#ghost cod x reader

So, of course, he spent his afternoon searching up gift ideas instead of reviewing the latest sparring schedules. It started with a fairly vague search.

How do you choose a birthday gift?

He clicked link after link, advice ranging from checking through their things to find out what needed replacing, to just getting something that screamed them. Simon wasn't sure what the latter meant, but the first one made him hesitate.

Last Tuesday he had practically launched himself into the kitchenette when a loud crash echoed out from the space, his mind flipping directly into fight mode. Whatever he had been expecting to see, it was nothing compared to the utterly heartbroken look on your face as you stared down at the pieces of shattered ceramic littering the floor. Your favourite mug had slipped from your grasp and had not survived the fall. You'd brushed it off, a smile much too forced on your lips as you swept the pieces up.

It was the first time your smile had caused his heart to stutter in a way he didn't enjoy, a sad expression that didn't fit your usually chipper attitude. You'd ended up using one of the spare mugs in the cupboard ever since, some dull beige thing with the name of a random company stamped onto the side.

Something practical. Something that needed replacing. Maybe this gift thing wasn't that difficult at all.

•••

Simon was in hell.

He hadn't been able to get away for the rest of the day, dragged into a sudden meeting with Price and a few of the higher ups that lasted hours. By the time he'd managed to escape, it had been too late. Which is why the next day, after he had managed to wrangle Soap into covering his afternoon sparring drills with the greenies, he found himself in the middle of a giftshop that was bursting with pastels and cute stationary. He stuck out like a sore thumb, a mass of shadow surrounded by items so dainty looking he was hesitant to pick anything up.

He had been staring at a shelf of cat themed mugs for ten minutes.

Not because he hadn't chosen one. He'd decided the moment he'd set his eyes on them that he'd be purchasing the one that looked like your cat, the somewhat distrusting calico that he had barely caught a glimpse of just before he had left you to unpack your new apartment. No, the issue was it didn't seem like enough. What secret message would a mug send? It seemed like such a small thing, much to small in comparison to the effect you had on him daily.

"Would you like me to wrap one of these up for you?" She had moved so silently, Simon actually startled, head whipping around towards the elderly woman. She smiled warmly at him, silver hair tucked up into a neat bun and a floral printed apron smooth over her long skirt. "They're cute wee things. The part on top actually doubles as a coaster. Or a small plate if you're like me and enjoy a nice biscuit with your tea."

She spoke to him like he didn't look like a massive heathen in the middle of the boutique. He nodded slowly, pointing to the black and orange patterned ceramic.

"Yea… that one there if that's a'right."

She beamed, pulling the box from the shelf and continuing to chat, tucking the mug into the tissue paper. "My daughter insisted on these when we found them. Said all cat owners love finding small things that look like their little babies. You have just the one?"

Simon blinked in disbelief. "Have one… baby?"

"A cat, dear." She chuckled, patting his arm lightly.

"Oh, erm… no. S'not for me."

The woman practically lit up like the last time Johnny got to use C4. "A gift then? For a special someone?"

If he'd been wearing his usual balaclava, it would have better shielded the blush that flooded his cheeks, but he had elected for the basic medical mask since he had wanted to avoid scaring every civilian on the sidewalk.

The flush on his face only seemed to encourage the older woman, a twinkle in her eye as she placed the lid on the small box. "Do they know they're a special someone yet?"

Simon had never felt so transparent and easily read in his life. If the shop owner ever wanted to join up, she'd make a hell of an interrogator.

"Not…" He pressed his lips together for a moment. "D'you have… any suggestions?"

He trailed after her to the front as she reached behind the counter, pulling out a giftbag and a spool of ribbon. "Well, what kind of gift is it?" She hummed, carefully slipping the box into the paper bag.

"Birthday."

"Well, I can't say what your special someone would enjoy, but I always think birthdays call for something sweet." She carefully curled the ribbons, fixing the curls to the bag. "Though my husband always swore by flowers."

"Flowers die though." He stated bluntly, and it got a loud laugh from her as she slid the bag towards him.

"Very true."

When Simon pulled out his wallet, he was left baffled when she shook her head. "Don't worry about it, dear. It was the last one on display."

He paused, before gingerly picked up the giftbag, utterly confused by the whole interaction. "Thanks…"

It was when he was halfway out the door that she waved him off with a chipper, "Good luck!".

When he got back to base that evening, Simon was sat at the desk pushed against the far wall in his quarters, staring down at the cluttered surface. His conversation with the woman from the gift shop had caused him to do something possibly foolish. He didn't even know if he would be able to pull it off, but with a quiet huff, he got to work.

•••

He hadn't been able to psych himself up to the point of handing you the gift in person, so he resorted to his old standby of leaving it on your desk, dead center for when you arrived to base that morning. He would've been lying if he said he hadn't been loitering around the administration block and occasionally peering in. He felt almost jittery. He'd faced men bigger than him wielding knives, and even rappelled from the top of a skyscraper, but giving you a gift had him a mess.

It was his third circle through the corridor when he caught sight of your familiar jacket, slowing and peeking through the doorway as you came to a stop at your desk. It was torture, waiting for you to move at all, your body faced away so he couldn't gage your expression. Did you hate it? Was it a foolish decision? Should he go find Price and demand to be sent on the next long term op that became available?

