#angst cod

simon reads your letters from home.

> no NSFW, just a small scrap i wrote after a headcanon i read :)

He’s read it about a hundred times.

Gloved fingertips tremble against the crumpled paper, withdrawing a breath sharply. You’re waiting for him downstairs, he knows he only has a few minutes to spare, but he reads it anyway. Drinks the words in, flipping and twisting the scribbled letters in his head.

At first, he’s a little suspicious. You didn’t show him the letter, and made no effort to mention it. Simon wasn’t one to meddle in your private business, after all, he was familiar with secrecy. But a letter? From your Mum? When he had brought it up gruffly, you paled a little and mumbled about it being some sort of phone bill.

For one, he paid for the damn thing.

He found it on the bed. Well, sort of. Simon had eyed the paper poking out of your leather handbag, pausing with furrowed brows. He wasn’t even sure why he stopped to take it out, but next thing he knew he’s locked the bedroom door and unfolded the paper carefully, eye-black slipping over the words. For a moment, Simon rests his neck against the headboard and allows himself to drown into the comforting words.

I really hope all is well. Farley misses you lots! The living room doesn’t feel the same without you.

A fumble, a crinkling of paper - his heart is in his throat as he skims over the sheet.

Hope Simon’s taking care of you. He’s a good man, I know he is. A gentleman, that’s what your uncle had said. You seem happier.

Simon almost wants to scoff - so many moments of sitting beside your mum, innocent conversations exchanged between the two, his hands shaking hers. Same bloody hands that kill for a living. Strangle, hurt. Mark. Defile. He wonders, what your mother would think of the sins carved into his legs, his arms. The staining of red on almost every piece of clothing he owns. He wonders what his own mother would think.

The realisation dawns on him slightly, back straightening so his shoulders broadened. He pauses, glancing towards the door.

Either way, I love you lots. And Dad does too. You’re going to have to write back quick, he’s quite worried for you. Thinks you’re gonna ‘lose yourself’ in the US. Told him he was a nutcase.

He reads the first few words again. I love you lots.

“I love you, Si.”

A guttural groan, bone flicking in his jaw. He reads it again, and again, and once fucking more till the words echoe a little more like his own mother’s.

Simon imagines it’s his own mother writing back.

“I love you lots, Si. Write back quickly, they’re waiting for your stories in Mazrah. Joseph is absolutely smitten over the Lego Set you got him.”

“Dad’s worried about you. Thinks you’re gonna lose yourself in the US.”

“I love you, Si. We miss you.”

The door opens. Simon isn’t one to nervously putter about, but he jerks his shoulder back, head lifting to meet your gaze. You frown a little, the white around his whiskey irises contrasting starkly against his balaclava.

“Got the reservation, at last,” You chime, walking into your room to peer at the closest mirror. Simon’s fucking sweating it, the letter still trapped between his fist. He hopes to God you take an extra few minutes to fuss over your hair or something -

“What’s that?” Voice sharp and soft, like a flowery sting, Simon’s head snaps up to you again, a little jolted. You narrow your brows, arms crossing over your chest. The letter in his hand, slightly stricken expression, tense shoulders - it all clicks.

“You’re reading it?”

“Wha’s it look like?”

You laugh a little evenly. “No need to be so defensive, just asking.” You pause and Simon swears he wants the ground to swallow him.

“She misses you, y’know.”

He says nothing.

You take that as a cue to purse your lips and speak anyway, turning to run a hand through your tousled hair. “Won’t stop calling too. Asking me how I am, how you are.”

His grip tightens on the letter but he wordlessly lets go of it, the crinkled white flat against the bed. ‘Course she was asking, always bickering and fussing. He thinks maybe there’s where you get it from, the thought causing him to pause for a second.

“Do you wanna write back?”

“Not my letter, love.” He remarks, reaching for the boots by the side of his bed. A pang hits your chest, brows sloping again. Sometimes you worry for your boyfriend. This was partly why you don’t want to show him.

It was more a way to protect him. You weren’t completely blind, you saw the way he shifted in his seat when your Dad had clapped his shoulder with a comment of appraisal, nothing but admiration in his eyes. You saw how his expression narrowed a little cautiously, eyeing the uncles and relatives beside the BBQ who were chatting happily to the kids on their ankles. You took note of how softer he looked, those same unreadable eyes glazing when your Mum fussed and crooned over the scars on his hands.

“No, ‘m being serious. You should write back. I’d know for a fact she’d pin it up and everything.” You say softly with a half eye roll, watching him through the reflection of the mirror as you pinned up your hair. Simon tied his boots slowly, movements a little lagged.”

Silence again. “Well, just letting you know you can write. I get her WhatsApp messages can be a lot, but, I’m sure she’d love it.”

Your words settle into the air. Simon is tensing his jaw over and over, a little frustrated at his lack of initiation. But it was different. It was all foreign to him. How could he tell you he had memorised the damn letter word for word? That he wished it was his own mother speaking back to him?

“Mum used to write.” Simon grumbled a little. You eyebrows raise into your hairline.

“‘Bout my nephew. An’ home. Kept them all. Till they burned at base, obviously.” He adds, his tone quiet but coated in familiar sorrow. When you look at him, you knew. Simon’s eyes held waters of pain, a depth of understanding for it.

Fingers curl around the laces lazily. You don’t say a word, neither of you do.

“She’d be proud of you, Si. I know damn well she would be.”

He thinks you’re lying for shit. That you’re sugar coating the truth in a layer of false hope, and he’s not sure what’s worse, the fact you’re lying or the fact he believes it. Simon allows himself, just for once, to be misguided. He didn’t know his threshold for pain, but the searing hot shame pouring over his heart right now is punishing.

You’re smiling. Soft, demure, inviting. You’re smiling at him, looking almost blessed with damaged goods, wide eyes deep and knowing. His fingers twitch, itching to hold you in his palms.