Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“S-Something’s wrong with my mom. She won’t wake up. She’s hardly breathing.”

“Okay, stay calm. Is your mother seated or lying down?”

“She’s in her bed, she never came down for breakfast.”

“Alright, first, get her lying on her back and remove any pillows from under her head to open her airway. Can you tell me what your addr-“

“*scuffle*”

“You still there? Little boy?”

“-fectly well you’re not allowed to use the phone.”

“But something’s wrong with Mom! She needs a hospital!”

 “I’m terribly sorry, madam, but I’m afraid my son has misled you. He should know better than waste the time of emergency services.”

“She could be dying!”

“Richard. I want you to go to your room, and consider the consequences of your actions. Now.”

“……… Y-yes, father.”

“I must apologize again for the inconvenience, madam. I’ll ensure it never happens again. Good day.”

“Wait, sir-“

*beep*

~.~.~

Some nights Simmons can’t sleep all the way through. He used to be able to name a reason why, some nightmare about some evil he’s faced in the past, but nowadays it’s not so clear-cut. Like it’s more a habit than anything else.

He has a choice of whether to lie here until sleep claims him again, or get up and get some fresh air. If he chooses the former, he knows his traitorous brain will keep him awake for god knows how long. If he chooses the latter, he has to be excruciatingly careful not to wake Grif sleeping just across the room; the orange-clad soldier is a deceptively light sleeper and if there’s one thing that wakes him up faster than anything else, it’s Simmons making noise.

After two minutes of traitorous brain activity, Simmons chooses the latter.

It’s deafeningly quiet in the base after the volume of the day’s shenanigans. If he treads too hard, his metal leg could clang on the concrete loud enough to echo. Simmons hates clichés, but he could just bet you actually could hear a pin drop in here.

So it’s with instant recognition he hears a light sniffle coming from the “living room”.

None of the lights are on, but the figure on the couch is instantly recognizable. “Caboose? What are you doing up?”

Caboose jumps so hard he falls off the couch, but he doesn’t even attempt to catch himself. He’s too busy rubbing the tears from his face.

Even Simmons’ metallic heart breaks a little with the knowledge that the ingenuous blue has been crying alone in the dark at 2am.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Caboose says, like that’s all it is, as Simmons helps him up, “So I came to get a glass of warm milk, like my sisters would do. Then I remembered I’m not allowed in the kitchen. So I can’t.”

“Well…” Having successfully gotten the larger man back on the couch, Simmons can actually look down at him, “I am allowed, so how about I get some instead?”

Brown puppy eyes look back up at him. “Really?”

He shrugs lightly. “I can’t promise it’ll be as good as your sisters’, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

“Yes, please,” Caboose replies politely.

Simmons nods and heads for the neighboring kitchen. He honestly has little idea on the proper way to do this, but it’s not hard to figure out the basics. As an extra touch, he digs out the bottle of vanilla essence hidden in the back of the cupboard that only he knows about. One of the perks of being the only person who bothers to keep track of the supply drop. He stops the microwave just before it beeps, so as not to wake anyone else.

Caboose is patiently waiting when he returns with two (one for himself too) glasses of milk, and takes a small sip of his as Simmons situates himself on the other side of the couch.

“So how’d I do?”

“Not as good as Magdalene’s,” Caboose notes, but adds with a smile, “But definitely better than Esther’s.”

Simmons drinks some of his own to discover that, yeah, it’s actually not bad. “How many sisters do you have again?”

“Seventeen.”

“Wow. Prolific family.”

Caboose gives him a puzzled look.

“Sorry. That’s a fancy word for big.”

“Yeah. I haven’t seen them in a long time though.” He lowers his glass to his lap sadly. “I wonder if they remember me.”

Can this guy stop breaking Simmons’ heart for two minutes? “Of course they remember you! You’re their brother!”

His voice softens when the Blue looks only a fraction convinced. “And you’re a hero. So not only do they remember you, they’re probably proud as fuck.”

Caboose looks over at him. “Is your family proud of you?”

Well, fuck. He kinda walked into that, didn’t he? The honest answer is a painful no, but…

He lowers his own glass. “I, um… I don’t have a family. Not anymore. They… died a long time ago.”

“Do you miss them?”

Another question with a painful answer. “A little. I try not to think about it too much. Just focus on the present, I guess.”

“Oh.” Caboose is hiding something. Simmons knows from the short half-response.

“Hey, Caboose. If there’s something you’re upset about, I can listen. I’ll even keep it a secret if you want me to. What’s the matter?”

Caboose attempts to look at him, but can only achieve a half-sideways glance. “Top secret?” he sniffs, finger to his lips in the universal “ssh” gesture.

Simmons responds in kind. “Top secret.”

Caboose places his glass on the coffee table. “I just…” is all he manages before he bursts into tears again and buries his face in his hands.

Simmons rushes to put his own glass down; he has absolutely zero idea what to do to comfort the bawling Blue, but he’s gotta do something, right? “Woah, hey, Caboose.”

“I-I… h-hate being a teamk-killing fucktar-rd.”

Those last two heartbreaking moments mentioned? Fractures, compared to this.

“Oh, Caboose.” He wraps his arm around the Blue’s shoulders as best he can, which isn’t much with how big the guy is. “Hey, that is not true-”

“But I am though!” Caboose drops his hands, and even in the dim light Simmons can see the cascading tears. “Church, Loco, Washington-“

“Washington isn’t dead, Caboose.”

“He got hurt. He got hurt because I wanted to find Church and Church wasn’t there.”

“Caboose, we all fell for that. It wasn’t your fault.”

“And Carolina got hurt, and then Loco got killed because he was helping me-“

“That also wasn’t your fault.”

“-and then Donut got hurt because I didn’t help him, and then we tried to stop Washington from getting hurt and then everyone got hurt-“

“Caboose…”

“-so how long is it gonna be before someone else dies because of me?”

“Michael J Caboose, look at me.”

As soon as Caboose turns his head within range, Simmons grabs the sides of his head to make sure they’re eye to eye.

“None of that was your fault. That was the fault of Temple, Genkins and Chrovos, all of whom are complete assholes. And Wash is okay now, remember? We’re all okay, just like you said to Church.”

Caboose can only look back at him sadly. “You and Grif don’t talk like you used to.”

He’s right, in a way. Huh. “Firstly, also not your fault. Secondly… we don’t talk differently in a bad way, we’re just… a bit less mean to each other than we used to be. That’s fine. Also, never use that word again, Caboose, you are too nice to swear.”

“You think I’m nice?”

Simmons has to raise his eyebrows. “Uh, yes? You’re probably the nicest on the team. The only people I think I’ve ever heard you say anything mean about are Tex and Tucker. And yourself, but that’s stopping now, okay?”

Caboose sniffs his tears to a stop. “O-okay.”

He then wraps Simmons in a swamping hug that actually lifts him off the couch a little. “I think you’re nice too. Like a big brother.”

Simmons isn’t sure what winds him more: the sudden hug or the sudden compliment.

“Heh, th-thanks Caboose. I’ve… never been called a big brother before.”

Caboose tightens his hug, which should honestly be a little suffocating, but is somehow kinda nice.

“Oh, the fuck was Locus talking about, your hugs are great.”

Simmons hugs back.

~.~.~

If anyone is curious in the morning as to why Caboose is found lying on Simmons’ lap like a big dog, both soldiers fast asleep, no one says anything.

Chapter Text

“You know Sergeant, I’d be careful with this guy if I were you. He seems like a bit of a loose cannon.”

The first thing Grif realizes about Simmons, upon running into him in boot camp, is that he’s an easily frightened, and easily manipulated, suck-up. Which makes him the perfect scapegoat for getting out of stupid running drills that Grif doesn’t give a fuck about.

The second thing he realizes about Simmons, after their CO chews them out, is that the suck-up part dissipates as soon as there isn’t a superior around, and when it does he becomes sassy as fuck. Which makes him the perfect partner for getting out of a stupidly planned recon mission that Grif really doesn’t give a fuck about.

The third thing he realizes about Simmons, upon seeing him out of armor for the first time, is that he is fucking pretty. Power armor might do his figure some favors, but not nearly as many favors as his eyes do his fair, freckled face and dark red hair. They’re soft green, like polished jade. Which Grif really shouldn’t give a fuck about. Or get that poetic about. Fuck.

The fourth thing he realizes about Simmons, after a couple weeks at their new post, is that no matter how insufferably hot it got in Blood Gulch, and no matter how red-faced and sweaty he got because of it, he always, always, wore long sleeves. Which Grif had to wonder about at times, but didn’t think it necessary to give a fuck about.

The fifth thing Grif realizes about Simmons, when he learns the reason why, he really, really wishes he hadn’t.

~.~.~

They’ve been here two months or so, and so far, Grif is doing a pretty good job turning Sarge’s air-headed “leadership” to his advantage. And Simmons, the easily manipulated kiss-ass (suck-up just doesn’t cover how bad he’s got it anymore), is the perfect scapegoat.

“Simmons! Are you tryin’a get yerself court-martialed?!”

“What?! No, sir! I-“

“Then what in sam hill do ya call this?!” Red-plated arms swing wildly to gesture at the wet patch on the floor the sergeant had just slipped on, “If not fer my superior reflexes and peak physical condition, you could have seriously injured yer commanding officer with this prank o’ yers!”

“S-sir, it wasn’t a prank, I just-“

“Oh, so you intended to injure yer commanding officer?”

“No, sir!”

“And using our limited water supply to do so,” Grif adds, thoroughly enjoying the level of shrill Simmons’ voice is reaching, “Tsk, tsk, for shame, Simmons.”

Simmons very nearly wheels on him, but is stopped when Sarge immediately responds. “Indeed! I’d like to see you facing military court, Private, but since reinforcements don’t arrive fer another six months, I can’t afford to leave this base understaffed. Instead, you’re gonna be on double patrol for the next week, starting now. Grif,” He turns to the orange-clad soldier, “I trust you to tidy up this mess by the time we get back.”

Fuck. That wasn’t part of the plan. “Why doesn’t Simmons do it when he gets back? It’s his mess, after all.”

“And leave a slip hazard in the base? Sorry, Private Grif, but Simmons can’t perform two punishments at once. Out front in three, Simmons.” And with that he marches away.

Simmons takes this opportunity to glare at Grif; he’s got his helmet on, so Grif can’t see his eyes (Will you stop thinking about them, goddammit) but Grif can feel the daggers.

“All I was trying to do,” he growls, “was clean up the mess you made.”

Grif knows he’s all bark and no bite, but said bark is fucking scary sometimes. “Hey, you didn’t have to get water all over the floor. We need that to drink, remember?”

“Oh, and let you blame the mess on me, like you do everything else?”

Some part of the fire dies down, and Simmons’ helmet turns back to the floor, the bark turning into a defeated sigh.

“I just can’t fucking win, can I?” he whispers, almost to himself.

Grif is still processing the slight tug in his chest at Simmons’ tone when the mop is shoved into his hands. The bark comes back.

“You know, you said something in basic about us being a team. But I guess that idea died with Hammer.”

Finally succeeding in wheeling around, away from Grif, he calls over his shoulder as he walks down the hall.

“Have fun doing your own cleaning for once, selfish fatass.”

