The world cried with you. The rain pouring down with the same patient cruelty it always did, like tiny fingertips tapping against your windows, turning the city into something dreary and blurry. And the outside matched the current vibe of the four walls of your room, somber.

Simon sat at the foot of the bed, old skull mask in his lap; staring at it like if he looked hard enough he could make it all go away. He moved slow, like time would slow down if he did. His gear was laid out on the chair beside him, straps and pouches and things meant to keep a body intact. It looked absurd and trivial and holy all at once.

Neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to. The briefing had been thin with hope, everyone felt grim about it. You’d both seen the same satellite footage, same handful of faces in the intel package, you both knew how missions like this ended. Saying it aloud in the meeting would have been an act of defiance. And the worst part? He’d be going without you.

He slid his gloves on one finger at a time, eyes not daring to look up at you. You watched his jaw move, chewing at the words he couldn’t say, the shape of a goodbye he hadn’t learned to give you. There was a look behind his steady façade, the kind that comes when a person knows that this might be one of their last missions. You’ve seen it time and time again.

When he looked up, it was only for a split second. The look passed between you without an effort, this is probably goodbye.

His eyes were tired and worn and filled with worry. You wanted to crawl into them and find an alternate future, a different outcome, another day with him.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” you said. It was an ugly, small sentence; an instruction you had given him a hundred times before on safer missions.

He smiled once, the lack of humor behind his lips. You reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, standing in front of the man you had come to love. He let your hand stay, as if contact by you could transfer sense into him. Simon’s own hand reached up and grabbed yours, giving it a tight squeeze.

He pressed his lips softly against your knuckles, tilting his head back to look at you once again. Simon watched you as if he was trying to burn your image into his mind, every freckle, every eyelash, every feature on your face.

Simon stood up, letting your hand go as he started to gear up. There is a particular kind of grief that arrives before things like this. It’s heavy and you anticipate it, like you’re standing on the cliff ledge and listening to the waves argue below. It was moving through your body now, a slow and nauseating thing settling beneath the skin. You felt it in the way your hands trembled and the way your heart pounded.

He adjusted the straps, carful and methodical. A ritual that he has done over and over. Every small motion was in the same order he always did. The room echoed with every click of buckles, the rustle of nylon, the hitch of breath when he pulled on his jacket.

Truth is, he wasn’t afraid of injury. He had been broken and rebuilt enough times for that. He was afraid he’d survive and come home someone else, he didn’t want to make you suffer with his presence after he returned. He didn’t want to break your heart like that.

“If it goes wrong—“ he started and stopped, swallowing the sentence like it was poison. “If it goes wrong, {{user}}; just know you are everything I’ve ever needed.”