Chapter Text
“Ready?” you ask.
Looking up from the scant keyring in his palm, Simon answers, “Yeah… I just, need a moment.”
The keys disappear with a close of his fist, and in a shift, he readjusts the strap hanging over his shoulder.
The military duffle at his side showcases your name embroidered in blocked letters, but its contents aren’t fully yours: shared items, new clothes sized XL, and a second toothbrush intermixes with the essentials you threw in last minute.
A passing car on the street steals your attention before you ask, “Huh? Something wrong?”
He avoids your eyesight trying hard to find the right words. Hidden only by a black surgical mask, his free blonde features look to the brick and windows of the residential building in front of you instead.
“It’s- I want you to know, it’s not much.”
“…And?”
“Just don’t expect anythin’” his deep voice rumbles, but you cut him off.
Shifting the bag of groceries in your arms you scoff, “Si, if you think I’m not going to like it, then you’re out of your mind.”
Pedestrians begin to pass on the street, and it forces you to speak your next words gently. “-Look, you of all people know the kinds of shitholes we’ve been deployed to. I don’t think one apartment is going to do it in for me.”
“I know, I know,” he huffs, but the rigidness in his shoulders doesn’t release.
You brush against his inked arm and say light, “Hey.”
His dark brown eyes pull to you.
“-It will be fine…, I promise.”
Finally, Simon moves from the sidewalk, and it doesn't take long to find yourselves climbing the stairs to the building’s third floor. The residents still in their units carry out their day, and the sounds of their lives filter muffled into the hall. You don’t really mind it. It reminds you there’s at least people behind those otherwise blank thresholds -that is, until Simon stops at a quiet one.
Without a word, his gloveless fingers turn the lock to the door, opening the way into the dim space of his apartment.
Closed blinds block out the sun but still fail to catch the rays of light streaking through the window. In darkness, the air of his apartment stands stagnant, clouding out a room suspended in animation as it waits to be awakened.
“I.. haven’t been back in some time,” he says apologetic while disappearing into the shadows.
His tall outline slips off your duffle before adding it to a pile of luggage crowding the entryway. If he hadn’t, you surely would’ve tripped over the black military bags scattered across the floor.
You knew Soap wasn’t lying when he said Simon’s luggage from Mexico showed up before he did. You just wish the Scot took better care to move them out of the damn way.
A pull of a cord lets the sun pour in from the windows, but not even light reveals much about the space. Linen sheets cover the majority of his furniture and reflect the rays that bounce off their white surfaces.
“Fancy,” you say tugging at one of the fabrics. “-Thinking of renovating?”
He opens the window with a chuckle, and the sound of life drifts in from the street.
“It's for the dust. Trust, it’s easier to do a wash than wipe down every surface.”
It’s a simple enough answer, you know.
But you can’t help but let the corners of your mouth dip looking over the sea of white.
You wonder how long he's had to do this.
Simon clears his throat.
“Kitchen’s over there.”
With a nod to the cut-out, a trace of worry seeps into his brow. Pulling one of the covers, his hands compress the cloth into a tight ball.
“Oh… right,” you say, still holding the bag of groceries. “-You have a preference where things go? Or do you want me to get creative?”
Simon tosses the sheet and moves to the next one.
“Unless this is your reason why there’s going to be a cucumber in my dresser. No, love, the cabinets are empty.”
“Charmer,” you tisk with a glare.
You slide the groceries on top of the counter and find familiarity in the off-white patina of his appliances -one stands out from the rest though, and you grin at the metallic shine of his new tea kettle.
Simon wasn’t wrong; only a few plates, cups, and cutlery occupy the upper cabinets and drawers. To be honest, it’s far better than you thought. But, reaching for the fridge, you only find an opened door and a dark inside waiting to greet you; lying on the laminate, the cord lays unplugged from its socket.
“`ere,” he says, shuffling behind you.
With a light touch, Simon’s hand rests warm on your lower back before bending to replug the fridge.
“We’ll `ave to do the bed.”
His black surgical mask covers his scar but does nothing to hide the tension in his blonde features.
“-Won’t take long. You can rest while I put things away.”
Taking your spot at the counter, Simon dismantles the grocery bag one rushed pull at a time.
You clearly see it then: bound in his quick movements, the same apprehension he held on the street.
Wrapping, around his side, you rest your cheek against his arm.
“It’s perfect. You know that right?”
His hands slow before finding rest against the counter.
“I told you,” he huffs, “…it’s not much.”
Brushing your lips against his sleeve, you take in his scent while his warmth spreads over your skin.
“…But it’s enough.”
