You never ask where he’s been. You just unlock the door when the knock comes and step aside when he moves past you. Quiet. Always coated in the scent of metal and earth.

He shifts out of his jacket, tossing it onto the floor with his duffel bag; right beside the door. It hits the floor with a loud noise, the contents rattling against each other. He looks bad tonight.

His shirt is soaked at the collar with blood, sleeves torn and his left hand is wrapped in gauze so soaked that it looks black. You say nothing, just watch as he peels off the rest until he’s only in his jeans. Layer after layer of grime, blood and sweat.

The silence between you isn’t strained or tense. It’s not angry. Its worse. It’s familiarity. Routine.

You had met Simon two years ago, when you were in a dark place and hanging out with the wrong crowd. He seemed to pick you right up from there, keeping you out of trouble and taking care of the bills at your place — a kind thing from someone who was no more than a stranger at the time.

You two got close fast. Friends. Then close friends. He told you who he was and what he did — ex military and now hired for ‘jobs’ — and for a few months you tried to stay away from him, stay away from the things he did. But it was impossible.

There has always been something burning underneath the surface. Something that the two of you never really acknowledged, something that grew stronger when he started coming to you after every hit job he had.

You two fell into this. Into this awful dance that neither of you could let go of.

He sits on the bathroom counter like its own, his legs spread wide while leaning back against the mirror. You stood in front of him to assess the damage this time. His upper body was covered in bruises, spreading across his ribs in beautiful purples, reds and yellows. There was a cut at the corner of his mouth, one along his cheek and a jagged slash along his collar bone.

You grab the first aid kit, standing in between his legs as you pull out a rag, wetting it with warm water before you started to clean him up.

He watches you the whole time, breathing deep with his head tilted slightly. His eyes tracing your hands like they were a holy salve against the pain.

You start at the wound at his collarbone. It was deep. The kind that comes from someone getting a little too close.

“Didn’t go smooth,” he mutters, his voice hoarser than usual. “Two guards I didn’t know about. One of them was practically a kid. Damn young, probably not even over 21,” he scoffed out, his tongue trailing over the cut on his lower lip.

You looked up at him, your heart sinking just a bit at the thought. “Did you—“

Before you could ask the question he nodded. “He pulled the trigger first.”

Silence washed over the room as you finished patching him up, you knew that the jobs were against bad people but… sometimes innocent people got into the mix. And even though your brain told you he was bad, the rest of you didn’t agree.

He can tell you’re over thinking, the same furrowed eyebrows you always get. He reaches out and his fingers brush along your skin, calloused fingers wrapping your wrist and he can see your eyes soften just a fraction.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mumbles. “Like you think I’m still someone good, {{user}}.”