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STAR
One thing that can be said of Blood Gulch-
The stars are lovely and the nights are soothingly cool.
“Do you ever wonder why we’re here?” Simmons asks. His legs dangle over the edge of the base’s roof, aside Grif’s.
“Because Sarge is a paranoid old bastard who thought, for no fucking reason, that the Blues would attack tonight?” Grif replies, flat and sarcastic. He takes a drink directly from the coffee carafe between them; Simmons wrinkles his nose and figures he’ll have to pull an all nighter without caffeine.
“No, no, I was thinking, you know, cosmically.” Simmons stretches a hand towards the stars. “Don’t you think about that kind of stuff when you look up at space? Like, are we alone in the universe-”
Grif nearly snorts coffee out of his nose. “Dude! That Blue guy fucking gave birth to an alien baby, we know we’re not alone in the universe- There’s a whole fucking alien war going on!”
Simmons flushes, scooting slightly away from Grif. “Not what I meant! I meant, more like, is there a higher power up there and stuff? Watching over us?”
“He fucking despises us if that’s the case.” Grif shrugs carelessly, then picks up the carafe and shakes it invitingly in Simmon’s face. “Dude, you gonna want any of this?”
“You drank out of it!”
“Yup. So is that a no-?”
Simmons snatches the carafe out of his hands and gulps down a mouthful of lukewarm coffee right from the spout.
The stars seem to twinkle just the slightest bit brighter.
DREAM
“Grif, wake the hell up!”
Simmons is shaking him awake. Again .
“Ugghhh, Simmons, fuck off, I was having a good dream!” He barks.
“You were moaning, jackass!” Simmons is flushed red up to the roots of his hair.
“Told you it was a good dream, asshat, fucking get off!” He ineffectually flails in Simmons’ direction until the cyborg gets the hint and fucks off.
“Sarge is gonna want you for work!” Simmons hollers, tone indignant and accusatory. Grif gives him a lazy, middle-fingered salute and Simmons stomps off, face turning a complimentary shade of maroon from rage.
Grif shifts into a more comfortable position.
He returns to his dreams; in them is a Simmons just as blushing red, but there’s considerably less armor and a lot more breathless ‘yes, sirs’ involved.
SOLITARY
Grif and Simmons.
They’re a team. A pair. They haven’t fucking left one another's’ side since Basic. They were there in Blood Gulch. In Rat’s Nest. In Valhalla. At Crash Site Bravo ( for the most part ), at Chorus. On Kimball’s moon. Never separated. They’re their own little Dynamic Duo.
“Quit what?”
“You.”
A younger Simmons would’ve gotten huffy. A younger Simmons would’ve harbored anger towards Grif, anger that he wouldn’t come along. He might think, who needs that stupid fatass, he only ever gets in the way. He would be hurting inside and would deny it.
He’s hurting inside and he’s not denying it. He watches Grif’s retreating back, watching the distance between them yawn wider and wider. He feels as though he’s on some kind of precipice; the whole world is whirling around him, he’s teetering dangerously and he’s going to plummet and fall and break every bone in his body. Everything is chaotic and tumultuous and seesawing and he sees his motionless body from third person, and he so desperately wants to break into a sprint and clap a hand on Grif’s shoulder, tell him I’ll never leave, but he stays still, unable to breathe or blink or move.
Reality rushes back to him, hard. He hunches slightly, winded, as if he’s been physically punched. Tears well and he can’t brush them off with the helmet in the way. He chokes on his own spit, sputters; his body jumps from uncharacteristic stillness into a burst of motion.
He whirls, gyrating dangerously, legs threatening to give out, and he stumbles after Sarge.
Grif and Simmons.
Just Simmons.
Simmons without Grif is only part of a joke. It’s the setup without the punchline. It’s the nervousness before a performance without the smooth, aloof confidence of a star actor to get over it.
No one except for Caboose notices that he’s lost half of himself.
BABY
“Oh, don’t be like that, baby,” Sargeant Grif croons.
A repulsed shudder from Simmons. “Fucking Christ, never call me that again.”
“I’m just testing out pet names, sweetie,” Grif replies, saccharine to the point of sarcasm.
“Pet names!? I never agreed to pet names!”
“But, angel, how’s everyone supposed to know we’re dating?”
“They’re not!” Grif gets some sadistic sort of pleasure in seeing Simmons’ face redden until he looks like a skinny tomato. “Grif, I fucking hate you!”
“Don’t be like that, honeybunch.”
Simmons digs around in one of his pockets and chucks a ration bar at Grif. It bounces off his helmet and Grif catches it nonchalantly.
“You know, if you had aim like that with a gun, they would’ve promoted you to Sergeant instead of me.” Grif pulls off his helmet, rips open the ration bar, and digs in. After two large bites, he adds as an afterthought: “Darling.”
“I’m gonna fucking call this whole dating thing off if you don’t shut the fuck up.” Simmons snaps huffily.
“Hey, Simmons. Since we’re already talking about pet names, when are you gonna start call me Sir?”
“Fuck you, Grif!” Simmons spits.
