'Hah, dude, there's no way this is your handwriting.'

'Shut up Grif, if you hadn't lost all the pre-printed inventory lists then I wouldn't've had to write out new ones in the first place. You don't have to insult me while I help you out.'

'No seriously, like, I can barely read anything you've written on here. It looks like an alien who thought he knew what English looked like had tried writing in English,' Grif shoved the small stack of papers back into Simmons' hands. Grif narrowed his eyes, 'Were you drinking last night?'

'You know I don't drink.'

'Yea, whatever then,' he turned to walk away. Um, no, he's not just going to let Grif walk away from him, he spent all night writing these out. He couldn't even use the photocopier because Sarge had decided to shoot the fucking thing up, said it looked at him wrong. And he thought that he'd…

Done well…

He started a quick pace to try and reach Grif before he turned down another corridor, 'Hey! Wait up! Should I do them again or-'

Grif merely waved him off not slowing his pace at all, 'Ugh, Simmons, honestly it's fine I'll go and ask Donut or something tomorrow I'm not gonna' make you rewrite it all or anything.'

Then he turned the corner and Simmons was alone.

He glanced down at the papers in his hands, god, they really are illegible, awful. Letting out a slow breath he started to walk back towards his quarters, he'd probably burn them all in the sink or something, the paper's wasted now anyway.

He'd tried so hard. He wasn't lying when he'd told Grif he'd spent all night writing these out, carefully writing everything so each line was the same length apart, each table was straight, and every fill out piece perfectly sized for Grif's larger than average handwriting.

Grif had come to him, trusting him to write everything down.

Well, Grif was the who lost all the papers in the first place but it was the thought that counted.

The Simmons from before would have done it perfectly, but the Simmons from before wasn't missing his left arm and shoulder, was he? Simmons from before wasn't half metal, wholly relying on the unfeeling prosthetics to keep him going.

Keep him useful.

Why was everything so fucking hard?

He'd spent the rest of the morning burning the paper.

Burning it means 'The End', it meant he didn't have to look or think about it anymore and it meant nobody else could find or read it, something that could always happen if he filed it away or chucked it in a bin somewhere.

Grif had known he did this, of course, it was kind of hard to hide the smell of burning paper when you shared quarters – and Simmons didn't mean to burn himself those few times, it just sort of kept happening.

Grif didn't approve.

But every time he'd tried throwing it away the anxiety would just build and build. What if someone found it? What if someone decides to keep it or decides to read it‽ What happens if it says something that could be used against him in the future?

He didn't know what a failed to send letter to a friend would exactly have inside to incriminate him in anything, but what if?

Simmons would just end up being stressed all day and then at night go to fish it out of the bins or file racks he'd set up in his quarters to burn it the next day when Grif eventually left for his security rounds. Wherever he'd burned the papers would then be meticulously cleaned and he'd go about the rest of the day stress-free. If Grif had ever brought up the smell he would just tell him he'd been smoking

-Luckily, he doesn't have to do that anymore since Grif got reassigned to the quarters furthest away from Sarge and therefore also himself. -

It'd been a bit awkward that time he'd demanded Grif stop smoking, 'You're ruining my lungs, stop!' because according to Grif they're both chronic smokers, Simmons held his tongue every time he'd seen Grif smoking afterwards. It's better for Grif to think that than him realise Simmons had lied to him when he told him he'd stopped.

It was around half past one when he finally decided to go down and collect lunch. Normally he'd go into the kitchen either very early or very late, like today, both meant he got to avoid other people for the most part. He'd collect whatever bland pre-cooked ration there was today and quickly move back to his own quarters.

He walked to the small kitchen and poked his head around the corridor, heat sensors would've been better but Simmons hadn't had rounds yet and nothing out of the normal happened so he was still wearing casual clothes and therefore no helmet.

Flicking on the light he strode quickly to the end table. Different ration packs had been strewn across it even though there was still the ration packaging box right next to them. The best rations had already been picked out so he just grabbed the first two packs he saw.

'You're late, aren't you always here super early?'

Simmons definitely did not scream like a little girl.

He swung around only to hit his head on his friend's helmet with a very not-satisfying clunk.