~.~.~

Grif couldn’t sleep that night. Not with Simmons’ words ringing in his head, and Simmons himself in the bunk right across from him.

You know, you said something in basic about us being a team.

Simmons had come in late after his double patrol shift, yanked off his armor and glasses and practically thrown himself into the bunk. Even after he’s long gone to sleep, Grif can still see the tension in his shoulders and jaw.

He’s also moving around a lot more than he usually would while sleeping. Not like full twisting around, but small movements of his arms and legs, just enough to give Grif another reason he can’t sleep.

Part of him wants to wake Simmons up and tell him to stop making so much noise, but another won’t let him go near the other soldier after this afternoon’s argument. So he’s just left lying awake, eyes completely adjusted to the dark.

But I guess that idea died with Hammer.

Simmons moves again, burying his face somehow further into his pillow. His arms slide tighter around the pillow’s sides.

One of his sleeves catches on the pillow, and tugs up to his elbow.

Grif finds out why Simmons always wears long sleeves.

Back in junior high, there was a kid in Grif’s class called Keahi. Sat up at the back, never spoke up much, kept himself to himself, absolutely dominated any art competition the school held. Became the favorite target of the school bullies. Grif never knew why. It wasn’t like he and Keahi were friends, and it wasn’t like Grif was there for most of the bullying. But he was there in the locker room when Keahi wasn’t as careful as usual in changing his shirt, and Grif briefly saw the thin but angry scars littering his wrist and arm. He covered it up fast, but there are some things you can’t unsee.

Two weeks later, Keahi didn’t come to school. No one said anything about it. Not even the teachers addressed his absence. But it didn’t take a straight-A student to know what had happened.

The same scars and more almost completely cover Simmons’ forearm, from the base of his palm to disappearing further under his sleeve. Many have healed, seemingly years old, some are still red.

Were any of them made as recently as Blood Gulch?

Were any of them because of Grif?

Grif is suddenly hyper aware of just how many guns there are in this base, and how Simmons’ grip on his would always tighten after he got in trouble with Sarge because of Grif’s manipulation.

He’s suddenly hyper aware of just how much of an asshole, and how much of a bully, he’s been.

Grif couldn’t sleep that night. Not with Simmons’ words ringing in his head, and Keahi’s voice echoing them.

What is wrong with you?

~.~.~

By the third day after that, Simmons is definitely suspicious. Probably would have been even earlier if not for his double patrol shifts and various other activities Sarge ropes him into doing. But he’s smart, Grif knows that, and would have worked it out eventually.

Grif hasn’t spoken to him since the argument. But he’s been watching. And he’s noticing things that a less asshole-y person would have noticed way faster.

Firstly, when not in the dark anymore, he can see many more smaller scars across Simmons’ right hand. Simmons can’t cover them unless he wears his armor’s gloves 24/7, which would draw unwanted attention. He’s gotten away with it for so long only because both Grif and Sarge are blind idiots. Grif isn’t happy with himself for this.

Secondly, though only one hand is scarred, it seems both arms are, if the way Simmons vehemently tugs both sleeves down is any indication. Considering how many scars were on the arm he saw that night, he has to have run out of space at some point. Grif isn’t happy with himself for thinking this.

Thirdly, it’s not just his gun Simmons’ grip will tighten on when Sarge calls him for patrol. Whatever he’s holding, his right hand will tense around it. If he’s holding nothing at all, his clenched fist will be covered by his left hand. Running over the scars, Grif realizes.

By the third day, Simmons has noticed Grif’s change in behavior.

This makes their next shared guard duty awkward as fuck.

“Any activity from those dirty Blues, Privates?” Sarge asks when he comes to check on them.

“No, sir,” Grif replies. Simmons says nothing.

Sarge then pulls the pin on the metaphorical grenade. “And what dastardly insubordination is Simmons up to in my absence, Grif?”

Grif is suddenly hyper aware of Simmons’ eyes on him. Of fingers tightening around a loaded gun.

“None at all, sir,” he says, “He’s completely behaving himself. I think he might’ve learned his lesson.”

Sarge doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but thankfully doesn’t ask questions. “Well, keep an eye on him, and we’ll see if he keeps it up. As you were, Privates.”

Grif waits until he’s absolutely sure the sergeant is out of earshot (even though they have private radio channels, like what the fuck) before he opens his mouth. It’s a painful wait, considering Simmons is still looking at him the entire time. He keeps his own eyes on the canyon.

“Sooo,” he eventually does say, “I thought about what you said, and, you’re right. I have taken being an asshole several steps too far, and… I’m sorry, man. I can’t promise I’ll completely stop being an asshole, I’m pretty sure it’s one of my defining traits, but… I’ll stop getting you into trouble with Sarge. ‘Kay?”

Simmons says nothing for a minute. It’s one of the longest minutes of Grif’s life.

Cold visor glass turns back toward the empty canyon. “Let’s see if you keep your word.”

They don’t speak for the rest of the day.

~.~.~

Four days later, Simmons’ week of punishment ends. He’s had no run-ins with Sarge in that time.

A week and a half later, Grif swallows his pride and takes responsibility for a blunder caused by his laziness. He’s not sure who’s more surprised: himself, Sarge, or Simmons.

One month later, Sarge starts to get a clue. He stops expecting Simmons to always be up to something, and starts expecting Grif to always be up to something. Grif drowns out the “I’m disappointed in you” spiel just enough to know this is an improvement.

Two months later, there is visibly less tension in Simmons’ shoulders.

(Two and a half months later, a new guy in brown shows up out of nowhere. He says nothing back whenever someone talks to him, so Grif assumes he’s either mute or doesn’t give a fuck.)

Three months later, Simmons quietly says “Thanks” to him in the hall. The mute guy probably thought it was pretty random, but Grif knows exactly what he means.

Four months later, Simmons actually participates in casual banter with Grif when Sarge isn’t around.

Six months later, Simmons turns to him during guard duty one day. “Hey.”

“Myeah?”

“Do you ever wonder why we’re here?”

Chapter Text

“Good evening, Richard. What are you up to there?”

“O-oh! N-nothing important, Mr Thompson. Just… doing some gardening.”

“Aw, aren’t you a champ, helping your mom out like that. S’pose it can’t be that easy keeping that big garden tidy. She working elsewhere?”

“Oh, uh, n-no. M-Mom’s not… Mom’s not feeling very well, so I’m looking after it… until she… gets… better.”

“Aw hey, Richard, I’m sure she’ll be fine. Your mother’s a strong woman, no virus is gonna bring her down. So keep that chin up, okay? She’ll be right as rain in no time.”

“………O-okay.”

“…Hey, here’s an idea. I know how much your mom loves roses, and I happen to have a few bareroot plants. Take this one. Chrysler Imperial. Such a pretty color. It can be a Get Well gift from the both of us.”

“…Oh thank you very much. She’ll love it.”

“Give her my well wishes, won’t you?”

“…I will. Thank you Mr Thompson.”

“You need a hand with that big shovel? Looks a little heavy for you.”

“Oh, no thanks Mr Thompson. I can handle it. But thanks for offering.”

~.~.~

Donut writes.

It’s been about six months since he left. The others have all gone back to Iris to help with Wash’s rehab, but Donut has somehow conjured the means to traverse the galaxy on his own. Did he get teleportation powers left over from the Cosmic shenanigans or has he just been secretly loaded all this time? Simmons doesn’t know, and frankly, he has no intention of asking. Questioning anything Donut does usually just results in a headache. Or a severe sense of discomfort.

But while all agreed it was a good idea for him to follow his own objectives rather than anyone else’s for once, that doesn’t keep him from letting them all know what he’s up to. He writes to them every other week or so. Last they heard, he was on Andesia, but that was all Simmons really got out of it.

That’s because Donut is a histrionic soul who doesn’t believe a digital message properly conveys his intentions. He writes. On paper. And mails it. And since paper is a pretty rare commodity in the 26^th century, he can’t afford to throw it out if he makes a mistake.

By “mistake” it is meant that eighty percent of the letter is crossed out innuendos.

That’s the new thing about Donut these days. He notices what he’s saying and how it could be interpreted. Which makes literally any conversation with the guy, written or verbal, awkward for an entirely new reason.

A part of Simmons misses the old awkwardness. It was uncomfortable, sure, but at least no one was hurt.

Now there are visible tear marks next to frustrated pen scratches as the man tried in vain to suppress his defining character trait. Trying to get out words and only digging a bigger hole because of it.

Simmons knows that feeling far too well. He didn’t realize it would be this painful seeing it in someone else.

~.~.~

The other thing about Donut’s letters is that they’re not singular. He doesn’t send a general letter to the group. No, he’s a histrionic and considerate soul who believes that his friends are too special for that. He sends one to each individual member.

And guess who’s in charge of incoming communications?

“Mail’s here,” Simmons calls.

There’s mixed responses of interest and exasperation from around the room; Simmons chooses to ignore the latter. With the exception of the Grifs (who are taking some “sibling time”) and Lopez (who knows where he is) most of the team are seated on the various couches in the living room with their coffees (or in Caboose’s case, a glass of warm milk; Simmons remembered) so it’s pretty easy to just walk around the back of them to hand the letters out.

He pulls the first letters out from the stack. “Carolina, Washington… Oh, Carolina, Dr Grey’s asking for another status report.”

“Ugh, again?” Wash whines (Wash whines now. It’s kinda heartbreaking but also hilarious), “It’s been like three days since the last one.”

“Eight days,” Simmons corrects, but adds, “It might still be a little overbearing, but I’m not gonna be the one to tell her that.” He gives Wash a supportive smile; Dr Grey isn’t someone who can be coped with in large or frequent doses, and everyone here knows it.

“Thanks, Simmons,” Carolina replies.

He continues around the room. “Sarge…” he stops to whisper to his (former? He’s not sure) commanding officer, “Dr Grey would also like a word with you, if at all possible.”

Sarge gives a gruff nod and a low grunt, but doesn’t say anything more. For all intents and purposes, it stays between them that the last couple of adventures have shaken the older man, and it is also in agreement between them that it remains entirely his choice if he wants Dr Grey’s help or not.

Simmons moves on. “Doc…” Who is still around for some reason? “Caboose…”

“Ooh, yay, sparkles!” Caboose is always the most enthusiastic about Donut’s letters, because the latter takes the extra time to make sure the former’s is as sparkly and picture-filled as possible.

“And Tucker. And there’s another message for you from Porkensenson, so you might want to address that.” Simmons straightens up the remaining letters in his hands and turns to leave.

“Yeah, thanks Mom,” Tucker snarks back.

Simmons freezes solid.

Mom?

His heart begins to thunder in his ears. His periphery has gone dark.

Mom, breakfast is ready.

He can’t make his lungs breathe. The room’s starting to spin.

Hey Mom, come on. Dad’ll get mad if you don’t get up.

Tucker didn’t mean it that way.

Mom, wake up.

Tucker doesn’t know.

Mom…? Mom! Mom!!!

He needs to calm down now.

He forces himself to swallow the rising lump in his throat. Just brush it off. It was a joke, right? They joke around all the time. It’s their bread and butter. It’s the way they work. Well, he can joke right back, can’t he?

He turns back toward Tucker, leans down right by his ear and puts on the most saccharine voice he can muster.

“You’re welcome, Lavernius~!”

