Archive of Our Own ^beta

You can tell Simon’s home by the fuck-off huge boots in the hallway, and you can tell Johnny’s with him by the uproariously loud laughter coming from the living room. It makes you smile as you toe off your own shoes.

Taking the shopping into the kitchenette, you see the two of them on the sofa – well, the three of them, counting Luna, who quickly jumps off of Johnny to greet you.

“Hello misses, yes, you think I have something for you? You’re right! But not right now, okay? Gotta let me put away the human food first.”

“You’re home,” Simon says, in a flat way that anyone else would take as him hating you, but you can hear the upturned corners of his lips in his voice.

“Can’t believe Miss Lulu abandoned me so quickly,” Johnny moans, tumbling off of the sofa to follow her, moping, to the kitchen.

“Her auntie has been the one feeding her for the past few months,” you say, still trying to dodge Luna’s enthusiastic greetings. “Some of us are very much food motivated, aren’t we?”

“Hey, good te see ya, hen,” Johnny says, bundling you up in a hug while you try to stop him from squishing a baguette between you.

“And you, Johnny,” you say, squeezing him back as best you can. “You hungry?”

“Always,” he sighs, “but Si says it’s takeaway day for the pair of ye, so we were waiting for your order.”

“It is, but I don’t mind cooking on homecoming days, not for you two.”

“So sweet, this one,” Johnny croons, loud enough for Simon to hear. “If you ever get the hankerin’ to switch flatmates…”

“She won’t.” Simon stands at the edge of the counter, looming slightly over his boyfriend's shoulder. “I’m too charming.”

Both you and Johnny snort.

“Luna’s dinner is in this one,” you say, placing one of your shopping bags on the counter. “Someone please feed her, she’s clearly never ever even heard of food. Look at her…” You turn on your baby voice. “She’s just a hungry little baby, isn’t she? One of your dad’s will feed you, I promise.”

“You’re turning my child soft.”

“She’s a princess,” you assert. Simon doesn't respond, instead rustling around for Luna's food. He pulls out a bag of kibble that is decidedly more fancy than the one he'd been feeding her when he left. You don't meet his eye when he glares at you. "A princess."

He sighs.

Simon slides a couple of papers under your nose while you’re reading at the kitchen table. You look up at him, questions obvious in your eyes.

“Time to renew our records,” he says like that answers anything, staunchly refusing to meet your eyes. You doubt he’s that invested in the Antiques Roadshow.

“Uh huh… I don’t know any of your information, Simon. I mean, except where you live. And your phone number. Though, hey, do you have a civvie phone and a military phone?”

“I do.”

“Huh. Well… what do you need me to do here, then?”

“Changing my next of kin,” he says, quiet. “Used to be this old nurse, only one at the GP that wasn’t afraid of me. Figure now I’ve got someone a bit more appropriate.”

You tear up a bit, but try and force it out of your voice. “What about your boys?”

“We’re on the same squad, can’t put ‘em down. ‘sides, likely that they’d be in the field with me.”

“But if something… happened. Would they be able to see you? In hospital or something?”

His cheek pulls into his mouth a little, like he’s chewing on it. “Dunno. Don’t think anyone could stop John. Guess you could always make demands, too.”

“I would,” you say quickly, “I’d force ‘em to let the boys in. Promise.”

“I know,” he says, a little smile sneaking onto his face. “‘s why I settled on you.”

You pick up the papers, then, look at them a little closer. You shuffle through them, checking what information you’ll be giving the military and the government, what you’ll be signing up for on his behalf. When you hold your hand out expectantly, Simon tilts his head at you.

“Well, gimme a pen, then. Wait, black or blue ink?”

He snorts.

Both you and Luna are dozing on the sofa when the doorbell rings. It had taken a few days to get her to stop moping since Simon had left, but the two of you had gone for a long walk that afternoon, and after a lot of treats, she had finally allowed herself to chill out. Which is why you’re so upset when she jumps off of you, running and yapping at the doorbell. You know it’s not Simon, and you hate that she’s going to be disappointed.

You hook a finger in her collar before you open the door, and when you do, you’re glad you did.

“Ah, Kyle, right?”

“That’s me.”

