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Simon had promised himself that if he ever lived long enough to be satisfied with his life, he'd go and piss on his father's grave.
He thought about giving up, thought about ending it sooner rather than later—easier to expect life to deal another bad hand, considering what he'd been given in the past. The whisper of a blade along his wrists, or, better yet, a ripe bullet fuming in his head.
Prevent the cunt from sliding more poor draws as birthday surprises.
Still, the thought of desecrating the bastard's grave gave him something to look forward to. And when you have a source of anticipation, life tends to slide by in a bearable manner.
The only thing he had to do now was find a reason to go there, to the cemetery where he was buried. He wouldn't show up with nothing to shove down the man's throat, no matter how dead it was. No, Simon would go there with a trophy in his hand, rub it nicely where the Riley name was just about to fade, and then piss on it.
Medals didn't do the trick in his own eyes—never fond of chest candy, he couldn't imagine the ghost of his father being impressed either. His survival mattered little, too. Hell, he could go there to tell him that he had made it out of a grave, at least, while he stayed buried and dead, killed by the same things he once worshipped: alcohol, drugs, and a fat fucking liver.
Nothing quite fit the plan.
Simon drifted past his thirties with nothing meaningful in his cards—the same shitty hand life had dealt him from the start.
The only thing he could've bragged about was that he never found it hard to juggle work, relationships, and life.
Mostly because he lacked the latter two. What a brag, aye?
Easy as anything, though: go to work, get the job done, and go back home. Crack open a beer, maybe. Pass out on the couch.
He knows what it looks like. He knows and reluctantly admits it, too. Doesn't need a reminder from his psyche, doesn't need to hear the derisive laugh of his old man echo in his head.
He shuts it all off and drinks on it—paradoxical as it may be.
And as life gets dull and duller, rankled with boredom and self-loathing. With the same beers and the same shows on the telly. With the same silence haunting his flat and the same dreadful black hole swallowing his chest—
A spark. A light.
Out of the blue, during the hottest day of summer. Something that makes the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end, like a cat sensing danger—though this is no threat at all. It's the unusual of it, the novelty leaving his stomach knotted and heavy.
A pair of jeans, a light blue shirt left unbuttoned at the top. Just two, nothing too revealing. Open enough to stave off the warmth of HQ, yet still hiding the right amount of skin for a professional setting.
Makes his imagination run wild. Didn't even know he still had it in him, to fantasise.
A necklace you mindlessly toy with between nimble fingers, pretty blue gemstone mounted in gold, as you point at numbers and charts on the whiteboard behind you.
He's heard fuck all.
"Alright then." You snap him out of it. "Any questions?"
It takes him one well-placed elbow in the ribs, surreptitious as the owner, Garrick, for him to notice that he's been gawking at you to the point of discomfort. You're staring back with tightened brows and steeled shoulders, lips furled in either a pensive frown or a disgusted one.
Simon opts for the latter.
Of course he had to go and act like an animal the day he forgoes the balaclava. Not even his need for anonymity could force him to wrap his face in fabric when the temperature is just shy of 35 degrees. And while this has protected him from melting against the chair of the conference room, it has also left him completely vulnerable to bystanders' eyes.
Including yours. Sharper than a blade, cutting him into thin slices until there's nothing left for him to hide.
John asks something. The focus shifts. God fucking bless him alright.
You answer smoothly, crystalline voice that tinkers with his eardrums like they're made of glass.
He takes the ball and brings a hand to his jaw to massage its hinges. It aches. His mouth is dry. Pulse climbing up, palms clammy as they go for his face. If he didn't know any better, he'd think he's on the verge of having a stroke.
But not even Simon, clueless as he may be when it comes to feelings, is that unfathomably stupid. His cock straining in his trousers is a big, fat hint anyway.
You collect your things. Tap your papers neatly into place. Peel off a post-it note and scribble something on it. He follows the curve of your hand, the sharpness of each knuckle.
Simon blinks, and you're right beside him, sticking that yellow paper on the table in front of him.
