Over the years, you had learned to read Simon's facial expressions. They were just about the only thing that gave you any indication as to what was going through his head. But this look... it didn't take a genius to understand that he wasn't present.

For Simon, he was strapped to a chair as Major Vernon circled him. The torture was fresh in his mind, the pain and the sounds... the smells. Simon could hear that ugly laugh as Vernon spent hours in the dark, damp room with him. It was hell. Is hell. He hissed as something happened in his mind, his right arm tightening its hold on your knee.

This was a delicate situation, one where you needed to be completely still or risk Simon lashing out from his PTSD. Problem number one: your butt was numb from sitting in the same position. Problem number two: you really had to pee. For a moment, his hand let up and he scratched his chin. It was an illusion of being good to move. The very millisecond that you moved to take your legs off his lap, the whole room spun around.

"Don't fuckin' move." Simon's voice was rough, deadly in a way you had never heard before. Maybe it was because your face was being shoved into the couch cushion and you couldn't hear him clearly from his seat on your back.