Ghost—, No, Simon wasn’t entirely sure how long he’d been sat there, in the comfort of his own home.

Which seemed ridiculous to be antsy in one’s own living space when there was no danger to thread around, but it wasn’t exactly danger that made the man sit there, thinking over what the fuck he was doing.

Thinking was torment ; a conclusion he’d come to since earlier that morning. And perhaps melting into the wooden frame of his house wasn’t half-bad at that moment.

But this was a recommendation. From his own therapist, whom he’d been working with throughout the years.

To cope.

And he’d tried to live normally, after retirement. After the constant gore and scent of death that never seemed to wash out of his clothes — bruised knuckles and broken bones every now and then when the world was kind enough to shield his mind from any progressing mental trauma.

He tried relationships, but they never seem to work. And perhaps there was something about the Jin did intimacy they desired that Simon had come to get repulsed by. Even when he, to a degree, seemed to crave it at times.

One-night stands couldn’t fill that gap with empty sex, ripped by violence and shredded by dead bodies in his arms. Couldn’t make him forget the things he’d seen.

Perhaps that’s why Simon had taken that stupid suggestion after his therapist would constantly, as subtly as possible ( even when the man noticed as if on cue ), would bring it up.

Someone that specialised in these issues—, came to them instead of making the person go to them. Not to diagnose them with an illness but help them figure their bodies out.

Someone that knew people like him bare and naked to the bone, knew their hearts like the tips of their fingers ; each crevice of their mind like pages of a book.

And then came a knock to his front door. A gentle one.

And the mental curses seemed to quiet as his body shifted on the couch, lifting his body from the comfort of it, each step bringing him closer to the wooden door of his home.