Simon doesn't see a problem.
You mention needing new boots— he gets three pairs delivered by morning. You eye something in a shop window once, idly, and the next week it's boxed up with a bow and no note because why make a fuss about it?
He does no grand gestures. No, "I got ya, sweet'eart." Just things appearing. Arriving. Being paid for. Your bills stop auto-drafting from your account, your phone plan is upgraded, because "It's easier this way."
It isn't about the money. Not for him. It's about knowing you're okay. Knowing you're looked after. It soothes something in him; the part that's always bracing for bad news. He's not romantic about it, he just does it.
Until one day, Price clocks it on the fifth mission in a row where Simon refuses hazard pay. Again.
They were in the armory, cleaning their rifles in companionable silence, post-op buzz still lingering faint around the base. It was late, the humming of the lights overhead only seeming to settle once the adrenaline does.
Simon. half-masked, was scrolling through his phone again. Same old routine. Brief text. Pause. Then a small upturn at the corner of his mouth. Price looks over the top of his rifle sight. "Christ, son," he drawls, "stare any harder at that thing and it's gonna think you're in love."
Simon doesn't look up. "Hm."
"You got tha' girl livin' better than I, and I've got a pension."
"Good. She deserves better than you," Simon grunts, as though it were obvious. His thumb swipes again, stopping to tap something in.
Price chuckles, dry and rough. "What's the damage this time?"
Simon's eyes don't leave the screen. "She's late gettin' home."
There's a faint metallic sound of a brush scraping against the bolt of a rifle. "Y'know she's an adult, not a milk delivery."
Simon grunts again, unbothered. "Nothin' wrong with wantin' her safe."
Price wipes the smudge off his receiver. "'Course not. Like knowin' she's comfortable too, eh? That why you got 'er some silk sheets for her bed."
A noise of agreement. "She sleeps better on 'em."
Price lets out a breath that's half a chuckle and half disbelief. "And the house?"
Simon shrugs, still scrolling. "I sleep better knowin' it's hers."
Price nods absently, brushing grime out of the firing pin channel. "Bloody hell."
His captain is a bull in a tea shop that thinks it's a china shop, Simon thinks. "I get laid. Regularly. In silk sheets. With a girl who keeps my hoodie and wears my name on her bracelet."
Price scratches his beard, mouth twitching like he's trying not to grin. "Can't argue with tha'. Makes me wonder, though, if I should start wearing skirts, too."
Simon huffs, a noise sharp and brief, like it escaped before he could catch it. "What you need's a muzzle."
("...She call you daddy yet?")
("Only when she's bein' cheeky.")
