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It was hot, stifling air hanging low on Simmons' body in the lonely COs bunk hed moved into months ago at this point. Still less his things in the room than Sarges', left behind after he.
Well.
He couldn't bring himself to throw anything away, and instead, pushed it into the closet, into drawers, anywhere the stuff would fit-- pushed it all aside.
Much like his mental state, usually.
Compartmentalizing things is healthy, he thinks.
It frees up more room for more important things.
Like eating breakfast, and waiting for the blues to come by for whatever the fuck they've got going on in the day. For maintenance knowledge and types of cheeses Donut likes and dislikes during wine hour.
It's not sad.
"Fuck," he doesnt sweat. He can't sweat. But overheating was something Simmons did so easily now, ever since his cyborg operation all those years back.
The desert was fucking awful, he thinks back, Valhalla was nice, temperate. Enough cool air from the peaks of the mountain came down to their little foothill canyon. Like a natural cooling unit for him.
Its hot now, though.
He groans uselessly, lifting himself up from his bed before heading twoards the main living quarters, bare foot and mechanical one making alternating sounds against the hall walls.
He needs water, bad.
Simmons noticed the light first, a dim glow emanating from the kitchen, then a sniff and a scooting of a chair against the floor.
Donut is awake.
It had been two and a half months since Donut arrived in Blood Gulch, and things had finally started to feel somewhat normal once again.
The blues happily made room in their daily routine for the pink soldier, and Donut, albeit wary at first, has now comfortably shifted into their weird little fucked up situation they've got going on in the middle of the box canyon. (Not a single one of them complained or put up a fuss when Donut requested the re- implementation of his daily wine and cheese hour. Its once a week now, but.)
Simmons took a small pause, leaning hard on his fleshy foot before continuing. Donut is a heavy sleeper, always had been, so it feels weird that he would be awake at this hour. (What hour, you hadnt even taken the time to look at the clock before getting pissy about being hot.)
He took the final turn around the corner and paused again,
Fuck.
Donut sat shirtless at the dining table, head resting heavy against one hand, the other fiddling aimlessly with a pair of dog tags hanging from his neck. His hair was curled with sweat and hung low across his forehead, creating a curtain across his face.
Simmons watched his shoulders shake just an inch, a trembling sigh in the hot night air hitting like a brick against a stone wall.
He swallowed, throat impossibly dry, "Uh- Donut?"
The younger soldier jumped hard, knees banging into the bottom of the table, "Jesus Christmas, Simmons! Fuck--" The unusual swear fell fast out of his mouth, hands gripping his knees tight before grinding out a weak, "Ouch-- Man, this wood is hard."
Simmons raised his hand up in apology, realizing just then that he'd left his other arm in it's charging port beside the bed.
Suddenly embarassed, he shrank in on himself, "S-Sorry, Donut, I wasn't expecting to run into you in here was all, I just. Water. Uh. Hot. You know."
He can see in the low light of the kitchen that Donut's eyes were puffy and his lips were red and swollen from chewing. He scrubbed at his face with his left palm before mustering a smile, "Mm, yeah, its really hot tonight, huh. I couldnt really get to sleep so," his voice trailed off, giving a vauge hand gesture to the empty kitchen.
Simmons isnt going to point out that the couches in the common area are much more comfortable than the kitchen table, and theres a crossbreeze in there from the two entrances of the base that would make things better, or running a cold shower in the barracks would help, or,
"Are. Are you doing okay?"
Stupid mouth stupid Simmons can't keep your mouth shut for a second,
"I." A pause, another shaking breath, heavy with recent tears and phlegm and snot, "I don't know."
Fuck.
Simmons shifted uncomfortable on his feet before moving forward into the kitchen. He reached into the fridge, moved condiments, leftovers from Tucker, and a bottle of wine to grab two small bottles of water, setting one in front of Donut, who was sitting so uncharacteristically small in his chair.
Simmons sat stiff in his own chair across from Donut, hand twisting at his shirt beneath the table.
