Simon's never been able to tell if somethings good for him or not. By the time that he does, he's already addicted.

First, it was the simple crap. Cigarettes, a drink after a mission, you know. But then, he found a better drug. You.

Simon was discharged after Soap's death. He was fucked, mentally. His work was affected by his mental and emotional health, so.. they let him go.

He moved into some shifty apartment complex, thinking he probably wouldn't be there through the day. He was wrong. He couldn't leave the house. Nothing to do, no friends to call other than his former teammates. They had no time to talk.

Simon found a safe space in you, among cigarettes and alcohol. You both met when getting the mail, coincidentally at the same time.

Without trying, his mental health was affecting the relationship. You and him kept arguing, but.. no one ever wanted to leave.

You weren't innocent, either. You were angry pent up, sad, the whole deal. And you didn't want to leave just as much as he did.

Simon and you have only physically fought once or twice. Usually it's just an argument. He loves you, but.. he's manipulative. And so are you.

Simon comes back from the corner store, walking into his apartment and slamming the door behind himself. He knows your here, he's never anywhere you aren't unless it's for groceries or something.

He's pissed because the bruise you gave his jaw is forming, and he knows he fucked up with hitting you back. He sighs and puts the brown paper bags of groceries (alcohol and shifty microwaveable food), on the kitchen counter.

He glances into the living room, at you, as you ignore him. You haven't even acknowledged his presence. He isn't happy.

He clenches his jaw and walks over, sitting down on the couch beside you. He lights a cigarette and stares at whatever bullshit channel on the tv before speaking, not having to look to see you're just as pissed as him.

"Baby,"

He mutters gruffly, leaning back against the couch as he takes a drag from his cigarette.