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Simon has trouble sleeping.
It's a fact that's neither new nor surprising for him.
But the reason for his current sleeplessness is entirely unfamiliar to him.
Because instead of some fabricated nightly horror or experienced traumatic moment from his past coming back to haunt him like it usually is, tonight it's just a person lying on the rickety foldable cot Soap found in one of the base's storage rooms pushed to the opposite wall of Simon's already small quarter on base, their breathing constrainedly slow and even.
You.
The hybrid.
The shapeshifter.
The descendant of the werewolf.
The special force's favorite new weapon.
You who arrived with a muzzle fastened at the back of your head and a scratched silver collar around your neck at the base.
You who had two soldiers flanking your side as they led you down the ramp of the cargo aircraft which had landed only minutes earlier, one of them gripping the heavy chain attached to your collar tightly, pulling you along unkindly, as the other kept an eye on you incessantly, his weapon at the ready—no doubt loaded with bullets made of pure silver.
You who were treated like something dangerous, something monstrous and savage. And everything Simon had heard about your kind only supported this—that underneath your human skin an animal always slumbered, unpredictable and uncontrollable, never to be trusted. Only to be utilized to do the government's bloody bidding halfway across the world apparently.
But seeing you this afternoon under the pale English sun, the first thought forming in Simon's mind was—being mildly amused by it, if he's being honest—how strikingly average you looked.
It was true that he immediately noticed that your hair was slightly unkempt, that your standard military issue clothes were hanging a little loosely on your frame, but nothing about it warranted this preposterous demonstration of power and control, at least not in Simon's mind. Looking at you, nothing he saw struck him as even remotely dangerous.
The only things that truly made you stand out, truly identified you as the hybrid you are, were, of course, your tail, tucked inconspicuously between your legs even as you walked, and the prominent dog ears on top of your head which you had pulled back and so they lay closely to your hair. But even those features were only a curiosity, the sight of them undeniably unfamiliar, a little uncanny even—but nothing more.
But then again, you are the first hybrid Simon has ever seen in person, the whole team has ever met, as your kind is almost extinct in modern times. Your communities—your packs—have been hunted and killed for centuries now, so the only information he had about hybrids was from triumphant tales of gruesome and bloody battles between humans and hybrids fought hundreds of years ago or fairy tales teaching children and adults alike to be beware of the big bad wolf. None of which he would dare to call reliable sources.
Still, Simon had been more than content to simply ignore these stories for the rest of his life, not having planned on ever verifying or disproving them because he had been so sure he'd never have the (dis)pleasure of actually meeting a hybrid.
That was of course until Price had sat the whole team down in one of the windowless meeting rooms on base about a week before your already scheduled arrival, simply repeating what the brass had decided for the 141: A hybrid trained by the army in secret would be joining them permanently to support these highly sensitive and vastly important mission their task force was entrusted with, ensuring their continual success.
And that Lieutenant Riley had been chosen to be the hybrid's handler on her arrival.
All eyes had turned to him then, only for Simon to almost bark out a laugh. What on Earth had gotten into the brass to select him of all people to be responsible for the hybrid on and off the battlefield? But he had figured, with a sort of grim amusement, that these men in their fancy uniforms and shiny medals probably had taken one look at his file and had decided that something monstrous like him would be the only one to ever be able to truly control an animal like you.
In the meantime, Price had started to explain the timeline and logistics of the arrival of their newest member, mentioning how the hybrid would be placed into one of the literal dog kennels on base. Johnny had already jumped up from his chair in pure Scottish indignation while Simon and Kyle had still been busy processing their captain's word before Kyle too had started to protest, both his and Johnny's eyes having snapped to Simon's, looking at him like he personally had made that decision. Simon had just sighed at these muppets' theatrics, but had monotonously promised he would find a different solution a beat later. Not from the goodness of his heart—never that—but simply because he knows from experience what a caged animal is capable of.
Then, as the soldiers led you closer to their little group at the side of the runway, Simon was able to get a closer look at your face, at the scar running through your left eyebrow, at the ears on top of your head and the few cuts and little missing pieces on them which he hadn't noticed before.
But what struck him the most about you was your eyes. And it wasn't the fact that they are, contrary to his expectations, completely and plainly human-like—but the look in them.
Or rather, the complete lack of literally anything in them.
Void of all emotions and almost unseeing, your eyes simply stayed ahead, never once straying to take in your surroundings or the members of your new team. You just followed the soldiers' lead with complete and utter apathy.
Like a lamb to the slaughter.
Or wolf, really.
Only when the soldiers came to a stand in front of the 141 and Simon was handed the heavy leash by one of them, your eyes darted up towards your new handler's face, just to be met by brown eyes framed by white-blond lashes and a black balaclava with a skull design hiding the rest of it. Your expression shifted just slightly then behind the muzzle, nothing Simon could really make sense of that quickly before you dropped your gaze again and you retreated behind your mask of perfect detachment.
Being your handler—being responsible for you from now on—Simon realized then, would be a hell of a challenge, but for an entirely different reason than he assumed at first when Price had metaphorically dropped this—you, and everything that comes with it—into his lap.
You didn't react when the soldiers gave Simon and the rest of the team a few instructions about you as well as the keys to your collar and muzzle, nor when your new handler took a step closer to you and reached for you without a word.
What finally did you react, your eyes snapping up to his again in something like fearful incredulity, was the fact that Simon made quick work of unlocking these ridiculous restraints around your face and neck, letting both the collar and muzzle drop to the ground without ceremony, just the heavy and final clatter of metal meeting asphalt.
While the soldiers immediately took several steps back and trained their weapons on you, angrily shouting in protest and horror, your eyes just flitted between his in bewilderment and apprehension, clearly trying—and utterly failing—to get a read on him, to figure out what twisted mind games he was playing with you.
