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Simon Riley, military lieutenant and member of the elite 141, had experienced the horrors of the world enough to fill at least half a dozen lifetimes. He knew what lurked in the shadows, waiting to snatch any form of life it could get its claws into. He knew what to expect from the world.
And yet he never expected to wake up in a fucking horror movie. Because why was he violently yanked from the edge of sleep by the sounds of a crying baby. As far as he was aware, there were no babies in this household, the…rodents not withstanding. But there it was, the sound of an infant crying rang through the house, so either you decided to partake in a late night kidnapping, or his new house was haunted. There was a possibility that the years of buried guilt and PTSD had finally caused Simon to lose his grip on reality, but he would always choose to disregard that possibility until he absolutely couldn’t.
So his brand new house was fucking haunted by an upset baby.
Simon didn’t know how to solve his brand new house being haunted by a god damn baby. Before he could debate his choices of an exorcist or simply ignoring the problem and hoping it chose to bother someone else, the sound was cut off mid cry. It was sudden and the muffled sounds of the pull out bed adjusting to a shift of weight filled the void the crying had left. Whatever was happening must not have been that frightening because a few squeaks followed what sounded like the shuffling of feet. Those not rats either had no sense of self preservation, or were the bravest god damn creatures on the planet.
Gettin up from bed he hovered by the closed bedroom door, slipping on his medical mask while trying to hear what was further going on. He heard you hush your pets, though what you were saying wasn’t discernible. There was more shuffling and grumblings, and he cracked the door open when the sound of a light switch clicked into the night. The living room was empty, the pull out showing all signs that you had been there once.
Sweeping his gaze he found you in the kitchen, hunched over the sink, the single overhead light there bathing you in the only ring of light in the darkness. You were fiddling with something in your hands, the only clues as to what the popping of a cap, a little robotic beep, and a click of something. He watched as you squeezed a finger and then tapped something against it. He was already through the living room and entering the kitchen when you stuck the offending finger into your mouth, staring down at the little device in your hand like it had personally affronted you.
In the daytime hours Simon would deny any satisfaction at seeing you jump upon realizing you weren’t alone in the kitchen. But it wasn’t daytime hours and Simon couldn’t help but feel a little smirk tug at his lips when your head had whipped up to look at him, he shouldn’t have to be the only one dealing with spooks in the night.
After what was, for all intents and purposes, a silent showdown, Simon nodded to your hands, his questions rumbling through his chest.
Diabetes.
You had explained that you were a diabetic, and the system you used to automatically monitor your glucose levels audibly alerted you if your levels decided to take a nose dive. Which would mean checking it manually. Okay that was fine. Another detail he would have known if he had actually chosen to read your file. He wouldn’t judge you for that. He would, however, judge you for choosing a baby crying as your alert noise. Sure it was affective at getting your attention, but he didn’t have to question the possible possession of ghost babies too.
He couldn’t help but glare up at the ceiling as he laid back in bed, pretty confident he wasn’t getting back to sleep anytime soon. Yes he knew staring at a screen was not helpful to falling asleep. Yes he was searching up facts about diabetes management. No he wasn’t worried about you or anything. He just liked being prepared.
He did have the fleeting thought about if he still had your file floating around somewhere on base though. Maybe taking a peek through it wasn’t the worst idea.