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frostyharbor · 2 days ago

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simon riley x wolf hybrid!f!reader, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, past injury, post-injury recovery, 3.2k words

He blinks awake when the bedroom door opens.

A fluffy pair of ears appears over the nightstand as one of your nephews—Blake, Simon thinks—edges nervously into the room, arms shaking under the weight of the breakfast tray he carries.

Simon groans as you follow close behind, your arms hovering to catch the tray if it tips.

It doesn’t. Blake’s face is creased with concentration as he shuffles right up to the edge of his bed. He only needs your help with lifting it up over Simon’s lap.

“Didn’t need to fuss,” he mutters, feeling his cheeks warm as he tries to sit up. His chest and shoulder burn fiercely at the movement; consequences of the two gunshot wounds he had come home with.

“Evie came over with the pups this morning,” you reply cheerily, taking his tea from the tray and setting it on the nightstand. “They heard about your injury and wanted to do something nice for you.”

“We worked hard on it, Uncle Simon,” Blake cuts in, eyes roving across Simon’s face as he searches for approval.

As he looks over the tray, he concedes that a little fuss can be tolerated if this is the result.

The plate overflows with typical English breakfast fare; fried eggs with sunny yolks, bright red plum tomatoes from the tin, and thick slabs of bacon and fat pork sausages take up one side of the plate. Buttered bread toasted to a golden brown, beans, and mushrooms take up the other. Overlaying the smell of the fried meats is the aroma of Yorkshire Gold wafting over from the teacup, and Simon is certain he’s never seen a better meal in his life.

He turns to Blake like he’s addressing a matter of national security. “Best breakfast I’ve ever seen.”

Blake flushes at the praise. Tail whipping behind him, he all but skips from the room, and Simon hears him call down the hall before you swing the door closed behind him.

“Frankieeee! He said it’s the best he ever saw!”

The pang of wistfulness he feels when the kid leaves surprises him—he’s missed them. More than he had realized.

“Bet you are glad to see that.” You slide open the bedroom window to let in the warm summer breeze.

Simon hums in agreement, already eagerly tucking into the bacon. The regimen of painkillers and antibiotics had caused so much nausea during his first few days at your flat, his stomach had protested—violently—any food other than porridge and plain toast.

He eats and watches as you putter around the room; you’re making a good show of looking busy, but your tail is tucked and you keep throwing uncertain glances his way, opening your mouth like you’re on the verge of saying something before rethinking it.

“Making me anxious,” he says at last around a mouthful of mushrooms. “Scurrying around like that.” He uses his elbow to point at the armchair you had dragged to the bedside a few days prior.

Even after you sit, you fiddle with the arsenal of medication on the side table, rearranging the bottles uselessly. Antibiotics and opioids, sleep aids and antiemetics. Even stool softener, for Christ’s sake—he had felt a bit embarrassed over that one, but you had laughed it off.

“Would you rather take that or have to go back to the hospital when something gets stuck?”

Johnny’d never let him live it down if he wound up literally full of shit.

“If you’re looking for something to do with your hands, you could always feed me.”

You give him a wry little smirk, hands finally growing still. “Your muscles that weak already?”

“‘M practically shaking, lovie.”

“My sister’s still here with the pups, so I need to go out to entertain them a bit longer; best I can do is a sponge bath later.”

Simon can’t pretend that that doesn’t interest him. He starts eating a bit faster.

After you go back out to help with the cleanup, he contents himself with listening to the distant murmur of your conversation while he finishes eating. There’s occasionally a shriek from one of the pups, followed by a splash.

He smiles. Sounds like they’re helping with the dishes.

Evie, your older sister, pops in to say hello before she leaves. She collects his empty plate and leaves him with an affectionate kiss on the top of his head.

“Glad to see you sitting up and feeling better, dear. Oh!” She rummages in the purse slung over her shoulder. “Lads wanted me to give you this; all the pups signed it. They’d have brought it in themselves, but I didn’t want them bothering you.”

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

She smiles, eyes soft and warm.