You slid your jacket off, before stepping forward finally, sitting down in your chair.

You were beaming.

Atop your desk, placed with care, was the cute cat themed mug already holding your usual tea. Not only that, but beside it resting on the lid was a small decorated cupcake. And the part that Simon had been most nervous about, fingers sporting several papercuts from his attempt to get it right, was a small bundle of carefully folded paper flowers.

When you glanced up, looking to the doorway where you thought you saw a shadow from the corner of your eye, it was already gone.

And Simon had a noticeable bounce to his step on his way to his morning briefing.

(Simon's gifts to reader on their birthday)

It's subtle, insidious and it feels familiar in a way he doesn't like—this hyperfocus, this over-responsibility, the old pattern of choosing one person to anchor to.

By Friday, you're quieter again, subdued almost with no other incidents.

He kneels beside your chair during a supervised evening activity, keeping his tone low.

"Eating better?"

You nod.

"Sleeping?"

"Mostly."

He studies you longer than necessary.

"You can talk, you know."

"I know."

But you're looking at him the way you were in the corridor that noon—like he's something solid in a room that keeps shifting and he feels himself lean into it.

The following day he come in shortly after lights out for his night shift, the ward already settled into its dim and humming quiet.

It's just him and Mara covering.

Lights low, monitors dimmed, patients breathing behind half-open or closed doors.

Enhanced observation means more walking, more checking, more proximity.

At 01:15, he's the one assigned to your corridor.

You're awake, sitting up in bed and your door cracked open per protocol.

When he passes, your eyes flick up immediately.

"You're still here." you whisper to not disturb anyone else and to not sound loud in the silence over the otherwise quiet institute.

"For now." Simon replies.

You relax back against your pillow like that answer was enough.

It shouldn't feel like something, but it does.

By 03:40, after two more rounds, he finds Mara at the nurses station with a mug of stale coffee and unfinished notes.

"You're hovering." she says without looking up.

"I'm doing checks."

"On one door."

He exhales through his nose.

Silence stretches.

"I'm screwing this up."

That gets her attention and she sets her pen down, looks at Simon.

"Explain."

He doesn't sit—stays standing, arms folded tight across his chest like he's bracing against cold.

"I backed off, did what I was supposed to. Now I'm right back in it." his jaw flexes.

"In what?" Mara questions.

He hesitates, then says it plainly.

"I care about them."

Mara studies him carefully, doesn't quiet need to hear your name.

"You care about all of them."

"Not like this." Simon says before he scrubs a hand down his face, perhaps in frustration.

"I feel it when they're not in the room, I look for them first, I-" he stops, recalibrates.

"When they almost went down in that corridor, I didn't think about protocol. I just-"

"Caught them." Mara finishes for him.

"Yes."

"And you think no one else would have?"

He doesn't answer and his silence speaks volumes.

Mara leans back in her chair.

"Are they attaching to you?"

He thinks about the way you scan for him, the way your shoulders relax when he speaks, the way you swallow disappointment when he redirects you.

"Yes."

"Are you encouraging it?"

Simons silence is shorter this time.

"...I don't shut it down fast enough."

Mara nods slowly.

"You can't be their only safe person."

"I know."

"And you can't be the person they're trying to get better for."

His throat tightens, he hadn't said that part out loud—hadn't quiet considered it could be.

Mara's voice softens but not by much.

"You need to consider reassignment."

The word lands heavy again even though it's the second time he's been suggested it.

Reassignment.

Another nurse taking over primary contact, different corridor coverage, reduced direct interaction.

His stomach drops slightly.

He had talked with Dr. Adams about it but had thought he could manage it, realizing now that he may not be able to makes reassigning a real option.

"That'll feel like abandonment to them."

"It might." Mara agrees.

"Or it might model something healthy." she adds.

He looks away toward the dark hallway.

"I already pulled back once."

"And you survived it."

"They looked at me like I'd taken something from them."

Mara's gaze sharpens.

"That's the point, Simon."

Silence again, longer this time.

"You can't withdraw as easily now." she says quietly and it's not a question.

"No."

The first time he created distance it felt sharp but manageable, now it feels like peeling something off skin.

"I don't trust myself to stay neutral." he admits.

Mara nods again in acknowledgment.

"Then you escalate it before it escalates you."

"You're telling me to tap out." Simon huffs humorless.

"I'm telling you to protect both of you."

That hits harder than anything else because this isn't about him feeling something inconvenient, it's about the risk of becoming essential—of being the pillar that collapses.

He thinks about your voice at 01:15, about the way you'd sagged against him in the corridor, about how quickly he stepped forward—too quickly.

"Temporary reassignment is an option too. Rotate primary, let them build trust with the rest of the team." Mara says.

"And if they spiral?"

"They might." Mara says honestly "Or They might learn they don't have to."

He leans back against the counter, looks down the dimly lit corridor where your door is cracked open.

Simon feels it again, that pull—protective, personal and he hates that last one especially.

"I don't want to disappear on them." he says finally.

"Then don't disappear, just don't be the center." Mara replies.

He closes his eyes briefly.

Reassignment means stepping out of night checks on your corridor, letting someone else respond first, letting someone else steady you if you sway.

The thought makes his chest ache which tells him Mara is right.

