Disclaimers: All characters mentioned belong to Rooster Teeth. Lyrics by Coldplay.
Warnings: Adult themes, slash
Rating: M
A/N: AU, obviously, and not very light hearted. I stayed home sick from work today and didn't really feel like sleeping, so I started writing instead. (Slash is chicken soup for my soul.) I've recently fell in love with the Grif/Simmons pairing and just wanted to write something semi-plausible about them, and so here it is. Enjoy!
XxXxXxXxXx
Three Point One Four
Come on now, don't you want to know
You're a refuge, somewhere I can go
You're air that, air that I can breathe
'Cause you're my golden opportunity…
It was days like this that Grif hated the most; looking out from the top of the base over the red canyon that encompassed his life. Staring into the distance for hours, watching the horizon dissolve and shift before his eyes. If he looked far enough into the dying, parched land, he could see faint flickers, like how sunlight shimmers on the water. If he stared for long enough, all the colors of the canyon bled into one. And a little farther out than he could see, there was another base, he knew, looking back at him.
This is what it was to wake up every morning, to suit up and eat chow and wait a lifetime for something, anything to happen. Occasionally, have an abrupt relapse into the jolt of battle, and then once his brief engagement with survival was over, life would fall back into its excruciating pattern.
Below him, he could spy Sarge and Donut making adjustments to the warthog. He never understood how they could actually like their job. How Sarge could be so gung-ho after doing this shit for years, or how Simmons and Donut still kept that right-out-of-boot-camp enthusiasm when they were in a place like this. Whatever excitement he might have had for fighting an interstellar war had burned out long ago.
He thought about home a lot, all the mundane details that never really meant anything until now. Like the old tree in the backyard that he had fallen from and broken his collarbone; the hardwood floor that he used to slide across in his socks. It was so far from him, tucked away on a distant planet, just a blip in the night sky. And each day that passed made him more into a pragmatist because he knew deep down, in the pit of his stomach, that he would never go home again. After he realized that, he stopped caring.
The sun began to dip below the cavern walls, bathing the sky in coral and vermilion. He turned around and headed down the ramp and into the base. Once he got to his room he unsealed his helmet and dropped it to the ground. It rolled to the middle of the floor and sat there, rocking back and forth. He removed the rest of his armor, piece by piece, and let it fall in a pile at the foot of his bed. Pulling the tangled sheets back, he crawled in and laid on his side, facing the wall.
XxXxXxXxXx
Simmons sat in the common room of the base, helmet and gloves off, the various parts of his assault rifle dismantled and placed evenly on the table before him. Like clockwork, the maroon soldier had cleaned his rifle since being issued it. Dust built up quickly on the assault rifle, especially in the arid climate of the canyon, and increased its chance of malfunctioning, so sometimes he had to clean it two or three times a week. He started with the firing pin, and worked his way up to the interior of the rifle, wiping each part thoroughly with a cut of white cloth. He scrubbed every inch until it was pristine; black streaks of carbon marred his fingers and knuckles. Once finished, he assembled it and gave it a quick functions check.
Grif strolled by as Simmons loaded a magazine. He watched Grif continue to his room, looking like an armored zombie. He had been in a sorry state for a few weeks, ignoring orders, barely speaking, moving listlessly, and sleeping most of the day. It was well known that Grif had no desire to be here, but Simmons had never seen him this detached from reality. Even Sarge's threats of multiple article fifteens failed to illicit a response anymore.
He avoided them whenever he could, leaving the base to wander around, though not too far. Other times, he would just sit up on the roof and smoke all day. He didn't bother to clean his room anymore, or make his bed. Sometimes he collapsed into it still wearing his full armor. In fact, the only thing Grif maintained was his calendar; crossing each passing day off and counting down to when his enlistment time would be over.
Sarge had ordered Simmons to keep an eye on Grif, but denied that it was out of concern. He believed Grif was probably turning into a vampire and entrusted Simmons with the task of stabbing him in the heart with a stake, if the need ever arouse.