Your number penned on it. Your name right below.
𓇬
Simon has fucked plenty of people without remembering much of it. There are those who care if he comes, and those who fuck him even if he isn't hard at all.
It's a very straightforward way to force his body to feel something that isn't agony. Though he wouldn't describe himself to be a sad person—he doesn't think what he feels is sadness. It's more than that, less fickle than simple heartache.
He's accepted that life could either be this or the complete opposite. Between those two states of being, however, there is a whole ocean to cross, and he's utterly alone on a pitiful raft and with a single oar. At that point, he starts realising that he can either row day and night, hoping to reach a place that only seems to get farther and farther, or he can try his bloody hardest to make the journey more pleasurable.
He's tried drugs. Good for a tick. The aftermath is atrocious, though, worse than whatever has been festering in his guts.
Alcohol knocks him out. That's good. Less frowned upon. Easier to hide. His mouth waters when he pops open his beer and listens to the telltale fizz as the bubbles rise to the top. Foam spills on his knuckles, and he lets it crust. And when the beers are over, he switches to whiskey. It burns so good he wishes he could bathe in it—let it corrode at his skin the same way it's corroding his liver.
Sex is a good, perfect balance.
It can't kill him, for one. Another addiction to add to the list, sure, but at least this one won't have him rotting any time soon.
Whoever lands in his bed is game, to be honest. Doesn't care if he's horny, doesn't care if he can't get it up right away. It's the feeling of it—to be used, to be needed. He'll switch to whatever their hearts desire, as long as they fuck him until the knot in his stomach uncoils and he can somewhat breathe again.
But with you, it feels just slightly different. Or maybe a lot different, and he's not ready to face it yet.
He's not letting himself be used, be needed. Simon is reluctantly accepting that he's wanted, and that he can want too. He can want and he can take, if that's what he fancies.
He takes you. Takes you for all that you are: your sense of humour, your quirks, your wit, how your teeth bite into your cheek when you're thinking, the way your hair sways when you talk excitedly.
The way you fuck him, how you look when he fucks you. How your mouth parts when you cum, the weight of your hands on his chest as you ride him. The gentle breaths in the crook of his neck.
The I love you you whisper that first time.
His stomach gets heavier the longer you stay. It's not an unpleasant feeling, but it's new and unpredictable, and Simon doesn't like unpredictability. However, he forces himself to digest it because it feels like something in his belly is finally full.
Something in his heart, too.
𓇬
Life gets harder, though—practically speaking. The scale tips to where the air smells of citrus and steeping teas instead of rotting flesh and cheap kentucky.
Now he has to go to work, get the job done, and return home. And if he gets home earlier than you, he has to prep dinner and all. Something nice to treat you right. Has to actually do laundry, the way you like it. Clean the house, much bigger than the studio apartment he used to inhabit.
Can't even brag about being able to juggle his life correctly—the visit to his father's grave has got to wait.
It's alright, he reckons. What's one more year, after all.
He stops enjoying lonely Stellas at night, because he found he doesn't really like to kiss you when his breath smells so heavy. Masks your taste, makes him curl his nose in disappointment.
He fancies wine now, like the posh fuckers he's always despised—pop open a bottle and nurse it from one of the two glasses you set on the coffee table at his feet. Bourbon, if he's got nothing to do the next day, and you're off as well. Pepsi, if you're both too tired to digest alcohol that night.
Liquor tastes different now. He doesn't find himself drawn to the bottle if you're not home—at least, not as often as before. He still loves his bourbon, but only after the clink of his glass with yours. A big lad like him can handle a beer or two—still, it tastes better if he can pet your head propped on his thighs as he gulps one down.
Every night, he's got you cuddled in his side, hence passing out on the couch is not an option anymore. The bed it is, then. Better sleep, much more space—hell, better sex for when you're both up for it.
Plus, sunlight hits you just right when he first wakes up and you're asleep, splayed on his chest. He likes the way golden ribbons curl around your shape, threads on your fingers like you're wearing jewels.