Tucker starts and spins around on the couch, almost colliding with Caboose. “Woah, what the fuck!?”

“You started it,” Simmons snaps back, and instantly regrets it when Tucker’s face drops in what can only be described as terror. Everyone else stares too.

He’s never been very good at masking his emotions. The cyborg eye probably doesn’t help.

He straightens, turns and storms out of the room. He can feel the eyes following him, and he needs them gone.

His eyes are stinging, his ears are completely overwhelmed by the sound of rushing blood, every muscle is tight and starting to ache and his lungs have decided to make up for abandoning him earlier by hyperventilating instead.

But none of that is nearly as alarming as the distinctive twitch in his hand. The twitch that always entices him with the notion of punching something reflective.

~.~.~

The punching bag in what is currently being used as a gym is not reflective, but it will have to do. It is red, though, so he can kind of purposefully misconstrue it as maroon. Though that brings up unfortunate connotations of a certain other maroon-wearing soldier he swore not to think of again. Damn, he can’t even do this right.

It’s working, though. He doesn’t feel like spontaneously imploding anymore, and the muscle ache from smacking this hunk of vinyl and stuffing repeatedly for an hour is a far cry from… what usually happens.

It’s not working as well, though, which is greatly concerning.

“That’s not really an effective stance, you know.”

He looks around to see Carolina leaning in the doorway. It distantly occurs to him that six (five, Simmons, time back-tracked, remember?) years ago, that alone would have been cause to freak out, but it’s a very different woman facing him now. Her gaze is attentive, but her smile is gentle. It’s the same look she gives Wash when he’s struggling with his therapy; I know you’re upset, and it’s okay to be, but I’m here when you’re ready.

Carolina knows. He told her a little over a year (a few months, remember?) ago.

He’s thankfully at a point that he can smile back. “Believe it or not, they didn’t teach us a lot of hand-to-hand in basic training, so I can’t say I know what an effective stance is.”

She straightens from her lean, but hesitates before moving further. Or moving closer. “Want me to show you?”

He raises a teasing eyebrow. “I thought you were meant to be in laziness training.”

Her smile quirks up at the side. “Master Grif isn’t here.”

Simmons takes a moment to look back at the bag. It’s not a reflection. It’s not even maroon.

It’s just a red vinyl bag.

He backs up and gestures for her to have at it.

She walks over and sizes the bag up. “You need to be grounded but mobile. You’re not a statue, but you can’t be pushed over either. And when you hit,” she punctuates with a few blows, “they need to be fast and snappy. If you hit it like you were doing,” she demonstrates, and yeah, that doesn’t look right now that he sees it, “you’ll only tire yourself out. Not to mention leave yourself open if you were actually facing an opponent.”

“Yeeaaah, you see why I normally go for the rocket launcher?”

She laughs before hitting the bag again. “And here I thought it was just the Red Team penchant for the biggest guns possible.”

“It’s a little bit of both,” he admits.

“Okay.” She raises her hand to stop the bag swinging. “Think you can try again? Remember, grounded but mobile, fast and snappy.”

“You know, it’s somehow inherently funny to hear you say the word ‘snappy’.”

“Just hit the bag, Simmons.”

By the time they finish their impromptu hand-to-hand training session, the Grifs are back and Doc is calling them for lunch.

And apart from a few aching muscles, he’s okay. He’s completely okay.

~.~.~

     Dear Don Franklin,

     Firstly, I consider it a serious stroke of luck if this letter actually reaches you. Presumably there is some form of courier service out there if your letters are reaching us, but god knows if it will work the other way around, or if you’ve moved to a completely different planet by then.

     My family once considered vacationing to Andesia when I was little. The plan fell through though, what with the war and everything. Enjoy it in my stead, won’t you?

     Look, I can’t speak for the rest of the team, but… you don’t need to suppress the innuendos for my benefit. I’ve had over ten years to get used to the way you talk express you. I think I can suck it up now. Dear god, now I’m getting started. See this, Donut? Now I’m filling the innuendo void. That’s going to be awkward.

     Glad to know you are doing well, and while I know you don’t want to focus on us so much, I will regardless let you know that we are as well.

     Sincerely,

          Richard Simmons

Chapter Text

“You ever wonder why we’re here?”

“No. I never, ever, wonder why we're here. Semper Fi, bitch.”

It would come as absolutely no surprise to anyone to know that Grif sometimes snacks in the middle of the night. Okay, maybe a fraction of a surprise, depending on whether you focus on his partiality for eating or his partiality for sleeping. Though he is partial to doing either at moments others would consider inappropriate. He prefers to think of them as opportune.

Point is: Grif occasionally gets up in the middle of the night, while Simmons, Sarge, and the annoying newbie Donut (he’s never gonna be able to eat another doughnut again, goddammit) are sleeping, and sneaks into the kitchen to tuck in to the food of much better quality than MREs, hidden away in the back. He doesn’t know why Sarge and Simmons bother. If it can be described as food, Grif can and will find it.

And he means, come on. After all the shit they’ve been through in the last few weeks since that bitch Tex showed up, he freaking deserves it. No, he wasn’t blown up like Donut, or DIA (Destroyed In Action) like Lopez, but he still got his ass completely handed to him in more painful a manner than necessary. And from his experience, pain is easily counteracted with food.

He’s about to tuck in to his seventh (Eighth? Thirteenth? Fuck if he pays attention) snack cake when he hears the faint sound of the bathroom fan and freezes. If it’s Donut, so long as he doesn’t make too much noise, the newbie will go back to bed with no suspicion. If it’s Sarge, he may have to make himself scarce if the man decides to pull a late-night patrol of the base in case any “dirty blues” have got in. If it’s Simmons… well, if Simmons were awake, there’s no way he’d miss the distinct lack of his roommate; he would head for the kitchen immediately, not stop by the bathroom first. So Grif’s free to keep eating, so long as he does so quietly.

Three (Four?) snack cakes later, he hears glass not so much breaking as shattering, and all thoughts of remaining incognito leave his brain, because not even Sarge would break glass in the base in the middle of the night.

What he finds in the bathroom is an outright disaster zone (and he’s been in one before, so). The light is barely even functioning anymore, blinking on and off like some god damn cheap horror movie. The cause is a piece of glass the size of a standard envelope that has pierced the side of it in a marvel of physics he doesn’t want to question. The rest of what used to be the bathroom mirror is scattered across the floor in what can only be described as an explosion of glass that not so much glistens as glares with every flicker of the light.

And standing in the middle of the disaster is Private First Class Richard Simmons, face eerily calm even as tears run down it at the same pace as the blood running down his fist. There’s no “ow, my hand” or any words at all, to Grif or to himself. He doesn’t even seem to notice that Grif is there. He’s just standing there, stock still, watching the steady drip of red from his fingers down the back of his hand toward his wrist, uncovered as his sleeves are pushed up beyond the scars. If not for the utter lack of any other green-eyed redhead in all of Blood Gulch, Grif could have sworn he was a different soldier altogether.

Simmons raises his other hand, slowly, shakily and trance-like, and goes to remove a shard of glass stuck between his second and third knuckles. It’s not as large as the one in the light, but it’s still substantial, and Grif can’t help but wince in Simmons’ stead because that looks like it should hurt. Simmons doesn’t even flinch.

In the same trance, the shard of glass gravitates toward Simmons’ arm.

Grif realizes that this has happened many times before.

“Don’t.” The word leaves his lips before he can stop it. Simmons starts, dropping the shard and snapping around to face him. Brown eyes lock with jade, and clear through the tears in the latter is a terror that makes Grif’s stomach feel a lot heavier than ten (seventeen?) snack cakes. Simmons shoves his bleeding hand behind his back, as if that conceals the fact that there is blood-stained glass all around him.

“I-I…”

“You don’t have to explain,” Grif blurts out, “I don’t need to know anything about anything. Just…” he takes a breath to steady himself, “I’m gonna go get a medkit and a broom, okay? Don’t… don’t run off or anything, or hurt yourself on any glass, okay?”

He backs away slowly from the door, and back a few steps down the hall until he’s out of Simmons’ eyesight before turning around. Simmons watches him unblinkingly the whole way.

It’s not a long walk to the closets where the broom and medkit are, but it feels like the hall just grew a couple yards, or maybe a whole mile. It’s also gotten cold. Way too fucking cold. How the fuck can it be this cold in Blood Gulch? And why the fuck hasn’t the sound of breaking glass woken the others? Sarge at the very least should be out waving his shotgun and shouting some nonsense about invading Blues or something.

No. Actually, thank god they’re not. Simmons wouldn’t want them to see him like that. He didn’t even want Grif to see him like that. He probably especially didn’t want Grif to see him like that.

What the fuck did he just walk in on? He knew Simmons had issues, but…

Simmons hasn’t moved a millimeter by the time he gets back. Still standing in a pool of shattered glass, bleeding hand hidden behind his back. Still watching Grif through unblinking, tear-reddened eyes.

Grif puts the med-kit down so he can sweep away most of the glass between himself, Simmons and the only seat in the room. “Go sit, I’ll patch your hand in a second.”

Simmons snaps out of his frozen state at Grif’s words, and the first thing he does is break the eye contact. His face flushes damn near the color of his hair and it takes him a good few minutes to awkwardly shuffle over to the toilet while Grif deals with the rest of the glass. The light is still flickering and starting to spark a little, so Grif turns on the flashlight he grabbed along with the broom and turns the light off. No need for anyone to get electrocuted here.

With the floor decently safe to walk on again, Grif turns his attention back (not that it was properly averted) to the injured redhead. He’s pointedly looking away now, face shadowed from the dimmer light, and the adrenaline seems to be wearing off, if the shivering is anything to go by. His hand is still firmly behind his back.

“Simmons.” Grif kneels in front of him with the med-kit, voice low. “Give me your hand.”

Simmons shakes his head and shoves his hand further behind him.

“Simmons, I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

Simmons still won’t look at him, face firmly turned somewhere off to Grif’s left. His hand remains wedged between his back and the cistern, and now that Grif stops to notice, his other arm is pressed against his front too. Hiding as much of the scarring as possible behind the folds of his shirt.

“Simmons…”

Grif raises the light in an attempt to catch Simmons’ gaze, and that’s when it clicks. Simmons’ eyes have completely glazed over, staring into middle space at something only he can see. Quite possibly reliving whatever it was that drove him to break the mirror in the first place.

“Hey.” He reaches up with his other hand to gently direct Simmons’ face toward him. Simmons isn’t present enough to resist much.

“Simmons. I don’t know what’s going on in your head right now, but it’s not what’s happening here.”

Jade eyes finally meet his again, though they’re still out of focus.

“You’re in Red Base, Blood Gulch Outpost One. There’s nobody here except you and me. Sarge and Donut are asleep, they don’t know anything. I won’t tell them.”

Simmons blinks a few times as his vision comes back into focus. His breathing evens out.

“There we are. Now can I bandage your hand? Because I kinda don’t want my teammate bleeding out in the bathroom.”

“‘S not that bad,” Simmons croaks. His voicebox clearly wasn’t expecting to be used tonight.

Didn’t look that way to me, is what Grif doesn’t say.

“Yeah, whatever, it still needs patching up,” is what he does, and he can’t remember anything resembling the relief and triumph that results when Simmons finally relinquishes his hand.