“Sorry, Simon’s not here right now–Luna, please calm down–”

“It’s alright, love, I'll survive.”

You let her go, and she immediately rushes around Kyle’s legs–careful not to jump up on her hind legs, even when he squats down to pet her. “Good girl, Looney Tune, no jumping, that’s a good girl.” 

“Yeah, Simon said he was on a job, so. It’s just us here right now.”

“I know, love, ‘s why I’m here, actually. Came to check up on you.”

“Oh! Oh, that’s really nice of you. Come on in, then–we were just having a doze on the sofa. You want a cuppa?”

“I’ll never turn one down, what’s on offer?”

“Well, Simon has some weird ones, I don’t touch ‘em when he’s not here, but if you wanted one, I’m sure it’d be fine… let’s see…”

“‘m not too into his fancy stuff, if I'm honest. If you’ve got PG Tips, that’s more than good enough.”

“He won’t let me keep it in the house,” you grumble, “I bought some to make iced tea in the summer and he chucked it out!” Kyle laughs at that, fond, like it’s not the first time he’d heard such a story. “Apparently we’re a Yorkshire Tea household. That okay?”

“Of course! Should’ve guessed he’d take control of your cupboards.”

You flick the kettle on, set up your own hot drink, and push the biscuit barrel towards Kyle. “Got some custard creams, if you want one.”

“Thanks.”

The two of you lean on the counter for a while, silent but for the sound of kettle boiling and Luna huffing occasionally from the sofa.

“So. Not that I’m not grateful, but… what exactly does ‘checking up’ on me entail?”

“You know, I’m not too sure myself.” Kyle takes a bite of his biscuit, chewing thoughtfully. “I guess… well, what does Simon usually do?”

You mull over it for a bit, picturing the evenings the two of you have spent together. “I think we just exist around each other. I’ll cook dinner, and he’ll sit at the table reading like, travel magazines, or whatever it is he reads. Or I’ll be knitting on the sofa while he plays FIFA with you guys, which is genuinely a highlight of my life, please never stop playing FIFA together–”

“Oh, we won’t,” Kyle laughs, “he’s so bad though! It’s crazy that he’s never gotten any better.”

“I know! I'll have to stop what I'm doing to watch the telly sometimes, thinking… what in gods name are you doing? And he gets so mad, but he’s so... restrained about it!”

“Him and John are hopeless. Okay, well, I could probably get Johnny to give me a game of FIFA. Might not be quite as entertaining, though.”

“It’d be nice to see how the game is supposed to be played.”

Kyle laughs at that. “What else does Si get up to?”

You shrug. “Talks to you guys. Eats dinner—did you wanna stay for dinner? Luna’s already had a w-a-l-k, but I try and get her on another after I eat. He normally takes her out when he’s here, only like 15 minutes, just so she’s a little sleepy at night.”

“I’ll never say no to a home-cooked meal or some extra time with my favourite little lady,” Kyle assures you. “But first—let’s show you how the game is meant to be played.”

"Hey, I'm headed to Sainsburys," you call out, "you need anything? I've got a list–last time I forgot carrots, which is fucking ridiculous. Carrots are the one thing you buy every time you go to the supermarket. They're the first thing I put in the fucking trolley–oh, you headed out too?"

"Said we’re going to the supermarket," Simon grunts while pulling on his mask.

"Said I’m going to the supermarket," you say, rolling your eyes. "You don’t have to come. I know it's not your favourite place on earth."

"‘s like 11am on a Tuesday, should be quiet, right? ‘sides, otherwise you don’t let me pay for food."

"Because you shouldn’t," you scold him, "you already pay the water and the electric and half of rent. Plus–"

"Weird creature you are, you know? No one else complains about their roommates contributing too much."

"Their roommates aren’t paying all that while also not being present like half the year! It’s too kind, Simon."

"Tough shit," he grunts, grabbing his wallet from the side table and shoving it into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“What.”

“You cannot come into the house like that.”

Simon looks down at himself, then back up at you. “Like what?”

“You are covered head to toe in mud. I truly do not think you could be more covered if you’d tried.”

“Gotta go in sometime.”

“Sure. Once we solve this the old fashioned way.”

