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“So you’re saying that eating Oreos for every meal is bad for me…even though they’re so fucking delicious?” Grif drawled sarcastically as he shoved another 2 Oreo cookies down his gullet, obviously out to spite the maroon soldier in front of him. The dark crumbs either stuck to his face or dropped down to land of his armor like a metal bib, and he accentuated his chewing noises with a disgusting amount of emphasis.
Simmons scoffed, arms crossed in front of his chest, “It’s not even that they’re terribly bad for you, you just eat them in such a quantity that all the bad ingredients are bound to be pilling up in that fat-ass of yours!” He pointed out. He refrained from snatching the blue package away from the other soldier mostly by reminding himself that he does not give a single shit about what Grif does or what kind of terrible junk foods he consistently stuffs his face with.
Grif smacked noisily on his cookies, “You…-mnh, you really talk about my fat-ass a lot,” He began with a full mouth, waving around a cookie in his hand. “You should stop worrying about my ass so much.” Another cookie is shoved into his mouth indicating his personal triumph at the little embarrassed blush that crossed Simmons’ face.
With his enhanced hearing, Simmons vaguely noted Donut mumbling ”And you all call me gay.” when he walked by on his way to the kitchen, or his room, he could not particularly tell, but the quiet passing comment made him grin just a bit.
“Private Grif!” Sarge yelled as he walked in the room from the outside with Lopez in his wake, and both Grif and Simmons turned towards the obtrusive noise; the maroon soldier instantly perked up, whilst the orange sank lower into the couch. “You were supposed to move those crates out back so they weren’t right in the middle of the Warthog track,” He pointed out agitatedly.
“Do I have to,” Grif drawled lazily, “You can just-“ He pantomimed an object avoiding another, “Drive around them.”
Sarge’s eyes narrowed and he fingered the hilt of his shotgun, only able to resist the urge to pull it when Simmons made a noise of disapproval directed at the other soldier. “Grif!” Simmons warned through his teeth.
The brown-mopped head and tanned visage decorated with Oreo crumbs snapped towards him, “Oh don’t ’Grif’ me!”
“You need to listen to the orders our commanding officer gives you!”
“Oh whatever, I’m not gonna do things when he says just because you’ve got a little crush on him.” He ate another Oreo. “I’m busy.” He mumbled.
Simultaneously, Sarge and Simmons spoke; Simmons through his teeth in a loud whisper:
“I do not have a crush on him!”
“Busy being a lazy good-fer-nothin’.”
Simmons flinched a bit and jerked his head down, “Sorry sir.”
Sarge shrugged off the minor altercation and focused his annoyance at his least favorite person, “Now git’ of your ass and go move those crates.” He ordered and motioned towards the doorway for emphasis.
Casual as hell, but in an astoundingly stupid way, Grif sighed and shifted positions on the sofa before leaning back and shoving his hands behind his head, “Nah,” He let out a relaxed breathe through his nose, and easily ignored the three heads that turned towards him; one holding a look of annoyance, the other of anger, and the third wearing an impassable helmet.
It only took one glance at Sarge for Simmons to determine how quickly Grif was about to get beat, he could practically see the red-hot anger bubbling up over his pale features indicated by the clenching of his fists and twitch of his lip. “Sir,” He was not confident in his reasoning behind the decision he was acting on, but he supposed he was just not up for cleaning up the bloody mess the confrontation would create. He hesitated when he was face-to-face with the almost scarily chiseled features and electrifying blue eyes of their sergeant; as he normally did.
He swallowed hard, “I’ll take care of the crates, sir. It’ll be done before dinner.” He threw a perturbed glance at Grif, who still looked far-to-smug considering Simmons just saved his ass, and reminded himself to punch him in the gut so hard he would regret all the cookies he just inhaled.
Sarge raised an eyebrow at his favored soldier and was rendered silent for an odd amount of time before he cleared his throat, “No Simmons,” He began, looking between the two privates in front of him, “It was a task assigned to Grif, and he. Will. Comply.” The last few words were accentuated with a pause and a death glare directed at Grif. Again he ran his hand over the handle of his shotgun if only to distract himself as Simmons began mumbling rushed incoherencies at Grif; his eyes, one grassy green and the other cybernetic red, were narrowed and threatening.
“No worries,” Simmons said, “I won’t be doing it alone.” He reached over and hooked his hand into the hind collar of the orange soldier’s armor and hauled him off the couch, incidentally knocking the half-empty package of Oreos out of his lap and onto the floor. Grif was automatically in a tizzy, kicking his legs and trying to pry the other’s hands off of him to no avail, he cursed and tried to punch at Simmons but did not have the leverage to do anything more than slap at his armor.
It took an amount of self-restraint for Sarge not to laugh, but he did grin, “Well alright.” He crossed his arms, all but ignoring his shotgun.