It's just like Caboose said,
Sometimes you just have to listen.
Sometimes you have to be the person who believes in their friends.
And sometimes, you have to mean it.
Simmons isn't good at listening.
Or he is.
He just isnt good at responding, at adding to the conversation. That was always Grif's job, really. Grif isn't here, though, Simmons is, but he's not sure he'll be what Donut needs, not sure he knows what to say.
But he promised to try.
Donut reached across the table wordlessly, grabbed Simmons' bottle of water and opened it, and then slid it back across the table. "Looks like you uh, needed a hand there." He smiled sheepishly, gesturing his head twoards Simmons left side.
Fuck, man.
He really just made things look so easy.
"Thanks. I uh. Didnt know you wore your tags." Simmons pointed out, trying not to look at the metal sitting on Donuts bare chest, "I thought you said it was 'garrish' to have something with your own name on it."
An icebreaker, a small joke, trying to soften the mood, ease the glaring question of 'whats been eating you, you look terrible, have you been up all night crying?'
It was said years ago, he thinks. Back some of the first weeks they had known eachother. Donut was first to break protocol with his uniform, especially after gaining his new confidence with his new set of pink armor.
Donut smiled weakly, another smile he didnt mean, cracking the seal on his own bottle and taking a small sip, "Well, yeah, I mean. Its kind of tasteless! You gotta be pretty full of yourself to have jewelery with your own name on it." He fingers at the metal, "They're not mine, though."
Simmons squints in the dim light at the plates hanging from the chain, 'F. DuFresne - UNSC Medic PFL.UN062530' embossed deep, scratched and worn over time sat between his thumb and index finger. The metal hit soft against his chest when he let go.
Oh.
Of course.
Stupid Simmons.
His mouth got even more dry.
A click of the tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth was nearly audible as he opened his mouth to speak again, "Sorry, I didnt mean-"
"Naw, I know what you meant, Simmons. It's okay." Donut straightened his back, grunting weakly at the strain of his spine until there was a soft 'pop' "I havent really taken them off since. Well, since I got them, I guess. Feels nice to have a part of him, you know." His fingers fell to pick at the heavy slab of a table, blunt fingernails scratching at an already dented area of wood. "I just miss him, is all."
Simmons softened a bit and hummed, taking a small drink of his water. He didn't want to interrupt Donut's thoughts, especially when he's being serious.
He knows Donut well enough to tell that he needs this.
Donut continues, "Sometimes I can't get my brain to shut up. With things I'd've done different in my life." He exhales heavily through his nostrils, rubbed his hand over his jaw, over his scar. "Gosh, sometimes, it's just. The empty bed that keeps me awake."
His blue eyes are bloodshot, glossy, tired, when they look up to Simmons. "I'm guessing you get that too. You took the CO's room, even though you didn't have a squad to command."
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
"I don't. I mean. Thats not why I took Sarges' bunk, i just. It felt right! To do!"
How the hell did he manage to turn this conversation around so damn quickly.
Donut nodded slowly, eyes unwavering, "Does it still feel right?"
Simmons bristled in his seat, feeling far too exposed for his liking. Donut sees him so clearly for what he is.
A coward.
Running.
Always running, and abandoning his team when things get too tough to face.
Like how he left Donut for dead. (Twice)
Like how he gave up and left Doc behind in Valhalla.
How he joined blue team (Twice, Christ, Dick, pick a fucking team)
He ran on Chorus from his squad, his responsibility, for the selfish reason of saving his friends to just, go home and forget about things.
He ran from The Meta, left Caboose behind, left Sarge to go back by himself, and.
Well.
Now, he's running from his feelings.
About Grif, about Sarge, about being alone (But youre not alone) about Donut, about everything.
Hes suddenly aware that his breaths are more shallow than before, and Donut is still staring, he's still here and expecting him to speak, to answer, to say something.
"I. I'm gonna--"
Gonna what, Dick, run back to your room? Hide from Donut? The only person who can put up with you? The one one who really gets you anymore? Who understands?
