Work Text:
So forgive me if I jump
At the rattle of your keys
"Oh are you leaving?"
"No, babe. I'm just waking up."
— Doors, Noah Kahan
Simon doesn't know how you did it.
Maybe it was the way you asked if he liked pancakes or waffles more, the way you cried when he told you one of his many survival stories, the way you apologize when you startle him after deployment. Maybe it was your existence itself that has softened him, forced his hand and cracked open those doors he'd bolted shut.
He sleeps in your bed more than he does in his own — if his shoddy bunk back at base counts as a bed (you insist that it doesn't). Your place is warm, filled with plants that spark your allergies but you keep anyway, shelves bursting at the seams with trinkets and miscellaneous sentimental items. You have a rock on your coffee table, claim that it's special and deserves its seat in your conversations.
He doesn't understand, but he nods along because it's you.
He moves his things out of storage, leaves them in your wardrobe, and you let him. Hardly even question it when you find his clothes neatly folded, tucked away in the corner of your drawers. You let him into your space, into your life so easily, as if this were to be expected. He passingly wonders if you draw everyone in so naturally before falling asleep, limbs tangled with yours.
The sun pours into your bedroom, soaks in your sheets and bathes your skin in an enchanting glow. The lingering scent of rain coats every surface, welcome and familiar to Simon. What isn't welcome, however, is the way you're trying to squirm your way out of his grasp.
"…'s t' early…" He murmurs, slurring on his words and breath brushing the base of your neck. Something about you makes him drowsier when the sun rises, he can never bring himself to be an early riser with you around. "Stay."
"We have chores to do today-" You manage to sit up in his grasp, only to be pulled down with a loud yelp- "Simon."
"We can wait." He growls and rolls over to trap you under his weight, pretending he doesn't preen at the way you've made your daily tasks a team effort. Your attempts to push him off are unsuccessful, he stays firmly in place like some sort of sentinel protecting you from laundry and grocery lists. You're about to protest again, but he beats you to it. "Don't wanna leave yet."
You sigh dramatically before going limp, he answers by shifting you onto his chest and tugging the sheets over your shoulders again. "You're insufferable. Can't even get up with you around."
"Mmph." He hums placatingly, tracing soothing circles on the expanse of your back.
"I hate you." You huff without conviction.
"'m sorry you feel that way, love." Simon chuckles lowly, the sound vibrating in his chest and, subsequently, yours. He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to each of your fingertips like waking up with you is worship. "Think you'll find a way t' forgive me?"
He pecks your cheeks and the giggle bubbling your throat escapes. He watches your nose scrunch up, and he knows you're brewing something in that perfect mind of yours.
"You'll have to work for it." You say decidedly.
"Aye, you've got demands?"
"No," You admit, "But I'll think of some."
A smirk tugs at his lips, amused and awfully charming, even with the scar that splits it. You run your hands through his unkempt blond hair, stare when his lashes flutter, when he leans into your touch. The sun halos you, dances on your skin, glows like a blessing. It streams down the line of your nose, skims your jaw, trickles down your neck — it bathes you and you bask in it.
You're the picture of perfection, he thinks, You must be.
His world makes room for you, he grasps at your presence like it'll slip through his fingers. He'd keep you here forever if it meant keeping you, sap up all your warmth like it's the nectar of life. And, for his own sake, he can only hope you need him as much as he needs you.
"Your word is my command." Simon sighs through his nose.
You just smile like you know something he doesn't. Maybe you do, and that's how you've got him trapped in your bed, breathing in the scent of your shampoo, searching his mind for ways to keep you tied up here, with him.
You lift your head, pull him up with you, and he complies. Lets you move him as you please, even if it means sitting up when all he wants to do is lay down. "You're pretty, Si."
"Should check your eyes." He grumbles, ducking his face into the crook of your neck and nuzzling.
"You're shy." You tease. "How did I get so lucky with you?"
You can feel him smile into your skin. If he wasn't fully awake before, your compliment did the job.
Pretty isn't the first word he'd use to describe himself. He could think of harsher, more fitting terms. He'd argue, tell you that he's the lucky one, that you deserve more than a battered military man who's barely there most of the time, but you'll only get upset. You scold him when he's too self-deprecating, when he retreats to self pity and learned helplessness. You're so much more expressive than he is, you feel so much and it squeezes his heart like a vice.
He probably shouldn't tell you that he likes it when you get angry on his behalf, though.
"You want coffee or tea?" He kisses up the trail of your neck until his head's leaning on yours.
"I'll have whatever you're having." You hum, looping your arms around his neck.
He leans in, voice raspy and low in your ear, "Think I'll just have you."
Simon grins when you smack him, fluster, and scramble to your feet.
You must be divinity in the flesh, grounded to earth to torment him. To remind him of everything he's unworthy of. To curse him, send him to eternal damnation.
Or, worse, you're here to save him.
And, god, he'd let you.
He'd let you.