At first, Simmons thought that the orange soldier was just being his usually lazy, duty-shirking self and reported such to Sarge. But as time dragged by, that clearly wasn't the case.
Simmons sighed and sat back in his chair, he felt slightly guilty about the other soldier's condition. It must feel pretty shitty to be disliked by everyone in your squad when you're stationed on a remote planet.
He picked up his weapon and went outside to start his parameter check. Simmons debated back and forth in his head if he should intervene. Grif's self-destructive behavior wasn't really his problem; but he knew no one else would make the effort if he didn't.
Besides, he figured, it wouldn't kill him to not be an asshole to Grif.
XxXxXxXxXx
Over the next few days, Simmons found it quite easy to run into Grif and coerce him into small talk, but took pains to not make it obvious. He wasn't making leaps and bounds in his progress, as Grif still remained closed off and reclusive, so Simmons decided to play his trump card. After all, what makes people open up and spill their guts (literally and figuratively)?
Hard liquor.
In the storage closet, located on the top shelf behind the orderly rows of field dressings and IV bags, awaited Sarge's stash. Simmons pulled himself up to the top and reached back, snatching the first two bottles he felt. He stuck one between his neck and chest and the other he held onto as he rearranged the medical supplies to cover his tracks. Jumping down, Simmons closed the closet door, grinning deviously.
He thought himself a master of subterfuge.
Grif was probably out on the roof, Simmons guessed, as he made his way, in a stealthy manner to his destination. The last thing he wanted was to explain to Sarge how a bottle of Crown Royal and Bacardi came into his possession.
He rounded the corner and climbed the elevated ramp. Grif was sitting with his back to him as he approached, legs dangling over the edge of the base. He dropped down next to Grif, who was rolling his own cigarette. His elbow rested against his orange helmet as he licked the glue strip of the paper and sealed the cigarette together.
"Nice night, huh?" Simmons removed his helmet as well.
"Yeah, not too bad." He lit up and then turned to Simmons, "You want one?"
"No thanks, cancer's not my thing. And I brought something better, anyway." He pulled the bottles out from behind his back and passed him the Crown Royal.
Grif's cigarette almost fell out of his mouth, "Where did you get this?" He quickly opened it.
"It's part of Sarge's emergency medical supply, which I think he forgot about."
"You mean there's more?"
"Yeah, he's got medical Jose Cuervo, medical Smirnoff, medical Everclear, medical Kahlua, and some medical Schnapps."
"That might be the best news I've ever heard." Grif laughed.
Simmons opened his and held it up, "Cheers."
The bottles clinked as they collided and the two both took a shot. Grif smiled at the welcomed blaze of the whiskey hitting his stomach. They sat for a while, drinking from their respective bottles. The full moon approached its zenith, casting a pale glow over the canyon. Grif tried to blow smoke rings, and Simmons lightly clapped when he succeeded.
"Good job."
"Hey man, it's a lot harder than it looks." He stubbed the cigarette out and rolled himself another.
"Did you ever celebrate Mardi Gras back home?"
Laughter. Quick and light.
"Where the fuck did that come from?"
"It would've been today… if we were back on earth." Simmons leaned back on his elbows and pushed his feet over the side, gazing up at the moon.
"Oh… no, I never celebrated it really, besides getting piss drunk. Was it a big deal for you?"
"Yeah, I grew up in New Orleans so it kinda came with the territory."
"What was it like?" Grif looked at him. His eyes were brown, Simmons noticed, the color of copper.
"It was crazy… The whole city would come alive for those few days and spill out into the streets. All of it, the good, the bizarre, anything you can think of… but there was something familiar in the crowds and the strangeness of it all… like you had always been apart of this undulating energy, always this full of life."
Simmons took another sip and sat the bottle to the side, "What about you? What was your main celebration back home?"
"I grew up in the Chinatown district of Honolulu, so we always celebrated the Chinese New Year. It was on a different day every year though, sometimes in February, which was kinda weird, but it was a hell of a lotta fun. There were the usual parades and food and all that, fireworks too. Our neighbor, Lian, would always make his own fireworks, that crazy motherfucker." A smirk cut into his cheek, "Sometimes we had to call the fire department."
