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Simon slumped out of his comfy couch after much grueling. He didn't exactly want to go out to a pub with Johnny, but he did want to get a few drinks tonight anyway. So the company would have to do.
It was a Thursday, an odd day for two men to be meeting up at a pub in the early hours of 1700, but he kicks his boots on anyway and heads out, keys, wallet, and phone in hand. He doesn't need much for a night out—if you could even call it that—besides himself and those three essentials. He's a simple man, afterall.
The walk to the station was short, but he found himself rushing to catch the nearest one instead of walking like it mattered today. Like Thursday was important.
However, this Thursday was a little warmer than he'd have liked. He was forced to wear a short sleeve shirt with his jeans, unfortunately for Simon. He doesn't necessarily like putting his tattoos nor his scars on display, but England heatwaves are one hell of a fucking beast.
The train comes in time, thankfully, and he slips inside one of the last cabs before the doors close. Usually, he'd find a spot to lean against, preferring to stay standing and alerted than comfortable. But today wasn't like other days. It was Thursday. His slipped disc was acting up again, and despite his usual refusal of acknowledging it, he decided to allow himself to sit down for once. His back won the battle this time.
The train runs through its stops like usual. Today would bring more commuters, especially during post-work hours. But he doesn't mind, so long as he can get to his objective on time. He notices the same couple as always, stepping in together with two coffees in hand, and that extremely tiny grandmother with her grandson, coming back from a trip to the park.
Today brought a lot of regulars.
Today would bring you.
And there you were again, at 1724, standing outside the tube before the doors open to let you in. You walk in—more like stumble—with a slight limp in your foot, prompting him to look down at your feet and assess the problem. Simon noticed it immediately, the redness approaching your ankle, a growing blister on the back of your heel. You needed a seat, immediately.
So he makes a plan.
He manspreads a bit, prompting his neighbor to get up and move. It was best to avoid conflict with a tall, bulky, masked man in a closed space like this, and he took well advantage of that. He knew he was intimidating, but he had hoped you'd get the sign.
A seat opens up next to him, and your exhausted eyes peer around to find some sort of purchase, landing on the spot next to Simon. You shuffle your feet, politely excusing yourself to others, before plopping down and sighing a little too loudly in relief.
He keeps his eyes straight ahead, but can't ignore the feeling of your arm pressed against him in the tight seating space. He does take up a lot of it, but he can't exactly help that either. But he likes the fact that you can rest your feet for a minute, even if your station is only 5 stops away. He also can't help the fact that he knows that, too. He's far too observant for his own good, which he means literally. He needs the observance on duty, anyway.
Your heels are killing you, but the sitting is only somewhat helping. They're still on, afterall, and you'd much rather have your feet planted flat on the ground in relief. You also would rather be home and in bed, far too tired and overworked for your own mental health.
He can tell work has been too hard on you, probably due to poor management or high expectations. He wishes he could see people like that fall down, no longer being tyrants to poor, innocent and hard workers like you. He also wishes he could care less about you.
It's a bad habit you've become, Simon being far too engrossed in your own life for you to notice, but enough for him to grow interested. He doesn't even know if you have a boyfriend, or girlfriend even, and he could easily find out. He just chooses not to, out of disinterest, he tells himself.
He knows deep down it's because he knows cares about your privacy, sort of.
It doesn't help that you're pretty, either. Nor the fact that you're funny. He heard you on a call with one of your girls, cracking jokes and giggling like the world around you, the same one that drains you, didn't matter all of a sudden. Doesn't help that your laugh is cute, too.
But you seem to hold yourself high—that much he noticed. He's found himself listening in on your conversations, glancing over to see who you're texting (which he hasn't spotted any potential love interests). He tells himself it's because you're out there in the open, flaunting your wellness and prettiness like nothing matters.
It matters to him. You matter.
At first it was your looks, he's a simple guy. He liked the way your skirt hugged you, how your work-appropriate top seemed so inappropriately good. Maybe, he thought, you could be a fun time.
But he's changed his mind since then. A few good fucks won't get him anywhere, and Price's nagging of thinking of settling down was starting to get to him. Call it torture, call it looking out for Simon, he didn't care. He didn't want to care.
But he's starting to.
