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A dull throb in your stomach, pressed against the mattress is the first thing you register as consciousness slowly trickles through the thick fog of sleep. The sheets stick to your thighs as you try to roll over. Simon’s bulky, warm figure isn’t there to stop you from rotating flat on your back, encroaching onto his cold, empty spot.
You crack an eye open, looking at his vacancy in disappointment. The room is filled with an early, pale glow that peeks from around your curtains, brushing against the frame with each soft breeze from the open window. It’s not unusual for Simon to be up so early, but you miss the opportunity for morning cuddles.
A particularly sharp contraction in your stomach breaks the peaceful moment, your hand coming up to knead at the sore, bloated flesh. The last few days had left you in a pool of pain, the familiar ache creeping into your stomach and worming its way down your legs and up your back. Accompanied by the unsettling nausea and fatigue that wears you out even during a nap, you’ve resigned yourself to the fact that your least favourite friend would be making a visit this week.
Rolling back onto your stomach, you sit with the uncomfortable sensation throbbing through your midriff. It takes a moment for the damp, coldness beneath your pelvis to register, contrasted to the dry sheet your back was just resting on. Your eyes fly open, pushing yourself up and back onto your knees with a pained groan.
Even such a simple movement has a strong wave of pain flare through you, but your dismay at the mess staining your sheets is stronger. Your friend has arrived earlier and heavier than expected. The dark grey sheet is soaked in patches of black, tacky enough that you know it’s had more than plenty of time to steep into the fabric – thank god for the mattress protector Simon persuaded you into getting for other activities. Looking down, your skin is dappled with red, crusty and dried around the hairs scattering your stomach. The worst is pooled between your thighs, boxer-briefs drenched with a sharp iron scent that crinkles your nose.
Pushing through the wave of dizziness persuading you to the floor, you grab at the blankets frustratedly. You check them meticulously, scrutinizing them for even a speck of blood, but they’ve been far luckier in their escape of your mess. Throwing them haphazardly onto the floor, you set into action, working to hide the messy consequences of your cycle.
There’s no real need for the urgency that you move with, especially as every aching fibre in your body screams at you to slow down. Rationally, you know Simon wouldn’t react poorly to your calamity in the slightest, even if you asked him to change the sheets while you cleaned yourself up. He’s stayed with you during other cycles, never blinking an eye at anything menstruation throws at you. Yet he’s not here to help, and interrupting whatever he’s doing just to do something you feel capable of seems selfish. On another level, you don’t want Simon to see this right now. Frustration eats at you – for being stuck with this, for being surprised with an early cycle, and maybe just a little bit because you really wanted those goddamn cuddles. You’ve wrestled three of the four corners off when Simon catches you stripping the bed, a towel drapes around his neck, shirt damp with sweat that still drips from his hair.
“What’re y’doin’, handsome?” He rumbles, an eyebrow raised as he stands on the other side of the bed. His eyes flicker between the blankets clumped on the floor and the sheet you’re mid-tugging off the mattress.
Though his question is fair, the obviousness of your situation, and your irrational irritation makes it feel like he’s rubbing your misfortune in. Gritting your teeth, you wrench a little harder than needed at the fabric. “S’my fault, I’ll chuck it in the wash.” You grumble, pulling up the mattress to unhook the last corner, ignoring how your back groans with the motion. Simon makes a noise of protest, not unkind as he snatches the sheet you’re trying to bundle in your arms. “Don’t be daft, mate.”
His tone is flat and slightly exasperated as he pulls the sheet from you, looking at the myriad of stains on your front, glazing over the angry expression you’re giving him at his little quip. Before you can open your mouth to say something, he turns you by your shoulders, escorting you to the bathroom.
“What’re you doing?” You huff, taking your turn to ask an obvious question as you let him steer you to the ensuite. A grunt is your only response as he pushes you through the door, his warm hand leaving your shoulders to pull back the liner fully. You watch as Simon turns the taps, listening to the pipes creak as water begins to dribble from the head. He doesn’t make any move to pull off his sweaty athleisure, just fiddles with the tap, turning it much hotter than Simon would usually take his showers – oh.
Taking the hint, you pull off your boxers, wincing as the cold air hits your now-exposed, sticky skin. Simon’s hand is under the water, breaking the droplets’ fall as the water warms, but his attention is now focused on you. When you straighten up, tossing your briefs to the hamper, he meets your unhappy look with a question.
“Pancakes?”
You blink at him, indignance still plastered on your face in a grumpy scowl as your brain struggles through the pain fogging your thoughts, and Simon just raises an eyebrow.
“Eggs ‘n toast? Take-out?"