Grif took another drag from his cigarette. Exhale. Slow and scorching. Vines of smoke curling upwards, like tiny hands grasping for purchase. Simmons shifted his weight to the other arm, there was something he had always wanted to ask Grif, but he wasn't sure if he should. They were somewhere in that grey area between friend and acquaintance. And although they weren't acquaintances anymore, they sure as hell didn't talk to each other like friends.
Until now…
Maybe it was just this canyon, because there was no one else to hang around. Simmons was sure Grif would never be the type of person he would ever associate with normally; too many differences. Or maybe it was human nature, that instinct that makes people reach out for a connection, but Simmons felt that they might have accidentally crossed that line into being friends. And if that was the case, it would be all right if he pushed the envelope…
"Why did you want to join the corps?"
Grif flicked his cigarette; the ashes tumbled like grey snow to the ground.
"I didn't. I was drafted."
Silence.
He stood up, placing the cigarette in the crook of his mouth and walked past Simmons.
"Grif…don't let it get to you; it won't always be like this."
Grif paused at the top of the ramp, and for a moment Simmons thought he would keep walking. But then he turned and gave him a reluctant smile.
"Thanks…" and almost as an afterthought, "Happy Mardi Gras, Simmons."
XxXxXxXxXx
It was much later when Grif realized the same thing Simmons had, namely that he didn't really hate Simmons anymore and that the two now had regular conversations and drinking binges. He wondered why the other soldier had made the effort in the first place, but decided he was fine with it anyway. The day didn't seem so long anymore.
He started waking up in the mornings with everyone else and keeping his room somewhat presentable. Simmons noticed and jokingly told him that he'd been taken off suicide watch now that he behaved like he was part of the team.
XxXxXxXxXx
Grif had a towel wrapped around his waist as he stepped out of the shower cubicle and shuffled to the locker room, leaving watery footprints in his wake. He turned the corner to find Simmons changing out of his under armor.
"You better not have used all the hot water again." Simmons warned as he stripped off his shirt.
"Sorry, first come first serve. But I did leave some hair in the drain for you." Grif grinned and opened his locker, grabbing his dog tags and slipping them over his head. The metal felt cold against his skin.
"Oh, you shouldn't have." Simmons pulled his pants off and folded a towel around himself. Taking his soap from the locker, he closed it and walked towards the showers. He glanced at Grif, who was pulling 'clean' clothes out of his locker, and noticed the large marking on his arm.
"You never said you had a tattoo." It surprised him because he thought he would have noticed it by now. Then again, when Grif was out of his armor he was always wearing old T-shirts.
Grif looked at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Well, I do."
"Can I see it?"
He shrugged and turned so Simmons could inspect his shoulder.
It was a little bigger than the size of his hand and stretched from the curve of his shoulder to about halfway to his elbow. It was of a black haired woman with a tiger skin wrapped around her, sitting Indian style. She had four arms extending from her body, one arm held a dagger, one of them held a flaming torch, another a curved sword dripping with blood, and the last one held a skull. Turquoise and gold bracelets adorned her wrists and biceps. She was smiling, but her gold eyes were wild.
"Who is she?"
"Hindu goddess of death, I got it done for my sixteenth birthday."
Tiny beads of water ran down his shoulder, from his wet hair. Simmons brushed them off the tattoo with his thumb. The level of detail was amazing, he couldn't imagine sitting through that much needlework. He couldn't really imagine Grif sitting through it either; he whined little a baby whenever he stubbed a toe.
Grif was slightly unnerved by the close scrutiny; he tried to avoid being around others in just a bath towel. He wouldn't admit it, but he felt inferior to Simmons as he stood there.
The other soldier was nearly the inverse of him. He had jade colored eyes, pale skin, and muscle that came with working out a few times a week. He still looked like he tried to maintain the typical high-and-tight cut with his dark brown hair and there was never any stubble growing on his chin. Grif, on the other hand, hadn't shaved in about a week. He wasn't fat, but he lacked muscle definition, had naturally tan skin and sandy blonde hair had long since grown out of the military regulation cut.