It is covered in blood, smeared from the back of his shirt and the cistern, but thankfully the same can’t be said for any glass shards causing more damage. Simmons can’t help but hiss lightly whenever Grif’s swab makes contact, but doesn’t otherwise complain.

“Sorry,” Grif says anyway. Simmons only shakes his head mutely, though it’s not as vigorous a rejection as before.

Once the blood is cleaned up, it becomes clear that a simple plaster won’t cut it. The shard Simmons pulled earlier has left a long jagged cut in between his fingers, and that’s not even considering the myriad of other injuries. Grif grabs one of the longer bandages instead. He’s in no way trained on how to bandage, but he knows enough from mucking around with Kai (she was a mummy on Halloween once) to do decently.

It’s when he winds the bandage toward Simmons’ wrist that the man draws the line. He pulls his arm back so fast and so violently that the last few layers of bandage come completely undone, and it joins the other pressing against his front. There isn’t enough fabric to hide them both, but that doesn’t seem to stop him from trying. He’s broken the eye contact again.

Grif has to suppress a sigh. “Simmons…”

Simmons tries to say something, but can only stammer a few nonsense syllables.

“Simmons, you know damn well I saw them. I won’t judge you for them, but please don’t tell me you’re okay when you’re not.”

Simmons clicks his mouth shut, and there’s another three minutes of tense silence.

“Fine,” he eventually whimpers. It’s got to be the quietest thing Grif’s ever heard.

The need to swallow has nothing to do with food for once. “Uh… look, again, I don’t need to know anything you don’t want me to, and I’m not going to judge you, and I know the last few weeks have been hard, but…”

He lightly takes the back of Simmons’ wrists, and while Simmons flinches, he doesn’t pull away. Grif makes sure he has Simmons’ gaze before he speaks again, because he needs to get this.

“Dick, no one hates you enough for this.”

Simmons stares back at him, eyes filling with fresh tears, and for a moment Grif is reminded of Kai the first night their mother didn’t come home from a “date” with her most recent toyboy. The look that asks for confirmation that someone’s care is not a lie. The look that begs for love.

Grif lets go of Simmons’ wrists to pull him into a hug. He’s never been a particularly physical person, but in this instance he has to put it aside for Simmons’ sake.

And from the way Simmons slowly wraps his own arms around Grif’s waist while breaking down into sobs, Grif can tell that he hasn’t been held like this in a long, long time.

~.~.~

Nothing moves.

He can see people, prone and quiet like he was a few minutes ago, but he’s not enough of an idiot to fool himself.

Everything is red.

Against his will, and better judgement, the life signal monitor in his helmet turns on. There’s nothing.

Then something pings. One person in this blood-soaked hellhole is still alive.

He fucking sprints for it.

He loses track of how many bodies he passes. He used to know their names, their stories. Now they’re barely recognizable as human, and he stumbles on them near constantly.

The ping gets fainter the closer he gets. He practically slides around a corner (with much less grace than the movies make it look) and-

It’s her. Of course, it’s her.

“H-Hey,” she croaks as he drops in the mud next to her. Her voice was already quiet usually, now it’s barely a whisper gurgled through blood.

He tears his helmet off; hers is already in pieces. His own voice has completely vanished, because what the hell can he say? What the hell do you say to a comrade, a friend, bleeding out in your lap when you are completely unhurt? When you missed the whole battle because you were sleeping when you could have been doing something-

“Hey,” she croaks again, except it’s not a greeting this time. She shakily raises her hand to his cheek, and he grabs it like a lifeline. Her lifeline. “Don’t… don’t blame… yourself… for this. It… was my call.”

He shakes his head. No, it is not alright. None of this is alright. It should have been him.

 “At least… someone gets to… tell the… galaxy… huh?” She’s smiling. She should not be smiling. “Tell ‘em we… went down fighting… ‘kay?”

Tears are streaming down his face and he doesn’t care.

They’re streaming down her face too. “Tell little Benny… I said hi.”

Her hand drops.

There’s nothing but ash…

“Grif.”

…and blood…

“Grif.”

…and silence.

“Grif!”

His eyes fly open, but nothing in his vision changes. It’s still darkness, the perfect backdrop for his imagination to fill in with things he wishes (but at the same time, doesn’t) he could forget forever.

“Wha- wha-?”

“You don’t have to explain.”

Something, or someone, squeezes his hand lightly, bringing Grif’s senses back into focus. He can feel the slight scratch of bandages.

“You don’t have to explain,” Simmons repeats. He’s sitting on the floor next to Grif’s bunk, if where his voice is coming from is any indication. “I don’t need to know. If you don’t want me to.”

Grif’s voice still hasn’t come back yet, but the rest of him is starting to calm down.

You’re in Red Base, Blood Gulch Outpost One. There’s nobody here except you and Simmons. Sarge and Donut are asleep, they don’t know anything.

“I won’t tell them,” Simmons whispers. He squeezes his hand again. Grif almost squeezes back before remembering he’s holding Simmons’ injured hand.

“Thanks,” he manages to force out instead.

There’s a smile in Simmons’ voice. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Simmons doesn’t let go of his hand until morning.

Chapter Text

OBITUARIES

SIMMONS, Hortensia Eline (nee O’Carroll)

Passed away at home after a short illness, September 22^nd 2538 (aged 35 years)

Sadly missed wife and mother of Robert and Richard

THOMPSON, Arjan Colm

Passed away suddenly doing what he loved; tending his garden, September 19^th 2538 (aged 54 years)

Will be missed by all

~.~.~

As previously mentioned, Simmons is the only member of the team who bothers to keep track of the supply drop; it used to be both him and Wash, but since the latter’s injury it was pretty much agreed that the man could do without the added stress, and it’s been Simmons’ job ever since. To be honest, it’s basically been Simmons’ job since Blood Gulch, simply doubled to account for the Blues and ex-Freelancers (and Doc), and way easier than when he was doing it for the New Republic and United Armies on Chorus.

TL;DR: Simmons is pretty damn good at keeping track of what needs to be where.

So when the regular supply drop is unusually late, naturally Simmons is the first person to notice.

The next person, of course, is Wash.

“Simmons. Simmons. Simmons. Simmons.”

“Yes, Wash.”

“We’re running out of food.”

Simmons looks up to the man now craning over his shoulder, grey eyes wide and brow furrowed. Unlike Michael J “unphased 99% of the time” Caboose, brain-damaged Wash is even more of a catastrophizer than regular Wash.

“I’m already on that,” he replies, gesturing to the data-pad on his lap, indeed open to the communication channel between them and the supply team. Admittedly, he’d waited two days before contacting them, because he knows he can be a little bitch when it comes to meeting deadlines, but these guys are just trying to do their best to help out remote colonies after the war and they don’t deserve his bitching, so he’d allowed a little benefit of doubt. He’s not going to tell Wash that though. Might just stress him out more. “I should have the problem sorted out by the end of the day, early tomorrow at latest, and the supplies we still have should last us long enough for the next shipment to arrive.”

When he turns back to the ex-Freelancer, the man still looks uncertain, worried. Scared, almost.

Carolina told them Wash had lost most of his memory of being frozen without sustenance in Temple’s basement. It’s hard to tell when he’s freaking out over the slightest delay in food supply.

He turns around in his chair so he faces the man a little more fully. “We’re not going to run out of food, okay? If worse comes to worse I may have to go get it myself, but those guys know what kind of shitstorm’s coming if it comes to that, so it won’t, and it’ll be fine. I won’t stop you from rationing Grif again though,” he smirks, “Just know he is going to hate it.”

Wash doesn’t quite look convinced, but nods and leaves anyway, probably to go have the same conversation with Carolina. Oh well, Simmons tried. Sometimes there was just no calming the ex-Freelancer.

He finishes the message on his data-pad and sends it off. Nothing complex or accusatory, just a simple request for the status on their delivery. He expects to have an answer by dinner. If he doesn’t, he’ll start worrying if the whole team got wiped out in space or something.

Sometimes he’s just as much of a catastrophizer as Wash.

~.~.~

A few hours later, the call channel on his data-pad rings, which is odd, because usually a written message suffices. He checks that no one (specifically Wash) is around before answering.

“Hello?”

“H-hi, sir.” There’s only one member of the supply team that calls Simmons “sir”, and that’s Montgomery, a former Chorusan soldier now working there. He was never immediately under Simmons’ command, but that doesn’t stop the use of honorifics. “I’m, um, calling regarding that message you sent?”

Montgomery is also more of a nervous wreck than Simmons, Wash and Matthews put together. Simmons tries not to sigh. “I’m not making a complaint, Montgomery. I just want to know what the status is and what delay we can expect.”

“Uh, yeah, about that, sir…” If anything, Montgomery sounds even more nervous. “There’s, uh… been an… unexpected logistics problem here, sir. We’re trying to get it cleared up as fast as we can, but… well, it’s taking a lot longer than we’d like. I’m really sorry for the delay, sir, I know you like us to be prompt-”

Simmons cuts him off. “What kind of logistics problem?”

“H-Huh?”

“I said, what kind of logistics problem?”

“U-uhm, well… I-I’m not really supposed to discuss matters with customers like that, sir…”

“You’re giving me the status of my and my comrades food supply, Montgomery, I’m gonna need something a little less vague than “a logistics problem” and “taking longer than we’d like”.”

Montgomery makes a noise of uncertainty.

“Would you prefer to put me onto your manager, and I can discuss matters with them?”

“No! I mean, ahem, no,” Montgomery says meekly, “Ms Grieves is… is rather busy at the moment, sir. You know… clearing up… said… problem. It-it’s all hands on deck, sir!”

Simmons suppresses a groan. Just. “Montgomery, I used to do the logistics for your entire planet. Just tell me what the problem is, and I might be able to think of a way to fix it. It’s win-win.”

He waits through some muffled words on the other end of the phone, probably Montgomery checking with a few colleagues if telling him is really the right thing to do, and pointedly ignores the part of his brain reminding him that that’s exactly what he would’ve done in the kid’s position in favor of the part that does not want to deal with a panicking Washington and probably soon to be panicking and/or pissed off rest of the team.

“Uh, okay sir,” Montgomery eventually says, “I… still have to get full permission from Ms Grieves for you to actually, you know, help, but-”

“What’s the problem, Montgomery?”

Montgomery audibly takes a deep breath. “Our transaction records don’t match the stock that actually turned up at the depot, sir. Like, severely don’t match. Whole shipments didn’t show up. We don’t yet know if there’s been a severe error in the paperwork, or…”

“If you’ve been swindled,” Simmons finishes for him.

“Yeeaaah. At the moment, we’re trying to find a way to replace those missing supplies without leaving ourselves or our customers out of pocket, but since we mostly function out of the kindness of our suppliers’ hearts… we’re at an impasse.”

Simmons pauses to run what relevant numbers he knows in his head. “So everything was going like a normal operation until the pick-up point?”

“Like clockwork, sir. Every ‘I’ crossed and ‘T’ dotted. …Wait.”

“And where do you get your shipments from?”

“Uhh… Multiple places, sir. Basically whoever can afford to give what after the War. Mostly the Inner Colonies, though, since they’re more… well, intact than the Outer ones.”

“And have you contacted them about this?”

