Work Text:
“Yeah, I’m absolutely not doing that.”
Kimball closed her eyes and took a deep breath as Grif stood before her, unfazed and crossing his arms. “Captain Grif,” she managed, “that wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.”
Simmons felt for her. He truly did. Dealing with Grif on a good day was hard enough, but he’d been a particular pain in the ass since that morning.
“Yeah, that may be what you think,” said Grif, “but I beg to differ. So I refuse.”
Kimball opened her eyes just enough to glare at Grif. She’d opted to take off her helmet whilst in her office a few minutes earlier, perhaps with the hopes that Grif would find it harder to pull shit like this if he was looking her in the eyes.
She obviously didn't know Grif as well as he did.
“Supply runs are necessary for our survival,” she said. “Everyone plays their part. Everyone makes a run. Today, that run is to be made by you.”
Grif huffed. “Aren’t captains, like, supposed to be able to get out of this kind of shit? I have a team to command, blah blah blah?”
“Washington has kindly offered to step in to train your team for today,” she said, her voice nearing a growl. “So if you would please--”
Simmons sighed. “I’ll do it.”
Kimball’s eyes snapped to look at him. “That’s not--”
“Nope, he says he’s got it, I’ve gotta go,” Grif said, scurrying from the room and slamming the door shut behind him.
Kimball bit down on her lip. “I was trying to avoid enabling him.”
It occurred to Simmons that he was now standing alone with Vanessa Kimball. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks and became immediately thankful he was still wearing his helmet. “Uh, I-- yup! I- I’ve found that he’ll, uh, find a way to get out of work no matter what. So, uh… he would’ve enabled himself eventually. I was just saving us some time.”
She shook her head minutely. “It’s just… there’s no use complaining. Do you mind leaving now? I know it’s short notice, but--”
“Don’t worry,” he said, waving a hand that dismissed both her concerns and his high pitch. “It’s an easy run. I’ve done it a couple of times before. I’ll, uh, fill out the forms to take a mongoose and be on my way!”
With that, he, too, scurried out of her office.
He half-expected Grif to be waiting outside and tried to bite down on the disappointment when he found out the man wasn’t.
“It’s fine,” he said to himself. Out loud. In the middle of a hallway. “Doesn’t matter.” He made a sharp turn. “Nothing’s wrong, and everything’s okay. Right? Right.”
It wasn’t like Grif hated him.
Not like that at all.
He was such a fucking idiot. He was overthinking things. Grif wasn’t mad at him -- had no reason to be mad at him.
“I’ll just drive the mongoose, pick up the water, and head back. He-- it’ll all be fine. Completely okay.”
“Sthir? Are you okay?”
“Yes!” he squeaked to Jensen, who shifted uncertainly at that. He didn't see her coming. Wait, no, he’d approached her. Right. “Um, I need you to be in charge of training for a little while. I’m making a supply run.”
“Um, I thought it wasth Captain Grif’sth turn to--”
“Nope! Me! I’ll-- you, um, go ahead! I’ll be back soon!”
“Okay, sthir. Um, good luck?”
He did a weird bow before running off.
God, he was such an idiot.
It was a Fed soldier taking care of the forms for today. Simmons strolled up to him, trying to keep his head high and steps confident (“You don’t want them thinking you’re as weak as you look.”). “Hello,” he said, and his voice only cracked a little. “I’m taking one mongoose for a supply run.”
“Uh-huh,” said the soldier, sounding bored. “Name?”
“Captain Dick Simmons.”
“Great. I’ll put you down. Try not to wreck it, will you?”
Oh, right. He’d marked down that he’d been responsible for one of Jensen’s mongoose crashes so she’d still be allowed to drive. In retrospect, maybe he should’ve just let her driving privileges be taken away. “I won’t.”
“Sure thing.” The soldier then reached into a small compartment and pulled out a set of keys. “Here you go.”
Simmons took them. “Uh, thanks. No problems getting me signed in?”
