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Simmons was tired. Really tired. Much more than he reasonably should be at this time of day.
Maybe he should have saved the tear break for later. That way, he wouldn’t have to face his teammates immediately. He might have had time to calm down first. That would have been nice.
Oh, god. His teammates.
Simmons felt around in the dark for the light switch, feeling sheepish. He didn’t really know this bathroom well enough to have memorised its layout yet, but at this rate, he was on track to remedy that within the next few weeks. What was this, the fifth time he’d scuttled off to cry in the bathroom in the last month? That couldn’t be normal. What would Sarge say?
None of the Reds and Blues really knew the moon bases very well yet. It hadn’t been long since their move, but Simmons had been hoping Iris would feel more like home to him by now. They all had.
Simmons continued to fumble blindly in the dark. Why had he thought turning the light off was a good idea in the first place, anyways? And why did he say no to the night vision upgrade for his cybernetic eye that Sarge had mentioned last week? Wait, scratch that, that would definitely have been a death sentence.
Simmons found the light switch and found himself face to face with his own tearful likeness. He remembered, abruptly, the reason why he turned the light off.
People always looked good crying in movies. When people cried in films, perfect tear streaks trailed down their delicately flushed cheeks. If they were particularly distressed, they’d let out a few dignified stifled sobs. Or perhaps, for flavour, a single, regal tear might extract itself noiselessly from one eye, usually accompanied by a poignant musical motif.
No matter how many times he watched and rewatched the goodbye scene from ET as a kid, Simmons had never quite mastered this technique. He’d never successfully learned to hide the tell-tale signs, to his father’s dismay.
Would he never grow out of that?
Now, staring into his blotchy, sweaty reflection in the dirty, crevice-riddled bathroom mirror, he was uncomfortably jolted back into reality. What time was it? Did he break the mirror again, or had it already been broken for a while? How long had he been gone? There was a sinking feeling in his polymer gut that told him he’d probably neglected something important while he was busy emptying out his tear ducts. Goddammit.
There wasn’t much time, but as much of a hot mess as he was, he didn’t always look this pathetic. He’d have to sort himself out before he could leave the bathroom. Simmons allowed himself a quick towel to the face, followed by a much-needed moment to breathe. In, out, in, out. Now was not the time for a panic attack. There - that was better, right? He looked at the mirror again and resisted the urge to wring his hands.
Never had he been more grateful that a few of his idiot friends still wore power armour around the base. Sure, they didn’t usually wear helmets, but he could bluff his way past them, easy. Probably. Maybe. Okay, so it was gonna be hard to lie to them convincingly.
But he had to try.
Simmons’s HUD was helpful enough to tell him that he was two minutes and 16 seconds late to Sarge’s 14:15 briefing. Normally, this wouldn’t have been much of an issue. Sarge didn’t usually care much for doing things at specific times - that was Simmons’s job. Unless said things were regularly-scheduled Grif abuse or some kind of battle plan against an enemy, he was usually happy to leave catalogue duty to somebody else. Unfortunately for Simmons, Red Team briefings were a notable exception to this rule. He lined himself up next to his teammates in front of Iris’s Red Base, trying to remember to fix his posture and nursing a weak hope that maybe Sarge wouldn’t notice-
“Soldier! Where have you been? Explain yourself, or I’ll have to knock some sense into you!” Sarge was being surprisingly nice today. “You haven’t been foolin’ around with those dirty blues again, have you?”
To punctuate his statement, Sarge shook his gloved fist in the general direction of Blue Base, and Simmons had to consciously stop himself from shaking his head.
“Uhm...sir, we aren’t enemies anymore, remember?” Jesus CHRIST, he was hoarse. Did anyone notice? Donut raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. Thank god.
Simmons had criticized his superior officer’s frankly absurd decision to go around in full armour all the time on the moon base before, but now he was grateful for it. With any luck, nobody would realise that Simmons had anything to hide with him around. Who was gonna notice that there were now two Red Team nutcases running around the moon wearing power armour for no reason? Well, not counting Lopez, that is.
Even though it seemed like the subject had changed, Simmons felt the need to apologise. He was just hard-wired that way.
