Chapter Text
There was a stranger in Simon's home.
He had found the man outside the warming center while he was on his way home from his shift at the hospital, standing in front of the locked doors with nowhere else to go. It was already around 7:00 AM by the time Simon had driven by, so it wasn't like he needed a place to sleep. And it hadn't been all that cold lately either.
The rational thing would have been to call someone, but Simon didn't trust the police, especially with someone who looked like this man did: unwashed, disoriented, possibly high or mentally ill or both. There had been many times where mentally ill patients came into the ER after being brutalized by a police officer who didn't understand what they were going through, and Simon wasn't going to risk this person's safety.
Simon wasn't even sure if the man understood what was happening even as he tried his best to explain. His questions also remained unanswered. "What's your name? Were you sleeping outside the building? Have you been here all night? Do you have anyone you can contact?" No response at all until, "Do you need a place to stay for a few hours? Get cleaned up and have something to eat?" That was enough to get him to silently walk towards Simon's car, getting in once Simon opened the door for him, then stared down at his lap the entire time.
Simon would continue to try to speak to him, telling him his name and occupation, how far away he lived and how long the ride would be, but he still got no response. Simon thought that maybe he didn't understand anything that was happening, but then again, he had been in front of the warming center so he was aware enough to know where to seek help. Without any input from the stranger, Simon only had his appearance to go off of. He looked to be around Simon's age, so most likely in his mid 20s as well. He was very thin, which was noticeable even with a jacket on. Sun damage was visible across his face through dark spots and reddened skin. That extent of damage took time. But strangely, his facial hair wasn't long or messy, while the dark hair on his head tangled past his shoulders and into his zipped up jacket. Maybe he was just too young to grow a full beard yet. Simon took mental note of what that all could mean.
The rest of the car ride had been quiet. Simon wasn't entirely sure what his whole plan was. Really, he wasn't planning much at all. His brain already felt fried from his long shift at work and so he didn't question his own motives too much when he felt the urge to help this stranger. He hoped that everything would sort itself out once he was bathed and fed.
Because of that, there was now someone that he knew nothing about, standing in his bathroom as water from the shower ran.
Simon changed into something more comfortable, switching out his scrubs for a clean plain white shirt. He wasn't sure what to put on for pants just yet. Sweatpants or pajama pants felt too relaxed and he didn't know when he would have to bring this man someplace else. Again, he hadn't really thought very far and wasn't thinking about where he might be spending the rest of the day. He ultimately decided to put on some jeans.
The water had been running for quite some time and Simon wasn't sure if he heard any movement in the bathroom at all. No sound of a shampoo cap popping open or anything, just the steady stream of water. Eventually, he hesitantly made his way to the door of the bathroom that was already cracked open slightly. He could see the steam from the hot water billowing out, but still heard no movement.
"Is everything... ok in there?" he asked, loud enough to be heard over the water while still trying his best not to startle him. He got no response. Just the continued sound of water hitting tile.
Simon's stomach tightened with concern. "I'm coming in," he announced, waiting a beat before slowly opening the door further.
Simon saw the stranger standing just outside the shower, naked and unmoving. His gaze was cast down onto the floor and his shoulders and entire body slouched over while standing. His arms stayed drooped by his sides. He wasn't washing. Wasn't even in the shower yet.
"Hey," Simon said softly, staying by the doorway. His eyes automatically averted when he caught glimpses of skin covered in more sun damage—especially on his shoulders and back—the sharp angles of ribs and hipbones, and the vulnerable curve of a spine. And most notably, the scars all over his body. "What's wrong?"
The other man slowly turned his head towards Simon but didn't look him directly in the eye, keeping his gaze near Simon's feet. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat and distant. "My arms are too tired to wash my hair."
It was such a simple statement, delivered without emotion, but something about it made Simon's chest ache. He'd seen this before. Patients who'd reached the end of their capacity to care for themselves. Depression, exhaustion, trauma. Bodies that just stopped cooperating.
"Are you a caregiver?" the man asked, still not looking at Simon directly.
