⋆˚꩜ sayde⋆˚꩜

You like Simon, of course, you like everyone. You wave at him, say good morning, say good night, water the plants in the hall, offer to help him carry his shopping bags (he snorts when he thinks about it later). He’s a bit curt, impersonal but not unfriendly. He might be a big guy but he’s not a brute. He likes you, he has to admit, albeit begrudgingly. So he nods and grunts when you say hello, he doesn’t shut you down when you call him Si’. He helps you carry your bags in from the lift (he doesn’t ask he just takes them and stands at your door while you scurry to catch up). He even scares off a pushy hook up who won’t leave you be (no questions asked). You don’t know what to make of him, he usually just grunts and nods at you, the occasional yes, no, thanks. But he seems like such a sweetheart underneath it all, so you keep him close as he’ll let you.

You call him for help, sink’s leaking, door’s creaky, help build this bookshelf. He always shows, and you always make him something to eat, offer him a drink to repay him. He seems fine with your little arrangement. You actually learn a bit about him too. Simon likes feeling useful, and you seem to have an affinity for strays.

Then you’re stumbling up to your apartment complex, drunk and collapse onto the front steps. Your friend was sick and took your keys when she left the club, now you need her to buzz you up. You drunkenly jam the buzzer over and over and whine into the speaker. Until a gravely voice crackles through.

“You alright?”

You aren’t expecting Simon’s voice at all, it confuses you.

“Where’s Julia?!” You jam the buzzer some more. Simon is grateful you hit his buzzer and not another random neighbors, you would probably cry if someone yelled at you right now. He even likes that, you can be such a crybaby. God. Instead of dwelling on it he just laughs to himself at the indignant tone in your voice

“Dunno.”

“Why are you in my flat?!”

“‘Re you drunk, luv?” He’s not in your flat, obviously, you’re just jamming the wrong button. “Where ‘re your keys, what happened?” He may not be a people person but he can read anyone. And it doesn’t take an expert to know you could talk, yap, blather on…

He hears the beginnings of your ramble. Julia got sick, you lived closer, she came back to rest…you’re still rambling into the intercom when he opens the building’s door to see you. Shoes in your hand, barefoot, skimpy outfit, little purse on the floor.

It’s the first time you see him smile, or his approximation of it, he’s laughing. At you. But he’s laughing.

“Get inside luv.”

Maybe it’s because you were drunk but you were seeing him in a whole new light. “Simon?!”

“Hadta come let y’in.” He takes your shoes, your purse, he’s holding the door open with his back, he jerks his head inside. “B’fore ya get sick lovie.” You stumble in with a flummoxed nod. You were instantly smitten by him.

He doesn’t flinch away as you lean on him in the lift. You’re yapping about your friend her shitty boyfriend who wouldn’t pick you all up. Leaning on him and trusting him to hold you up, of course he will.

“Call me next time.” He doesn’t know why he hates the idea of you taking a cab drunk and dressed like this. But he does. “If ‘m not workin’ I’ll come f’r you.”

“You’ll come get us?” Simon doesn’t like the idea of 4 drunk rowdy women in his truck, he had meant you, just you, but now you were looking up at him like he offered you a million bucks.

“Shouldn’t be gettin’ inta cabs drunk.” He steers you to your door, drunk and stumbling. Incompetence usually annoyed Simon. Right now he felt…endeared. He watches you knock on the door, try to call your friend. Your door stays firmly shut.

Of course he quickly realizes he doesn’t mind PT because his therapist is a, young, sweet, soft around the edges pretty woman and he can barely focus watching you point to your anatomy models and explain the ways his day to day life is straining his injury.

Your hands are so soft and pretty looking, your nails are always done, you don’t have a ring, he thinks, it’s fine...

Of course he feels bad for snooping around your office, he looks for anything to insinuate you had someone waiting at home. But there was nothing significant. A few photos, but it’s mostly you with children, clearly not yours, family, friends, nothing obvious, a few framed certificates, a degree, and a few adorable little trinkets on your desk. He already took photos, he’ll be buying you blind boxes and gifting them to you soon enough.

He feels like a creep but, god, he can’t help it. He needs you to demonstrate everything for him, stretch your arms above your head, he’s not even watching your shoulder he’s watching your blouse raise just a little over your stomach. Show him how to stretch. Can you show him the cross body stretch again? He missed it watching the way your perfect tits have just a little give in whatever bra you’re wearing under your scrubs. God he’s got it bad.