At 04:00, he does the next round, stops at your door.

Fifteen-minute check.

You're asleep, peaceful for once.

He stands there a second too long then forces himself to move on because if he doesn't choose the boundary now, it will be chosen for him later.

***

The next morning, after shift handover, he doesn't put in the request and hovers over the staffing board instead.

Primary assignments for the week are written in dry erase marker, his name still next to yours.

It would take less than a minute to change it, less than that to speak to the charge nurse or request another nurse to exchange shifts and therefore primary assignments.

He tells himself he'll decide after sleep, after clarity—after he doesn't feel like he's made of raw wire and even rawer nerves.

But clarity doesn't come with rest.

It comes with watching you sit at breakfast and deliberately choose the chair with a sightline to the nurses' station the next morning.

It comes with noticing that when someone else answers your question, you nod but when he answers you actually listen.

It comes with the small crease between your brows when he redirects you to 'bring that to your one-on-one'.

And instead of softening, something in him tightens.

He becomes sharper, clipped—frustrated by his own inability to do the right thing.

On Monday, a different patient refuses medication and Simon's patience runs thin far faster than it should.

"You know the protocol, arguing won't change it." he presses out through clenched teeth.

The patient flinches.

Later, during group, someone starts spiraling into repetitive negative self-talk and he interrupts too quickly.

"Challenge it." he says, tone edging toward command instead of guidance.

The room shifts and he feels it—too forceful.

He tells himself it's exhaustion but exhaustion doesn't explain why his gaze keeps snapping back to you to check your reaction.

You're watching him, not afraid, just...confused.

By midweek, the distance he's trying to manufacture starts coming out sideways.

You approach him after lunch, slower than usual.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes." his tone is neutral but there's steel under it.

You hesitate, blink at him a few times.

"Never mind." you breathe out quietly after a few moments.

He should leave it there—he doesn't.

"What is it?"

You swallow, gather your courage.

"Did I...do something wrong?" you ask almost hesitantly.

The question lands like a weight dropped from height—hard, heavy and loud.

"No." he frowns.

"You're different." you observe.

"I'm consistent."

"That's not the same thing." you argue softly.

Simons jaw tightens.

"This isn't about me." he says gruff, a little too low and a little too fast.

"I know. Sorry." you nod quickly, backing off with two steps before you even speak.

Sorry.

The word needles under his skin—it pricks, burns and stings.

You apologize too easily when you think someone's pulling away, he knows that from your file—from your sessions and from watching you too.

He hates that he's the one triggering it now.

That evening, a patient down the hall has a panic attack.

Simon responds automatically, efficiently.

Grounding techniques, getting the patient away from the trigger, steady voice, controlled breathing.

But when the patient clutches at his sleeve in distress, he feels irritation flash before empathy.

He detaches their hand firmly.

"I'm right here. You don't need to grab."

Technically it's appropriate, but the edge that isn't supposed to be there isn't.

Mara catches his eye from across the corridor with a look of assessment, not judgement.

You see it too.

He notices you watching from your doorway during your allowed out-of-room hours—you look worried, for him and not the patient in distress which unsettles him more than anything.

Now it's not just that you're attaching, you're tracking him.

By Thursday, the internal debate turns vicious.

Temporary reassignment means modeling boundaries.

Complete reassignment means cutting the cord entirely.

Temporary might ease you into broader trust, complete might protect both of you faster.

Temporary might keep him close enough to monitor.

Complete would mean not being the one you look for at 01:15 in the morning.

He runs through outcomes like tactical scenarios—risk assessment, emotional fallout, stability probability.

But this isn't a battlefield, it's a psych ward and he's not neutral.

During handover that night, when your name comes up, he forces himself not to ask the follow-up question he wants to.

Mara answers it anyway.

"They ate. No ideation reported. Engaged in afternoon group."

Professional, stable—not his.

He feels the thought as soon as it forms and despises it.

Not his, you were never his and that's the problem.

Near the end of his shift, he passes your room during checks.

You're awake again.

"Hey." you say quietly, most of the ward having started to settle into their rooms for the evening.

He nods once in acknowledgment, then speaks.

"How was group earlier?" he asks, sticking to structure.

"Okay." you say, pause for a moment.

"You seemed mad today."

"I wasn't." Simon says immediately.

"You were." you push, still quiet and soft, and his patience frays.

"I'm not the focus here."

You go quiet immediately.

He sees it, the retreat—the way your shoulders curl in.

And suddenly, he recognizes the pattern.

He's not pulling away cleanly, he's swinging.

Close, cold, sharp and gentle—that unpredictability is worse than distance.

He steps back from your doorway.

"Get some sleep." he says, softer but still restrained.

You nod but you don't relax the way you used to when he said that.

At his shift end, alone at the nurses' station while the night nurse makes his first round, he stares at the staffing board again.

He thinks about Dr. Adams asking him who this is really for.

He thinks about Mara saying 'protect both of you'.

He thinks about the way he snapped at a patient who needed steadiness, not command.

His feelings aren't just contained inside him anymore, they're leaking into the ward—that's the line.

Not the ache, not the jealousy, not even the attachment—it's the impact.

He picks up the marker and holds it there but doesn't write, not yet.

The question shifts.

It's no longer whether reassignment will hurt, it's whether staying will hurt more.