"I'm a nurse," Simon said, then added quickly, "but I've never given anyone a bath or shower before." He figured that was probably where this conversation was headed, but the ER didn't wash people. Just quick, clinical cleanings when necessary: wiping down blood, cleaning wounds, the bare minimum before moving on to the next patient. Even the ICU didn't bathe people beyond a simple sponge bath in bed. Nothing at all like what this man was most likely hoping for.
The man said nothing. Just stood there waiting.
Simon sighed to himself. This was someone who had run out of options. Someone who couldn't even lift his arms to wash his own hair. Simon had offered this much, backing out now would be cruel.
"Okay," Simon heard himself say. "I'll... wash you." The words sounded strange coming out of his mouth. But there wasn't anything weird about this, was there? Just one person helping another. He stepped further into the bathroom and the steam immediately dampened his clothes and fogged up his glasses. He took them off and placed them down on the sink counter. It was probably for the best if he wasn't able to see clearly anyway.
The man stepped into the shower at once and looked over at Simon expectantly. Simon made his way over slowly, still very hesitant over the whole situation.
The steam was already so thick in the small bathroom, and when Simon got closer he saw that it was set to the highest temperature. Yet the man standing underneath had no reaction to it. Simon reached for the handle to adjust it, but before he could turn it, the stranger's hand shot out and clamped around his wrist. Simon jumped. The grip was tight and surprisingly strong for someone who was apparently too exhausted to lift his arms and wash his own hair.
"That's way too hot," Simon said, trying to keep his voice steady. He gestured toward where the water hit the stranger's arm, turning the already sunburnt skin even more inflamed. "You'll burn yourself. And I can't wash you if it hurts me."
The stranger's eyes stayed on him, still not quite meeting his gaze but fixed somewhere near his face. The grip didn't loosen.
Simon tried again, forcing authority into his voice—the tone he used with difficult patients in the ER. It was more commanding than he'd sounded all morning. "You'll make yourself sick if you stay in water this hot for too long."
Something shifted. The stranger's head tilted to the side as if intrigued and his fingers slowly released their hold on Simon's wrist, allowing him to turn down the temperature just a bit. It was still much hotter than what Simon could tolerate for himself. Hot enough to sting, but bearable. The stranger watched him make the adjustment but didn't reach for the handle again.
"I want a bath. My legs are tired." Still with the same deadpan, tired voice.
"You're a bit too dirty for a bath right now," Simon said, his face twisting into worry as if the stranger might react negatively to him saying no again. "I'll need to rinse you off first so you aren't soaking in dirty water. But I can fill the tub up for you once you're clean?" he offered, once again trying to find middle-ground. He didn't get an answer. "If your legs are tired, you can sit down. It'll be easier for me to wash your hair that way anyway, I think."
Without a word, the man sank down and sat with his knees against his chest, keeping his chin tucked against them.
"Can you tilt your head back?" Simon asked, reaching for the shampoo.
The man complied silently, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. Water cascaded over his face, moving his hair out of the way. His hair was quite long, all the way past his chest. That kind of length seemed intentional, not something that came from not being able to get it cut. Miraculously, it wasn't completely matted like Simon originally thought, and he had to wonder just how long he had been on the streets. But he realized that it was still quite tangled as he began to massage the shampoo against his scalp.
"Sorry, I'm trying my best not to snag any of the tangles," Simon said nervously. He'd touched hundreds of people. Thousands, maybe. People in pain and those dying beneath his touch. But this was more intimate than any medical procedure. His fingers worked the shampoo through the man's hair, feeling the shape of his skull beneath.
The man let out a small sound like a sigh mixed with a soft groan and his shoulders dropped slightly as the tension in his body released.
"You're fine," the man murmured, and for the first time since Simon had found him, his voice held something other than flatness.
The stranger stood perfectly still through all of it, eyes closed. There was something trusting about it that made Simon's chest feel warm, filling that ache of his to feel needed. Or maybe it wasn't trust. Maybe it was just exhaustion so complete that resistance was impossible. Either way, it felt the same.