'Fuck! What the hell! Fuck!' Simmons glasses had almost instantly been dislodged hitting the ground with a worrisome crack. The food rations fell with them.

Grasping at his face he decided that his nose was luckily not broken, despite how much pain he felt from it.

Lowering his hands only revealed that, yup, nosebleed. Great.

A hazy orange blob appeared from the right a hand on Simmons' shoulder accompanied it, he looked away from the red on his hands to try and focus on it.

'You're bleeding. Do you need a tissue or something?'

'Shut the hell up, just… grab my glasses or something,' Surprisingly they were almost instantly shoved back into his hand, he himself was then pushed down into a chair. Wait, how'd he get to the end of the kitchen with the table and chairs?

Placing the glasses back on his head made no difference, the right lens, well the only lens, in glasses must have popped out, or worse shattered. The left eye was the cyborg one so there was no lens in that side in the first place.

Fortunately, before he started to really worry what he assumed was the lens was carefully placed in front of him, the orange figure, Grif, sat down on the other side of the table. Pulling his glasses down he started fiddling with both it and the lens trying to get it to fit back in.

'You've got a bit of, uhm,' Oh yeah, blood.

Not drawing his attention fully away from his glasses Simmons swiped the edge of his sleeve under his nose, hopefully clearing up what was there. Or maybe he was smearing it? Who knows, he had more concerning things to think about like fuck this was my last pair of glasses.

'You okay? I didn't, like, fucking break your nose or anything did I?'

'No, no, it's okay I was the one the one that slammed into you,' While he actually thought it was more Gif's fault, who the hell just creeps up behind someone that that? But Simmons wasn't going to bother arguing.

'Why the fuck are you even here? Roster list says you should still be on duty for at least another hour,' and he still had his armour on, after duty your supposed to take it off in the armoury, then get food. But what the hell, this was Grif, who expected him to bother doing that?

Especially when nobody else here seemed to care about proper military structure or rules anyway. Two months of training then another two years of power armour training to end up stuck in a fucking canyon.

'Well, I can't do the inventory like the roster says because I have no inventory list. I kind of… didn't bother? I mean, even If I stuck around I was gonna be doing fuck all there so what's the point?'

That's his fault Simmons realised, he'd screwed up all the inventory lists with his crappy handwriting. Stupid, fucking, prosthetic arm.

Unlocking his helmet Grif practically slammed it down onto the table, sweat slicked his black hair down, cheeks tinted a slight red.

'You look worn out.'

'Well, yea, inventory rounds are practically hard labour, especially when you're not actually inventing… Inventorying? Anything.'

Simmons opened his mouth to answer to the contrary but decided the comment wasn't worth it.

Silence lulled over the both of them, only the little tinks of Simmons trying to fix his lens could be heard. Grif watched him work intently. Every time Simmons raised it closer for his short-sighted eye see, Grif's eyes would then follow. After a few more minutes Simmons finally pushed the lens in fully without breaking it, he turned the glasses looking around for any loose paints, making sure it wouldn't pop back out, before placing it back on top of his nose.

Ah, that was much better.

'Simmons, your arm.'

'What?'

'Your metal one,' Grif pointed towards his prosthetic fingers.

Simmons looked down, opening his prosthetic hand towards himself. Then he saw it. The tips and a small area on his palm were black.

Smoke damage, or burn damage, or something. Fuck, it'd probably happened earlier this morning, it didn't look ingrained yet. He could probably scrub it off with a bit of work, but that would take lots of water, water was another rationed supply out here. What if it didn't come out? Everyone would know it's been burned and then they'd asked why.

Why?

Why?

He had to get it off he had to–

'Simmons.'

Oh god.

'I thought you'd stopped. Honestly, the papers weren't that bad or anything, I just-'

'No, you're right, the writing was illegible I don't even know what I was thinking giving them to you, who knows maybe I was drinking last night,' Simmons looked up to Grif and gave him a small chuckle.

Grif didn't smile like he'd expected.

'M' not gonna' push it okay? I know you hate talking about that shit.'

Simmons curled his hand, his real hand, around the wrist of the prosthetic, pulling it closer to his chest and the table edge. Pulling it lower, and lower, hoping Grif wouldn't notice.