He doesn't erase his name, not that evening and not the next one either.

Instead, Friday night finds him in a bar at the start of a weeklong vacation he'd agreed to months ago—before your re-admission, before scissors on linoleum floors, before staffing boards felt like moral battlegrounds and before his feeling for you even developed.

The bar is engolfed in low lights, loud laughter and the sharp scent of beer and cigarette smoke.

Across the table sit the only three men who knew him before he learned how to speak in therapeutic tones, who accepted him even before it.

John Price leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled, eyes still assessing even in civilian clothes and life.

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish is halfway through a story, hands animated while grinning easily.

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick listens more than he talks, gaze sharp and steady.

They meet like this every so often.

No ranks, no orders, just history and some exchanged stories of their current lives after the military.

Simon thought the noise would quiet his head, but it doesn't.

"You're miles away, L.T." Soap says finally, nudging his glass toward him "Either the beer's rubbish or you are."

"Work." Simon huffs in response.

"That so." Price states more than he questions, lifting a brow.

Simon debates brushing it off but ultimately doesn't—he's too torn, he needs more opinions.

"There's a patient." he says flatly and the men react.

Soap's grin fades immediately, Gaz sits up a fraction and Price doesn't move at all.

"And?" Gaz prompts.

"I'm too involved."

"Mate, you're a psych nurse. Involvement's in the job description." Soap snorts lightly.

"Not like this." Simon murmurs and his words land.

"How bad?" Price asks, setting his glass down with deliberate quiet in the loud bar.

"I'm thinking about reassigning myself." Simon says, staring at the condensation on his bottle.

"And you haven't." Price observes.

"No."

"Why?"

Because when they look for me, I feel necessary.

Because when they steady against me, I don't want to let go.

Because stepping back feels like abandoning someone who already expects people to leave.

He doesn't say any of that.

"I don't know if it's better to stay consistent or cut it clean."

Soap leans forward, elbows on the table.

"Are you crossing lines?" the scot asks.

"No."

"Thinking about it?"

Simon's jaw tightens.

"Yes."

Silence, but not judgmental—measured.

Gaz speaks up first after that.

"Is it affecting the rest of your patients?"

There it is, the same question Mara never asked directly but implied.

"Yes."

"How?"

"Shorter temper, less patience. They're tracking me, the patient I mean. Watching for me." he exhales.

"And you like that." Soap says, tilting his head in a way that would usually suggest a question even though this isn't one—it isn't accusing, it's clarity.

Simon doesn't answer so Price does it for him.

"Course he does."

That makes him looks up sharply but Price's expression is calm, almost tired.

"You spent years being the one everyone relied on, the one who caught them before they hit the ground. Hard habit to break." the former captain says, holding Simon's gaze.

"That's not what this is."

No one argues.

"Is this about them or about you not wanting to feel like you've walked away?" Gaz asks, barely loud enough to be heard over the turmoil of the bar.

The question is cleaner than any advice he's gotten all week.

Soap drains his glass before he speaks.

"If you were still in and you were too close to someone on your team, too reactive and too personal, what would Price do?" he asks, tone lighter but eyes serious.

"Pull me." Simon answers without hesitation.

"Why?" the scot presses.

"Compromised judgment."

"There you go." Soap shrugs.

"It's not the same." Simon snaps before he can stop himself.

Price's gaze sharpens slightly at the edge in his tone.

"No." Price agrees calmly "It's not war, but it is responsibility nonetheless."

Simon leans back, running a hand over his mouth.

"They already struggle with abandonment and if I get myself reassigned to a different institute or a different ward or patient that would only confirm that." he says finally.

Gaz shakes his head, his fingers toying mindlessly with the label on his beer bottle.

"Or it shows them that care doesn't disappear when one person steps back." he argues.

"You don't have to quit the job or leave entirely, you just have to shift roles." Soap nods in agreement to Gaz.

Price studies Simon in that infuriatingly quiet way, scrutinizing the younger man for a few long moments.

"You want someone to tell you to stay." he says.

Simon's eyes flick up, because...yes.

He's heard 'reassign' from Mara, from his therapist, from his own instincts at 03:00 in the morning when the fear of nightmares wouldn't let him sleep.

He came here wanting one of them to say 'You can handle it', 'You've handled worse', 'Stay'—Price doesn't give him that.

"What's the mission?" Price asks instead.

Simon exhales slowly, needs to collect himself.

"Stabilize them, build resilience, broaden support network." he murmurs.

"And where do you fit in that?" Price continues.

"...As part of the team."

"Not the center." Gaz says quietly.

The same words as Mara, it's almost irritating.

Soap nudges him again, softer this time.

"Mate. If you're snapping at other patients, you're already past the line."

Simon doesn't argue because he knows it's true.

Price finishes his drink and sets it down.

"You don't get to be the hero in this one, you get to be the professional." he says evenly.

The words sting, but Simon sits with it.

The noise of the bar swells around them—laughter, clinking glasses, music bleeding from bad speakers.

He thinks about the way you apologized when he pulled back, about the way his temper flared at someone who didn't deserve it.

If this were tactical, the answer would already be made—reduce risk, redistribute responsibility and preserve operational integrity.

He exhales again.

"I hate that it feels like quitting."

"It's not quitting, it's containment." Gaz says.

