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Three drinks, tops.
That’s what Soap had promised you.
The first two drinks aren’t bad, listening to Soap regale the table with a story about his childhood shenanigans while sipping from your glass— and occasionally from Simon’s when he isn’t looking. You feel yourself relaxing— tension slowly easing from your shoulders as you lean back in your seat. The leather of the booth squeaks and stretches, sinking beneath your weight. Soap’s entertaining— as good a storyteller as he is a soldier— and it’s easy to get lost in his boisterous brogue and charming smile.
He’s ten minutes deep into a story about an elaborate prank he and his brother played on his sister when Price rejoins the table, beers and bourbon in hand. Your eyes follow the glass he slides across the table where it meets Simon’s hand. He gives Price a nod, free hand raising to lift his mask enough to take a sip. You turn your gaze to the table until he sets the glass back down on the table, and your eyes wander up to stare at his handsome face.
He must feel your gaze— his eyes glide to meet yours, lazy and on the verge of tipsy. You raise a brow, looking between him and the half-empty glass in his hand.
“’s just a couple drinks,” he murmurs, so quiet you almost can’t hear it over Soap’s animated voice.
“Better be,” you sigh. You briefly shift your attention to Soap, eyeing the collection of empty bottles and glasses in front of him.
You hear the leather squeak before you feel Simon’s presence hovering near your shoulder. To anyone else, it would look like he’s stretching or maybe shifting in his seat as he keeps his eyes forward. “Worried about us, pet?” he asks softly into your ear.
He’s teasing you. You hear the mocking lilt in his voice— just above the appreciation for your concern and beneath the always-present dry deadpan.
You scoff, ignoring the heat that rises to your face. “I don’t want to be stuck babysitting four grown men….again.”
He rolls his eyes— scoffing at you as he straightens up.
-
“Maybe we oughta back?” you suggest four drinks later.
Things don’t seem too bad— Soap and Gaz, the perfect level of drunk to let loose while not risking a monstrous hangover. Simon and Price stick with you in the booth, nursing beers while you stick to your ice water. They seem to be faring better than the other two, appearing only slightly tipsy until Gaz calls for Price, and the Captain stands to join them at the other side of the bar. He holds himself well, but you can see the extra effort it takes to keep his steps in line.
“We should definitely head back,” you sigh, turning to Simon. He shrugs, mind elsewhere, with a fingertip pressed to the rim of his bottle, absentmindedly pushing it to balance on a rounded corner.
You watch, the half-full bottle teetering dangerously under his finger as he stares straight ahead. It’s not unusual for Simon to get lost in his own thoughts— especially when he’s been drinking. You’re hesitant to startle him out of his thoughts, but Soap beats you to it, calling for his Lieutenant so he can have a partner for the next game of pool.
Simon stands, and your hand reaches out to grasp onto his arm before you can stop yourself. He pauses, looking back to you with amused confusion. Your look is pointed, bouncing between him and the Scotsman staggering his way over.
“Simon-”
“We’re fine, pet.”
Soap grabs Simon’s other arm pulling him away from you and your booth. Simon’s arm slides from your hand, quickly pinching your cheek before he’s gone. You’re left alone to simmer, too stubborn to join them as you pout at your water.
“Whatever. You’ll regret it in the morning.”
-
They get through two games and an absurd amount of drinks before you resign yourself to your role as the only sober teammate.
You're summoned to keep score somewhere after the first game and just before the third round of shots. There’s one other small group in the bar— two men and a woman— sitting far enough away for you to feel comfortable leaving your things on the table to join your team. Soap claps you on the back— his drunken strength nearly knocking you off your feet— and you post up on the right side of the table where you can watch them play and keep an eye on your table.
You’re not sure how you’re supposed to “keep score” for a game meant to be so easily followed. Though, you suppose it’s difficult for them to keep track of solids and stripes when they can hardly remember which team they’re supposed to be on.
Midway through the second game, it’s declared every man for himself, and you give up on trying to keep track of any kind of score— giving Soap random numbers when he asks. He nods, focusing a little too hard on the solid red ball.
Whether that means he’s happy or upset at the score, you’ll never know.
It’s Price’s turn— or is it Gaz’s— and they take a break from their glasses to circle the table. Simon comes up on your left, cue in hand and attention on Gaz as they speak to one another. He passes behind you, and you still, feeling the gliding weight of his hand on the small of your back as he walks.
You revel in the feel of his touch— expecting it to be gone as soon as it came— but he settles on your right, the hand gliding up your back to knead at the tension in your neck. Your attention snaps to him, shock written blatantly on your face.
He gives you no acknowledgment, continuing his conversation with Gaz, who keeps sending you not-so-subtle glances as he fails to bite back a smirk.
“Need a bit of help from your good luck charm, eh Lt?” Soap loudly laughs, poking at you and Simon with his cue as he staggers past you.
“Fuck off, Johnny,” Simon snaps, gruff and slurred. You step to the side, expecting his touch to disappear, but the hand moves to your waist with surprising speed to pull you toward him. You stumble, catching yourself before you collide with him.
It’s faint— barely audible behind the laughter of your team and the rock music blasting through the blown-out speakers— but Simon’s soft chuckle reaches your ears. It’s hardly a laugh— a small huff at most— but it’s still a laugh from Simon, rare and cherished and evidence that he is most definitely too drunk.
