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It's looking to be a pretty standard day in Blood Gulch for Grif. Make fun of the Blues, eat some fucking nachos, ignore Simmons, maybe even have time to squeeze in a nap or five during Sarge's hourly rallying pep talks.
He's standing around with Donut and Simmons, sort of on guard duty except really not, when Doc turns up carrying a rectangular box trussed up in ribbons and shiny wrapping paper.
"You thought I forgot, didn't you?" Doc says brightly, before Grif can even ask where the hell he got wrapping paper while stranded in their shitty box canyon.
Not entirely sure who he's talking to, Grif stares at Simmons. Simmons stares back and shrugs. Donut scratches his head—as in, literally scratches his fuckin' helmet as he steps forward.
"Forgot what?" he asks tentatively.
Grif snorts and leans into Simmons to mutter, "This oughta be good."
Doc sighs loudly, brandishing the box in a dramatic wave.
"Our anniversary, silly!" he says. "We've been dating for a year now."
Ohhhh, right. Of course. Yep. How shocking. Maybe he should write 'em a card or—something. Maybe some tasteful bathroom graffiti.
"Dating? What the hell are you talking about, mister?"
...Except that it is shocking, apparently, considering the note of high-pitched confusion in Donut's voice just then.
Simmons makes an audible choking noise and Grif perks right up.
"Obviously you two need some, uh, private time to sort this out--" Simmons is saying, walking back slowly, grabbing at Grif as though to drag him along.
"Aw hell no," Grif says, shaking him off. "There's no way I'm missing this."
"Well I'd like to!" Simmons barks back, even if it comes out more of a panicked chirp.
"You're not going anywhere either. It's only weird if I'm here alone."
Maybe Simmons finds that logic acceptable for once, or maybe it's just too awkward to leave, but he gives a defeated slump of his shoulders and stays put. Just in time to hear Doc and Donut get balls deep into an argument over whether they were or were gay married or—whatever.
Awesome.
"I don't understand--" Doc was saying, "we've been living together this whole time!"
"You were nursing me back from the brink of death, where else was I supposed to go?" Donut protests, quite sensibly.
"We--we cried together watching The Notebook."
Donut snorted incredulously. "Who doesn't?"
Helpfully, Grif chimes in, "I know Simmons sure does."
The resulting elbow in his side was totally worth it.
"We cuddled!" Doc exclaims, starting to sound more confused than heartbroken. "I mean, all the time!"
"Hey, I love a good cuddle." Donut shrugs.
Simmons raises a hand. "I can attest to that. He, uh. He really does," he says awkwardly.
"Just ask Sarge," Grif mutters, although no one seems to hear him. Too bad, it was pretty funny.
"You fell asleep in my arms!" Doc yells, the words bouncing around in the canyon around them. Unaffected by volume or Doc's insistence, Donut merely shrugs again.
"What can I say? You give good back rubs."
"Well that's another thing, you're always asking me for back rubs!"
"I have stress problems!"
"But—we've been sleeping in the same bed all year!"
"We only had one!" Donut finally shouts. He then adds, chastising, "And I didn't want to be the one to make it weird."
Simmons shakes his head, clearly at his limit.
"This could go on for days..." he moans in agony. In a moment of sympathy for his pathetic partner, Grif steps up.
"Okay let's cut to the chase," he says. "Have you two even, you know--"
There's a lot of words he could use here, but thoughtfully he opts for an obscene hand gesture. Thank Sarge's sensitivity talks for that.
To his surprise, both Donut and Doc recoil, making disgusted noises.
"Pig!"
"Of course not!" Doc shouts. "We were taking things slow, he's been hurt before."
"That's true, I have," Donut says thoughtfully. After a minute of blessed silence, he turns back to Doc. "Man, I am sorry. I never meant to give you the wrong idea."
Doc sighs. "It's okay," he says with a shrug. "Do you at least want to see what I got you?"
"Well, sure. I do love presents."
As Doc finally hands the box over, Grif can't help but give the man props. Getting dumped like that has gotta fucking suck.
"I gotta tell you, Doc, you're handling this pretty well," he says, as Donut unwraps his gift.
"Well like my dad always told me, you gotta make hay while the sun still shines," Doc replies cheerfully. Grif blinks.
"What the hell does that have to do with anything--"
He's interrupted, of course, by a strained cry of, "Oh, God," from Simmons. When Grif turns to look, Simmons is staring directly into the box. While he doesn't get a good look, it does appear to be ribbed and long, and he gets the distinct impression that it plugs into the wall.
Although he's too busy gaping to know for sure, Grif can practically feel Simmons pale behind his helmet.
"Is that what I think it is--" he says, only Donut is too busy bouncing around to hear him.
"A personal massager?" he yells excitedly. "This is amazing!"
Doc beams. "It's for your back!" he says. "My hands sure get tired giving you all those back rubs."
"Oh man, I can't wait to try it out."
Grif stands a bit straighter. There's something about that voice he just does not like.
"Why wait? Let's do it now. Take off your armor."
...And there it is. He's out.
Grabbing Simmons by the arm, he strides towards the door.
"Simmons let's get the fuck out of here," he says, brooking no room for argument—but no, Simmons has to be a bitch about it.
"Are you sure?" Simmons says, in that smartass gloating way he does so fuckin' well, "You don't want to stick around? You seemed into it a minute ago--"
"Simmons, I will fucking end you. Now shut up."
They make it to the door just as the buzzing starts, and they do not look back.
- - -
Donut looks up as the door slams. "Geez, what got into those guys?" he says.
Behind him, Doc presses the massager into just the right part of his back that makes his muscles turn into wet noodles. Ooooh yeah.
"Who knows," says Doc. Donut can feel him shrug. "Anyway, want to practice kissing?"
"Oh boy do I!"