'Thank you,' Without the enhanced hearing of the armour's helmet he didn't even know if Grif heard it.

'I'm gonna' cut to the chase about something else, though. I've seen your writing before, on all those stupid letters and forms you send. Your handwriting was stupid fucking neat. Like, those little swirls and the slanted letters you did were gorgeous,' It was true, but it still stung.

Grif continued, 'What happened, Simmons? I'm probably only rubbing salt in a wound judging by how you're acting but still, what little of what anybody has seen of your writing is absolute illegible garbage.'

'Wow, Grif, how eloquent of you.'

'You know that I don't know what that means and also fuck you, I said I'd cut to the chase and this is me cutting to the chase.'

...

…

'You know what? It started with you.'

'What?'

Simmons gripped his prosthetic even harder looking Grif straight in the eyes, 'It started with you when you had to get run over by that fucking jeep.'

'Uhh.'

'And then I find out Grif is gonna' fucking lose his left arm and shoulder and part of his face and-and is going to be left with a bunch of fucking scars! And of course, I go -Sign me the fuck up he's my best friend, of course I'm going to help him out!' Releasing his metal arm, he clenched both into a tight fist on top of the table.

'Even though I'm left-handed! Of course, give it all to Grif! It's not like I use my entire left arm anyway!'

Grift didn't speak up but Simmons didn't care, he was on a roll now, 'I don't need my left eye anyway, even though I'm also left eyed! I mean fuck being able to shoot easily, it's not like I'm in the military or anything! I'm sure he'd appreciate the near blinding short-sightedness in it anyway!'

Simmons immediately looked away from Grif and ground his teeth together, his heavy breathing going in an odd pattern, trying desperately to get it back under control.

…

'You done? Rant over?'

It was like all the energy drained instantly from Simmons body, he leaned heavily back against the chair putting his hands over his eyes, 'Yea… Yea I'm done.'

'I didn't mean any of that… I mean I do - did, I mean… Sorry, I snapped at you,' When he finally looked back Grif was… just sitting there with his head sitting lazily in his hand.

'Nah dude, kinda' surprised something like this hasn't happened earlier to be honest. Ya know' Trauma n' shit.'

'Trauma…'

'And shit, yes, that's what I said.'

Crossing his arms on the table Simmons let out a breath and practically dropped head into them, letting his legs loosely curl around the chairs legs.

'So, you're left-handed. I didn't know that.'

'How? I literally shoot left handed, I wrote left handed, and gesture with my, guess what, left hand. I still do most things with my left hand even though it's fucking gone. How could you not know?'

'I dunno' Just never noticed is all. How is this related to your handwriting again?'

'I can't write with my left hand,' He saw Grif's question coming so quickly continued, 'I mean, yea I'm left handed but now that it's just a hunk of what's basically fancy metal and wiring it's not sensitive enough to write with.'

'As in…?'

Simmons rose from his laid back position, 'Look it's metal,' He held it up waiting until Grif focused on it to continue, 'I can't feel it, I can't tell if I'm touching something if it isn't in my view or how much pressure I'm putting in. The amount of pressure needed to hold a pen and the amount needed to clench a fist for a punch feels the exact same to me. I work how much pressure I'm outputting by observing how the objects react when I hold or touch it, if it breaks, too much pressure obviously.'

He opened and closed his prosthetic a few times, the mechanics making slight whirs in the silence of the kitchen. Grif gestured to continue.

'Anytime I hold a pen I either break it or hold it too loosely, I rarely seem to get the strength needed correct. And when I finally do hold it right I end up ripping the paper or barely making a line, and then that leads to me getting frustrated and do the… you know, to the papers.'

'But you wrote stuff for the inventory lists. Awful illegible shit but it was writing.'

'I wrote it with my right hand, I can at least get the pressure needed right with this one. But… Well, you try to write with your left hand see how nice it comes out. Normally in amputees the brain naturally remaps its functions so you can use your non-dominant hand as well as your previously dominant one, but since my brain still thinks I have an arm because of this prosthetic I guess it just never happened.'

'Everyone else uses the computers, why don't you?'