At first you don’t think much of him, he’s retired military, you worked with plenty of men like him. He seemed a little lost without his work and you don’t mind entertaining his little chats before and after sessions. When he complains and rolls his shoulders, sitting in one of your office’s little chairs, almost comically small for him, and asks you to take a look? You give him a 20 minute shoulder massage and ask him about the good old days. You're a doctor after all, and you know mental health is just as important, you hope he has someone to talk to.

And Price was already gone for you for all mostly superficial reasons but now you were rubbing his shoulders and laughing sweetly while you listened to him as he complained about cold Russian air and jammed rifles, At first he’s just imagining bending you over your purple yoga ball, spreading you out over your desk and knocking all those sweet little trinkets on the floor. Now he wonders if you like to cook, if you'd sit with him on his couch and rub his shoulders and talk to him about anything.

Now, he thinks your scrubs are cute but god does he love you in a little blouse, or a sweater when it rains, it feels more personal and feeds into his crazy domesticity kink. You’re just his pretty little bird helping him stretch out his sore muscles.

Of course over the course of a few visits he gets closer, puts a hand on your shoulder at the end of his appointments, calls you love when he greets you. He’s always respectful, calls you Doctor, by your last name, never ma’am, occasionally miss, or missy if he’s feeling brave.

You always look so chuffed at a little endearment, and it only encourages him. He’s an expert at pushing his luck, he wouldn’t have gotten so far in his career if he wasn’t. He puts his hand on your arm, compliments your first name, he watches it click on your face. Watches his luck change in real time as the color rises in your cheeks and you push out a thanks between pretty nervous chuckles.

He says his shoulder’s been treating him better, but maybe he should keep you his pocket huh, missy? What about dinner to celebrate? Or hecould pull the blinds in your office down and you could celebrate his unofficial graduation from your program right here.

“Jesus wept…” He mutters under the table, Gaz laughs at him and shakes his head.

“Mate, she's outta your league.” Gaz whispers a warning and kicks him under the table. Johnny doesn’t care, he’s a dog, he’ll figure something out.

When you speak he looks like he’s listening with rapt attention. He’s not. No disrespect ma’am. (Oh dear god). He stares at your blouse, your fancy clothes, smart pants and sensible shoes, he could learn to cook, he thinks. He could learn to do a lot of things, he was a dog, sure, but not an old dog, you could teach him. He’s a quick learner he could learn to be your trophy husband, parade around shirtless all day, tightest briefs that money could buy.

He could do it naked too, upon request.

He’s trying not to drool, he’s trying not to look too wide eyed and eager at you, at your neat hair and- oh god...is that a grey streak? He could hit the ground again, he might.

You and Laswell leave them with mountains of papers, intel and maps, and lots of work to do. Johnny is utterly nonplussed.

“Cap, please.” Johnny turns to Price, desperately. Gaz is already laughing his ass off across the table.

“Didn’t know you’d fancy a cougar. Think she's old enough to be your mum."

Price rolls his eyes at the pair and mutters at them to have some tact. The way he says your first name and calls you an old friend makes Johnny’s stomach spasm. It must show on his face because Price finally laughs at him.

"Was she this fit when she was 10 years younger? Cap, help me out, put in a good-"

“No. Don’t ask me.” Price holds a warning hand up, but his poorly stifled laughter makes it lack heat. “That is wildly inappropriate.”

“She’s outta your league anyway. That’s a woman, Soap." Gaz can hardly hold his laughter in, even Ghost is snickering and shaking his head. Johnny is already plotting, he doesn’t believe it, he’s a young man, modesty isn’t a game for young men. he's got the world in his palm. He could pull anyone...or that’s what he tells himself.

“Don’t make an ass of yourself, Johnny.” Ghost warns him, and Johnny withers inside… he knows he shouldn’t, Ghost and Price are right. Level headed bastards, it is wildly inappropriate. But how could they handle the sight of you, mature and beautiful and full in all the right places, neatly kept and demanding respect. How do they contain themselves, how is no one else half hard right now? Did nobody else see your tits? Your waist, that grey streak in your hair? What is he supposed to do?!

Johnny finds out you and Laswell are going to be returning a few days later. So he sits in that damn briefing room all day, like a Rottweiler waiting for its owner to get in from work. When you show up without Laswell he feels equal parts mortified and delighted.

“Good morning Sergeant. You’re early.” You greet him politely, he’d never disliked hearing his rank out of a woman’s mouth before. But he wanted you to call him Johnny. Even if it sounded condescending, maybe even especially then.