Price stands, claps a firm hand on Simon's shoulder.

"Make the call before someone else makes it for you."

"And if you don't, we'll come down there and write it on your whiteboard ourselves." Soap grins which almost makes Simon chuckle in response.

Almost.

But when they leave the bar and the cold air hits his face, the noise gone, the decision feels heavier—clearer but not easier.

He pulls his phone out, opens the staff scheduling app and stares at his upcoming shifts.

Primary assignment: you.

His finger hoovers over your name for a moment, considering to change it or delete it so your slot is empty and free for someone else to take...but he doesn't—he can't.

His former military buddies help him from spiraling the rest of his weeklong off-work time, from going off the deep end due to being unable to decide if he should go or stay.

Simon knows that the right thing to do is get distance from you, give the rest of the staff the chance to be the support you need and give you the chance to take it.

But it isn't that simple, of course it couldn't be.

You're a walking wound, scars layered on scars, a broken bird with wings too torn to fly and he's a man with his own share of scars and demons.

Buried deeply in Simon's subconscious, the two of you are broken pieces of the same shattered and jagged edges glass—he'd be dammed to let you become like him.

He'd be dammed to let you have sleepless nights because your thoughts are running themselves raw, to let the rest you get be unsatisfying and never enough due to nightmares.

Simon Riley would be dammed to allow you to think that you have to offer to be loved.

The rest of the week passed agonizingly slow for Simon.

It's was nice having Price, Gaz and Soap around, but to know he'll get to see you again was the only thing truly making him push through.

He had shown the guys around town, they even drove past the institute where Simon had half a mind to storm inside just to see you but luckily decided against it, and the consistent thoughts of reassigning or not kept torturing him.

When he enters the ward again once the guys drove back home and his vacation ended, he goes through the same motions as always—swiping his badge to gain access to the building along with his keys, write himself in and exchange a few words with his coworkers while checking charts.

Breakfast and morning meds have already passed, so Simon takes it upon himself to do checks.

The door of your room is opened a crack and when Simon pushes it open it's...empty.

Not only are you not there, none of your belongings are.

Your bedding is gone, the closet is open and empty and there's nothing on the desk or nightstand either.

He frowns deeply, turns back around with a pounding heart of panic.

Did you do it again? Did you try once more?

When he reaches the nurses station, frown still on his face, he asks for you.

"Reassigned." the other day nurse, Olivia, tells him flatly.

He stares at her for a few moments, unable to process it.

"What?" he asks sharply, his brows furrowing even more and resembling more of a scowl.

Olivia blinks at him, taken aback by his tone.

"Yeah...the patient requested reassignment last Friday rather urgently and it was granted a day later. They left on Wednesday." she informs him.

Wednesday? You're already gone since Wednesday?

You weren't even here when he drove past with Gaz, Soap and Price.

"Why wasn't I informed?" he almost barks at the other nurse, anger and hurt mixing hot and bursting under his skin.

Before he knows it, he finds himself in Dr. Patel's office—your now old therapist.

Dr. Patel looks up when Simon steps in, he doesn't look surprised and instead looks...almost prepared.

"Close the door, please." he says and Simon does, perhaps a little harder than necessary.

"They've been reassigned?" he asks with a tight and clipped voice that has nothing to do with professionalism.

"Yes." the therapist answers calmly, gesturing to the empty chair—Simon doesn't sit down.

"Since Wednesday?" he continues instead, shifting his weight from one foot to the other restlessly.

"Yes." the doctor confirms again.

He feels it then.

Not the clean detachment he's been trying to practice, something much much sharper.

"You could've informed primary staff." Simon grunts.

"You were on leave." Dr. Patel says, studying him carefully.

"That's not the point."

"It is partially the point." the man shoots back immediately, making Simon's jaw flex in anger.

"They requested it after a long session on Friday." Dr. Patel continues evenly.

Friday—the same night he was sitting in a bar discussing whether he should pull back.

"They initiated it?" Simon asks.

"Yes."

That knocks something sideways in his chest.

"They noticed their attachment to you specifically and they were concerned it was interfering with their treatment." Dr. Patel explains calmly.

Simon says nothing.

"They were very clear." the therapist adds "They don't blame you. They weren't angry. They were...aware."

Aware—the word burns.

"We discussed options. They concluded that distance would help them focus on healing rather than on managing feelings."

Simon swallows hard to try and rid himself of the lump in his throat—it doesn't work.

"And you agreed." he states more than he asks since he saw your absence.

"Yes."

Silence thickens in the office.

"The only reason I'm telling you this is because they asked me to. They wanted you to know it wasn't impulsive and they didn't want you to think they've been discharged." Dr. Patel continues after a few moments.

"Where?" Simon asks, staring at the bookshelf behind Dr. Patel instead of looking at him.

"I won't disclose that."

"I'm not asking for contact." Simon frowns—a lie, maybe.

"I didn't say you were." Dr. Patel says gently "But location is part of confidentiality, they were clear about that boundary."

Boundary.

Of course you would do it properly, of course you would think it through.

"They didn't want to leave without a word, but they felt saying goodbye would complicate it." the other man adds.

Anger flares hot and fast again.

"That wasn't their decision to make alone." Simon snaps, Dr. Patel doesn't rise to it.

