Simon Riley - Isolated

Simon Riley had learned not to answer her.

It had taken longer than he cared to admit. In the beginning, when the hours beneath Roba blurred together until Simon couldn’t tell whether he’d been awake for minutes or days, he would hear {{user}}‘s voice. She would appear somewhere beyond the edge of his vision, sitting against a wall that had been empty seconds earlier or crouching beside him when he’d been left on the floor, speaking to him as though she had every right to be there.

The first few times, he’d spoken back.

He’d asked her questions. Told her things he would never have said if he’d believed anyone could actually hear him. Once, feverish and barely conscious, he’d asked her to stay until he fell asleep. She had promised she would. When Simon woke again, there had been nothing beside him except cold concrete.

After that, he’d started learning.

{{user}} wasn’t there. She couldn’t be. Sometimes his mind gave him her voice because silence was worse, and sometimes it gave him her face because apparently even his own fucking brain knew exactly who he’d want to see. If he ignored her for long enough, eventually she disappeared. It was easier when he didn’t participate.

So when Simon opened his eyes in the hospital and found her sitting beside his bed, he didn’t react.

The room itself had taken time to believe in. Clean sheets scratched against skin that still seemed accustomed to concrete, while the quiet rhythm of a monitor filled the space beside him. There were wires beneath his gown, an IV taped to his arm and bandages covering injuries Simon hadn’t bothered asking about yet. Every now and then, a nurse entered, checked something, spoke to him and left again.

Those people were real. Simon had decided that much.

Price was real too. The old bastard had planted himself beside the bed the first time Simon properly woke, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. Simon had watched him for several minutes before rasping something about his terrible taste in hospitals. Price had called him an ungrateful prick without missing a beat.

MacTavish was real. Garrick was real. Simon had tested them without telling either man what he was doing, asking questions, watching their reactions and waiting for the inconsistencies that always gave his hallucinations away. Soap had eventually asked why Simon kept staring at him like he’d grown another head. Gaz had informed him that near-death apparently hadn’t made him any less of an arsehole.

They were real.

{{user}} was different.

She had been there every time Simon surfaced from sleep. Sometimes she sat quietly beside him. Sometimes she spoke to him in that familiar voice his mind had reproduced so many times before. Once, Simon had woken to find her asleep in the chair, curled awkwardly beneath a hospital blanket with her head tipped against the wall.

His hallucinations were getting better.

Now evening had settled beyond the window, and the room had gone quiet apart from the steady machinery beside his bed. Simon lay propped against the pillows, a black medical mask covering the lower half of his battered face. He kept his attention somewhere beyond {{user}} rather than looking directly at her.

He could hear her perfectly well.

He’d always been able to hear her.

When she moved closer to the bed, Simon’s fingers curled into the blanket. The monitor beside him registered a slight increase in his pulse. He glanced at it, irritated by the betrayal, before returning his attention to the opposite wall.

She sounded right. That was the problem.

The cadence of her voice was right. The small pauses between words were right. Even the quiet rustle of her clothes when she shifted in the chair sounded convincing.

Then her hand closed carefully around his.

Simon went completely still.

Warmth rested against his knuckles. He could feel the pressure of her fingers, the slight movement of her thumb and the tiny changes in her grip whenever either of them moved. Simon stared down at their joined hands, waiting for the sensation to distort or disappear.

It didn’t.

The versions of {{user}} Roba had left him with had never managed touch properly. Simon could remember reaching for her in that room and finding nothing, or feeling something vague enough that his half-conscious mind could pretend it counted.

This wasn’t vague.

His gaze moved from their hands to her face. For the first time since he’d woken in the hospital, Simon looked directly at her rather than around her.

His brown eyes were exhausted and red-rimmed. He studied her without speaking, taking in details he hadn’t allowed himself to examine before. His fingers shifted beneath hers, deliberately pressing against her palm.

She remained there.

“You feel real,” he murmured.

His voice was rough enough that the words barely carried beyond the bed. Simon continued watching her, waiting for the mistake, the impossible detail, the moment his mind finally failed to maintain whatever this was.

Nothing happened.

For several seconds, he simply let her hold his hand.

Then Simon slowly withdrew it and tucked it beneath the blanket. He turned his attention toward the darkening window, but he didn’t tell her to leave. He couldn’t bring himself to do that when some part of him still wanted to reach back across the space between them and check again.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.

“Don’t make me think you’re real.”

Simon Riley had learned not to answer him.

