Chapter Text
Simon Riley had lived a very…isolated life. His closest friend, simply by proxy, was Captain John Price, but even their relationship only went so far. He chose not to go out of his way to form connections and relationships with people, finding it a waste of his time. He hadn’t had a friend since he was a kid in grade school, and even that was a sad excuse for a friendship. Besides, he didn’t have much time for socialization. He threw himself into work, taking on back-to-back missions, and spent hours poring over paperwork, which became his hobbies.
Everything in Simon’s life revolved around his work. It was the most important thing in his life; the only place he felt he made a difference. Not a single person understood how much he needed that job. It gave him a sense of purpose and a place not to be considered a fuck up. It was a physical way to prove himself worthy. Worthy of what, Simon was still trying to figure that out. Finding meaning in something he enjoys always takes him a long time. He either felt nothing or he was angry. No in between.
“Target down,” Simon murmured into his comm, staring at the lifeless body that had just fallen on the pavement, his gun still hot from the bullet. His face was hard, unwavering as he sat and studied the body from his perch in some old windmill. He’d killed enough; it didn’t faze him much anymore. The bodies tended to blend together after a while, no matter how hard he tried to remember each one. They became a blur of faces and names, hard to decipher which was which. Maybe he was a heartless bastard.
“Get out safe. Got reports of an airstrike coming in.” Price’s voice cracked, the comm cutting out half of what he was saying. Simon cursed under his breath, strapping his sniper to his back. It didn’t take him long to clean up his area, leaving the dirty building just as he found it.
The windmill was just how you’d expect; floorboards broken, trash piled up in various places, dust an inch thick everywhere. The dust made Simon’s nose tingle and drip, his allergies having a field day. He silently thanked his balaclava for blocking most of the dust particles.
“How far off?” He crept down the stairwell of the building he was in, pistol at the ready. His footsteps were damn near silent on the metal stairs, just a light click of his boot, tapping on the stairs.
“30 Kilometers. 5 minutes until it drops.”
“Fuck.” Simon growled, picking up his pace, thudding down the stairs. “Coulda told me sooner.” He snapped, reaching the bottom of the stairwell in no time. The building wasn’t made for stealth; everything creaked and groaned under Simon’s heavy weight. But, it overlooked some abandoned farm land, which they’d gotten reports of a terrorism group hiding out there, so it was his only option. Practicality over personal preference.
“We had no warning. Showed up outta fucking nowhere.” Price bites back. “Get to evac point as soon as possible. We have a team waiting to take you out.”
Simon busts out of the old doors, not looking back as he sprints towards the wooded area. He had the evac site memorized; it shouldn’t be too far of a run. Simon, even at a full sprint, didn’t move very fast. Adding his weight, height, and equipment together didn't make for an agile soldier. He liked to say he was tactical. He didn’t need to be fast; he just had to be stronger and smarter than the other guy. Which he always was.
Simon had barely made it to the wooded area, and a loud boom sounded, a rush of hot air and debris shooting into the forest. Simon was sent flying, slamming into the trunk of a tree. He groaned, his head spinning, with an annoying ring in his ears. He rolled onto his back, trying to catch his breath. He knew he couldn’t stop there, but it didn’t make the thought less tempting. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Even his hand in front of his face appeared to be moving at half speed. Hot liquid dripped down his face from where his skull balaclava had cut into his forehead.
Fuck.
He could feel the flames, the heat pulsing in waves. His head whirled, the tree tops above him going in circles.
With a distorted snarl, he threw himself up, standing on his two feet. Sheer determination and will were keeping him upright. Hanging onto each passing tree, he slowly made his way to the evac checkpoint, grunting with each stumbling step. Soon, the ringing in his ears was replaced with a pounding headache, and the spinning was mostly gone, save for when he got out of breath and had to stop. Every fiber of Simon’s being was buzzing with white-hot anger.
Injuries were never good in active combat. If you ended up in the infirmary, it was a mandatory three-week leave, at least. No exceptions, unless the doctor specifies. Taken out of the field and sent home until those three weeks were up. Solemn did Simon ever end up in the infirmary. Most injuries he could hide pretty damn well, and treat them (mostly) by himself. Unfortunately, he knew he wouldn’t be so lucky this time. His unsteady gait and the crack in his balaclava were something he couldn’t hide.
Slow but sure, he made his way to the evac point, soldiers rushing to help him walk. He shoved them off, telling every single one of them exactly where they needed to go.