“I’ll report back to you as soon as it’s finished, sir.” He looked up and met eyes with his sergeant, and immediately averted his eyes to look down at Grif, still struggling in his hold. He cleared his throat, “We’ll take care of that now.” He said and turned and walked towards the back door of the base, dragging his companion along with him.
Sarge chuckled quietly as he listened to Grif’s objections all the way through the base until the two were outside, his loud mouth not ceasing with the ”Let go of me you Dutch-Irish bastard!” and ”I’m going to choke you in your sleep!”; but all the threats were hollow. He heard the reverberating footsteps stop before he turned and headed out on of the side doors to retrieve the Warthog from where he’d left it (after seeing the crates still piled in the path), and Lopez still stalked behind him obediently.
“Usted tiene gusto él mucho. Te puedo decir.” Lopez mumbled quietly from behind him as Sarge loaded his shotgun and himself into the jeep. The red soldier, without his helmet on, had no translator and simply reverted to assuming he knew what the robot was saying.
“Grif is an annoying bastard, Lopez; excellent point.” He agreed, and put the jeep into reverse and drove it to the front of the base, leaving Lopez standing in the dust.
The automaton sighed to himself, “Olvidamos bastardo.” He mumbled before walking back inside the base.
_._
Grif crammed another handful of chips into his mouth, and Simmons wondered how many packages of snack foods the other soldier had stored around the base whilst he strained his shoulder muscles to push one of the oversized munitions crates off the path. He grunted and let out a breathy sigh, resting for a moment to glare over at his lounging companion. He said nothing, and his angry glare went ignored; his attempts at looking intimidating proving useless again, he returned to the crate and steadied his back against it, and began to push.
After a few minutes he heard Grif swallow a mouthful of chips noisily and take a breath, “So why do you deny it?”
Simmons stopped pushing and glared at Grif, “We’re not going over this again!”
“No I mean it. It’s one thing to not act on it, but to deny it completely-‘
“Shut it, Grif!”
“Oh c’mon Simmons,” Grif shimmied himself into a more upright position to stare down the other. “Don’t you think this is a little infantile of you?” He wondered.
Simmons scoffed, “Pretty big word for someone of your grammatical capabilities.” He poked fun bitingly.
Grif chuckled exasperatedly, “Hey, Private Bitch, why don’t you stop being so…you. for a sec’.”
With one eyebrow raised and the other lowered, the maroon soldier glared at the other, “Oh, yeah, stop being myself; great fucking advice Grif.” He shouted and tried to return to the task at hand, using a temper-laced amount of strength to shove the crate a few meters against the rear rock face.
Another chuckle found its way from the orange soldier, “Someone’s being defensive.” He stated very matter-of-fact, and shoved another handful of chips into his mouth.
Simmons remained quiet, begrudging and unwilling to take the bait he knew Grif was throwing out, but he could not help but be perturbed by the consistent heckling. Thankfully, he was allotted almost an entire half hour of silence, but still absolutely no help, and he did his best to move the group of at least 10 massive crates. Even in the cool evening air he was beginning to feel sweat prickling along his brow line under his bangs, and the stinging ache of his muscles was a painful heat in his limbs as he continued to strain them.
It wasn’t until they both heard Donut call for diner time, and Simmons finally maneuvered the last crate off of the Warthog track, that either one of them talked again. “You should tell him ya’ know.” Grif stated pointedly.
Simmons removed his helmet and threw a confused look at the orange soldier, “Who? What are you talking about?” He asked.
“Sarge,” Grif began, crumpling his empty bag of chips and tossing it off onto the ground, and stretching his shoulders as if he’d been the one doing all the manual labor. He groaned before letting his arms flop lazily to his sides, “That you have a simply adorable little crush on him.” He sing-songed and threw his arm around the maroon soldier, smiling triumphantly at the colorful flush that spread across the non-robotic side of Simmons’ face.
He shoved off Grif’s arm, whipping his black curls from hanging over his eyes, “I’m not 13 asshole!” He stated defensively, “It’s not a-…I do not have a crush on him, I wish you would stop that.” It was impossible to fully mask the color painting his cheeks, even when he turned away, Grif still smirked knowingly at him. Without anything to say, Simmons walked away in a huff, making it a point to slam the door closed and hit Grif in the face, very literally.
The table was set in its typical fashion as Donut normally did it, but no matter the work he consistently put into it, their meals were usually spent in the common area or in their separate rooms depending on their moods and how many times Grif had picked fights that day. Today, Simmons was more than a bit surprised to see Sarge and Lopez already sitting and talking as Donut continued setting containers of food on the table: previously freeze-dried steaks and carrots at the very least appeared to be full grown and delicious, and the smell of the pasta was too good in his nose.
