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Simon is a lot.
He carries the burden of survival, the bullets buried into the heads of young soldiers, the ash that follows the forest fire, of the smoke that lingers once the shells have dropped. His hands are stained, ridden with smudged grease stains and an unmistakable crimson. For the greater good, he tells himself some nights. What 'greater good' means, he doesn't know.
He doesn't want to know.
So when he meets you — you and all your glory — he turns away.
He carries too much baggage, civilians ask too many questions. Too curious, too blind to the horrors of war. The military is a dirty, fresh start. Soldiers don't ask where you're from, they don't ask for your name, they don't ask you how your morning was, or if you prefer strawberry jam over grape. With his team, he can be a mystery. They can know him without knowing him.
He can be a coward masquerading in tactical gear. He can keep himself safe, spare you the trouble of having to weasel your way into his guts and flesh. Simon doesn't want to know how things could end with you, even if his mind concocts all the way he'd like to brush his fingers through your hair, even if there's something in the flutter of your lashes that reminds him of the man he used to be.
Of the man he is now.
But you find him, always, somehow, intentionally or not. He could've sworn that this laundromat was a town away from your apartment, there's one closer to your place — hell, there's in unit washing at your place. But here you are, hauling a small bag of clothes and squeezing rain from your hair. Your eyes search the room, searching, and pause on him.
He has half the mind to get up and leave, or pretend that he can't remember you, but he's speaking before his thoughts can catch up.
"You don't live around here." Simon states. Your jaw clenches, like the sight of him hurts you. There's something unspoken, unheard. The hitch of your breath and the scuttle of your boots against the muddy tile.
"…You don't either." You say at last, willing your feet to move towards the thumping machinery.
"No," He breathes, "No, I don't."
It's funny. Back on the barracks, where the days are long and the nights are longer, he's run through this scenario hundreds of times. He'd thought up every possibility, every one-liner that'd win you back or chase you away. He's dreamed about you and the way your lashes flutter when there's too much to feel.
Simon's eyes are locked on the machines, yours on your phone. His shoulders are tense, he twitches at the slosh of detergent, the ringing bell on the door, the occasional car. His laundry has long dried by the time you pack up to go, his heart aching and his mind resigned. He should let you go, it'd be doing right by you.
Simon is a lot. You'll ask too many questions. You'll be alone with or without him. This silence — thick and bloated, unchanging in its nature — is for the greater good.
There is it again.
The 'greater good'. He believes in it, would defend it with his life. But then-
Then you whisper and smile at him like he's worth something. Nothing special, it's uniquely mundane, casual: "See you, Simon."
You walk out and scamper away, like you hadn't just crushed his world view. Like this 'greater good' is just nonsense he's conjured in an act of self-preservation.
"Can I stay here, just- Just for the night?" You asked, uncharacteristically meek. Your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are rimmed with a sore, familiar redness. He scans your form, the way you're dressed for bed, not roaming the streets for a place to stay. You take his silence for refusal. "I'm… I'm sorry, I just-"
"Come in." He says, no questions asked. The door simply opens wider as he retreats to his kitchen.
His apartment is awfully bare, nothing but the essentials. He offers you a cup of tea wordlessly and pats the space beside him. Why you came to him of all people, he has no explanation. Neither of you spoke much besides the occasional texts, and those were limited to polite greetings and check-ins, the minimum for maintaining amiability.
You settle beside him closer than you have in months. The scent of herbs waft from the mug cradled in your hands, the liquid a warm green that reminds you of budding sprouts in spring. He watches you gently blow at the steam, raise it to your lips, and sip. His lips quirk into a smirk when your nose scrunches.
The TV hums, playing a wildlife documentary he knows you like. You told him you thought the dancing birds were funny, that you liked the colors in their feathers, that if you were a bird you'd be charmed.
The smile playing on your lips suits you, the droop of your eyelids, the emptied mugs on his coffee table. This suits you. You look like you belong here, on his secondhand couch, drenched in the orange of his lamp, with your head on his shoulder. He's unsettled by the comfort he finds in your presence.
Tomorrow, he should pretend that none of this happened, go back to his sorry routine before you engrave in his chest any further. You're too perfect, you fit against his side too well, each time you drop into his life, you leave behind something real. You mold his world to fit yourself into it. You change the way the air filters through his lungs, you change the way his blood-stained hands graze counters, you change the way he exists.
The worst part is that it isn't your intention to. He's only a part of your life, small and meaningless. You would be the same with or without him, but he doesn't want it to be that way.
That thought keeps sleep at bay until the sun rises. You leave in the morning, wearing his clothes at his insistence. You promise to return them. He doesn't want you to, but doesn't object. You're at his door too soon, the night ended before it should've.
The words swell in his chest, lodged firmly.
'Have a cuppa before you go.'
'Stay for breakfast.'
'Wait till the sun's up.'
He's a coward masquerading in civvies, too afraid of what could be to give it a chance.
"…Thank you." You smile, waving with a hesitant hand before hurrying down the hall.
You're braver than he is — braver than he'll ever be — by saying anything at all. It leaves him breathless, staring at a door you won't reappear in, sitting on the couch like it'll manifest you somehow and deliver his words to you.
You've made a habit to drop by his place, so much so that he's left you with a spare key. You apartment sit, occasionally spruce up the place. Pillows are crooked, there are pictures and plants dotted around, food waiting in the fridge with sticky notes and smiley faces and swirly hearts and life. The brush of your fingertips against the wall, the coaster you set your mug in the mornings, the open windows. The furniture whispers tales of you, the air breathes your name, the wood croaks for you.