"I just. I was scared, okay?" It was a quiet confession, a whisper, hoarse and wavering. "I was scared to sleep in that room to look at the other empty beds and realize that I fucked up. That maybe, I should have been selfish, and kept Grif here with. Maybe I should have said fuck the blues, my job's done, and went to Earth with him. But, Donut, I'm trying so hard to think about people other than myself. Because That's all I ever did." His head hung low, eyes anywhere but Donut, embarassed, ashamed.
He heard Donut shift in his chair and looked up, an extended arm rested on the table, hand open and upturned. His face was,
Complicated, to say the least.
It was pain and understanding, brows knit together and lips upturned.
This time, it was a smile he meant.
Simmons took a beat, pushing childish discomfort aside, sliding his hand into Donut's. The younger soldier laced their fingers together and held them there. His hand was clammy compared to Donut's.
Gross.
"Simmons. Its okay to be scared. You know, we never really had a say in what happened in our lives, so its only natural that when we make changes, we dont really. Y'know, want to." A gentle squeeze. "Leaving Chorus was scary." He admitted, "I didnt know if there would be a place for me here. Shoot, I didn't know if i would even want to go back there. It was a total blind leap!"
Simmons turn to squeeze back, reassurance that he was there, that he was listening. There was something sitting at the pit of his stomach hearing that Donut didnt think he would have a place in Blood Gulch with him. (With them? Caboose and Tucker are here too)
"I just..." Donut's jaw flexed in thought, like he was picking his words carefully, "I knew I didnt belong there." He heaved a shaky sigh, dragging his other hand through his hair, "The empty apartment just really got to me, I think."
"But you're here, now." Simmons offered weakly, "Is it still scary?"
Donut breathed out a laugh, eyes wrinking around the edges. "Terrifying, Simmons."
That thing, that indescribable thing, that sat at the pit of his stomach grew, clawing it's way into his chest.
"But." He let go of Simmons hand, who felt the loss of contact even more uncomfortable. "We just gotta keep on movin', right?"
He looked like he didn't believe the words coming out of his own mouth. Donut had an easy to read face, usually. But right now, Simmons couldn't tell what he was feeling.
Donut heaved a sigh, gave a vague gesutre with his right hand, before quietly dropping it limp to his side.
"I cant. I can't bring Doc back. I cant blame anyone for him dying, I know that. I tried to shift the blame on to a lot of people, myself included." He swallowed thick, fighting back against tears hanging heavy in his eyes. "I think I got to the point where I was mad at him." A hard shudder rolled through his shoulders before putting his palm up against his mouth. Muffled through his hand he whispered, "And that really just. Made me hate myself."
Simmons flinched. He's no stranger to self depreciation, of course not. It comes with the territory, having family with a military background, trying hard to fit into a mold set out for you, hating the choices you make, the people you please, and let down.
His time spent in the Red Army was no different. It became more a cruel joke than anything, countless nights bitching and complaining with Grif, trying his hardest to pretend that things were fine, but Grif knew better. He knew better.
But Donut?
His self confidence levels were always off the charts.
His uncanny ability to see the best in people, to give second chances, to forgive, to be kind to everyone was something that was an enigma to his teammates.
To think he would feel so lowly about himself just.
There was something so wrong about that.
Guilt is uncomfortable like that.
"You know. Doc snored, like, really bad." Donut says, a quiet change of the subject, a pained smile as he scrubbed at the tears from his face. "One of the first nights we slept close by eachother, I almost strangled him. It was like there was a second Grif for a minute there." Theres fondness in the way Donut says that. "Shoot, I practically had to beg him to lay next to me so I could roll him onto his side so I could sleep. He was so worried about my bullet wound opening up that he would rather sit straight up in a chair to sleep."
Simmons marveled at the way Donut spoke, his usual enthusiastic cadence now low and quiet, but his eyes were still so warm and full of admiration.
"Way back in Valhalla?" Simmons knew there was something there. The small cottage, the shared clothes line outside? The way they tittered around eachother in their makeshift kitchen during his and Sarges visit. When he first saw Donut again after.
