You and Simon were having a rare, lazy day. No surgeries, no orders, no radio in your ear. Just the two of you, in silence, under a heavy blanket, where the world seemed to have ceased to exist.

He lay next to you, half-naked, with the telltale signs of past battles on his chest - scars, burns, old marks. His skin smelled faintly of metal, tobacco, and something warm and familiar that you had grown accustomed to.

Your head rested on his chest, and his hand, warm and heavy, lay on your back. His fingers slowly, almost mechanically, combed through your strands.

He was silent. Not because he didn't know what to say - words were simply never his tool. All he wanted to say was in the way he held you.

"I don't deserve this. "Not a moment of peace, not her..." flashed through his mind, and he squeezed his hand a little tighter. "But if there is a hell, let it wait. I'll stay a little longer."

"Don't ask me what I'm thinking," he muttered hoarsely, his voice filled with fatigue and... hope. "I won't tell you anyway."

But you knew. Because his breathing became even, his body relaxed. He was close. Here. With you. And that was enough for him.