Doesn't take him long to actually put a golden band where it belongs, against all fucking odds. When the thought popped in his head, he prepared himself for the devastation that would follow your no.
However, you nod your head when he takes out his mum's ring from his pocket. You nod your head vigorously, he'd like to add. You say a yes so genuine it cracks him open, leaves him bare for you to see the confusion festering inside. The elation.
The unmistakable joy.
No one believes him when you say yes—though truthfully, his mates do. Still, he's the first among the sceptics. A loud minority in his own head.
Johnny claps his shoulder as he stands there, clad in a suit and sweating bullets. Clammy hands pulling at his tie. However, none of it matters when you come to stand before him. Wedding gown on, and the most gorgeous of smiles. Pearls on your neck and tears in your eyes—gemstones, as precious as can be.
A hand on his cheek, a kiss on the lips.
The last as his fiancée, the first as his wife.
Sure, life becomes harder than his previous one. Responsibilities double, but loneliness halves. And halves. And halves. Until he forgets what it's like to live in a house and not in a home.
Briefly, the thought of finally having something to rub in his father's face crosses his mind. But when you take his hand and bring it to your lips, golden wedding ring catching the sunlight, he thinks it can wait a bit more.
What's a couple more years to add to his thirties, after all.
𓇬
It's a foggy day when you abruptly wake up, lamenting a stomach ache that won't leave you alone.
"I'm so fucking sure it's yesterday's dinner," you mumble, unable to peel the frown off your face. "Fucking take out—I knew we should've cooked."
He's fixing you a cuppa in the kitchen to help with your nausea when he hears you retch from the bathroom. Simon sprints your way, leaving the tea bag to steep in the hot water for longer than needed.
He kneels beside you, running his hand up and down your back. Hooks his arm under the crook of your knees after you've brushed your teeth and takes you to bed.
You murmur that he's the best husband in the entire world as you nuzzle his chest. He chuckles at that. Thinks you proper insane but never voices it.
Perhaps because he likes to hear it. Perhaps because you're making him accept it too.
It's hard to digest, to metabolise that he is not… rotten. Or at least, not as wasted as life made him believe. Fear rankles his bones—to disappoint you, to disappoint himself. But you hold him like you'd rather be nowhere else, and that makes it easier for him to swallow it all. Have his stomach break it down into pieces and feed it to his soul.
It's worth it—fucking hell, really worth it.
Worth more than anything, especially when you both peek through the gaps of your fingers as you shield each other's eyes. The buzzing of the cold bathroom lights is the only background noise, silence as the companion of your bated breaths.
The ping of your phone signals time's up, and his focus finally lands on that stick. His eyes meet two little lines instead of one.
Pure horror and delight. His father's cruel eyes flash like lightning in his head, ice cold and terribly real, awfully tangible. Thunder cracks. He can't breathe right, not as calmly as he should.
You look into his eyes with gemstones in yours. A smile so bright the clouds part to favour it. It's not sunless anymore.
And it's worth it again.
Worth it, worth it, worth it.
Worth every back-breaking job he takes next. Worth every solitary mission he goes on, and every particularly dangerous one he rejects. Worth every extra stack of paperwork tossed on his desk. Worth every bit of overtime he spends in HQ.
Worth it, worth it, worth it.
Worth seeing you grow, worth seeing you healthy. Worth seeing you hungry and devouring the food he makes, drink from the cups he washes.
Worth hearing your chuckle when he brings home that questionable concoction you crave. Worth holding your hair out of the way first thing in the morning.
Worth making love to you again, and again, and again, knowing that's what being home is supposed to feel like. Knowing that he has it, just right there, in the spaces you inhabit. In the pillow under your head, in the green mug next to his blue, in your hair tangled with his clothes.
Worth it.
Worth it, to hear her heartbeat.
Worth seeing her move around in black and grey.
Worth feeling her hand pressing up. Her feet kicking at her ma.
"Like a little alien," you murmur tenderly, pressing his fingers to your belly.