His flat is consumed by you, and for once, the scent of your shampoo doesn't send him into fight or flight. He's starved, a stray dog on the streets, being coaxed out of a shoddy cardboard box by your cooing and scratches.
Simon likes getting home and being greeted by you, limbs dangling from his couch and the TV playing gibberish that he couldn't care less about. He likes getting home and finding a kitchen filled with prepped meals. He likes the magnets you've gotten for his fridge.
He even likes it when you fuss over his injuries.
"Drink." You'll tell him, holding out a cup of water and his pain medication.
"'m fine, love." He'll slur back, swallowing the pills anyway because it's you ordering him around. Because your care comes from a good place in your heart, rooted in an emotion he can't quite name but yearns for. If he had it his way, he'd stay off the medication. His groaning, limping, and wincing makes you care for him more. Your hands will reach for him, try to steady all couple hundred pounds of his body, all six something feet of height.
Endearing, though he's sure it'd end up with both of you on the floor if he ever collapsed.
"Good." You hum, satisfied after checking over his bandages. "It says you'll be-"
You giggle at his slumped form, the way his lips are slightly parted in sleep, his blond lashes.
"-drowsy." You finish, voice lowered. Your hands wander his jawline, tracing gently, memorizing, and he leans into it. Simon chases the warmth, even in his sleep, willing it to stay with him, willing you to reserve your tenderness for him.
He dreams of a cabin, tucked in the woods, surrounded by pine trees and mountain scapes. Of sheep prancing the hills, of you humming sweet songs as you reach for the sugar, of wrapping his arms around your waist and never letting go.
You pull away, and he mourns the loss of warmth. He trails after you, following you to the door. And it sits on his shoulders, that one word he wants to scream, to beg and plead with. But you're already out in the field, paving a path through the forest. The sky storms, no longer adorned with puffy white clouds but stretched, thin ones.
It thunders distantly.
You turn to him.
"Maybe in another life." You say, and he swallows the plea that's been swelling in his heart and soul. Lightning flashes, he blinks, and it's his ceiling that greets him.
Passingly, his sleep-riddled brain answers, 'Maybe in this one.'
You steal the cigarette from his lips, fingertips brushing his skin briefly. He doesn't ask questions when you take a drag, just breaks a fresh one from the pack and lights it. The morning daze slinks around your figure, enchants you in a gleaming light. The smoke lingers, floats and swirls between the two of you.
He heard you come in, the heaviness in your steps, and he knows what it means now, knows that what you need is a second to inhale and let the tension seep from your bones. The same decompressing time he needs after being Ghost for months on end.
"You know," You murmur, taking a drag, "I'm gonna move."
The sirens ring in his mind instantly, because he knows what that means too. You're always quick to gather your things, place them in those neat boxes of yours that you never toss out because 'you never know'.
"Started packing yet?" Simon tries for casual, and it seems to work, since you're still here. Leaning on his balcony railing and watching the cars slither below.
"Yeah. Lease is gonna be up soon anyway." You hum. "Good timing, I guess."
"Going far?" He prods, voice strained. He'd chase you to the ends of the earth, go where you need him to, but what if you don't want him to follow?
What if you're trying to leave him behind too, and this is the send off, the last goodbye?
"Not sure yet, I'll probably couch surf for a while."
"Door's always open." He blurts, surprising himself as much as it surprises you. But you smile, a little hollow, but it's something, and he lingers on it.
"What if I cozy up in your bed while you're gone?" You tease, nudging him with your elbow. He doesn't budge even a little, like a wall made of steel and concrete. Then, testing, you add, "What if I bring a date over?"
"You won't." He huffs.
"I wouldn't be so sure." You click your tongue, annoyed by his certainty. "I've got lots of people lined up, Si. Lots of dates and-"
"You won't." He repeats, raspier, lower, with his face inches from yours. Blush creeps up your neck, coloring the tips of your ears in a pretty shade of pink. But you don't cave. You're stubborn, he likes that about you, but it pisses him off sometimes.
"What do you know? Maybe I will, just to spite you." You bite back, eyes widening when his hand settles on your waist and tugs you closer. He smirks faintly.
"'Cause." He answers, trading his smoke for yours. His jaw ticks when he spots the smudge of lipstick on it. A good tick, you hope.
'Because I love you.' Your mind unhelpfully supplies.
"I could stay somewhere else, they'll have less rules." You grumble, knowing you'll surrender, if not only to be bitter. He's too smug, too confident when it comes to poking at you for the little things. He breaks through your lies like it's nothing, like it's easy. He doesn't ask questions, doesn't pry into the cause or your past. With him, there's no need for history or the past.
You're his gravity, and he's yours. Two stars, inexplicably tugging at one another, orbiting, drawing circles.
"No." He grunts, pressing the smoke to his mouth, stalling. He brings you closer, buries his face in your neck with enough intimacy that your heart stutters.
"No?" You question. It's here, this is the moment.
The inevitable collision between two stars. He smells like oak, worn quilts, and frayed edges. He's looking up at you through his lashes.
"Stay." Simon murmurs, so quietly you could've misheard, muffled by your sun soaked skin. Then, louder, more certain. "Stay here. With me."
Simon is a lot.
He carries the burden of survival, the bullets buried into the heads of young soldiers, the ash that follows the forest fire, of the smoke that lingers once the shells have dropped. His hands are stained, ridden with smudged grease stains and an unmistakable crimson. For the greater good, he tells himself some nights. What 'greater good' means, he doesn't know.
But he thinks it's starting to sound a lot like your name.