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Alright, that was the third time, now he knows he’s not just hearing things, something, or someone, is definitely making a noise. Simmons forces himself to sit up straight in his bed, his cybernetic extremities and processors whirring to life almost silently; he looks around. Nothing out of the ordinary; Grif was asleep and snoring across the room in his own cot, arm hanging off the side of the bed. His snoring has always been loud, and fairly obtrusive, but Simmons is used to it, in fact he’s used to most of the annoying sounds Grif makes; so he knows with confidence that it is not the sound that he was hearing.
And there! Again the same shuffle of noise as the previous 3 times: a dull thudding against something solid, and the faint sound of movement. He cannot help but infer the tell-tale sounds of a struggle; he really hopes that is not the case.
Simmons –too quiet for his own good- slips out from under the covers and grabs the nearest garment, a maroon colored hoodie with his last name printed on the back and the Red Team logo on the front, and tip-toed into the desolate hallways outside his and Grif’s quarters. With some amount of willpower he stands there silently for nearly a minute before he finally hears the sound again, more clearly this time, and pinpoints the general direction in which the sound emanates from.
It his agonizingly slow, but silent, trek through the halls, he continues to hear the sounds, and begins to notice the varying levels of suddenness and restlessness as he draws closer to the portion of the hallway where Sarge’s quarters and the door to the “boiler room” are located; there are very gradual sounds of shuffling, while others are quite abrupt and unexpected. Amidst the sounds, both of the apparent struggle and of any ambient noise may be interfering; he could swear he heard his name.
Passing Donut’s quarters, it is apparent the sounds aren’t coming from him, and part of Simmons is relieved, whilst the other half sort of wishes it had been Donut, because if Donut is the source of the noises, it’s probably nothing to worry about, and he is probably just doing something pointless and Donut-y.
Something must be wrong with Sarge…! Simmons thinks in a growing panic, his carefully placed paces becoming wider and quicker over the concrete floors.
The sound reoccurs, and this time, Simmons is 90% sure he heard his name, and that the noise is most assuredly coming from Sarge’s room. He stops rather abruptly in front of his commanding officer’s door, hesitant to knock and terrified to even think about entering; he stands there jittery for a few long moments until there is another couple dull thuds from somewhere behind the door and he throws caution to the wind and lets himself in.
Instinctively he reaches for where his pistol would be stowed were he to be wearing his armor, unsure of what, or who, he might find on the other side; he just hoped Sarge was not in any danger.
After carefully surveying the surrounding room, adjusting to the relative darkness, Simmons’ gaze finally fell on Sarge on his cot; his blankets are tangled around his legs and jammed underneath him, the pillows that belong on his bed are strewn across the room almost as if they had been thrown. And Sarge himself looks to be in pain, with his face consistently contorting between what looks like fear and anger; his ashen features have a noticeable sheen of sweat over them, and he clings to the bedding with one hand whilst the other is balled into a fist and moving around with the rest of his body.
Simmons quickly realizes that it looks like he’s fighting something, or dreaming about it anyway; he also notices the previously heard thudding sound is Sarge kicking his legs about while going through this, apparently, restless dream.
Nightmare, idiot. Look at his face; he’s having a nightmare. Simmons is hesitant to approach his Sergeant’s bed but does so, albeit very cautiously and quietly. He can feel the nervous sweat beginning to form on his brow, he is not stupid, he has heard of the repercussions of waking up someone from REM sleep, especially whilst they’re dreaming. However, it is becoming increasingly difficult to stand by uselessly, unable to ignore the thrashing about in the cot beside him.
“Sarge?” Simmons whispers, laying a haphazard hand on the older man’s arm, “Sarge, are you alright? Wake up.” He figures he is being so quiet that not even someone awake could hear him, but he is too cautious to speak up.
“…dirty Blues why iought- no…Simmons- take yer mits offa…offa him… no…” Sarge mumbles nearly incoherently, his body twitching as he lashes out again, his clenched fist catching Simmons’ side, just hard enough and sudden enough to catch him off-guard and cause him to stumble.
