when you broke the news that you were packing up and leaving. Left his flat jarringly empty and made his life outside of the Task Force a lot quieter. A mediocre partner at best, really; he should’ve expected it. Too tired to do much and too messed up to love you like you deserved.
He wasn’t about to leave you hanging here, too. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
“I’d rather me pick you up than some creepy bloke,” he tells you, tone almost somber. He runs a warm hand comfortingly over where your dress exposes your back. “You’ve sat beside me while I puked too many times. ‘Bout time I returned the favor.”
That gets a weak scoff out of you. A twitch of your mouth just barely visible through the dark of the bathroom.
“This feels a little more pathetic, though,” you breathe. “At least you can hold your alcohol.”
“At least you made it home,” he smiles. “I wouldn’t have moved. ‘Woulda spent the night sleeping against that building, most likely.”
You chuckle a little at the thought and he shifts, taking you into his arms again.
“You gonna get sick again?”
“No,” you breathe, eyes drooping. You swallow and it tastes like bile, but the tightness in your throat is gone. “M’good now.”
He hums, but you barely hear it. Letting the world fade into black just as he carries you down the hall.
You don’t remember much else.
The next time you open your eyes, you’re in bed. Warm, golden sunlight settles in through the cracks in your blinds and irritates your eyes. He somehow got you out of your dress last night and into one of the large T-shirts you’re always wearing to bed, wiped off most of the makeup on your face so that only stubborn mascara dots your pillow when you turn over. Tucked you into all the blankets he could to ward off the worst of the rain's chill. It's the most care anyone has shown you in a while.
There’s water on the nightstand, your tumbler damp with condensation. Two red ibuprofen pills next to it. In front of your messy side table, on the floor, is Simon. Blond head perched up on an extra pillow, softly snoring away as he sleeps on his stomach. Fresh tattoo on display thrown over a light blanket from your couch.
For a moment, you blink at it. Confused by the jarring difference in it compared to his others; all dogtags and fire and death. A diamond with a landscape of a rainy highway inside, a road sign the main focus. A breath fills your lungs as you realize, then, what it is.
M62.
You stare at it for longer than you’ll ever admit.