“No? Wait, are you the nerd who set up--”
“Nevermindhaveaniceday!”
He scuttled away, sparing a glance to the keys to see which number mongoose he was stuck driving today.
He just had to get this over with. Then he could come back, walk up to Grif and tell him to stop being so fucking lazy, and Grif would tell him to fuck off, and they’d be back to normal not discussing anything of importance such as the fact that Simmons had sleepwalked right into Grif’s fucking bed and fucking spooned him and that’s how they woke up and oh god stop fucking thinking about it
He hopped into the vehicle and took a deep breath. Across the way, Jensen kept turning back to look at him. He waved at her, cringed at the fact that he waved, and put his hand down.
He just had to go to the outpost, pick up water to last everyone the day (six of the containers -- enough to make driving with more than one person near impossible for the way back), and be done with it. Everything was fine.
He started the mongoose.
Grif was always the better driver, but Simmons managed just fine on his own. It was simple physics -- predicting trajectories, analyzing angles, determining the paths of least resistance and mocking those up against faster slopes… Perhaps he put more thought into it than strictly necessary, but he got the job done.
Simmons made sure not to look around the base for Grif as he was leaving. When the orange simtrooper didn't want to be found, doing so was extremely difficult.
(Simmons could always find him if he looked hard enough.)
((Grif would know how to hide from Simmons if he really wanted to -- he simply didn't. Neither of them talks about this.))
The route was straightforward. Simmons knew this because he helped Kimball plot it himself. This meant he could drive with minimal overthinking, freeing him up to think about other, less important things such as whether or not people were using his armory spreadsheet correctly and consistently and how much longer the rations would last based on the current portion size and Gold Team thefts and what Felix and Locus’s next attack might be and if Grif was upset at him oopsnopedon’tthinkaboutthat--
The mongoose hit a bump in the road, and Simmons frowned, looking into the rearview mirror. He didn't remember a bump being there last time, and it was a bump worth noting seeing as it was enough to jostle the supplies overboard if the driver wasn’t careful and
Something exploded.
Before he could react, Simmons was sent tumbling into the dirt, too stunned by the blast to make a sound.
For the first few seconds, he was left blinking out stars and wincing at the ringing in his ears.
In the next, he was groaning.
Tight spasms of pain were threading through his skull, and he curled himself into a ball.
Shit. Shit. He couldn’t think clearly.
Okayokayokayokayokay
what caused this where is the source who did this was it the bump it was probably the bump should’ve been paying more attention now look at what you’ve done you fucking disgrace to the family why are you even still breathing--
Simmons choked on his gasps. Blood came from his mouth.
Someone tutted behind him. “So fucking predictable! I would’ve thought you’d change this supply run’s path given the fact that I, y’know, betrayed you and all, but it looks like you idiot simtroopers are still full of surprises!”
No.
No it couldn’t…
“Felix?” he said, his voice coming out in a slur.
Armored boots stepped into his line of view. Then a familiar helmet bent down to look at him.
Felix waved. “Hey, Simmons. How you doin’?”
Simmons coughed, wracking his whole body and sending him falling onto his chest.
Felix laughed. “Oh, boy! It’s like Christmas! A beloved Captain, gift-wrapped just for me.” Simmons heard him as he turned around. “Grab him. I’ve got some special plans for this one.”
“W- wait,” he breathed, drawing himself up onto his elbows.
Someone grabbed him by the back of his power suit and hauled him up. He yipped out in pain, watching as the ground got further away from him. His helmet was in the dirt, and he tried to remember if he’d taken it off or if it flew off in the blast.
Simmons kicked out his legs, and the person holding him just laughed. “Nice try. We’re gonna make sure you don’t cause a fuss.”
There was a crack against his temple, and Simmons fell into darkness.
----
Simmons opened his eyes.
He could feel a cool surface beneath his head.
His body felt numb, like his limbs had fallen asleep but without pins and needles.
He swallowed, and the action moved thick, slow, nearing on impossible.
Simmons tried to raise a hand.