Simmons' hand was still on his arm, fingers ghosting across his moist skin. It sent a shiver up his spine, to feel a lingering touch on his skin after so long. Simmons felt the goose bumps rise along his arm as Grif stared at him, eyes wide and unmoving. His hand trailed up Grif's arm, resting at the base of his neck and…
…Donut opened the locker room door. Simmons and Grif leapt apart and turned back to their lockers. Donut sauntered in, whistling as he grabbed some cleaning supplies. Grif seized his clothes and left quickly for his room, Simmons went the opposite direction to the showers. He stepped into the first stall and turned the water on full blast, cursing under his breath.
He had just pushed the envelope a little too far.
XxXxXxXxXx
"And so, I have called you all here today to announce the initiation of operation Clorox…" Sarge stood before the remaining red soldiers in the conference room, arms akimbo.
"…by which you mean that it's time for spring cleaning." Grif interjected.
"Yep."
Grif stole a glance at Simmons from underneath his gold visor, keeping his head forward. Simmons, for his part, was facing straight ahead too. He hadn't spoken to Simmons in a couple days, as they both had been trying to steer clear of the other. It had been mostly successful until now.
"Donut, you will be in charge of cleaning all the towels and linens."
"All right!"
"Simmons, I want you to scrub down the interior of the base with lye."
"Yes, Sarge."
"And Grif… pick up all the shell casings that are scattered around outside, and put them in the recycle bin, separating by type."
"What?!" he yelled, "Do you know how many rounds are out there?! The recycle bin isn't big enough!"
"Well, then you'll have to make another recycle bin. Now quit yer squabblin' and get to work!"
"…yes, Sarge…" he gritted out.
XxXxXxXxXx
He collapsed into bed that night, a day of scouring around the base picking up expended casings from various firefights. Just when he thought an area was clear, he would see another shell glinting at him in the afternoon light, like buried treasure lurking just beneath the surface. It was pointless work. He rolled over and closed his eyes, thinking of things he probably shouldn't. Words and images wafted through his head, sluggish and fading with the drawing of the dawn. You think you know yourself, but you never really do…
He started to drift off into sleep, black shadows flitting behind his eyelids like blackbirds. He heard a tapping at his door. It was so faint, he thought he imagined it at first. Grif got out of bed and opened the door to see Simmons standing before him.
"Can I come in?"
You can never really predict your behavior, until you're faced with the choice…
"Sure."
Silence. A hiss of breath. They locked eyes.
Shift and touch.
"If we do this…" Grif spoke, low and steady, "It won't mean anything… outside the canyon, this wouldn't happen…"
Simmons agreed; it was just nature, some flaw that made people crave that closeness, that something to release the stress. And blaming it on something else made it all right.
They sat on his bed and Grif and let Simmons touch him. He let him pull off his shirt and then watched as Simmons placed his pale hand flat against his stomach, watched it slide down below the waistband of his boxers and stroke him till he was hard. Grif bit his lip, giving himself over to the rising tide of ecstasy. He groaned, and spilled out into Simmons' hand. The dark haired man wiped it off on the sheets and pushed him down on the bed. Grif was still reeling as Simmons crawled over him and tried to flip him on his stomach. He shoved him off.
"No way, I'm not getting fucked."
Simmons glared at him, "Are you serious?"
"Yeah, I'm serious. Besides, you might have AIDS."
"I don't have AIDS, Grif!"
"Keep your voice down." He growled.
Simmons heaved a sigh and rolled off of him.
"Don't be so dramatic." Grif sneered.
Tentatively, he reached for Simmons' thigh and let his hand rest there.
"You don't have to, Grif..."
He moved his hand father up until he reached his mark, "I'm not that much of a bastard."
XxXxXxXxXx
It didn't so much become a habit, as much of a way to pass the time. And it's wasn't like it interfered directly with their jobs... They still bickered and had fun at the other's expense, and occasionally rubbed one off in the showers. So what?