“Of course! …Well, tried to. No answer. Until your message came through, some of us were starting to think we had a comm channel malfunction on top of a logistics problem. I mean, you would think that out of hundreds of suppliers at least someone would pick up, but apparently not.”

Simmons, having found himself pacing around the room for the majority of this conversation, stops. Thinks.

On the one hand, it doesn’t seem like he can solve this problem without seeing the documentation for himself, and it is their food supply on the line here. On the other… checking it out would mean leaving Iris. Leaving the drama-free routine.

Quite possibly kicking off a whole new adventure, which everyone here does not want to do.

“…S-sir?”

If Wash was freaking out over a delay of two days, there’s no way he’ll handle an indefinite one. And the supply team doesn’t just service them, they service a good part of the Outer Colonies. They service Chorus.

“You still there?”

It’s just a logistics problem. Maybe a hacker, but Simmons is a hacker too. He can handle this.

He could probably do it on his own.

“Sir?”

“Sorry,” he says, “Just had to think. I’ll understand it better if I actually get a look at the records. I think you’d better put in a request with your manager.”

“R-Really?” Simmons had expected to hear dread in Montgomery’s tone. Instead he sounds like a kid being offered his favorite cookies after 9pm.

“Yeah. Where is your base of operations?”

“Pandana Station, sir, in the Annona System. I’ll send coordinates to you. I really appreciate this, sir. Um… Can you just… give me a few hours to make it look like I asked for permission before asking you? Please?”

Simmons lightly facepalms, but can’t help a smile. Good god, this kid sounds just like a younger, less jaded version of him. “Sure thing, kid. Should take me some time to get there anyway. Talk to you then, alright?”

“Alright. Thank you, sir!”

Simmons hangs up, and really hopes he didn’t just jinx himself.

~.~.~

His plan to leave without anyone noticing lasts for all of half an hour.

“So shitstorm’s coming, then?”

Simmons looks up from putting Montgomery’s coordinates into the Pelican’s controls to find Wash standing in the doorway of the hangar. He sighs and steps out of the ship. No use playing it off. “Yeah. Turns out they need someone who’s good at computers. Might as well put my hand up.”

“You’re going by yourself?” Wash asks.

“It’s just a logistics check. No need to bore everyone with computer stuff.”

“Can I come?”

“What?”

“Not that I don’t trust you,” he says hurriedly, “You’re the computer-tech-logistics guy, and I totally trust you to be able to handle this yourself. I just… you know, if you… want a second opinion… or something.”

Simmons blinks. Wash visibly tries not to fidget.

Simmons realizes what Wash is actually asking. That behind the “I’m an ex-Freelancer Agent and nothing can unnerve me” façade, he’s fucking terrified and wants to be sure everything is going to be alright.

It’s funny how much they actually have in common.

“Okay,” Simmons replies, “but on one condition.”

Wash nods.

“Someone has to come with you…” He can already see “I’m not an invalid I don’t need a babysitter” coming from the sudden straightening of Wash’s back. “…because otherwise you are going to be bored as hell.”

Wash now blinks, and Simmons isn’t sure he convinced the guy this time either. But he relents anyway.

Three is a decently sized team, right?

He should have known it wasn’t going to be that simple.

~.~.~

Apparently, Carolina and Tucker can’t agree on who should go with Wash, so they both do. And that means Caboose has to come too, because he can’t be left unsupervised.

And naturally, if all the Blues are involved, Sarge notices, and decides he has to come along to “keep an eye on them”.

“Technically, they’re keeping an eye on me…”

“Exactly! You’re outnumbered four to one! Who knows what diabolical things they could do if Lopez and I aren’t there to back you up!”

“¿Por qué todavía me asocio con este hombre?” [Why do I still associate myself with this man?]

Simmons allows himself to take note of how proud he is of himself not immediately saying “Yes sir”.

“Last I checked, Caboose was an honorary Red, which technically makes it three to two, and I’m a little hurt at your lack of faith in my ability to defend myself.”

(He isn’t hurt, at all.)

“¿Por qué sigue siendo un concepto al que te adhieres? Todo esto no tiene sentido al final.” [Why is this still a concept you adhere to? It is all meaningless in the end.]

“Thank you, Lopez,” both men say in unison.

“Maldito infierno.” [Fucking hell.]

Simmons looks back at the man already in full armor even before any agreements are made (like that’s a surprise). “Look, bottom-line, Sarge, this isn’t going to be some big mission. It’s just going to be me working at a computer for some time. If these guys are going to be bored after a while, you’re going to be bored after five minutes.” And I really don’t want to have to deal with the consequences of you making your own entertainment, he adds mentally.

Sarge is quiet for an unprecedented full minute. “I can keep myself occupied,” he eventually says, in an equally unprecedented soft tone.

“You can?”

“Of course!” The standard volume returns. “Keeping these Blues in line!”

Thank god Simmons already has his helmet on, because there was no quashing the exasperated look that just crossed his face.

“Okay, but, just so you know, Sarge,” Wash chimes in, “we’ve already designated Simmons as squad leader for this expedition.”

Sarge turns to him. “I assume you used the proper procedure,” he says, slowly bringing up his hands for what will clearly be a round of rock-paper-scissors. Oh god, Simmons has never been good at that.

“Actually, we did it the old-fashioned way,” Wash replies, “You know, hand-written proposal in triplicate with no less than one hundred pages. So unless you happen to have that on hand, Simmons remains our squad leader.”

Thank god Simmons already has his helmet on, because his jaw just dropped at both how easily Wash just totally schooled Sarge at his own game, and how easily he remembers a piece of information he maybe heard in passing at most.

Sarge stutters for a few seconds before relenting and going to sit in the corner. Wash tips his head at Simmons in what counts in a helmet as a wink.

Maybe the guy isn’t so damaged after all.

~.~.~

And, of course, once Sarge gets involved, Grif finds out.

Honestly, Simmons kind of didn’t want Grif to find out.

~.~.~

“So I hear there’s an “expedition”.”

He’s alone when Grif finds him out by the take-off point. He’s not sure whether he should appreciate that or not. The “not” mostly due to the words spoken last time they stood here.

I quit. You. All of you.

“Yes.” His voice is miraculously a lot steadier than he suddenly feels. “I need to investigate the delay of our supply drop, and some of the others have decided to come with.”

“And you were going to tell me about this when?”

I don’t like you. Any of you.

“It-it’s not a big delay, I should get everything back to normal before we start to run low.”

“I meant the part about you leaving, Simmons.” Grif’s tone even matches the one ringing in Simmons’ head. The ever-so-slightly deeper tone that signifies when Grif is dead serious. “When were you going tell me that?”

I’m done.

“I-I…” Simmons has to fight to keep his throat from closing up.

Grif’s mismatched gaze doesn’t falter. Somehow, his natural dark brown eye always seems to look straight through Simmons much more than his donated green one.

“I… wasn’t.”

Grif’s eyebrows jump up, and so does Simmons’ heart rate.

And the steady voice completely disappears.

“Not that I meant anything against you! I don’t! I initially wasn’t going to tell anyone, but then they all found out from each other and decided they had to come and I said they didn’t have to but none of them would agree with me, but you won’t be left by yourself, because your sister will still be here, and since you spend most of your time with her anyway-” Which Simmons isn’t jealous of, he isn’t, he’s just worried because of all the shit both Grifs have gone through lately but doesn’t want to interrupt them, “-you won’t be alone and this shouldn’t even take that long anyway, we’ll be right back and-”

“Dick, stop.” Simmons hadn’t even noticed Grif getting closer until the man is right in front of him, the utterance of his first name causing his jaw to snap shut. It always does, when Grif says it, all soft and steadying like that. When his eyes are looking straight through him in a totally different way. “Breathe.”

Why does this man get to him the way he does?

He forces his lungs back into a reasonable rhythm before opening his mouth again. “I thought… if I brought along as few people as possible, the universe wouldn’t decide to be a dick and turn it into some big adventure. Again. But in the event that it does…”

I don’t like you. Any of you. But we’ve all known each other long enough that you should hear it from me first. I’m done.

(He apologized for that, Simmons reminds himself, He doesn’t really hate you.)

(You sure about that?)

“You don’t want to be dragged along on another adventure you never asked to be involved in. I get that. I understand that. And I’m respecting that. So… you don’t have to come. If you don’t want to. It’s just a logistics check, anyway, it’ll probably be nothing…”

“Simmons?”

“Mm?”

“I’ll come.”

“Wh-what?”

“I mean, yeah, things tend to go to shit whenever we go off to do anything, but…” Grif stops, swallows, breaks eye contact and scratches at the hair behind his ear, which Simmons recognizes as his Good god, I’m gonna have to say something meaningful, aren’t I? tic because that is not their forte and neither of them are very comfortable with talking like their words mean something and is this actually happening right now?

“Things… tend to go to deeper shit when one of us goes off separately,” Grif finishes, “And if it’s all the same with you, I’d rather avoid that level of shit ever happening again.”

Simmons’ capacity for speech is momentarily gone, which is uncomfortable and very annoying, because it is clearly his turn to speak.

“So, you… want to come along? For real?”

Grif shrugs, like this isn’t totally out of character for him and it isn’t kinda freaking Simmons out. “The alternative is you going off by yourself. Who else are you going to bitch about classic sci-fi movies with? Carolina?”

I figured without me to beat up on, y’all were doomed to fall apart at the seams. I’m your hate-glue.

(You’re not, Dexter, you’re really not.)

“And if things do turn to shit?” Simmons asks.

Grif shrugs again. “Then I guess I don’t get to bitch about it, since I “asked to be involved” for once.”

When Simmons meets his eyes again though, there’s something in them that wasn’t there a few seconds ago, something he can’t define. Disquiet? Fear? Concern? Whatever it is, he’s hiding it behind his smirk, and Simmons doesn’t question it.

Meaningful talk is not their forte. They can talk bullshit ‘til the space-cows come home but the second things get meaningful it gets uncomfortable.

It doesn’t mean they shouldn’t. But they don’t. They just talk more bullshit.

Grif is not okay. Simmons knows this. But he doesn’t know how to ask.

Grif goes to get his armor and his sister.

~.~.~

In the end, everyone comes along on what was initially conceptualized as a one-man mission.

So basically, Simmons has absolutely, definitely jinxed himself.

Whoop-de-fucking-do.

Chapter Text

“Yeah, I’m real happy about this myself, numbnuts.”

Sarge has finally completely lost it. He genuinely thinks he can turn one of them – at the moment, likely Simmons – into a cyborg with no repercussions. And this is after they rejected the one guy in the canyon with some actual medical training!

Now, at the very least, if it were Donut becoming part robot, Grif and Simmons could conspire to lose a few parts in a much less conspicuous place than Donut did (A cup holder? Why did a military vehicle even have a cup holder?). Or, you know, if it were Donut becoming part robot, they wouldn’t care and just let Sarge at it.

Not that Grif especially cares for Simmons. Or vice versa. He just would care even less about Donut. He’s known Simmons for longer, that’s all.

(And there’s the factor of Simmons’ mental health, which considering what he’s seen and can’t unsee…)

So yeah. Simmons is gonna be a cyborg, and Grif isn’t particularly happy about it, but he mostly isn’t particularly happy with his conversation partner.

“I remember thinking, where can I hang out with no pants on?”

