simon who had to retire (most likely against his will) and was forced to get a ptsd service dog who's a shifter, which he didn't realize they weren't just a dog until they turned human whilst in the middle of an episode. to say the least, it did NOT help and the reader has to put in a lot more effort after that. simon might be a little (very) mad, betrayed even.
THIS IS TASTYYYYYY (I actually wrote a lot for this omg so I'll post in parts. check this og post for link updates)
Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.
cw: panic attack. ghost x dog shifter!reader.
Simon meets you on a Tuesday.
The case worker is all clipped heels and half smiles, trying to fill the silence in his flat with optimism. The room eats her words before they hit the walls.
“This is your new partner,” she says, kneeling to unsnap the leash from your collar. “Specialized for you, just like we talked about."
Simon says nothing. He stands in the middle of his kitchen, arms crossed tight across his chest. He hasn’t shaved. The bruises under his eyes are old.
He studies you. “You serious?”
The case worker just nods. “Shifter-class.”
His mouth twitches. A sneer, maybe. “What, you think I need a running partner?”
She blinks. “No—I mean, shifter. It’s the classification tag. You’ll notice better adaptability. You read the profile I sent didn't you?"
He doesn’t press. He’s not listening anymore.
You sit. You wait. You’ve done this before, different people, different homes. They’re all the same in the beginning. Angry, tired, half-alive. All you can do is be there.
The first week is quiet. As quiet as you'd expected.
You sleep on the floor by his bed, curled against the frame. You don’t bark. You don’t whine. You don’t make yourself big. You only move when he does, and even then, only enough to stay in reach.
When he jerks awake in the middle of the night, sweat-soaked and gasping, you rise slowly and press against his legs. You feel his hands shake when they reach for you. He clings, fingers twisted in your ruff, body rigid with whatever terrors had gripped him.
He never calls your name, he never asks if you’re staying, but he doesn’t push you away, he keeps you fed with half-decent food, makes sure you have clean water in your bowl.
A month in, you know the routine.
He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t leave often. He paces sometimes. You follow, but not too close. He needs space, you note, more than some others.
Other nights, he’s quieter... more broken open. He’ll sit on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands for an hour before he can lie down. You keep your body pressed to his shins until he decides to go to sleep.
When he dreams, loud, violent, and trembling, you move up, lay your body across his legs and stomach, head at his sternum. Let him hold your weight.
Sometimes, in the blue light of early morning, he’ll whisper things to you. People, old stories, small things long passed. Just breath-thin confessions that hang in the air for no one but you.
You are the only thing in his world that never changes.
One night the weather turns heavy, thunder pressing across the city. Simon’s jaw is tight all evening. You know the signs. Something in his mind's already spinning.
You curl close on the bed before he's asleep. You tuck yourself against his ribs, feel the shallow rise and fall of his breath.
He thrashes hard, arm slamming into the wall he sleeps against, and you’re up in a second, trying to get close again, but he’s spiraling.
This isn't like before. His whole body’s locked. His chest is heaving. You can hear the panic clawing through his throat.
You gently rest over him, press your weight to his legs. He kicks free. You bark once, sharp, hoping to snap him back, but he doesn’t hear it. His hands are clutching at the sheets like he’s going to drown.
It’s not working.
It’s not working.
The next moments are a blur of desperation.
Your body unfolds upward in a rush of muscle and heat and bone reshaping. Skin over fur. Legs over paws. You land half-crouched beside him, panting just a bit as your senses readjust, hoping that maybe, maybe, you can fix this.
You reach out, slow and open-palmed. “Simon,” you say, softly. “You’re safe. You’re here. I promise.”
His eyes snap wide open.
You see the panic harden into fear and fury and then he swings.
Just pure, ugly instinct. His hand connects with your shoulder and sends you back hard, off the edge of the bed.
You hit the floor with a thud.
The wind’s knocked from you for a moment. You stay down, waiting for him to see you clearly.
“What the fuck,” Simon breathes. “What the fuck—”
He’s pressed back against the headboard, staring at you like you crawled out of his worst nightmare. His hands are up, palms curled into fists.
You try to speak—you shouldn’t, you should wait.
“I didn’t mean to—I had to—You weren’t breathing—”
“Get out.” The words are low.
Your heart stutters. You shake your head. “I can’t. I mean—not yet. But I’ll give you space. I swear. I’ll stay right here.”
His eyes dart to the corner. The door. The window. You watch his brain run circles, looking for the next threat.
You move to the far end of the room, slow and careful. You sit down cross-legged against the wall, tail curled tight around your waist.
And you stay.
Simon stays on the bed like a man held hostage. He watches you closely. His hands fall to his sides, clenching and unclenching in the sheets.
You don’t dare move.
Morning comes dreadfully slow..
He gets up without a word, doesn't look your way, and closes the bathroom door gently behind him.