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luvring · 13 hours

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the blade bleeds longer than the wound takes to heal | simon riley

wc: 2.2k

summary: progress is non-linear. simon is learning just that.

contains: any warnings that apply to cod, blood, mentions of serious injuries, recovery and healing, kind of non-linear, simon-centric with a splash of romance, hurt/comfort

a/n: first time writing simon and he's a tough one!! but i'm really happy with how this turned out! + a very belated birthday gift for @vierisqe! forgive the jumble of american + british english in this one (i've reread this so many times that it's mushed together in my head and i can't tell the difference anymore djhfbjas) i hope i wrote him well!!

Simon picks up a knife in the dead of the night.

At 2:00 a.m., the wind whistles outside your window, a wayward branch being thrown aimlessly against glass. The branches drag roughly against the delicate surface, scratching and banging in the gust of a predicted storm.

Simon wakes up, eyes shooting open as his fingers instinctively reach for the small blade slotted underneath your mattress, sandwiched between soft cushion and the wooden panels of your bedframe. He keeps it there—

“For monster hunting. Sneaky fuckers only appear when lights’re out.”

—in case anything happens, he doesn’t say.

(But you know old habits die hard, and Simon sleeps better with a weapon only layers away from his skin.)

You’re curled up on his chest, hanging tightly onto his bicep as your breaths lull in the steady beats of slumber. His eyes blend dark blue against the backdrop of the night, and the only light casting itself into your bedroom diffuses from the streetlamp a few flats down.

“We should keep a night light,” you’ve told him a few times before—if only to avoid small accidents, like tripping over folded carpets or bumping into the sharp edges of your dresser.

“No ghosts here but me, love.” is all Simon replies.

(You take his cheekiness and keep it close to your chest, sporadic as it is, snorting as you let go of the topic.)

He sees better in the dark—better than most, he’d like to think.

His gaze flits to the window, watching intently as the branches move haphazardly; the sound hits the glass like bullet cases clinking against marble flooring. The same white marble bloodied deep red—

An inhale tickles his side, a phantom sharpness despite his ribcage being fully healed. There is no puncture, no gaping wound like that day 8 months ago—only scar tissue formed thickly along the outline of the knife that pierced through him.

He breathes out, slow and steady, taking one last look at the window, before moving over to the door, checking for shadows and any suspicious movement. Then, his gaze rests on you—your hair splayed across his shoulder as you sleep soundly.

It’s okay. You’re okay.

Everything is okay.

Some days, he can breathe just fine.

Spring blossoms through the flowers in your garden, white chrysanthemums that give Simon the worst spring allergies but he insists you keep. Despite the morning sniffles, when pollen seems to dust his dawning breath, he finds breathing easier on these days than most.

You do your best to snip away at the blossoming buds, preparing to bundle them far away from the burly man they weaken.

But Simon stands beside you with a watering pot, tilting the spout to drizzle life onto the blooms he knows are your pride and joy.

He owes it to them, he supposes, for keeping you company months at a time.

It’s at the fizzling end of summer when Simon returns to you.

Captain Price had contacted you weeks prior to inform you of the incident—just three things Simon requested be divulged:

One, that he had incurred a stab wound to be monitored for a few weeks, most likely in military facilities.

Two, that he’ll be discharged soon after.

And three, that you stay put and be calm; that you not worry.

(Your hands shake throughout the entire call, your knees giving way as you fall to the bunched up carpet of your bedroom floor.

To you, Simon is untouchable.

To you, Simon is impenetrable.

He never divulges any more than he has to, but you’ve always known he was good at his job. The silent yet commanding confidence he carries can only be born from years of expertise, his senses sharpened and tuned to the slightest sign of danger.

Over the years, without fail, Simon has always come back to you in one piece.

So when he walks into your flat with staggered breaths, smelling of antiseptic and sterile sheets, your heart aches.)

You give him a look, eyes glassy with your hands clenched on your sides as if avoiding to touch, should he be fragile; he holds that stare for a few seconds too long until he decides to fuck it, pulling you closer to his chest.

Fuck doctors’ orders that his stitches haven’t fully healed. Fuck doctors’ orders that he should ‘minimise thoracic pressure’.

Fuck doctors’ orders that he should watch his breathing, keeping it slow and steady only.

“Quit all ‘o that,” he clears his throat, hiding a wheeze from the impact, “Didn’t get me killed, ‘n it won’t. S’no grave to cry over.”

You can’t help it though, he knows, your fingers clutching tighter onto the ends of his jacket as you rest your forehead on his collarbone. The pain muddles together in his chest, soaked by the tears seeping through the fabric of his t-shirt.

