simon riley x reader - where he’d rather say he’s cheating than admit he’s in therapy
cw: not proofread, lying, cheating confession, simon is unhealthy but he’s trying, unhealthy ish reason for going to therapy LOL this is bad i just want more #happy fics out there
simon riley who disappears in the middle of the night. a grocery trip takes 3 hours, a flat tire happens every other week. you’re growing tired of pretending to accept his excuses. you weren’t dumb. this happened to countless women. it’s a cliche for a reason.
you go searching for a sign in his truck when he’s off on deployment one random tuesday, expecting to find a stray nail, a lash, even a whole pair of panties at this point. you’re shaking from pure adrenaline and you wonder how crazy you look with your ass up crawling around the floor of your boyfriend’s truck. you toss that thought away and continue scrounging around, expecting the worst.
what you don’t expect to find is a therapist’s business card in the glove box and self help books that are mangled from being shoved under the seats. you’re deeply confused until you find a spiral notebook folded in half in a toolbox. when you open it to a random page, there’s a date in simon’s scratchy handwriting. under, two sentences.
“need earplugs. helps with the noise overwhelm”
it was one of his first entries. when he still resented himself for walking into the therapist’s office every week. when he slowly started to accept the language old man in glasses was using. “that sounds like overwhelm, Riley. not simply noise, have you considered quiet time? listening to music? even wearing earplugs during social interaction? these things may help with the…” he glanced at his notes. “bees in your head.”
you don’t know this, you’re brain still scrambling for a clear answer. has he gone mad? the simon you knew would never even think about therapy, let alone use clinical words (or any words) to describe his feelings.
you flip through more pages, landing on one towards the back filled with words. your heart stalls when you see your name.
“y/n wants kids. she’d be a good mom, see it the way she is. i’d be a shit dad. think about leaving her for her own good”
“can’t leave her. not a man like that.”
“compromise”
“doc says i could be a decent father if i commit to “healing””
there’s curse words overlapping itself, like he was trying to distract himself from whatever his therapist was saying in session. the mental picture of simon doodling on a couch while being psychoanalyzed is so unfitting you almost laugh.
“think i’m ok with just doing this for her. got time for little shits later. “
you slam the notebook shut, doing your best to place everything back in a way that looks undisturbed. you sank into bed that night feeling strangely settled, yet unsettled all the same. you could not believe that ghost, your simon, was going to therapy.
when he gets home, you confirm the fact that you have a horrific poker face. he’s giving you that “what is it” look almost as soon as he enters the door. in a split second decision, you decide to let him admit his ommisions.
you cross your arms, doing your best to look neutral. “do you have anything you’d like to tell me?”
he pauses, at first because he’s genuinely confused, he’s been gone, he doesn’t mess around on you, he fixed the leaking sink before he left like you asked. then he pauses because he thinks of the secrets his truck hides, things he hasn’t even read back to himself yet, all sprawled in one notebook. he wants to strangle his therapist for insisting he, a grown ass man, keep a diary.
“yeah” is all he responds. he hates how his heart squeezes when you give him a bitchy look he secretly loves. he feels panic grip his throat at the thought of telling you the real truth, so what comes out of his mouth next surprises him just as much you. “beenfuckinganotherbird”
your heart almost drops until your brain registers the fact that this is the first time you’ve heard him jumble words. you try not to laugh at his poor excuse to avoid emotional intimacy.
“no. try again”
he huffs, going down to re lace the boots he’d been interrupted in taking off.
“been cheating on you”. he pretends not to notice how hard, even when it was a lie, verbalizing being unfaithful to you is. you don’t respond for half a beat.
when he hears you almost growl his full government name, he breaks. he stops messing with his laces, throwing his hands up just a little. “aw fuckin ‘ell.”
he stands again, running a large hand over buzzed hair. “been seein a therapist. sittin in parks like a proper fuckin egghead readin books. you happy?” he snaps at you but there’s no real bite to it, you know it’s not exactly the best way for him to communicate, but this is leaps and bounds. you realize how much getting the truth from him means.
you don’t say anything. you simply walk over to him and kiss him on the cheek. “dinners in the fridge i’ll heat some up for you.” you stare at eachother for a few seconds, before you turn away.
simon knows what goes unspoken, he knows you’ll have questions later, want to know his real schedule when he’s home. to support him. for him to answer to his lies. but he’s grateful that you give him reprieve for just a little while. he’s still feeling defensive, truth and vulnerability not something that felt natural to him. but he feels something in him break down at your attempt to make him feel comfortable, even after his less than stellar behavior.
he silently notes that he was right. healing so he could be the man you deserve might be the one right thing he’ll do with his life.
