Chapter Text
“Join your friends in the circle or die here.”
Grif stood up, slowly but not laboriously, as Simmons peered down from the height he sorely wished he could have followed from.
He was debating whether or not he could make the drop without the cables Grif had used, which were now dangling far from reach. Maybe if he jumped? There was no way he could jump that far-
Temple leveled the gun with Grif’s head and Simmons’s heart stuttered with a heavy beat and reboot in his chest.
A desire to shout out died in his throat with a frustrated guttural squawk as he realized he was holding tactical advantage. Temple would be unable to aim at more than one person at a time and was apparently disregarding Simmons as a whole in order to play dramatics with Grif.
And Grif stood there. Stood there.
Simmons set his aim on Temple’s head-
“I’m not going anywhere."
-and faltered, because something warm and sickly and wrenching had enveloped the core of Simmons' chest, because something was wonderfully right and terribly wrong about that sentence, about this Grif that had come back to him.
“Have it your way then,” Temple concluded, index finger flirting with the trigger, and Simmons had already clicked his own trigger before the bastard had finished the sentence.
He clicked again. Nothing.
“Son of a-” he hissed under his breath with dread sinking into him, looking at the melted exterior of his gun for the first time since the battle with Gene.
His gun had gone sliding toward the edge of the deck and had dangled precariously over the fiery cliff-side during the course of the attack, and Simmons had grabbed it in a rush afterwards. The heat had melted and inverted the chamber. Useless. Fuck. Fuck this dumbass, evil-boss, lava-lair trope.
He threw it aside and pulled out the knife, terrified, knowing he couldn't throw for shit regardless of the measly few training sessions he had attempted with Wash back on Chorus, ready to fucking jump and break his legs if he needed to, eyes turning back to-
To Temple holding the gun still to Grif’s head, stuck in a high-tension staring battle.
Simmons waited, gripping the edge of the upper deck with white knuckles under kevlar, poised for a jump, mind running at a million miles per hour. Maybe if he jumped it would be enough of a distraction and Temple would aim the shot at him instead of Grif. Maybe he could find another way down, maybe there was still a fight, if he could get closer he could maybe put his knife to use still, or grab a gun off of one of the others since they couldn’t use them, or-
“What’s the matter, Temple?” Dylan said, smooth as ice, and Simmons jolted despite himself, the room so quiet he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He needed to move, but he was terrified to rip his eyes away. “Afraid of blood?”
Simmons didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about but apparently it had worked, as Temple whirled around to her, whipping his aim toward her. “SHUT UP!"
Grif jumped.
Simmons tore his eyes away and bolted, heart pounding and sweat pouring down his face under the helmet as he ran full-force down the first corridor he could find, Grif’s declaration echoing in his mind with every footstep bouncing off the walls, I’m not going anywhere, I’m not going anywhere, I’m not going anywhere
By the time Grif and Simmons were deployed to go check the remains of their crashed arrival ship for anything useful, it had turned from an impressive bonfire to a burnt piece of toast. They had expected to put out at least some of the flames themselves, but the remains of the fire trickled down the stems of grass at their feet with a content sizzle.
“Well, that solves one problem, I guess,” Grif said, kicking at a piece of debris lazily.
“And probably creates a million more,” Simmons retorted. “I hope no one brought anything important.”
“Oh yeah, fuck!” Grif exclaimed, and without further ado went bounding into the wreckage, leaving Simmons in surprise.
“Wh- Grif, wait, it could still be dangerous!” He called as he watched his step, eyes flying around him at every possible thing he could run into, trip over, or have fall on him.
He was still getting used to Grif's sudden bouts of energy, which Simmons had observed on and off since his return. While he couldn't help but be fond of seeing a more positive, goal-oriented Grif, he had also noted that the positive mood swings usually happened during precarious and unexpected intervals. Ones which Simmons had yet to pattern into something he could understand.
That was slightly worrisome, considering it had already turned into Grif jumping headlong into danger more than once now in a few day's time.
“I gotta get the-” Grif’s voice was drowned out by the sound of metal shrieking as it was pushed aside.
“Get the what?” Simmons called, hesitant to go any farther if he wasn’t needed. At least if something fell on Grif he could be ready to help or call for assistance.
“Aha!” Grif shouted, and before Simmons could even blink, a white and orange blur was flying Simmons’ way.
He yelped and ducked as the volleyball flew over his head and out into the grass. It slapped across the hillside behind him, deflated and pitiful.
Grif’s face peeked out over a pile of metal scrap, holding another ball in one hand and carrying three under his arm.
“Simmons,” Grif scolded, a grin in his voice. “That’s not how you play volleyball.”
Simmons hoped his deadpan glare was readable through his visor. “I know. I was in the women’s leagu-”
He yelped again as three more got tossed his way, hues of blackened blue and red crossing his vision instantaneously as he dodged and shielded himself. “Ah, fuck, Grif you bastard!” Simmons laughed, haphazardly tripping over wires and the burnt remains of the bridge as he stumbled backwards out toward the grass. “This is- fuck! Mutiny against the red army!”
