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It’s the evening that Grif finally gets off bedrest and Simmons and Grif have retreated onto the top of Red Base with a bottle of whiskey Grif found stashed away in the kitchen. They've left their helmets and armor behind at their bunks and Simmons feels naked without the familiar weight of his armor. Vulnerable without his helmet there to hide his easy blushes and the way he stares maybe just a little too much at Grif.
They sit side by side, feet hanging down off the edge of the base, staring out at the canyon. Blue Base is a warm, hazy glow in the distance. It's probably warm and cozy right now. Not like out here, with the cold concrete floor cutting through the fabric of Simmons' pants. He wants to go back inside- he's got a dozen things he could be doing right now- but Grif looks so content up here and Simmons is still in disbelief that he's actually here and not buried in some shallow grave out behind the base.
A cold breeze sends a chill down his spine and Simmons pulls his shirt tighter around himself like it’ll actually help. It doesn't. The only warm parts of him right now are the places where his shoulder and leg press against Grif’s. But the cold doesn't seem to bother Grif as he digs around his pocket for something, which he finally pulls out with a triumphant "Ha!". It's a scratched up lighter and a crushed pack of cigarettes.
Simmons is long past the point of irritation at the sight.
"Seriously? You nearly died a few days ago, and you’re right back to smoking." Simmons still complains, for the sake of tradition, as he watches Grif light a cigarette. But his heart isn't really in his words and judging by Grif's lopsided smirk, he can tell. The lit end of the cigarette is a wavering point of light in the darkness as Grif brings the cigarette to his mouth and takes a deep drag.
Simmons tries again. "You know those are bad for you, right?"
"So is war, but that hasn’t stopped us yet."
"Those aren’t remotely the same thing.”
Grif shrugs, then exhales a cloud of smoke. Silence falls between them, but unlike the usual ones, this one is heavy, weighing Simmons' shoulders down.
He feels Grif's gaze on him, and he's grateful for the darkness and for the fact that his metal parts are facing away from Grif. He knows that it doesn’t matter, that Grif had seen them earlier and his only reaction had been a raised eyebrow and, “You’re half-robot now? God, I bet this is like a wet dream for you”.
So maybe Grif doesn’t care, but Simmons can’t help but feeling self-conscious.
Thinking about that only made him think about the reason for his new look and the reason that Grif bore similar marks. Only, his were patches of freckled skin that had been grafted together with his normal, tanned skin. Simmons had helped Donut bring Grif’s unconscious body into the base while Sarge prepared for the surgery. There was more blood than Simmons had ever thought possible, and things were outside his body when they shouldn’t have been.
"I thought you were dead.” he blurts out before he can stop himself. “For a minute there. It was..." He trails off, unsure how to phrase it so he doesn’t sound as desperate and terrified as he’d been. But he thinks Grif probably knows anyway.
"Yeah." Grif said, all casual, like they were talking about the weather instead of his grisly death. "Fucking Blues, right? Good that I’m not. I mean, what would you do without me there to tell you when you’re being a kiss-ass?"
Simmons grins despite himself. "I'd probably throw a party."
"Please." Grif scoffs. "Like you’d last a day with only Donut and Sarge for company."
Simmons is tempted to disagree and defend Sarge’s honor, but he’d never been a good liar.
“Lucky for you, I'm still here." Grif says. "We’re stuck with each other a little longer."
He turns to face Simmons again and grins, one side of his mouth quirking higher than the other. "It could be worse. I mean, you and me, we’re probably the only reasonably sane people in this place.”
“I guess.” Simmons says, turning Grif's words over in his mind.
You and me. You and me. That's how it was supposed to be. Grif and Simmons. GrifandSimmons. It almost wasn’t, it was almost just ‘me’, just ‘Simmons’, but he tries not to think anymore about that. Grif is here and he's breathing and everything is fine.