He could sense his muscles straining, could feel something, but that something wasn’t movement.
He couldn’t move.
Oh God.
He couldn’t move.
A whimper escaped his throat as his eyes flitted around desperately. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.
“Oh, look who finally woke up!”
The memories came back in his brain like a bullet. The crash. Felix. Being taken.
Now he was here. Helpless. Unable to move.
Simmons tried to curl his fingers, tried anything, but--
“Yeah, that’s not gonna work.” Felix leaned over him, helmet off to reveal a twisted grin. “You won’t be moving any time soon. You should be thanking Doctor Grey -- she’s the one who left the drug behind.” There was a sheer sound, metal on metal, and Felix held out a knife. “You won’t be able to move, but you’ll feel everything. Won’t that be nice?”
No.
Oh, God, no.
He could feel the panic setting in, his artificial heart hammering against his chest. He wanted to say something -- anything -- but he couldn’t even move his own mouth.
Felix threw back his chin and laughed. “You look ridiculous when you’re scared, Captain Simmons. All whale-eyes, y’know?” He shrugged. “Kinda funny. Don’t see why Grif likes you.”
At Grif’s name, something fired inside him. He made another small, helpless sound.
Felix tossed the knife between his hands. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don’t worry. It’s you who I’ll be hurting, not him.” He smiled, the expression all teeth. “Get the camera rolling, won’t you, Grainer?”
There was a click. “You got it. Just let me know when.”
Felix released a long sigh and placed his free hand next to Simmons’ neck. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Captain. Grainer’s gonna roll the tape. I’m gonna make you hurt.” His blue eyes flicked over Simmons’ face, considering. “Creatively. And we’re going to make sure Kimball gets the video. Then,” he put the tip of the knife against Simmons’ cheek, “I’m going to kill you before they come close to saving you. It’ll be a great distraction -- they’ll have people looking for you, and we can hit their forces while they’re spread thin.”
Simmons could only glare.
Felix cocked his head. “Go ahead, Grainer.”
He looked around, spotting the camera pointed at him. He tried to shake his head, tried anything.
Sweat ran down from his forehead.
Felix let the knife tear flesh.
A low moan ground out his throat as he felt the tension whip through his body, muscles aching to react but unable to do so.
Blood dripped down his face in a slow roll when Felix pulled back. “You know what I’m gonna do?” he said conversationally, wiping off the blood on his shirt. “I think I’m gonna make you a little bit less of a cyborg. I mean, the concept is ridiculous as is, so I’d be doing you a favor.”
Simmons felt sick.
This didn't seem real.
“I think I’m gonna start with your eye.”
His breath hitched.
“I’m no doctor, of course, so it’ll probably be, well… just a little bit messy. And definitely painful. But don’t worry -- I’ll do my best.”
He was going to pass out.
He really wanted to pass out.
This couldn’t be happening. He’d just been making a simple supply run. There was no way it had turned into this. He-- he’d run over a landmine or something and was concussed and hallucinating and most importantly none of this was real
Felix drew his arm back. “Do you have any objections, Captain?”
Simmons couldn’t respond.
Felix drove the knife down.
A panicked, scream-like noise erupted from his throat as the pain rushed upon him, as Felix forced his knife just below the edge of his eye socket and in
Felix cackled and dragged the knife along the edge of the bone. “This is going to be so much fun.”
----
The base had gone weirdly quiet, which honestly was enough to draw Grif out of hiding. Simmons either wasn’t back yet or simply hadn’t bothered looking for him, so it wasn’t like he had much else to do.
As soon as he stepped out of his nook, people rushed past him with frantic expressions.
He frowned. “Hey, what’s going on?”
They didn't seem to hear him, simply slipping into another hallway and muttering to each other.
Okayyy.
He sighed, tossed the empty bag of potato chips on the floor, and started the trek to--
“Grif? Where the fuck have you been?”
He blinked. Wash was standing in front of him, shoulders back and weight balanced on his toes. He was anxious. This wasn’t good. “Taking a nap?”