He shakes himself out of those ridiculous thoughts before feeling a gentle pressure on his shoulder. It forces him to snap his head to the movement in the corner of his eye, before glancing down and realizing…
It's you. You've fallen asleep on his shoulder.
He blinks a few times before realization fully settles in.
You're sleeping on his shoulder, conked out, in the middle of the tube, with everyone around you two.
"Love," He mutters softly, gently shifting his shoulder to grab your attention. You don't move. He tries again. "Swee'eart." Nothing.
Fuck, that job has ruined you, hasn't it?
He doesn't know what to do at this point. Matter of fact, didn't know what to do the moment you put your head there. Does he try to wake you again? Does he let you sleep?
Your stop is 2 stops away.
Simon, for once, doesn't know what to do.
He adjusts his shoulder slightly, to make himself (and in turn, you) more comfortable.
He wonders how this must look to everyone else. Wait, since when did he start caring about shit like that?
"Fuck," He mutters under his breath. He's hooked a little deeper than he thought. He didn't think a pretty thing like you would ruin… him; everything he stood for, everything he controlled himself to not do.
A notification from his brick of a phone disturbs the spiraling, and he glances down to look at a message from Johnny, wondering if he was on his away. Impatient as ever, he thinks, before looking down at the message that follows.
Got a surprise for ya.
Whatever the fuck that means, he knows he wants no part of it. He hopes it doesn't mean a sudden blind double date like the last 'surprise'.
A double date…
He looks down at you again, sighing softly before clearing his throat and straightening his back for some sense of clarity. Your stop would come up at any moment now, and he had to find a way of waking you up without seeming like a total creep.
He starts by patting you gently on the arm, the fabric of your clothes soft and smooth. It's of good quality, he notices, and gently rubs his hand up and down.
"Wake up," he says, loud enough to prove he tried, quiet enough to not wake you. Maybe it was intentional, you lying on him, but regardless, he's intending to keep you there.
But he fights against that possessive urge to let you keep sleeping and tries again: "Love, you're gonna miss your stop."
His head is a mix of emotions. He wants you home, safe and snug under your blankets, but wants you sleeping on him more. He feels his exposed arms get warmer, blaming it on the hot weather seeping into the train, instead of his nervousness.
You mumble something under your breath, a small whine as you shift and find a more comfortable lean against him. That does just enough to his cold, little heart to send him over.
Fuck this, he thinks, I'll let her sleep.
Your stop passes by, and only then does he start feeling the guilt surmount in his stomach. He should have tried harder to wake you up, but your feet are killing you and he's so close to just letting you rest your legs on his lap.
Calm it, Simon. You're in public.
He looks down at you again with a small smirk under the mask. He's gotten soft, maybe too pudgy around the edges for his own liking. But before he can admire any more, you begin to rouse from your nap and realize the situation you're in.
Wide eyes meet his and before he can blink, your face turns bright red and you let out a noise of embarrassment.
"Oh my god, I'm..I'm so sorry!" You blurt out, immediately standing up on your feet.
Simon notices the ever-so-slight way you wince when your heels rub against your blister.
"'S alright," he shrugs, attempting to play it cool, as if his heart wasn't pounding (probably more than yours), too.
You look around for a bit, peering through the other people to look outside the window, and notice you've missed your stop.
You mumble a silent curse under your breath, which he finds cute, and you stand by the doors to wait for the next stop to get off.
Ah, shit, he thinks, My stop passed too.
He stands up despite the aching in his back, and approaches you by the doors. He stands to the side, careful to not seem as if he's impeding your space.
"Um.." You say as you notice him, "I'm really sorry. That was.. embarrassing."
"Told you, 's alright."
You nod stiffly, tightening the grip on your purse.
"Missed your stop too?" You ask, finally looking into his eyes. He nods promptly and meets yours back.
He ignores the way you do a once-over of him, and smirks slightly under the mask.
You both eventually get off at the next stop, sighing at the annoyance of having to take another train in the other direction.
He walks one way, you the other, and make your way to the other platform…
And find each other again.
"Oh," you start, letting out a light laugh, "Hi again."
He can't stop the smile that he gets the moment you greet him so cutely. So, he replies back with a short nod.