He looked over to Grif, who walked in rubbing his nose, just in time to see his face go from annoyed to childlike wonderment in less than a second at the sight of the meal laid out as it was. Simmons guessed that if Grif wasn’t in such a stupor he would be applauding Donut’s presentation skills, but as it was, he had to put a hand on the orange soldier’s shoulder and guide him to his chair next to Lopez to keep him from diving onto the table. Whilst making sure Grif did not preemptively begin stuffing his face, Simmons noted Sarge’s content smile morph into a careful grimace directed at Grif, “Did you get those crates moved, private useless?”
Simmons went to answer but Grif interrupted, “Course I did, just moved the last one.” He said and reached for a roll and shoved it in his mouth.
The effort was not worth the waste of breath, and the maroon soldier rolled his eyes and took his seat next to Sarge, “Well I’m surprised,” Sarge began, and started to serve himself pasta and steak, “I’m sure Simmons was an excellent supervisor, probably whipped your sorry self into shape.” The comment made Simmons smile just a bit and he made a point not to look over at his sergeant.
“Nah,” Grif mumbled through a mouth full of bread and steak, “He was basically useless, just stood there.” Another forkful of crushed carrot and minced potatoes was crammed down his gullet; it was amazing he was not dead from asphyxiation.
Out of the corner of his eye, Simmons saw Sarge make a face, he could not pin it as anything specific, it was just odd; he did not protest, he knew trying to argue with Grif was pointless, and he’d let the others believe what they wanted to believe. Regardless of his chronically lying companion, he was excited to dig into the food before him, and he was even prepared as Donut began to prattle on with Grif about what they had done that day; Sarge talked languidly with Lopez, who responded as best as possible whilst maintaining the conversation.
The food was good, and Simmons remembered to compliment Donut on it later; he had a knack for turning their gross reserves into passable meals, but they weren’t always this tasty. In his mussing, he barely registered a gentle hand on his forearm and looked over to meet his sergeant smirking calmly, and he resisted the desire to avert his eyes, “Something bothering you Simmons?” He asked, removing his hand, “You’re awfully quiet.”
It did not appear as if any of the others noticed them talking and merely continued on their own conversations, but Simmons found it no easier to speak his mind, so he did not bother to elaborate when he said, “It’s nothing sir.” quietly.
From across the table he heard Grif clear his throat, but in a painfully unbelievable way that led Simmons to look up from his plate; he saw the orange soldier pantomiming someone talking and then he motioned to Sarge. Simmons flinched and rolled his eyes, ignoring, with a practiced amount of patience, the heart symbols Grif was insisting upon teasing him via.
_._
Simmons inwardly cringed when he noticed another noodle hanging off his leg armor, and he peeled it away and double-checked what he could see of his armor for anymore signs of stuck-on food. He could not help the scoff as he remarked the previous half hour’s events; Donut and Sarge’s little impromptu food fight had been more worrisome than entertaining, mainly due to the fact Sarge was trying to very legitimately pummel Donut to death with fistfuls of carrots and potatoes because of something the pink soldier had said.
Grif had been, if he remembered correctly, horrified at the prospect of wasting food by throwing it at each other, only to have Lopez chuck a slab of steak at his head. Okay, Simmons chuckled, that had been pretty funny, he admitted to himself.
It was getting late and the stars were starting to poke through the thick atmosphere of the planet, and Simmons rested back on his hands, legs swinging over the ledge, and was content in starring at the sky, knowing Grif was inside cleaning up the mess that was, for the most part, not Grif’s fault.
With a keen eye, he found the bright twinkle in the dark sky that was Earth, however many lightyears away it was; he picked out Polaris and Aldebaran, casting his gaze over just slightly to stare at the constellation Pisces and up to Cerberus. There were other things in the way of the view, including satellites and the man-made magnetosphere that shimmered against the nearest moon’s reflecting light.
“I know you were the one who did it,” The voice startled Simmons and drew an indignant squeak out of him, one that made him slap a hand over his mouth as soon as he saw Sarge walking up behind him. His helmet was off and he still had bits of food stuck to his armor, in quite a few noticeable places, and Simmons refrained from smiling only by remembered how unprofessional it was. He offhandedly wondered why he even cared about being professional, since no one else even bothered at this point.
“Moved the crates, I mean.” Sarge elaborated as he joined Simmons on the ledge, missing the nervous look the maroon soldier could not keep off his face. “I’m sure you know what a terrible liar Grif is, plus I could see the chip crumbs all over him.” He smirked, and Simmons actually chuckled, finding it impossible to disagree.
There was a lingering silence in which they both starred at the stars, Sarge trying to recall what he had been taught about them, and Simmons doing anything to not think about the close proximity and the slight heat swimming over his face.
“So,” Sarge’s voice startled him once again, “Which one is us? The stars that are indicative of our team?” He asked, and Simmons smiled fondly, admiring the wonder-filled tone in his sergeant’s voice.