Apparently this entire thing was a very poor decision on Simmons’ part.
The contact seems to physically rip Sarge from his night terror and he flies into a sitting position, and only moments later he is launching himself off the bed, and Simmons finds himself being thrown back into the wall; his back hits the surface hard, and he is forced down to a sitting position as a knee is jammed into the groove between his thigh and hip, holding him in place. “You will regret it! I’ll kill you!”
Sarge lands a mildly coordinated right hook to Simmons’ face, though he instinctively turns his head so the blow makes contact with the metallic portion of his face; it only hurts about half as much once the fist is taken back. “Sarge! It’s me!” He calls out in vain. He has to use well-tuned reflexes to block the next set of knuckles that flies towards his face, raising his cybernetic arm to catch Sarge’s fist in his palm. “It’s Simmons!” He cries out as he takes ahold of the other man’s shoulder with his free hand.
As his body ceases to convulse, and he no longer is actively attempting to punch his soldier’s head, Sarge’s eyes open in a flash; his pupils small specks in his sky blue irises, framed by the widened expanse of his sclera- bloodshot and distant. He looks terrified.
Simmons gives him a few moments, feeling his tense limbs going loose via the fist he was still clutching and Sarge’s knee, which was still jammed against his thigh. “Simmons…” Sarge pulls his knee away quickly, offering an apologetic look at the hiss of pain the other lets out at the action, and he ushers his fist away from the other and moves himself completely away from the other Red. He remains knelt there for what seems like a long time, Simmons not daring to move either, in fear of triggering some sort of post-night terror reaction.
“You’re…you’re okay? I thought you…” His voice is just as broken and shaky as he looks, and he takes a few long, deep breathes as a clammy hand comes up to run trembling fingers through his pale blonde hair. Though said deep breathes begin leaning more towards hyperventilating, and Simmons only becomes more concerned, even considering his aching face, hand, and leg.
“You’re fine sir, you’re okay.” He says calmly, trying not to sound too upset that he just got punched in the head. Cautiously he moves his hands to Sarge’s shoulders, rubbing comforting circles with his thumbs.
Sarge shakes his head, “No- you were, I couldn’t- taken hostage…freelancers- killed you…I-I couldn’t…” He plants his head in his hands and curls into himself, small tremors enveloping his frame.
Worry aside momentarily, Simmons is surprised that he was, evidentially, part of the night terror, and it makes him feel directly awful about the situation. “Sarge, Sarge…” He returns to gripping his shoulders, “I’m just fine, I’m here! There are no Freelancers anymore.”
There is a long bout of silence that follows, Simmons saying nothing, but staying close; he has experience dealing with somniloquy, and it is important to stay for moral support, just in case, not that he thought for a moment that Sarge of all people would admit to needing moral support.
“I’m sorry, recruit. I apologize for waking you; I’ll be fine.” Sarge admits rapidly, forcing himself to his feet and back towards his cot.
Simmons is shocked by how out of character the entire confrontation is, and the nonchalant disregard of the ordeal, he finds it rather irresponsible and not very beneficial to the, obviously troubled, man’s mind. Slowly, he stands up, avoiding his left leg because of the ache near the joint, “Sir-?"
"Return to your quarters, Simmons.” Sarge orders quietly, sitting himself back on his cot.
“But sir, do you need aspirin or water, you just woke up from a nightmare, and it’s-“
“I’m not some fucking sissy, Simmons, I said I’ll be fine I…” He sighs tiredly; dejectedly.
Simmons boldly moves to his commanding officer’s side and sits down next to him, but he does not say anything, merely sits quietly, trying not to appear invasive or intimidating. His fingers tap soundlessly on their sheets of the bed after a few long minutes past, his inherent restlessness getting the better of him, especially when in the presence of his highly renowned sergeant. He only stops when a hand comes to rest over it, not menacing, not harshly, just gingerly laying overtop it.