"They are allowed to make decisions about their treatment."

Simon exhales sharply through his nose.

You left without letting him see you, without letting him respond, without giving him the chance to-

To what?

Convince you to stay?

Promise to step back?

Make it harder?

"They were proud of themselves. It took insight to recognize the pattern and act on it." Dr. Patel says quietly.

Pride—that's what cuts deepest.

Because under the anger, under the sting of being left out...he is proud.

You saw it, you named it and you chose your healing over proximity.

It's exactly what he'd wanted you to learn, just not like this.

"So that's it." he says finally.

"For now." Dr. Patel confirms with a single, slow nod.

Simon nods once in response—controlled, professional.

"If they progress we'll receive a summary report eventually if they agree, but they won't be returning here."

The finality lands heavy.

He doesn't trust himself to speak again, so he leaves.

The corridor feels different without you in it—too quiet, too neutral.

Your old room is already reassigned by the end of the week to one new patient and one who requested a room switch.

New bedding, new names on the chart of the room that was once yours.

The chair at breakfast is taken by someone else who doesn't care about sightlines to the nurses' station.

Simon doesn't erase his name from the staffing board, it's erased for him and somehow that feels worse.

For a few days, he's angry—at you, at himself, at Dr. Patel, at the timing.

You left while he was debating whether to step back, you made the call he couldn't without consultation and without goodbye.

He replays your last conversation at your doorway.

'You seemed mad today.' - 'I'm not the focus here.'

He wonders if that was the moment you decided, if he pushed you into proving you could leave first.

The hurt comes quieter and in flashes—when he turns a corner and expects to see you sitting cross-legged on the floor, when he hears a laugh that sounds almost like yours and looks up before he can stop himself, when 01:15 rolls around on night shift and no one is sitting up waiting for him to pass.

And beneath all of it is pride.

You chose yourself, you did what he couldn't and you protected both of you.

He should feel relieved but instead, he feels hollow.

So he does what he's always done when something inside him starts to splinter; he works.

He picks up extra shifts when someone calls in sick, volunteers for doubles, covers weekends and nights and holidays.

If he's on the ward, he doesn't necessarily have to think about the room down the corridor.

If he's exhausted, he doesn't have to sit with the ache.

Mara notices first.

"You're burning yourself out." she says one evening when he agrees to stay four hours past shift end.

"I'm fine." he murmurs.

"You're not." she disagrees but he doesn't engage.

Because if he slows down, if he has an empty evening with nothing but his own thoughts, he might ask himself whether you waited for him to choose distance and when he didn't when you chose it yourself.

He tells himself this is what professionals do, that they respect decisions and don't chase nor interfere—he will not interfere.

He will not try to find out where you went, he will not ask Dr. Patel for updates, he will not look you up in transfer reports and he will not make your hard choice harder.

So he buries it.

Under twelve-hour shifts, under charting, under de-escalations and medication rounds and safety plans.

He becomes efficient again—calm, controlled and comfortably firm.

No sharp edges in group, no clipped tones, no hovering at one specific door.

Balanced, neutral, professional.

The ward stabilizes around him.

Patients respond, Mara stops watching him quite so closely.

On the surface, he looks steady.

But at 01:15 when he passes down a corridor that no longer holds your cracked-open door, he still feels it—that absence.

Sharp, quiet and earned.

The deck of old and worn uno cards stay untouched in the pockets of his scrubs and his jacket when he's not working, reserved for the day he might see you again.

my masterlist

you know yourself too well to even bother checking your coat pockets for your keys, but you do anyway out of desperation and as expected, come out empty. for a moment you just stand there with your forehead thumped forward against the door frame while you picture yourself walking out the back door, nose stuck in your phone as you bypass the key holder without so much as a parting glance. you locked the door behind yourself - you know you did, but you try it anyway just to be sure. wouldn't do to pry your landlord out of bed just to have him show up and try the knob.

of all the stupid shit you've already pulled this morning, you wouldn't put it past yourself, honestly, but of course securing your house was the one thing you'd managed to complete successfully.

your boss is understanding when you text her. 'take your time. and stay warm!' a point you hadn't considered until she'd said it, the chill seeping in through the seams of your coat as you stand on your back porch, debating. if you could at least get into your car, you'd have options. potential tools you could maybe use to break in. but as it stands, you've nothing, and a call to your vaguely lecherous landlord is seeming more and more imminent. snow crunches under boot as you round the house, desperate. you'd be proud of how diligent you've been in locking windows, if not for the fact that you could really use an open one right about now. giving in, you pull your phone from your pocket again and grumble when you drop it, fingers gone numb with the chill. crouching low, you dig it out of the snow and check for pavement marks in the low light from the streetlamp across the road. except, your screen isn't the only glass the light catches - a dull glaze reflecting in the basement window before you, rickety casing looking quite promising.

your phone works well enough to use the flashlight, at least. you frown in distaste at the mess of cobwebs on the other side of the window, but between a creepy unfinished basement and an asshole landlord who spends just as much time leering at you as he does belittling your concerns, you'll try your luck with the slumbering spiders.

the panes hang crookedly. two panels, side by side. there's some concern about whether or not you'll even be able to fit through it if you can manage to get it open, but you give it a rough estimate and decide to try anyway, jimmying the first panel until it rocks forward in its soggy frame - enough so that you can squirm a stick between the two where they're latched together, loosely. probably, you should be concerned how easy it is to knock the lock. you add it to the list of things your landlord will never fix for you.