After he left him behind, in the dirt, bleeding, not moving.
"Mm, yeah." He scratched the skin under his bare chest, right below the uneven suture scar of the old bullet wound. "Did I ever tell you about how he was gonna bury me out there?"
"He what--" it came as a laugh, he really didnt mean to, it was startling, sudden, a bubble that popped.
"Yeah-" Donut also laughed, his head shaking in disbelief. "My armor was in complete lock down so I just. Watched him. He made it pretty deep into my hole before I was able to move again. Gave him quite the spook!"
"He really thought you were dead, huh?"
"Hey, you did too."
It was a small jab, but not an unwarranted one.
They've never talked about this before.
A wound from years ago, being torn open to look at in all its gory detail. Simmons spent months trying to scrub the vision of Donut's limp form from his mind, the feeling of blood on his hands.
Even after they were reunited, he had nightmares.
"Well I-- You just went down, and I saw the hole, the blood, and I panicked--"
He remembers it so clearly, weak knees skidding hard into the dirt, grabbing desperately at pink armor, trying to check for an exit wound, kevlar gloves getting sticky with the dark red, useless chest compressions against metal, screaming until his voice gave out--
"You really gave it to Wash, huh," Donut says instead, a smug smile on his face.
"I-- It was the only thing I could have done! You and Lopez were both down and I--"
Was alone, standing with your blood on my hands, I couldn't stop shaking, it was all I could do, I was scared he'd shoot me too, wishing he'd shot me instead, he thinks.
Donut gave a small shrug of his shoulders, holding the bottle firm in one of his hands, "It was really badass, was all, seeing you stand up to a freelancer?" A hearty dramatic shudder, hand over his heart, "Hoo boy, Simmons!" A swoon, a flirtatious eyebrow waggle that at any other time, would have made Simmons cringe.
"Donut, I," he paused, worrying lips between teeth, "Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I left you behind, that day. I'm sorry that I put you in the way of that. I really didnt know Wash woul--"
"Simmons, its fine, really." A wave of his hand, a slight flash of a frown, "That was years ago, silly!"
"I just thought you died. And I couldn't do anything for you, to help you. And then Doc got involved and I-" he pressed his palm into his eye and let out a loud groan. "I never went back for you. And I ran, again." He suddenly felt super shitty, that pit in his stomach growing deeper, bile churning and threatening to jump ship.
"I blame myself for you becoming a cyborg and Grif getting your body parts and I have for years-"
It was said in a rush, Hands coming up against his mouth in some vain attempt to try and get the words back inside.
Now that.
Was unexpected.
Donut rarely was able to keep himself from saying what was on his mind, but it was usually reserved for things like Simmons' bland food, or Caboose's incessant picking at hangnails until his fingers bled, or the color of the rug in the common area being outdated.
You know, Donut stuff.
But this was an old dig.
Something that's been weighing on his mind for a while, maybe.
Simmons stiffened in his seat, thin lips turning into a frown at the edges.
"Donut, it wasn't your fault. Sarge was pretty hellbent on the whole 'scooping out guts' thing, remember?" He exhaled hard through his nose.
He's long since gotten over his discomfort in a body that felt less like his own, the unbalance, the different strength- it took a while, but he actually thinks its kinda cool sometimes.
Aside from, well, being unable to keep cool when his freon reserves dry up.
"Grif getting my parts was more in some divine coincidence that he wound up getting his fat ass run over by a tank on the same day. It kinda, yknow, worked out, I guess."
It wasn't a complete exaggeration.
Something he wasnt ever quite used to seeing, though, was his hand moving on someone elses body, his eye wrinkling at the corner, punctuating another's smile.
That took a lot of time to not dislike seeing.
Donut's nose scrunched up, "And here I thought we were confessing stuff that we couldn't go back and change, even though we can't help but think about it all the time. Like me, running from Grif while his back was turned. Instead of both of us running from the tank, I panicked, I left him behind to get crushed. And you? Not coming back to Valhalla, even though you were running from the biggest baddie we had faced up until then. We all have regrets, Simmons."