Simon holds his head low in silence, but the gentle trail of his fingers reaching for your arm tells you all you need to know.
“I hope so,” he says.
∽ ❂ ∼
Simon tried to, at first, keep you from helping him put his apartment back together. When that didn’t work, he tried bargaining, tempting you with more promises of sleep -but not even your jet lag would allow it, and together, you pulled the covers obscuring his furniture revealing a small living room.
Like you, he got most of his things secondhand with some dings and scratches here and there. In his room, his bed, a queen on a faded wood frame, laid bare while her dark navy sheets tumbled in a wash. The opened windows brought in a breeze and the scent of British summer. It kept you company while you unpacked your things on the bedside table.
Your phantom focused mainly on dismantling his luggage from Mexico, and slowly the pile of bags at the front door disappeared. Either moved or put away, their absence made the small apartment feel settled, in a way.
The shadowed walls -once silent sentries standing in their slumber- welcomed the change. Even just seeing Simon present within the four corners of his own place, you could feel it.
The space felt different.
It felt lived in.
It felt like… a home.
And that’s when you saw it.
Held in place by a magnet on that same, once-dead refrigerator, a picture of two smiling soldiers.
You couldn’t recognize the blonde one at first, but even without his deep scar, or even the trials of age, it was his eyes that immediately gave him away.
Simon looked happy and unbelievably baby-faced while the man with brown hair next to him grinned just as wide. They looked like good friends spending time off together between missions. Both of them, sun-bleached and in uniform: just one single snapshot of times simpler in the past.
But it wasn’t alone.
Smuggled in his luggage, another picture hung on the fridge. A picture of you, smiling brightly with a pair of borrowed clippers in your hand.
Your victim, draped in the most obnoxious girly blanket you could find, sat, losing some of his dignity, while the hair you did cut lay on his shoulders. The chunk of your tract misses off the side of his head, leaving nothing but a quarter inch left in its wake.
Two pictures chosen to hang side by side. Together, even though they were taken ages apart.
It made you smile.
You were going to ask him when he snuck it up. But it slipped your mind.
Simon started to flip through TV channels for ambient noise and the sound from the screen drew you from your spot. A game was on, and your phantom, still covered by the black of his surgical mask, stood hostage to the players on the green pitch.
You offered to watch it with him; most of the cleaning and unpacking was done already anyways. He agreed, silently joining you on the couch but not before you sent him to change out of his street clothes. You’d be damned if you were going to let him spoon you in his jeans.
It took a few attempts, but eventually, you found a position that didn’t end up crushing his arm. He covered the two of you in a blanket, explaining some of the basic rules of rugby while his inked arm circled warm around your waist.
You didn’t even stand a chance.
Your eyelids heavied, and you were out before the second quarter.
✧✧❂✧✧
It's quiet.
Quiet enough to hear the soft murmur of children playing down the street and the rumble of cars passing outside the window.
Turned, you hide your face against his chest, blocking out the sun now lowered from when you first closed your eyes.
His arm drapes over your side and you breathe in soft breaths. His shirt smells of amber and clove.
The weight in your limbs lifts, and with it, the feeling in your muscles returns. You arch your back in a stretch sending Simon’s hand to slide along your hip at the movement.
You hum back a soft hello.
“Glad to see you’re still with us,” he says light.
Lifting your head with half-shut eyes, you look around his apartment. Through the blinding light, you can still see his TV though -still on but long since muted.
“Fuckkk,” you groan deep and drop back to the couch. “-The game. I’m so sorry. I swear I closed my eyes for two seconds.”
His laugh is soft.
“You’re alright, it was a boring match anyway.”
Your body feels awake, but your mind surely does not… and the gentle hand moving up your back doesn’t help any.
“What time is it?” you yawn into his shirt.
“Four-ish? Why?”
“Because you need to eat. And I have to make dinner, Si.”
“...Apollo, I know how to cook.”
“Ugh, I know,” you groan,
“-But you’re British and unfortunately I’m reminded of it every day.”
The fingers at your back immediately dig into your ribs.
“Ah!” you laugh in a bow.
Moving to see his masked face, his closed eyes open just to give you a dark side-eye.
“What you want for tea?” he says with gravel.
Simon’s hand returns, tracing arcs across your back. It’s almost impossible in how good it feels: how it scratches that perfect part of your brain to make you feel cozy. Touch cradles you, from the way your legs intertwine bare with his and his hips lay against yours.
“Spaghetti,” you exhale, “We have everything for it.”
He hums tired. “Spaghetti bolognese?”
You just barely have enough energy to respond, “Sure.”
