Title: You Gave Me a Promise
Series/Disclaimer: Red vs Blue, which I don't own.
Pairing: Dick Simmons/Dexter Grif
Warning: Swearing. But pretty safe after that.
Summery:Grif is sent off to war, leaving Simmons to deal with the next six months on his own. It isn't a question of if he can fair without Grif - it's a question of how.
Author's Note: Epic work in process. Still not done. Working on the second part. SO. FUCKING. LAZY. All that OOMPH I had in my writing has died off, apparently. I still need to finish my work on the other York/Delta things (I'll be wrapping those up once I finish the other parts of Something Lost) but I don't feel like touching that yet. So I'm working on other projects. Trying to fend off other ideas since I have to get back to Daryan/Klavier soon and wrap that up too. But! Anyway, yes, here's something to sink your teeth into...
FUCK. Now I want to write something Halloween themed. Goddamn. x__X
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The heat of Blood Gulch was kind in only one manner; the fact that it was a dry heat. Other than that, it was a relentless, strength sucking scorch that - on some days - rendered even Simmons too suffocated to move. Their suits did give some minor protection from the full force of the it but the assistance was just enough to make up for the sheer weight of the armor. It kept them from frying inside like cooked peas but beyond that was still an oven of warmth. Today seemed particularly bad and Sarge kicked them from the base that morning and seemed entirely grounded in refusing to share the air conditioning.
Actually, that was why he kicked Grif out - Simmons was there to make sure the slacker didn't…well, slack. It was an order he had upheld without question for the first two hours but after that he allowed himself to cave. The heat bothered him less thanks to the cybernetics but he offered a rare display of sympathy to the whining man. That moment of weakness had somehow spawned others and now they were both sprawled out in the dusty shade. Their helmets sat beside each other, out of the way of where Grif had his head resting on the padded cloth-armor of his body suit.
A cigarette burned between his lips and the only reason Simmons let it go was because the wind carried the smoke away from his nose. His gloved hand ran through the shaggy, straight strands protruding messily from Grif's head, absent mindedly pulling them away from the tanned forehead. Slight but natural warmth radiated from where they made contact, a little uncomfortable in the additional heat but not quite enough to make moving worth the effort. Eventually just the simple act of moving his arm got tiring and he let it fall against the orange chest plate lazily. Fingers drummed lightly against the armor, tapping out some pointless rhythm that would have made so little sense in a song that not even Donut would have liked it.
"Your beat sucks," Grif mumbled around his cigarette.
"Bite me," he replied, "If I wanted to be a musician I wouldn't be here."
"Thank God for that."
"Bite. Me." He repeated, tapping the armor a little harder with both words. There was a chance that the words were intended to be nice, sweet even, but considering where they were coming from he wasn't betting on it.
"How long have we been laying here?" Grif asked, hesitating just long enough that Sarge's voice could find its usual timing at the end of his question. Simmons act of rising to a sitting position was so abrupt that the brunette's head collided unceremoniously with his maroon armor.
"Simmons! Grif! Unless the Blues have learned to fly…" he trailed off, his voice coming back somewhat suspicious, "Have they?"
"No, Sir," Simmons answered immediately.
"Then you aren't following my orders!" he called ahead, giving Simmons just enough time to pull his helmet on and get to his feet. Grif, however, didn't move and took his time finishing the cigarette despite a kick in the back.
"What!?" he whined sharply, "I'm not done!" He knew Grif could feel the glare hidden under the other's visor but it was forced to leave him as Sarge came into view.
"What in the Sam hill are you doing here in the shade? You should be out boiling in the sun watching the Blues! In this heat, it would be the perfect time to strike."
"Yeah, if they were doing anything," Grif muttered, "Why should we stand in the sun waiting for our skin to melt off while they're hiding in their base?"
"Can't you see? They're plotting something in there! You should be infiltrating to find out their secret plans!"
"What plans? They're just sitting in there for the AC!" he complained, putting out his cigarette in the dirt beside him.
"AC must be a code for something!" After his exclamation, the red Spartan paused as if trying to crack the code before giving up. Though not without some zealous statement, "Damn those Blues! What could it possibly mean?"
Sensing nothing but the continuation of this argument, Simmons stepped in before Grif could come up with his next comment. "Maybe you should send Donut to find out, Sir. He and that one blue guy seem to get along really well."
"Simmons, that's a terrible idea!" he said, continuing before a word of apology could be uttered, "Unless, of course, we were to send someone with him to be used as a distraction for the other two-"
"No wa-"
"Grif! I wouldn't have expected you to volunteer so willingly. Apparently the heat has destroyed the remainder of your brain cells, meaning my plan has come to fruition!"
"Another excellent and successful strategy, Sir!"
"Shut up, cockbite!" Grif snapped, pulling his helmet back on as he stood.
"Your damn right it is!" He said, ignoring Grif's interruption. His voice sounded very pleased considering his usual gruff tone. But it was erased with a rough cough, "You can return to base while Grif and Donut do some recon."
"Thank you, Sir."
He heard Grif mumbled his usual 'kissass' as he headed back towards base. A smug smile overtook his expression, hidden perfectly under his helmet, but he found his feet refusing to continue as Sarge continued talking. "Oh, Grif, there's a message from Command for you back at the base."
"For me?"
