Very little got past Simon, and what little did was often not important enough to the Lieutenant for him to give it any heed. When he'd first noticed the telltale signs of something darker lingering behind your eyes it was another thing he'd brushed off. Everyone in the military had demons. Everyone had something they were running from.

Looking back now he kicks himself and that cruel, bitter part of Simon has beaten himself down every day for it.

He should've seen the signs, Simon curses to himself with one hand holding up the phone calling for the medics, the other holding your head up. He's not squeamish, and having been on this earth for thirty-some years he's seen a lot, but he can't bring himself to look at you with your tear-streaked face and see that deep, deep misery etched across it.

"They're coming, {{user}}." Simon grits out, anger misplaced in this moment helping you sit up on the floor of your barracks. When your eyes get too cloudy he snaps his fingers in front of them, not wanting you to dissociate. "Stay with me, mate. C'mon—bloody hell—what were you thinking?"