“I’m sorry I’m late, sir. I was, uh...busy! In the mech bay. Doing...repairs?” Simmons cringed internally at the way his voice cracked, but nobody else seemed particularly fazed. Did he always sound like this?
“Estaba en la bahía de mechas y no te vi. ¿Estabas llorando en el baño otra vez?” Said Lopez, despite his programming somehow not even trying to stand to attention. Donut, disappointingly clad in full civvies complete with bright pink booty shorts, nodded vigorously along, though Simmons was doubtful that he actually understood any of what Lopez was saying.
“Well, at least you’re keeping yourself busy. Some of your comrades could stand to learn from your example.” Simmons tried not to tear up at this - could it be? - genuine compliment, but the moment passed quickly as a subsequent feeling of dread settled itself in his stomach.
“You may be wondering why I summoned you here today,” Sarge continued. Simmons was familiar enough with reading expressions through power armour to know that Sarge was giving him a suspicious once-over, but if his tone was any indication, he seemed not to have drawn any conclusions. “Well, it was for one reason, and one reason only-”
“Oh, Sarge! You got my suggestion, didn't you? I asked Lopez to pass it on to you, but I wasn't sure if you got it! Oh, I'm so glad. Are you going to check in with our mental health now? Ooh! Ooh! I know! Why don't we make sure everyone is practicing adequate self-care first?” As if to emphasise his point, Donut shot what must have been his equivalent of a side-eye in Simmons’s direction. As always with him, subtlety was simply not in the cards.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve spoken to any of you since this morning," Donut went on. "I was really starting to miss you guys! Are we going to start having that weekly group talk circle I mentioned, Sarge? I think we could really benefit from-”
“No, Donut. I’m sure none of what you just said is relevant. Lopez, would you like to tell the group what it is I've been working on?”
“Ninguno de ustedes me entiende de todos modos. ¿Por qué debería decir algo?”
“Ha! I knew you would explain it well. I can always count on you, Lopez. Yes, I have encountered a new enemy. Over the next week, we will be preparing to combat this nefarious foe. Of course, without my guidance, you would be like lambs to slaughter, which is why, starting today, I’m going to be assigning you an intensive training program...”
Simmons wondered, not for the first time, if he wouldn’t have been better off pulling a Grif and skipping this briefing altogether. Who knew what kind of crazy shenanigans Sarge might put them up to if he had some new scheme in mind? This was sure to be a bad sign.
Luckily for everyone except him, Grif chose this exact moment to finally turn up, speak of the devil. According to Simmons’s HUD, he was exactly seven minutes and 24 seconds late...which was definitely far too early for Simmons’s liking. Way to make Simmons look bad. Couldn’t he have stalled for a little longer? The fact that there had been roughly five minutes difference between their arrival times was embarrassing. There was just something so wrong about it.
There followed an awkward silence during which Grif went about inserting himself between his fellow Reds with all the urgency of a man who has never heard of the concept of time. He too had completely forgone armour in favour of a t-shirt accented with at least two unidentifiable stains and his favourite pair of sweatpants (the ones with the annoying hole in the back that he’d never bothered fixing, no matter how many times Simmons reminded...ok, begged...him to).
“‘Sup,” he said, simply, infuriatingly, and Simmons had to laugh. He was pretty sure nobody would notice, but Grif shot one of those little knowing grins of his in Simmons’s direction, the bastard - a flash of white teeth that were one of the few parts of his body that hadn’t been replaced after the tank ran him over all those years ago.
“Private Grif. I would ask you why you arrived at my 14:15 briefing at 14:22, but you and I both know that you’re so lazy and slow-moving that you couldn’t be on time to your own funeral.” The words were spiteful, but Sarge’s voice sounded positively gleeful. Was there anything he enjoyed more than chewing Grif out?
After that, Simmons couldn’t help but tune out. He’d known it was coming, but he really wasn’t in the mood to join in with the usual ‘make-fun-of-Grif’ routine. He knew exactly how it’d go, anyways. Looking around, it seemed like Lopez and Donut had come to similar conclusions. Besides, for some reason, he had started to feel really weird all of a sudden. Was his pulse usually this fast? His HUD registered an increased pulse that was 60% faster than normal. That couldn’t be a good sign. And why did he feel so hot? There was no reason why his armour should stray from the optimum 20 degrees Celsius, not unless Grif had been tampering with it again.
