#reader uses asl

My Lieutenant

Summary: If you were to tell Lieutenant Simon Riley, the Ghost as he was known to both enemies and comrades, that he’d be on his way to some probably stuck up CIA agent to protect his daughter for the next few months, he would’ve given a blank stare and asked what you were smoking.

He really didn’t have the time, energy or patience to deal with really hoping his protection detail didn’t include a spoiled brat.

A/n: Hey y’all!! This is (was lmao) just something I’m working on to past the time for my first Kinktober. It’s a bit self indulgent but I also wanted to experiment with dialogue or lack thereof because I love getting better at what I enjoy!

Yes, reader has some trauma that will be explained in further chapters but for now you can conjure up whatever thoughts you please because those be the best thoughts 😛

This is a bodyguard romance because I fucking love that trope and wanted to use it with our king Simon Riley because he would literally be the perfect bodyguard like hello??? But, all in all there will be some spice and some angst and some fluff because I don’t want this work to be strictly horny but want it actually have depth as I get better at writing!!!

So imma stfu and…enjoy!

ALSO: there is a small age gap of about 7 years between Simon and reader, readers last name is Wilson, and there will be mentions and descriptions of kidnapping, torture, PTSD; basically all the scary shit you’d see in COD. I started this series on AO3 so if you wish to see all the tags take a peek over there bcs I’m too lazy to post all of them here 😔 (plz don’t hate me I’m sorry)

—————

If you were to tell Lieutenant Simon Riley, the Ghost as he was known to both enemies and comrades, that he’d be on his way to some probably stuck up CIA agent to protect his daughter for the next few months, he would’ve given a blank stare and asked what you were smoking.

Might’ve asked for some too, because as he sat in such a small plane, in an even smaller seat, Simon nearly groaned aloud with dread.

When Price first called offering him a side job to get back in the swing of things as his injuries healed, he was a bit quick to accept. However, he agreed before Price even got the chance to fully explain.

That’s why when he had left base with a more gnarly grimace in his eyes, recruits were quick to move out his way with fear. If they could’ve seen his face unmasked, they probably would’ve peed a little.

Now, as he sat on a plane Price and Laswell’s ‘old friend’ had been so happy to pay for, he recalled more of the conversation.

“It’s only a few months,” Price had bargained, “It’ll go fast, aye?”

Simon had rolled his eyes, blinking away disappointment. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“I ain’t becoming a surrogate ‘cuz some wanker ain’t wanna parent,” Ghost had grumbled that day, crossing his arms like a juvenile under scrutiny, “I ain’t good wit’ kids; you know that, Price.”

John just shook his head, a small smile on his lips, “She’s not a kid, Simon. ‘Bout…seven years your junior.” He’d lit a cigar, huffing smoke in the air, “Plus you’ll like ‘er, she don’t talk much. Less than you, I reckon.” He laughed a bit at the end, as if he knew more than he was letting on.

Simon rolled his eyes once more, repressing a grunt to avoid disturbing the peace of such a quiet plane ride. Although, he nearly wanted to whack the bastard next to him, the one who kept mumbling in his sleep.

Perhaps that compulsion came from jealousy, because Simon didn't sleep a wink for the whole ride.

——

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon was standing before the grand oak doors, head tilted to see the building in its entirety. How the hell were government officials so rich?

Americans, he huffed internally.

There was a gate at the entrance, a fountain in the front, and a garden that was so big it nearly peeked out into the sides of the house—no, mansion.

He shook his head, really hoping his protection detail didn’t include a spoiled brat.

Duffel bag tight in his left, Simon gave three firm knocks on the door, the last one a little harder than the other two.

He glanced around, seeing people snipping hedges and mowing the too big lawn, and suddenly, he was truly grateful for his balaclava.

One door creaked open, a posh looking gentleman behind it, “Hello,” his greying eyebrows twitched in realization, “You must be the Lieutenant, please come in.” The man stepped aside, opening the door wider to accommodate Simon’s hulking frame.

Before he could get even a grunt of affirmation out, one other man, younger than the first, appeared, politely taking Simon’s bag and disappearing somewhere.

“I’m Frederick, the Chief of Staff,” The greying man smiled softly, bowing to Simon, “Julius will bring your bag to a guest room; where you’ll be staying.”

Simon’s lips twitched under the mask, brown eyes incredibly shocked at how much had happened in the span of three minutes. His hands were in a state of limbo, shoulders tense from being treated so royally.

He hated it.

Frederick didn’t wait for Simon to continue speaking, “Would you like a tour before meeting Mr. Wilson?”

Simon regained some composure, enough to craft a response, “No.” He'd know the layout by the second day anyway, he knew that for sure.

Frederick didn’t seem too surprised at that, nodding with no problem, “Right this way.”

As he was directed through the house, Simon couldn't help but stare at the never ending luxury of the whole place. The inside was decorated up to the ceiling, winding staircases and old oil paintings hanging from gold dusted walls; he suppressed a laugh at the absurdity of it all.

There were staff dusting and vacuuming, making Simon feel rude for his boots still being on. He didn’t get long to dwell on it though, because soon he was walking through opened doors and being met with a library so big, he itched with the compulsion to read every book that lined the shelves.

“Sir,” Frederick said suddenly, “The Lieutenant has arrived.”

Snapping his eyes to where Frederick was speaking to, Simon watched as a man around his Captain’s age put down a rather archaic book he’d been flipping through. From behind, Simon heard Frederick leave the library, closing the doors with a soft click.

The man turned around, face reflecting indifference to the news. His neatly trimmed beard made him look younger than his years, the salt and pepper that adorned his face and head revealed he was, in fact, a little older. Not to mention, there was a look in his eyes that showed experience, not only because of the crows feet that kissed them, but his cloudy pupils that leveled between trauma induced PTSD, and an acceptance of all that he’d seen and done.

It was a look Simon knew too well, one that had his chin lifting up a bit in understanding.

The man walked over, steps oozing authority. “Lieutenant Simon Riley,” he crossed his arms, voice rough with years of shouting orders, “‘Bout time we met.”

Simon’s head twitched, but it was passed as a nod.

“Jasper Wilson,” he introduced, “I would shake your hand, but John said you’d break it.” He laughed lightly, already warming up to the soldier's cold demeanor.

Simon scoffed, “Tha’ right?” He sounded annoyed, but the small squint in his eyes revealed the smirk he was hiding.

Jasper nodded, smiling a bit more, “Said you’re a good soldier, a good man—one of his best. That’s why I agreed to this.”

Simon gave a brief shake of his head, hating praise, but taking it anyway. He crossed his arms, eyes darting around the space, “Yeah, well, he called you a stubborn bastard,” his eyes fell back on Jasper, who rolled his eyes and laughed out loud.

“Anyway,” Jasper started again, tone serious, “You know why you’re here.” He rubbed his beard, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip, “I have an assignment. I’ll be gone for a while—if it goes well I’ll be back early, if not, extra paychecks for you.” Jasper shrugged, as if his late return couldn't mean life or death.

Simon showed his understanding with a firm nod.

“My daughter, my princess, my life,” Wilson’s eyes became laced with paternalistic affection, “you protect her while I’m gone. Price trusts you, I trust Price.” His head twitched, making sure Simon was heeding his words. “I’m trusting you, Lieutenant.”

Simon nodded again, mixing in a firm grunt for good measure. “Affirmative.”

Jasper exhaled with relief, “Alright, now that we’re on the same page,” he fished out a pack of Newports and Simon withheld a gag.

Fucking Americans, he thought.

Jasper took out a stick and lit it, huffing it with ease, “she should be in the garden, Frederick’ll show you the way.” He blew the smoke in the air, turning around to retrieve his book.

Simon wondered why Jasper wouldn’t introduce his own daughter, but didn’t dwell on it much. Instead, he gave one more nod and made for the door.

“Oh! If you smoke outside, throw the butts out. Martha’s real good with them shears.” He chuckled, not even looking up from the page as he spoke.

Simon grunted in response, opening the door to see Frederick standing patiently.

“Right this way, Lieutenant,” Frederick didn’t wait for Simon to speak, gracefully walking away as if he knew he’d be followed.

Soon, they were outside in the garden, the crisp autumn air was disturbed by the smell of freshly cut grass. There were pretty rows of flower bushes adorning the entire backyard, and Simon swore he saw a butterfly land on one.

Peering farther, he saw an easel that seemed to have been blocking someone. As he and Frederick approached, the sound of brush strokes against canvas hit his ears a little louder after each step.

When they were close enough, Frederick spoke up, “Miss Wilson?” He came to stand next to you as he spoke, "I'd like you to meet someone.”

When you silently peeked around the giant canvas, as quiet as a mouse, Simon nearly lost his footing.