There are many things Simon doesn’t tell you, many more that he won’t—

His body holds a litany of injuries, scars built upon scars; some lie on the surface of his skin, others residing deeper than any knife can sink into.

—last month, he nearly died.

A miscalculated raid had led him straight into a trap, isolating him from the rest of the 141. He was concussed and sedated, senses dulled by the chemicals injected into his bloodstream. It happened too fast—a blade, inconspicuously small but sharp, piercing through his ribcage; the hits that followed dealt greater damage.

Price found Simon lying in a pool of his own blood, deep red against the white brinks of death.

Three broken ribs—two that stabbed through his lungs along with the knife, and one that managed to puncture his heart. Doctors warned that breathing during recovery would be difficult, but he hardly finds it to be the most challenging part.

The paranoia is worse.

He’s been more fidgety since, constantly wary; uneasy. Worse compared to usual.

Every professional he’s spoken to has told him that progress is non-linear—

“So, give yourself some time. Some days can be easy and difficult the next, but the day after that might be—”

To that he says, fucking ‘ell.

You cut yourself while trimming your chrysanthemums.

It’s a small nick on your thumb, but that finger always bleeds more than the others do; blood red drips onto a few white petals—a striking contrast.

Simon finds you that way.

He moves on autopilot, rushing in to grab the first-aid kit you keep in one of your kitchen cabinets. On the surface, he is calm, face set straight and hardly rattled by the accident. This is the only good he sees in the snail-pace of his recovery—his jagged breaths conceal the real reason his hands tremble slightly holding yours.

A small cut shouldn’t need bandaging. A small cut shouldn’t need gauze and waterproof plaster. Simon shouldn’t insist on taking over, especially when the pollen clogs his nose.

But your white chrysanthemums should not be red.

He tells himself he’ll get you a pair of those cut-resistant gardening gloves.

Those petals should not be red.

The knife isn’t the problem, it’s what surrounds it.

Simon hasn’t been the same since his return, and you’ve begun to notice.

For a big and hefty man, he prefers keeping himself away from as much fuss as he can. Weekend markets with him have always been pleasant; he carries all the produce and you stop at food stalls to feed him bites of whatever catches your eye.

Not this time.

This time, Simon glues himself behind you, your back pressed against his chest as he navigates you both through crowds. He zeroes in on every single person brushing against you, searching for anything sharp.

When you wait by a food stall, he scans the area; his focus shifts from a family of four settling their toddler on a stroller, then to a man older but not nearly as large as he, bringing in sacks of flour inside a bakery. Off in a corner is a teenager, swallowed by the thick fabric of a hoodie similar to his own; Simon observes him a little longer, drawing suspicions about the movement concealed inside the kid’s pocket.

(You notice it when you ask whether he prefers peaches or mangoes for the crepe’s filling, only to be met with no reply.)

Then, a faint trail of smoke wafts out of the boy’s nose—it’s just a vape.

Simon turns away.

By brunch, which you always somehow seem to drag him into, you settle into your seat and ask the server for a butter knife.

(Simon stays silent most times, with the occasional dry retort or witty quip directed at any silly thing he notices, but he’s been completely quiet this entire day. The slightest bit of tension pinches the skin between his brows as his eyes dart from one person to the next—like roaring waves rushing to catch the shore.)

It happens all too quickly, how he pins the server’s wrist down onto your table when you’re handed the butter knife.

Everybody in the restaurant pauses to look at you two.

The shock on your face mirrors the server’s.

Simon lets go immediately, mumbling his apologies as his hands dig inside the pocket of his hoodie. You turn to the server sheepishly, standing up to follow him to the cashier.

(You know Simon well enough that he hates all the attention, so you quickly settle everything with the manager, explaining as best as you can that it wasn’t intentional. The server is kind enough to let it go, his wrist red but otherwise uninjured from Simon’s grip; you still give him a tip, for the shock and trouble.)

The whole trip home is tense. Simon can’t look you in the eyes, and even when you both walk into your flat, he heads straight for the kitchen, preparing to clean and wash the vegetables.

He rolls up his sleeves and opens the tap, rinsing carrots and potatoes, along with some of the lettuce you managed to pick up for half off.

(Something stabs at your heart seeing him curl into himself even more, but Simon will talk when he wants to—never before or after.

So, you walk towards him instead, wrapping your arms around his waist as you rest your cheek against his back.)

He stops moving, and the water continues running.

(You can hear his heartbeat, feel each slow breath he’s taking.)

Simon doesn’t tell you of the sleepless nights, of the terrors that plague his waking mind more than nightmares do. He doesn’t tell you that he sees you in his spot that very same day, on that same marble floor—your own pool of red against the very same white that your chrysanthemums bloom into.