Simon took the shower head and brought it close, washing the suds out. The white shampoo turned gray from all the grime and it flowed down his body in rivulets then swirled down the drain.
"Your hair looks cool. It's a good thing that it wasn't matted. You won't need to cut it," Simon said, trying to keep up a conversation.
He then soaped up a wash cloth and helped the stranger to wash his back. There were cuts all over his body and scabs and rashes from scratching and picking at his skin, but his back was the only area that was left untouched.
"I can see that you pick at your skin pretty badly. That's a hard habit to break, but keeping your nails clean will at least help prevent infection. I can trim them after this if you'd like."
Simon was quiet, waiting for a response from the stranger but was still getting only silence. Actually, the water sounded louder now. Droplets were hitting against gathering water instead of directly on the tile. Simon paused, the wash cloth still against the stranger's shoulder blade. He leaned forward to look past and saw it: the drain plug pushed firmly into place, probably done while he was talking. Water was already beginning to collect around the stranger's legs.
When Simon looked at the man, he was keeping his face forward, but he could see the smallest smile tugging at the corner of the stranger's mouth through the blurriness of his vision.
He was doing this on purpose. Possibly testing him to see what he would do. Simon had explicitly said no bath until he was clean and he was pushing his boundaries. Maybe he should've been irritated, or at least that's how the average person would react, but instead Simon couldn't help but find it somewhat endearing. This man was showing personality. A hint of playfulness after being so passive.
A smile crept across Simon's own face—helpless against it. "Alright," he said softly, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. He pulled back and handed the man the wash cloth then put his glasses back on. "I think you're probably okay to wash the rest yourself now. I have some clothes in here you can put on once you're clean and I'll bring your dirty ones to the basement to wash them."
"Will you pray for me?" The question came suddenly as the man caught the outline of Simon's cross necklace that was visible under his shirt that had gotten wet from bathing him. His expression had returned to being neutral, no more playful smile.
"Of course!" Simon replied immediately, his expression serious as he leaned in closer, his arms resting against the edges of the tub. His earlier exhaustion seemed completely forgotten. "I'd love to pray for you. What are you seeking help with?"
The man was quiet, long enough that Simon was beginning to wonder if he was going to answer at all. Eventually, his head tilted to the side as he looked up at Simon. "I'm resisting the urge to strangle you right now."
Simon's smile faltered and his body leaned back subconsciously, but he kept his voice kind, if a little hesitant. "I... did I do something wrong to upset you?"
The man shook his head slowly, still watching Simon with that sharp, assessing look. With the position they were in, the stranger sitting naked and wet in the tub in an unfamiliar house... it should have been Simon who had the power and authority. But somehow it didn't feel that way.
"...No." The man looked away then, his gaze moving to the tile wall in front of him.
Simon stood very still. The bathroom felt much smaller now like it was closing in on them and his heart was beating faster to the point that he could even feel it in his throat. Each beat sent a pump of adrenaline throughout his whole body. He was terrified.
"Alright," Simon said slowly after a stretch of silence, his earlier enthusiasm gone.
"I'll pray for you then." He pressed his palms together in front of his chest, fingers interlacing in the familiar gesture.
The stranger's voice cut through the silence before Simon had even settled properly. "No, you have to close your eyes."
Simon looked at the man who was staring at him intently now, waiting. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and a voice in his head—probably reason or self-preservation—telling him that this was a terrible idea. Closing his eyes in front of someone who'd just admitted to violent thoughts was exactly the kind of stupid thing people died doing.
But he closed them anyway.
The absence of visual information made every other sense sharper. He could hear the man's breathing even over the running water, slow and calm. Could smell the soap on his skin, that familiar scent that was usually his own. Could feel the vulnerability of his own body, the exposure of his throat.
"No!" The shout was loud and sudden. Simon's eyes flew open and his body jerked backward. The man hadn't moved from his place in the tub, but Simon thought for certain that he was about to lunge at him. "You have to say it out loud. I want to know what you're asking God."
