Chapter Text
The street isn’t lit up to the norm, and it annoys you that it’s the first bloody thing you think of when you stare out the kitchen window into the front yard. All of that only because Simon keeps mentioning it, that’s why.
He’s got it drilled into your brain matter at this point.
Wherever you look, wherever you go in this house, you’re reminded of rules.
Rules and regulations, all made up by him.
And they don’t stop at your relationship, no.
No public displays of affection, no touching in general. No “I love You’s”, no flirting, no acknowledgement of your relationship outside of your circle. No dates, no anniversaries.
Nothing.
It’s been nearly two years of this. First, you’d been dancing around each other, or rather, you were doing the dancing, flirting, trying to gain his attention, while Simon barely acknowledged you with a grunt here and there outside of work.
Until one night. The night Simon took you home when both of you had too much to drink after a successful mission—and then he simply never let you go again.
However, the rose-coloured glasses finally broke just recently, thanks to another throwaway comment of him about how he won’t celebrate Christmas holidays with your family this year, and you realized that this relationship, though hardly deserving of the title, might not be what you want.
It’s Saturday, barely 2000 PM, when you find Simon in the open living room of the house you share, the home he made you move into a few months ago, watching a rugby game on the telly, drinking a bottle of beer.
The last week has been rough. Once again, the days dragged on feeling more like you’re living with a stranger than having an actual partner by your side.
“Hey,” you greet him softly, already feeling uncomfortable for disturbing him. “ Uhm , I’m... I just—” Whenever his dark tawny eyes flicker to meet yours, you can barely keep yourself from squirming under his gaze nowadays.
“I’m gonna meet up with a friend at the pub, okay?”
Simon barely shifts his gaze from the screen, the flickering light of the rugby match casting shadows across his skull balaclava. His fingers tap against the beer bottle absently as he gives a noncommittal hum—not quite acknowledgment, not quite dismissal.
“Which friend?” The question is flat, but there is something simmering beneath it—that ever-present vigilance that comes with years of combat, distrust, and experiences that haunt him to the present.
He tilts his head just slightly, studies you with those dark eyes that always seem to see too much. “The one who texts you at midnight? Or the one who ‘accidentally’ calls you ‘love’?” His voice lowers on that last word, sharp with something unspoken—something between suspicion and irritation.
And you know exactly who he is referring to.
Then he rucks his mask up over his crooked nose again, takes a slow sip of his beer before adding dryly, “Or is it Soap? Because if he’s buyin’ shots for ‘the lads’ again like last time… Christ.” A muscle in his jaw ticks as if remembering how that night ended: him hauling your drunken arse over his shoulder while Soap cackled in the background about how “Ghost gets all territorial when—”
He cuts the memory off abruptly with a low grunt. “Just don’t come back piss-drunk expectin’ me to drag yer arse to bed.” But despite the harshness of his words—is there a hint of concern buried underneath?
You roll your shoulders, an attempt to shrug off the tension building up inside your body.
Perhaps just annoyance. With Simon, it is always hard to tell.
Then, his attention returns to the game almost pointedly—his version of permission granted (or at least not denied), though even as he pretends indifference now, you know that if anyone so much as looks at you wrong tonight, they’d find themselves faced by Lieutenant Riley later.
If nothing else, he is quite protective of you. Both off and on duty.
Shifting on the spot in your fuzzy socks, hands clasped behind your back like you’re some child getting scolded as he speaks, your stomach swoops at the mention of Johnny.
You clear your throat softly, “Yeah, it’s... it’s Johnny. Just a drink, though. I think he just... needs someone to yap to.”
The moment you confirm it is Soap, Simon’s grip on the beer bottle tightens a fraction. His jaw works silently beneath the mask before he exhales through his nose—long and slow, like a man praying for patience. “Needs someone to yap to,” he repeats dryly, words dripping with scepticism.
He finally tears his eyes away from the match to pin you with that unnerving stare again, dark amusement flickering behind it. “Right. Because MacTavish isn’t exactly the type who runs out of ears willing to listen.” A pause as he tilts his head slightly. “Funny how yer number’s olways first dialled when tha’ bloke’s feelin’ chatty.”
The unspoken accusation lingers heavy between you both—Johnny has been toeing lines lately, and Simon isn’t exactly blind even if pretending indifference most days.
With another swig from the bottle now nearly empty, he waves dismissively toward the front door without breaking eye contact once more, though this time there is something sharper underneath all stoicism.
“Go on then, princess. Just remember—“ The tone of his voice drops even lower, suddenly rough around the edges despite his casual posture still sprawled across the couch like a king brooding over kingdom. “I ain’t carrying either one o’ ya back this time.”
As you wait and listen to him, you can pick up on the slightest accusatory tone at the mention of Johnny again, though you choose not to take the bait—favouring your mood over a potential argument.
“Right.” You let out a soft breath. “Just one drink... I’ll be back before midnight, Si,” you assure him before turning on your socked feet to disappear upstairs.
