Summary: Sometimes, it feels like his boss is doing all he can to thwart him.
Warnings:
N/A.
Prompt:
E is for ENVY.
A/N: … no excuses, just wanted to write Simon being Hot lowkey possessive.

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When he opens his door at midnight, he doesn't expect to see you standing on the other side of it.

"[Y/N]," Simon breathes, his brow furrowing as you wring your hands nervously. You haven't yet said a word, and the further the silence stretches, the more concerned he becomes. Your face is grave and worried.

"Are you busy?" you ask quietly, avoiding his gaze.

"No," he lies, opening his door a little wider and beckoning you inside. He's going on a run the following day, and the wee hours of the night are all he has to plan the best route, but he doesn't have the heart to turn you away. He's been scavenging so many times over that he's certain it's in his blood by now. He'll find his way regardless of whether or not he prepares a roadmap, and his team will be none the wiser. I'll manage.

Brown eyes map your path as you pace the length of his room, back and forth like a particularly slow pendulum, your fingers worrying the edge of your shirt. He's never seen you this upset.

"Sit," he commands, though his gentle tone makes it sound like more of a suggestion. His hand touches your back as he guides you to take a seat on the end of his bed. You perch on the very edge as if you're worried you'll muddy it just by being there. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Negan asked me to marry him."

It's blurted out quickly, and it takes a moment for it to register, but when it does, Simon feels a spark in his brain. It's unexpected, like a machine that's long since given up suddenly cranking to life with renewed vigour. It's as if a segment of Hell has opened up in his mind, molten hate coursing through his veins instead of blood.

"No."

The intensity in his voice surprises him as much as it surprises you, and Simon finds himself looking away in an attempt to realign his focus. He can't explain himself clearly; he just knows that he doesn't want Negan to have you. His leader always gets what he wants, always has first dibs on everything, and you're somebody that he doesn't want to be known as second-best to. Sometimes, it feels like his boss is doing all he can to thwart him.

I found her. She comes to me when she has a problem, not you. She knows I can take care of her.

"I mean… how do you feel about it?" He only asks when he's certain that he has control of his temper again. Such a slip-up could cost him dearly if it happens in front of the wrong person. "Do you–"

"I don't want to marry him," you admit, and Simon feels some sense of equilibrium return to the equation. "I don't want to be one of his wives. But I'm scared of what will happen if I refuse him."

You think about Negan's smug face; think about how he'd asked you for your hand in marriage as if he didn't have a care in the world. Apparently he'd been sceptical of you, and so he'd been watching you closely. He'd come to the conclusion that he liked what he saw, recognised your potential and wanted you for himself.

"You're as cute as a fucking doll, [Y/N]. Always fancied ya. Just didn't know how you'd handle yourself. Now I know you handle yourself fine 'n' fucking dandy."

He'd tipped your chin up with Lucille, smirking.

"Makes me wonder what else you can handle, beautiful."

"Nothing'll happen," Simon says, though his tone wavers slightly. It's a choice, sure, but Negan isn't known to give up easily. He can be extremely persuasive. "It's your decision." But he'll feel remiss if he doesn't at least mention the obvious: "... but there're benefits that might interest you."

The look you shoot him is like liquid fire, and he feels his mouth go dry. You've never looked so angry.

"What benefit is there to losing my autonomy, Simon?"

Simon stares at you, slightly astonished. You're such a sweet thing, so neatly wrapped in a pretty pink bow... he hasn't come to expect such sharp rebuttals from you.

Quietly, he chuckles, the rage inside subsiding momentarily. Your spark is addictive, and the lightning in your eyes excites him in ways he can't bring himself to confess to you. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, dark eyes honing in on yours.

"Negan's wives live like Queens," he tells you, watching with glee as you twitch. That look you're giving him, like you want to reach out and rag him around like a dog might a toy… it endears him. He's playing with fire, that he knows, but he just can't help it. That visceral resentment in your eyes, it's turning him on. "You'd never have to lift a finger. You'd never be punished too badly, either. No scavenging. No points. Just a whole lot of pretty clothes and sex."