You were beautiful, stunning, ethereal. Even with paint smudges staining your hands as you held the palette and brush, the half-assed updo your hair was in, and the tentative look in your eyes, Simon felt his chest ache with something different from agony and despair. Not to mention, you looked absolutely nothing like Jasper. Simon couldn't fathom someone as pretty as you coming from a man who smoked Newports. Your mother must be beautiful.

You looked to be in your mid twenties; Simon guessed twenty-three at the youngest. And, despite the youthful glow in your cheeks, Simon could see the underlying maturity that no doubt came too early—he’d seen it too many times when staring in the mirror.

When you saw him, your eyes automatically attached to his chest, expecting him to be the same height as everyone else who came to the estate. But you were mistaken, eyes quickly widening as your head craned up, meeting his brown ones. He was fucking huge, had the build of a line backer who looked like he tackled people for the fun of it. Though, his reluctance to stick out a hand to shake told you he didn’t touch others often. You didn’t mind that, and allowed your to eyes to fall back to his chest, unable to look at his eyes from his heavy stare.

You’d obviously noticed the mask, but still said nothing, returning to your painting with shakier hands than before. Simon noticed it, among the small quiver in your lip and the taut pull of your shoulders.

Simon was great at reading surroundings and even better at reading people. It’s what helped him identify monsters in the height of day and destroy them with the moon as his witness.

But you were no monster, no, you were what they hunted, and suddenly Simon regretted being against this gig.

Luckily, before the silence killed you, Frederick chirped up, “This is Lieutenant Simon Riley,” there was a warm smile on his face, indicating he had no idea of your spike in cortisol. “He’ll be protecting you while your father’s gone.”

Simon continued to study you, realizing Price might’ve been right; you hadn’t said a word since he arrived, hell, he could barely hear your breathing. He then watched as you slowly set the brush and palette down on the stool adjacent to you.

You seemed to fold into yourself as your hands signed to Frederick, as if you dreaded taking up space or being noticed by others.

Deaf, then? Simon wondered at first, but then remembered Frederick caught your attention verbally. Simon inconspicuously searched for any sign of hearing aids in your ears, but saw nothing. He had another theory, but waited to test that one.

Simon caught only a word: big. He almost suppressed a smirk but let it grow when he remembered his mask was snug around his face. He tilted his head, amused at the sight.

Frederick chuckled, obviously understanding what you’d said, “Yes, I thought the same as well.” He glanced back up at Simon, “Do you sign, Lieutenant?”

“A bit rusty,” Simon huffed out, cringing when it came out a bit harsher than he meant. He had no intention of coming off annoyed or scaring you, especially if you were supposed to trust him with your life.

Your lips seemed to curve down slightly, but then you looked away before Simon could get the full view.

“He’ll be accompanying you whenever you leave the house,” Frederick sounded like he was reciting orders, “As per your father’s instructions, you can’t go anywhere without him.”

You pulled your lips in a tight line, As if I go anywhere, you wanted to say. Frederick and your father and everyone else in the estate knowing full well you could barely step into the garden without feeling paranoid. The only reason you were there that day, painting your troubles away, was because all the staff were focused on the front of the house.

Simon watched your face run through a bunch of emotions, figuring—even if he was terrible at it—to reassure you. “You won’t notice I’m there.”

You huffed out a scoff, not a malicious one, but one that signaled you heard him and truly wanted to believe him. You felt eyes on you when you knew there was no one around, there was no way you wouldn’t notice Simon’s eyes and bulky frame following you everywhere.

Simon, brows furrowing in curiosity, gave you one more look. He needed to understand you a little more, but you weren’t giving him much.

Frederick mistook Simon’s gaze and expression as annoyance, feeling the need to leave you alone.

“Well, now that you’ve met,” Frederick walked in front of Simon, ushering him back to the house, “I suppose I should give that tour—it’ll make your stay here easier.”

Simon rolled his eyes, not really caring about the labyrinth of a home, and more interested in seeing what you were painting.

Although, your nervousness and shaky hands in his presence told him you didn’t exactly like his eyes on you. So, he humored Frederick, grunting as he followed the man back into the house.

——————————

My Lieutenant

—————

As you said your goodbyes to the doctor, you suddenly realized you never shared your completion of your ‘homework’ with her. You were actually proud of yourself for conquering the voice in your head and wanted her to be as well. Actually, scratch that, you felt the compulsion to tell your father of your great feats. Maybe you’d call him later, tell him and hopefully make his day—or night— a little better.

After the last stair hit your foot, you checked out, then you approached Simon, who had a magazine in hand. As you got closer, you recognized the cover, making your eyes go wide in surprise.

“Tenant in fourth?” The magazine, Archive dilfs, gleamed in the high sun, “The fuck is this?” His eyes were squinted, brows terribly furrowed and surely a sneer on his lips. Honestly, you couldn't tell if he was disappointed in the ranking or the fact that the actor ranked at all.

Against your best efforts, you giggle, unable to comprehend the sight in front of you. Unexpectedly, he turned the page to you, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Can’t believe this shit,” he finally placed the magazine back down, standing up. Then he looked at you, something softer replacing his expression. “You good?”

When you nodded, you added a look to the motion as if to say, yeah, you? You began to walk, taking small steps towards the door.

Simon read it clear as day, following you close behind, “Affirm.” It was automatic, his response, and as the cold hit his eyes, a smirk tugged at his lips.

Maybe there was something in the air, or maybe something about this day that had you feeling like it, but you were in the mood to paint, specifically oil paint.

You don’t know why, seeing as you avoid oil with a passion, nothing but acrylic and watercolor staining your hands, but you suppose a true artist finds a way with any medium, and perhaps that artistic nature of yours was in the mood to explore.

The keys were in his hand, his fingers inching toward the unlock button when he stopped all movement and snapped his head to you.

A hand to his bicep, the warmth of it seeping through his hoodie, the way the fingers couldn't wrap around the muscle even if they tried, it caught Simon’s attention, and it nearly stopped his heart.

Your touch wasn't like last time, fleeting and reassuring, this time it lingered, its presence burned into him even after you pulled away. He blinked, slow and steady, and watched as you typed away on your phone.

Simon watched as your fingers sped over the keyboard, letters popping up and disappearing when you made a mistake. When you turned the device around for him, he had to physically tear his eyes away from your face—a face too beautiful and young for a man like him to look at. At first he couldn’t even read what you typed, the words blurring into white for a moment before he was able to comprehend it.

You, oblivious and ignorant to his growing affections, watched his eyes scan the text, noting how the lifting sun made the brown of them look golden.

store please? need paint :)

God, the little smiley at the end made Simon’s head fuzzy, and he had to bite back the words, “Anything for you, lovie,” and just grunt in affirmation.

You signed, thank you, figuring he could understand it, and were happy to hear him whisper out, “Don’t needa thank me, sweetheart.” missing how the usual gruff in his voice had taken a softer turn.

——

Luckily, for the both of you, the weekday meant nothing but retirees and staff frolicking within the store. There were no giddy children running amuck or a dozen shopping carts in each aisle, it was quiet, gratefully boring if anything.

It was this boring atmosphere that allowed you to quietly pluck out your desired paint. A bulkier assortment of colors, ones that would surely be used up after you finished the substantial project you planned. It required not only a pretty expansive canvas, but also a considerable amount of material.

Humming in satisfaction with the contents under your arm, you shuffled to the next aisle. Smiling at an older woman as you passed.

At first, you were confused. The shelves didn’t seem to have the size you needed. Large, small, medium, large, small, medium, large, small—but then, as you looked up, up, up, you realized what you were looking for was right in front of you.

Of course, you sighed internally, having such big things on the ground would cause an uncomfortable blockage for shoppers. Ordering online seemed to have let that little tidbit become lost to your mental file cabinets. I needa get out more.

The most annoying thing about it was the fact that you couldn’t reach it. You weren’t even that short, above average on a good day, below on others, but you didn’t even bother trying to grab it because there was no possible way you could reach it.

Your eyes did a quick look around, nobody near but the dust around you. It seems the old woman had found what she was looking for, leaving you all alone in the aisle. So, you just stared, assessing how badly you wanted that specific size over one of the more similarly sized ones. Once again, a true artist always finds a way, but at the same time, you were rather excited to use such a large canvas, so not getting it would form a slight ache in your spirit.

Too caught up in your thoughts, you hadn’t realized a familiar figure was approaching. Simon had announced his departure about a minute ago, so you weren’t surprised to see him again. In his hand, he held a small sewing kit, the object looking dwarfed in his too-big hand. Something something, a rip in one of his masks; the tear the reason he was wearing his scariest one.

You gave him a quick glance up, acknowledging his presence with a polite smile, before dragging your eyes back up to that pesky shelf.