while the soggy casing had made for an easy in, it's much harder to actually slide the window open. you grunt in effort, cold fingers cramping when you finally get enough space to slip them around the frame. the wood creaks. you worry for a moment that the pane will shatter before it gives an inch, and then nearly topple over when it opens all at once. the cobwebs beyond stretch and warp; snap, brittle with age and frost. snow gives way before you, a small avalanche that collects on the dirt floor below. you're not overly familiar with the basement - have tried all your tenancy to avoid venturing into it - but you remember from the house tour that the front half, up near where the trap door in the front porch opens, at least boasts a cement slab. no such luck here, it seems. the frame digs into your belly when you shimmy through, feet first. there's a small moment of vertigo as you free fall and you can't help squirming in disgust when your hands trail down the slimy blocks that make up the walls. you wipe them off on your jeans as best you can before retrieving your phone from your pocket and throwing the hood of your coat up for an added layer of protection from the general grime.

your flashlight casts a tight circle, a problem seeing as you're slightly disoriented and unsure where the door to the stairway is. you aim it at the ceiling and cringe further into the protection of your coat when it reveals nothing more than a good few decade's worth of cobwebs built up between the beams.

concentrate. somewhere, there's a bare bulb with a pull chain. if you could just -

adrenaline piqued with the stress of your situation, you nearly jump out of your skin when your phone begins to vibrate with an incoming call. irrational anger mounting, you don't even spare a glance at the contact before snapping into the receiver, "Yeah?"

your frustration only builds when you're greeted by the gruff voice of your landlord, made all the more gravelly by the fact that he'd clearly just woken up. "mornin' darl'. you leave for work yet?"

"john…" the question catches you off guard, gives you pause as you stumble in your efforts to simultaneously use the flash light while also speaking with him. "pardon?"

"have you left for work yet?"

you'd take a calming breath if the thought of breathing this dank air deep didn't make you want to hurl, just a little. instead you take a moment to switch the call to speaker phone, move a little further into the room. "can't say i have. why do you ask?"

he grunts, sounding a little perturbed when he continues. "well. might recommend you do."

despite yourself, his presence on the line calms you down enough to brave the cobwebs and you slink further, trying hard as you can to not process your surroundings even as you search for the door. "why's that?"

"neighbor called, love. said they just watched someone crawl through the basement window."

he gives it all the levity it deserves, but you can't help laughing at him, humor only building when you hear his jaw clenching on the other end of the line.

"sorry. i don't mean to laugh." you pause to collect yourself, take a look around and find your route out. "but i wouldn't worry too much. i locked myself out and decided to try the window instead of bothering you first thing in the morning." a fairly diplomatic way of saying you'd rather navigate the Silent Hill bathroom that is your own cellar than deal with him. not too bad, all things considered.

"oh, love, it's no trouble. climb on back outta that creepy basement and i'll be right over."

for a moment you picture him the way he must see himself: riding up in his battered yet dependable pick up just to save you from the cold. hard telling what makes your stomach turn more, him or the mud which gives under your boot, soft belly of your house. you step up onto the cement slab just as a series of thuds overhead draw your attention - heavy enough to rain dust from the rafters. panda, you imagine, her wide haunches bunching as she thunders through the house, far too heavy for a cat. you should probably put her on a diet. "your house is haunted," you accuse instead by way of reply, eager to steer the conversation away from him coming to save you and rendering your whole excursion null.

"might be," he muses. "but don't fret, love. ghost likes pretty things like you."

"right." you'd roll your eyes if you weren't so busy focusing on your footsteps, picking your way carefully lest you step on a mouse carcass or something equally heinous.

"anyway, what's your plan? the inner door on the porch will be locked too, won't it?"

the one into the dining room, he means. the one you're definitely guilty of never locking because panda likes to spend her evenings in the entry and you don't see the harm when there's a perfectly functional locked door on the enclosed porch. "it's not," you hedge, unsure if you want to be telling your landlord this considering it's his property you're putting in danger.

"darl'," john drawls, and you cut him off before he can add a good reprimand to the list of things you've had to endure this morning.

"yes, it will be locked after this, i promise. i just didn't realize how easy it would be to come in through the basement window."

"always the easiest ones to go through," he grumbles, and you think you hear his car door slam in the background of his call.

"i told you not to bother coming," you groan, kicking over a stack of old paint cans in your haste to make it to the door. like it's a race, like if you make it into the house before he can get there then he won't make you even more late for work, loitering around to check for damages to his basement window and jawing at you patronizingly.

the door's an old thing. thick wood gone warped and wilted with the damp. it's swollen in its frame, fights you when you try to pull it from the jamb. you grunt loud enough that you don't quite catch your landlord's response, and then zone him out altogether as the door finally yanks free and light spills in from above, the trapdoor at the top of the stairs wide open, overhead porch light glowing cheerily - unawares of the omen it brings. you shuffle back a step, another, try to hide among the shadows of the cellar even as your landlord's deep voice carries on. your fingers scrabble over the screen, smother the unit in your coat - anything to keep his commanding voice from carrying because you know. you know you didn't leave the light on, much less the trap door open.

nonsensically, your thoughts scatter, imagine panda investigating the porch, the staircase below. your head swivels behind as if to check for her even as you keep slinking sideways, skirting the ring of light until your back presses against the grit of the wall - instinctual, easily defensible.

