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Simon is intense, to say the least. His presence isn't loud, not the way Johnny's is in a crowded pub, his existence is muted.
He's just there, always. A quiet, heavy always. An arm on the back of the couch, vaguely slung around your shoulder. A gaze, prickling at the back of your neck when you've got your back turned to him. It tip toes the line of overwhelming and reliable, failing to match the description of either, so you dub it "intense" and shrug.
Or, perhaps, it's not so much intense as it is purposeful. Behind every gesture, fleeting or not, is thick intent. Simon is a calculated man. Not much gets past him unless he allows it to (it's the only reason your surprises actually work on him really).
It'd been unnerving at first, back when you were strangers that somehow constantly found themselves in the same space. But you like to say you've grown accustomed to it over the past however long you've been together. You don't shy away from him and all that he is, all that he holds.
He loves intensely, it simmer beneath his skin like it'll boil over at any second. He burns with love like it's his life force. He holds you like he'll never get the chance to hold you again.
And now, he's shown up at your door, drunk and swaying on his feet, the constant intent lost along with his inhibitions. Simon has toppled onto your couch, limbs dangling from the edges and face smashed into the cushions. You sit on the floor before him, too hesitant to leave his side.
"How did you get here on your own?" You question, pawing at the plain black balaclava he dons for civilian activities, which includes drinking on his off time, you suppose. He turns his head to you slowly, cheeks flushed from the alcohol.
"Jus' wen' 'ere m' feet wan'ed t'…" He slurs, words narrowly discernible.
"I don't like drunk men." History has taught you that a drunk man is not a good one. Drunk men are violent, cruel, lost to evil and temptation. But this man who lies before you, who has treated you with nothing but softness, will he be like the rest?
"'m sor'y…" Simon manages, attempting to sit up but failing. He groans, leaning into the coolness of your touch subconsciously like a starving man. "…Didn' mean t' let ya see m' li'e th's…"
You don't like drunk men, no, but this one is — dare you say — cute? His blond lashes flutter, his eyes are unfocused, his skin toned a lovable pinkish red. He shudders at every brush of contact, bristles at the absence of it.
"What made you drink so much, hm?" You prod. Simon is rarely this unguarded, even in his sleep. What could make the mighty, stone cold lieutenant down enough liquor that he's fully out of it? He stares at you, adoring brown eyes zoned in on your figure, memorizing you even in his inebriated state.
He blinks at you for a few seconds, buffering. "…Sorry, luv… Wha'd ya as'?"
You feel a small smile spread across your face, endeared by Simon's puppy-like trance.
"You're drunk, why?" You rephrase, speaking slower this time.
His breath hitches, his brow twitching. you wonder if it's because he's hesitating or if it's because you're running a hand through his hair. Even now, he's hard to get a read on. Though you suppose nothing is easy with Simon Riley.
"Can't tell… 's a secret…" He murmurs after a fair moment of deliberation. He presses his head to your palm, seeking your comfort.
"A secret?" You hum, more curious now that he's refusing to reveal his reasoning. "…I guess you need to keep your mystery somehow."
"No-" He protests, shifting into a sitting position again — albeit successfully this time — and grunting. "'s jus'… Come sit nex' t' me, please."
When you comply with his request, perhaps out of pity, he leans his weight on you and buries his face into your neck. Simon is a clingy drunk, you note. Though you aren't sure how useful this information will be considering how little he usually drinks.
"Better?" You chuckle, and he nods.
"I can't think w'en ye'r 'round… but—" He sighs— "Can't think wh'n y'r not 'round eith'r… S'… I can't tell ya…"
"Oh? So I'm the problem?"
"Mmhm."
"Am I the reason you were drinking?"
"N'o." Simon groans. "…Ma'be."
He can be rather sweet like this, though you feel like his personal stuffy with the way he's clinging to you. When your skin inevitably bruises in the morning, he'll be there apologizing over black coffee and waffles, pressing gentle kisses to each mark to soothe the pain.
Simon is drunk, drowsy, and damned. He can't help the way his hands wander, seeking the refreshing coolness of your skin. Maybe he'll regret it in the morning, when he's sober and colder, wary of the world with an aversion to your affections.
In the morning, he'll pack up for another mission, get deployed some 500 miles away from you. There, in some unnamed desert where sweat clings to his neck and drips down his back, he'll think of you. He'll dream of you, of trips to the grocery store, of getting drunk and having you baby him.
His breath comes out shaky, his eyes glazed over with all that remains unspoken and unknown. He has the eyes of a depraved man, a soldier who's lost his hope in humanity, a boy who doesn't know what he's fighting for anymore. In all that he is, there's an unmistakable hunger.
He inhales deeply in an attempt to absorb you into him. Then, in a broken voice with slurred words, he whispers something quieter than a secret, as if he were bearing his heart open to you, offering it on a platter to be torn, dissected, and observed. He asks, with all the elegance of a newborn calf:
"…D' y'u luv me?"
And you stare at him, because the answer is simple. Because the act of not loving him never quite crossed your mind.
"I'll tell you tomorrow." You say instead. You are as much of a coward as he is, both running from the truth of your hearts. "…When you're not drunk, I'll tell you then."
He groans, unsatisfied, but shuts his eyes. "I hope t'morrow comes so'n."
You stay there, back pressed to the couch and Simon atop of you, leaning his weight on you like a big, lazy dog. If he remembers tomorrow, you'll tell him.
If.
When his breathing has steadied and his shoulders rise in a soothing rhythm, you brave a kiss to his forehead. You sweep his mussed hair from his eyes, admire the gold of his lashes, and mutter.
"I love you."
A confession, spoken into existence for your own sake, for your ears only, because you are afraid of this slipping from your fingers.
Because if he doesn't remember, or worse, pretends not to, you don't know what you'll do.
Simon smiles into the skin of your neck. You hope he dreams of sweet things tonight.
You hope he dreams of you.
You hope he remembers, for your sake, if not his.