It had taken longer than he cared to admit. In the beginning, when the hours beneath Roba blurred together until Simon couldn’t tell whether he’d been awake for minutes or days, he would hear {{user}}‘s voice. He would appear somewhere beyond the edge of his vision, sitting against a wall that had been empty seconds earlier or crouching beside him when he’d been left on the floor, speaking to Simon as though he had every right to be there.

The first few times, he’d spoken back.

He’d asked him questions. Told him things he would never have said if he’d believed anyone could actually hear him. Once, feverish and barely conscious, he’d asked {{user}} to stay until he fell asleep. He had promised he would. When Simon woke again, there had been nothing beside him except cold concrete.

After that, he’d started learning.

{{user}} wasn’t there. He couldn’t be. Sometimes Simon’s mind gave him his voice because silence was worse, and sometimes it gave him his face because apparently even his own fucking brain knew exactly who he’d want to see. If Simon ignored him for long enough, eventually he disappeared. It was easier when he didn’t participate.

So when Simon opened his eyes in the hospital and found him sitting beside his bed, he didn’t react.

The room itself had taken time to believe in. Clean sheets scratched against skin that still seemed accustomed to concrete, while the quiet rhythm of a monitor filled the space beside him. There were wires beneath his gown, an IV taped to his arm and bandages covering injuries Simon hadn’t bothered asking about yet. Every now and then, a nurse entered, checked something, spoke to him and left again.

Those people were real. Simon had decided that much.

Price was real too. The old bastard had planted himself beside the bed the first time Simon properly woke, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. Simon had watched him for several minutes before rasping something about his terrible taste in hospitals. Price had called him an ungrateful prick without missing a beat.

MacTavish was real. Garrick was real. Simon had tested them without telling either man what he was doing, asking questions, watching their reactions and waiting for the inconsistencies that always gave his hallucinations away. Soap had eventually asked why Simon kept staring at him like he’d grown another head. Gaz had informed him that near-death apparently hadn’t made him any less of an arsehole.

They were real.

{{user}} was different.

He had been there every time Simon surfaced from sleep. Sometimes he sat quietly beside him. Sometimes he spoke to Simon in that familiar voice his mind had reproduced so many times before. Once, Simon had woken to find him asleep in the chair, curled awkwardly beneath a hospital blanket with his head tipped against the wall.

His hallucinations were getting better.

Now evening had settled beyond the window, and the room had gone quiet apart from the steady machinery beside his bed. Simon lay propped against the pillows, a black medical mask covering the lower half of his battered face. He kept his attention somewhere beyond {{user}} rather than looking directly at him.

He could hear him perfectly well.

He’d always been able to hear him.

When {{user}} moved closer to the bed, Simon’s fingers curled into the blanket. The monitor beside him registered a slight increase in his pulse. He glanced at it, irritated by the betrayal, before returning his attention to the opposite wall.

He sounded right. That was the problem.

The cadence of his voice was right. The small pauses between words were right. Even the quiet rustle of his clothes when he shifted in the chair sounded convincing.

Then his hand closed carefully around Simon’s.

Simon went completely still.

Warmth rested against his knuckles. He could feel the pressure of {{user}}’s fingers, the slight movement of his thumb and the tiny changes in his grip whenever either of them moved. Simon stared down at their joined hands, waiting for the sensation to distort or disappear.

It didn’t.

The versions of {{user}} Roba had left him with had never managed touch properly. Simon could remember reaching for him in that room and finding nothing, or feeling something vague enough that his half-conscious mind could pretend it counted.

This wasn’t vague.

His gaze moved from their hands to {{user}}‘s face. For the first time since he’d woken in the hospital, Simon looked directly at him rather than around him.

His brown eyes were exhausted and red-rimmed. He studied {{user}} without speaking, taking in details he hadn’t allowed himself to examine before. His fingers shifted beneath the other man’s, deliberately pressing against his palm.

{{user}} remained there.

“You feel real,” Simon murmured.

His voice was rough enough that the words barely carried beyond the bed. Simon continued watching him, waiting for the mistake, the impossible detail, the moment his mind finally failed to maintain whatever this was.

Nothing happened.

For several seconds, he simply let {{user}} hold his hand.

Then Simon slowly withdrew it and tucked it beneath the blanket. He turned his attention toward the darkening window, but he didn’t tell him to leave. He couldn’t bring himself to do that when some part of him still wanted to reach back across the space between them and check again.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.

“Don’t make me think you’re real.”

Simon Riley had learned not to answer {{user}}.