“ Sergeant Grif!”
“Fuck you, Sergeant Grif!” Simmons chants viciously.
“Fuck you, Sergeant Grif, sir!”
Simmons slams his fist into Grif’s shoulder and resists the urge to kiss his bumbling, incompetent sergeant.
CARBON
Pressure makes diamonds! a motivational poster that someone ( either Doc or Donut ) hung up in the kitchen proudly proclaims.
The first time Grif and Simmons walked by- the first time either of them had seen it- Simmons had stopped to look at it. He muttered something dark under his breath and they continued on their journey to the fridge.
It took Grif a couple of times to notice that Simmons did it every damn time they got near that poster. He would stop, glare at it, and mutter something to himself.
“What the fuck is your deal about the poster?” He asks one morning. Not like there’s anything else to do- the Blues are being boring and it’s been an uneventful week.
“I don’t have a ‘deal about the poster’,” Simmons grumbles.
“Every time we walk near it you act like you’re about to rip it down. What’s the problem?” Grif asks.
“It’s wrong! Look, pressure does make diamonds, but only if you’re made out of carbon and basically nothing but carbon. I mean, there are companies that can turn people’s ashes into diamonds, they’ve been around for hundreds of years, but people? Pressure will just kill them and leave a huge, disgusting mess. The poster’s wrong.”
“You’re a huge fucking nerd, dude.” Grif snorts. “Who cares?”
Simmons doesn’t reply, but the next time he sees the poster, it’s in the kitchen’s garbage can.
ASH
Grif hates moving. If it can be avoided, he will sit in one position until he gets a crick or he starts growing moss.
That doesn’t stop him from violently scrabbling through the piles of burning hot, twisted metal.
“Simmons? Simmons!?”
“Grif, you’re hurt,” He doesn’t even bother to process the voice; he continues to dig, sifting ashes and metal through his fingers.
“Grif?”
There’s a hand on his shoulder and violently jerks his shoulder to shake it off. He shoves the twisted wreck that used to be some kind of computer console out of the way; a corpse is underneath it, but not Simmons’. It’s decorated in white and grey and not maroon; limbs twisted and tight. He can’t spare so much as a twinge of pity- he gets up, stumbles down the bridge of the ship, numbly calling Simmons’ name.
“Stop, Grif.” The hand, this time, plants solidly on his shoulder. He spins around, fists raised. In this sudden spurt of rage, his sensible mind gets put on the backburner. He swings at a trained Freelancer- someone who is undeniably better than him in every aspect, particularly close quarter combat- and he really, really wants it to hit. Wants his knuckles to sting, wants to see Washington bow from the force of the blow, wants to kick the shit out of him because God dammit there’s so many fucking emotions rolling around his mind and the best way to vent them is violent.
He misses. Or, more accurately, Washington dodges.
“We need to regroup with the others.” The Freelancer says, voice hard.
“Fuck you!” Grif snarls. “I’m going to find Simmons, and then I’ll fucking come back.”
“Grif-”
“Shut up, Washington! Go fucking regroup-”
“You and Simmons were close, I know-”
“Close!? Fucking close!? If that’s the best fucking judgement you can muster then you’re as stupid as Caboose and fucking blind, to boot. If you’re not going to help, fuck off!”
“The last I saw of him,” Washington said slowly, “He was in Systems. To your north.”
Grif swallows and it feels like his mouth has turned to ash.
Anger bleeds out of his feet and leaves him with a crushing weight in his chest, not unlike being in a plummeting spaceship.
“Thanks, Washington.” He says.
BEAUTY
Neither of them are exactly beautiful.
They both have scars. Patches of scars. Big ugly sheets of scarred and scraped skin.
Grif, the poor bastard, has tracts of Simmons’ blindingly pale skin and his delicate glass bones, but he also has his functional, well-maintained organs. The contrast of dark and light skin, plus the scars where stitches had once been, makes Grif look like a particularly fat Frankenstein’s monster. If the horror show of surgery weren’t bad enough, he has a neckbeard, he’s scruffy and patchy, his dark hair is greasy and tied back in a short ponytail. His face is stuck in a permanent scowl; making his broad nose constantly wrinkle, making his eyes narrow in what looks like constant annoyance or suspicion.
Simmons, even before his cyborg surgery, wasn’t that great to look at. While you could count every single one of his ribs, he had a little obnoxious paunch that wouldn’t go away no matter how much he starved or exercised. He never got huge biceps despite his hard work, and he always ended up lean and stringy. His knees and elbows are knobbly, his hands look too large; his face is too long, his nose too narrow, and he had red hair and way too many freckles. The new cyborg parts, while he privately thinks he looks cool, are a little strange to look at. It certainly hurts any relationship prospects he would’ve had- he was a freak and the transition from metal to skin wasn’t entirely seamless. It’s got a lot of scarring and the edges hurt if they get pulled at.
Simmons contemplates his lack of beauty far more than Grif does.
He’s self-conscious. Grif isn’t.
He envies that, almost.
DESIGN
“You know, Sarge was good for one thing, at least.” Grif says it almost conversationally. He leans into Simmons, head resting on the cyborg’s chest.