I could just ask for his help, you stated internally, wouldn’t be that hard. After all, Simon was next to you, waiting patiently and massive on standby. He'd have no problem just reaching up and plucking it out for you—if you’d ask, that is.

In your peripheral, you watched as his head moved. Compared to your own, his neck barely craned to look at the shelf. It was like he was practically eye to eye with the damned thing.

Unable to stop yourself, you regarded him shyly, your eyes just barely shifting enough to see him. He was so damn big…like…fucking huge.

Of course, you realized that when you first met and were getting used to it as you lingered in his presence, but something about standing so close and side by side with him made the fact stand bright and loud in your face. Something about the way his arm could reach way over the shelf if he’d just lift it. Maybe a bit of his mid-drift would show when he reached, maybe you’d get to see it, or maybe even touch—

Your name suddenly fell from Simon’s lips, ripping you from the ogling you hadn’t even realized you were doing.

“You alright, love?” Those cocoa lenses were peering down at you with the soft edges of his crow’s feet visible to your greedy stares.

Attempting to respond in some capacity, your lips opened, closed, opened again, then shut for good. You felt your face begin to scorch and your own eyes go wide as you wrangled with your mind to spit out an answer.

Instead, stupidly, you returned your head to the canvases, deciding eye contact was way too vigorous of a task. In front of you, your hands twitched with the desire to communicate, but you were frozen from the pure amount of embarrassment running through you at the moment.

Simon, ever the observant man, had clocked your need for help the minute he returned. Everything from the small pout on your lips, the picking at your thumbs, the crease in your brow; Hell, even the way you nibbled on that pretty lip of yours went noticed. The small twitches as you debated whether or not to ask for assistance, especially, gave it away, and when he caught you staring at him with a look just shy of earnest, it made something in his instincts move about. A pressure that had started building the minute he met you wound tighter. A pressure that’d find release if those alluring eyes of yours simply gazed up at him and told him what’s wrong. He'd do anything to fix it; he was slowly realizing he'd do anything to keep that gentle smile on your face and hear those breathy little giggles that sounded of Heaven on Earth.

It felt like, in those agonizingly long seconds of thickly charged air between you two, that the fissure in Simon’s chest was being filled with something so sickeningly sweet, he swore he discovered a new sensation. It wasn’t warm and fuzzy, it was…softer, required the hands of a saint to handle it, keep it from being spoiled. Sadly, he was no saint, no, far from it, but something told Simon his sins would be forgiven one at a time if he’d simply give into this foreign sentiment.

After all, every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future. So, tilting his head, Simon found himself speaking in a delicate voice—one reserved only for you.

“Which one?” He was alluding to the different canvases on the top shelf. There were wooden ones, cloth ones, thick rolls of fiber that had yet to be decorated; each of them were decent in size, explaining their current resting place.

You quickly found his eyes, surprised to have heard those words come out his mouth. The box under your arm was suddenly dropping from your grasp, the package hitting the floor with a thud that made you grimace and even more embarrassed at how disconnected from your own body you seemed to be.

Before you could rush to pick up the paint, a pitiful attempt at holding on to whatever self-preservation you had left, Simon had already done it, placing it into the same hand that was holding that mini sewing kit. He didn’t seem disturbed or unnerved by your skittish behavior, and when he took a deep breath, he didn't seem annoyed; it was more like a sound meant to signal calm to your racing mind.

He then looked between you and the shelf, patience oozing from his body, “Gimmie a point, I’ll grab it.” If you’d strained your ears, you would’ve heard the subtle teasing lilt his voice was laced in.

Incredibly bashful, you timidly pointed to the canvas directly above you, refusing to meet his eyes lest you cave in on yourself.

“This one?” Simon waited for your nod of approval before reaching up, thick arm shadowing over your head, a gloved hand taking the object of interest in his grasp with unwavering grace. Then, he handed it to you, wary of bumping an elbow to your skull as he placed it in your hands. He looked back up, then to you, then tilted his head just a smidge, “Need another—”

“S’cuse me,” a man quickly pushed by, bumping into Simon’s arm, causing him to knock into you as his balance was disturbed.

The Lieutenant now had your face in his chest, brawny physique crowding your senses as the perpetrator of your joining walked out of sight. He steadied himself against the shelf, the rickety old thing trembling under his force.

There was a flash of pain when that man bumped into him, the healing wound on his shoulder being jostled uncomfortably and causing Simon to grit his teeth to compose himself.

It wasn’t the pain itself that annoyed him, it was the amount of space within the aisle that allowed the man to go around the two of you; not to mention, it would’ve been more than enough space to maneuver around without making contact whatsoever.

Clearly, it’d been deliberate, and Simon watched as the USMC hoodie disappeared from his sight, staring as the guy retreated.

He had to admit, Simon was surprised to be thrown off balance by such a simple movement. He didn’t wanna toot his own horn or anything, but he wasn’t exactly a small dude—he had weight and stature that was meant to be avoided, not thrown around.

To quell his growing agitation, he took a deep breath and returned his gaze to you, who…looked dizzy?

Fuck, he smells so good, your fingers shook around the canvas in your hands, fingernails threatening to stab through the plastic and rip the clothe beneath it. Parted lips, drooping eyes as you took in the sight of him from below.

Those eyes, those damn eyes of his, so deep and terribly siren-like were rumbling your name in the same roughness Simon spoke in. It was like being exposed to hypnosis, but knowing you accepted the process and all it ensured.

If it wasn’t for the canvas in front of you, you would’ve sworn he could see the aggressive hammering of your heart or the persistent thrum of your pulse. And, as he pulled away, seemingly becoming aware of your current state of rapture, you quietly hoped he could hear the welcoming chimes of your soul.

The very look in your eyes told Simon you didn’t mind being so close to him—didn’t mind being practically swallowed by his body alone, and that…well, that made the fissure within his being fill a little more.

Forgoing his previously stone cold rigidity would be difficult, but Simon hoped the gentle coaxing of your very presence would be enough to smooth out his sharp edges.

If anything, he could still feel your influence on him as he stepped away, allowing you space to breathe. He told himself he couldn’t get attached, that it would be against the forces of whomever in the sky if a man like him grew too fond of a sweet thing like you, so he found the willpower to keep the hungry mutt within the ladder of his ribs right where he belonged and away from such tender flesh and bone.

If anything, it damn near took everything in him to speak again, “C’mon, sweetheart,” he rolled his shoulder, once, twice in an attempt to distract himself from his growing affections, “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

——————————

My Lieutenant

—————

Despite your appointment being scheduled for eleven o’clock, Simon had arrived rather early, making you want to glare at him for being so punctual. By the time Simon parked next to the office building, you had already given yourself a thousand reasons to stay in the car. The first being Dr. Smith and that passive aggressive notebook of hers.

She’s a nice lady, good at her job and thorough in her questioning, and maybe that’s why you dreaded appointments. She wasn’t lazy in her practice, and through every word and phrase she made you take something away from your sessions. Even when you don’t write a word, she finds something for you to take home and mull over; ergo, a good practitioner.

Still, you’re hesitant to be within those walls again. Being under the analytical gaze of a woman who took her job way too seriously in your eyes. Again, she’s good at what she does, but at times she can be too good—it could be unsettling.

Either way, you took a deep breath and accepted defeat.

Simon had noticed the constant clenching and unclenching of your hands, and part of him wondered if his tacticality had anything to do with it. He had also seen how your eyes flicked back and forth from the clock, seemingly watching the minutes tick by as he approached the location. At the time, he hadn’t questioned this, now, though, he felt something spring forth.

“Bit early,” he watched a car drive by, a pickup with tinted windows, “that alright?” He noted the strip of chrome on the side, an odd addition to a perfectly good truck.

Lying, you nodded, Perfect, you grumbled internally. You couldn’t be mad at him, no, that wouldn’t be fair, but you could be mad at yourself for feeling so terribly embarrassed. There was no denying he'd have to come inside, and there was no denying that the second he walked through those doors he'd realize what type of appointment you had. Many people had therapists, and you were never ashamed about getting help nor do you think anyone else should be. It just felt so…exposing for some reason, especially because Simon was supposed to practically hover over you at all times.

Simon pretended not to see the tension in your shoulders as you quickly got out of the car. The buzz of anxiety was growing louder within your chest as the engine died behind you. You stood there, shivering slightly from the cold and something else you couldn’t quite place. You clutched your purse to your form, watching as Simon got out of the vehicle and approached you, his eyes unreadable behind the mask.

Walking into the building, Simon stuck out like a sore thumb. His broad, imposing figure next to yours was comical, and as you approached the receptionist, you couldn't help but feel bad for how scared she looked.

As you checked in, Simon stood behind; close enough to grab you in case of emergency, but far enough to grant you personal space. It was a delicate balance, one he was all too good at maintaining.