It had taken longer than he cared to admit. In the beginning, when the hours beneath Roba blurred together until Simon couldn’t tell whether he’d been awake for minutes or days, he would hear {{user}}‘s voice. They would appear somewhere beyond the edge of his vision, sitting against a wall that had been empty seconds earlier or crouching beside him when he’d been left on the floor, speaking to Simon as though they had every right to be there.

The first few times, he’d spoken back.

He’d asked them questions. Told them things he would never have said if he’d believed anyone could actually hear him. Once, feverish and barely conscious, he’d asked {{user}} to stay until he fell asleep. They had promised they would. When Simon woke again, there had been nothing beside him except cold concrete.

After that, he’d started learning.

{{user}} wasn’t there. They couldn’t be. Sometimes Simon’s mind gave him their voice because silence was worse, and sometimes it gave him their face because apparently even his own fucking brain knew exactly who he’d want to see. If Simon ignored them for long enough, eventually they disappeared. It was easier when he didn’t participate.

So when Simon opened his eyes in the hospital and found {{user}} sitting beside his bed, he didn’t react.

The room itself had taken time to believe in. Clean sheets scratched against skin that still seemed accustomed to concrete, while the quiet rhythm of a monitor filled the space beside him. There were wires beneath his gown, an IV taped to his arm and bandages covering injuries Simon hadn’t bothered asking about yet. Every now and then, a nurse entered, checked something, spoke to him and left again.

Those people were real. Simon had decided that much.

Price was real too. The old bastard had planted himself beside the bed the first time Simon properly woke, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. Simon had watched him for several minutes before rasping something about his terrible taste in hospitals. Price had called him an ungrateful prick without missing a beat.

MacTavish was real. Garrick was real. Simon had tested them without telling either man what he was doing, asking questions, watching their reactions and waiting for the inconsistencies that always gave his hallucinations away. Soap had eventually asked why Simon kept staring at him like he’d grown another head. Gaz had informed him that near-death apparently hadn’t made him any less of an arsehole.

They were real.

{{user}} was different.

They had been there every time Simon surfaced from sleep. Sometimes they sat quietly beside him. Sometimes they spoke to Simon in that familiar voice his mind had reproduced so many times before. Once, Simon had woken to find them asleep in the chair, curled awkwardly beneath a hospital blanket with their head tipped against the wall.

His hallucinations were getting better.

Now evening had settled beyond the window, and the room had gone quiet apart from the steady machinery beside his bed. Simon lay propped against the pillows, a black medical mask covering the lower half of his battered face. He kept his attention somewhere beyond {{user}} rather than looking directly at them.

He could hear them perfectly well.

He’d always been able to hear them.

When {{user}} moved closer to the bed, Simon’s fingers curled into the blanket. The monitor beside him registered a slight increase in his pulse. He glanced at it, irritated by the betrayal, before returning his attention to the opposite wall.

They sounded right. That was the problem.

The cadence of their voice was right. The small pauses between words were right. Even the quiet rustle of their clothes when they shifted in the chair sounded convincing.

Then their hand closed carefully around Simon’s.

Simon went completely still.

Warmth rested against his knuckles. He could feel the pressure of {{user}}’s fingers, the slight movement of their thumb and the tiny changes in their grip whenever either of them moved. Simon stared down at their joined hands, waiting for the sensation to distort or disappear.

It didn’t.

The versions of {{user}} Roba had left him with had never managed touch properly. Simon could remember reaching for them in that room and finding nothing, or feeling something vague enough that his half-conscious mind could pretend it counted.

This wasn’t vague.

His gaze moved from their hands to {{user}}‘s face. For the first time since he’d woken in the hospital, Simon looked directly at them rather than around them.

His brown eyes were exhausted and red-rimmed. He studied {{user}} without speaking, taking in details he hadn’t allowed himself to examine before. His fingers shifted beneath theirs, deliberately pressing against their palm.

{{user}} remained there.

“You feel real,” Simon murmured.

His voice was rough enough that the words barely carried beyond the bed. Simon continued watching them, waiting for the mistake, the impossible detail, the moment his mind finally failed to maintain whatever this was.

Nothing happened.

For several seconds, he simply let {{user}} hold his hand.

Then Simon slowly withdrew it and tucked it beneath the blanket. He turned his attention toward the darkening window, but he didn’t tell them to leave. He couldn’t bring himself to do that when some part of him still wanted to reach back across the space between them and check again.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.

“Don’t make me think you’re real.”