He was fine.
Simon knew he looked like death walking, and he even felt like it, too, but he’d be damned if he let them pity him. He fucking hated pity.
He loaded himself into one of the trucks, clenching his teeth when it started to move. The ride was completely silent, only the sound of the motor rumbling as it drove across the beaten-down path. Simon knew he had a reputation for being an asshole, and he relished in the fact. No one spoke to him unless they needed to, and he reciprocated. He never felt the need to fill the silence that surrounded him, like a dark cloud wherever he went. His entire life was quiet, and he liked to keep it that way.
The truck jerked to a stop, a small grunt coming out of Simon. His head pulsed, and his abdomen hurt like hell. Every step felt like he was sinking lower and lower into hell; he could practically feel the flames licking his boots. He silently cursed anything and everything, his anger only increasing. He ignored the hustling of the soldiers as they put equipment back where it belonged on base, just hobbling his way to the infirmary.
Simon wasn’t stupid; he knew when he needed to go. Did he want to? No. But he went anyway, despite his apprehension. He wasn’t trying to get his ass chewed by Price for being a stubborn knob.
The sliding doors opened, the sterile smell filling Simon’s nostrils. He hated that smell. He made his way to the front desk, leaning on it for support.
“Can I ask what you’re…” The woman who sat at the front desk trailed off as her eyes flicked over him. “Right. I’ll grab the doctor.” She hustles, opening the office door behind the nurse’s station. She mumbles something to the person inside, then waves at Simon. “Right this way, honey.”
Simon bristled at how casually she said the pet name. Even small amounts of affection that probably meant nothing to her made him violently uncomfortable. He’d always had a hard time with casual intimacy; it was uncharted territory. Something he didn’t know how to do, or even take it.
She showed him to a private exam room, letting him sit down on the table in the middle of the room. She handed him a clipboard with some documents. “Fill those out for me, dear, and the doctor should be in here in a moment.” She gives him a quick, forced smile before shuffling out of the room.
Simon peeled off his muddy, military grade gloves, picking up the pen in his large hand. Truth be told, he could barely feel the pen through the thick calluses on his hand, but he was used to the lack of feeling. Lack of feeling was his specialty.
He began to fill out the form, grumbling about the invasive questions and unnecessary delves into his personal life. Instead of putting his actual home address, he wrote his bunk room number. They didn’t need to know where his house back in Manchester was; he wasn’t there enough to consider it his home, anyway. Temporary living space was more like it. He’d only purchased that home so he wouldn’t have to pay rent on a place he hardly stayed at. It just made more sense to buy a house outright, no mortgage, no rent.
A light knock sounded on the door, and an older male doctor gently shoved the door open. “Good…” he trailed off, glancing at his watch, “evening, I suppose.” He lets out a huff of a laugh, probably hoping to gain a small reaction out of Simon to lessen the awkwardness. Simon didn’t budge. “I’m Doctor Berkhart…Besides the obvious, what brings you in tonight?” The doctor perches himself on the rolling stool with his computer, ready to take notes and examine Simon.
“Bruised ribs,” Simon says curtly. “Possible concussion.”
The doctor nodded, his fingers furiously whizzing over the keyboard, inputting information. “I’ll need to see your abdomen, so I can prescribe you some pain pills. As for the concussion…” he pauses, clicking around, “I’ll do a neuro exam, but there aren't any pills I can give to treat that. So hopefully it’s not severe.” Simon nodded, watching the doctor intensely. “Would you please go ahead and take off your…” the doctor trails off again, glancing at Simon’s tactical vest, with some form of jumper underneath.
Without needing to hear the rest, Simon begins to undo the straps of the vest, pulling it off, along with his black jumper. He sets them down neatly beside him, then glances down at his chest.
The bruising was bad; that much was clear. Angry black and blue bruises were scattered along his sides, along with several nasty scrapes. He always felt slightly embarrassed showing his body to others, even medical professionals. The burn scars that tainted the right half of his body always provoked questions and stares. Simon didn’t want to be reminded of his childhood, but his body was a graveyard of memories. He was silently thankful the doctor couldn’t see his flushed cheeks and shameful expression.
“Definitely bruised ribs.” Berkhart types on his computer again. “Mind if I examine them a bit more?” He asks politely, pulling on some latex gloves.
Simon grunts, stiffening as the doctor's cold hands gently pressed against his chest and side. He couldn’t help his body stiffening under the touch, even though he knew it was for his own good, he still felt the urge to rip the hands off of him.