Grif flashes him a quick, crooked grin. "Anyway, enough feelings.” He launches into a story involving Donut and a feather duster. It's probably a good story- Grif always was good at turning the most routine shit into something fantastic- but Simmons doesn't really listen to the words. He lets his attention wander, only listening to the rise and fall of Grif's voice, the animated and over-exaggerated way he told stories, letting everything else drift away for a little bit. Part of him still can't quite believe Grif is alive, even though he himself had been the one who donated the parts that had kept him breathing.
Grif trails off, taking another drag of his cigarette and tilting his head back to look up at the stars that danced above them. The moon illuminates the expanse of pale skin that once belonged to Simmons that slashes across his face. Simmons lifts a hand to his own face, tracing the lines where metal met flesh. He knows that it’s possibly insane to give up half your organs and your own humanity for, well, anyone.
But maybe it was just a natural extension of how they'd always been. He and Grif were a package deal. You couldn’t have one without the other. Intertwined so closely that even they didn't know where one ended and the other began. The part where Grif literally had Simmons’ heart (and who knew what else) was only a physical manifestation of that. It might have been poetic if it hadn’t involved a hell of a lot of blood and guts and Grif nearly dying on the operating table.
He looks down at his hands. Three days ago, they’d been covered in Grif’s blood.
"Hey, Grif?" he says, and then he falls silent, unsure of what he’d meant to say. Maybe he just wanted to say Grif’s name. To confirm that he was still there and Simmons wasn’t alone on the rooftop, having some kind of extended, angsty hallucination.
Grif looks at him, then. His content look morphs into something thoughtful and intense.
He flicks his cigarette away, and Simmons watches it drop to the ground several feet below them, the lit end shining like a beacon. Grif lifts a hand, putting it on Simmons cheek-the metal one- and tilts Simmons’ face toward him.
Simmons wants to shrink away, or maybe run and get his helmet and shove it on so that Grif can't look at him. He reminds himself Grif doesn’t care. He’s not a monster. If he is, then Grif is, and Grif isn’t so Simmons couldn’t possibly be.
Grif’s fingertips ghost over the parts of Simmons that were broken and then put back together. His touch is gentler than Simmons would have imagined, but then, Grif never was quite what he seemed, was he? A mess of contradictions wrapped up in a soft, lazy body. It's something that Simmons had only noticed after years of close quarters and day after day spent bickering together. The parts that Grif hid from almost everyone, and Simmons’ knowledge that Grif actually did give a shit about something despite all outward appearances.
Grif’s hand still rests on Simmons cheek and he’s looking at him so intently. Like maybe he’s the best thing he’s ever seen. Warmth blooms in Simmons’ stomach at the idea and he leans closer, drawn in like a magnet. Their faces are close, scant inches of space between them. The warmth of Grif’s breath intermingles with his own. His eyes flick down unconsciously to Grif’s lips and then back up, his face heating up when he realizes Grif is smirking at him.
"So, we gonna kiss, or do you wanna think about it for another few years?" When Grif speaks, his lips brush against Simmons' own.
"Shut up." Simmons mumbles. Grif is trying to provoke him into making a move- one that Simmons wants to make- but Simmons' mind wars against it. The logical side of him insists he'll regret this. It doesn’t matter how much he likes the feel of Grif’s hand on his cheek, or how soft his lips look, because the fact remains that it is Grif.
If he keeps thinking, he'll think himself right out of it. It should be a good thing. But to his surprise, he realizes that he doesn't want that. The teasing, tempting note in Grif's smile and the intensity in his eyes promises that any fallout will be completely and utterly worth it.
Or maybe it's the alcohol saying that, Simmons isn’t entirely sure. He certainly doesn't feel drunk.
Just take a fucking chance, Simmons, he thinks, before gathering up every scrap of courage and closing the distance between them.
Grif's eyes slide shut and Simmons closes his own, which winds up being a bad idea. Their noses bump and he feels Grif's mouth curling into a smile before they readjust. When their lips meet there isn't any fanfare and the world doesn't stop moving. But something uncoils inside Simmons.
This, he thinks, is what he’s been missing. They part, both a little breathless despite how tame the kiss had been, before Grif leans in once more, and this isn't his first girlfriend who he'd dated for a grand total of one month, or any of the other admittedly few people he'd been with before joining the military. This is the guy who basically inhaled his food, went to extreme measures to avoid doing actual work, and had to be nagged at to shower more than once a week.