The receptionist clicked a few keys in her keyboard then looked up at you, nearly startling herself when she realized Simon was staring into her soul. “D-Dr. Smith is a-available,” she slowly peeled her eyes from him and to you, “y-you can go up.”

You gave a soft smile and made for the stairs, not realizing Simon was hot on your tail until he was being stopped.

“Um, sir, u-uh,” the receptionist sounded so meek and hesitant, “only p-patients are allowed u-upstairs, I’m sorry.” Simon figured this was a possibility, so he didn’t dwell on it much. “Y-you’re welcome to w-wait here if you’d l-like.”

Simon really didn’t want to leave you all alone in the building, his gut was still churning for some reason, and he had yet to place why. He huffed out, barely audible and invisible as he watched you turn around.

You placed a reassuring hand on his arm, then fished out your phone and wagged it twice. Your motions mimicked the action of saying, I’ve got you right here, and Simon let himself take that in.

With a grunt, he nodded at you, watching as you turned back towards the stairs and made your way up. When your form disappeared from his view, Simon went to one of the chairs nearby, awkwardly fitting his stature in it and crossing his arms.

He then caught a glimpse of a magazine, arched an eyebrow, and figured, Why not?

Two knocks on the door, hesitant, fleeting like always. A silent prayer she wouldn’t hear and an opportunity for you to slip away.

But of course, like every time, no such luck. The knob twisted and the door was opened, revealing the doctor herself.

She offered that same light smile, then spoke your name, moving to the side to let you in. Immediately, you grabbed the whiteboard and marker from its home in her room, twisting the marker anxiously as you made for the couch.

As she closed the door and let you sit, Dr. Smith’s voice was laced in interest, “I have to say,” she walked over to her chair, sitting down and putting on her readers as she grabbed her notebook—that notebook. “I didn’t expect you to be early. I’m happy to see it, though.” She crossed her legs, the extra fabric of her pants wiggling softly with motions.

You pulled your lips in a tight line, shrugging without subtlety. If only she knew it wasn't by choice, your early arrival.

—

You sat through the first thirty minutes of catching up and questioning, your hand cramping a few times from how quickly you’d write. There was nothing but the usual, a ‘how’s your father’ before a ‘how are you’ to start the conversation. Then, at some point, the doctor’s focus shifted.

“I’ve noticed something since you’ve arrived,” Dr. Smith seemed to have been holding back a small smile, “But I wonder if you’ve noticed as well.”

Here we go, you thought as you erased the residual marker from the board, your answer smudging into black until it was no more. Looking back up at her, you shook your head figuring she was going to comment on how many times you’d picked at your fingers or bounced your leg.

“You’re calmer,” her words sent your eyebrows to your hairline, “less on edge.” She scrawled something in her notebook, but you were too focused on the absurdity of her observation to be annoyed with it.

Now, you had to admit, that was certainly unexpected. What? I feel like I’m about to explode, you wanted to say.

She saw your surprise and wrote something else down, “Not once did you look out the window, or towards the door,” her words didn't seem that surprising, “and you’re writing more; your answers are less rushed and dismissive, a sign of a calmer mind.”

You wanted to deadpan so bad, but as your eyes drifted to the very used and abused eraser, you realized she wasn’t exaggerating. Also, you hadn’t even realized how much brighter it was outside either because you truly hadn’t glanced near the window.

I didn’t realize, you scribed, cringing at how squeaky the marker became.

Dr. Smith smiled, taking off her glasses, “Has something happened recently? Something that puts you at ease?” She leaned forward, placing her chin upon her fist, regarding you with a spark in her eyes.

Dr. Smith watched the cogs turn in your head, picking out potential answers of her own as you scrawled words down. She’d noticed the laxness of your shoulders when you arrived, it perked her interest, and as you two caught up, she had deduced two options: either your father retired or you had a partner.

You pouted, as if in thought. Then, when you were about to write no nothing really, your brain reminded you of the six-foot something soldier waiting for you in the lobby. The soldier who was probably scaring incoming patients with how imposing he was. Imposing yet so calm.

You would’ve been lying if you said he didn’t make you feel safer in his presence. The gentle aroma of Marlboros and cologne. The heat that radiated off him in subtle waves despite the chilling cold. The gruff, Manchester accent that intrigued you just enough to want to hear more of it. Mask, gloves, and surely carrying underneath the layers of his clothes, quiet confidence in his movements, and even quieter in his words.

In your realization, Dr. Smith had found her answer in your eyes; expressive things, the eyes can be.

“A lover, then?” She said it so casually, so assured and final. She stopped there though, not wanting to assume nor pry even if it was her job to do a bit of both.

Her assumption had you sucking in a breath so fast, spittle jumped down your throat, prompting a good coughing fit that lasted all but ten seconds. She quickly handed you a tissue, watching with a fond expression as you hacked into the paper.

She got part of the answer in your waving hands and throat clearing, “Sorry, sweetie,” Dr. Smith grimaced playfully, “Well, if not a lover, then who?”

Wiping tears from your eyes, you chuckled, a breathy sound, something you didn’t do often within these walls. bodyguard, you explained, ignoring the way your face got hotter at the thought of Simon. You hoped he was doing okay down in the lobby, part of you feeling he wasn’t too keen on being in public too long.

Dr. Smith nodded in understanding, “Well, that makes sense!” She leaned back, a bright smile on her face, “I imagine you’d be at peace with a bodyguard, I’m happy to hear that. How’s that relationship?”

You tucked your chin to your chest, a shy smile playing on your lips, hes nice big and strong. Even as you pictured him in your mind, that’s all you could think about—the pure size of him. When you turned the board back to her, you half expected a jest at your description of Simon.

Dr. Smith read it, clocked your bashful expression, and decided to tease. “Nice? As in polite, expressive…? Define ‘nice’ for me.” Her eyes glanced at the clock, about five minutes left, plenty of time to coax out a response.

You shrugged your shoulders again, idk I like him he doesn’t talk much I like that. There was much more you liked about him, such as the way he didn’t force conversation or make you feel uncomfortable in his presence. And, even behind the mask, he certainly wasn't hard on the eyes, but you wouldn’t dare admit that aloud.

“And when he does talk? How do you feel?” Dr. Smith wanted to peek a little more into this territory, save it for your next session.

Simon, in the small time you’ve known him, made you feel many things.

Scared? Not of him, but of what his presence suggested; he was there to counteract a threat, any possible dangers, dangers you knew were always present.

Intrigued? The mask, the bones that adorned it, the way it hugged his face like it was made to be there. His gloves, terribly worn and tarnished, clinging to his fingers like a second skin, the way it felt so natural brushing your back.

Those were only two of the emotions you could place whenever Simon uttered something or even when you just caught a glimpse of him. But ultimately, when he spoke what did you feel?

Yesterday morning, last night, hell, even this morning when he talked to you, you held each word of his a little closer than you did others, an act you reserved for your own personal discourse.

It hit you then, the answer, and as you wrote it down, something bloomed in your chest, something pleasantly unfamiliar.

Just as the clock ticked, signaling the end of your meeting, you held the board up for a final time.

real

——————————

My Lieutenant

—————

Mortified? Ashamed? Humiliated? No word could truly describe the heaviness in your chest that night. As you sat in your bedroom, watching some throwaway video, your mind continued to spiral.

No matter how hard you tried—and you tried desperately so—you couldn't shake the apprehension in your bones. There was no denying how utterly degrading that whole experience was, and there was a voice that sang He thinks you're crazy! He knows you’ve lost your fucking mind!

Well, what's left of it.

One of the housemaids delivered your dinner, obviously catching wind of your breakdown. It wasn’t the first, but you’d wished it’d be the last. Despite trying to eat, your appetite became lost as you replayed the events, hearty soup turning cold and sullen on your nightstand.

You caught a joke from the video, huffing out softly for no one to hear. You’d have to use it someday; it was enough to offer a little humor in your state of self pity, maybe it'd help someone else.

Outside, the wind whispered, luring leaves from trees and into gentle piles. A small breeze came through your open window, and you welcomed the cool air into your room.

You weren’t hot per se, but the soothing flow of wind against skin provided momentary relief of your thoughts. For that, you wouldn’t complain at all.

With the cool air came heavy eyes, the crispy smell it brought pulling you to sleep. So, you situated yourself—turning off your screens and snuggling into bed to get comfortable for the night.

You hoped sleep would just take you, fearful of your mind conjuring up any other horrendous moments you ached to forget. Luckily, when your head hit the pillow, your eyes snapped shut.

Dancing between barely awake and journeying into sleep was always an intoxicating experience, one you often missed. Sleeping pills didn’t offer this kind of peace, the peace of being able to naturally welcome slumber with lax muscles and steady breathing. The peace that came with knowing when you’d fallen asleep instead of instantly passing out the second you blink.

So you embraced it, sleep pulling you deeper with the smell of cigarettes.