Simon's hands were shaking now and he clasped them together again, tighter this time, and forced himself to close his eyes once more.
The prayer came out quieter than he'd intended, his voice slightly unsteady. "Dear God, please help this man in his hour of need," he said, the words feeling comforting in their familiarity. "May he meet people who are kind to him and show him patience. Give him the strength to endure what he must and help lead him to an easier life." He paused, taking a deep breath. "Please help him with violent intrusive thoughts as they are not true to his nature and are the devil's temptations." After finishing his prayer, he looked back at the other man, waiting to see if he wanted to add anything.
The man was looking at him with an expression Simon couldn't quite read. It wasn't the small smile from earlier and not the flat emptiness either. He looked... almost confused. "Do you think that worked?"
"Um... yes, I believe it will help. But the hardship will still have to be carried by you." The man continued staring at him, and Simon felt compelled to fill the silence. "I'll be here to help you along the way when you need me."
"I'm not even religious," the man said finally. He looked away, down at the water pooling around his legs. "I don't know why I asked you to do that."
"Well," Simon started, getting his thoughts together. "Many people turn to religion during tough times. Maybe you didn't believe before, but you're starting to seek out God's love for comfort."
The stranger's eyes shot up at Simon, keeping his head angled downward. His tone became much more pressing. "You're doing this out of some kind of... what, moral obligation? Christian charity and all that?"
Simon immediately shrunk, his shoulders caving in on himself and his brows furrowing with worry. His voice came out softer, much less sure. But for once, he was surprisingly defensive despite his body language. "Being charitable isn't inherently religious. There are many kind people that are also atheists. This has very little to do with my religion."
The stranger looked at him for a moment then rolled his eyes. He wasn't about to be lectured. "Whatever." He gestured towards the door. "What happened to leaving me to finish the rest myself?"
"Right. Sorry." Simon stood quickly, almost tripping over himself. "I'll just uh– I'll go put these in the wash. There's a change of clothes on the counter for you. They might be a little big, but..." He was already backing toward the door, the stranger's dirty clothes bundled in his arms. "Just come out whenever you're ready. I'll be in the living room downstairs."
Simon closed the door behind him and made his way down to the basement, trying to steady his breathing. That whole confrontation still had his hands shaking and he couldn't believe that he had stood up for himself like that. But the stranger's eye roll had made it clear he'd said something wrong... It probably would've been best if he tried to be more passive like he usually was. And what was with that threat? 'Resisting the urge' sounded more like a warning than a threat, though. And Simon had apparently done nothing wrong to warrant it either? It was all so confusing but that's probably what he deserved for doing something stupid like this. He sighed loudly to himself now that he was alone but the deep breath did little to calm his hands that were still shaking slightly as he sorted through the stranger's clothes.
He checked the pockets out of habit, making sure nothing would go through the wash. It felt uncomfortably like snooping, even though he knew it wasn't. The jacket had nothing in the pockets but some lint, so he tossed it in the wash right away. The camo cargo pants were stiff with grime and sweat, and Simon felt his skin start to prickle, thinking that he maybe should've worn gloves even though he was touching the man directly just moments before.
Something heavy shifted in the back pocket of the pants and when he pulled it out, he found himself holding a pocket knife. It was heavier than he expected and the metal was cold against his skin. It had been there the entire time, so close by. When Simon first found him, in the car, as he welcomed him into his home, then sitting on the ground just feet away while he was giving him a bath. It made sense, though. Of course he would need protection while he was out on the streets. Simon's thumb brushed against the release mechanism, feeling how easily it would open. He was pretty sure switchblades were illegal to carry. Just a press of a button and the blade sprung forward with a soft click. It looked sharp, but Simon didn't really know a lot about knives besides the ones in his kitchen. He turned it around, examining it closely, then pressed his thumb lightly against the blade. Very sharp. He felt a shiver run through his spine and decided that was enough examining and folded the blade again, placing it on the washer.