Wash looked to the side and back. “Come with me,” he snapped.
No room for argument.
He seemed to be acting more dramatic than usual, which either meant someone had truly annoyed him or the dramatics were, for once, called for. “Yes, sir,” Grif drawled.
Wash didn't bark a reply, instead just speed-walking in the direction of Kimball’s office. Ah, fuck. He really didn't want to be there twice in one day.
Except when Wash threw the door open, the rest of the Reds and Blues were already there.
All of them looked at him.
He raised his hands. “Um, what the fuck is going on?”
Everyone was there but Simmons his brain corrected. “Where the hell is Simmons? Has he not gotten back from--”
He’d been walking deeper into the room as he spoke, but his gaze snapped onto a video playing at the front of the room.
Grif froze.
The blood drained from his face. “Simmons?”
The face on the screen was pale, bloodied, almost unrecognizable. Even still, it was the same face he’d inexplicably woken up next to, the same face he’d stared at for hours before pretending to rouse as it did.
Now…
Anger rose in his chest like a wave. “Who the fuck did this to him?”
He couldn’t look longer than a few seconds, couldn’t let himself try to sort out what happened to his best friend who had been taken and tortured.
Realization clouded over him. “Felix grabbed him on the supply run, didn't he.”
A non-question that nobody bothered to answer, instead just sharing glances. Even Caboose was fidgeting uncomfortably.
It should have been Grif.
Simmons wasn’t supposed to go on that fucking supply run.
He swallowed down a fit of nausea.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the screen click off. “Jensen has been able to figure out where that video was broadcast from,” said Kimball. “It’s coming in live.”
Grif’s head felt like a cloud. He turned to see that, sure enough, Jensen was in the room. She looked anxious, upset. Her eyes were bloodshot. “Uh, C- Captain Sthimmonsth taught me thisth sthuff justh in caseth. I-- I--” She took a deep breath. “He’sth here,” she said, pointing at a map that had been sprawled out on top of the table. Then she turned to face Grif in a frantic motion, and he almost took a step back in surprise. “I’m stho sthorry, sthir! I-- I should’ve offered to go for him! Y- Your boyfriend isth-- isth-- and it’sth my fault!” she sobbed.
“It’s not your fault,” he said automatically. He could hear his own guilt in his tone, so he cleared his throat. “I’m gonna go get him.” He nodded once and turned on his heel.
“Wait! We need a plan of attack. Besides, we don’t even know if by the time we get there, Captain Simmons will still be--”
“Don’t you fucking say it,” he growled. “And I’m going.”
“Felix is probably using this as a distraction,” Kimball pressed on. He knew she meant well, knew she was trying to do the best for the people of Chorus, but this was Simmons. This was personal for him.
“I don’t care,” he shot back. “I’m going. If Felix still has him, I’m gonna get him out of there.”
They knew what he meant. ‘If Simmons isn’t already dead.’
Kimball sighed. “Fine. Go. Take Agent Carolina with you, but that’s it.”
“Felix was in the video,” said Carolina. “He may still be there with more of his forces.”
Kimball clenched her jaw. “You, Captain Grif, and Captain Tucker can go. The rest of you stay here and get your teams ready for a strike. You know that Felix is smart enough to get out of there before we--”
Grif walked out.
The walk turned into a jog, which turned into a dead sprint.
He could hear the blood pounding in his ears.
Simmons had to be fine.
He had to be.
----
Torture had a special way of making seconds last centuries. Felix had a special way of making every century count.
Simmons knew, vaguely, that torture usually implied a goal, and that goal was usually information. Felix’s goal was to distract, which meant everything he did to Simmons didn't actually matter. Not to him, anyway.
Simmons couldn’t see. His human eye was overrun by the blood, and no amount of blinking would get it out of the way.
His cyborg eye was on the floor.
The wound was raw, fresh, vulnerable. He couldn’t turn his mind away from it, couldn’t notice anything but the shockwaves roiling through him saying wrong, wrong, it fucking hurts make it stop.
