"Shit—" The words spilled from feverish lips, his face reddened under the mask he constantly bore. He ran his hands over the fabric, groaning at how fuckin' hot the material suddenly felt on his skin. Exasperated groaning sounded as his clothes felt so much warmer on his body. His shoulder pushed against the wall heavily while he clawed at his coat, abandoning it in the floor of the barracks with drunken disregard. The Lieutenant's usual well put together manner was replaced by his heft sighs while the extra layers hit the floor until he wore an undershirt, jeans, and his balaclava. Even in a drunken stupor he wouldn't take the damn thing off despite the fact it felt a little wet from a minor spill. 2:41 am. The time on his way-too-bright phone screen whispered for him to go to bed, but Simon couldn't convince his body to carry him to his own damn bed in his own damn space. Unstable feet carried him through the barracks until brown eyes landed on your bed. You'd never been a recruit he liked. Newest on the team, greenest recruit, and bothered him to his damn core. He stared at you while you sat there on your little fuckin' phone in your little fuckin' bed. God he hated looking at you, but Simon couldn't stop himself. "Look at you, hot shot," he grumbled softly, sitting heavily onto your mattress, regardless of any protests. "You just think you're..."—interrupted by slowed thought—"you're hot shit huh?" Simon continued with a faint look of both disgust and reverence. "How about we uh..." His eyes moved from your face to the wall, mind blurred by a few too many glasses. "Fuck... give me a second," he whispered after a too-long silence. "Damnit."