Work Text:
Simon wakes up with heaving breaths and tears running down his face. He can’t hear anything. His hands shake with the need to kill. The longer he thinks of it, the more they shake. He grips his forearms tight, hoping to bruise. He strikes his skull a few times as an indescribable rage and sorrow rip through his body and he’s sobbing.
He grabs at his hair and pulls hard, hoping to see strands of blond on his hands.
And when he doesn’t, he pulls more. He grips harder. When his scalp burns, he seeks more of it. He scratches his face hard, leaving streaks of bright red in their wake. They look like tear streaks.
The frustration grows. He wishes he had the courage to take a bullet to the head. He wishes he wasn’t alone anymore. He wishes for so much that it hurts with every breath as he whispers them like a secret.
He mentally runs through a catalog of the men who died under his command. It’s easier to punish himself as he remembers more names and faces. He strikes himself harder when he can’t remember their faces anymore.
Simon doesn’t notice when the door opens. He doesn’t notice he’s no longer alone until there’s a voice that reaches him through his thoughts, and he cries harder. He’s pulled into strong arms and a solid chest and realizes that he’s so cold. His fingers have gone numb and his palms feel like they’re burning.
The person is so warm. Their voice brings Simon to a slightly better place, even though he is still hurting.
He can hear the vibration of their chest as they speak. He can’t understand them, but the knowledge that he’s no longer alone soothes his ache slightly.
His fingers grasp at the other person’s shirt as he sobs into their chest. He’s sobbing until he is physically incapable of producing anymore tears. His cries settle down over the course of an hour. When there are no more cries or hiccups, he suddenly feels sober and tired.
The thing he notices immediately is that he is still not alone.
The person is still holding him, rubbing little crosses into his back. They’re whispering something he can’t seem to understand. The accent the voice belongs to is thick. The timbre of it soothes Simon’s heart. Then, their fingers run through Simon’s hair carefully.
“Are you with me, Simon?” they murmur.
Simon nods into their chest. His face is sticky with tears and sweat. He’s getting so hot it’s uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want to be alone again. Johnny's voice is low and raspy, his accent light.
“Can you talk?”
Simon shakes his head. The thought of doing so makes a hiccup rise to his throat.
“Let me carry you to bed.”
Simon pulls away to look at them with glassy eyes. He stands silently, not knowing what to do. His head feels like it was replaced with lead. If he moved too fast, he would fall.
Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he’d get a concussion.
“Johnny,” Simon mouths.
Johnny extends his hand toward him, which Simon takes after a second of apprehension.
Safe.
Johnny’s hand is warm. He leads Simon to bed.
“Do you want me to stay?”
Simon nods his head yes.
“Can I help you get ready for bed then, Si?”
Simon nods. Then, Johnny carefully removes his mask and wipes off the black paint around his eyes carefully. Simon was already in sleep-appropriate clothing. He feels better under Johnny’s care. Simon trusts him. He always will.
Johnny then pulls Simon back into his chest. He kisses the top of his head, which nearly makes Simon cry again. He doesn’t deserve this, he thinks, but he’ll allow himself to have it. Johnny was the only thing in his life he allowed himself to be selfish about.
“Let’s go to bed, Si.”
They’re settling under the covers. Simon brings himself back into Johnny’s chest without a word, and the latter wraps an arm around Simon’s waist. Simon tangles their legs together and lets out a sigh.
Johnny’s hands tangle into Simon’s hair, lulling him to sleep.