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When he opens the door and finds the apartment silent and dark, Simon is both relieved and disappointed. On one hand, he gets to take a deep breath and let the rests of Ghost dissolve in the empty space. He doesn’t have to see you yet- you don’t have to see him yet. He still has time before you worry about all the new bruises, before he has to insist he really doesn’t want you cleaning and patching them up, before he has to suppress the shivers that always respond to your fingers on his arm.
On the other hand, Simon spent all the way from the airport picturing your eyes and your welcoming smile. It’s hard not to be a little heartbroken over the fact that you’re not home in your pajama, willing to hug him hello and make all the gunpowder disappear. He even left Soap at a bar to drink by himself, hoping to have some time alone with you. Of course, his excuse was that he was tired. Never in a million years would Simon admit out loud that seeing his roommate is the only rest he needs after months of deployment.
As he makes his way to his room, wondering if he has time to cook something before you get home, Simon realizes his mistake. It’s Friday. Not only that, it is also dark outside: it’s Friday, and it’s late. That only means one thing: danger.
All the fatigue and relief are gone instantly. He knows the time you get off work, and it was ages ago. Even if you had stayed late, you’d be home by now. Also, your work badge is in the bowl next to the door, he checks. You definitely came back home. And then -Simon confirms with one look at the wet shower- you got ready to go out.
Now, this is not a bad thing per se. He’s glad you’re having fun, spending time with your friends and dancing. You deserve to have a good time. Simon knows your girlfriends take care of you if they need to; you’re safe.
But he’s not.
You going out means one of two outcomes: you either come back home, or you don’t. He isn’t sure which is the worst one. If you find someone and leave with them, he’ll spend the night convincing himself you’re okay and forcing his eyes closed. He’ll have to pretend his stomach doesn’t hurt, his eyes aren’t a little too red and that the sleep doesn’t come because of the jet lag.
If you do come back to sleep in the apartment, it’s worse.
See, Simon is terrified of you when you’re drunk.
As if you could smell his fear, he hears your keys jingling in the hallway. Simon must be a masochist, because he doesn’t find cover. Instead, he watches as the door opens and you appear, almost tripping over your heels. When you look up and find him staring at you, your smile shakes him to his bones.
Simon sees in slow-motion how you let your keys fall to the floor and you stagger up to him- he’s two shades of scared now, because your balance while drunk is notoriously inexistant. He gives a few hesitant steps in your direction, cautious arms extended in case you fall. Which you do. Right on his chest.
Suddenly, there’s a shortage of air. You are soft and warm. He’s big and close to having a panic attack. Your perfume has so many layers- and he can smell them all. Your hair is touching his neck, involuntary caress, and your hand is holding his bicep. That’s great: the next hundred times he’s at the gym training his ass off, he’ll be thinking of you. Exactly what he needed. As if it wasn’t enough having you haunt his dreams.
Your giggle he’s used to, but it still feels different when it vibrates so close to his ribs. Oh, and what he feels there is your chest, isn’t it? When you smile up at him, he thanks the god he doesn’t believe in that he was too frozen to hug you: it would have destroyed him.
Luckily, he manages to get a hold of himself and slowly push you away. It’s useless, though, because you take advantage of the small distance to grab his chin.
“Si! You’re home early! I missed your pretty eyes…”
He tries to force some sarcasm into his smile.
“You’re drunk.”
You laugh again, taking a step back.
“I just went to get some drinks with the girls, Mary got a promotion and…”
Still talking, you bend over to start unclasping your heels. All Simon can do is swallow, forcing his eyes to stay focused in your clumsy fingers and not in the hem of your dress- that was short to begin with, but now is probably by the middle of your ass. Definitely showing the full length of your legs. And at least, a sliver of your underwear…
No.
No, he reminds himself. Simon forces his face to stop blushing and kneels to help you take off the godforsaken heels. A quick escape from the view that will follow him to bed tonight- and the next couple thousand nights-, but a stupid move overall. Because now you’re smirking at him from above.
°°°
It’s fun, seeing his desperation. He’s such a big man, always in control of himself… Making Simon lose his cool always feels like an accomplishment. You mutter a giddy thanks, but still try to untie the ribbon around your ankle, forcing him to grab your hand to take it out of the way.