He takes the envelope Evie holds out to him, thanking her and saying goodbye as she leaves. It’s the sort of envelope that was plain white at one point, but had been decorated with a confusing mix of crudely-drawn rainbows, hearts, grenades, and explosions.

Curious and more excited by the card than he’d care to admit—he can’t even remember the last time someone gave him one—he tears open the back flap.

It isn’t a store-bought card; the kids had folded a piece of blank paper in half and written their own sentiments.

Sorry you got shot, the front reads in slanting, blocky letters. He opens it and barks out a laugh. They’d drawn him in stick-figure form with a frowny face, holding a badly-drawn rifle. In the blunt honesty of children, he’s depicted standing in a barrage of bullets with blood spraying out of his shoulder.

Feel better soon.

It’s signed by all of them. The older pups have shaky, looping signatures, while the younger ones have written their names in clumsy print.

You come back into the room carrying a steaming bowl of soapy water, a few towels slung over your arm. Simon lifts the card to show you the drawing.

When you set the bowl on the side table, you frown down at the stick figure. “Evie must not have looked at it before they put it in the envelope.”

Simon shakes his head, laughing quietly. “I’m putting it up on the fridge.”

You prop the card up in a place of honor on your dresser for the time being. Simon wriggles up further in bed, wincing when you help him sit forward to prop up more pillows behind his back.

He’s been wearing button-downs and boxers for the last five days, which makes it easy to shimmy out of the shirt once you’ve got the buttons undone. You’re careful when you peel the sleeve from his injured shoulder, but the motion still makes his arm ache.

Once the towels are tucked around and behind him, you dip the cloth into the bowl, lifting it to dab gently at the skin near the edges of his bandages.

Eyes slipping closed, Simon leans against the pillows. The sound of the water dripping into the bowl soothes him, the rasp of the cloth and your own breathing coaxing him to sink even further into the sheets.

Your hands slip lower, bringing the washcloth over his stomach and running it along the waistband of his boxers. The touch would have normally thrilled him, but between his injury and the cocktail of prescription medications, Simon’s libido is at an all-time low. He barely twitches when you rinse away the soap with another pass of the cloth.

He’s nearly asleep when he hears your breath hitch, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Simon opens his eyes.

You’ve set the rag aside for now in the bowl. Your empty hand is running along his chest, tracing the scars there. The long, ugly gash along his ribs seems to hold your attention, and Simon can see that your eyes are wet.

You catch him watching and look away.

“I’m sorry.” You wipe your cheeks. “I’m just being silly.”

He catches your wrist before you can reach back for the bowl.

Raising your hand to his mouth, he presses a kiss to your fingers. “Alright?”

Sniffling, you rub your nose with the back of your other hand. Simon blinks—he knows that you aren’t invincible or unfeeling, but you’ve always seemed so confident and sure of yourself. Not exactly much of a crier.

Shifting restlessly in the bed, he curses his injuries for the thousandth time since he had been dragged to the RV point. He can’t even give you a goddamn hug.

After taking a minute to compose yourself, you rub circles into the skin near his dressings. “I guess I wasn’t prepared to see you hurt like this. I knew you had scars…but I guess the reality of that just…didn’t sink in until now.”

Your eyes linger on every bit of puckered, pale flesh with a new understanding, seeing clearly for the first time the physical toll of each mark.

Holding your hand to his cheek, Simon furrows his brows. “Are you…okay with them?”

“Of course! It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” Your fingers twitch against the side of his face. “But I didn’t know that the reality would be this bad.” You trail off, biting the inside of your cheek and glancing away.

Simon waits. The sounds of distant traffic filter in through the window, the sheer curtains billowing gently in the low breeze.

“When I saw you were calling that night, I was so happy. I thought you were going to tell me that you were coming home.”

He flinches, guilt twisting in his stomach. At the time, Simon knows he had been far from coherent, hovering somewhere along the edge of consciousness in a sketchy hospital bed in the Libyan desert while Kyle had handled everything for him.