She answers every time.
He kisses your skin. "My little bug."
Worth it, to watch you hold her when she first sees the world. To leave you that space, reserved for you two and not another soul. Even if his fingers itch to touch her, lurching to hold her as well—beating crazed, pulse climbing up, as if his heart could break the bones in his chest and reach out to her. To you.
Angel in your gentleness, goddess in your strength. Heavenly, overall, even drenched in blood and sweat.
Worth the fear for your safety, the fear for hers.
Worth the apprehension, the anxiety. He's not fit to be a dad, is he? Not fit for this life, where all is tender where he's hard, where all is comfort where he's pure unease. His hands have dealt more punches than caresses. They've taken the brunt of so much anger, it must have transferred to his bones somehow.
But if rage truly is his inheritance, it must not have taken root in him. Or at least, not as deeply as he thought. Not as invasive.
There's no space for it, no space for a hollow heart or withering anger. No space at all, because everything inside of him is full of you.
And it's so, so worth it.
Worth it all—just to hold her that first time.
Tiny, tiny thing. He could fit her in a hand if he wanted to, have her little legs hang off his forearm.
He could, surely.
He doesn't.
No, Simon becomes a cradle instead. Both arms curl around her as he sits down, afraid his knees might give out. He speaks to her words he never thought he'd get the chance to say, never thought they'd fit the mould life forced him into.
"Hey bug," he whispers. "I'm your dad."
Tears in your eyes. Gemstones.
In his, too.
𓇬
Managing life is tenfold harder, especially when his little bug starts crawling.
Now he has to go to work, get the job done, get home—no, scratch that.
Now he has to wake up earlier so he can get breakfast ready for you. Feed his daughter so you can sleep in. Kiss you goodbye.
Go to work. Check the baby monitor connected to his phone so he can watch her sleep for a minute, or see her play in the cradle.
Good for his heart.
Get the job d—call you, to see if you're alright, how you're hanging on. He hates with all his guts that he can't stay home longer, but money doesn't grow on trees, and it's not only about him anymore.
Again, back on track: get the job done. Try to. Check the monitor. Send you a text.
His life would be so fucking bleak without you in it.
Might as well play along.
Back to his plans.
Get the job done early, precisely, so he can get home earlier and see you. Help you. Shed the soldier's armour and wear his dad clothes. Give you time to rest as he takes care of everything, until his baby falls asleep, so he can take care of you too. Be your husband again.
His days are harder. Balancing life and job is not as easy as it was when he used to come back to an empty house and a cold heart. It doesn't go nearly as smoothly as when he came home to you only, to warm arms and gentle eyes.
He knows it's not easy for you either.
Still, now he comes back to the smell of milk and baby powder. To changing nappies and sleepless nights, only to wake up at the crack of dawn the next day.
He comes home to your beautiful, tired eyes. Happy, happy as can be, like you've always been. Like he is—unbelievable to even think about it.
Home to the sound of innocent laughter or piercing cries, to tender babbling and chubby hands grabbing at his hair.
He still has to piss on his father's grave. But that's a thought for another day. You're waiting for him to come home, for him to be the man you know. The man you love.
The man he is.
Life's harder, but his heart's regrown. Spread its roots, symbiotic with you.
𓇬
His little bug is a troublemaker. Curious. Brilliant.
Like her mum, he reckons.
She crawls everywhere, touches things she shouldn't. Not a soul on Earth has baby-proofed the house like Simon has, and still she finds ways to give her dad a chain of consequent heart attacks that leave him floored for the next couple of hours.
Hell, he wouldn't change a thing.
A dinner at home is how Simon properly introduces his daughter to the team.
Kyle can't stop baby talking to her and she giggles loudly every time. John promotes her to Sergeant Riley with a velcro SAS patch attached to her onesie. Johnny juggles her on his knees, but it's the third time she reaches out with those chubby hands to grab the goddamn knife.
Makes sense, to Simon, to just put her on the playing mat and have her handle things she can actually play with.