“Och—“ He waves and tries (so hard) to sound casual, you’re talking to him, god you’re talking to him, the way your hair is tied back shows off that grey streak. He wants to see it down, find any other discolored strands, wrap it around his fist.... The lads were right, you had to be at least a decade older than him, he could feel himself chubbing up at the thought. “Just hidin' away a wee bit.”

You laugh, it’s a put together sort of polite laugh, professional and quiet and you nod.

“I understand. Laswell shouldn’t be far behind me. She stopped at John’s office for a cup of coffee.” The way you use Price’s first name makes him flare, he wants you to say his first name. Even his call sign, something more personal. He needs to pace himself. He watches you set up. Your computer, Laswell’s computer. He realizes he may not get the chance again, he has to talk. Which is usually easy for him, but now his nerves were in his throat, he wanted so badly to impress you.

“Not much for coffee then?” Johnny pulls his chair closer to the table, just to cover the growing problem he was having at the mere sight of you.

“Trying to cut back.” You confess and he wants to groan. He asks you where you’re from, you name some American city, tell him you’re living in D.C. now, not far from Kate and her wife. He sees a tan line on your finger. Divorced?

God, divorced, he could palm at himself, a weaker man would. He could show you the way you deserved to be treated, he could do things your prick of an ex husband would crawl out of his skin thinking about. Then he would make you dinner and fold your laundry, even the tiniest lace panties would be neatly folded, he’s that dedicated to his craft.

“I could show ya' a good pub—“ He’s saying it before the thought is fully formed in his brain, he’s too busy thinking about the way you would definitely ride him. How he’d push your pencil skirt up, he wouldn’t care to have his back spread over this table, he’d love for you to have your way with him. So he just spits out the first stupid thing he thinks. And you laugh. God smite him, you laugh.

“A pub? You and me?” The way you tilt your head as you laugh, less professional now, clearly amused, is almost condescending. He shifts in his chair, squeezes a pen, he was more than hard now, he should be embarrassed. He’s not. God, he is not.

“Are y’married ma’am?” He asks leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. He can feel heat prickle in his stomach at the word, ma’am, he could be polite. Yes ma’am, no ma’am, please ma’am, thank you ma’am. If that’s what it took to show you how much more preferable an impolite, desperate, greedy man would be for you.

“Not lately.” You raise two neat eyebrows at him amusedly. He knew it. He’d bet your ex hated your job, couldn’t handle being handled by a woman like you. He could handle it. He could take it, give him something and see.

“A pub then.” He repeats with a nod, and you laugh again. It makes your plush chest bounce a little, your shoulders shake. He wants to rub his hands over them, massage the pretty, sore, slope of your shoulders, the smooth crook of your neck, wrap his lips around the soft valleys of your chest while you labored over some paperwork. You wouldn’t even have to pay him any mind. He could take care of you both.

“I think I could be your mother, honey.” He’s shifting in his chair to thrust up into nothing at all. Yes you could. God you definitely could. His face makes you laugh again, he can’t bite back his groan this time. “You’re cute. But I think I have a car a few years older than you are.”

Johnny exhales sharp through his nose, cute. He wasn’t cute, he was 200 odd pounds, a killer. But you say it like you’re talking to a wayward dog snuffling at your pockets, and god did it make the muscles in his stomach twitch.

“Please—“ He’s about to make a right fool of himself, he could get on his knees, he could be cute, he could cook, rub your feet, draw you a bath every night, he could fold laundry, wash your car, he could do it all shirtless if you asked.

But Laswell and Price open the door. Price’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline, he shakes his head. Instantly disapproving. Johnny should feel chastised at the motion, he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry about my Sergeant....He’s over eager.”

You wave a dismissive, forgiving hand, it makes Johnny’s knees weak even as he sits. “Don’t worry about him John.” You pat Price’s shoulder in a way that makes Johnny’s poor cock twitch. You don’t need a man your age. You shouldn’t want one, you need a young man, a man who can chase and bend and love you for hours. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t care at the way Price huffs at the sight of him half leaned over the briefing table, doesn’t care that you dismissed him as younger than one of your fancy cars. He just needed one chance. He could show ID, if that would help, he's young but plenty old enough.

Price dismisses them later, says he needs to talk bureaucracy with you and Kate, he’s feeling generous, he’ll spare them the politics. You stand by the door as the men file out, Johnny feels you touch his leg, your fingers tuck into his back pocket. He nearly creams his pants actually, trips so badly he shoves Gaz over and earns himself a hardy punch in the arm. But there it is, your business card.