Within minutes, whatever had been bugging Sarge before was forgotten, so absorbed was he in having a diss-off with the orange sim trooper. Well, as long as he let off some steam, what harm could it do? The guy had been really on edge lately. However, whenever the two got into their quarrels, Simmons always had to watch out for- yes, there it was. Sarge just had to bring his shotgun into it.
“Wait!” Simmons stepped between the two, eyes firmly on the raised gun. He really wasn’t in the right headspace to get shot at right now. “Um, I think it might be time for us to adjoin this briefing now, sir. You’ve said what you wanted to, and we’re all eager to go back to work now.”
Sarge cocked his head to one side, expression unreadable beneath the helmet. Like this, his familiar gold visor was unexpectedly unnerving.
“I-I really need to go. I, uh, have some important repairs to make. Sir,” Simmons squeaked, and he couldn’t disguise his wince in time. Grif gave him a long, hard look.
Oh no.
“Uhh, Simmons? Are you okay? It kinda sounds like you’ve been gargling glass.”
To Simmons’s utter dismay, Donut chimed in.
“Yeahh...I didn’t want to mention it earlier because I thought you might be offended, but you really don’t sound great. Did something happen?” Somehow, he managed to sound sympathetic and conspiratorial at the same time.
Simmons reflected briefly on his time spent sobbing on the bathroom floor like a little kid.
“No,” he said as confidently as he could. Which, judging by the reactions of his teammates, wasn’t very confidently at all. “I mean, yes. I-I mean, I’m fine! Yeah, I’m good.”
Now, even Sarge looked suspicious. From inside a helmet. Which was weird, because he normally had a lot of trouble reading people - or anything else. Simmons tried not to give in to despair. He could not be this obvious...could he?
The silence that followed, wherein everyone just kind of looked at him, just waiting - for what? For him to crack? - was probably one of the worst moments of his life so far, and he had had a lot of bad moments. Definitely too many. Then, some god or other out in the vast universe must have taken pity on him or something, because Sarge took his advice and ended the briefing.
“Alright, everyone be good and be on the lookout for evil types! Especially the blue kind!” He paused, hesitating. “Um, but not blue allies, of course. Just evil-looking blue-themed people. You know what I mean. And remember, just because someone is ugly, that doesn’t mean they’re evil! Think of them like vegetables...wait, what was I saying?”
Whatever he was saying, it meant that Simmons could leave. And leave he did. He was just considering whether he should go back to the bathroom or find a new place to hide when Grif caught up with him in the corridor. Shit.
“Hey man. Are you really good? ‘Cause like, not to be blunt, but it really sounds like you’re not.” He leaned in sceptically, lowering his voice, and Simmons felt his heart jump into his throat. “Why are you wearing a helmet, anyways? You’re not that ugly. C’mon, let me see your face.”
Of course he would notice. Fuck. But then things only got worse.
While Simmons was busy being frozen in anguish, Grif reached up to undo the clasps of his helmet, only for Simmons to jump out of his reach with reflexes he didn't even know he had.
“N-no! I-I want to keep it on. I’m, uh, feeling hot. Y’know, cyborg stuff.”
“And keeping that stuffy helmet on cools you down how? I always roast in mine.”
“That’s because you broke the cooling unit, remember?” Simmons deadpanned, grateful for the opportunity to talk about something that wasn't going to make his heart rate go wildly off-course.
“Oh.” Grif paused, momentarily lost in thought. Just when Simmons thought he was off the hook, the orange sim trooper fixed those burning brown eyes of his on him again. It was enough to make Simmons retreat by several steps.
“Can you fix it for me? Pleeease?” Grif must have been attempting to plead with his eyes, but he just looked cross-eyed.
“N-no. I’m- I said I was busy. I-I have to go!” Simmons exhaled quickly, already turning to flee, hoping to get out of Grif’s eyeline before he could do something really stupid. But Grif caught him by the wrist, oddly gentle.
“Seriously, Simmons, what’s wrong? Your voice sounds terrible,” he said, his tone soft and shockingly genuine. But when Simmons met Grif’s gaze, something shifted in his expression and he turned away, looking almost embarrassed.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
For a moment, Simmons really considered it. He really did. But then he realised how ridiculous the idea was. Why should he talk about it?