“When I heard Kyle’s voice instead of yours—” your eyes are leaking again, and you brush the tears away impatiently. “When I heard Kyle instead of you, at first I didn’t know how to feel. I thought maybe he had picked up your phone by mistake. He had to tell me that you had been injured two or three times before it really sank in.”

What had begun earlier with stolen glances is quickly becoming a torrent, like you can’t stop speaking now that you had started.

“He said that one of you would let me know when you got back to Hereford, that you’d probably be put up in the county hospital for a few days as a precaution. And even after they got you home, I couldn’t even see you at first because the bloody visiting hours didn’t start until ten o’clock, and when they finally let me in they told me that you had an infection.”

He had been asleep for much of his hospital stay, thanks to the power of morphine, but that he can remember keenly. From the swimming fever to the rawness of the wound, every movement and touch feeling just as agonizing as any of the real torture he’d ever experienced. He squeezes the hand still pressed to his cheek, and feels the slightest pressure in return.

“They didn’t seem worried—the doctors, I mean. Said that this happened sometimes but you were in good shape otherwise and that you’d be fine with a few rounds of antibiotics. But I wasn't sure.” You’re back to tracing his scars again, looking weary. “I couldn’t shake the thought that you were going to die.”

Simon is a physical man, used to giving comfort with touch; denied that, he’s allowed only words. He’s never been much good at that. They stick in his throat, often coming out much different from how they had sounded in his head.

His voice is raw when he speaks. “I’m sorry that you had to be alone.”

You shake your head slightly, squeezing his hand harder. “The nurses were very friendly. And Kyle and Johnny visited.”

A smile tugs at his mouth. He has a selfie in his phone of the three of them that Johnny had sent him, one sergeant on each side of Simon’s hospital bed, Simon himself looking high as a kite.

Some of the fondness in your tone evaporates. “Price came too. Just once.”

Simon can see your ears pinned back in a latent show of aggression. “Man’s got a hundred and one other things to do than worry about someone he knows will be fine, pet.”

“He couldn’t know that for sure.” You’re scowling now. “You’re his pack; he’s your leader. He has an obligation to keep you safe.”

How can he explain Price in a way you would understand? Simon doesn’t think he can.

It’s not that you’re unintelligent. But your idea of pack, and all of the responsibilities that come with it, is much different than the reality of Simon’s team. They look out for each other as best as they can, and they’re probably the closest thing Simon has to his own family, but there are limits. The job gets in the way.

Your mother, he’s sure, has never had to make the decisions Price has made. Never had to leave a man behind for the sake of the mission, or had to determine if someone couldn’t be saved. Never faced the difficult task of filling the empty space on the team where a living person used to stand.

Price cares in his own way, but keeps his distance, too.

There’s another issue buried in your anger as well, one more worrisome than your frustration with Price. The captain’s attitude and methods are so reflective of the SAS itself, that they’re practically interchangeable.

If you have a problem with Price, then you have a problem with what Simon is, and that’s something that neither of you can fix.

Simon doesn’t know if you’ve ever come up against something like this, a bleak and terrible reality that can’t be driven out by love and support from a family. You could give him your life, take him into your family and provide him the protection of your pack, but even that won’t stop him from coming home to you in a box someday.

And therein lies the heart of the issue, the real obstacle that Price is only a symptom of—the life of a soldier just isn’t compatible with the close-knit lifestyle of a hybrid pack.

But that’s an ugly truth, one you can’t poke at too closely without risking heartbreak. It’s easier to focus your anger on one man, and the captain is a distant enough that he's an easy target.

Simon cuts through it; he can’t stand dancing around a problem. “Price has obligations, but they’re not to me. Not me, or Kyle, or Johnny. He does what he can, but sometimes people get hurt.” Still holding your hand up to his face, he turns his head to kiss the inside of your wrist. “That’s the job.”

His bluntness must be painful if your wounded gasp is anything to go by.

“I know that.” You go to tug away, likely stung, but Simon doesn’t let you go.

“Do you?” He keeps his voice gentle, softening the challenge. “It’s alright if you don’t. Lotta people go into it thinking they know, or that they can handle it. It’s ok if you can’t.”

