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The rescue ship is heading back to Earth, and Captain Richard Simmons cannot sleep.
Of course he and Grif had been bunked together. They hadn’t asked for it, and the UNSC soldiers who’d rescued them certainly didn’t care. The room they’d ended up with was small, practically a broom closet, with two low-to-the-ground cots obviously set up on the fly. Grif and Simmons put their few belongings in the same bedroom without thinking. Of course, they’d then argued which bed would be whose. Grif had claimed the one on the left, and Simmons the one on the right. It was a time-honored tradition: enter new situation, fight over something stupid. Now, with the hubbub of their first day aboard over, Simmons lies wide awake, listening to Grif’s deep breathing from the other bed.
“They’re taking us home,” Grif had said. He’d meant Hawaii. Donut and Sarge thought of Iowa. Simmons had simply nodded, contributing nothing.
Simmons isn’t from Earth, not technically. His great-grandparents had been from Earth, but his grandparents on his mother’s side had opted to join a colony in some distant system. His parents had met there, his mother an engineer, and his father a soldier. He doesn’t like thinking about any of it, really, but he can’t help it. He’s not from Earth, and now he’ll be seeing it for the first time.
He still doesn’t know where he’ll go. The remnant soldiers of Freelancer have been granted leave- a very long leave, calculated by all the time they technically should’ve been given over their years of service. In fact, Simmons doubts that most of them will end up going back. Every Red had somewhere to go. All of them had given Simmons open offers to join them, but he’d just stammered through his thanks and not agreed to anything. It feels like his family is falling apart at the seams. They’ll be together again, he has no doubt, but the thought of being separated from them for any extended length of time makes him seasick. Without his team, who will he argue with? Who will he have to watch his back?
He shifts under his thin regulation blanket for the umpteenth time, just on the uncomfortable side of chilled thanks to the ship’s cooled, recycled air. His metal prosthetics aren’t helping matters; where they attach to his shoulder and face thrum, and wherever the metal touches his skin instantly gets goosebumps. He feels naked without his armor, and changing out of the kevlar undersuit had left him feeling like he’d shed most of his skin. The Red Army t-shirt and worn boxers he’s got on haven’t been on his body since they crash-landed on Chorus, and now they barely feel like they’re his.
Nothing is his. He doesn’t belong on Earth.
“Stop,” says Grif.
It startles Simmons, despite the hushed tone. He turns on his side so he faces Grif, and finds that Grif is already facing him, head pillowed on one of his hands. His eyes are still closed, but he’s obviously awake.
“I could’ve sworn you were sleeping,” Simmons whispers.
“I was,” Grif says. “But your thinking is too goddamn loud. It woke me up.”
“That-” Simmons stutters. “That doesn’t even make any sense. How was I thinking loudly?”
“Dunno,” Grif slurs through a yawn. “But you’re worried about Earth.” His eyes are closed, so there’s no way he sees they face Simmons makes (something between scowling in irritation and tasting something sour), but he snorts and continues, “Don’t make a face. I'm right and you know it. So… stop.”
Simmons doesn’t want to talk about it, but Grif has a way of getting Simmons going. He breathes through his nose and out his mouth, shuddering a little with the cold. “I can’t,” he says. “I can’t just stop thinking.”
Grif doesn’t respond for a long few moments, and Simmons first thinks he’s just fallen back asleep. But then he’s shuffling himself back against the wall and pulling his blanket aside to expose the vacated portion of the mattress. “Come here,” he says in a long-suffering tone, “and bring your blanket too.”
Simmons’ stomach flops. “I’ll make you cold,” he says, and flexes his prosthetic fingers for emphasis.
“Or I’ll make you warm,” Grif says and, alright, that actually sounds nice.
Simmons kicks his feet out of the blanket, places them on the cold floor, and walks over to Grif’s cot, blanket trailing behind him. But it can’t be easy, because when has anything ever been easy? He doesn’t know how Grif wants him to lay, and he’s too self-conscious to ask, so he ends up perching tentatively at the very edge of the cot, on his side and facing away from Grif, wrapping his own blanket tightly around himself.
