#um yeah.

I'm thinking ghost and nightmares or urinary incontinence

been thinking about "embarrassment is an under-explored human emotion" (both negative and positive)too but uuhhh unrelated. N e way Simon 😶

cw: see ask. nightmare and urinary inconsistency with Ghost. I feel like ghost's shame always comes with anger at first yk? Like defensive and scared?

The flat was quiet and Simon was finally back from deployment. He was home, same as ever after missions, exhausted, a little tense, and ready to sleep for days, if he could manage it.

He’d gotten in after you'd gone to bed, boots dumped by the door, gear kicked into a corner he’d deal with later (and he would, you never had to clean up his gear and such, not that you'd have minded). You had felt the bed dip beneath his weight a couple of hours later, a cautious, exhausted settle and then sleep had taken you both.

Until the smallest gasp woke you, a sharp, stifled breath, and then a body holding itself painfully still. You blinked awake to find Simon hunched, sitting at the edge of the mattress, shoulders knotted tight, his back a rigid wall.

The room smelled faintly of sweat and fear and that sour, bitter scent that made your stomach dropped, not with disgust, never with that, but with a quiet, painful ache.

“Simon?” you murmured.

He flinched so violently the bed shook. His head jerked away from you.

“Don’t,” he snapped, shame riding shotgun in the anger. “Just—fuck—go back t'sleep.”

You didn’t move closer just yet, staying where you were, propped on an elbow, you’d learned that much from the last time... and the times before... that the first few minutes were a blur he had to fight through, teeth bared even at the one person he trusted most.

“It’s alright,” you said softly. “You’re home. You’re safe.”

He let out a low half-laugh. “Safe. Right.” His breathing hitched. “Then why the fuck—” He gestured at himself, at the sheets beneath him. “Why does this keep happening?”

You knew the answer of course. You had spent plenty of mornings and days alone reading about it all... And all said and done, the nightmares didn’t care where he was. The pain followed him through the locks on doors, into warm sheets, and past the shape of your body beside him.

He'd been terrified.

But saying any of that now would be like gasoline to a flame.

You reached out, hand hovering just behind him. “Simon… look at me.”

He shook his head hard. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.” The anger in his voice cracked. “You’re not—you didn’t sign up for—”

“I chose you,” you said quietly. “All parts.”

His shoulders shook again.

You moved your hand to his back, let your palm rest between his shoulder blades with gentle pressure. He shivered under your touch, caught between running and collapsing.

He shifted, finally, like he might stand up. But apparently the rough crinkle of the mattress protector under the sheets, that soft reminder of preparation, of care, was enough to stop him. It was something you’d put in place without commentary, something he’d accepted without thanks. He hated acknowledging it… but the first time it saved him from waking up on a ruined mattress, he’d been silently relieved.

Now though, he muttered, bitter and self-loathing, “Shouldn’t need that bloody thing.”

“Maybe not,” you said softly. “But it means there’s nothing ruined. Just something we'll clean. That’s all.”

He swallowed hard. “Hate this.”

“I know.”

Finally, finally he exhaled, shaky but progress.

“…I need a shower,” he forced out.

“I’ll get you fresh clothes.”

He nodded, stiff and miserable, and stood. His hands shook as he stripped off the damp clothes. And even though he kept his eyes pinned to the floor, knowing you didn't hide and run from this made his shoulders ease a fraction.

When he closed the bathroom door behind him, the water came on, you knew it would be hot, too hot, as if he were trying to burn the shame off his skin. But it was a step forward bigger than a step backwards, no matter how punishing.

You stripped the bed. Tossed the sheets into the hamper. Calmly wiped the protector down. Then put on soft, clean bedding, the kind he had picked out himself, a dark purple color, soft and smooth. He slept better in it, though he wouldn't admit it.

By the time you finished, the water had stopped.

A moment later, the bathroom door opened and Simon stepped out, towel around his waist, hair dripping.

You grabbed the clean joggers from the dresser, stepping carefully closer.

He looked smaller like this, pink-skin scrubbed harshly, cheeks flushed, eyes a little red, the anger drained out, leaving only ache.

“Come here,” you said softly.

He hesitated, glancing towards the bed, then the floor, then back to you, then he obeyed. You helped him into the joggers when his fingers fumbled. Dressed him like you’d done it a hundred times before.

When you were done, he stood there for a long second, breathing in shallow pulls.

Then he reached for you.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you in, forehead pressing into the side of your neck. You felt the tremble quietly return. Felt his breath against your neck that he tried to steady. Felt the way he hid his face, ashamed and scared and still wanting you.

You held him tight, one hand in his damp hair, the other rubbing slow circles across his back.

“It’s alright,” you whispered. “You’re alright. Nothing’s ruined. I’ve got you.”

A soft, broken sound left him, a sound he would only ever make here, with you.

His grip tightened, but then for what was probably the first time since he'd come home, his body truly began to settle.

“Stay,” he whispered hoarsely. “Just… stay with me.”

“Always.”

You guided him back into bed. He curled around you as you pulled the clean blankets up, tucking his face under your chin, breath warm against your skin.

And finally, finally, you felt his muscles unclench, the last remnants of all of his shame and anger ebbing into exhaustion.

You pressed a kiss to his hair gently, and whispered, "I love you, Simon."

No filter or text bubbles in read more