There’s only so much of this shit Grif can handle in one go. Understandably, it’s a small amount. So fuck it, he’ll go find the damn thing himself. Or just chill in that shady corner of the Gulch. Anything better than mental suicide at the hands of Franklin Frickin’ Donut and his lack of any social filter.

Barely has he stepped beyond the Warthog when a flash of black catches his eye. For two seconds he panics that it’s Tex, because ho shit, he does not want to deal with that again. But it’s not Tex. It’s much, much bigger.

There is a motherfucking tank headed straight at him.

Maybe behind the Warthog was a better idea after all.

“Hey, you’re back! So where was I? Oh yeah. I lanced it. Disgusting. Eugh. Neughghgh.”

Never mind. Both are pretty bad places to be right now.

“Not now, Rookie! There’s a giant tank out there that’s about to steamroll right over us!”

“WHAT?”

Donut hops up on the underside of the flipped Warthog (which has not got to be good for it) to take a look for himself. Idiot could have poked his head around the front for the same purpose.

“Oh god it’s true. I’m totally freaking out! I’m freaking out!”

“Freaking out isn’t helping!” Neither is running around like a decapitated chicken, but Grif keeps that part in his head. “We need to get the hell out of here!”

He glances toward the door of Red Base. Close, but not close enough. The tank is almost on top of them. And it hasn’t slowed down.

“Well old buddy…” Donut crouches beside him, and despite the situation Grif can’t help but grimace at Donut even implying that they’re “buddies”, “It looks like this is the end for us. Since we’re gonna die anyway, there’s only one thing left for us to do. Grif-”

“If you actually suggest what I think you’re about to suggest, I’ll just have to kill myself.” And maybe he might just anyway, because what he thinks Donut is about to suggest is something he’s disgusted at thinking of himself.

“Let’s make a break for it!”

Oh thank god. Now he can wipe that image from his head and pretend it never occurred. But the tank is too close, and the door too far away, for both of them to make it. Maybe…

“In that case, let’s go on three. That’s worked well for me in the past.” And by past, he means that one time he ditched Simmons. Guy ended up all right, didn’t he? And if the rookie doesn’t, he can call it repayment by the fact that the most annoying person in the canyon will not be able to be annoying anymore. Win-win.

“Okay.” Donut instantly buys it, which isn’t too surprising because a) he was somewhat distracted last time Grif did this, and b) he’s an idiot. “You count.”

“Fine. But don’t look at me while I count, because… I get nervous.” Okay, not his best excuse ever, but like. Tank. Not a lot of time to think.

He turns around. There’s like a back door he can run to, right? “One…” Duh, Grif, the back door is around the back, you need someplace else. “Two…” Nope, fuck it, there’s nowhere close enough, the door will have to-

He spins back around just in time to see pink armor disappear into the base. That son of a bitch has beaten him at his own game.

The last thing he registers before the tank hits him is someone yelling his name. It’s faint, far away, and it’s kind of difficult to think about it after the wave of pain sweeps his entire body.

But it sounds awfully like Simmons.

~.~.~

It is way too fucking bright in here.

He tries to squeeze his eyes shut again, block the light out, and pain suddenly lances down from his cheek to his collarbone. He couldn’t muffle the whimper if he tried.

Someone’s talking over him. Sarge? It could be Sarge. Looks red enough. Or maybe that’s the flag. But why would he be waking up next to the flag? It’s not even remotely good as a napping spot. So it’s probably not the flag. Maybe. Where the fuck even is he?

Another voice, higher pitch, hushes him. Did he say that out loud? Or try to? His vision is still just a swirl of reddish colors, but he can loosely make out the word ‘buddy’, so that probably means Donut’s there.

Donut. ‘Buddy’. The tank.

His vision sharpens into focus with a sickeningly painful twang in just about all of his brain. The light identifies itself as the overhead fluorescents in the infirmary, or what was originally intended to be the infirmary. He’s pretty sure it’s never been used as one. Until now he guesses, once he realizes that a lot of his body is covered in bandages. Oh fuck, a lot of his body. And there’s what feels like stitches in his face, which explains why it hurts to squint.

Sarge and Donut are standing over his infirmary cot, Donut with the most straight-out-of-a-sappy-drama-movie smile Grif’s ever seen (and he’s seen decidedly too many, thanks to Kai) and Sarge… looks relieved? No, that can’t be right. Maybe his vision’s not as clear as he thought.

Simmons isn’t in the room. For some reason, that matters.

“How long was I out?” he groans. He wants to ask what he missed, but that would mean coming across as actually caring, so.

Sarge doesn’t answer his question. “Don’t you worry. Nurse Donut here stayed by yer side the whole time, stroking yer hand and keepin’ ya company.”

Oh God. Donut was literally (How long was I out?) just explaining where his hands had been.

“My right hand?” he cautiously asks.

“Your left,” Donut replies, cheerful and oblivious as ever.

“Ugh. Note to self: Cut off left hand.”

“Technically speaking,” Sarge says, “it’s not really your left hand.”

Pain shoots through Grif’s face again, probably in response to whatever expression it just pulled. “Say what?”

“I had to replace certain body parts that were severely damaged when the tank ran you over,” Sarge elaborates. “And a few that atrophied from a lifetime diet of HooHoos and bacon flavored marshmallows,” he adds, because no conversation could happen between Sarge and Grif without at least some kind of backhanding.

But then why would Sarge do anything to save Grif’s life, let alone all this?

“Wait, which body parts?”

“Well, let’s see.” Sarge tilts his gaze toward the ceiling. “We had to start with the shoulder, then we moved on down to the flank…”

“Huh?” Grif’s eyebrows raise in confusion, which he’s really got to stop doing because it hurts like hell every single time he does it. …Why exactly did Sarge have to operate on his face?

“Yeah, we couldn’t really find an anatomy book,” Donut explains as Sarge continues to ramble, “But we did find one of those pictures with the cow and the dotted lines all over it. I think it did the trick.”

Grif isn’t sure if being likened to a cow was meant to be a fat joke or just his teammates being stupid. Probably both, actually. Fuckers. Cows don’t even have hands.

Wait.

Technically speaking, it’s not really your left hand.

Grif doesn’t know exactly what’s under these bandages, but it’s not cold or disconnected enough to be metal. And if they aren’t the cyborg parts Sarge was talking about…

“Where did you get the replacement parts?”

Sarge stops listing off steak names to cheerfully respond, “Why, from our other subject, of course!”

Other subject?

“Subject my cyborg ass.”

Grif’s neck, and subsequently brain, practically screeches in agony when he turns it, but when he does he finds Simmons leaning against the infirmary doorway. He’s facing away from him (from the group more likely, Grif) and is pointedly looking down the hallway, but his arms are crossed, and the fluorescents are reflecting off where his left hand used to be.

“No way.” He… let that be done to him? After all his protesting? Or did Sarge… actually hold him against his will?

“Yeah, I’m real happy about this myself, numbnuts,” Simmons snaps back. He turns his own head just enough to glare out the corner of his eye, but just as quickly turns it back to the hall. Like he’s torn about whether to stay exactly where he is or get the hell away. Sarge probably made him come. Though actually, if he’s just out of surgery himself, why isn’t he infirmed? (Is that the right word?) (How long was I out?)

Sarge is still talking, but Grif doesn’t comprehend a word of it. Simmons won’t look at him. For some reason, that matters. (Simmons’ eyes have completely glazed over, staring into middle space at something only he can see. Quite possibly reliving whatever it was that drove him to break the mirror in the first place.)

“Did I get your lips?” he jokes (he can see them still perfectly attached to Simmons’ face), “‘Cause maybe then I’ll finally figure out how to kiss Sarge’s ass.”

His joke falls flat; Simmons’ jaw tenses and his new metal hand grips at his sleeve. He looks further away from him. Something in Grif’s chest hurts. Probably from the surgery. Yeah.

“And the ass,” Sarge says.

“What the hell?” Has the man seriously still been listing body parts this whole time? “What didn’t I get?”

“We pretty much replaced all the internal organs, and some of the more disgusting external ones. Except for Simmons’ spleen, which will be inflated and used for general recreation, and espirits de corps.”

Grif swears he can hear a stifled sniff from Simmons’ direction. His respect for his superior officer drops considerably further than it already was.

They’re both really nothing more to the man than guinea pigs.

Grif already knew that. But it stings more than he expected it to.

~.~.~

Grif has been out for four days. He’s not permitted to leave the infirmary for another four.

Simmons was already back at work a day after he became a cyborg. At his own behest, apparently. That’s what Donut tells him, when he comes by to visit.

Simmons doesn’t visit him once. For some reason, that matters.

~.~.~

“There’s no way you can jump that high.”

“Yes I can!”

Grif looks down at the poor, naïve pink-clad kid on the concrete below him, and can almost taste the butterscotch snack cake already.

“What the hell is he doing?”

Grif turns to Simmons suddenly standing behind him. He can’t see his face, because he’s in full armor, which isn’t a surprise, because so is Grif.

“Losing a bet,” he replies, like this isn’t the first conversation they’ve had in five days straight.

(He notices Simmons is struggling to keep his balance. He isn’t as used to the metal leg Grif knows he has, since his original one is now attached to Grif, as he’s pretending to be.)

“Awh,” Donut says as he fails yet again, “I almost got it that time! Are you sweating yet, sucker?”

“No,” he scoffs back, “I can’t sweat. Simmons’ stupid sweat glands don’t even work right.”

“What? They were working when I gave them to you.”

This is normal. “Please. I’m not moist in any of the usual places. If you want ‘em back so bad, take ‘em.” Everything’s normal. No cause for concern.

Simmons pauses, and it’s not normal anymore. He sighs sadly. “I can’t. Sarge says that sweat makes my cyborg parts rusty, so… I’m cooled by Freon now.” He stares down at his arm, also hidden under armor, but very much a thing now.

Well at least you won’t overheat in your long sleeves anymore. Grif immediately hates himself for thinking that, and his body seems to agree, since fittingly that’s when he starts violently coughing. He still hasn’t quite wrapped his head around the fact he now has Simmons’ wussy lungs.

“Grif, are you alright?” Simmons asks, and Grif nearly coughs again because since when does Simmons ask about his wellbeing? “Are my lungs okay?” …Okay, that makes a bit more sense. “Hey, wait a minute. Are you smoking inside your helmet again?”

“What? No!” he says, just as his helmet ventilators let out a visible cloud of smoke. Fuck. “Oops.”

“Dammit, I knew this would happen! And how many snack cakes have you had today?”

That’s right. This is normal. Back to the neurotic fussing over my lack of any self-care, away from the thoughts that make you stop caring about yourself. Everything’s normal. No cause for concern.

He almost forgets about Donut until the crash and startled cat noises that inform him that he has absolutely won his bet.

And then Sarge turns up.

“Grif, Simmons 2.0, I just got off the horn with Command. I’m afraid we have a situation.”

“Aw, don’t tell me they canceled the holiday party again! Those cheap bastards. All I wanted was one night of care-free dancing, but no. I ask you when it will be Simmons’ turn? When?!”

Grif’s mind sputters at what is very likely the most out of character thing Mr Richard ‘Straight-laced Kiss-ass’ Simmons has ever said. And pointedly tries not to imagine what he just implied. He might be a pretty boy, but there is no way that lanky tangle of limbs can actually dance.