Felix took his time prying all the metal parts from Simmons’ face. He also made sure Simmons was awake for all of it. “Can’t have you missing out on this good time,” he’d chirped.
Simmons wanted to scream. His body attempted the most possible equivalent since he couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t move his lips.
Feliz had laughed, had tutted, had cackled. Simmons couldn’t tell what was coming next anymore, couldn’t look at where Felix’s eyes were straying.
It was the surprise that got him almost as much as the pain, at this point.
He’d been so focused on his face and neck, it hadn’t occurred to him that Felix would cut his arm off.
He made a strangled, wailing sound as his metal limb hit the floor, cut savagely from the flesh rather than having been properly removed.
He couldn’t do anything.
He was helpless, entirely in the mercy of this fucking psychopath.
“Look at this junk,” he heard Felix say. “How old is this, anyway?”
“Shit,” someone else said.
The air turned tense. “Yes?” said Felix, his tone pointedly pleasant.
“Uh, I accidentally have this as a live broadcas--”
“You did what?” Felix snapped.
“It-- it’s off now!”
Felix groaned and kicked something. Probably Simmons’ arm. “Fucking Christ. Locus is gonna fucking--” he cut himself off there. “How long has this been broadcasting.”
“Uh, I don’t--”
“Guess.”
“... Half an hour?”
There was a wet thud followed by something landing bodily on the floor and the clash of breaking equipment.
“Grainer really shouldn’t have been such a fucking idiot,” said Felix.
Simmons couldn’t bring himself to have thoughts on Grainer’s death. Everything just circled back to pain, to bleeding, to dying, to pain, over and over again.
Felix spat, then started wiping his hand over Simmons’ remaining eye until his vision was somewhat clear. Simmons didn't have the heart to be disgusted. “Looks like I gotta make this faster than I planned,” said Felix, his smile jerking up. “I’d just like for you to see me when it happ--”
Felix’s smile dropped. His body swayed forward before dropping as well.
Tucker was standing behind him.
He examined his laser sword for a moment before putting it away. His blue eyes flicked up to look at Simmons.
Simmons watched his face contort briefly before settling into a neutrality he rarely saw from the other man. “Grif! Carolina!”
Instantly, the two of them emerged, Carolina covered in what looked to be soot. “Guards down,” she said, “and path back cl--ear. You found him.”
Simmons blinked, the hole in his face feeling like it wanted to do the same.
Grif was staring at him. Then, “Sarge is gonna pissed about this.”
It wasn’t funny, but because it wasn’t, it also was. Simmons sighed.
Grif took off his helmet. He looked green. “Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll take the blame. You can keep--” Simmons felt very light all of a sudden, and let his eye close, “--oh fuck don’t you dare leave me you goddamn--”
----
It was horrible.
It was really, really fucking horrible.
On the screen was bad. In-person was somehow worse.
Tucker hadn’t thought this to be entirely possible.
He also hadn’t exactly thought killing Felix would be possible either, and that ended up being… almost too simple. Fast. Done and over. Dead. Nothing more to it.
He could feel Carolina’s gaze on him. She didn't say anything about Felix’s body on the floor, about the blood leaking from the part of his back power armor couldn’t quite cover.
Tucker couldn’t focus on himself right now. He couldn’t focus on his own thoughts and feelings when Simmons was dying right in front of him.
They all saw the exact moment Simmons fell unconscious.
His eye, which had been wearily taking everything in, flicking from one thing to the next in too-slow motions, closed.
Where his other eye had been was now just a hole, deep and bloody with fissures from where Felix had angled his knife to make a particularly painful cut. It was an eerie look -- someone with an injury like that always looked vaguely dead. Like they shouldn’t be alive. Like they shouldn’t have ever had to go through something as traumatic as having an eye brutally forced from their face.
The metal plates on his face and neck were gone, too, exposing the inflamed muscle beneath. Some part of Tucker compared Simmons’ state to an anatomy figure -- something teachers would show to explain which muscles did what beneath the skin.