“How the hell is that better?” Grif says. “For God’s sake. I’m readjusting this whole deal, hang on.” He sits up and yanks off both blankets in one smooth motion. “Scoot back.”
Simmons does, until Grif tells him to stop. Grif then spreads both blankets, one and then the other, over the both of them. “Now, lift up a little,” Grif says, and Simmons once again complies, pushing up onto his elbow.
Grif nestles in behind him, sliding an arm under Simmons’ head. The other arm gets draped over Simmons’ stomach. He finally lies down, then says, “Now you, asshole.”
Simmons settles in as well. It’s… definitely different than anything he’s ever done with Grif. Spooning hadn’t really ever been high on Simmons’ priority list.
“Is this weird?” Simmons says. “I mean, not really weird, but yeah. No, it's not weird. Just, some platonic cuddling. Yeah, that’s a thing.”
“Simmons,” Grif sighs.
Silence falls only briefly. Simmons shifts his metal arm repeatedly, and, unable to find a comfortable place to put it, curses under his breath.
Without saying anything, Grif grabs Simmons’ hand, effectively sandwiching the metal arm between Simmons’ body and Grif’s wide, sleep-warmed arm. If the cold bothers Grif, he says nothing.
His entire front is pressed to Simmons’ back. As time passes, Grif hooks one heel around Simmons’ shin. Simmons starts out rigid, but Grif’s laid-back attitude tends to be infectious. The weight of Grif’s arm, the warmth of their layered blankets, and the sensation of being surrounded are all more soothing than Simmons would’ve expected, and it doesn’t take long for a comfortable silence to settle.
He stops thinking about Earth. Instead, his prevailing thought is that no one’s ever cared to comfort him like this before, especially not Grif.
It takes a while for Simmons to notice some things: that Grif’s face is buried in his hair, for instance, or that their breathing has synced up unconsciously. Or that this is the most secure he’s felt in years, despite the terrible army-issue cot he’s laying on. Or that he’s actually really enjoying this. But he only notices those things after his eyelids have grown heavy, and he’s well on his way to sleep.
~~~
Simmons sleeps deeply, his dreams leaving loud, colorful streaks of memory behind. He wakes slowly as they drain away, and sensation returns bit by bit. The first thing he notices is warmth. Then he realizes that, damn, its nearly hard to breathe with all the weight on his back, because Grif…
He flushes then, realizing his situation. Grif is heavily pinning him in place, practically laying on top of him. He’d let go of Simmons at some point, but his hand is now tucked under Simmons’ shirt, wide and warm over his navel.
It's startling how natural it all feels. In fact, it comes so easily that Simmons wonders how it hasn’t happened up to this point. It wasn’t a matter of pride; Simmons had washed Grif’s laundry, tended to Grif’s wounds, even donated body parts to Grif. He’d held Grif’s hand as he dangled over the cliff’s edge at Sidewinder, and he’d watched in horror as Grif had slipped out of his grasp. They’d seen each other at their worst, helped each other through. This, Simmons guesses, is only the next thing.
He knows Grif will not be waking up or moving until he is good and ready, so he settles in and tries to drift off again.
It’s quiet, besides the ship’s ambient hum and Grif’s shameless snoring. It’s… peaceful, Simmons decides. Nice. It could possibly be the nicest thing in his recent memory. So it would only make sense that Donut, of all people, would choose that time to open the door and let himself in.
Presumably, he’d been sent here to fetch them; his mouth is open and his chest is full of air, ready to bellow out a wake-up call. But he turns, looks down to an obviously-awake Simmons sandwiched under a Grif who is sleeping like death, before the yell is let loose. Instead, Donut deflates like a balloon, slowly and with an odd squeaking noise. He covers his mouth with his hands, eyes sparkling. He looks like he’s just been given what he wanted for Christmas without having to ask for it, and, knowing Donut, that might even be true.
Simmons and Donut have a brief, clear, and wordless moment of communication.
Don’t say a god damned word, Simmons urges.
I’m telling everyone I know, Donut replies, and immediately leaves, shutting the door behind himself.
In the following silence, Simmons decides two things: one, that he’s going to Hawaii with Grif, and two, he’s going to kill Donut before word of this leaves the ship.