Chapter Text
It was… Interesting at first.
Living as a civilian was certainly an adjustment, and being off-base was throwing Simon for a loop. For one, life lacked structure. No assigned locations or set times to eat and wake, and there were a lot of things Simon now had to focus on that he never had to before.
One of those things being his mental health.
Price was the first to suggest a service dog, as he had fallen in love with his own- a chocolate lab named Fox- and was quick to try and get others to hop on the bandwagon.
“Come on, Simon, at least take a look at ‘em! I wasn’t a dog person before I saw Foxie’s face either. Just give it a shot.”
Gaz was next to agree with Price, and Soap followed suit.
“Come on, Ghost, she’s a great dog! Calm, obedient… Adorable. We’ll find you one just like her!” Gaz prompted one night after dinner in the rec room.
“Too much effort.”
Simon grunted back, only halfway listening.
“It’ll shed. And besides, I’d need to feed and water it every day, take it around on walks… Not worth the trouble.”
Gaz said something more, but Simon had stopped listening. He had decided that wasn’t worth the trouble either.
Simon’s keys jingle as he pulls them out of the keyhole, locking the door to his flat behind him as he enters. It’s too empty, with his combined lack of furnishing and company. Soap had offered to help Simon liven up the space, but he had refused, insisting that he could buy his own furniture. Now, however, he was regretting that choice.
However much Simon hated to admit it, he was a lonely man without his circle of trusted friends around him, and making any more wasn’t in the cards for him. He even visited the service dog adoption center once, on his own, to see if he’d be willing to adopt one. They were all either too loud or too quiet or shed too much or looked weird, and Simon wasn’t about to settle for anything less than perfect if he was going to be spending his time and energy on something.
Then he met you.
A small Siamese demihuman. At first he thought you were one of those homeless raccoon demis because he had caught you sleeping in a dumpster behind a Walmart, but then you poked your head up over the lid and he saw your little black ears on your tan face. You couldn’t have been any more than thirteen, and from the way you looked Simon could tell you hadn’t always been on the streets. Simon grunts. He looks down at the groceries in his hands, back up at you, and then back down to the groceries. With a sigh, he pulls out a can of tuna and tosses it at you, letting it skitter across the asphalt and land with a loud clang against the wall of the metal dumpster.
“You sort that out, tab.” He mutters to you before turning and taking the long way to his car, not wanting to risk crossing the path of a possibly feral cat.
Thus began a tradition. Every Wednesday Simon went and got groceries, and every Wednesday you’d be there, waiting. Some days he’d toss you food from his groceries, and sometimes he’s buy you your own bag of food in the hoped you’d finally leave him alone. You never did.
Soon, he finds his thoughts wandering to you when he’s alone. Price will bring up Fox, and he’ll muse on if a siamese cat would make a good service animal. Of course, he’d never actually consider taking a stray in as a pet, especially not a demihuman, considering they were more likely to be stressed and violent.
But that all falls apart the day you appear at his doorstep.
It took a little while, but you managed to follow his car home one foggy day, where Simon was more focused on getting back safe than securing his surroundings. It doesn’t help that Soap was in the car with him, listening to music and talking with Simon about his mother in Scotland.
Soap opens the door after a tentative ring on the doorbell, and his reaction concerns Simon deeply enough to get him off the couch.
“Awwwww! Look a’ the wee thin! Si, there’s a kittlin at yer door, come look!”
The following sight Simon beholds is you, standing there clutching your tail and looking up at the two men with large, scared eyes. You’re dirty, hungry, and your fur is a little patchy, but Soap coos nonetheless.
“Tha’ the one ye been goin’ on about? The wee thing in the dumpster?” Soap asks with a smile.
“Uh… Yeah. That’s the one.”
Simon replies, a bit thrown off. He doesn’t have time to say anything else before Soap is scooping you up and bringing you inside.
The whole time Soap bathes you, you’re scratching and hissing in fear. He doesn’t mind, but Simon takes over anyway. You settle down a noticeable amount, and as the water and soap rinse out the grime and dirt that had made you so itchy for so long, you even start to feel calm.
You’re falling asleep in Simon’s arms by the time he’s wrapping you up in a towel, and you feel him gently scratch your ears as you finally rest peacefully for the first time in years.