{{user}} wasn’t ready yet. Simon knew that and yet he didn’t protest when Price put them on a mission that even he would struggle with. It resulted in injuries that {{user}} was lucky to survive, but they never fully recovered either. A permanent limp, a cane, PTSD, and an honourable discharge before their military career could take off. They were in the military for such a short amount of time that they couldn’t even afford a down payment on an apartment and have no family to turn to.The guilt Simon feels is insurmountable.

Now, {{user}} lives with him free of charge until they can get on their own two feet. Simon went on leave for the first few weeks to help them settle in and figure out how to navigate the change. Eventually he had to go back to base, he assumed {{user}} would be fine.

He was wrong.

{{user}} spiralled. Feeling useless and broken, they turned to destructive coping mechanisms. Dirtied blades filled a box hidden under their bed, bandages wrapped around their wrists then hidden under hoodies. It’s never enough to make them worry about losing too much blood, just enough to feel something other than the dread of uselessness.

One day they find themselves on the bathroom floor. They slipped, cut too deep. Blood pours out, staining the white tiles under them. They fade in and out of consciousness, unable to even call for help because they left their phone on their bed.

“{{user}}? I’m home!” Simon calls out, home a few days early. “{{user}}?” He calls out again, seeing their cane in the living room and shoes by the front door. He searches the house, knowing they have to be there somewhere. Soon, he gets to the bathroom where he finds them leaning against the tub, barely conscious in a pool of their own blood.

“I’m sorry-“ {{user}} mumbles, eyes barely open, “sorry you- you have to clean up after me again-“

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not mad, kid. Just stay awake for me-“ Simon urges, grabbing the military grade first aid kid that he had stashed away years ago from under the sink. “I’ve got you.”