"Where, uh.. where're you headed?"
"Off to a pub, with a mate."
"Ah." You clear your throat, shifting on your feet—still hurting, huh?—and checking the time. "Should be here any minute now."
"You?" Simon says, facing you. A flash of confusion appears on your face, before blinking and clicking your tongue. "Oh, I've just been headed home. Long day at work, if that wasn't obvious…" You end the sentence with the cutest giggle he's ever heard.
"My feet have been killing me, though. I think I've got blisters." You look down at your heels, letting out a whine of disappointment when you do find some.
And now he's definitely set on sweeping you off your feet to prevent anymore.
The train comes by and you both enter together, finding one empty seat.
He offers the seat first, and you shake your head politely, apologizing for sleeping on him and offering the seat as a sort of compromise. He won't take that for an answer.
So, he grabs your hand, ever so lightly, and drags you to the seat to plop your pretty ass down. You sit there a bit baffled, but smile thankfully and he swears his heart just did a flip.
"Don't miss your stop this time," He warns, holding onto the pole next to you. "Can't have your pretty self getting home late," he mumbles, uncharacteristic of him to even say such a thing aloud.
Simon's gotten a little too confident, too comfortable around you that it slips out before he even realizes. But with his eyes set straight ahead, not wanting to look down at you with your slightly unbuttoned top, he fails to notice your falter.
"My.. what?"
Shit.
"Nothin'," He deflects almost immediately, finding some scramble of words that might've sounded like 'pretty' in case you ask again. Which you do, naturally, because who wouldn't question a stranger's sudden compliment?
"Did you just call me pretty?"
He swallows thickly, hidden by the mask thankfully, to finally look down at your eyes—and only your eyes, though it takes him a lot of strength to not look anywhere else.
"Said sleepy." Hopefully it's enough to deter you from asking anymore—
"No, you said pretty."
Pretty and persistent.
His eyes dart away, suddenly feeling a flutter in his chest again, one he hasn't felt since a teen. "So?"
"I mean, thank you, but.. I guess I just didn't expect that."
He nods briefly as a 'you're welcome', acknowledging the fact that you two are having this discussion in a public train. It wasn't as crowded as the last one, thankfully, but still, people were in earshot.
You fidget with the bag on your lap, He shifts his feet. You tuck a hair behind your ear. He straightens his back (despite its protests).
A person next to you gets up and heads to the doors, waiting for their stop to come. You look up at him and smile softly, patting the spot that was taken. He can't help but softly smile back, even if you can't see it, and sits next to you again.
You giggle before turning to him, like you thought of a clever joke. "I promise I won't fall asleep on you this time."
He lets out a small chuckle and turns to you again before nodding his head. "I believe ya. Wouldn't mind it 'appenin' again."
Your smile falters before breaking into a bigger one, letting out a small laugh, all the while looking right into his eyes.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—
"Oh, this is my stop."
Ah.
"Ah."
You get up, grab your bag, and turn to the doors, waving a goodbye at him. Simon disappointingly waves back, wishing for more out of the conversation, but stays silent to not show it. A part of him would worry that this was a one-off thing, while the other would brush it off as a random event in his life. Nothing more, nothing less.
But then you smile at him, wave those little fingers, and lean a little closer to speak clearly.
"I'll see you next week, yeah?"
So you did notice him too. The same way he noticed you.
He nods his head, and with that, you're content enough to step out the train and head back home.
He makes sure to not miss his stop either, too focused on reliving the memory of you.
But he eventually makes it to his stop, heading down to the pub where he was supposed to meet up with Johnny. He had to ignore the buzzing of his phone the entire time with you. A shame he couldn't get your number today, maybe next time.
Where are you????
Mate, how long does it take for you to get here?!
He can't help but roll his eyes at the impatience of the man, before he steps into the pub, thankfully not too loud at the current hour, and looks for him.
There was Johnny, sitting along another man that he knew, Gaz. They both glance up to wave and smile at the grump.
That was the surprise? Gaz?
"Took yer damn time."
"Shut it."
He chooses not to explain why he got here so late, even if he had a valid excuse, to save himself from the constant interrogations of the two men.
He chooses to keep his little bird a secret.
Until then, he'll see you again, every Thursday afternoon.