The Pleiades, he knew that’s what Sarge meant, but it had been explained in a simplified manner because the astronomy terms had proven confusing for him. He looked to the North-East part of the sky and located the seven sister stars and tried to point it out, and after a minute of ”No the other right.”s and ”No that’s the moon.”s they were finally looking at the same part of the sky. “See there; You, me, Grif, Lopez, Donut, Lopez 2.0, and Doc.” He listed.
Sarge chuckled quietly, “I still don’t think we can count Doc as a Red team member.” He said.
“Well he’s team-fluid, and he did help us.” Simmons pointed out helpfully. Sarge nodded in agreement and returned his eyes to the sky; he moved his hand and incidentally brushed his fingers over Simmons’ hand, and quirked an eyebrow when the soldier flinched away. He turned his head just slightly to look at the other, able to see the non-robotic half of his pale visage, he could clearly point out the flush on his cheeks even in the dark, and the consistent way he bit his lower lip. Training allowed him to acknowledge the behavior as nervous, but he quickly cast the thought away, determining that there was no reason for Simmons to be nervous.
But Simmons was, in fact, nervous as hell; he was suddenly cursing Donut for instigating the food-fight thereby leading Simmons to the roof to be rid of his headache and get away from the overbearing smell of food. He could feel the color on his face and it was aggravating; he’s a grown-fucking-man and he found himself feeling like a 13 year old kid with a middle school crush. Sweaty palms, quick heartbeat and twisted stomach indicated his obvious infatuation, although he was trying so hard to ignore it all.
“Why are you always so damn…jumpy around me, Simmons?” Sarge asked after the lingering silence.
It took a few moments for Simmons to compose himself before he could muscle out a piss-poor answer, “I just don’t want to seem like a disobedient soldier, sir.”
“Oh,” Sarge scoffed, sounding more amused than exasperated, “don’t give me that obedient soldier crap. You’re the epitome of the loyal soldier, you don’t need to drive it into the damn ground every moment of every day!” He wasn’t shouting, merely accentuating his tone, “Plus it gets old,” He leaned back, relaxing once again and his voice dulling itself down. “It’s so hard to talk to Dick, and not Private Simmons.” He grinned, and slapped Simmons on the shoulder, letting his hand linger there.
Simmons remained silent, smiling nervously under his sergeant’s uncharacteristic openness, or perhaps it wasn’t uncharacteristic, but merely Simmons’ ignorance and inability to talk to the other without experiencing the panicking feeling of his emotions. He kicked himself mentally for acting like such a child.
From inside there was a clear crashing noise, and both heads snapped towards the entrance that lead back inside, and Sarge’s eyes narrowed angrily, “Dammit Grif!” Simmons was pretty sure the red soldier had no idea whether or not the noise had been of a particularly Grif-y origin, but blame inherently fell on the orange soldier, which was fine by him.
Sarge turned to look at Simmons again, not looking away when the private accidentally met eyes with him, “Hopefully you can take solace in the fact you’ll always be better than him.” He smiled triumphantly at the little grin that fell over the other’s visage.
Without really thinking, and perhaps acting more on the lingering blush he saw on the maroon soldier’s face, Sarge raised his hands to move the curly black bangs and kiss Simmons on the forehead before standing up and storming back inside.
Simmons sat there unmoving for the following three minutes, his face flushed with heat and fingers twitching unsteadily; he still barely noticed when Grif came stumbling out of the base holding his head, which appeared to be sporting a new bruise. The orange soldier perked with interest when he saw Simmons sitting stock-still, and meandered over to squat next to him, tapping him on the shoulder to raise him from his stupor.
“You’re welcome.” Grif said smugly.
Simmons quirked his head, not quite comprehending what was going on or what had happened previously, “What are you talking about fat-ass? What do I have you to thank for?” He wondered, his tone defensive and flustered still.
An annoyingly smug look plastered itself to Grif’s face behind the crumbs and unshaven jawline, and he chuckled, “Who do y’think sprayed so much Lysol that Sarge had to go onto the roof to escape the fumes; Sarge who was currently angry at Grif and more apt to enjoy the company of his favorite soldier?” He made an over exaggerated motion towards himself and stood back up, content to leave Simmons feeling the confusion his face displayed.
“Right, like I’m supposed to believe you did that on purpose!” Simmons nagged, standing up to face Grif.
“I said you should just tell him.” Grif sing-songed and headed back towards the door.
“You’re such a fucking liar.”
“And you’re so hopelessly head-over-heels; look at us both.” He smirked and stepped through the doorway back into the base. “I won’t be taking hits for the sake of your romantic endeavors from now on.” He said, pausing in the doorway.
Simmons twitched, “Romantic Ende- you were the one who started it!”
“You’re welcome, asshole.”
“Shut up fat-ass!”