Lanky tangle of limbs that are half metal now.

Pretty boy? Really? What are you, sixteen?

Sarge also takes pause at Simmons’ statement. “Uh, actually, the problem is with Lopez.”

Lopez? Wasn’t the whole point of Simmons’ cyborg operation to replace Lopez? Unless… “Don’t tell me. The Consulate General from Spanish Land is coming, and without Lopez, we don't have anyone to translate.”

“There’s no such thing as Spanish Land, you retard,” Simmons retorts.

“Well,” Grif says, “I guess you would know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?! For the last time, I’m Dutch-Irish!”

(Grif knows full well Simmons is Caucasian. He’s the one that gets to see Simmons’ face most often, after all. Even if he hasn’t seen it in full in over a week, or at all in the last couple of days.) “Hey, don't let your fiery Latin temper get out of control. I was just trying to make a point.”

“Can it, Frankenstein,” Sarge interrupts, “I've just learned that Command implanted Lopez with secret instructions detailing the next phase of our operations. Do you have any idea what this means?”

Grif doesn’t know what that means, but he doesn’t like where it’s going.

What it apparently means is that they have to get Lopez back from the Blues before the latter discover their “secret plans”. After all this nonsense about cyborgs and mad science and complete lack of consent, they’re going to go get the robot back anyway.

Simmons has had his body cut apart, dismembered and replaced with scrap metal, for nothing.

Grif almost chokes on his cigarette again.

“Out front in ten, gentlemen. We need to strategize our attack.” Sarge stops at another yelp from downstairs. “Make that twenty. What are you doing now, Private Peach?”

Simmons and Grif are left alone. They have twenty minutes.

“So, uh…” Grif looks at Simmons, and for the third time this half hour wishes he knew what was going on under that helmet. God, what is wrong with him today (this entire week)? Whatever happened to comfortable apathy?

Simmons just turns and heads downstairs without a word. Or, well, tries to. His heavier metal leg scuffs the concrete earlier than he expects it to, and the resulting shock causes him to overbalance. He damn near tumbles headfirst down the ramp.

Damn near, because Grif finds himself catching him around the waist at the last second.

What. The fuck.

“What. The fuck?” Simmons squawks.

Grif’s brain swiftly catches up with reality, and his arms retract faster than they got there.

“Well, gee, you’re welcome for not letting you crack your visor eating shit on the ramp, asshole,” he covers, “Lemme crank the Fucks Given Meter back down to negative a hundred.” With that, he throws his hands up and walks straight past Simmons down the ramp into the base.

So much for trying to sympathize with the guy. Not that there was any way that could have actually worked.

He shucks his helmet off once he’s within the base’s confines to toss the now spent cigarette. Is it worth lighting another one? He’s got roughly fifteen minutes anyway.

The pressure of a burgeoning coughing fit in his lungs has him discouraged.

Simmons makes his way down shortly after, every-so-often regaining his balance against the wall. “Are you always this intent on getting yourself killed?” he asks casually, though Grif can hear a slight note of nervousness (that’s not unusual, it is Simmons), “Because if the bullets and tanks don’t, that stuff will. Slowly and horribly.”

Grif turns around to face him. “Yeah, what does it matter anywa-”

His voice freezes in his throat.

Simmons has removed his helmet in kind, and unlike in the infirmary Grif can now see his face clearly.

Simmons’ left eye is gone.

“What the fuck?”

Simmons’ other eye widens in surprise, before he realizes what Grif is reacting to. Then his face flushes and he looks away, not that that obscures the fact that his face is just as augmented as the rest of him.

“Y-yeah. That’s, um… That’s also a thing, now.”

He quietly shuffles over past Grif, still facing the metal away, and goes to grab a new clip for his rifle.

“How old is your sister?”

“Wh-what?!” Grif splutters.

“You mentioned you had a little sister,” Simmons says quietly, “How old is she?”

“What- What the fuck does my sister have to do with anything?”

“It’ll make sense if you answer my question.”

Grif is simultaneously taken aback and pissed off, so Simmons had better have a good explanation for this sudden stab into his personal life. “She’d be… going on twenty-one. Oh fuck, I’m gonna miss her twenty-first.”

“And how do you think she would feel?”

“H-huh?”

“How do you think she would feel if, on the cusp of her twenty-first birthday, she finds out that her brother was crushed to death under an out-of-control tank, and nothing was done to save him?”

Grif’s voice freezes again.

Simmons clicks the clip in. “For your sister’s sake, and your own, someone had to make the sacrifice. That’s what it matters.”

His tone isn’t whiny, or sarcastic, or vindicating. It’s calm, serious, simply stating facts. Like it’s totally normal to sacrifice sixty-ish percent of your body to a guy you barely even get along with.

“Well, what about your family?” Grif asks in retaliation, because absolutely nothing about this is normal, “How are they gonna react to you being half metal now?”

“You mean the one that doesn’t care if I’m dead or alive?” Simmons doesn’t miss a fucking beat. “And would probably prefer the former, actually?”

His eyes, one jade green, the other now an eerie black hole with a faint red light, meet Grif’s again. “I think I’ll get away with it.”

“Hey Privates! I gave ya leeway, why’re ya still not out here? Front an’ center, on the double!”

Simmons looks briefly toward Sarge’s call, before putting his helmet back on and retrieving his reloaded rifle. Grif reluctantly follows suit.

As soon as he does, he gets a private radio transmission. “And, even if only for your sister’s sake, try not to give yourself lung cancer. There’s no way we can treat it out here, and it’s a slow and painful way to die. No one wants that.”

Simmons looks back at him from the doorway, and adds, “Except Sarge, but you’ve never granted him what he wants anyway. Insubordinate asshole.”

Despite the ache in his face from the stitches, Grif can’t help but smil- smirk. Smirk. “Kiss-ass.”

~.~.~

When he next goes into the bathroom, Simmons’ heart almost goes into cardiac arrest in Grif’s chest.

There wasn’t a mirror in the infirmary, so he never got the opportunity to check out what the deal was with the stitches on his face. He does now, and he’s stunned frozen.

Because an eye of soft, polished jade green, that Grif hasn’t been able to help himself admiring when he can get away with it, is now looking back at him from his own face.

Simmons’ sweat glands might not work, but his tear ducts have no such problem.

God fucking damn it.

~.~.~

Grif wears the bandages on his new left arm longer than he needs to.

With all the bullshit that’s going on around them, no one notices.

Chapter Text

Rose Star College Junior High , Semester One 2540, Report

Student: Richard Simmons, 6^th Grade

Attendance Rate: 100%

Organization Skills: Excellent

English: B+ Exam: D+

History: A Exam: D+

Science: A+ Exam: C-

Computer Science: A+ Exam: C

Mathematics: A Exam: C-

Physical Education: C Exam: D

Notes: Richard is a hard-working, earnest and bright student not drawn to distractions or tomfoolery in the classroom. However, he often struggles with time-based objectives such as tests or exams, or team-based objectives such as sport. He refuses to ask his teachers for help on any subject, nor does he socialize or even associate with any of his peers. Parental assistance may be required to aid this issue.

~.~.~

Pelicans aren’t exactly designed for long distance space flight, so it takes them roughly three days to reach Pandana Station, after several stops and a bit of hitchhiking with a passing carrier. That didn’t get sucked into a tractor beam and violently crashed. Really says something about them that that has to be emphasized.

Even when they reach it, it takes them a little while to figure out where the hell to go. Said station is freaking massive, even for one of its type. Simmons is starting to wonder if the depot is actually in the station.

Also making it hard to find their way around is the fact that everyone is frantic. Even the guys who cleared their landing disappear soon after to attend to something else. Leaving this band of brightly-colored soldiers to get out of their craft by themselves and make their way into the main structure looking incredibly out of place and, reputation notwithstanding, like complete idiots.

“I thought they were expecting us?” Kaikaina says quizzically.

“We wouldn’t have been cleared to land if they weren’t,” Carolina replies, “Or at least we shouldn’t have been. Assuming they are following protocol.”

“They are expecting us,” Simmons confirms, “I’m sure they’re just busy. I was told it was “all hands on deck”.”

“Sooo,” Tucker says, “The plan is?”

“We find the manager.”

Any attempts at asking for directions are given hurried and curtailed responses as employees rush from offices to warehouse floors and back again, but thankfully no one directly impedes them or questions them as to what authority they have looking for the manager (Thanks for that shadow of doubt, girls), so eventually they do find themselves on the right floor. By this point Caboose is bouncing on his heels and Sarge is noticeably fidgeting, so they’re already off to a great start.

Another employee at a desk directs them down the hall while juggling at least three phones, so Simmons nods a silent thank you and leads the others toward the manager’s office. Further down, a woman with sandy blonde hair flags them down, excuses herself from a conversation with a group of four and heads towards them. She has a different uniform to the other employees, and walks with assurance.

And oh shit, Montgomery had said Ms Grieves, hadn’t he?

“I hadn’t expected an entourage,” she says bluntly as soon as she gets close enough.

“I-I…” He tenses when her gaze turns to him. Get a grip, man. You should be over this. Just like talking to Kimball, right? He clears his throat. “I hadn’t… planned one when Montgomery called, ma’am, but…” He briefly turns his head to look at the “entourage” from the corner of his visor. It’s honestly not a word he’s ever associated with them. “Well, we’ve always been a team operation. And it doesn’t seem like that trend is being bucked today.”

She puts her hands on her hips and cocks an eyebrow. “I take it you’re Captain Simmons, then?”

“U-uh, yes, yes, that’s me.” Almost nailed it.

“Montgomery tells me you used to be head of logistics for his entire planet.”

“Y-yes, that is correct.” It’s actually an understatement, but he’s trying his best not to stick his foot in his mouth in front of the manager before he’s even started the job.

“Well then,” her eyebrow stays where it is, but it’s joined with a smirk that really tests his “don’t freak out in front of girls” pledge. He gets the impression that no one fucks with Ms Grieves and gets away unscathed. “Think you can handle the logistics of a hundred and fifty-nine?”

The anxiety dissipates faster than Simmons can blink.

If she was trying to daunt him, she picked the wrong topic. Simmons already knows the scale of the supply team’s clientele; he’s worked it out from overhearing the delivery guys and reading the labels on the packages meant for other colonies in the same delivery ship. Not like, on purpose, he’s just observant like that. Really.

He knows the numbers. He knows the systems. He knows the skills. He knows what he’s doing.

So it’s to the question that was probably intended to unnerve him the most, delivered with the expression that was definitely intended to unnerve him the most, that he answers with the most confidence. “I’ll certainly try my best, ma’am.”

She pauses just long enough for Simmons to know he was absolutely being tested, then turns and heads back the way she came, speaking over her shoulder with the impression that he should follow. “Well, I appreciate you coming. It’s been nothing but chaos here for days.”

“So I heard,” he replies. The group of four step back to let them pass, and he is painfully reminded of just how big and how out of place the team is by the looks said group give them. Just how is he going to keep these guys out of trouble while he works?

“So how much exactly have you heard, Captain?” she asks as she leads them toward another elevator. It’s smaller than the last. Simmons distantly hopes they’ll all fit.

“The gist. Montgomery was very careful not to give delicate business information over the phone.”

She hums with a smirk. “He is a very conscientious boy.”

They get to the elevator. They definitely won’t all fit.