Cigarettes?

Your eyes snapped open. Your father couldn't be back, he'd literally just left that morning. But what if he…no, even if he was back, he promised he'd quit smoking and he’d never break a promise.

He'd never break a promise.

Still, you felt the urge to check if it was him, a part of you hoping it was. Even if he’d started smoking again, you’d forgive him—you always did.

The comforter was tossed to the side, your legs sliding out and torso upright. It was colder than before, gooseflesh pimpling your skin as you reached the window.

Looking out the pane, your eyes instantly attached to a dark figure, back to you as smoke curled around their face.

It wasn’t Jasper—you could tell. The figure was broader, standing firmly and still, not loose and moving about how your father would. Not to mention, they wore a hoodie, your father had none to his name.

Either way, you watched for a beat, the sight of smoke being inhaled and exhaled a fond reminder of the past. A smile pulled at your lips, memories of that smell indicating family dinner and Christmas.

A sweeter twinge in the second-hand smoke caught your interest, pulling you from your thoughts. It wasn’t bold like the tobacco itself, it lingered, faint and ghostly.

“Feeling better?” The gruff, masculine, Manchester accent struck you. A silent gasp escaped you, and despite wanting to slam the window from your now heating face, you couldn't look away.

Simon’d come out at first just to get some air, always loving the cloak of night over the sun's rays; the way he could go unnoticed and move without the feel of eyes on him was a welcomed reprieve. The quiet chirps of crickets and moon’s glow calmed him more than he thought, so he ended up staying a bit.

Your silence was more than an answer for him, and despite still being tired, you quietly climbed out your window onto the mini balcony outside your room. Your body had a mind of its own, and part of you didn’t mind that.

Though his back was still to you, Simon felt you come outside, a small smile curling on his lips. Before another long drag, he grunted out, “That’s alright,” a flick of ash then an exhale, “tough feelin’, innit?”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, staving off the cold air as best you could as his words sunk in.

You huffed out a breath that was a little too loud, If only you knew.

Still cool and puffing smoke, he offered, “I can hear the gears turning, love,” the endearment made your heart squeeze, “you’re not crazy.” He sounded so sure about that statement, as if doubt couldn't exist.

Your face donned a look between belief and stubbornness. Your arms fell to the railing, fingers restless against the material. Your eyes, heavy with bags and regret watched as Simon turned around to put out his cig.

When he looked up at you, a silver glint caught your attention. He craned his neck up, offering a better sight at the object of your interest.

“If you’re crazy,” he’d already rolled his mask back down, “I’m fucking mental.” You saw the objects then, realization replacing your cold skin.

His title of Lieutenant set off the ‘cop’ bell in your head, not military. Looking back, the signs were—are—there. The quiet presence, the precision in his movements, the mask, and now the tags. How did you miss the tags?

There were people who resonated with you, who knew the storm inside your head because they were stuck the same, but they were out in the world—a place you were still easing back into. A place where that storm had started.

Simon, well, he was right there, in your backyard smoking sweet smelling cigarettes and letting the moon’s glow clean his dog tags.

His words made more sense now, and for the first time in a while, you felt understood. You didn’t feel pitied or babied or mocked, just understood.

His head craned up, “It’s cold tonight,” eyes regarding you with subtlety, “go inside, get some rest,” his words were smooth, direct but tender around the edges.

Despite hesitating, wanting the warmth of his presence a little longer, the chilling wind reminded you of its intent, and the sound of sleep had your bed sounding ten times better now.

Simon watched, quiet as ever, as you nodded, your hands retreating from the railing.

You stepped back inside, the heat of the house welcoming you back into its embrace. The clock read past eleven, a call to sleep.

As you snuggled back into bed, a thought peeked out.

BUZZ

Outside, still breathing in the autumn air, Simon felt his burner vibrate in his pocket. Maybe it was Jasper checking in?

He found the device, opening it to check what the fuss was about.

There, in his messages, was your name at the top of the screen, indicating a text. That piqued his interest—Jasper must’ve pre saved your number along with his own when he gave it to Simon.

Simon clicked the unread text, reading the first words of the thread.

Good night Lieutenant.

His masked twitch up with his phantom smile.

—

Tangled in the comforter, you stirred awake, sunshine spilling through the blinds, warming the exposed sheets of your mattress.

Outside, birds happily tweeted in song to one another, warning all the early worms of their presence and predatory nature. Your eyes cracked open, mind recovering pieces of a dream that slowly faded away.

As you sit up fully, blanket sifting under your movements, your eyes drifted to your clock. Grogginess left you in gentle waves as you read it.

Ten past eight, a whole nine hours of sleep evident in those highlighted numbers. The best part?

You slept undisturbed, no nightmares or random wakings in the night. There was no shivering awake, drenched in cold sweat as a night terror haunted you quietly.

There was just…peace. A rare occurrence, but a welcome one.

Your phone pinged; a reminder of what to do today.

When you picked the device up, your body halfheartedly still beneath the comforter, unease overtook the content in your blood.

Reminder: Therapy at 11.

Completely upright, you rolled your eyes, huffing out in frustration. Honestly, who could be excited about having their brain picked apart? Having no choice but to see just how fucked up they were just because of unsavory circumstances?

Not to mention, ninety-nine percent of therapy was speaking—you couldn't even do that, resorting to scribbling on some fuckass whiteboard as question after question was hurled at you. The whole procedure was a humiliation ritual, one your father had insisted was a healthy coping mechanism. Little did he know, you didn’t want to be ‘fixed’, just left alone.

If your voice was never heard again, so be it. Humans have more than one way of communication for a reason, and when you explained that to him, he frowned, the sight of it unfamiliar to you.

“I can’t help you, sweet pea,” Jasper’s brows had knitted together, disappointment in his features, “But maybe she can.”

“I don’t want it,” you’d explained, “It’s too much, too soon...” Your hands moved frantically in front of the office building, mind trembling with dread.

“Please,” Jasper begged, voice softer than butter, “I…I just want you to be okay…” he seemed to struggle getting the words out, voice wavering as he gently spoke.

You had looked at him, how his hand subtly twitched—a nervous tic only you and your mother could clock. Eyes darting away, you’d barely nodded.

Now, as you washed your face and brushed your teeth, your mind raced.

Christ, what could she possibly probe for this time? The thought revealed itself before you could stop it, an unreasonable amount of apprehension crawling within your skin.

You truly weren’t in the mood to speak—well, write, and you sure as hell didn’t want to bother Simon with dropping you off to your appointment.

It was his job, yes, but guilt weighed heavy on you. Feeling like an inconvenience was worse than admitting to being one.

Maybe he'd understand why you have a therapist, his words from the night prior proving his level of affinity.

But still, you felt…embarrassed about it.

What would you say?

Hey, I’m so fucked up in the head, and not only can’t I speak, I have a woman assigned to dissecting why! Oh, and by the way, any loud sounds send me to the goddamn shadow realm, but you knew that already because you saw it firsthand! So, think you could take me?

Honestly, what the hell? You felt pathetic as you pulled your shirt over your head, fixing your hair to look presentable and not like you’d rolled out of an early grave.

When you finished dressing, you sat down on your bed, contemplating how to burn the few hours you had before your appointment.

Just then, you remembered the ‘homework’ Dr. Smith assigned you last week.

“Go somewhere, anywhere with people. Like a store or a restaurant.” The doctor was direct in her request, explicit in her expectations. “The first step to conquering fear is confronting it.”

“I can’t,” you’d written pitifully, expo marker smudging in your rushed scribble. “What if something bad happens?”

Dr. Smith smiled, a tender expression, “What if something good happens?” she closed her notebook, placing it on the end table beside her, “Perhaps you fear the outside world because there is a chance it will greet you with open arms. Maybe, this time, it won’t burn, but contradict the anxiety that traps you.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe the world was full of terror and murder, maybe, there was good in the world, maybe you’d finally witness it.

You didn’t want to admit it, but the logical part of you knew the world wasn't all bad. Knew there were things you couldn’t control and things you could—like your reactions or following actions.

Looking at your phone, you made a decision, thumbs tapping away.

I know a place with good English tea. It was sent to Simon before you could second guess yourself.

——————————

My Lieutenant

—————

Special Agent Rhodes stepped in the room, flats silent against the floor as she approached the shaken little girl on the couch. She sat on the smaller chair across from her, notepad in hand and a softness in her features. The little girl looked anywhere but at her, crayons gripped tightly in her mini hands as she colored quietly.

Rhodes whispered a greeting along with her name, a sad attempt at getting her attention, although the girl looked up enough to register the NCIS badge, she didn’t give it much attention.

Agent Rhodes saw a small glimpse of the coloring page, smiling softly, “Is that Superman?” She tilted her head as if to get a better look. “He’s brave, isn’t he?” Rhodes wasn’t too keen on jumping into the questioning, preferring this gentle buildup as a way to ease into it instead.