He narrows his eyes at you. "The old fashioned way."

“Like when Luna gets mucky–”

“You are not–”

“Which of us has their house keys?”

You hose Simon down before you let him back in the flat. He plans his revenge as you cackle.

The first notice you get that Simon has returned from deployment is a text. 

You picture him, sometimes, collapsed on the bed of his quarters, sleepily copying out words scrawled on a slip of paper before he finally conks out.  It became a tradition after he returned home once, telling you about some food he’d tried, one that he thought you’d love, but he’d forgotten the name. Now, he sends you the name before he makes it home, and whether it takes him days, weeks, or months to return to your flat–you’ll have the ingredients ready, so you can try and cook together.

> Aloo paratha

< 👍

-

> Huevos rancheros

< 👍

-

> Grits

< 👍

< if i can find them, sure. i think i know a place

> 👍

-

> Pasta alla norna

> Norma

< 👍

-

> Pierogies

< filled with?

> Potato

< 👍

-

> Zigni

< 👍

-

> Arancini

< absolutely not

> Why

< if you want to deal with deep frying in our flat, on your head be it

< i will hold the fire extinguisher

> Supervise me at least

< i guess

> 👍

< 👍

Ever since Simon and his partners had 'adopted' you, they’d been more free with their affection. Johnny loved attaching himself to you like a limpet: both his arms twined around yours, his arm slung around your shoulders, intertwining your fingers as you chatted to the group–he treated you a bit like a cuddly toy.

Kyle liked to lean his head on your shoulder, whether that was while one of you were cooking, watching the others play something on the telly, or if you were sitting next to each other at the pub.

Johns touch was more grounding for you, a steady hand on your back, the nape of your neck–or if your posture was bad enough, manhandling you into a less pretzel-like configuration.

Not to say that you minded it–platonic physical affection had always made your heart happy. Simon was the only one who didn’t seem to love touch, and you respected that. To be honest, you’d never even expected to become more than acquaintances with your flatmate, let alone to have this bizarrely attached friendship you'd fostered. The fact that he doesn’t love touch just makes those moments when he pets your head or pats your shoulder all the more special. (He’s never told you, but he loves the way you beam up at him when he touches you–his touch has only ever made you happy, and that’s special to him.)

He hasn’t ever been on leave for one of your really bad depressive episodes.

It’s strange for you to be home, but the flat still be so quiet. Your door isn’t shut, but even when Luna comes out, you don’t. He brings you food in the morning and the evening, and nods when you thank him in a quiet voice that’s so unlike you. He decides that he hates it. He hates that you only ever eat half your meals (at most), too.

He makes sure you take your meds, he brings you treats–well, the boys do. He’s terrified to leave you home alone. He knows what can happen when someone's left alone with demons like yours.

A week into your slump, he has a nightmare.

He pushes the door open, and immediately Luna is jumping up at him. It’d been a long deployment, and he’d missed the both of you–this little welcome makes him smile. He fusses her for a while, then throws his bag and jacket down in the entryway. He’ll pick it up later, so you don’t trip over it. It’s only when he walks into the kitchen that he notices Luna’s bloody pawprints. 

His stomach curdles.

He calls out to you as he follows the trail into your room, then into your bedroom, your bathroom–and there you are. Skin the wrong colour, eyes lifeless, bathtub red as a sunset. Too late. He’s too late–

He wakes up panting, and he’s already halfway to your room before he knows he’s walking. He pushes your door open just a touch, poking his head around the corner. You’re awake, facing the door, face illuminated by your phone. He watches confusion play across your face when you notice him.

“Y’okay Si? ‘s half three.”

He doesn’t answer, instead walking into your room and sitting on the edge of your bed.

“Yer not asleep either.”

“Can’t,” you sigh. “Keep– keep thinking– making myself sick thinking–“

Simon nods.

You look him in the eyes. He tries not to flinch. “Something happened,” you say. Not a question.

“Mh. Shove over.”

You don’t even hesitate, shuffling to the side of your bed, pulling the corner of the duvet back so he can slide in next to you. Your legs press together, and you try to find some comfort in the pressure of another person next to you. You’d be embarrassed about the state of you or your room, but you figure Simon has seen (and smelt) much worse in the military.