“Let me do it, okay? Or we’ll be here all night.”
You pout playfully, but let him do it. When you’re finally on your feet, you sigh and pat his shoulder. So much better. He’s now a couple feet taller than you- it’s always nice to feel comfortably small.
Without looking back, you wobble towards the bathroom. Over your humming, you can hear his steps. Usually, he’s quiet. Sometimes, though, he makes noise on purpose, to make sure you know he’s there. Based on experience, you’d say he hates to scare you.
You don’t close the door behind you. Why bother? You simply kneel to open the last drawer to grab the make up remover. Yeah, maybe the floor is a little cold and leaves your knees slightly red. It’s okay, the counter is cold too when you sit on it. Feels good, your skin is warm and you’re feeling fuzzy.
The mirror shows him looking at you from the door. His arms are crossed, tattoos at full view. Hands clenched.
Wiping your right eye, you try to soothe him.
“You’re home now. Safe. See? Just me. Relax, Simon.”
He chuckles. Sometimes he does that, too. You probably said something he finds almost funny. He relaxes against the door frame, but it still looks forced.
“Mrs. Byrne brought me cookies yesterday. They’re in the blue jar, if you want any. She got a new puppy. She’s grey, some small breed with a lot of hair. Her name is Princess. Sometimes she cries at night. I told Mrs. Byrne it’s okay, I just hope the poor puppy gets used to her new home soon, but she insisted on baking cookies for everyone in the building. I don’t think it bothers anyone, really…”
You keep yapping and Simon slowly starts to look calmer. More like he’s at home, and less like he wants to run away. You finish wiping your make-up off by carefully erasing any traces of red lipstick. It’s a shame, really, because it looks so nice. Simon seems to think so too, judging by the way his gaze caresses your reflection in the mirror.
Instead of just jumping off the counter and going to bed, you start taking your jewelry off.
“…and the café two blocks away has this new carrot muffin- that doesn’t sound tempting, I know, but it tastes so good!”
Okay, maybe you didn’t need to moan. In your defense, they are really that good. And you’re drunk, you’re allowed to have less inhibitions. Simon shifts against the doorframe.
“You need to try them. We could go tomorrow… Or, maybe you’ll want to sleep in. I bet you missed having an actual bed, huh? All warm and soft. By the way, I washed your sheets. They didn’t have our usual laundry detergent, but I got one that smells quite nice. Nothing too strong…”
°°°
Simon suppresses a groan. His sheets?
“… So you can have your beauty sleep. Not that you aren’t beautiful now, you just look tired. But dark circles never hide eyes like yours. Still, it’ll do you good to…”
Beautiful? Him? Is it too late to go back to base? Maybe if he’s a couple hundred kilometers away you won’t be able to see the way his blush makes a return, this time all the way down to his neck. It makes it even harder to not stare at your legs, that swing smoothly, skin reflecting the ceiling light.
Instead, he focuses on your hands, and the way you slide your rings off. You do it slowly, probably because it’s a task that requires a non-alcoholic level of coordination. Somehow, you can keep talking, though.
“… I mean, you are looking good. More muscles. You’re always so fit, I bet your abs are like a table… Like, all firm…”
You interrupt your yapping for a second, just to untangle one of your bracelets from the other. He pictures you eating at his table. Simon stops himself from closing the bathroom door- he isn’t sure which side he would like to stay in.
“And that hair! How come it’s so soft…? I mean, it looks soft. Can I touch it?”
One thing about you in this state is that you just do things. Invading his personal space is one of them. Usually, you just leave his body alone. You cross other lines, teasing and sarcasm being an everyday occurrence. But touching him? Not more than necessary.
Now, however, your hand is on his head. Your tiny fingers- everything is tiny next to him- are caressing his hair. He can feel your nails lightly stroking his scalp, going in gentle circles. Simon realizes he can’t move. The bathroom is not wide enough for him to step away. You’re sitting on the counter, barely leaning in his direction, but you’re everywhere.
Your perfume is in his chest, for the second time in a couple of minutes. It’s burning like his cheeks, and all he can do is stand there. Your eyes are so big and bright, how come they’re in his apartment and not up in the sky with the other stars? And your smile, it’s too round and pink for his sanity.