And as chatter ensues, Simon's hand drawing circles on your thigh under the table, you gasp.
It's a moment of frigid horror. Fear travels like shards of ice through his bloodstream, tips at his skull. But when he follows the line of your eyes, his body freezes in awe.
There she is, standing on her own two feet.
Sage green socks wobbling on the mat. Tiny arms spread out for balance, chubby fingers wiggling in the air as if it could help her keep still.
Gummy smile pushing at her cheeks, tiny dimples pressing in. She looks at her dad with innocent pride.
Simon's mind travels back. Breath lodged in his throat.
He sees you frowning at him in the conference room. Sees your number scribbled on a post-it note, your half-buttoned shirt and the gemstone in between your fingers.
Sees the pearls like dewdrops around your neck. Those eyes charged with gorgeous tears. The gold around your finger, hand clutching his own to your heart.
He sees those same tiny feet, now touching the floor and holding her up, hidden in your belly. Her tireless kicks to meet his hand through you.
Sees her eyes squinting in a piercing cry. His lips to your forehead, coated in sweat and fear and relief. Feels her weight in his arms like that first time, like he's holding her again—small fists bumping around, eyes adjusting to the first light she's ever seen.
"Hey bug," he whispers. "I'm your dad."
He stands slowly, holding your hand. You follow his movements, eyes locked on your child. The silence in the room is palpable, but it's not a dreadful one—it's anticipation, it's a joy that thrives quietly, bathing each person in the loveliest of lights.
You both crouch a few feet in front of her. Simon opens his arms.
"C'mere bug." His voice trembles, doesn't even sound like his.
You sniffle next to him. "C'mere baby, go to daddy."
There. There she does it. Her babble fades into a giggle. A tiny, tiny step—a tumble. You react automatically, reaching forward with your arms, but his girl's stubborn, resilient.
Like her dad, he reckons.
She stands up again, regaining her balance. And steps forward, and forward, and forward, until the tips of Simon's fingers find hers—solace in her daddy's hold, small hands curled around his bigger thumbs.
Joy explodes. Golden fireworks. His mates laugh brightly, the air is pure delight, and as he picks his daughter in his arms, he holds one out for you.
You scoot inside. Press a kiss wet with lovely tears to your child's cheek. She giggles. It's clueless and light.
It has Simon's heart in a clutch.
He doesn't remember hearing his baby brother laugh like this. Doesn't think he's ever laughed like this either, when he still couldn't even speak.
His baby girl's happy. Loved. You are, too.
His chest tightens when he realizes he is part of the reason why.
"Good job, little bug," you whisper tirelessly, as if no force could stop you from showing how proud you are. How radiant. "Good job my love."
Simon's ears are cottoned. A bubble around you three, impenetrable because Simon has vowed so. His lips on his baby's forehead, then on yours.
His carbon copy looks up at him. Chocolate eyes meet his twin—smaller, fragile, and yet as strong as man can be. His pride, his love, packed inside a mess of curls and dimpled cheeks and pure, gorgeous sunlight.
A small sticky hand lands on his cheek, as if she's trying to make her daddy smile. Simon turns to kiss his daughter's palm and looks into your eyes, glossy with joy—aquamarine tears, glowing from within.
His little bug might look like him, but she's just like you—eyes like gemstones. His treasure trove. Most coveted one, most precious.
"I love you," he mouths to you.
Your smile is wet with tears, chock-full of joy.
You say it back.
His father is buried six feet under. There he'll stay. Drowning under cold, barren soil. Food for bugs, corroded by time.
Not his problem. Not anymore.
You kiss him. A quiet peck in front of guests, but still so charged with love it gives his heart whiplash. He transfers it to his daughter's forehead.
Johnny lifts his glass with a loud Cheers. A happy cacophony follows suit, clinking glasses and a small chorus of congratulations to "wee Sergeant Riley".
Life is hard. It's gonna be harder, and harder, and harder.
But Simon doesn't think it's ever been this bright.