"Yeah but you shouldn't keep that guilt like that, its-"
"Unhelpful? Unhealthy? Bad for my complexion? Puh-lease, Simmons. As much as I hate to admit, I'm sure we're all gonna go grey pretty early on in life. Maybe you should listen to yourself more often." It was punctuated by a wry laugh, sharp and cold at the edges.
He's right, and Simmons knows that, deep down in his chest, but.
It's really not that easy.
That knowledge sat heavy and quiet between the two of them at the table.
Donut then leaned forward, elbows on the table and chin in his hands with a smile, "Mm, but, think of things this way! If you hadn't gotten Doc involved, I would have died! He went back to Valhalla to the last place command told him to go! And that's where he found me and Lopez!"
Oh.
He had never thought about that before.
Leave it to Donut to find the silver lining in a single bullet.
He really is good at that.
Fake it until you fucking make it and all.
"I. I guess thats true." He took another swig from his water bottle, sighing heavy through his nose. "Have you. Thought about going back there? To Valhalla?"
Donut's face takes a more pained look, teeth clenching hard in his jaw, hand flexing against his cheek.
"Oh- No. No, I don't think I ever will. Or, can," He shook his head, hands lowering to the table twisting nervous on top of the wood, right thumb rubbing aimlessly at an old scar that wrapped around his left hand around his middle and ring fingers. "I don't think I would be able to look at that place. Um. Thinking about it is. You know."
Right,
Of course not.
That's pushing him way too far, you idiot.
"Hey, sorry," Simmons lowered his voice and leaned forward in his chair, shoulders hunching, "I mean. You don't ever need to go back there."
Donut cleared his throat, shaking clear a lump that threatened to choke him, "There's just. A lot of memories in there. That I think I might be scared of." It was a shaking laugh, a breath of air.
Simmons worried his hand against the hem of his shirt below the table again, "I felt the same way about Blood Gulch," a quiet murmur, eyes affixed to the dark wood slab in front of him.
Something about Donut just made Simmons feel so small when talking about stuff like this. He's never felt the need to lie to him.
Probably because Donut knows him well enough to know when he's lying.
Probably because he knows that Donut deserves the truth.
More than likely it's the fact that he trusts Donut, and just doesn't feel the need to lie.
"But," he continues, flexing his hand, "memories aren't always bad. Like Doc's snoring. Even if he was annoying. Like Sarge's wake-up calls, which definitely were annoying. Or like Grif's half-assed advice he would give you, and his wrong answers to crosswords, or the way he would always find ways to get crumbs everywhere when he ate." He inhaled sharp through his nose.
He was getting off track.
"Fuck, even the bases, you know? It's always been the same, but, you know. Different. Not bad- But still weird."
"Its just so quiet now. It's. It's hard to get used to." Donut groans, rubbing his hands hard against his face, fingers tangling in his sandy curls at the roots. "I feel like I'm going crazy."
Simmons nods carefully.
He knows this.
Before Donut showed up. Before he fell into the weird fucked up routine that he and the blues had wordlessly agreed to.
It was just the empty base, the lack of voices that sat heavy in the halls.
There was no constant movement of the gears of the team anymore.
Sarge wasn't there to yell pointless instructions.
Grif wasn't there to retort with heavy sarcasm.
No Donut's bright and cheery replies.
No gunfire, no errant explosions from experiential builds.
No Lopez yelling what Simmons could only assume are half hearted insults. (That much he gathered)
No good mornings no good nights, no arguments no laughter,
It was just.
Quiet.
Grif being home is nothing compared to the loss that Donut had. Donut is also sharing the same pain of losing Sarge. But he knows, he understands,
Being alone,
Even when you're not alone, alone
It can be suffocating.