“Wanna watch videos with me? ’m watching crimes against food. Just saw someone put mayonnaise, just mayonnaise, into an air fryer. Nearly threw up when they opened it up.”

“Not selling it to me.”

“We’ll watch the tamer ones then, they’re mostly just a criminal amount of cheese, like, here–” you scroll a couple, leaning into Simon as you show him your phone. “See, like, it’s not enough to make you want to throw up, just worry about people’s dairy tolerance.”

He throws one of his arms around your shoulders, and though you tense, your expression is more confused than uncomfortable. “Y’okay, Si?”

“Just need to know yer real.”

You hum, and lean further into him. 

When he decides you’ve had enough screen time, he plucks your phone from your hands and shoves it under ‘his’ pillow. He tucks himself further under your duvet and pulls you into him. He feels your breath on his throat, and doesn’t let himself sleep until that breathing evens out. You’re alive. You’re safe. He won’t let that change.

The two of you sleep like that, with Luna warming your feet, until midday.

“Hey, Simon?”

He meets your question with a grunt.

“Why’s your jacket in the bin?”

“Ripped the arm,” he says, gesturing vaguely at his bicep.

“Oh, that’s a shame! I thought it was your favourite?”

Simon shrugs.

“I could try and repair it?”

Thankfully, it was still at the top of the bin, so you manage to pull it out without your hands getting mucky. You inspect the rip, and it’s a nasty one–long, all frayed edges–but ever since you’d moved in, you’d seen how he treasured it. It would be a shame for him to have to throw it out. “It won’t be as good as new, but I could do a little visible mending?”

“Do what you like,” he says, taking himself and his mug and retreating into his room. You’re still getting used to simon, but you’re learning not to take his blunt manner of speech as necessarily dismissive. He really does mean that it’s up to you.

You’d wager that he might even be interested in the outcome.

-

When he returns from base one night, Simon finds his jacket folded up neatly on his spot on the sofa. He inspects the hole on the forearm, pokes at your repair. You’d sewn a patch of grey camo fabric into the hole and finished up the frayed edges with some machine stitching. When he fusses at it, he finds it sturdy–you’d done a good job. The mending stands out a little, sure, but when he slides his jacket on and looks down at it, he finds he likes it.

“Simon…” you groan. You’re hanging off the side of the sofa, staring intently at him as he moves around the kitchen.

“What did I do now,” he asks, deadpan, though his attention doesn’t shift from the fruit basket.

“Nothing, it’s just–your trousers…”

He looks down, scrutinises the denim, tries to see what’s bothering you.

“‘s a matter with ‘em?”

You sigh. “The holes…” You point at the seam on the outside of his leg, where the stitching had come apart slightly. “And your knees are almost worn through..”

“‘adn’t noticed.” 

“If you like ‘em enough, it might be worth getting ahead on repairs. Would you want ‘em reinforced?”

“You offerin’?”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Yes, Simon. I can strengthen the knees a bit, should be almost invisible, and the holes look easy enough to fix, too.”

He hesitates a little, rolling an apple around in one hand and then chucking it to the other. “You don’t mind?”

“Wouldn’t offer if I did. I’m running out of mending projects, and I’ve been looking for a bit of a challenge–denim’s not a material I work with that often. Not that I can’t!” you assure him, “it’s just so hard wearing I don’t often need to, y’know?”

He nods, looking off into the middle distance. “I’ll wash ‘em and–where should I leave ‘em for ya?”

“Yes! Uh, just—anywhere on the kitchen table will be fine.” You look him up and down again, and smile, slow and knowing. “But don’t let me keep you, say hi to... John?”

“Kyle,” he corrects.

“I’ll guess right one of these days…”

“Sure you will.” He pats you consolingly on the head, and bites into his apple.

“‘spose these are a bit far gone for repairs,” Simon asks, holding a pair of nearly destroyed slippers out to you.

“What the fuck happened to these?!”

“Luna got ‘em,” he says with a sigh. “Thought we were playing tug-o-war when I tried to get ‘em back.”

“Well… might not even be all the holes that make this one a challenge, more the shape and construction and… drool.”

