simon reads your letters from home.
> no NSFW, just a small scrap i wrote after a headcanon i read :)
Heâs read it about a hundred times.
Gloved fingertips tremble against the crumpled paper, withdrawing a breath sharply. Youâre 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, heâs a little suspicious. You didnât show him the letter, and made no effort to mention it. Simon wasnât 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 wasnât even sure why he stopped to take it out, but next thing he knew heâs 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 doesnât feel the same without you.
A fumble, a crinkling of paper - his heart is in his throat as he skims over the sheet.
Hope Simonâs taking care of you. Heâs a good man, I know he is. A gentleman, thatâs 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. Youâre going to have to write back quick, heâs quite worried for you. Thinks youâre gonna âlose yourselfâ in the US. Told him he was a nutcase.
He reads the first few words again. I love you lots.
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 motherâs.
Simon imagines itâs his own mother writing back.
âI love you lots, Si. Write back quickly, theyâre waiting for your stories in Mazrah. Joseph is absolutely smitten over the Lego Set you got him.â
âDadâs worried about you. Thinks youâre gonna lose yourself in the US.â
âI love you, Si. We miss you.â
The door opens. Simon isnât 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.
âGot the reservation, at last,â You chime, walking into your room to peer at the closest mirror. Simonâs 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 -
âWhatâs that?â Voice sharp and soft, like a flowery sting, Simonâs 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.
âYouâre reading it?â
âWhaâs it look like?â
You laugh a little evenly. âNo need to be so defensive, just asking.â You pause and Simon swears he wants the ground to swallow him.
âShe misses you, yâknow.â
You take that as a cue to purse your lips and speak anyway, turning to run a hand through your tousled hair. âWonât stop calling too. Asking me how I am, how you are.â
His grip tightens on the letter but he wordlessly lets go of it, the crinkled white flat against the bed. âCourse she was asking, always bickering and fussing. He thinks maybe thereâs where you get it from, the thought causing him to pause for a second.
âDo you wanna write back?â
âNot my letter, love.â 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 donât want to show him.
It was more a way to protect him. You werenât 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.
âNo, âm being serious. You should write back. Iâd know for a fact sheâd pin it up and everything.â 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.â
Silence again. âWell, just letting you know you can write. I get her WhatsApp messages can be a lot, but, Iâm sure sheâd love it.â
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?
âMum used to write.â Simon grumbled a little. You eyebrows raise into your hairline.
ââBout my nephew. Anâ home. Kept them all. Till they burned at base, obviously.â He adds, his tone quiet but coated in familiar sorrow. When you look at him, you knew. Simonâs eyes held waters of pain, a depth of understanding for it.
Fingers curl around the laces lazily. You donât say a word, neither of you do.
âSheâd be proud of you, Si. I know damn well she would be.â
He thinks youâre lying for shit. That youâre sugar coating the truth in a layer of false hope, and heâs not sure whatâs worse, the fact youâre lying or the fact he believes it. Simon allows himself, just for once, to be misguided. He didnât know his threshold for pain, but the searing hot shame pouring over his heart right now is punishing.
Youâre smiling. Soft, demure, inviting. Youâre smiling at him, looking almost blessed with damaged goods, wide eyes deep and knowing. His fingers twitch, itching to hold you in his palms.
Fuck it, he thinks. Heâll write back.