Hesitantly, the girl nodded, now focused on the chest piece of Superman’s suit. The ultimate symbol of hope, something she was beginning to lose.

“You’ve been brave, too,” Rhodes was careful with her next sentence, “Do you think you can be brave a little longer,” the girl gripped her crayon a tad tighter, bottom lip quivering, “for your mom?”

Despite her best effort, the little girl couldn't suppress the tears brimming her eyes and the tightness in her chest as she listened to the Special Agent. She felt so ashamed, even if she didn’t know the answer, she wanted to at least say that, not nod her head and take pitiful breaths.

Agent Rhodes was patient since she’d arrived at the hospital, talking to both Jasper and his daughter about the situation, that wasn’t gonna change in different scenery.

“Okay, sweetie, that’s good, really good,” Rhodes’ heart broke seeing her tears fall and hit her paper, “may I ask another question?”

Behind the glass, Jasper wanted to look away as she cried, never—in the ten years of her life—being able to look at his sweet baby cry. But he forced himself to see, forced himself to bear witness to the truth no matter how much it shattered his soul, and when she began wiping her tears away, he suddenly felt some springing forth.

His self-restraint was slipping. He wasn’t angry at his daughter, absolutely not, he was frustrated at the situation, frustrated with himself because he failed at doing the one thing he swore to do. He made an oath to uphold the Constitution of the United States and to protect its citizens, but in this duty, he failed to protect his own family. What did this failure yield? His kidnapped wife and traumatized daughter who now had a scar on her arm that resembled the ones that littered his body.

He was ashamed, and felt so utterly useless all he could do was stare behind the glass, wanting nothing more than to hug his daughter and rock her to sleep.

—————

It was decently quiet, the drive. Simon kept one hand on the wheel, effortlessly keeping a steady pressure on the gas, mindful of the fidgeting being beside him. The radio was playing some throwaway music, older songs that you wouldn’t seek out, but wouldn’t turn away from.

You gazed out the window, watching the world fly by with each passing moment. In your mind, you thought of what to order; maybe a small pastry and tea. You remembered Jessie mentioning something about a new Fall specific menu after your last visit, so that was taken into account.

Simon glanced at you, seeing your thoughtful expression. “How’re you doin’?” He kept his attention on the road, resisting the urge to grunt after someone cut him off with no blinker.

You gave a thumbs up when he stopped at a red light, regarding him with a small smile.

Ooh, maybe you’d get hot cocoa instead of tea, the weather was perfect for it.

The light turned green and Simon continued on, internally grumbling at how bad the other drivers were. As a new song started, Simon, who thrived in silence, decided to break it with a simple question.

“This place,” he started, alluding to the cafe, “the tea, 1-10.” He really wanted a decent cup, so if this place was mediocre, he’d probably die of disappointment.

Your smile grew, his question reminding you of a certain bucket hat wearing uncle. Feeling playful you tilted your hands side to side, as if gauging a score. Holding up a palm and some fingers, you smiled at him, something you’re growing more and more comfortable doing.

He glanced at you, then back to the road, a thick sound leaving his chest, “Eight?” He looked back to you, crows feet evident behind his mask, “Bit generous, eh?” A chuckle escaped him, unmistakable this time.

Your shoulders shook, as if you were giggling. You liked the crease of his eyes when amusement struck him. It made him look softer than his exterior, and you found yourself showing teeth as you beamed at him.

Now that, that was something he took a mental picture of; the way your eyes shined a little brighter, the way a canine stuck out to him as being a little sharper, the way your nose scrunched a tad, the apples of your cheeks glowing warmly at him. He absorbed the image all too eagerly, a smile tugging at his own lips under the mask.

“M’trusting you, love,” there it was again, that term of endearment, amusement bold in his delivery, “thinkin’ we’ll be alright.” Maybe, to his foolishness, he was trusting you too early about this, too willing to fall into your eyes and just nod along to anything you’d say. God, he was doomed.

Just then, disturbing the peace and small joyful atmosphere you two built, the President’s voice sounded from the radio. His irritating, ear-grating, assaultive vocals made your smile suddenly drop into a more bitter expression.

“Well,” the unpleasant man started, “We’re gonna be building a wall,” that infuriating cadence of his speech made your blood boil, “It’s gonna be the biggest,” a pounding started in your skull, “and the best. It’ll keep every single immigrant out and away from hardworking Americans—”

Swiftly, you’d practically broken the radio as you turned the station, releasing a harsh breath out of your nose as you shook your head in disbelief.

Simon couldn't deny it, he was happy you weren't one of those muppets who actually bought into that man’s shit. In fact, he made a sound of approval, “Yeah,” he started, turning into the parking lot, “was thinking the same thing.” Simon killed the engine, placing the keys in his pocket as he made to get out.

You scoffed, not at him but at this stupid individual you were forced to call President. Attempting to distract yourself, you thought of your order, but as you touched the door handle, the door itself was opened.

There, in the morning sun, Simon stood with a big hand on the door and another hand offered to you to take. His stance didn’t seem forced or as if he was trying to impress anyone, he simply looked at you and waited for you to take it.

You gave a small smile as you found his hand, feeling the strength radiating from it as you stepped out. His gloves outlined the girth of his fingers, and despite their rough material, his grasp was nothing but soft. You note how big his hands are compared to yours, and part of you wished to entwine your fingers together just to know how it’d feel.

You pushed those thoughts aside and stood up, cold air kissing your cheeks and nose with the wind. Tipping your head in thanks, you watched as Simon shut the door, then unexpectedly, he slid behind you.

“Lead the way.” He was gravelly in his delivery, fingers grazing the small of your back, palm lying flat for only a moment before leaving, “Go on.”

You shivered at the deep baritone of his voice, the warmth emanating from his hovering hand, and found it within yourself to begin walking.

Simon didn’t mention it, but as he scanned the surroundings, he felt something in the air, something…odd. As he opened the door to the shop for you, staying close behind as you approached the counter, he noted the intensity of that feeling now.

He looked around the quaint little cafe, tables and chairs way too small to accommodate his size, colors too bright and uplifting for his tastes. If he wasn’t so focused on the pulling in his gut, he would’ve scoffed at the decor. Simon kept the feeling in the back of mind, instincts still there as he regarded the barista behind the counter.

He was a college kid, no doubt about it, and he had this jumpy, joyful energy surrounding him as he looked at you two. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled around your name, as if he’d known you for a while.

“Hey!” the boy flashed those pearly whites towards you, “how's it goin’? We missed you!” he leaned forward, visor falling lower on his head as he took in your appearance.

Simon glanced at the name tag, Michael he read, then returned his gaze to the kid’s eyes. You missed her, mate. Don’t lie. Despite his growing annoyance, Simon didn’t comment on how eager the kid was, and just continued to stare at him.

You smiled, a terribly polite thing compared to all the smiles you’d offered Simon and the house staff. Where’s Jessie? You pouted internally, truly not in the mood for any of Michael’s attempts to woo you.

Ever since you moved here, Michael has always tried and failed to enchant you with his cheery smile and wide eyes. It wasn't as endearing as he must’ve thought. Each time you swerved his offers for a drink or lunch, and still, he tried to one up his last attempt, seemingly focused on securing you as his.

At first it was cute, but after a while it became a bit…awkward.

Simon clocked your offstandish demeanor and Michael’s blatant disregard, suppressing an eye roll as Michael continued to ask you question after question. Luckily for you, the questions weren't open ended; a quick nod or hand gesture offered all the answers Michael could need.

A small line had formed behind you, business women and men alike waiting impatiently for their cup of caffeine.

Simon, feeling the loss of his appetite at such a sight, rolled his eyes, “Oi,” it seems the suddenness of his voice shook Michael to the core, effectively shutting the kid up, “Ya gonna take ‘er order or waste ‘er time?”

Michael looked at Simon for the first time since he arrived, swallowing around the fear in his throat, “Um-uh, yeah, sorry, y-yeah,” he slowly trailed his eyes backed to you, who seemed have huffed out a breath of relief, “the u-usual?”

You nodded, even if you wanted your hot cocoa instead, getting out of the now quickly crowding shop was way more important to you. You stepped to the side after paying, avoiding the eyes of customers.

“A-and for you…sir?” Michael strapped on the title hesitantly, wanting nothing more than to get Simon’s imposing shadow off of him.

Simon fished out the money, placing it on the counter, “Tea. English.” Michael shook as he counted the appropriate change, then nearly flinched when Simon grumbled out once more. “Keep it.”

Michael nodded shakily, and cleared his throat when Simon joined you to the side. He tried his best to school his features as he ushered for the next customer, and he pretended not to notice how his voice cracked upon speaking.