“They’re grim,” he agrees.

“Proper grim, but… put ‘em in the washing machine, I’ll see what I can do.”

-

Simon’s surprised when spies the box in his spot at the table–he really hadn’t expected you to even attempt to try and fix the slippers he’d left you with before deployment. He’d only even brought them to you because you were always looking for a challenge, and anyway, it didn’t seem that he could throw anything away without you realising. He opens it and has to abort his chuckle before it wakes you.

The ones he’d left you must have been too far gone, because instead, the box is full of grey fluff–and when he picks up a handful of it, he finds a garishly large monster foot, claws and all. A pair of utterly impractical slippers, and a little note scribbled on the inside of the shoebox--

“Not for Luna consumption!!”

“We’re going on holiday.”

“Don’t have a passport,” Simon immediately counters. He doesn’t even bother to look up from his crossword.

You grin, wide and triumphant. “Don’t need one–no passport control to get into Wales. Yet.”

“Can’t take Luna.”

“Sure we can,” you say, sliding some print-offs towards him. “Self-catering cottage, dog-friendly, middle of nowhere–closest neighbour is four miles away–surrounded by woodland, and, did I mention it can house up to 6?”

He finally tears his eyes away from his crossword to look up at you. You look like a proud cat, having dropped the papers at his feet like a mouse–he can practically see your tail swishing. He picks them up, shuffles through them while you watch, twitchy with excitement. Eventually, he nods.

“Alright. We’ll pay our share, but we'll have to–”

“We’ll use my card,” you interrupt, pre-empting his worry. “Book in my name, use fake ones for you guys if the owner asks–”

He nods again, slowly.

“I’ll talk to John. He’s always bugging me about taking time off–‘t’ll be funny to call his bluff this time.”

You try to restrain your triumphant 'yes!', but Luna still startles on the sofa.

“Thanks. For,” he gestures broadly at the scene in front of you, “this.” 

You take in what he means: John meditatively tending the firepit, Kyle and Johnny dripping with lake water and bickering about who gets to shower first, Luna stretched languidly on a little blanket, dozing close to the warmth of the fire. The forest stretches out behind it all, lush and quiet for miles, bathed in the warm violet light of the sunset. The cottage you’re in is the only break in the natural beauty of it all, but it’s old and weathered in a way that makes it feel a part of the landscape. Standing here, you feel a part of it, too.

It’s a perfect place for these men to lay down their burden for a while, and you smile to yourself with satisfaction. When you turn to look at Simon, he’s smiling too, his eyes something soft and loving. The look of a man happily surrounded by family.

“You’re welcome, Si. Always. Might even try and make it happen again next year, eh?”

He pulls you in for a side hug, his hand warm and strong against your neck. And it’s funny–you know he’s in the military, that he literally gets paid for his violence–but you never fear his touch. Even when he’s pulling you by the side of your neck, you know his arm is going to slide down to your shoulder.

You know you’re safe.

Simon rubbed his eyes as he entered the kitchen. The clock had long struck 2am, and both of you should be in bed—but sleep had been evading him tonight, and it looked like you were in the same boat. The kitchen was only made navigable by the mix of the low, warm bulb that lived in the extraction fan and the stark white of the street light coming through the window. Sat at the table, you were more the suggestion of a person than any discernable features.

“What’re we up to out here,” he grumbled.

“Making carrot cake,” you mumbled back. “Did I wake y’up?”

“Nah.” He pulled out a chair and flopped into it. Under the table, Luna huffed. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You hum. “You a talker, or are we just eating warm carrot cake?”

“...cake.”

You nod. “Give it 5 minutes. I can’t tell if I can be arsed to make frosting or not.”

Moments like these were useful for Simon, times when he could start to build a clearer picture of you. Tonight, he’s learning that the quiet doesn’t scare you. You don’t feel the need to say something just to break it, instead letting it settle comfortably around the two of you. Both of you knew you could talk, but, instead, you deferred to the almost-silence of the early morning city.

Being independent and having his own space off-base had sounded great, and he had loved it—but the flat had smelled musty and looked dim every time he came home from deployment. There was no life in it. Getting a flatmate was always going to be a roll of the dice, but he was glad those dice had landed on you.