"I don't want to sleep with him," you spit, feeling scorned. "... he frightens me. I don't trust him like that."

Some form of sobriety returns to him at that. He'd been having fun, pushing your buttons, morphing your anger into something that pleased his fantasies, but he can tell that the time for teasing is done. Beneath that quiet fury is still the same little rabbit he found in that attic, and the idea of Negan setting his jaws around your pretty little neck has him feeling hot all over again.

He leans over, his large hand squeezing your thigh in a display of comfort. "If you'd rather remain a Savior, tell him as such," he advises, gazing at you with a look that sits between patient and domineering. "The Bossman can be a lot to deal with, but he'll respect your choice. He won't force you." He makes a slight face, one that suggests he's being a tad too optimistic. "He might continue to try and convince you, but he won't force you. That's a difference I'm sure you're keenly aware of, after everything."

Slowly, you nod, and the fire in your belly settles somewhat.

"... I'm sorry for being stupid. I scare easy. It's such a pain to deal with, I know." Your legs curl beneath you as you look at him with a sad smile. It's no secret that you wear your heart on your sleeve, and that you aren't good at slotting yourself into the tough role. You make up for it with other skills– you're light on your feet, you're smart and you always seem to find good things while on runs- but you leave a lot to be desired whenever brawn enters the picture. There's no doubt in your mind that Negan knows how terrified you are of him and his stupid proposal - and you also know he gets off on it. It's plain to see in the sadistic glint in his eye.

Sometimes you see that same light in Simon's and hold your breath.

"You're not stupid." His hand is slowly peeled from your leg, resting back in his lap. "He can be… intimidating," he allows, figuring it doesn't make him look like part of the crowd that bends to the man's every whim– even though he is. "... if you ever feel scared, you can come to me. You're one of us. We look out for each other."

He hesitates to say that he'll look out for you, specifically, but that's what he means.

Slowly, you nod, before you smile slightly. "What did you mean by 'no'?"

It's the first time you've rendered Simon speechless. For a stretch that seems too long for somebody of his vernacular, he remains dutifully silent, staring at you as if you're a puzzle he's attempting to work out. If he's being truthful, he doesn't wholly know himself. What he does know is that if Negan were to put a proverbial ring on your finger, the time he'd be "allowed" to spend with you would dwindle down to mere minutes. Now that you've built up a rapport, cemented yourself into his days and brought a smile to his face on more than one lucky occasion, he knows he can't give that up. Negan can't win this one.

"Well." A cool smile forms on his face. "These unprecedented little visits of yours would hardly be a part of your routine anymore if you were to marry him. I don't think I can do that to ya. It's clear you need me."

You can't help but laugh. It's such a Simon thing to say that you instantly feel better; a little foolish, perhaps, but better nonetheless.

"Right. I need you."

"Yeah."

He holds your stare for a moment longer than necessary, and you feel something jumpstart in your chest. He has a way of making you forget about things that upset you, but he also has a way of making you lose track of your nerves. Your lower lip is snagged between your teeth as you look away, biting back a smile as you stand up.

"Stay if you want." He gives you a callous shrug before rising from his bed, stretching out with a low groan. His spine pops, and you follow the slight curve of his body before he's back to standing straight again. "You can take my bed. I'm probably not going to sleep tonight. I've got things to do."

"You said you didn't…" you mumble, a hint of guilt showing on your face.

"Not important things."

"Don't let me keep you awake, Simon. You should've told me to go."

He gives you a terse smile as he leans against his kitchenette, flicking the switch on his kettle. "Coffee's a thing," he tells you. "Willpower, too. Don't worry about it. Get some rest."

And that's that.

You watch as he goes about his evening routine, the smell of coffee potent as you shyly arrange yourself on his bed. The sheets smell fresh, though distinctly of him, and after a moment of deliberation you pull the blanket back and arrange yourself beneath it, closing your eyes.

Your body is humming in response to being shrouded in his scent, and the sound of him sketching up a rough map makes the room feel lived in.

You doubt you'll sleep any tonight, but you're certainly at ease now.