A moment of bemusement passes as you think for a second, until your mouth drops into a little o-shape, and guilt tints your cheeks red. “Oh.”
Simon huffs affectionately, echoing your “oh” as he pulls his hand back, waiting for you to answer.
“Pancakes?” You mumble, looking up at him through your lashes. The corner of his lips tug into what you’ve learnt is a forgiving smile, and he leans over your figure to press a soft, unexpected kiss to your forehead. His lips are soft – good, he’s had a drink after working out – and the appetising, musky smell of his BO fills your mouth as he leans in.
“Pancakes it is, darlin’,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to the top of your head as he moves out the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.
Before anything can drip from you and create an additional mess you can’t be bothered with, you climb into the showerbath, making sure the plug is hung up to avoid any water filling the tub. He’s perfected the temperature, and you feel like just lying down in the empty tub as your body goes boneless, feeling water drizzle down on you from the showerhead. It’s just enough to soothe the way your body aches, but not enough to make you feel any dizzier. By the time you’ve finished in the shower, your skin feels red and tender, but the heat has temporarily worked your muscles into a sleepy stupor. Though you swear the scent of metallic fetor lingers on your skin no matter how many scents you use, any visible remnant has been washed down the drain.
Pulling the liner back, a towel sits on the vanity, folded neatly with two painkillers resting atop the fabric’s surface and a half-full glass next to it. On the other side, a pair of your boxers and one of Simon’s shirts hangs from the edge. You didn’t even notice Simon slip in to leave them there – despite how long you’ve been with him, it’s still unnerving that such a big man can move without a sound.
Scooping the pills up, you take them with a mouthful of water, before unfurling the towel to dry yourself off. The ordeal is short, pausing to pull on your briefs and a sanitary product of choice before you finish drying your tender legs, hanging the towel to dry over the rail nailed to the wall.
A whiff of sweet, buttery batter permeates the bedroom as you step back into it, mentally bracing for a brutal war of ‘how many sides can I get on before one pops off’ with your goddamn super king sized bed. However, surprise stops you in your tracks, feet stuttering as you find the floor empty of blankets. They’ve returned to the bed, which has been made with a rehearsed, militarized perfection, corners tucked tightly in with barely a ripple across the taut fabric.
With one chore covered, you grab the hamper from the bathroom, walking out into the living room to the source of the smell. Simon is hidden in the kitchen, his back to the entrance as he stands over the stove, but the sound of your feet padding around the corner raises his head.
His hair is light and fluffy, the tips still damp as he puts down the spatula, walking over to take the hamper from you despite your objections. The musky sweat coating him earlier has been replaced with the artificial, clean scent of shampoo and soap - you have no clue how he’s managed to change the bed, wash himself in the spare bathroom, and make a start on breakfast before you finished your own shower.
Resigning, you move to the stove and take up the spatula, patting the pancake as bubbles rise to its surface. Barely a minute passes before Simon’s arms slip around you, taking the spatula back and letting it drop to the counter to interlock your fingers.
“Independent this morning, pet?” He murmurs, carefully placing his other hand over your stomach, feeling as it rises and dips with your laugh. The warmth that radiates from his palm is ridiculous, seeping into the sore muscles that are starting to ache again.
“C’mon, you’d call me feeding myself independent.” You tease, leaning back until your head meets his chest. It shakes as he huffs a quiet laugh, bouncing you slightly before answering.
“When I could be feedin’ you? Don’t reckon I’m wrong.” He grunts, wrapping your hand around the handle, his own still encompassing yours, smiling into your hair as he helps you flip the pancake with a flick of your wrist.
You give his retort an overly dramatic groan, but his attention is captured by an electronic beeping that sets off. The moment he pulls away, your body misses his heat, watching him open the microwave door to pull out a very familiar, tear-shaped heap of fabric. You step away from the stove, reaching out to take it from him as he extends it towards you. The cartoon-ish looking figure of a little ghost heatpack is hot to the touch, emitting the faintest smell of lavender and chamomile, and he gives you a small smile as you wrap your arms around it, holding it against your torso.
“You think of everything, huh?” You laugh, heart squeezing as he answers you with a lop-sided grin and turns back to the stove, pouring in the last of the batter.
“Not everythin’ – how ‘bout you make a cuppa and sit down, hm?” He rumbles, gesturing to near the fridge. Two cups are already coupled together on the counter, and you skip boiling the kettle again as lazy tendrils of steam already climb from its spout. Grabbing a couple of tea bags, you tuck the heating pack under your arm, filling up the mugs as you listen to the sizzling of the pan. Simon gives you a quiet “thanks, love” as you set down his mug next to the stove, but when you reach for a plate to start dishing out the cooked pancakes, you’re interrupted by a chiding “ah!” and large hands turning you around. “Go sit down love, I got this.”