He's Simmons' best friend, and the feel of his hand knotting in Grif's hair as his tongue teases along the edge of Simmons' lips is both comfortable and alien at the same time.
Simmons wants to see, he wants to remember this forever if it’s just a one-time thing brought on by too much alcohol and relief over the both of them being alive. He cracks his eyes open. Grif is boneless against him, his hair messy and a flush on the pale skin of his cheek that used to be Simmons’. Grif's eyes flutter open and their eyes meet.
"Don't be a creep." Grif says in a low, hoarse voice in between capturing Simmons’ mouth in light pecks that leave Simmons stupidly dizzy. Or maybe it’s the look in Grif’s eyes just then that makes his head spin- amusement mixed with something foreign and undefinable.
"You opened your eyes too." Simmons grumbles, but he lets his eyes fall closed again and loses himself in the feel of Grif’s arms curling around Simmons’ hips, pulling him even tighter against him.
If Simmons had had to guess, then he would have said that Grif probably kissed like he did everything else. Slowly and with only minimal effort put forth. Like an enormous, vulgar sloth. But Grif throws himself into this with a passion, and Simmons is left to stumble after him trying to keep up and he doesn’t even mind it.
His body isn’t cold anymore, he’s warm and pliant in Grif’s arms as Grif moves to push him back down on the concrete. Grif grins, moving to climb onto Simmons lap, and Simmons is sure that if he still had his heart, it would quit on him because fuck.
The stars are hazy pinpricks of light behind Grif’s head as he straddles him and sure, Simmons thinks, the stars are pretty enough but Grif is better.
Grif’s leg nudges against the bottle of whiskey they hadn't quite emptied. It tips, hitting the concrete with a clatter. The noise startles them apart. Grif straightens from where he’d been lavishing kisses along Simmons’ jawbone and stares down at Simmons. His face is warm-the non metal part, at least- and he knows that he's probably blushing, too.
The last of the whiskey drains from the bottle and seeps into Simmons’ shirt. The sensation is just unpleasant enough that he pushes himself up, Grif letting him go and returning to spot beside Simmons. Neither says anything, but Simmons casts glances over at Grif as they both catch their breath. Nothing shows on Grif’s face, he looks just as relaxed as always. The sight of his placid expression sends anxiety thrumming through Simmons.
What did they just do? What was he thinking? You can’t just make out with someone and pretend everything was normal. Can you? He’s probably just fucked things up by rising to Grif’s bait. But it was Grif’s fault for-
Grif stands suddenly. He stretches, his bones popping, then extends a hand to Simmons and pulls him up. Grif's hand is as warm as the rest of him and Simmons doesn't want to let go, but he forces himself to.
If Grif is gonna act like nothing happened, then Simmons will too. The thought sits like a stone in his gut as Grif saunters away without a word to Simmons. Okay, so maybe he can’t pretend. He has to at least know. If only to save him from the sleepless nights that stressing over it will bring.
"Grif," he says uncertainly. "What..."
What is this. What's going to happen. Just what.
Grif stops and turns to Simmons. He rolls his eyes before grabbing Simmons’ hand in his and tugging him closer.
"It hasn’t even been five minutes and you're already freaking out." Grif says, his other hand coming up to rest on the back of Simmons head. He guides Simmons' face down, until their noses touch. It's simultaneously embarrasses Simmons and makes him stifle a pleased smile. God, if anyone saw them right now they’d never hear the end of it.
"It's you and me, dude. It’s whatever we want it to be." Grif says.
Simmons thinks about it a moment, then nods. He can handle that. There’s no pressure there, to be something they’re not. It’s just… them. It’s warm and familiar and so right.
"Now come on, nerd. Sarge and Donut have probably gone to bed by now, and I want to raid the kitchen." Grif heads to the ramp that leads down, but he doesn't drop Simmons' hand. And Simmons doesn’t let go either.
You and me, he thinks, and smiles as he lets Grif drag him along.