“What’s that?”
“Designed you pretty well.” He knocks his knuckles against Simmons’ metal chestplate. Simmons sputters the same way he does whenever he gets an unexpected compliment. Music to Grif’s ears.
“My ass is made out of a fax machine,” Simmons reminds him.
“Free toilet paper whenever you want it.” Grif can’t help the smile on his face.
“Grif, that’s disgusting.”
“Yeah, you say that, but when you run out of toilet paper next time, you’ll be tempted.”
“Shut up.”
He curls an arm around Grif and they cuddle closer together.
DIVISION
“How the FUCK!”
Simmons punches a wall, and thanks to his cool robot arm, he makes dents in concrete. Grif takes a step away from him.
“How the fuck did you get promoted, when I-” He chokes on his own words, hesitates a second, then slams his fist into the wall again. “I deserved it, Grif! I deserved that promotion!”
“It’s not my fault,” The newly christened Sergeant Grif objects. “It’s not something you can say no to, Simmons!”
“I don’t fucking get it,” Simmons seethes. “You’re fat! You’re lazy! You never do a goddamn thing but you still fucking got promoted over me! I do all your fucking work for you-”
Grif figures he’ll burn himself out eventually. Simmons could never resist sucking up to a superio-
He might’ve said that out loud, because the next thing he knows Simmons’ flesh hand is buried solidly in his stomach and Grif is doubling over, the breath punched clear out of his lungs. Simmons stomps off, snarling something acidic under his breath. Dark spots sear Grif’s eyes for a second, and he attempts to inhale, but his lungs aren’t cooperating.
Correction: Simmons’ stupid lungs aren’t cooperating.
He gets in a breath and it feels horrible. He coughs, trying to get back to a normal in-and-out push of regular breathing.
Bright side: If Simmons had really been trying to hurt him, it would’ve been Simmons’ metal fist, and Grif would need to visit a hospital for pulverized organs and snapped ribs instead of what was probably gonna shape up to be a bruise.
So Simmons wasn’t that pissed.
Nice to know, he had a lot more work to shove on top of the nerd.
CRIMINAL
Even Carolina couldn’t make them drive all night. They eventually have to come to a stop, and when they do, Simmons and Grif finally get a moment of peace.
Sarge stomps off to go talk to Carolina and Washington. Caboose, Tucker, and Epsilon ( Church? ) catch up with one another, and Simmons and Grif take the shotgun and driver seat of their stationary Warthog.
They don’t talk, but Simmons notices Grif drumming his fingers on the steering wheel with what looks to be impatience. That was weird, because Grif would never turn down a chance to sleep or be lazy or whatever else.
“Do you really want to get going that bad?” Simmons asks. Grif starts, then follows Simmons’ helmeted gaze to his hands. He stills, the awkward silence suggesting he hadn’t even been aware he was doing it.
“Grif?” Simmons prompts again. “What’s wrong?”
Grif stares off into the dark. “I’m considering gunning it and going the fuck back to Valhalla, forgetting all this crazy bullshit.”
“We’re criminals now,” Simmons reminds him.
He shrugs. “That’s not a change from the usual.”
Simmons leans forward, questioning.
“I wasn’t exactly clean when I got drafted.” Grif clarifies.
Simmons blinks. There’s a rush of different thoughts- what did you do, why did you do it, when- but he says none of it. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Dunno. Figured you’d be too straightlaced for-” Grif makes air quotes, “- bad boys.”
“What changed? I can still dump you.”
“Oh, ppfft. You fucking need me now, Simmons. I could’ve stabbed a nun or shot up an orphanage and you’d still put up with my shit.”
That’s concerning. “Well, what’d you do?”
“Stole. I’m fuckin’ good at pickpocketing, don’t know if you knew that.”
Simmons slackens. He had thought of a multitude of crimes that Grif could’ve committed- murder, assault, drugs, he seemed the type for drugs, in all honesty- but stealing was probably the least worrying thing he could’ve done.
“Did you ever get arrested?”
“Petty theft. Served one month.” Grif shrugs. “Only time I ever got arrested.”
“You stopped stealing after that?”
“Fuck no. I just got smarter about it.”
Simmons shakes his head. “Well, this is different. We just broke into a military base and stole military property. We killed people.”
“How’s that different from the rest of our military career? We killed a man in Basic. And we killed all those Wyoming clones or whatever the fuck, and we killed the Meta.”
“Yeah, but we could get in trouble for it this time.” Simmons argues.
“Dude, we’ve got two badass Freelancers with us, and they need us right now. The entire UNSC couldn’t take down these guys. We’re not gonna get in trouble.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right. I’m still worried, though… Carolina makes me wary.”
“You’d be stupid to not be worried about her.” Grif snorts. “Look, nerd, go to bed.”
“You’re not gonna?”
“Give me a bit.”
Simmons hesitates. “Hey, if you’re actually gonna take the Warthog and ditch- Tell me first. I want to go with you.”
He can’t see it under the orange helmet, but Grif is smiling.