Ms Grieves turns to face them again. “Well, this is the shortest route to Systems, but your entour-”

“Team.” He speaks before his brain catches up with his words, and the anxiety spikes again at the realization that he’s interrupted her.

But. They’re his team. Not his subordinates. Not his entourage. His team.

(He may have dreamed of being in command once upon a time in Blood Gulch. But that was years ago. He’s learned a valuable lesson since then.)

“…your team,” she amends, “is a little large for this elevator. Do we need to go down in shifts?” There’s a just-noticeable edge of sarcasm in her tone that bristles him a little.

You know what? He doesn’t need to deal with all this at once.

“No,” he says stiffly, “No, we don’t all need to be in the same area.” He turns again to the team. They’re all looking directly at him, which is incredibly nerve-wracking, but he’s designated squad leader goddammit; he’d better get used to it. “You guys can keep yourselves occupied, right?” And preferably out of trouble? For freaking once?

He’s half-expecting the answer to be no. The beat of silence only strengthens that expectation.

“Caboose?” pipes up from the back. Caboose turns down to look. “You’re good at lifting things. Why don’t we go see if anyone needs help lifting things?”

Oh thank the freaking powers that be (or may not be) Simmons remembered to bring Doc along.

“Ask my secretary,” Ms Grieves says, nodding toward the other end of the hall, “She can direct you to where you might be helpful.”

Simmons suddenly feels very sorry for three-phone girl. Doc nods and leads Caboose away, the latter now looking concerningly excited. “I’m also good at pressing buttons,” he hears Caboose tell Doc proudly.

“Hehe, well, let’s wait until we’re given permission before we do that.”

“Don’t suppose you have a Spanish-speaking department,” Grif suddenly says. He tips his head in lieu of pointing. “Lopez will fit right in there.”

“Oh! I speak Spanish too!”

“Por favor no me emparejes con ella.” [Please don’t pair me with her.]

Ms Grieves just nods toward the other end of the hall again, and Simmons suddenly feels very sorry for three-phone girl as Kai drags a reluctant Lopez toward her location. Grif goes with them, which Simmons wasn’t expecting; he does give Simmons a look before heading after them though, which the latter takes to mean I won’t be far away, this isn’t shit-hits-the-fan separation, we’ll be fine (when the fuck did Simmons get this damn sappy?).

“Anyone else?” Ms Grieves sardonically asks, dragging Simmons’ attention back to the remaining group, in particular to Wash who is looking more and more nervous that he might be dismissed at any moment.

“Agent Washington has volunteered to be my second opinion,” he says, and hopes Wash’s immediate relief isn’t as visible to her as it is to him, “And… Captain Tucker.” Tucker’s head perks up. “If you would care to be third?”

“Uh… sure.”

Ms Grieves looks to Sarge and Carolina, but the latter answers first. “I think we’ll give your secretary a break before we ask anything more of her.”

“As you wish.” The elevator finally dings. “This way, gentlemen.”

As they enter, Simmons quickly sends Carolina a private radio transmission. “Please don’t be offended I chose Tucker over you. You’re the only person I can trust to keep Sarge under control.”

“No offense taken,” she replies in a not-quite-subtly pleased tone.

“Dude,” Tucker pipes in with his own private transmission, “What’s with the sudden use of titles?”

Simmons switches channels. “Sorry. I kinda went into consummate professional mode.”

“Yeah, no shit. I haven’t heard you like this in, like, ever.”

“Heard me like what? Confident for once?” And totally owning this whole leadership thing, fuck yeah?

“No, I’ve heard confident you before. Confident you is a massive dork on top of the massive nerd regular you is.”

Simmons doesn’t grace that with a response, instead turning his radio off completely and taking his helmet off so Ms Grieves isn’t the only one with a visible face. She doesn’t hide her instant look of shock very well.

Oh.

“Right. I keep forgetting that’s the usual response.”

Ms Grieves quickly closes her mouth and faces away. “Apologies.”

He has to suppress a smirk. It’s almost funny knocking her off guard so inadvertently after her earlier vain attempt to unnerve him. “I’m used to it at this point.”

“I… see.” She clears her throat. “You were saying? You’ve heard “the gist”?”

“Oh, uh, yes.” Back on topic. “Along the lines of, multiple shipments of stock not turning up at your depot despite there being no change in your transaction records from the usual, no information from any of the suppliers despite attempts to contact them, and something about attempts to replace said missing stock despite having already paid for what didn’t turn up.”

“Three.”

“Come again?”

“Three shipments turned up in total,” she glances back up at him, “and not large ones, while we were expecting a hundred and seventy.” She faces away again, and mutters under her breath, “You’d have to be Jesus to feed that many people on that little.”

Wash makes a worrying jolt that Simmons hopes she didn’t notice. Tucker puts a hand on Wash’s arm.

“…I see. Have you attempted to contact those suppliers as well?”

She raises her eyebrow at him again.

“To see if anything was out-of-the-ordinary on their end?” he clarifies.

She humphs. “Yes, we did. They haven’t responded either. Do you find that suspicious?”

Now it’s his turn to raise a quizzical eyebrow. He didn’t think she’d be that forward about the possibility of a security breach. “There may be reason to suspect that, but it’s a little soon to tell for certain before I know more than “the gist”.”

“Very well.” The elevator slows and stops. “Welcome to Systems, Captain.”

If he’d thought the main floors were frantic, Systems is outright pandemonium. Absolutely everyone is either on the phone, hunched over a computer screen or half-conversing-half-arguing with the person next to them. To begin with, anyway; one guy’s face drops the second he spots the manager, the guy he was arguing with notices and also stops to look, and in a wave everyone slowly stills and falls silent.

Ms Grieves casts a stern eye over them just long enough to ensure everyone’s uncomfortable. Simmons definitely is, standing out in his bright armor amongst the sea of monochrome uniforms.

“People. These are Captains Simmons, Tucker and Washington. They are assisting us in investigating this recent quandary. I want full cooperation and I want no questions asked. Otherwise, as you were.” She turns back to Simmons. “I need to return to the other sectors. Ask anyone here if you require further assistance. If you’ll excuse me.” With that, she sharply returns to the elevator.

And Simmons is left with a room of at least sixty people all staring at him.

“Ah, a-ahem.” The sound of his unfiltered voice gives him the painful reminder that his helmet is under his arm and not covering his face and aforementioned sixty people can see that. “I-I…” (You are a goddamn Captain, Simmons, get it together. You’re here to help.) “We shouldn’t be obstructing you too much, everyone. If I could just borrow a computer with as few access restrictions as possible? I’ll… stay out of the way otherwise.”

There’s a pause, and a brunette woman steps forward. “You can… “borrow” mine, Captain. There are some files that are only accessible by the likes of Ms Grieves, but… you should have access to the mainframe and transaction records.”

Simmons nods. “That’ll be enough. Er, thank you, Miss.”

The woman apparently interprets that as a question. “Laille. Imogen Laille.”

“Thank you, Miss Laille. As you were, everyone.”

Everyone does not return to how they were as Laille shows Simmons, Tucker and Wash to her desk. They’re a lot quieter now, and a lot of the half-arguments have turned into discussions on who exactly these three guys in the brightly-colored armor are.

“Is there…” Wash starts, then drops his voice when he realizes he’s speaking a tad too loud, “Is there like, something we’re supposed to sign to prove we’re not here to screw things up more?”

Yeah, Simmons had just asked a room of strangers for unrestricted access to their systems. Hadn’t thought of that interpretation.

Laille ponders for two seconds before opening the drawer in her desk and pulling out a data-pad. She taps at it a few times before pulling out a stylus and handing it to Simmons. “You can sign into my logbook. I don’t think Ms Grieves will mind.”

Simmons just nods again and signs on the data-pad, R Simmons (People tend to think he’s joking when he puts his actual full name down), and hands it to Wash while Laille logs in. He hopes Laille doesn’t notice how long Wash deliberates on how to actually sign his name as she offers Simmons her seat.

“Thank you, Miss.”

“Not a problem. Thank you for helping, Captain.”

He doesn’t get a chance to respond to that or to ask what she intends to do now that her computer is no longer available before she smiles and wanders off. Oh well, clearly she can find something to do.

(He distantly hopes Caboose hasn’t set anything on fire already.)

“So…” Tucker says as he finishes signing his name and puts the data-pad back in its drawer, “What are Wash and I supposed to do?”

“Well, you can attempt to help if you see something you think I don’t,” Simmons responds, already in the midst of opening up the last year of records, “Otherwise… keep each other entertained.”

He doesn’t look back at the dumbstruck sound that Tucker just reacted with. Time to focus.

He’s got a job to do.

~.~.~

“Where did you learn to do this, Simmons?”

Simmons glances up from reverse-engineering the security system at Wash’s sudden question. “Nowhere in particular. I’m mostly self-taught. Why do you ask?”

“The computer expert in Freelancer had a very similar style. I was wondering if you learned at the same place.”

“Huh.” He didn’t know what answer he’d expected, but it wasn’t that. “No idea.”

~.~.~

“Is it a bad thing that it all looks totally normal to me?”

“Good spotting, Tucker. That’s exactly what’s worrying about it.”

“…What.”

~.~.~

“Captains?”

Simmons looks around toward the voice, which allows his neck to inform him of how stiff it is after what he can likely assume is several hours of not moving. Laille has returned.

“Ms Grieves has requested an update.”

“Ah. Right.” He turns back to the computer, but pulls the chair back so she can see. Wash cranes over his shoulder, while Tucker stays where he is leaning against the wall. “Well, I could say I have good news and bad news, but to be honest it’s mostly bad news.”

“I see,” she says professionally, but the drop in her shoulders betrays her dismay, “Did you manage to find the problem?”

“I did, but I’m afraid it’s a bit more than a system error. The system has been compromised.”

“You could tell that?” Tucker asks, “Wait… You said it was a bad thing I saw nothing wrong.”

“Yep. The traces are there, but they’re covered up so well I wouldn’t expect anyone else to spot them. I can only tell because I’m in the know. Whoever did this is no amateur.”

“By “whoever”…” Laille starts, then second-guesses herself and closes her mouth.

Simmons answers her anyway. “Yeah, there’s no way to trace them. At least not directly.”

“Not… directly?”

“Your communications and transactions have been manipulated, but the suppliers would have been affected as well. They may have some other info about this that could pinpoint the perpetrator, especially if there’s so many of them.”

Laille deliberates what to say for a couple seconds. “Is it… possible to reestablish radio contact, Captain? Or… would we have to find other means?”

Simmons takes a moment to think about it, sighs and runs a hand down his face. “I can try, but I’d have to disrupt everybody in this sector, and possibly others, to do so. I think we’d better check with Ms Grieves first.”

Laille straightens up again and nods. “I’ll relay it to her. Thank you very much for your help, Captain.”

She almost turns to go, but stops halfway through the motion.

“Um… if you don’t mind my asking, what was the good news?”

“It’s not your fault, or the fault of any of your coworkers.” Simmons smiles tiredly; it’s been a long several hours, and it’s about to get longer.

Laille smiles back. “Thank you, Captain.”

As she leaves, Simmons turns to Wash and Tucker, both of whom have also removed their helmets and are looking as tired as Simmons feels.

“You guys want to go for a walk or something?”