As you waited, Simon scanned around the cafe, eyes landing on a lone man sitting. He wore a thick turtleneck sweater, medical mask over his face and hoodie up. His hands, similar to Simon's, were gloved and his wrists hidden under his sweater. The man wore readers, and was reading a newspaper as a mug of piping hot liquid sat beside him.

When had he appeared, Simon didn’t know. Either way, he watched him for a beat before realizing he was the source of his uneasiness. The man, older bloke by the looks of it, seemed unaware of Simon’s scrutinizing stare, and if he was aware of it, he didn’t give it away.

Soon, a tap on his arm had him pulling his gaze away from the man, and peering down at your tense form. You were holding both your order and his, and you gave a slight nod to the door, desperately wanting to leave the establishment.

Simon grunted and took his tea from you, following you back out the door as you held it for him. He gave one more glance to the man at the table before stepping out.

Although, as he walked back to the car, he couldn’t help but feel eyes on his back. He wanted to shake back the feeling, but his gut told him not to, so he just stashed it away.

When you two were back in the car, your attention was turned to your small pastry, gathering it in a napkin to avoid making crumbs. Simon took advantage of your distracted attention, pulling his mask up enough to take a sip of his tea.

To his surprise, it really wasn’t that bad, and as he pulled his mask back down, he made a sound in his chest.

Michael was annoying as hell, but he did make a decent cuppa.

——————————

My Lieutenant

—————

He had to admit, a home gym was hardly unpleasant, and now, as Simon racked the barbells, sopping wet in sweat, he considered buying a membership. His apartment building had one, but he was barely home long enough to enjoy it.

Wiping his sweaty hands down his pants, Simon grumbled uncomfortably. The room was air conditioned, and he wore shorts and a tee to avoid sweating too hard, but the mask stayed on, so, to his dismay, the fabric clung to his sweaty face, rubbing oppressively against his incoming stubble.

He resisted the urge to rip off the balaclava altogether, still wary of these new surroundings and prying eyes.

BUZZ

A vibration from the bench; his phone.

Feelin’ real famous for a dead man, he thought, waltzing over to check the device once more. He grumbled again when his moist hands hit the metal, cringing at the sensation.

He felt his body go still, eyes scanning over the screen as comprehension began seeping into him.

Simon couldn't help but infer you’d actually enjoyed his company, why else would you be offering breakfast with him?

Well, you hadn’t said breakfast explicitly, but it was early enough to have some with a proper cuppa. And, feeling a little homesick—as much as he hated to admit already—who was he to deny?

Not to mention, all this personal PT deserved a reward.

Simon blinked once, twice as he awkwardly tapped away. His thick digits were definitely not made for such a small keyboard.

It took an uncharacteristic amount of effort to tie your shoes, mind racing with unwarranted possibilities.

Would he want to go?

He’d have no choice—he’s literally being paid to accompany you everywhere, but part of you wanted to know if he’d still go willingly without money attached. If he was fine with sitting with you and all your jittery, jumpy essence.

You’d literally dined with him yesterday, hopefully that would help to convince him. Granted you’d almost fainted from the sound of a lawnmower breaking, but that’s what do-overs are for, right?

…right…?

You could always force yourself to forget such an embarrassing event, you’re perfectly capable of doing so, it’s as easy as—

BUZZ

BUZZ BUZZ

Your hand snatched your phone up so fast your nails scratched on your bed comforter.

The Lieutenant:

Lead the way

be ready in 10

Anywhere else we going?

For some reason, giddiness bloomed wildly in your chest. Flowers of joy laying seeds in your mouth, sprouting a shy smile on your face.

You answer immediately, not giving two hoots about looking eager, because that’s exactly what you are. Terrified of what could happen outside of the safety of your home, yes, but also deathly afraid of missing that ‘good’ Dr. Smith is sure exists.

Good things do happen, you know that, and maybe finally stepping out of such a bubble wrapped atmosphere was the only way you’d finally experience them.

Just an appointment at 11

It won’t be long, you were sure to leave out the specifics, insides still churning at the thought of it.

Three dots jumped up, disappeared, jumped up again, disappeared again.

The Lieutenant:

Understood

Apprehension hung heavy in your chest, the desire to know what Simon was thinking before replying with such a short response had you pulling your lips in a line. If he was fixing to pry but stopped himself, you’d appreciate it—you settled on that as comfort.

You clicked off your phone, grabbing your purse and keys from their designated places. Before stepping out, you huffed out a sigh, fear a steady wave in your blood.

—

“Morning, soldier,” Francis, one of the cooks, greeted Simon when he went downstairs, “Ms. Wilson’s in the garage.” She spoke then slipped away, leaving no room for conversation. Simon didn’t mind and appreciated her directory aid.

As he made his way to the garage, the gentle aroma of warm vanilla crept past the mask and into his nose. Despite his best effort, he followed with newfound enthusiam.

The doors were raised, offering him the sight of you halfway in the back seat of your car, seemingly looking for something.

He made sure his presence was known, wary of startling you again, “Mornin’, sweetheart,” he didn’t know where the last part came from, but he was also a man who didn’t waste words.

You’d nearly scrambled to get out, abandoning your search for car refresher. The little trees went poof somehow.

Upright, vertigo gentle in its assault, you swayed slightly as you offered a smile. Although, it looked more like a painfully awkward grimace.

“Ready to go?”

You nodded, looking at him now that your sight re-focused.

He looked bigger somehow, as if he’d widened during the night. His jeans were snug against his thighs, teetering on the edge of too tight. An all black hoodie outlined his torso and biceps, his boots shining in the early sunshine practically singing and gleaming, and that mask—bones and all, was oddly alluring in the early morning.

You rounded the vehicle, opening the driver’s door to get inside.

“Oi,” Simon was suddenly very close to you, broad hand out expectantly, the smell of hot water and Men’s Dove floating around in your personal bubble. It wasn’t unwelcome per se, but it didn’t exactly quell the nervous energy building in your chest.

You looked at his hand, keys still your own, unmoving and still beside him. You caught his eyes, brown as Uncle John’s cigars, staring into them with obvious confusion plastered on your face.

Simon’s brow arched, and gently—so gently—he pried the keys out of your hand, before rounding to the passenger side. His movements were calm, tactical, and when he opened the door, his gaze returned to you.

“In.” He spoke clearly, direct but not unkind. As extra emphasis, two thick fingers tapped the open door, as if beckoning you to him.

You huffed out, barely audibly but visibly obvious, and rounded your way to him.

Simon stepped out the way as you scooted past him, that same scent of warm vanilla giving a polite beating to his nose. He hated the smell of overly sweet things, but this was an airy aroma that caused the faintest irregularity in his heartbeat.

As you sat down, you looked up at him, purse clutched in your hands. Your eyes darted from the keys in his hand to his eyes. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t nervous for him to drive. There was a small voice in your head that said his accent meant an incapability of driving on the right side, and you knew it was daft and ultimately ignorant, but anxiety is rarely logical.

Simon didn’t think you’d realized, but he caught the overly terrified countenance that plagued your features. Despite his effort, a sound left his chest, one that could be argued as a chuckle.

“You’ll be alright,” he swung the door as if to close, stopping to utter something else, “promise.”

With that, he closed the door, fingerprints evident on the panel beside the window.

——————————

My Lieutenant

—————

The day before his departure, Jasper made sure to give Simon a personal tour of his home—specifically the panic room, armory, and firing range that sat underneath the entire estate. Simon felt confident with his sidearm and few knives he had on him, but he would never decline the good ol’ American right to bear arms.

That same night, Simon stayed up, his mind way too loud to get proper sleep.

When dawn finally broke, he showered, getting dressed for the day and pulling his mask over his head. He stared in the bathroom mirror as he finished, eyes deep like whiskey taunting him for his inability to sleep, his inability to relax even when off the battlefield.

Even the taut pull of his shoulders looked painful, painful and tormenting. As he sat and took a good look at himself, he realized how much of a man tortured he looked—granted that was just what kept him up at night. He knew no matter how many balaclavas and skull plates he donned, no matter how hard he tried to mask it, his eyes would always betray how his soul walked between the living and dead. And perhaps that’s what rattled him the most: death didn’t want him and neither did the living.

Simon was shaken from his thoughts at the sounds of tires on gravel, mind playing catch up and assuming Jasper was on his way.

Instead of wallowing in self pity, Simon went downstairs to the kitchen, steps silent and focused as he appeared. There was a plump woman in the kitchen, her back turned as she quietly prepared breakfast.

When he looked over, he saw you sitting quietly, sipping from a hand-painted mug and sketching what seemed to be a landscape.

You were faced towards him but didn’t notice him as you shaded in various foliage.

Simon wondered why you were up so early, but by the lazy way your wrist flicked as you continued to draw and the way your eyes drooped, he was confident in his assumption that you barely got any sleep—if any at all.