-
Eventually, Soap gets bored being surrounded by people he spends nearly every waking moment with and starts chatting up the other group in the bar.
It’s always been easy for him to make friends; the man oozes charm and charisma. Gaz joins soon after, then Price, then you as Simon heads to the bar.
They’re nice people— a young couple and their close friend out for the night— and nearly as drunk as your boys. They laugh and joke and share in your revelry, buying another round for both groups, though you stick to your water.
Price disappears after half an hour, reappearing at the bar next to Simon. The boyfriend convinces Gaz to a game of darts, his girlfriend following after them, leaving you and Soap sitting across from the close friend, who introduces himself as Noah with a bright smile.
He talks more to Soap than to you; you don’t mind, more than happy to keep your attention on the bar and Simon’s covered side profile.
“I’m guessing you’re the designated driver?”
You don’t realize he’s talking to you until a hand taps the one you have wrapped around your glass. You turn, finding Soap gone from the table as Noah smiles politely at you.
“Something like that,” you laugh.
“A shame—,” he laughs too, in a soft way that sets off alarms in your head, “—to keep you from joining in the fun.”
“And who said I wasn’t having fun?” You give a polite smile and a slight tilt of your head, meeting his gaze.
He nods to his friends, who are somehow losing to Gaz, “We’re here for two weeks— a vacation of sorts. We’ll be going out again tomorrow…” He leans across the table, smile turning to a smirk as his eyes dip down to your chest, then back up, and his hand slides across the table to wrap around yours, “if you want to have some real fun.”
You maintain eye contact, releasing your glass and pulling your hand away from his and into your lap. He holds your gaze, sending you a wink before he straightens in his seat.
“I’m spoken for,” you say flatly, still smiling. Noah glances around the table, eyes skimming the empty chairs to your left and right.
“Must not mean much if they’re not here to speak for you,” he counters.
It’s not a bad line, you have to admit.
“Walk away, mate.”
But, unfortunately for him, your shadow would never abandon you.
Noah turns, all cockiness and liquid courage, unprepared for the solid wall of man standing behind him. You watch the assuredness fade slowly as his gaze slowly travels up to meet the painted eyes of your other half.
“I- I haven’t been told to leave, yet,” Noah tries, his neck bobbing as he chokes down a swallow.
Simon crosses his arms over his chest, muscles on display and eyes colder than the ice floating in your glass.
“I’m telling you now. Find someone else to bother.”
“Better do as he says.” You fight to hold back a smirk, picking up your glass and letting the cool water glide down your throat. “He doesn’t like to repeat himself. Nor do I.”
Noah scoffs to himself, nodding in frustrated rejection as he stands. Simon doesn’t budge, forcing Noah to squeeze past him to come around to your side. He extends a hand, that bright smile back on his face.
“It was a pleasure meeting y-”
“Fuck off.”
Noah’s shoved out of your vision, and you’re on your feet before he can recover— winding your hands around Simon’s arm and pulling him away. Noah whirls around, eyes blazing and fists up. You hold up a hand with an apologetic smile.
“Nice meeting you, Noah,” you nod to him, turning your stern gaze to Simon. “We’ll be leaving now.”
You whistle; the sharp pitch added to the commotion, gathers the attention of the rest of your boys. You wave them over, telling them to gather their things, and generously tip the bartender.
It takes remarkably more effort to get them out of the bar than into the truck, but they settle down the moment they’re piled into the car. You enjoy your moment of peace while you can, knowing it’ll be gone the moment you get back to base.
-
Simon’s nearly asleep by the time you get the other three settled.
You wander back to your room, shoes scraping along the floor as you drag your feet. The lights are off, Simon’s large figure face down and star-fished across your bed.
At least he had the sense to take off his shoes first.
You take your time getting ready for bed, crawling over Simon and flopping onto your back beside him. He doesn’t move, and, for a moment, you think he’s fallen asleep. But then he groans softly, turning his head in your direction. His eyes stay closed, painted face almost hidden amongst the darkness; only the bright paint of his mask stands out.
You roll onto your side, reaching up to set a hand against his cheek. He mumbles something, his own hand clumsily finding yours and moving it down to his neck, shoving your fingers beneath the frayed edges of his balaclava. Your laugh is more a small huff, pushing the mask up and over his head. He hums, hand searching yours once more.
You weave your fingers through his, letting him guide your hand to his lips to press a fumbling kiss to the back of your fingers.
“Still fine, love?”
He hums again, squeezing your hand tightly.
“’m not taking care of you in the morning, y’know,” you laugh softly. Simon huffs, eyes peeling open to stare directly into yours— past the walls and countless defenses and into the pit of your soul that’s open to him and only him.
“Yeah, y’will,” he sighs, setting your palm against his cheek and letting his eyes slide shut. He’s right. You’ll give him hell the entire time, but come morning, you’ll be there with a sympathetic smile, a glass of water, and a couple painkillers.
“Yeah,” you laugh softly. “Yeah, I will.” You wait for a response, only to be met with Simon’s faint snoring. You keep your hand against the warm skin of his cheek, trapped beneath his own, as you lean forward to press a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“Sleep well, love. You deserve it.”