They never discussed it or planned it, and they made sure as hell nobody knew about it. Grif figured it was probably the healthiest relationship he had in his life. And Simmons thought he finally had all the angles worked out.
But after the operation, everything fell apart (or came together, Simmons wasn't sure then). He saw Grif afterwards, sitting on his bed with the bandages removed, staring down at his body. He saw the chartreuse and indigo dotting of bruises along his back and chest. He saw how the skin puckered and twisted around the stitches. How the incisions were etched into his skin almost like calligraphy script; his dried blood black as ink. They lined his whole body, written words in a language he couldn't read.
Grif took his arm and turned it over. His thumb trailed lightly over the base of Simmons' wrist. It still felt warm and smooth like skin. He could see thin blue lines, running down toward his elbow. He knew they weren't veins anymore, just wires and circuitry.
"Can you feel this?"
Grif dragged his nails down the underside of his forearm.
"Yes."
He wondered if Simmons would look the same for the rest of his life, never aging… Immortality achieved, but oh so flawed…
"This?" He traced an invisible line down the back of Simmons' neck.
"Yes."
Dying was one of those things that Grif thought about sporadically, but didn't ponder over a great deal. Which was silly, he realized. Because this scorched and calloused planet could be his grave. In his mind he saw how the land would welcome him, parting her thirsting, terra cotta lips to swallow him whole. Down he would go as she'd close her jaws around him. She'd drink his blood, wringing him dry until he was nothing but dust.
Time erodes people like a cave; hollows them out inside and fills them with little pieces of the things they experience. Grif wasn't the same man he had been on the island; he doubted many people would recognize him. That life he had before the marines, the one he always wanted to get back to... He knows that he only remembers the good stuff and glosses over the bad, but even so… Even if he managed to get back there, it wouldn't be the same to him. Who he is now is not what he was. But he was slowly learning to become okay with that.
And Grif whispered to him all things he thought about and said it was all right now. Simmons touched their foreheads together and told him that he could feel everything, that he understood. He inched over the marred body and removed his shirt, feeling the static shock at every touch. Slowly, he pressed into him. Grif screwed his eyes shut, not liking it so much at first, but Simmons was careful and the initial pain faded to a dull ache. He felt Grif move with him, felt the race of his heart beating under his skin. He whispered to him how it felt, that touch of skin slick and burning.
XxXxXxXxXx
"South Carolina."
Grif tossed his cigarette butt out the passenger side of the warthog. He stretched and put his feet up on the dashboard.
"Hmmmm, Columbia." Simmons had an arm folded behind his head as he sat in the driver's seat. It wasn't a bad day; parked in the shade of the cliff side, watching the sparse clouds float by. The two had their helmets off, enjoying the respite. Though technically there were supposed to be on patrol. Grif smirked as he watched Simmons try and smooth his unruly cowlick.
"Rhode Island."
"Providence."
Grif yawned and closed his eyes, "Wisconsin."
"Madison." Simmons looked at him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.
"What?" Copper eyes peered at him through tiny slits. He shook his head and Grif wrinkled his nose, "Come on, tell me."
Simmons leaned over hesitantly, and Grif saw the flush in his cheeks as he pressed his lips to his. It was odd, Grif reflected, because they had never kissed before, never shared that infinitesimal fraction of affection. And isn't this where you usually start? But he didn't care with that sense of subtle euphoria, curling around his spine…
For some reason, they always managed to take the hard way out of an easy problem.
They parted, looking at each uncertainly, and came together again, bolder. Simmons' slid his tongue into Grif's mouth, tasting the tobacco from his last smoke. His stubble scratched his face, prickly like a cactus. And Grif had his hand against the back of his head, forcing him closer. The kiss became harder, desperate, until they had to pull away. Panting, they sat back in their seats. Simmons still had some red in his cheeks and Grif could have laughed at him; the dizzy energy still running through his system like he was a teenager again.
He felt good. Better than he had in a long, long time.