'I wasn't allowed to use that sort of stuff when I was at home. I guess I just got used to being the only one who wrote to friends and family. It just feels more natural now, and when you got my left arm I guess I just didn't think about what I was actually giving up.'

'Or maybe you did and it just didn't matter because I'm your and quote -Best friend.'

'Yeah, that sounds closer to my thought process.'

…

'Your eyes shit by the way. I mean I didn't even know they made contacts that curved this much and could still be put into the eye.'

'Shut up, Grif.'

'I'm not complainin' that bad though, I get to show off your cool green eye and the fact I'm now heterochromatic.'

'Oh, come on, you can't know what that means.'

'No, but you called my eyes that so it must mean something cool right?'

Simmons just snorted, 'Hell yea it's cool.'

'Hey, Simmons you fucker!'

Simmons jolted up instantly, the pad he'd been reading slipping from hands sliding from the bed and clattering loudly on the hard ground of their quarters.

'What‽ What‽'

'Look what I found!'

Grif didn't wait another moment before slamming a metal, something, on top of their bedside table. Simmons curiosity intrigued he left the fallen pad in favour of the new whatever Grif had found. He threw his legs over the end of the bed right next to the table.

Grif looked at him with a grin, that's not good.

'Is it supposed to mean anything to me, Dex?'

'Oh, I was kinda' hoping you'd know what it was, this stuff right up your alley.'

Simmons got up to look at it closer, maybe fiddle with a few parts, he wasn't about to let Grif teach him something that apparently, he should already know all about. Well, he would have but the instant his legs straightened he was pushed down again.

'No, no, wait, let me just-'

Unplugging the lamp from the wall and dragging it off the table and started to scoot the whole thing over to in front of Simmons.

'Here, you can use it now, I set it all up beforehand just tap one of the keys,' He pulled both of Simmons' hands up so they rested gently on the… Keypad?

Hesitantly he clicked the 'H' key. One of the levers in the machine snapped forwards and in an instant, there it was. The letter 'H' was clear to see on the paper and it-

Looked like his handwriting.

His old handwriting.

The before handwriting.

He typed a few more things out, random words and sentences. Grif pushed the paper along for him when he got to the end, starting a new line.

'I- It's-'

'It's amazing, isn't it! It's called a typewriter and this one's a replica I asked for a transfer the instant I could. Do you know how hard these things are to find? Anyway, the originals are from Earth from like, six-hundred and more years ago. Neat, right?'

'But its keys, it-'

Grif looked away slightly but continued, 'I may have kept one of those letters you sent me ages ago, from you know, before and everything. When I bought this, I asked for customised keys and used that as a base. It won't look quite perfect and it doesn't give you the same feeling as writing yourself but I thought you'd be appreciative you ass.'

'I thought you found this, Dex?'

'Look do you like it or not, it cost half my salary so choose your answer wisely, Dick.'

Simmons didn't answer, instead, he stood up and wrapped his arms around Grif. Not doing the hug-slightly-around-the-shoulders-but-we-can't-make-any-of-our-lower-parts-touch type of copout hug but a proper full hug.

Even though Simmons was several inches taller than Grif he still found a way to push his head into Grif's neck.

He hugged him without fear of putting in too much pressure.

He hugged him knowing he and his metal arm wouldn't hurt Grif.

I don't know why I tried to write this. I'm autistic and can barely make 'normal' conversation myself and then I try and pull this bullshit writing. Anyway, I went out and took notes on how other people talk and act around each other just so I could write this so you can't say I'm not dedicated.

It's supposed to be Grif/Simmons but honestly what do people who are in a relationship sound like? I can't wrap my head around it? I don't? mmn? Eye contact is a thing, right? That's something people do? My social ineptitude has no limits.

I had a beginning and middle in mind but I didn't ever work out an end so my mind just went 'DO FLUFF' 'DO EET'

Anyway, hope you enjoyed, I edited it the best I could but I'm sure I missed something so ehh. Maybe tell me if sounded natural enough? Idk, it's my first fic, sorry. xxx

(The cover image belongs to me. This story has been crossposted onto Ao3 under the same name 'Compensatory Reorganisation' and under the same username 'PinkAxolotl85' The art can be viewed in better quality there.)