“I’m okay,” you whisper against his back, landing kisses on each of his shoulder blades. The fabric of his hoodie is soft and thick, but he feels you through it.

“You always do a good job of keeping me safe.”

Your words layer on him like tactical gear, arms tightening around his abdomen akin to the belt that holds his ammo.

“Let me take care of you now,” you close your eyes, voice a little shaky, pleading, “okay?”

Simon holds his breath.

Your chrysanthemums sit in a vase by your kitchen sink, water droplets catching onto the petals and leaves.

Simon sneezes every time he washes his hands, but he’s the one who put it there—

“S’called exposure therapy, love.”

(And who are you to argue with a man on a mission?)

—along with the cut-resistant gloves he stores in a drawer near your kitchen tools.

From the corner of his eye, he watches you drag your chef’s knife to fillet a chicken breast. He keeps his gaze locked on your every movement, fingers twitching as if they itch to reach for you. Pain tingles at the side of his chest, a faded remnant of how it felt when the wound was still fresh.

You fillet the breast successfully, and he releases a breath.

Simon has keen sight and he uses it to his advantage—sniping, scoping, watching. He notices the sharp edge of the open cupboard door over your head and reflexively lays his palm over it, cushioning the impact when you hastily move to the side.

If you notice, you don’t show him any signs.

Tonight’s menu is honey glazed soy chicken, a recipe you’ve been wanting to test out. He’d offered to help but you insisted that he sit back and relax; and of course, in typical Simon- fashion, he only partially heeds your advice.

He sits back and relaxes all right, but on the barstool by the kitchen island, ready to spring into action whenever you need him.

And he sees it all—that near-mishap by the cupboard, how dangerously close your fingers are from your chef’s knife; your cut-resistant gloves are ready-to-use in the drawer next to your garden tools. He still keeps that small blade between your mattress and bedframe.

Old habits die hard, the aftereffects of near-death moreso, but Simon is a man on a mission, and when he watches you hiss away from the brief ‘pop!’ of oil splattering from your pan, he stays right where he is, convincing himself he can leave you to handle it.

You’re okay.

This is progress.

It’s a start.

a/n: this turned out a lot more serious than i intended, but i enjoyed picking simon apart seeing how he would act in a period of adjustment back to regular life, especially after something potentially traumatic. i find simon an incredibly difficult character to write because he carries so much with him and i could go on about this, but the tldr is: i think he's become desensitised to a lot of things, which is why i don't think he's afraid of wounds or knives no matter how much he's been hurt from it. i don't imagine him being afraid of dying either, because it's what they do—it comes with the job. i do think though, that his close call with death here shifts his fear to the idea of loss, particularly, losing you. and as a protector, he finds himself responsible for that.

thank you notes: to @soumies my gawd!! for helping me with dialogue and proofreading, practically beta reading this entire thing!! you are the heart of this fic 🥺 simon would not be simon in this without you!! love u love u love u!!!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#💌nia.recs #<3 sel #gawsh.#not that i know this guy outside a few edits but GAWSH #fawking Fire first sentence. just so good #'But you know old habits die hard and Simon sleeps better with a weapon only layers away from his skin.' oh!!! OH@@@!!!! OH!!!!!#'But your white chrysanthemums should not be red.' OKk. Yougot me! you got me!#THE FLOWERS AND GLOVES!!! the way he tells u to keep them despite his allergies is so endearign what if i metledintoa puddlefawwkkkk #the market!!!! such a good choice... crowded and so often a cute mundane domestic thing so it really hits the point home!! AGH #the way u get the reader to focus on what hes focusing on and rlly getting into his head...#'No ghosts here but me love.' + 'S’called exposure therapy love' Oh so hes silly! hes silly! sillyguy...#'when he watches you hiss away from the brief ‘pop!’ of oil splattering from your pan #he stays right where he is convincing himself he can leave you to handle it' AAAHH!!! really pulls at the heartstrings..ohmann...#the way his near death experience turns into a fear of loss with u GOSHH u did it so well!!! and that just makes so much sense. ohmyan #progress IS nonlinear!! voice wavers clasps hands together and looks around and laughs andshakes. im like. cheering for him right now.#Guys my all time most played song on spotify is i will by mitski What do you mean Let me take care of you PLEAASEE WHYYYYY MYGODD /POS #i know u cant rlly win. exploring a concept/chara. but i think ud win!#like i really dont know this guy but its like i know this guy suddenly!#smth smth finding his presence in the mundane showing comfort/love that juxtaposes so much of him #where do love and fear sit in the fighter and protector where does he let ur love seep through #hoping and working and trusting and loving and AAAGHH!!!#FANTASTIC AS ALWAYS SEL!!! ^____^

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