But Simon simply shook his head before mentioning you to follow him, before simply turning around and leading the way to the main building of the base, not even once turning around to see if you were following him.
The soldiers outcries had only intensified at that, throwing words of warnings after both of your retreating forms, but Simon was genuinely more concerned about Johnny mauling anyone—these officers in particular—at the moment than you, Price literally having restrained the Scot with a heavy and unyielding hand on his shoulder the entire time since you and your little escort had landed on base.
Now, not even ten hours since your arrival, you're lying in his dark room pretending to be asleep, just like him.
You haven't moved even once since getting under the stiff and scratchy covers Kyle had handed you earlier with his signature disarmingly charming smile, so when Simon suddenly hears the old cot creak and protest under your shifting weight and your naked feet landing softly on the cold floor, he immediately becomes alert.
You quietly pad the few steps over to his bed and then just stand there over him, lying on his bed for a few suspended moments, completely motionless, while Simon wonders what you'll do next. He doesn't feel threatened by your presence so close to him; he knows—instinctively—that you're not about to hurt him, but with every added second ticking by, his patience thins as his annoyance rises.
But then you speak up, and for the first time since meeting you, he hears your voice, carefully controlled.
"I need to use the bathroom, Lieutenant."
Simon frowns deeply behind his mask—because of course he also covers his face in the privacy of his own room now that he has to share it with you, because the base's administration had refused to give you your own room on account of 'significant safety concerns'—as your words register in his mind, doubting at first if he's heard you right.
"Then go," he eventually grunts, deeply unamused by whatever this is supposed to be, not even turning around as he speaks to you. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, not nearly as gruffly as before, "down the hall, left, and then first door to the right."
When you still don't make any move to step away from his bed, Simon seriously asks himself what your problem is, and prepares for doing the same to you, doubtlessly in a tone making it clear he's not to be messed with, the one he uses with too cocky recruits (and occasionally Soap, when the Scot is being too much of a little shit), the one he isn't actually keen on you associating with him—especially because he's your handler—when you speak up again, quieter this time and infinitely more careful.
"If anyone sees me walking around the base alone without a muzzle and collar, they'll immediately report me, sir. Or shoot me."
Simon remains still as he's turning over your words in his head for another second or two, something cold and heavy and vaguely violent settling behind his sternum, before he simply turns on his bedside lamp and gets out of bed without another word.
When he faces you, he sees your eyes flash unnaturally in the dim lighting of the room, the uncanny effect gone as quickly as it came, but it still makes Simon pause despite himself. You immediately lower your eyes in apprehension, the dog ears on top of your head instinctively twisting to lie flat against your head, and Simon decisively does not like the feeling of knowing your body language changed to this because of him. But because he's not sure how to fix this moment, if he even can fix it, he simply walks past you to open the door of his—both of your—room, simply telling you, "this way."
Your naked feet pad almost noiselessly after him down the bleak hallway, always a few paces behind him, even when Simon deliberately slows down to let you catch up with him. The two of you pass no one on your short way to the closest bathroom on this floor, but while Simon waits for you outside of it, leaning against the nearest wall, your words from earlier return to his mind and he doesn't question the truth of them. If anyone had seen you, without you restrained at all or him as your handler by your side, he doesn't doubt half the base would've hunted you down without a second thought.
He closes his eyes briefly, suddenly feeling more exhausted than he has in a long, long time, and wonders again why he was chosen to be responsible for you. Why not Kyle or Johnny, or even Price, who all possess some basic human decency, empathy and social skills Simon lost somewhere between his fucked up childhood, everything that had happened with Roba and now. The animal, the monster he was promised by the fairy tales as well as the brass he could've handled, easily, but you? He's not the person someone like you should have to rely on. There is nothing good about him, and he assumes that's exactly what you crave—if his suspicions about your life before the military and the 141 are even remotely true.
But that is most likely the obvious answer to his own question—why he was the only logical choice as your handler. Not because the two of you are of the same kind. But because the military expects him to make a true monster out of you—like he is one.
But Simon knows what it's like to be tortured and conditioned to the point of almost breaking, almost losing himself, and he knows he'd never want to be someone making another person go through what he had to endure.
He won't be the one turning you into anything other than what or who you are or want to be.
That, at least, he's sure of.
When you step out of the bathroom again, you give Simon a quick nod of thanks without your eyes meeting his. He silently acknowledges the gesture, about the head back to both of your room with you in tow, when his eyes get caught on the sight of the state of your neck.
Under the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway, he notices for the first time since you arrived how raw and badly irritated the skin looks in the areas where the collar you wore pressed and scraped against your throat and neck. It even looks like the silver of it all but burned you in some places, the wounds looking angry and painful—and like an invitation for an infection to happen.
So without really thinking about it, Simon marches off in the opposite direction of where the two of you came from, your steps taking a second or two before quickly padding after him again.
"Where are we going, sir?" your voice carefully rings out behind him as Simon pushes and holds the door open for you, leading to another part of the building which is completely unfamiliar to you.
"Infirmary," he simply grunts and continues on, your feet dutifully following after him, even as you point out in a small voice, "… They won't treat me, Lieutenant."
"They will," he immediately replies, no doubt in his voice. Because he'll make sure of it.
And he does, so not even an hour and—thanks to Simon—a thoroughly terrified doctor later, you climb back into your cot, the wounds on your neck and throat now cleaned and bandaged, shifting underneath the covers until you're comfortable, before finally settling completely with a little sigh.
Simon lies back in his own bed as well, listening to your breathing like he did at the beginning of the night. Only now, as the minutest tick by, Simon can hear your breathing slowing, softening, until it finally evens out.
And only then does Simon allow himself to fall asleep as well.