"john," you hiss, risking the light of your phone enough to take it back out, turn off the flashlight, take him off speaker phone, call for help; anything. keep at it even as he carries on, much too loud to hear you.

"- and who would i be if i didn't come to help, hm? can't have you -."

"john! fuck -! listen to me!" you're not even sure he hears you, quiet as you're being. he certainly doesn't stop droning on, though he stops when he hears you squeak, foot catching on something low and soft which pillows your fall when you collapse onto it. cold blankets, damp and sweaty.

you gag as you roll, stop dead when another series of thuds echo over head. other direction now, back the way they'd come. your eyes track the path, land on the halo of light spilling through the door just as the intruder's shadow cuts across, impossibly big with the exaggerated angle. without the added light from your phone, you're plunged into relative darkness, the small circle of thin amber light ringing the door scattered by the severe contour of the man upstairs. there's nowhere to hide, really, and your only option is to keep slinking back into the recesses of the basement, too afraid to try scurrying back out the window lest he sees your legs kicking as you try to heave yourself out.

boots lumber into view first, heavy and mud-caked. instinctively, your eyes fall to the dirt you're treading over and seek out the treads. broad, huge. deep scores indicating how heavy he is, how many times he's worn a path into the ground. among them you spot tiny paw prints, almost as disturbing. she follows after, slinking into view as she weaves between his legs with a silent cry for attention. you bail when panda detects you, golden eyes glinting ominously as she scans the basement before leading him in, making a beeline for you the moment she alights on the landing.

traitor.

he follows after, ducking through the door. you force your limbs to move and slide further along the wall, folding under the empty, built-in shelf your shoulder bumps into as you go. it's filthy, cobwebs clinging to the skin of your face as you settle, but you clamp and hand over your mouth and stifle the whimper that builds, ears strained for any movement in the darkness laid out before you.

john's still in your ear, quieter now. as if he knows something isn't right. "sweetheart?" he prompts, and you feel a tear slip down your face when you realize that despite taking him off speaker phone, you'd never turned the volume down. your thumb finds the side buttons now, clicks until john's breathing is no more than a comforting whisper, no louder than your own.

no louder than the response you risk, voice hollow, only really audible on the plosives. "john, there's someone here."

"what's that, darl'?"

your breath hitches before you can respond, the low click and hum of a bare bulb flickering to life. it floods the room in fits and starts, turns the man's movements jagged and inhuman as he lowers his arm back to his side until finally it settles into a constant, thin and yellow. he stands directly above the bulb, the shadows of his face severe and gaunt, an odd contrast to his broad stature. for a long moment, he just stands there, dark gaze shifting slowly around the room. you follow it, try to see what he sees, figure out what could have given you away.

you don't make it that far, eyes catching on all the accoutrement that lines the walls. bed, stool. small pile of familiar books.

a cat litter box.

disinterested in you when you're not giving her treats or pets, the moment shatters when panda returns to him, headbutting him cheerily and begging for pets. he crouches to pick her up and she climbs onto his shoulder with a familiarity that unsettles you further, speaks to how long he's been spending his days with her. she doesn't move when he does, enjoys her high vantage as he cuts across the room, boots squelching in the dirt. he passes by you on his way to the window and shuts it easily, warped wood barely giving him any trouble. in the muted light from the window, you see the odd shadows of his face which you'd noted before are simply the hollows of a skull motif on the balaclava he wears.

"darlin', you still there?"

but you're not, boots tearing up the mud as you scramble out from your hiding place. panda follows you, the familiar heavy thud of her paws when she jumps from her perch a comfort. she passes you on the stairs even as you take them two at a time, chest puffing with the steep incline. at the top you turn and slam the trapdoor down, the white of his mask all you can see peering up at you from the darkness before the heavy door falls into place. there's nothing on the porch heavy enough to keep it in place, but you try anyway, pulling the cheap patio set closer and shepherding panda through the inner door in the same move, the little shit apparently more afraid of you and your erratic movements than she was the basement dweller with the skull mask.

you lock the inner door after you fall through it, watch in horror through the transom as the furniture heaves, a powerful quake that tosses them to the side before the door creeps open, hollow eyes checking for a trap before heavy, gloved fingers wrap around it properly, push it wide.

impossibly, he seems even bigger here, above ground, where you have a better gauge of normalcy. he eclipses the whole room, blots out the overhead light when he looms closer to the door, dark eye pressed against the glass so he can peer through a fractal in the glass, same as you'd just been. you back further into the dining room, bump against the table just as you feel his gaze on you. it distracts you from the sound of the key in the lock, the creak of the hinges what finally compels you to fucking run.

keys in hand, you book it out the back door and slam head first into a sturdy chest, legs flailing under you until john helps right you, fingers bruising hard on your arms as he tries to shush you into submission. he won't let you go no matter how much you shriek, just pulls you to his chest and smothers your cries there, orders you to tell him what's wrong even as he walks you back up the stairs.

somehow, between your shouting and your panting and your sobbing, he gets it: man down there; living there.