Simon remains planted on the couch, emptying his bottle of beer with another slow drink as he watches you walk away, knowing bloody well his Sergeant’s intentions with you are not exactly pure. The Scot is many things, but subtle isn’t exactly a talent of his.
His gaze lingers until the sound of your footsteps fade away upstairs, the creaking of old oakwood getting softer as you ascend, and he lets out a huff of air through gritted teeth, his thoughts swirling like the foam of a freshly tapped beer.
And with each passing moment, a familiar tension begins to coil within him.
Upstairs, you’re swiftly wiggling yourself into a pair of thin nylon tights before putting on the black dress you’ve grabbed from your wardrobe and slipping into your trusty thigh-high boots. Grabbing your purse and leather jacket, you make your way downstairs after sending a quick text message to Johnny, announcing that you’re on your way.
Simon is back in the same spot on the couch when you descend, though now he has switched to methodically cleaning his Glock on the coffee table while the TV keeps running with an old Western movie. It’s a habit of his whenever agitation simmers too greatly beneath the surface.
Either that or sharpening his knives.
And as always, his hands move with practiced precision, each disassembly and reassembly as smooth as breathing.
Until you step back into his peripheral.
His fingers freeze mid-motion, eyes flicking up from the weapon to rake over your figure in that dress—the one that clings to you like a second skin—then those boots that can do things to any man’s sanity. A muscle twitches along his jawline as he swallowed hard, grip tightening around the gun’s slide just for half a second before forcing himself back into motion.
“One drink,” he repeats gruffly without looking at you again, except this time, there is an edge beneath it; something dangerously close to a warning. Not just for Soap, but himself too, given how thoroughly his gaze just scorched over every inch of you a moment prior.
Snapping the magazine back into place with more force than necessary, he adds lowly: “And text me which pub ye’r at.” It’s not a request.
“It’s the one just three streets away,” you tell him, stuffing your house keys into the small bag stuffed under your left armpit. “I forgot the name... but I’ll text it to you when I’m there, okay?” Now standing in the open living room, you wait for his answer.
The silence that follows stretches taut like a livewire between you two, and when Simon finally breaks it, his voice is clipped and cool as a London storm, “Been there.”
Of course, he knows which pub you’re referring to. Simon knows every bloody corner of this town—its alleys, rooftops, and even the names of its pubs. Hell, he could probably name all the patrons of that place too if asked.
“They have good whiskey,” he added after a beat, as if to offer some sort of olive branch.
It isn’t much—you both know it—and yet, coming from Simon Riley, it is damn near poetic.
“ Mhm ,” you hum, watching him for a moment. He seems as calm and collected as ever while you contemplate kissing him goodbye or if he’d simply reject the attempt again if you so much as try.
The thought of rejection makes your stomach clench uncomfortably.
“Alright, uhm ... bye, then.” You call over your shoulder eventually as you turn to leave, awkward as ever, while you keep telling yourself that this isn’t right; not how it’s supposed to be between loving partners.
But Simon’s gaze follows you across the room—watching, waiting, assessing as you disappear around the corner of the hallway towards the front door, before he calls out your name.
One word. Low, gravelly, and it’s enough to send a shiver up your spine without any right to, like he’s an owner simply calling for his pet who has done something wrong.
His eyes are on you again, unwavering, as he slowly stands from the couch to go after you. The weapon now forgotten on the coffee table, still disassembled—a tool of death temporarily cast aside as he took measured steps towards his new target.
And Simon stops directly in front of you; close enough to touch but still distant enough to make you ache for him.
Blinking up at him, the surprise is evident in your doe-eyes as you meet his.
“Yes?” It damn near comes out like a feeble squeak, like a mouse caught with the cheese.
“Before you go—” He reaches up to brush aside a tendril of hair that has fallen into your face, his calloused fingers lightly tracing the curve of your cheek with calloused fingertips. The gesture so unlike him—tender, affectionate, and human, that it takes your breath away momentarily.
His gaze drops to your lips, painted with some sparkly red tinted lip-gloss that faintly smells like cherries, before he forces himself to look away again, the struggle obvious in his expression now. A battle raging between his instinct to keep you close and the walls built deep within him after years of war and loss.
“Be careful out there,” he mutters finally, as if you’re about to charge into a battlefield. “Don’t let MacTavish get too handsy.”
“I—” You swallow hard, eyes flickering over his masked face. Finally, you nod, “Of course not.”
His fingers lingered against your skin for a moment longer, as if he was memorizing the texture of it. “Good.”
Then he lowers his hand again and takes a step back, putting a subtle but noticeable distance between you once again.
“And don’t stay out too late.”
Again, not a warning exactly, more like a plea masked by his usual flat and curt tone.
Simon wants you here with him, where he can make sure you stay safe under his vigilant eyes and looming presence, but he’d be damned if he ever admits that aloud.