He sees the bubble of anger rise and burst within you, all in about two seconds. But that’s alright; he can weather your fury, but he can’t stand seeing your sadness.

“Simon Riley,” you bite out, digging into his hand now with your fingernails since it’s clear he isn’t going to let go. “I haven’t sat by your bedside for the last four days for you to tell me I can’t handle it. I’ve fed you, dressed you, bathed you. Changed your sheets, helped you use the bloody toilet. And you’re asking if I know the risks of the job.”

“But it hurts you.”

You look at him like he’s an idiot. “Of course it hurts me. I don’t want to see you like this.” You raise your other hand from his chest, laying it along the other side of his face so both of his cheeks are cradled in your palms. “But I’d still rather be here than anywhere else. I love you.”

It isn’t the first time you’ve said the L word; he’s even said it back, throat raw and tight around the sentiment. But hearing you say it so effortlessly still sends a shock through his nervous system. Another reminder of how different your backgrounds are.

You love so easily—growing up, Simon had often wondered if he could love anyone at all.

I’ll only hurt you again, he thinks but doesn’t say. The truth of it hangs in the air around them, too big to be contained in your little bedroom. So he mentally lets it out. Sweeps it into the hall beyond and closes the door.

Another time.

He slides his hand up to your elbow, pulling you closer. It’s a suggestion, really, Simon still being too weak to put any real strength behind the action. But you let yourself be pulled until your torso lies across the bed, head resting gingerly on his good shoulder.

“Legs, too.”

“You can’t be serious,” you sigh, already swinging your feet up and crowding closer until you’re cuddled up into his side. “What if I hurt you?”

That you’re concerned about hurting him, after the conversation you’d just had, makes his heart squeeze. “I’ll live. Rather have you here than anywhere else.”

He feels you smile into his skin, now warm and dry. “Don’t use my own words against me.”

“Or what? You wouldn’t hurt a helpless, injured man, would you?”

“Watch me.”

Simon laughs.

There’re still traces of anger and grief in your face when you look up at him, but compassion and tenderness have driven the worst of it away. You go back to tracing his scars again, but your touch doesn’t feel as heavy this time.

Using his good arm to hold you closer, Simon tilts his head so that his cheek rests between your ears on the crown of your head. Your fur tickles his nose—especially when you twitch your ears on purpose, to let him know he isn’t getting off that easily—but he endures it, rubbing tiny circles into your waist as his eyes flutter closed.

You fall asleep before he does, exhausted from the long hours spent at his side. But Simon isn’t far behind.

The summer air coming in through the window is fresh and good. Late morning light spills in, golden beams slanting across the blankets and warming the sheets. You’re a solid weight at his side, one arm slung low around his hips and your tail draped over the edge of the bed.

Just for a while, he thinks, already dozing. “A while” is relative—when you both wake, the room will be glowing with afternoon sunshine.

Before he sleeps, he breathes out three words that make your ears flick when his breath ghosts around them. You don't wake, but the sound of his voice makes you sigh, pressing yourself closer.

“Love you, too.”

For now, it’s enough.

( wolf summer )

***

notes: written in response to this ask. re: how reader would react to Simon's injury, just wanted to elaborate here because this is written from simon's pov so it may not have come through clear...I imagine it'd be very hard for her because she comes from a loving pack that she can always fall back on, so she really believes in the notion of like "love conquers all", whether that's the platonic bond between family and friends or the romantic love shared between many partners. The entire concept of the SAS placing the success of the operation over the safety of a teammate (especially considering that she thinks of "team" and "pack" as interchangable) is just baffling to her; she'd ditch the mission to save someone she loved every time.

This leads to some emotional reckoning that isn't fully resolved. But, in the meantime, she showers him with as much care as she can and, because Simon's a kid magnet, of course the pups want to get involved.

in another world where Price has to leave Simon behind, I think she'd actually try to kill him haha.

#hybrid au #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #x reader #reader insert #cod x reader #frostwrites #wolf summer #scene started with little Blake struggling under a loaded breakfast tray and evolved from there #so sorry for the repost I just like doing it this way better

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