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Wash and Grif both resided in the locker room just outside the waterpark they had built on Iris.
The sim troopers assume the contractors didn't know it wasn't going to be a public attraction, and built the structure with every brick expressed on the blueprint.
Grif showed up late to the celebration, not expecting to see Wash just starting to change. He was hoping to avoid undressing in front of people, not in the mood for offhanded fat comments from his teammates.
He slid onto the bench near Wash, absentmindedly watching as the ex-freelancer peeled off his kevlar undersuit.
Washington, Caboose, and Sarge rarely ever took off their armour. Simmons used to be the same way, but with retirement the orange soldier managed to pull him out of his maroon shell.
Wash is built, which is expecting of an actual soldier, but he wasn't as dehydrated as Simmons. It became more apparent as the dark undersuit was shed and his sun-starved skin almost glew under the florescent lights.
Grif let out a low whistle and watched the freelancer's ears turn red.
"Enjoying the show Grif?" He teased, glancing over his shoulder; the kevlar sitting on his waist. Both knowing full well that they couldn't wear anything under the skintight protective layer.
"Putting on some weight Mr. Freelancer?" Grif lightly poked at a chunky bit of glute on his back. Earning him a swat as Wash turned to face him.
"Doesn't retirement mean I can gain some? 'sides its not my fault someone shares his heinous snacks with me."
"Hey you like my hei-whatever snacks! Feel lucky I share with you at all." Grif grinned, leaning back on his hands. His eyes wandered as Wash shook his head and reached behind him to grab a military grey wifebeater.
Grif's exploration halted as his gaze stopped on a giant scar trailing up the side of Wash's abdomen.
"Damn!" He jolted forward and outlined the mark with his palm, blocking Wash from pulling his shirt down all the way, his thumb just barely rubbing over the scarred skin.
"The hell hit you, a truck?" He wondered out loud, awestuck at the size of the old wound.
"You, don't remember?" Wash's voice was soft, confused. Grif looked up at him, a frown was plastered on his face, ears beet red.
"Whaddya mean?"
"You-? You hit me with the warthog? Back in Valhalla..."
"Oh..." He pulled his hand back, setting it back down on the bench.
The wound was old, and long since from hurting, but with the sudden disappearance of the sim-trooper's warm hand, Wash found it throbbed. No longer prohibited, he pulled the tank down over the phantom pulsing scar.
The image was burned into Grif's eyes however, and no cover could erase the image from his brain.
He did that.
"It's okay, y'know... I kinda deserved it, after shooting Donut and Lopez..."
"Still... Sorry dude." Grif refused to make eye contact, didn't want to verify the hurt in Wash's eyes.
"You were really badass back then though. You scared the shit out of me when you crawled onto the hood, you looked like a zombie."
"I felt like a zombie." Wash chuckled, still trying to catch the other man's eyes. "When you hit me my shields dropped entirely, so when Sarge blew up those fusion coils... well... hey woah."
There was smallest tear trailing down the orange trooper's cheek. He didn't seem to notice it however, he was too caught up in Wash's gaze, and guilt.
"Dude, ...Dex, it's fine, I'm fine! It doesn't hurt," a current lie as it presently bugged the hell out of him, but that was an outlier.
Wash reached down and rubbed away the tear to Grif's surprise, eye widening at the realization. His thumb lingered.
"Right, sorry, guess I couldn't hold one in," he chuckled awkwardly. Wash huffed, grabbed his hand, and pressed it against the scar through the fabric, forcing Grif to put pressure on it; he could feel the larger man's arm stiffen.
"See? It's fine." Now its fine, because Grif had ahold of him; the throbbing ceased. He could feel the heat of his palm through the polyester.
Grif gulped, did he really look like such a wreck about it that Wash felt the need to genuinely reassure him? Apparently he still did, since the freelancer decided to pull him into an awkward sitting-standing hug. Grif's face was pressed right into his abdomen as Wash's arms wrapped around his head, a little hunched over to properly envelop the red soldier.
It felt good, to hug back. Grif's hands found their way along the spine of the faux-blond's back. Wash was big enough it felt like holding a foam pillow. God when was the last time he was held like this?
He stealthily pressed his lips against the old wound, to himself it made it feel a little better. It was years ago, Wash definitely deserved it, even if he doesn't now. He's alive and functioning as well as a recovering experimental super soldier could.
Wash pretended not the notice the little kiss, god knows how awkward it'd get between them if it was acknowledged. It did feel good, really good. He could feel his heart swell at the motion, despite the lack on contact, it no longer mimicked phantom pains.
The freelancer gave the sim-trooper a heafty pat on the back, ending the intimate moment.
"Alright, now buzz off or turn around so I can finish changing. I don't want anyone running in here to see what's taking so long."
A snarky grin spread of Grif's face, back to normal.
"Aw comeon Wash, ain't nothin' I haven't see before."
"Not mine!!"