Simon scooped out the remaining items in his pockets: lint, a few coins, and an unmarked plastic baggie. Empty, but clearly used before. Pills, maybe? Though he would have no clue what they were since they were gone now. Likely not something prescribed to him, or at least not used properly. If they had been, they would still be in the bottle, not some loose bag. Simon set it aside with the knife and the coins then put the pants in the washer.
He laid the stranger's shirt down on the dryer, looking at the design on it. Now he was definitely snooping, but he couldn't help himself. Simon hadn't gotten a chance to look at it earlier since he was wearing a jacket and his hair covered most of it, but even looking at it head on... it was still hard to tell what it was. The white design on the fabric had faded away completely leaving only a slight glossy reflection on the faded black material. Simon angled his head down to have the design catch the light and was able to make it out: Metallica. He knew that band! Sure, he didn't listen to them, but everyone could recognize the name. It told him nothing useful, but he felt like he had just a little more insight on the person who'd been wearing it. He tossed that into the wash as well.
As he straightened again, he noticed the stranger standing right there and Simon immediately gasped and put his hand over his chest.
"Jesus!" Simon exclaimed before laughing. "You startled me a little. You were so quiet."
Simon tried to recover, gesturing awkwardly at the washing machine where the band shirt was. "Metallica. Rock on." He made the devil horns with both hands, forcing a smile, trying to lighten the mood.
The other man didn't react. Didn't smile. Didn't acknowledge the attempt at all. "What do you want from me?"
"Nothing," Simon said, maybe a little too quickly. He turned away to pour the detergent into the washing machine and start it, trying to avoid the conversation.
"Bullshit," the man said, much firmer now as he took a step forward. Simon looked startled and shied away, taking a step back. "Everyone wants something. You're just too embarrassed to say it or you think asking makes you look bad."
"I don't want anything," Simon said, barely above a whisper. He wasn't sure what else there was to say.
The stranger was still not convinced.
"If you're a bug chaser, I don't have it."
Bug chaser? Simon had never heard of that before. "What like... getting sick on purpose?" he asked, unsure.
"HIV." The stranger's voice was flat, annoyed now. "I don't have it."
"What? No! Nothing like that at all!" Simon's hands immediately went up and he shook his head. He was too shocked to even be embarrassed by the insinuation.
The stranger's confusion turned into frustration. "Then what?" Another step. "Sex? Drugs? You got a death wish?" His hand came up, jabbing hard into Simon's stomach, then his side. Not enough that it would be truly painful, but enough that it was insistent. Invasive. "What the fuck do you want?"
Simon pulled away, or at least tried to. His face was flushed and his breathing quickened and each poke caused another small sound to escape him. He tried to block the jabs with his hands, but the resistance was halfhearted at best. Eventually the stranger stopped and observed him for a moment.
"Please... I don't want anything," Simon said quietly, feeling embarrassed and seen in a way he hadn't consented to.
"Then I'm leaving," he said, turning away.
"But your clothes are still in the wash! It'll only be 40 minutes or so!" Simon said, following him. "And your hair is still wet. You'll be cold out there." The words were tumbling out now. "Please, you haven't eaten anything!" Simon reached out, grabbing on the man's wrist, desperate to stop him. "Please. Just... stay a little longer. Please?"
The stranger stopped and looked down at where Simon was gripping him. Then slowly, he looked up at Simon's face. His voice came out low and flat, each word precise and sure.
"Let go of me or I'll fucking kill you."
The basement went very quiet. Just the sound of the washing machine in its cycle. Simon's fingers loosened slowly. Not jerking away in fear, but a gradual release, and his hand trembled as it fell away. His eyes stayed on the stranger's face, wide and uncertain, but he didn't step back. He stood there, hand still raised slightly like he still wanted to reach out again but knew he shouldn't.
"At least let me give you some money to get something to eat," Simon said quietly, because apparently even a death threat didn't warrant allowing the stranger to leave empty-handed.
Simon only had a moment to notice the complete shift in the other man's demeanor—his body shaking and his face looking desperate and unguarded in a way he'd never seen before—before he crossed the distance and grabbed Simon, pulling him close and burying his face in the crook of Simon's neck. But this was no gentle embrace. His arms locked around him and he squeezed hard, his body still trembling against him.