Not for the first time, he wonders what would happen. How would he live if he gave up and kissed you. If he was just a little brave. Not even brave enough to go for your lips, but for your cheek or your wrist. Maybe your shoulder.
But he’s not that kind of brave. He’s suicidal brave, instead. Heroic brave. The kind of brave that makes him a good soldier and a bad person. Simon is a coward, who can barely swallow a whine when you pull his hair playfully. He hides it by clearing his throat.
“I’ll tell you my beauty secrets when you’re sober enough to appreciate them. C’mon, you need to go to bed.”
Grabbing your wrist is easy. Pulling your hand away from him is the hardest thing he’s ever done. Holding your waist to help you get off the counter, easy. Taking a step away, new world record of hard.
Taking another step back, because you stepped close again; alarmingly harder.
And you step closer again. He doesn’t have the heart to step back this time. All Simon can do is hold his breath while you lean in. You stand on your toes and his hands start shaking. There it is again, your perfume. Your lips. Your smile. Oh, you’re smiling up at him. So, so close. Simon can see the look of want in his own face that’s reflected on your pupils.
“Simon?”
He means to reply, he really does. At the very least a “Yes, love?”- something gallant; something that’ll make you put your hands on his chest. Something that’ll open the door for him to grab your waist again, this time like he’s not hiding. Something that’ll bring you even closer.
Instead, he just exhales. A pathetic, pained, whiny breath. It seems to be enough of an answer for you, though.
“Si…”
He stops himself from nodding.
“You’re blocking the door.”
It takes Simon a second to process. You’re still looking at him with dreamy eyes, hair like a halo in front of the mirror light, cheeks rosy and fresh. When his stupid brain finally comes to terms with what you just said, Simon crumbles.
He throws himself to the other side of the hallway, tongue heavy with shame. It’s like his shoulders are glued to the wall, and his stomach to the floor. You don’t seem to notice, shuffling over to your room while humming the same pop song from earlier.
Sometimes, Simon is sure he must be in hell. He sure deserves it. He sees you walk away- bare feet, naked legs, messy hair- and he’s certain.
Some other times, though, he knows he’s in heaven. Shocking, because Simon doesn’t believe in heaven- and he doesn’t think he’s earned it, either way. But when things like this happen, when you pop your head out of your bedroom door to look back at him, it’s easy to pretend. It’s easy to laugh when you ask him why he’s not putting you to bed.
Simon stills himself and walks into your room. It’s tidy and warm, smells like you, and he makes a mental note to let you decorate the rest of the apartment. If he uses that as scenography for his fantasies- where he lives in your room, where you share it, where he can fall asleep in your space-, then it’s nobody’s business.
°°°
Luring Simon into your room is quite easy. Most things you do with him are easy. It makes you giggle again. It’s easy being like this, too. Open and bubbly, no mental barriers to stop you from touching him or saying whatever you happen to think. No inhibitions to forbid you from taking off your dress once you’re facing your open wardrobe.
You could swear you hear him choke. He coughs, and you ask him if he’s okay. There’s some water on your bedside table, if he wants a sip. You hear his steps. He does, great. You put on an oversized t-shirt and turn around.
His eyes are a little too wide. It’s not easy to catch him off guard: tonight is a lucky one. Simon is not the only one surprised, though- you could swear you’d left your purple vibrator on top of the bedside table, and not on the floor. Oh, well, a problem for tomorrow-you.
As you shuffle towards your bed, he steps back, putting distance between you.
“That’s my shirt.”
Sounds a bit like a question. You climb into bed.
“Nah. It’s my pajama. See?”
You look up at him from under the covers. You curl up, the sheets are cold. Luckily, his stare is hot against your face.
“…sure. Sure, it is.”
Simon doesn’t move. You blink a couple of times, before a yawn takes over.
“You’re not gonna turn the lights off?”
He hesitates. His eyes look at your bed, more than half empty. Then steps forward.
“Goodnight, then.”
Simon bends down and kisses your forehead. You’ll blame the sigh you let out on the alcohol. When he turns the lights off, becoming just a silhouette at the door, you wave your fingers at him.
“Sweet dreams, Si.”
°°°
Simon barely sleeps that night. He dreams with your forgotten heels on the bathroom floor, and your smile that looks like sunrise decided to light up his midnight.