“Were you bad at dodgeball too?” Grif teased, somehow punting the other clean through the narrow avenue of the ship toward Simmons, who was finally ready to catch it close to his chest with a huff.
“Ha-Ha, you’re out!” Simmons called in triumph.
“What are you, five?” Grif mused, finally making his way back through the debris. “Yeah, the rest of this is completely trashed though. Our packs are burnt clean through. I don’t even know how these guys made it out as well as they did.”
“Not too well, considering they look like deflated meteorites now,” Simmons said, looking down to observe the one he had caught, wiping at the burnt and blackened material to see a tint of maroon. “Uh.”
Grif suddenly was sliding past him, picking up the other volleyballs out in the grass in a goofy-looking pile in his arms. “Come on, I was serious about punting these things into the volcano.”
Simmons wanted to linger on the moment, but started walking along anyway, aware of the sun falling down toward the horizon (Earth time, normal time, 24-7). “That deck in the complex is closer, we should probably just do it there and get back to the teams.”
Grif laughed. “Oh yeah, maybe we’ll see that Gene guy.”
“I only want to see him if I can punt one of these in his face while he’s trying to climb back up.”
They walked for a while more, bickering lightly, Simmons a few steps behind Grif, examining the maroon colored volleyball in his hands, thumb catching on a bit of orange-red tin foil that had been taped on and crusted over by the fire.
It was his face. He assumed the colors on the other ones had meant to represent the rest of the reds and blues.
One of the last things he had said to Grif before leaving was some dumb comment about him eating too much, followed by Tucker calling him selfish. And then he’d been alone for- weeks? A month? It had been a while now. Alone. And he still came for them. And had anyone even said sorry?
It hadn’t been bad on the moon. No death, no fighting, no weird look-alikes (no Gene), no freelancers getting shot in the neck, and Grif. Grif had been there. They had been all right. Even after the battle, after Epsilon had died, even after the mourning and the, well, the thing - they had still been all right.
Grif had just wanted things to be how they were. Peaceful, for once. Well, their kind of peace, but. Simmons still thought Grif was lazy, but wanting some peace and quiet for once wasn't a crime. Even if Grif had been kind of dickish about it at the time with the Epsilon comments.
Considering everything that had happened-
They made it to the deck before he even realized, Grif dropping the volleyballs to the ground in a pathetic pile. Simmons startled out of his thoughts as Grif shouted, “EY GENE, STILL HANGIN AROUND?”
Simmons snorted. “Low brow,” He critiqued, knowing the red visor turning his way had a grin underneath it.
But no Gene responded, regardless of the extra moment or two they took to check their perimeter in the event of some poor attempt at a comeback.
Grif returned to center deck and pulled a foot back before swinging it around hard to send the ball flying, hitting a cliff-face with an expressive burst of fire.
Grif whooped at the impact, turning and grabbing the one tinted turquoise beneath the char. “Looks like Tucker every time he goes through one of the teleporters,” he quipped, then dropped it on his foot and sent it careening out into the fire. “Take THAT,” Grif shouted in joy.
Simmons watched as one or two more (of Blue team?) went flying out before looking back down at the one he was holding.
“Want in?” Grif said, after a pause. “Kinda just standing there, dude.”
Simmons could hear the hesitation in his voice, layered beneath the common coating of casual downplay.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He huffed a soft breath of laughter. “You were pretty mad at us, huh?” Simmons said, still looking at the ball.
“What?” Grif said, taken aback. “What are you- Oh. No, I,”
Simmons looked up, realizing himself. “I mean, I get it, we-”
“Nonono, Simmons, I-” Grif almost laughed, a hand to his helmet like he wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I mean-yeah, but-”
“It’s fine, I didn’t mean-”
“Wait, are you being passive aggressive again? Sometimes you-”
“Wh- no, I’m not!” Simmons suddenly affronted, “I’m being serious, we were- I had been kinda shitty and-”
“Wait, stop,” Grif motioned with his hand. “Stop stop stop. Let’s go back. That’s not- the volleyballs weren’t to like, kick around and take my anger issues out on or whatever. They were- I was-”
Grif faltered on his words, and suddenly Simmons didn’t feel the need to interrupt.
Grif gestured his hands around vaguely in Simmons general direction before dropping them and groaning. “God, don’t make me explain this, Simmons. I wasn’t mad. I mean, I was, for a bit, but then I super, duper, uber wasn’t.”
“Then,” Simmons started, then stopped, then started, “Then what was-”
Grif turned and kicked another ball out, farther than the rest. They both watched it careen into the distance.
“I’m tired of talking to these guys, all right?” Grif said finally, voice warbling in that way it did whenever he was flustered.
Simmons stared. Grif was turned away from him but glowing golden-orange with the light of the fires. “I’ve...got better company now.”
And it clicked.
“Oh.” he responded numbly. “Ooooh, cool.”
He looked back down at...himself in his hands, or at least some strange symbol of himself. Or maybe a version of himself he too would prefer some distance from.
He stepped up where Grif was, dropped the ball, and kicked, and they watched it sail out and explode in a flash of light in the distance.
“You should’ve played soccer,” Grif said.
Simmons punched him in the shoulder.