How could he?
“No.” Simmons broke away from Grif’s grasp with more force than he intended. But this time he wouldn’t apologise - he was on a roll, and as long as that uncontrollable restlessness was devouring him from the inside out, he would do anything he could to get rid of the excess of energy that was boiling through his veins. “Would you quit making such a big deal of this?! So what if my voice sounds a bit weird! It’s none of your goddamn business,” Simmons croaked, holding his arms to himself to hide the way they were shaking.
“Why did you have to point it out in front of everyone like that?” He continued, turning his back on Grif, who opened his mouth to answer, but Simmons wasn’t finished yet.
“Besides, what good would talking even do? What do you know about me, anyways?! I don’t know why you bother. We’re not friends, so just...leave me alone.”
Having said all that, Simmons knew that he couldn’t look Grif in the eye anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to meet those deep brown eyes, to see that square, handsome face crumple in the way it did when somebody went too far. To his shame, increasingly Simmons had been the cause of this. When had he become so angry? Had he meant what he had said?
Simmons thought about it.
No, he hadn’t.
He racked his brains for something he could say that might lighten the blow, some way to take back the hurt that he knew wasn’t meant for Grif - deep down, Simmons knew it was really meant for someone else who wasn’t here. But Grif had caught him at a bad time. Sure, Simmons was upset, but there was no good excuse for him to react in the way he had. He was just so tired, and that feeling of restlessness hadn’t given him a moment of peace in so long.
But he was wrong to have said those things. He knew that.
“Grif, I-” Simmons started, mentally clawing at apologies and explanations that he didn’t have, that he didn’t know how to say. But even if there had been some kind of magic phrase he could’ve said to fix this, it wouldn’t have mattered, because Grif was already gone.
Grif was no stranger to being told to fuck off. He was used to it, and had been ever since he was a little kid, misbehaving in the classroom because his mom was sick and his little sister was stupid and he was so young, too young to be so alone in the world. He'd been told to fuck off when he didn’t know what to do, when no one would tell him how to fix his mistakes. He’d been told over and over to leave, experiencing dismissal after dismissal until it became more than commonplace, until it was an expectation, to the point that there had been a time in his life when there was no place he felt more at home in than a corridor.
So why did this time feel any different?
Grif leaned back against the wall, but before long he found himself sinking to the floor like some kind of soap opera primadonna. Great. Leave it to Simmons to be contagiously dramatic.
Speaking of. There had definitely been something bothering Simmons, but if he didn’t want to talk about it, there was nothing Grif could do. Why had he thought he could help him? Of course Simmons didn’t want to talk. He was right, anyways. What did Grif know about him?
He knew that Simmons had grown up in Ohio, that he’d been made to join the volleyball team against his will as a kid, that somewhere on earth he had a successful big sister, a sick mom and a shitty dad, but...that was about it. They’d known each other for so long - they talked all the time, so often that even the blues treated them as a pair. And they were a pair in a way - everybody knew that they were inseparable. So why did they still know so little about each other?
Maybe Simmons was right. Maybe they weren’t as close as Grif had thought. Maybe they weren’t friends. Because friends were supposed to know stuff about each other, weren't they?
But Grif wanted to know more about Simmons. And he’d been stupid enough to think that maybe Simmons wanted to know more about him, too. But why would he?
It was so obvious that something was wrong with Simmons. Everyone had noticed. Knowing him, it was something about his dad. He had probably been crying. He hated people knowing how sensitive he was, but he was. Always had been.
Grif could recount instances like this occurring as long ago as basic training. But Simmons had never wanted to talk about them before. Why had he thought that might have changed? Donut always said that Red Team should start doing group therapy or something...of course, that was a stupid suggestion, because nobody could get Red Team to sit down and have a civilised conversation about anything for more than five minutes, let alone their feelings. But, as much as Grif hated to admit it, Donut was probably right. And Simmons wasn’t the only one who refused to talk about things that bothered him.
Suddenly, Grif felt the need to be out of sight. He knew exactly where to go.
But Simmons got there first.