“-I’m not okay, but there’s nothing I can do about it…not now, not here, anyway. And while I appreciate your concern,” Sarge finally turns his face over to look at Simmons, “It’s not gonna help anything.” He gives the hand a gentle squeeze before letting his hand slip uselessly to the covers.
Simmons chooses to ignore the slight flush he felt rise to his face, and grabs for his hand again, because he knew as long as the other initially engaged, then it would not affect his emotions negatively; however Sarge does appear to flinch slightly at the contact. “I can always try to help sir, when dealing with somniloquy, it is important to vent. It could be dangerous otherwise.” He points out helpfully.
“Fighting the Blues, dealing with Donut on a good day, and going against the Freelancers while being chased by a crazy A.I is dangerous, and we’ve done all that, so I think I can handle a few bad dreams.” Sarge mumbles, only half meaning it.
“You said my name,” Simmons points out hesitantly, not wanting to stop the conversation just yet. Sarge looks away subtly, but just noticeably enough for Simmons to notice. “Am I-…I’m not the cause of the night terrors…am I?” He wonders haphazardly.
Sarge jolts a bit at the inquiry, “No…no, no, it’s not, you exactly. It’s- no never mind. You’re not… you have nothing to worry about.”
The flighty behavior begins to unnerve and perturb the younger man, unnerved because this is not the Sarge he so looks up to, this is some emotionally compromised version of Sarge that acts like anything but what he is supposed to be; and perturbed because even after all they’d been through, Sarge did not find him reliable enough to confide in. Especially, Simmons internally scoffs, considering it is obviously him who’s causing Sarge such turmoil.
Regardless of the conflict raging within the Red, Simmons sighs and choses the easiest option that would allow him to get back to bed sooner, and then deal with the problem tomorrow. He turns to Sarge to explain how tired he is, when he catches another view of his miserable looking features and sighs again; he has no idea what the fuck to do.
He has never experienced this problem with anyone else since he arrived in Blood Gulch- however many years ago that was- and even as of recently, near-death experiences included, Sarge seems to be the only one who is majorly affected in the psychological sense. There is probably some sort of past experience of a similar caliber that triggered night terrors previously before he was able to get his emotions under control, and only now are they being brought back to the surface because- “Will you stay in here tonight?”
Simmons does a double take, “Stay…in here, sir?”
“With me, yes.” Sarge says rapidly, his eyes narrowed as they atypically are; he is serious, Simmons can tell, but that does not stop the slight flush that he feels rising at the aspect. “I should have some bullshit reason why you should, I know, but I don’t. It just helps.” He explains pointedly, “Actually Donut used to-“
“I don’t think I need to know that part, sir.” Simmons grins. “I’ll stay.” He says, surprising himself. And before he quite comprehends what he just agreed to, he’s on his side wrapped in a blanket and a pair of arms that fit snuggly around his middle. He remains quiet for a long time, partially too flustered to form a sentence, partly because he is there to help Sarge sleep and keeping him awake by talking would be counterproductive.
Even though Simmons was overly tired when he first arrived, now the annoying thump in his chest is keeping him up; that and Sarge thoroughly spooning him, that seems to be a distracting factor as well. A small mumble from behind him and Sarge shifts, tightening his hold around Simmons and unconsciously nuzzling against the nape of his neck.
Sarge had fallen asleep, a fair bit quicker than Simmons originally thought he might, and even though his sergeant was asleep, he still blushes profusely and tries to curl into himself shyly; this was not something he was going to be used to this night.
“Thank you,” The words are muffled, and he knows that Sarge is still asleep, but nonetheless it makes him smile. The entire thing feels awkward, but oddly comfortable, contradictory of course, but not something either of them are going to be ashamed of.
Still trying to apply rationale to his decision to stay, Simmons concludes that Sarge would have been on a rampage for days if he were to not get good sleep; not very beneficial for the team as a whole, it was obvious the decision he had to make.
Besides, who was he to deny his commanding officer? Simmons grins, and settles in, he’d worry about reason tomorrow.