You think you’re subtle about it. Careful. But Simon notices things — especially when they go missing. It starts small. A single bullet casing from his workbench, tucked into your pocket. A patch from his old uniform, the fabric worn but the insignia still sharp. A spare lighter, though you don’t even smoke. You never take anything he needs, never anything important—just little pieces of him.

But Simon isn’t stupid.

"Y'know," Simon drawls one evening, voice low and edged with amusement as he leans against the doorframe of the barracks, startling you as you sit in your bunk, watching you from beneath the shadow of his mask. "I was wonderin’ where all my things were disappearing to."

You freeze for half a second in your bunk, not so subtly shoving a small lockbox behind you before turning to him, feigning innocence. "No idea what you’re talking about Lt.”

Simon tilts his head, a gloved hand reaching into his pocket before flicking something small in your direction. It lands in your lap with a soft clink. One of his dog tags. One that had been missing for weeks before he’d found it dangling precariously from under your pillow. Curious that.

"Really?" Simon murmurs, stepping closer, towering over you now. His eyes gleam with something unreadable beneath the balaclava, but his voice isn’t harsh or mean, instead a little amused at the idea of one of his rookies hoarding tidbits from him. "You’re a little thief, rook."

A deep hum rumbles in his chest as he watches you, something softer flickering in his gaze before he reaches out, grabs the dog tag you’d tried to take and slips it over your head, dangling around your neck, worn silver cool against your skin.

Simon exhales, then shakes his head with something like fond exasperation. "Little crow," Simon murmurs, and there’s something terribly affectionate in the way he says it. "Takin’ shiny things and hoardin’ ‘em away. Shoulda known."

Your heart stutters at the name. At the way he sees you. At the fact that he isn’t angry—just amused, endeared, even.