There it was again: that same ache in his chest he felt when he first saw you. It was unfamiliar, and a little off putting the way it made his hands twitch.

When you lifted your cup to drink again, you finally noticed him. Seizing up and taking a silent gasp, your eyes attached to his bulky form standing silently in the room, causing your mug to slip from your hands and fall right on your small piece of art.

Simon’s brows furrowed together, his eyes still glued to your frozen form.

The woman cooking turned around at the sudden sound, but when she saw Simon, she jumped as well, heart nearly rocketing out of her chest. “Lieutenant!” She walked over to you, grabbing a towel to help you clean up the mess, "Good morning to you too! Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, breakfast?” She spoke sweetly as she aided you, laughing off her shock with grace.

Simon remained deadpan, part of him wanting to go over and help, but the other part not wanting to be a bigger part of the problem. “Tea,” he paused to watch the woman go back to her spot at the stove, “please.” He was given a sweet hum in reply, then his eyes flicked back to you, who was already watching him with a hesitant gaze.

Testing the waters, Simon decided to take a seat across from you, not missing how your lips were pulled taut as he lowered. He took your expression as a grimace, assuming he looked even scarier up close.

Simon was used to it—hell, he welcomed it, it kept people away, but that look coming from you made the mask scratch against his skin and the urge to smoke chime in his blood.

Little did he know, you didn’t find him scary—sure he was big and strong and wore that creepy skull printed mask—but that was him and you were you, so you’d welcome him either way. You were sure he had his reasons, just how you had yours in your dubious vow of silence.

In that regard, you felt the change in atmosphere around him. The silence you two shared didn’t feel awkward or forced. A sense of understanding seemed to drift in the air between you; one you couldn’t place, but welcomed openly.

You didn’t feel the need to explain why your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, why your lips glued shut as you, like always, were incapable of getting sound out. And as you looked at him more and more, your grimace relaxed as you sunk deeper into the soft honey of his eyes.

If anything, he was more ominous than scary. Like a lone lighthouse in the midst of a raging storm; frightening from a far, but as you sail closer, you see it in its entirety, now desperate to reach it.

Then, you were remembering his first words to you: “You won’t notice I’m there.” At first you’d scoffed, sure he'd be painfully obvious at all times, but after this morning, you couldn’t help but register Simon as man of his word.

That brought some comfort, an odd warmth from deep in your chest. After hearing “I won’t be long” or “I’ll make it this time” or some other shitty excuse your father gave, you’d never get your hopes up about anything. Why would you? Keeping your expectations so low often saved you from crippling disappointment. So Simon, even if he hadn’t meant to, being able to hold his word, no matter how small it was, went appreciated.

Before you knew it, you were smiling, a soft, gentle smile that was so sweet it made Simon’s teeth ache for more. It was different from the hesitant expression you had when first meeting him, and part of him wondered if the lack of sleep had gotten to you.

Simon watched as you scribbled text on the dry side of your sketch, and read it when you turned it to him.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.” You’d scratched, eliciting a small huff of amusement from Simon upon seeing it. He thought the ‘artists have bad hand writing’ thing was an exaggeration, but as he barely managed to read what you’d scribed, he was quick to hop on that train.

Simon gave a light nod in response, “Sorry.” He tapped lightly on the paper between you, “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You dropped your head a bit, shrugging as if to say, “It happens.”

Simon was silent as he leaned back in the chair. He placed his hands in his lap, the smell of pancake mix and green tea grounding him as he retreated into his mind. His gaze fell on the table, still studying what was left of your sketch.

What he hadn’t realized was his muscles flexing under every movement. The hoodie he wore seemed big enough to fit but small enough that the outline of his hard chest and biceps whispered for attention. Even his legs, though slightly obscured by the table, looked thick and strong in his position. You could even see the hilt of a knife peeking out of his pants, and for reasons you didn’t want to think of, it had you feeling hot and buzzing.

Before you knew it, you were staring directly at him.

Simon felt your stare and suppressed a laugh when he realized. Cheeky little thing, he thought to himself, mind suddenly wondering how many men you’d dated. How many of them were perfect for hugging you, protecting you, holding you close? How many of them admired your artwork the same way Simon craved so badly to do?

How many of them heard your voice?

“Ms. Wilson,” the cook, Gina, had Simon’s thoughts cut short at the sound. She’d placed a fresh cup of tea and a plate of blueberry pancakes in front of you, snapping you from your daydreams as well. She then turned around and retrieved Simon’s tea before placing it in front of him as well, “Lieutenant.” Gina flashed a motherly smile then went to clean up.

You looked down, the plate beautifully enticing before you. All thought seemed to leave as you grabbed a knife and fork, immediately going to town on your pancakes; you were starving, missing dinner the night before wasn't a smart idea. You always did when Jasper had assignments the next morning, it kept the pain of loneliness at bay, but it left you tired and hungry as a result.

It was quiet as you ate, as Simon sipped and read the newspaper—he was surprised to even find one, if he’s being honest. The paper obscured his face, and he was grateful for it.

Just as he went for the last sip, placing the mug on the table, a sudden BOOM hit his ears.

Gina yelped, and Simon rose to approach the window, offensive mode activated as he peered out. He was ready for anything, it was why he came here.

Although, his guard lowered upon seeing two landscapers sulking over a very blown out, smoking lawnmower. They scratched and shook their heads, body language betraying their discontent. One had been tinkering with it, the evidence of his failures sullying his face and shirt with dirt and grime.

Simon rolled his eyes as he turned around, making his way back to his chair to sit. When he was comfortable again, he finally saw your tense form.

His eyes roved over your panicked, fear filled eyes, the quiver of your lip—the harsh clutch you had on the knife, blade seemingly ready to strike anyone who got near.

The look in your eyes matched the screams Simon often heard after leaving the base infirmary—after a soldier returned from a mission a husk of who they once were. Your chest stuttered with rushed breaths, and Simon suddenly understood why Jasper offered this job.

He whispered your name, made no move to initiate physical contact, “Was nothin’…you’re alright…” he kept his distance, all that experience he had with his soldiers suffering from PTSD sadly coming in handy at the moment.

You didn’t move an inch, his words doing nothing to snap you from whatever dark place your mind took you to.

Just then, Gina came up behind you, resting a soft palm on your shoulder. She whispered your name as well, moved her other hand down to gently guide the knife from your tight grip.

Her initial touch didn’t rouse you at first, but when she made contact with your hand, the clouds in your eyes cleared up, pupils small against the irises.

“You’re okay, sweetie,” she stepped back, releasing her touches, “it’s okay.”

You quickly glanced between her and Simon, shame and embarrassment flooding you from head to toe. You were shaking, violently so, and Simon felt his fingers twitch with the urge to comfort you in his arms.

He didn’t get to think about it long, though. You abruptly stood up, legs shaky from adrenaline as you bolted for the exit. You didn’t make a peep as you left, your throat feeling sliced in half as your eyes brimmed with tears.

It was bad enough you had an attack in front of him, he didn't need to see you sob and lament for something you couldn’t control—no matter how much help you got.

What made it worse was the fact he hadn’t even been there for a day.

Gina and Simon let you go, sympathy oozing from their stillness. Simon looked down, She’s seen some shite, he thought. But what was it; what had you seen that left your voice useless and your body quick to freeze when you perceived danger?

That reaction wasn't one of a startle or a little scare, it was drawn from the darkest corners of your mind and paralyzed you in fear. You held that knife as if ready to strike, but you made no move to do so when touched, which Simon found interesting.

Make no mistake, Simon wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept of PTSD, he knew it was complex and not a one size fits all experience, but he was used to people becoming violent during an episode. He was used to having to pin down shell-shocked soldiers as they relived the worst time of their lives, not gently coax them out of it.

He was used to being that pin downed soldier as Price, Johnny, Gaz, and Roach tried their best to calm him down.

Simon glanced at Gina, eyes asking for an explanation. He needed to know more, needed to know what made you fawn like that.

She gave him a sad smile as she collected the dishes, then said an apologetic, “Not my place, Lieutenant.”

Simon processed that, respecting her decision. He went to stand, the firing range calling his name from below. He wanted to clear his mind, needed to in order to continue with his day. Though, Simon had a feeling it would only do so much.

Before he crossed the threshold, he was stopped in his tracks.

“Lieutenant?” Gina called, drying her hands with a dish towel. She continued once Simon turned around, “If it happens again,” she paused, hands clutching the towel, “You have to be gentle, patient.” She looked at him expectantly, as if those words were unfamiliar to a man his size.

He nodded lightly, “Yes, ma’am.” and didn’t miss the dust of pink that overtook her features at that response. She nodded, and Simon left the kitchen, trigger finger itchy with thought.

——————————