You could just pass out right here. Let the brain fog take over and throw you into another nap. It would be so easy. He feels so fucking warm, but the tingly feeling blooming over your limbs won't let you.
Grazing your nose on the underside of his chin, you try to appease it.
Simon’s masked lips reciprocate the soft contact by resting feather light against your forehead.
The arcs across your back deepen, and your fingers shift to gently press against his chest.
Touch.
You can feel his muscle pull underneath your fingertips.
Sliding your hand higher, you trace along his shoulder and the dip of his neck before reaching the corner of his jaw.
You try not to disturb the elastic band hooked there -but it doesn't stop you from loosely tracing the edges found free from his surgical mask.
Touch.
Simon’s breath heavies over the tops of your cheeks as you massage gently behind his ear.
Simon pulls away after a moment to unhook the strap anchoring his mask. Folding it, he rests the black cover on the couch arm, before, in the open light, his deep scar -the path that was ripped into his face- makes itself known.
You take your fingers along his jaw, feeling the stubble on his chin.
His exposed teeth make him look dangerous.
But you think it only makes him more handsome.
Touch.
His brown irises, dark and endless, watch you hungry from behind blonde lashes.
He shifts his inked thigh high between your legs just as his arm pushes under your shirt. Flat-palmed and heavy, his hand snakes along your back.
And he drags you closer.
Touch.
“…Simon?”
‘Mhm?’ he hums.
“Stop being cute.”
He huffs at that.
“Don’t know what you’re on about.”
You tilt your head up to reach his pulse.
He’s lying, you know, because his breath catches as you part your lips to leave a kiss.
With slow repetition, you move up his throat all while the hand at your side kneads your waist with each small press. It would be wrong to say your lips lack intent, but at the same time, you can’t ignore how they crave more than just his neck. You just want to feel his lips on yours -you just want to kiss him.
Barely reaching his chin, you’re granted your wish. Simon’s arm unwraps from under your shirt and his fingertips guide you to his scarred mouth. He kisses you light, tongues glancing in chaste tastes. But it’s obvious from your paired sighs: neither of you have the energy to do this.
His teeth cut against your bottom lip while you smooth your palm against his stomach. Trailing over his scars, you move your hand along his abdomen until your ring and middle fingers dip under the waist of his shorts.
He already feels hot against your palm.
‘Ah,’ he tisks at you.
In soft tones, he says, grabbing your hand, “Later.”
“-Lay on your back, Apollo.”
You turn.
Simon helps you wiggle higher on the couch before letting your head fall against his bicep.
“Alright?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you respond, but what he doesn't see is the red flush spreading across your cheeks as you stare up at his ceiling.
Slowly, his fingertips begin to draw heated arcs under the fabric of your shirt.
“Breathe,” his voice drips rich in your ear as his touch ghosts over your ribs.
His thumb breaches the edge of your bra just as you inhale, gently tracing the underside of your breast.
“Again… Slower.”
Gliding lower, his fingers feel the subtle raise of your stomach as you take deeper breath. It strangely helps you focus on the tract made against your skin; goosebumps prick all over your body.
He reaches the waist of your shorts and your legs tilt open at the touch. He doesn't waste the offer. Cupping you first, his middle finger glides in the pool waiting between your thighs. It’s honestly embarrassing how much ‘just cuddling’ has done to you. Pressing in, his thick fingers sink deep without warning.
You arch in a sigh.
It all feels… so rushed. But, wading smooth, Simon makes it a point to prove he’s taking his time. His fingers make you feel full with each curved draw before pausing just to rub his palm against your clit in slow circles. Even as you begin to rock gently with the wake of his arm, he still refuses to break his pace.
Waves start to roll through your body while the feather-light feeling of relief scratches across your brain -you have to reach for his neck just to anchor yourself.
His nose brushes light against the side of your face.
Lost, you push your nails up his neck, carding and dragging through the strands of his blonde hair.
A gentle bite at your jaw,
and his lips descend.
You can’t keep your breathing under control. Each press feels like a tease with just enough pressure to keep you from plummeting into the deep end. If only he would push harder or move faster, then you’d be kicked over the edge.
But he doesn't speed up.
His knee shuffles under your leg before opening you wide . The black flames of his tattoo twist down his forearm as they disappear under the edge of your shorts. Your leg drapes shamelessly over his equally tatted thigh and you can feel him heavy and burning against your hip as he leaves kisses along your neck.
It's beyond obscene.
Groaning deep, you roll your head back against his arm.
You try to focus on the hum of your orgasm as you tense, chasing it. More. You need more.
The shouting inside your head drowns out any sound you hear. Your body is stiff, and he can feel it.