He was missing an arm.
Tucker was pretty sure Carolina walked to a corner of the room and grabbed it.
Everything hurt to look at. He couldn’t imagine how it felt.
And he’d thought getting stabbed was bad.
“Grif,” he said, his voice more even than he thought possible, “c’mon. Let’s grab him and bring him out. Dr. Grey will take care of him. He’ll be fine.”
Grif was ashen, sweaty, shaking slightly.
He didn't complain, didn't retort, instead just nodding and staggering forward, stepping over both of the bodies (overFelix’sbody).
Tucker moved to help, but Grif quickly undid all the restraints holding Simmons’ body up by himself and caught him before he could fall.
Grif looked like he wanted to sling one arm around Simmons’ shoulder so Tucker could take the other, and then they both seemed to remember that Simmons only had one arm.
Grif gritted his teeth.
His hands were already bloody from touching Simmons, from getting him free.
In one motion, he heaved the whole of Simmons’ body over his shoulders. “Let’s go,” he said.
Tucker swallowed and nodded. He had a knack for pissing people off by opening his mouth, and he wasn’t going to risk pissing anyone off now.
He spared one last glance to Felix -- to Felix’s body because he wasn’t breathing anymore -- turned on his heel, and walked out.
Carolina’s hand touched his shoulder, only briefly.
It was enough.
----
Grif hadn’t left Simmons’ side since they returned.
He hadn’t slept since they found him there, inches from death, bleeding out and…
He couldn’t shake the notion that it should’ve been him.
If he hadn’t been an asshole to Kimball and refused to take the run, if he hadn’t refused simply because he hadn’t fucking slept because he’d been staring at Simmons all night but sure as fuck wasn’t going to admit that--
Now he couldn’t fall asleep if he tried.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw a hole in Simmons’ face; a cut-out from a fucking horror movie that would’ve given him nightmares as a kid.
He’d definitely have nightmares about Simmons’ face now.
Grif bit down on his lip. It hadn’t been fair. Simmons wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn’t supposed to get hurt. If anyone deserved what happened, it was Grif -- not the man lying in front of him.
Grey had spoken to Grif at length about Simmons’ injuries, occasionally dropping in too in-depth details he’d try to steer her away from. But he got the idea: Simmons wasn’t going to be the same.
Jensen had popped in earlier. As soon as she saw Grif sitting there, staring at Simmons, she’d left. He didn't bother questioning why.
Simmons’ hand twitched, and the half of his face not covered in bandages contorted.
Grif straightened, eyes searching. “Simmons?”
A choked sound escaped the other man just before he thrashed his head against the pillow.
Shit.
Grif stood up and hovered for a second, unsure.
In a single, spastic motion, Simmons arched his back, clenched his fist, and screamed.
“Shit shit shit--” he said, his hands momentarily going to his hair, helpless, before he grabbed Simmons’ hand into his own and squeezed. “Simmons, you're okay. You're safe. Do you hear me? It's Grif-- I-- shit. I'm sorry. I'm so, so fucking sorry.”
Simmons’ eye flew open, pupil swallowed almost entirely by his green iris. He clamped his mouth shut, cutting off his own scream as his chest heaved and he stared at Grif, terrified.
“You're okay,” he repeated. “Deep breaths.”
Simmons shook his head slightly and looked around desperately.
Grif swallowed down the guilt. “Simmons,” he said carefully, “you’re safe now.”
“F- Felix said,” he began, his voice wavering, “h- he said he’d…”
Grif squeezed his hand again, and Simmons looked down like he was noticing it for the first time. “Felix is dead, Simmons. You’re back at the base.”
“I’m… what--?” He shook his head, wincing as he did. “I’m back?”
“You’re back,” said Grif.
His fault. This was his fault.
“I’m sorry.” Grif looked away. “I should’ve been the one out there.”
Simmons hummed. His forehead was slightly damp with sweat when Grif looked back. “D- don’t pull that shit on me.”