He gives up before the actual sun comes out. His voice is so desperate when he calls Johnny, that his friend barely complains about the time. Simon warns him not to ring the doorbell- and maybe includes a little threat that Soap laughs off.
They are still chatting in the kitchen when you wake up. Luckily, you’re wearing pants now. But, by the look in your tired face, you weren’t ready to find a stranger in your house. Frowning, you mutter something like “good morning”- even though it’s closer to noon.
Johnny smiles, charming as always, and Simon squints. Before it can get too uncomfortable- for you, Soap can be uncomfortable all he wants-, he speaks. He keeps his voice low, anticipating your hungover.
“This is Johnny. Soap, this is my roommate.”
You wave at him and grab a cup. As you’re preparing your late breakfast, you start humming quietly the song from last night. It grabs Soap’s attention.
“Aye, I ken that song. Yer the lassie from last night, aren't ye?”
You freeze.
°°°
The music is loud. You yell along, grabbing one of your friend’s hands and making her do a spin. She does the same with you.
It’s a nice night. The bar started to empty some time ago- no more touchy men to bother you and your friends. It is a little hot, though, so you ask if anyone wants something to drink.
You slide up to the bar, not far from where you friends are still dancing. You need to gesture for the bartender to understand your order over the music, but he eventually nods and walks away. While you’re waiting, you feel someone stand next to you, back resting on the bar. You glance sideways- it’s a handsome man, with electric blue eyes that look at you like he’s found a pot of gold.
“Hi, bonnie. Are ye having fun?”
You smile politely and say yes. He doesn’t seem to hear it, but he understands nonetheless.
“What’s yer name? Ah’m John.”
Again, you reply. He seems nice enough- John’s not looking at your boobs or ass, so it counts as a win.
“Kin ah buy ye a drink?”
Now, he’s forcing you to decide. First option is saying yes, you can let him dance with you the next song and see where it goes. His eyes get more beautiful every second you spend looking at them, and his smile promises fun… Which leads you to option number two: saying no. He’s handsome, yes, but you don’t know him. You think about Simon. He’d scold you for considering going home with a stranger. Besides, he’d kill you if you brought him to the apartment.
Well, it’s not like he’ll find out, will he? Simon will be away for God knows how long.
You offer John your most sincere smile and a cheeky wink.
“Sorry, I don’t drink.”
Just on time, the bartender hands your bottle of water over the counter and you thank him. Without looking back, you join your girlfriends again.
It doesn’t take long for you to decide to head back home. The idea of an empty apartment is weighing on you. At least you can be sad in pajamas when you get home. As you hug your friend goodbye, you see John laughing next to a blonde at the back. Well, at least someone will have a happy night.
°°°
“Sorry, I don’t think I remember you.”
Johnny looks taken aback.
“Ah offered ye a drink, bit ye said...”
You cut him off, still not looking at them.
“Yeah, drinks. I had quite a few of those last night. I don’t remember much, sorry.”
Simon doesn’t like the way you close the cabinets, with a little too much force. Nor does your quick talking calm his nerves. Now he’s fully frowning at Johnny, who looks confused out of his mind.
Before he can keep bothering you, you grab your cup and turn around.
“Tylenol’s in the bathroom.”
His careful voice stops you in your tracks. You look guilty, almost sorry, when you offer a shy smile.
“…thanks, Si. Nice to meet you, Johnny. Sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have had that many drinks.”
Simon can barely hear your steps as you flee directly to your room. Your embarrassment, pink on your cheeks and nose, are added to the collection of things he’ll dream of every time he closes his eyes.
Next to him, Soap has a weird expression.
“Ah met her last night, she ainlie drank water. Ah swear… I watched’er all ni-”
“Shut up, Johnny.”
He doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t need to.
He’s worried you’ll hear Johnny’s annoyingly loud voice from your room. You’re innocent enough to think you can fool him. And Simon doesn’t have the guts to let you know that he knows just yet. There’s a reason he doesn’t say anything about the way you smell whenever you come home from the bar- all nice perfume and zero alcohol-, or how he knows you didn’t take any Tylenol. A reason why Simon lets you pretend to be drunk, grab his hair and smile at him. A reason why he himself pretends to believe you.
And he’s not going to let Johnny
spoil
figure that one out just yet.