“Relax,” he rumbles.
Every smooth pass heightens the sensation, building warmth in your core not lit by gasoline but a slow broil singeing you with the hot flames.
Its unforgiving simmer makes you whine as you tilt your hips higher towards his touch.
Drawing the loose hair from your temple, his free hand presses his fingertips to your forehead. Soft, he kisses the side of your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache.
He knows you weren’t listening.
“Relax,” he says sweet.
The tenderness in his voice is enough to make you dive into the flames.
And You let go.
Tilting your head toward his, you let yourself feel. No thoughts. No wants.
You melt.
Simon holds you while you roll your eyes back.
Coaxing the tension between your legs, he finally lets the band release, and you fall, wrapped in euphoria as you reach for the crook of his arm.
You come, and your phantom draws out your high for as long as possible. He doesn't slow, not when you begin to moan in strings of breathy sighs or even when you kiss him, increasingly just needing the contact. He takes until eventually you have nothing left to give him.
Your brain feels like it has shut off and restarted anew.
Your muscles feel like jelly.
Simon stops his hand, and with it, the pleasure from his fingers begins to dim. But their buzz still glitters bright all over your body.
Gently massaging the tight knot he built, Simon rests his forehead against yours -you don’t even notice the grip you have dragging your fingers through his hair.
You follow the soft cadence of his breaths in the ambient quietness of the room. It’s oddly blissful. There’s no need for hurried goodbyes. Or secret looks. No more pretending. No more hopelessly wanting. You just have him -and he you.
Suddenly everything feels right in the world.
Simon withdraws his hold and lets the weight of his fingertips linger over your abdomen for a moment.
Your leg lowers with a slide of his before his thumb taps against your stomach.
“Good?” He asks.
You barely have enough energy to process the question let alone respond.
Regardless, ‘Yes,’ you hum light.
The blush painting your cheeks has only deepened, ruthlessly betraying you while you gather your bearings; you can even feel it spread across your chest.
“…Yeah, good,” you say breathless, “-Really, really good.”
What a dumb fucking question.
Turning, you push your head under his chin and bury your face against his neck.
“…Glad to `ear,” his voice says low.
Muffled, you groan, “We should sit down for rugby more often if this is what it leads to.”
Laughing soft, he tenses the bicep supporting your head.
“If that's the case, I’d lose an arm.”
Simon taps you on the temple. “Up, I’m numb.”
“Fuck, sorry.”
Propping yourself up, you give him enough room to move. By no means do you feel like a space cadet, but at the same time, you still find the reassimilation process with your body hard to get used to.
Simon focuses on bringing life back into his sleeping hand -his dark brown eyes, with blonde lashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks, closely monitor each tense and flex.
You can see him clearly now.
His stern features, once images kept only in memory, look softened in the light. The strong bridge of his nose slopes gently with the rest of his face before the ridges of his cheekbones demand the same attention. They send you to grace his wide brows and the loose strands of hair over his forehead. And his lips…
Blame it on the dopamine flooding your head, but he looks, beautiful.
Sure, his scar tears into his cheek -but, it’s a part of him as much as your scars from service are a part of you. He has tried, for so long, to keep it from you. Months spent hiding under his skull mask when you knew the rest of the team had already seen his face.
If only he knew then,
you wouldn’t have wanted him any other way.
Drawing your fingertips across his temple, you push the loose strands of his hair out of the way.
His brown doe eyes break from his wrist to catch the small smile pulling at the corners of your mouth.
“What?” he huffs.
“Mh, nothing,” you hum, “I just, like seeing you like this.”
His blonde features look at you suspicious.
He scoffs, tensing his fist, “What, in pain? I’m flattered, Apollo.”
“No! That’s!-”
You push your face against the couch, but it’s too late. The blush from his words has already reddened your cheeks.
Peeking from your spot you’re only met with his grin -you swear it could be forged by the devil himself.
His lips curve into a handsome smile accented by the flash of his canine from his deep scar.
It just makes you blush even harder.
“That’s not what I meant,” you say meek.
Simon chuckles with his laughs rumbling light through the air. “Of course, darling,” he says, “-whatever you say.”
You could plead your innocence and rush to clear your name with jumbled words, but you don’t have to. His dark irises tell you, he already understands.
Wrapping around your side, his heavy hands feel warm on your hips.
“You’re impossible, Si,” you scoff as his fingertips release to draw you in for a kiss.
Your phantom is gentle, pulling your chin until your lips ghost over his.
“`ave to Apollo,” he hums.
“…Y’know you’re beautiful when you’re flushed.”