In the distance, the sun began to set. A blinding red orb so rich and deep, the color of sangria. They watched it passively, thinking it beautiful for the first time.
Simmons looked at his watch, "We should head back, it's almost seven."
Grif nodded and slipped his feet from the dash. The warthog roared to life and Simmons steered it over the rocky path towards base.
After a few minutes the blonde haired man turned and looked out the window. "What do we do after this?"
He said it quietly, almost like he was asking himself, but Simmons felt the weight of it. Grif turned his head back towards him, eyes downcast. Simmons didn't have a plan anymore than he did. After Blood Gulch, they could be stationed anywhere, on opposite sides of the galaxy. It's just the way life was, Grif knew, but it was too bad because he'd finally found something worth keeping in this awful place.
"I don't know… but I was thinking, maybe when I got out of the military, I'd go back to Louisiana and finish my degree and you could come with me, you know…" He looked at Grif, nervousness coiling in his stomach like a snake, "If you wanted…"
"Okay." Grif grinned and Simmons wanted to kiss him again, but they had arrived at the base.
He parked the warthog and refastened his helmet; Grif did the same. They approached the entrance nonchalantly, as if nothing had transpired.
"Have you ever been to a crawfish boil?" Simmons asked him.
"No…"
"Well, you have to go to one, you don't know what you're miss-"
Grif heard a sharp crack, like a firecracker going off. To his left, Simmons suddenly buckled and dropped to the ground. For a second, he didn't move, staring at Simmons on the ground. Then he heard the next shot and felt it ricochet off his helmet. He fell to the ground and grabbed for Simmons' arm. Bullets whizzed by in three round bursts as he scrambled into the base, dragging Simmons behind him. A long red streak followed him on the ground.
He kicked open the door to the common room and dragged Simmons inside. Grif pushed his body over. There was blood gushing out of the wound in Simmons' neck, he had been hit in a weak spot of the armor. The scream of rifles continued and from somewhere outside, the blast of Sarge's shotgun joined in.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Grif was screaming in his head. He unsealed the maroon helmet; blood spurted up in a red arc, splashing against his visor. Simmons was spitting up blood, it bubbled up like a fountain and dribbled over his lips. Grif pressed his hand against the wound, trying to remember every little detail they taught him about emergency first aid. He reached for the field dressing bandage on his belt and tore it open. He wrapped it twice around Simmons' neck and tied it, still applying pressure. He kept telling Simmons he was going to be okay, that everything was going to be all right, as he tried not to think about all the things he didn't know how to do and how pale Simmons was growing by the second.
His jade eyes grew wide, and his lips moved. The gunfire drowned him out.
"Don't talk!" Grif screamed; blood was still pouring out of the wound, pooling around his head and he couldn't stop it. He felt the panic build up inside him like a tsunami, his heartbeat drumming in his ears. He couldn't stop the bleeding, he couldn't stop the bleeding and he had to. Simmons stopped moving. Grif yanked his helmet off and pressed his ear to the other man's mouth. He had stopped breathing.
"No, no, no, please no, please don't. Please don't…"
He ripped Simmons' chest plate off and placed his hands over the other's heart. He pumped for ten counts. He didn't know if he was doing it right. Grif stopped and tilted Simmons' head back; he pinched his nose and blew into his mouth twice. Blood smeared across his lips, wet and cold. Nothing happened; he tried again. This time he pushed harder. He tried again and again and again. An explosion rocked the base, much stronger than a grenade.
Donut ducked into the room, firing some shots off around the corner. He grabbed Grif's arm, he was yelling at him to run; they were overrun by the Blues. He tried to pull the orange soldier to his feet, but Grif shoved him. Donut looked at him for a moment and then slowly backed away. He rounded the corner and disappeared. Grif curled his fist and slammed it into Simmons' chest.
"Come on, come on, don't do this Simmons." His voice caught in his throat and his eyes grew blurry.
No response. Simmons stared straight ahead. Grif kept pounding, kept pleading. He didn't stop, even when he heard the footsteps behind him. Even when he heard the click of a hammer being cocked back.
XxXxXxXxXx