He rubbed his palm rough against the back of his neck, exhaustion weighing heavy against his spine,
"Donut, I don't. I don't snore, you know, but, if you need company or something. You know. To help you get to sleep. We could always- and this is not a pillowfort conversation- take a nap on the couch?"
Donut took a beat, a blink, a head tilt, "The couch." He repeated.
Simmons' face grew warm.
This was a dumb idea, bad suggestion, Simmons, stupid,
"Mm, I mean. I'm not sure Im ready to sleep in the bunks again. Just yet, and Sarges bed is. Not really. Comfortable. Or big. And the cross breeze of the base really would help with the heat, and-"
"The couch sounds nice, Simmons." He responds quick, teeth flashing a pearly white and crooked grin, before raising his arms up above his head in another large stretch, "It'll be like a sleepover! We already had the existential dread conversation, so we're ahead of the curve!"
Simmons relaxed his shoulders at this, released a breath he didnt know he was holding, "Great, uh. I'll grab some pillows from Sarges' room-"
"Aw, gross Simmons, those pillows are probably even older than Sarge was." He scrunched his nose up in feigned disgust. "I've got extras in my bunk from Chorus-- fresh linens. Really high thread counts. Ergonomic pillow. The works! " He pat the table softly before standing, "C'mon."
Simmons rose to his feet too, tossing their water bottles into the recycling bin, stretching his back out until it popped with a grunt. He was exhausted, sleep trying it's hardest to wiggle it's tendrils into his brain. He hadn't checked the clock before his water run, and was avoiding looking at it now.
He'd rather not know how little sleep he'd be getting tonight.
Donut led the way down the hall, giving a quiet smile outside the door of the shared bunks, Simmons' old room. Grif's old room. Their old room. He cleared his throat and mumbled, "Sorry about the mess, I uh. Haven't been keeping up on my chore wheel."
The heat in the room was stifling and heavy; Donut's bed was unmade and empty, his armor and undersuit laid out neatly on the floor.
However, that was the only neat thing about the room once shared by the three red soldiers.
He pushed the door open a bit more allowing Simmons to take in the sight of his dimly lit room, civilian clothes and fatigues were thrown haphazardly in drawers, and papers on the desk were in complete disarray.
Well.
It was mostly contained to his third of the room.
Simmons old bed, Grif's old bed, lay untouched and unbothered. None of Donut's clothes made it to their side of the room, like being held back by an invisible force.
Items from his life on Chorus remained in shipment boxes stacked against the far wall, untouched after the dropship delivery last month. His trusty favorite pistol laid alone on the bedside table.
This felt weird.
He felt rude, standing in the open doorway, stealing glances at items on the ground, on the dresser, on the boxes.
"It's. I mean. My room is no better," Simmons admits, watching Donut retrieve a t-shirt before popping a latch on a storage container and rummaging through it's contents.
"Naw, I know what it looks like, Simmons-"
"I think Grif was more tidy-Hey!" Simmons didn't know a pillow could be thrown so hard, but, this is Donut he's talking about here. He held the pillow in his hands and looked up at Donut, standing with his hands fixated firmly on his hips, mouth twisted into an irritated smile.
"That's rude, Simmons." An exhale of breath from his nose, bending again to reach into the container for another pillow, and a thin sheet. "I know, though. I gotta unpack, eventually."
Simmons squeezes the pillow between his hands, nodding carefully. "I gotta. I gotta pack Sarge's stuff away, eventually. Maybe I can, yknow." A wiggle of his foot twoards the tower of containers, "Use these, after we unpack your stuff."
Donut took a beat, a smile crinkling his tired blue eyes at the edges. "Yeah," he shuffles past Simmons, cradling the sheet and pillow in his arms, "Yeah, we can do that."
Donut talked until they both dozed off, about Doc, about his time alone on Chorus, about Grif and what he's going to say to him when he sees their friend again. He mused about writing a letter to Grif, about giving themselves and the blues haircuts, and what he was going to make for lunch tomorrow.
Simmons simply listened, humming his non replies against the embrace of sleep. He slouched hard against the arm of the couch, Donut's legs propped up in his lap despite his best efforts against it.
