you never asked his name, not at first.
the cook told you weeks after you first saw him stumbling into the diner. simon.
he only showed up after midnight, sometimes even later, blood on his knuckles, sweat drying on the back of his neck, an old and beat duffel bag swung over his shoulder, and more often than not with a split lip or a black eye adoring his pale skin.
you’d bring him extra napkins when his lip was split, and he’d nod a thanks, a quiet understanding.
he always ordered the same thing: black coffee, eggs, hash browns, sausages, and no tomatoes. he’d pay in crumbled bills and often tip enough for you to feel guilty about taking them, but then again, you’d never had the chance to argue about it as he’d always leave the money on the table and disappear into the night.
he never talked much, just sat in the corner booth of the crappy, fluorescent-lit diner you’d started working at for some extra money, watching the rain smear the windows as he ate alone.
you told yourself it was none of your business, the busted-up knuckles, bruised jaw, the way he sometimes limped, none of that was yours to pry into. it didn’t take you long to connect the dots: it was a sketchy neighbourhood, and you’d heard enough about the illegal gambling and fights going on in the back alleys to understand he must’ve been one of the fighters.
still, you’d find yourself watching the door every time you’d work the night shift, waiting for him, until one night, simon didn’t show.
at first you pretended not to care.
you wiped down his usual booth four times, refilling all the sugar jars of the diner hoping they’d keep you busy as the clock behind you kept ticking.
the cook, a welsh man who wasn’t too keen on personal hygiene, would spend the dead hours smoking outside, leaving you alone, elbows propped up on the counter as you’d stare at the door, hoping the next time the bell over the door jingled, it’d be him, hood up and eyes dark instead of a strong gust of wind.
but it was never him.
you’d told yourself maybe he got tired of the place, or that he’d gotten hurt too bad. you tried not to dwell on the second option too long.
the next night, simon still didn’t show.
three nights later, just after two am, he finally stumbled in, blood dripping down the side of his face and holding onto his side.
the diner was empty, and you almost dropped the sugar jar you were refilling behind the counter.
“jesus, simon-!” it was the first time you’d said his name out loud.
he blinked just once, like he hadn’t expected you to know it. he was swaying slightly, favouring his left leg. “do ya mind-?”
“i’ll grab the kit.” you rushed into the storage room, coming back with a small red and white box.
“s’not as bad as it looks…” he tried saying as you guided him to sit down in a booth.
“you’re bleeding.” you pointed out more sharply than you meant to.
simon didn’t argue again.
in silence, he let you patch the cut on his eyebrow. it was messy but shallow, didn’t need stitches, so you gently placed a bandaid on his brow ridge.
his ribs were worse, and simon winced when you tried pressing some ice to his side. “gimme tha’-” he snatched the ice from you, lifting the hem of his hoodie, careful to hide the old scars that reminded him that his violence wasn’t something for a pretty thing like you.
his hand kept the ice under the hoodie to try swell down the purpling bruise blooming across his side, his eyes never leaving you as you moved to grab some tissues.
“told ya ‘s not too bad.” he grunted.
“and i told you to sit still twice already, haven’t i?” you lifted an eyebrow at him, cleaning the blood off his face.
he coughed out a laugh, looking away.
“why didn’t you come in this week?” you murmured after a couple of minutes of comfortable silence. “i thought you’d finally gotten tired of finding richie’s hair in your plate.”
he grinned.
“got jumped after the last match, tuesday night. wasn’t exactly in walkin’ shape for a coupla days.” he then answered.
you grimaced, and simon felt the need to reassure you.
“s’alright.” simon shrugged. “still standin’.”
“barely.”
a few moments passed before he cleared his throat, tilting his head to look at you. “didn’t think you’d notice.”
“i noticed. also- you’re the only regular at this time, it’d be hard not to.”
silence stretched between you again, and you almost grew impatient, craving to hear his tired voice once more.
“m’not used to tha’.”
“i figured.” you replied gently.
“this place’s the only part of my night that doesn’t feel like hell.” he admitted then, as quiet as a prayer. “where’d ya know my name?”
“heard the cook once. picked it up.” you shrugged.
“ah, richie and that big mouth a’his.” simon snorted, wincing at the piercing pain in his ribs. you looked at his hand, resting on the table, bruised and with dried blood under his nails.
“you’re quiet. never asked me anythin’ ‘bout the cuts ‘n the bruises. thought ya didn’t pay attention.”
“i always pay attention.”
the silence stretched on as you two sat one in front of the other with steaming cups of bad coffee between you.
“won’t miss another night.”
“you better not, simon.”