“Ah,” Berkhart says, dropping his hands. “Well, the good news is that they’re not as severe as I thought.” He says, clearing his throat. “But, they’re not…great. And as for the concussion, there's not much I can do. It’s probably mild; you would know if it was severe.”
“What are you implying?” Simon says, his temper rising.
“I’m going to strongly recommend that you rest for at least four weeks.” Berkhart writes something on a slip of paper, handing it to Simon. Simon stiffened, knowing what he meant. “I’ll send an urgent medical leave request to your captain, and it should be approved by the morning, if not sooner.”
Simon didn’t say anything, trying not to lose his shit on the doctor. He knew he was just trying to help, but he really, really wasn’t helping. Medical leave was the last thing Simon needed right now, considering how swamped he was at work. Paperwork was stacked on his desk that he’d been procrastinating on filling out. Mission reports were going to be the death of him one day; he swore up and down they were unnecessary. No one looked at them anyway; they got put into a filing cabinet, never to be seen again.
Grabbing his jumper, Simon slid off the table, trying not to jostle his ribs. “I recommend taking some Tylenol or Aspirin for the pain.” Simon didn’t stay around to listen to the rest of the spiel; he knew it well enough.
Get plenty of rest.
Don’t overdo it.
Enjoy your time off.
Simon walked as fast as his damaged body would let him, determined to talk to Price before he sent him home.
Price’s office was a whole hell of a lot nicer than other places on base. Simon felt it was deserved. Price was a damn good captain and an even better man. Even though they were only a couple of years apart, Simon always looked up to him, in a sense. Price was everything Simon wasn’t. He had a full life; a wife and several children waiting for him at home, a life bursting with joyful memories, and the promise of many more. Then there was Simon, whose life was as cold and sterile as it could get. Void of any light or love, and had been for a long time.
Simon knocked firmly on the heavy wooden door, shoving it open with a grunt. “Price.” He says, his voice gruff.
“Simon.” Price replies, his eyes glancing up to Simon for a moment, then back down to the paper he was looking at. “I figured you’d be halfway to Manchester by now.”
Fuck.
“I don’t think I need to take time off. I can work fine.” Simon lowers himself into the leather chair across from Price, not even reaching for the open whiskey bottle in front of him. He knew it would hurt too badly to lean, so he sat stiffly in the chair, clenching his teeth. Simon found himself at the bottom of a bottle too often nowadays, so he found it difficult to restrain himself when a perfectly chilled bottle sat just a couple of inches away.
“I don’t think you’ve taken a break in over six months. You’re well overdue, anyway.” Price takes a swig of the whiskey in his glass. “Injury or not, you’re taking some time off.”
“Bloody bullshit.” Simon snaps, his body warming with anger. “And you know it.”
“You’re going to overexert yourself. An exhausted soldier is a dead one.” Price retorts. “And I’m extending your leave, too. Four weeks of medical leave and another eight weeks of required vacation. No exceptions.”
Simon stands back up, glaring down at Price, not saying another word. Simon knew better than to argue with him, especially when he’d made up his mind. Simon knew he was right, no matter how much it pissed him off. He’d been on back-to-back missions for months straight, working constantly. It was exhausting, but rewarding. He didn’t know what to do without the addictive adrenaline rush he got from diving headfirst into missions. How it felt to grab a drink from the bar, knowing he saved lives that day, not just killing.
Simon turned on his heel, storming out of Price’s office, making sure to slam the door. He was sure he looked ridiculous, hobbling as fast as he could to his bunk room.
Going home to Manchester was the last thing he wanted to do, but here he was, throwing his clothes in an old backpack, setting it by the door. Simon would’ve liked to leave as soon as possible, but his bed looked tempting, especially after today’s events.
Simon pulled off his ruined balaclava, looking at the crack straight down the middle, the blood spattered on it. He walked into the bathroom, his brows furrowing as he noticed a new gash on his forehead, matching a missing chunk out of the skull. He ran his finger over the jagged edge, then threw it away. He’d always found it funny when he heard the rumors that it was a real skull. He didn’t try to stop them; in fact, he toyed with the recruits, stirring the pot. It was one of the few things he found quite hilarious. Simon would often get back to his bunk room, chuckling to himself about it.
Crawling into bed, he decided he would drive back tomorrow morning. After all, it wasn’t a bad drive, and his head was still pounding. So he figured it was safer if he got some rest first