The look you give Simon over your shoulder does nothing to sway his rejection of your help, big brown eyes staring back at you with an expectant look as he gently nudges you to the exit. Though it’s tempting to ignore him and stay, the effort of staying upright is slowly sapping any hint of energy you recovered in the shower.
Bringing your drink out and flopping yourself onto the couch, your legs scream in gratitude when your weight is finally shifted from them. The small ghost sits across your abdomen, radiating a relaxing warmth that soothes the muscles cramping violently underneath it.
Though it’s barely minutes that pass, Simon comes out to find you curled in the couch’s corner, wrapped up around the heating pad with a slight frown in your brow. The gentle clink of the ceramic against the coffee table stirs you from your light sleep, cracking your eyes open as Simon sinks into the couch next to you, his plate balanced on his thighs.
“Sorry love,” he murmurs apologetically, raising an arm to let you bury into him. You jump at the opportunity, shuffling yourself to press against his side, and a content relaxation falls upon you as his arm covers you protectively. Without moving you too much, Simon leans forwards to grab your plate, resting it on your lap and tucking a fork into your hand.
Looking at the pancakes, he’s given you an extra one in your stack, drizzled generously with your favourite toppings. Your chest squeezes at the sight, each carefully placed topping another homage to the tenderness that your lover struggles to verbalise.
“You’ve done so much for me this morning, Si.” You start remorsefully, eyes downcast to your stack of pancakes. With a grunt, Simon reaches for his fresh mug perched precariously on the couch’s arm, using a spare finger to hit the on button of the remote sitting next to it. “Not allowed to give my special boy some love when he’s roughed up?”
You give him a good-natured huff, digging into his side playfully. “Make it sound like I’m wounded, Si.” Simon snorts, pulling his eyes away from the TV to shoot you an amused look. “With the amount of blood, y’could’ve convince me.”
You laugh at the comment, letting the light warmth fill your chest until it’s dampened by the unspoken guilt still sitting miserably on your conscience. “Sorry for bein’ grumpy earlier,” you mumble.
Simon hums, pulling you tighter as he cuts into a pancake with his fork, raising it to your mouth. “Kinda figured you wouldn’t be top shape after seein’ the blood, s’alright pet. Y’ve told me that this shit hurts more than normal.”
Taking the mouthful, you give him a small, grateful smile, reaching for your own plate and cutlery to share a piece back. The pancakes are light and fluffy, not heavy enough to upset your stomach, but enough to be filling for how insatiable your appetite can get. “Thanks, Si. Still appreciate you’re patient with me, though.”
He hums thoughtfully as he chews, gently rubbing his thumb mindlessly against your thigh. “Patient? Nah. Johnny said y’deserve a ring for bein’ patient with my shit after deployment – he’d take the piss if I told him you’re thankin’ me for being patient.”
The way Simon drops the idea of marriage is so calm and casual, a significant contrast to how it makes your heart soars in your chest. Reigning in your excited response, you take another mouthful, giving him a grin that can’t quite hide how much you like the idea. “Hope you told him how useful this little guy has been,” you gesture to the ghost on your lap, “because it’s definitely my second favourite ghost since he bought it.”
The narrowed glare that Simon gives the plush heating pad has you giggling around a forkful of pancakes, looking at him with light-hearted exasperation. “Oh c’mon, I said second favourite!” You chuckle, watching him roll his eyes with a grumble.
“Yeah, yeah,” his tone is low and playfully grumpy, rumbling through you. “S’long as it’s me you’re cuddlin’ at night, ‘m not havin’ a toy steal my man.”
Mindful of your plates, you wrap an arm across his chest and ignore how your stomach complains at the movement, squeezing him lightly. “Never, Si. My favourite ghost.”
With a satisfied noise, he looks down at you, a mischievous half-grin on his face. “Good, that thing couldn’t fuck you half as well.”
The cheeky remark gets him a deeper dig in the side, enough to pry a grunt from him as he squirms, though he’s still careful with how much he jostles you. Silence quickly falls over you, Simon watching the news with a protective arm around you. He sips at his tea as you finish your plate, running a hand through your hair every now and then, placing a few kisses to your scalp.
When you’ve finished your meal, you put the plate on the coffee table, reaching for Simon’s to stack them together. Reaching forwards has you wincing, a pulsating pain in your core that makes your tailbone ache, and Simon swoops in to stop you in your tracks.
“Sit your ass down already,” he grouches, pushing you back into the couch as he scoops up your plate. “Told you, you’re bein’ dependent today.”