And here, now, something about the middle of the night made you less ‘on’, less trying to be the perfect roommate, more natural and yourself, and Simon found he liked it.

A bit of it reappeared when your night-vision kicked in. “Simon—your mask isn’t on—”

“Don’t sleep with it on,” he grumbled. He leaned backwards in his chair in a way that made you fear for its structural integrity.

“Yeah, but I can see, it’s not that dark—”

“‘m not that ugly.”

You removed your hands from your eyes in frustration. “I’m not ever going to be considerate ever again, you’re pissing me off.”

He chuckled. “Don’t mind you seeing. Probably best you get your first look in the dark.”

“You really don’t mind?”

“We live together, it was bound to happen sometime. Wouldn’t have come out here if I minded.”

You scoffed. “Like anyone can resist the siren smell of carrot cake.”

You don’t get to really drink in the sight of him before the timer’s going off, and you’re pulling the cake out of the oven. You put it down on a pot holder in the middle of the table, then two little plates, a knife and a treat for Luna.

“No frosting, no resting time. We’re eating warm cake right now.”

While you’re both eating your first bite of cake, you study Simon’s face. You hum approvingly around a mouthful. 

“Not bad.”

Both you and Simon believed your meeting was happenstance; one of few those pleasant coincidences that luck granted.

The truth was a little more murky, and John Price would take that truth to the grave.

The true story goes like this:

Three days after returning from an op, Captain John Price notices that Ghost is still lingering. A silent operator, haunting the halls and his partners. The man inside of Ghost is nowhere to be found.

It’s been taking Simon longer and longer to shrug off the Ghost armour, and as he sits on the edge of his bed that night, John worries that one day soon, he’ll be stuck inside it forever. He can’t let that happen, can’t let the light that is Simon Riley be snuffed out this way. So he spends a sleepless night planning, plotting, calling in favours from people he has no business even knowing—and come daybreak, he smiles.

Simon will be brought back to the light.

You come suggested by a sleeper agent that John has known for a decade at least—she's a friend of yours who you believe to be a teaching assistant in a local secondary school. She has your background check ready to go, though John does his own as surety, and he sees promise in it. You’ve the right temperament, the right flaws and strengths and goals. 

A roadmap unfolds before him, of your awkward first meeting, of Simon’s heart thawing when Luna adopts you as her own, of you burrowing into Simon’s soft underbelly and making a home there. He sees Simon finding purpose again in the mundanity of civilian life. You’ll cook together, shop together, bicker over cleaning. You’ll be there for Simon when he eventually starts therapy (which he will, though he doesn’t know it yet. John’s planning to bring that plan to fruition in the next 8 months). You’ll become part of each other. 

John disregards all further dossiers.

At the same time, your living situation slowly becomes unlivable. The heating doesn’t work in winter, and your normally agreeable landlord bans personal heaters. Come spring, mould blooms in every room, forcing you to rent an incredibly overpriced storage unit before it ruins everything you own. The neighbours you had loved move out, replaced with ones who steal your packages and slam doors.

You’re close to despair when your long-suffering friend finds the almost-perfect listing. Your place was being fumigated—ants? on the third floor?—and she had graciously suggested a sleepover. The two of you were lounging around on her sofa, scrolling estate agents and letting agents between bites of takeaway, bemoaning how bleak the housing landscape is when she finds it.

It hits everything you need: rent a little below market average, area quiet but not too out of the way, en-suite bathroom… but…

“One male roommate? I dunno…”

“Says he’s happy to meet beforehand, I could come with you? You know I’m good at vibes,” she wiggles her fingers at you.

“I don’t know,” you say, hesitant, “first meeting vibes are very different from living together vibes.”

“Give it a go, eh?” she encourages gently. “If it doesn’t work out, nothing’s lost. But this would let you save a little, maybe think about getting your own place someday. It’s worth a go.”

You take another bite and mull it over.

“You’re right. Okay, let’s… let’s message him. Let’s give it a go.”

John had planned out Simon’s recovery meticulously, and now, watching the pair of you laugh while playing fetch with Luna, he knew he’d made the right choice. 

You were playing your part perfectly.