He sounded almost coherent.
Simmons pulled his hand away, and Grif tried not to let the hurt show. His hand strayed to his other shoulder, feeling around the bandaged area.
“Uh, Grey needs for that to heal before she can work on getting your arm back. Sarge is already working on the attachment; plus, I think he’s trying to upgrade your arm. Can’t wait to see how that turns out.”
The joke fell flat.
Simmons just nodded and swallowed, looking vulnerable as he gripped the space where his arm used to be. “That’s… o- okay.”
Grif tried not to stare at the half of Simmons’ face that was bloodied, bandaged, but his gaze slipped for only a moment.
Immediately, Simmons winced, and Grif was left silently cursing himself. “That bad?” said Simmons.
“I was probably worse when I was run over by a tank,” he replied.
Simmons actually grinned at that. “You looked fucking awful.”
“And hot as hell.”
Simmons rolled his eye. “Okay, Tucker.” He pursed his lips, looking somewhere behind Grif. “Was it as bad as it felt?”
The image he’d walked into flashed behind his eyes. “You looked badass,” he said instead, which was kind of a lie. It had been too disgusting seeing his face and neck cut open and eye gouged out for him to determine whether or not the scarring would be at all cool. He had his priorities; namely, Simmons not dying.
“You’re lying,” said Simmons, but he was smiling now, and the weight on Grif’s shoulders shifted.
“You looked like a scarecrow,” Grif amended.
Simmons huffed and dragged his hand away from his injured side. “Thanks.”
Grif shrugged. “Don’t worry. You’re not too shabby.”
Simmons narrowed his eye suspiciously. “Are you… complimenting me?”
Grif was actually just trying to distract Simmons seeing as he’d literally woken up from a nightmare, like, a minute ago, so he wasn’t paying that much attention to the words pouring from his mouth. “Jury’s out on that one,” he said.
Simmons smirked. “Yeah, whatever, fatass.” Then his face contorted slightly. “But, uh, seriously. Don’t blame yourself.”
Ah, fuck. Grif wasn’t good at serious. “Right.”
“Dex,” said Simmons, and that single fucking word practically knocked the wind out of him, “Really. Stop it.”
He huffed and crossed his arms. “We both know I should’ve been the one on that supply run. If I hadn’t-- you wouldn’t--”
“If I had a choice, I’d go through that shit all over again just so you wouldn’t have to,” Simmons said, his tone resolute. “Besides, what’s done is done.”
“Simmons, Felix tortured you. That’s not something you can just--” He cut himself off. “Even if you would go through it again, it shouldn’t have happened to you in the first place.” Why the hell would Simmons even go through that again for Grif of all people? “So I’m sorry.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck you. Stop apologizing.”
“Simmons--”
“Grif, I thought I was going to die. You know that?”
He almost had. Grey told Grif as much.
“Y- y’know, I… I just-- I never got to…” He took a deep breath. “Grif, you’re gonna fucking help me through this because you’re my best friend and I-- I--” Once again, his hand balled into a fist.
“I will,” he said. Honestly, he’d do anything for Simmons. He should’ve driven that fucking mongoose so Simons didn't have to. “And I won’t half-ass it, for once.”
Simmons looked close to tears, clenching and unclenching his jaw. Finally, he reached over and grabbed Grif’s hand. What was he-- “I love you, Grif.”
Grif’s heart stopped.
Simmons was looking at him, gaze determined and afraid again, sincerity written all over.
Grif used his remaining hand to drag the plastic chair right up against Simmons’ bed. He sat down.
Simmons was still staring at him.
He moved his other hand to fully clasp Simmons’ between his own. “Yeah. I love you, too, Simmons.”
They had one long fucking road ahead of them, but…
Maybe this was a little better.
And maybe, one day, Grif could forgive himself.
Simmons let his head drop against the pillow.
When Simmons finally fell back asleep, his breathing turning even, hand still held by Grif’s own, Grif released a small sigh. “I love you, too,” he whispered.