“Grif! Hi. I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d be here. I, uh. I can leave?” Simmons warbled, tripping over his words, and wow, that had to hurt. The guy really needed some lozenges.
The helmet was nowhere in sight, which was a relief, but the little Grif could see of Simmons’s angular face in the dim glow of his cyborg eye immediately confirmed his suspicions. He had definitely been crying. Hard.
“No, it’s fine. Um. If you’re busy, I can go?” Grif said awkwardly, already backing out of the cave. Shit. Where was he supposed to go now? How had Simmons known about Grif’s cave? Had Grif mentioned it to him before? Did he know about the mushrooms?
“No! I-I mean, you don’t have to. I’m sorry, I know this is your place. I just...I didn’t know where to go.”
There was yet another horrible silence. Never had Grif felt such a desire to fill in the gaps in a conversation before. He had to wonder if this was how Simmons always felt. Was he supposed to apologise now? Should he say something comforting? How could he, without sounding sarcastic?
Once again, Simmons got there first.
“Um. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I didn’t mean what I said..." He trailed off, glowing gaze turning floor-wards. Oh god, was he blushing?
"We're friends. Good friends. Of course we are. I'm just...not feeling great right now. But it's not your fault. I'm sorry if I made it seem that way."
Grif didn't know what to say. What could he? But if that was unexpected, what happened next was even more so.
Suddenly, Simmons closed the space between them, moving with speed Grif didn’t know he had. He took hold of Grif’s wrist but came to a stop, visibly hesitating. What was he doing? Did he think he needed permission? Permission for what?
Grif, bewildered as he was, must have nodded or something, because seconds later he was being led to a place where he knew from memory there were some convenient rocks. Was Simmons actually going to talk to him? Something inside him was inordinately hopeful.
Could this be something else?
They sat down opposite each other, and Grif was struck by how close together they were. Alone. In the dark. Away from everyone else. Everything was happening so fast. What had happened the last time they were alone together in the dark, again? The memory was on the tip of his tongue…oh.
Never mind!
“So, uh. Talking.” Simmons laughed drily, too high for it to sound natural. Oh, good. They were both nervous.
“Yeah,” Grif said, trying to sound encouraging even as he realised that it was extremely unlikely that he’d be able to contribute much to this conversation at all. When was the last time he’d had an honest conversation while sober? He couldn’t remember. Could today be the day that he would finally break his streak?
But Simmons, who besides being a stupid nerd could be quite smart in his own way, must have known him better than Grif thought.
“I have something which might help, because, real talk, neither of us are very good at real talk,” he said, pulling a bottle of - could it be? Yes! - decent vodka out of one of the compartments in his chestplate. Grif could kiss him.
Woah. That was a thought. Not a bad one, either. Fuck.
“Who the fuck did you steal this from? I didn’t know you had it in you,” Grif whispered reverently, taking the bottle from his hands to examine it. He was half-expecting it to vanish at any moment, but it didn’t.
“I didn’t steal it, Grif. Can’t I buy alcohol for myself? I’m old enough,” Simmons muttered indignantly. Now that his snark had returned, his voice sounded almost normal.
“Are you really, Simmons? You’ve kind of got a case of babyface going on, you know? I bet you get ID’d every time you try to buy.” He didn’t really have much of a babyface, but Grif had the sudden urge to find out just how much snark he could recover.
“No, I - okay, I do. But I mean, god, I’m 28 years old, Grif. Shouldn't I look older than 21 by now?”
Grif couldn’t help but laugh. Of course the nerd would be unlucky enough to still get ID’d at 28 years old even though he was ridiculously tall. That was so him.
The battlestar galactica shot glasses he then fished out of yet another compartment - how many convenient compartments did he have in there? - were equally so him, and Grif found himself undeniably endeared. Oh no.
As Simmons divvied up the bottle into more shot glasses than they needed and Grif settled in to spend a long afternoon in a cave talking about god-knows-what - probably not feelings, unless they got really fucked, but hey - Grif was only a little surprised that he was actually looking forward to spending time with his friend. Yeah. Friend.
Friends knew stuff about each other, but they had to learn that stuff first. And he and Simmons had plenty of time to do just that.
He’d sort out his other feelings about Simmons later. Probably.