"Your kindness–" His voice came out shaky and strangled. "It's too much. I can't–"
He was overwhelmed, that much was painfully apparent. Somewhere Simon had messed up. He could probably pry himself away if he really tried, but the other man was already overstimulated and he didn't want to escalate things. Instead, Simon tried his best to keep his voice soft and steady even as the pressure made it hard to keep air in his lungs.
"Hey, you're ok," he started, but was immediately interrupted by an even tighter squeeze that was starting to get painful.
Stupid! The man literally said that Simon's kindness was overwhelming and he's still trying to be kind.
"It's getting a little hard to breathe," Simon said with a strained laugh. He tried to breathe deeper but couldn't expand his chest. Tried to pull back but couldn't move. His vision was starting to blur at the edges. This man's thin arms were somehow locked like a vice around Simon's ribs and he could feel his own heartbeat against the constriction. He was shaking so hard Simon could feel it in his own bones as if he were trembling as well. Simon felt his anxiety start to rise. He was in pain, he couldn't breathe, he was scared. And if this continued...
Simon suddenly felt the sharp sting of teeth digging into his shoulder. The pressure of the bite shot pain from his shoulder down to his spine, and his face flushed hot with shame because his body was betraying him with arousal he didn't want and couldn't stop, even as his heart hammered with fear.
"Stop! You're hurting me!" Simon shouted, panicked. He had to get out of this situation.
"I am being selfish! I'm not a good person!" he admitted, his voice coming out raw and vulnerable.
The stranger's jaw relaxed and his grip loosened just slightly. Just enough that Simon could drag in a full breath. "I'm doing this for myself. I'm not a good person, I just wanted to feel like one. It's selfish. I'm selfish. I wanted to feel like I was doing something right and I wanted to feel needed and useful."
The words continued to spill out. "I helped you because it makes me feel better about myself. Maybe this isn't for you at all and it's all for me, to prove I'm not... that I'm a good person. That I matter. I'm sorry."
The crushing pressure eased until it was something closer to an embrace. Simon was able to breathe freely again, and the stranger's ragged breath evened out as well, brushing against Simon's neck. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Eventually the arms loosened further and the stranger pulled back just enough to look at Simon's face.
He was close, staring at Simon with brown eyes that were lighter than he originally thought. Simon had been aware of being watched all morning even when the stranger's eyes weren't on him directly. But now, up close, those eyes were focused on him with an intensity that was impossible to miss. Casual observations suddenly focused, like a hawk that had been circling all morning and finally landed.
What the stranger saw seemed to have him completely transfixed. Simon's eyes were watering, gathering at the lower lids but not quite spilling over yet. Brows furrowed together with a look of worry that he had been wearing all morning.
Simon wasn't sure what to do with such intense attention and felt his cheeks get hot. He felt like he was getting his mind read and every single thought that was racing in between his ears was being heard and judged. He couldn't handle this anymore. Not just the eye contact, but the proximity. Simon's gaze shied away and he pulled back, which was enough to get the stranger to release him completely and step back.
Simon put his hand over where he had been bitten and checked for blood. Nothing. But his attention was quickly drawn back to the stranger as he watched his fingers dig into his own arms. His nails dragged down the length in quick, repetitive motions and within seconds red lines appeared then broke open. Small beads of blood welled up along the tracks, tearing open the previous scabs.
Simon took a step forward and his hand reached out automatically to stop him, but he paused. In that moment, something dangerous flashed in the stranger's eyes. His hand shot to his back pocket, then froze. His eyes darted to the washing machine and Simon's gaze followed, landing on the knife sitting on top of the washer, then snapped back to the stranger's face.
Simon went pale.
The stranger stared at him for one long moment. Then turned and ran.
Simon didn't follow. Didn't call after him. He stood there in the basement, listening to the footsteps pounding up the stairs. The front door opened. Closed. He was gone.