Sleep came to Simmons that night the easiest it has in months, the warm breeze through the base was a welcome feeling against his neck. Donut's airy voice lulled him into sleep, and his last thoughts before succumbing to the dark were simple and short.
He missed the fucking noise.
_____________________________
"Tucker!"
"Caboose shut up!" A stage whisper, a bare hand across his helmet where a mouth would be. "Dude, I know its been a while since needing to be stealthy, but think of this like a mission, okay?" A pause, a knit of the eyebrows. "On second thought, you sucked at that too, nevermind."
Tucker had his back against the wall of red base hallway, shoulder pressed hard against Caboose's armored pauldron, who refused to take even a step away.
He had been sleeping in for once, until Caboose came crawling into his bed (in full armor, fuck, don't do that, the bed's gonna break you moron) begging him to go on reconnaissance with him. Donut and Simmons were late for their rooftop shout-off, and they were never late for that.
Tucker wasn't worried about them in the least. Not until he started snooping around Red Base.
It didnt even smell like coffee. Donut usually makes coffee for himself and Simmons before they come over for breakfast, so maybe something was wrong.
"I told you, they were not upstairs on the roof. Or outside on the ground. And they weren't in our base. So." Caboose snuffled, towering over Tucker in his armor.
He really doesn't need to wear that.
"Yeah, I hear you, Caboose." Tucker rolled his eyes, shuffling his feet forward slowly through the eerily quiet base.
It's not like they were actually infiltrating the red base.
They were friends.
Neighbors, at the very least.
He paused at a corner, a low groaning rumble from the room ahead of him. His hand flexed instinctively at his side, groping for a gun that wasn't there, and definitely wasn't needed. His hand raised to give Caboose pause as well, who craned his neck to try and hear better.
"Do you hear that?" A loud whisper from Caboose. "It sounds like an angry dog. Or a pig. Oh my God--" his hand fell to Tucker's shoulder, giving him a hearty shake, "What if they got eaten by a wild pig-- or worse, got a pet!"
"Wha- Why would that be worse, you moron." Tucker hissed over his shoulder, hand splayed across the concrete wall before inching forward.
Caboose merely heaved a dramatic huff, eyeroll practically audible in his voice, "Uh- Well it would just be rude that they did not tell us or share with us. We don't even know their pet's name!"
Tucker shook his head, peeking around the edge of the corner, stiff shoulders relaxing at the sight ahead of him.
Oh, of course.
"It's not a pet, you dumbass," there was fondness in his tone, patting the heavy plated metal of Caboose's forearm with a bare hand. He watched the gears turn in Caboose's head before he leaned further over Tucker to take his own look around the corner into the common room of the red base.
"Ohhh"
Simmons was sitting propped up against the arm of the couch, his own arm folded right against his chest, head lolled back against a pillow, mouth wide open. Harsh snores rolled evenly from his nose.
Donuts back was propped up against Simmons empty arm port, pillow between them. Long legs stretched across the remainder of the couch, feet propped up on the far arm. His arms were crossed against his own chest, face down turned in a deep slumber.
They both looked so.
Peaceful.
And if there's one thing Tucker is sure of, it's that peace is fucking hard to come by.
Even after it all.
Tucker sighed heavy from his nostrils, rubbing his hand at the back of his bare neck, "C'mon Caboose- let's try to make us some coffee."
Caboose turned back to look at Tucker, stiff in his spot, "All the way back at base? But what if they do not wake up in time for breakfast. Then it will not be breakfast and that will mean lunch will not be lunch, lunch will be breakfa--"
"Caboose." Tuckers voice was soft, yet firm. Trying hard to not raise it to not wake the two on the couch, "We can make it here. We can make breakfast here too, breakfast-in-bed-style. Or couch. Getting all homey in this bitch." He took another look twoards the couch at another one of Simmons' snores and snorted softly himself. "C'mon, let's see if the reds have anything good in their fridge."
Sometimes, it's good to break routine.