"For him?" There was genuine shock in both of their voices. Simmons blinked, turning around to watch the other two start in the same direction he had headed. After a few steps, Grif paused and looked at Sarge and there was a radiating suspicion from him.
"Is this another trap so you can try to steal my small intestine again?"
Simmons rolled his eyes as Sarge responded with laughter at the memories before cutting to abrupt seriousness, "No! Why would I lie about a call from Command for you? That's like trying to catch Donut with magenta drapes instead of fuchsia!"
"…"
"He found out that you replaced the drapes in his room, didn't he?" Simmons asked, unable to hide the slight drone at the predictability of his commanding officer.
"Of course he did! Damn kid sure knows his colors - who knew there were so many variations of red?"
But both privates had all but forgotten their Sergeant's musings as they headed back to the base.
"What could command want with me?"
"Maybe they want to give you this year's 'Worlds Laziest Fuck Up' award," Simmons offered, the helpfulness almost outshining the sarcasm.
"Shut up, man," Grif replied, "You know they don't give that out so early in the year."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It took four hours for Grif to fall asleep that night; Simmons could tell by his breathing when he'd finally lost consciousness. That rather meager amount of time was the most sleep that he had lost in all his time knowing him - which was all the time he'd spent in Blood Gulch. He really shouldn't have been able to sleep at all but it didn't surprise him to feel the slowing rise and fall of the chest under his head or the hand on his side loosen. If there was one thing Grif could always manage to do it was fall asleep. Simmons found it to be one of his few qualities worth envying.
That and being able to get a tan as opposed burning to a painful red crisp when exposed to direct sunlight.
The older male snorted softly, mumbling nonsense and shifting onto his side. He pulled his partner closer in his sleep, nuzzling his face against the ginger tinted brunette before settling back into stillness. Simmons had no idea why the action made him hold his breath and tense but when he was convinced it wasn't an act, he relaxed. His face hovered near the skin covering Grif's exposed collarbone and he forced a breath to exit his lungs.
He supposed, after a couple of minutes spent musing on the situation, that he was nervous another shouting match would arise if Grif was awake. The ringing from their previous one still resounded in his ears despite the fact they had made up. It felt like the only assurance he had to the fact they had made up was Grif holding him while he slept - other than that he didn't really feel like things had been fixed.
Since that afternoon all they had been able to do was fight, go their separate ways to cool off, then come together just to start again. He'd tried being civil, understanding, but all Grif wanted was conflict. It wasn't different than usual, they were usually arguing about something, and yet…it was. It was completely different from their usual exchanges; because he didn't want to argue back.
In the end, he had just crawled into bed. Unable to sleep, he had nothing to do but stare at the wall, noting the amount of time spent between Grif's attempts to get into bed was about fifteen to twenty minutes. It wasn't even Simmons that told him to leave when he tried; he was just incapable of lying down. The light from the hallway showed his shadow standing in the doorway, taking a few steps into the bedroom, then turning and leaving again with the click of the door. It wasn't until the fourteenth try that he finally crawled into bed and even then he was stuck to his own side.
A firm believer against going to bed angry, Simmons touched his shoulder in the dark.
"I thought you were asleep," he snapped, trying to hide the slight jump he'd given in response to being touched.
"Who could sleep with you coming in and out every fifteen minutes?" He was sure Grif had several biting responses ready but he didn't use them. The younger male would have felt much better if he had.
They lay there in silence, facing their respective walls rather than each other. It swelled between them and Simmons jolted up so quickly he was almost unaware he had done it himself. Even after he realized it he only stared at the blanket covering his legs rather than the body beside him. "It's only six months, Grif. You'll be back before you have time to miss the place."
"If I come back," he retorted lowly.
"Don't talk like that. Of course you'll be back." There was a plain lack of insecurity in his voice despite his worst fear being vocalized almost casually. He wished he knew how he'd managed it because he got the feeling he'd want that strength later.
"They're sending me into an active war zone, Simmons. Not this pussy-footing around that we've been doing here for the past who-knows-how-long." He sounded annoyed but it was thin compared to the solid block of fear hidden under it. Grif had never been big on dying.
"So? You've lived through all the calamity's of this place. Compared to O'Malley and all that, a war isn't-"
"This is different! Straightforward, live or die, kill or be killed war. Face it, I'm probably not coming back." He turned to Grif this time.
"Stop saying that. You're stupid and a lazy fuck but at least you have a clue…sometimes…so you'll come back in one piece in six months. It's a fact. As plain as the ones you already know; Sarge will still hate you, Donut will still be an idiot and I…" he trailed off, looking back to the blankets over his legs.
The bed shifted as Grif sat up, reaching over to his bedside table to extract a pack of cigarettes from the piles of junk. He held it loosely in his lips, struggling with the lighter. Simmons wasn't sure why until he reached out to help him only to notice his hands shaking.
"I got it," he mumbled, but after four more failures he didn't argue when Simmons took the lighter from him. The stinging scent of smoke floated over his senses despite Grif turning his head away to exhale. He played with the lighter to occupy his hands and try to silence his thoughts; only the former goal was achieved.
He watched the orange glow disappear briefly as he flicked the ashes from the end of his cigarette into the small, nearly overflowing ashtray. Though he couldn't see it in the dark, he remembered asking Grif to empty it that morning despite knowing that he wouldn't. Soon he'd cave and do it himself, as well as throw away the junk food wrappers and pointless other things Grif had allowed to pile up. They both knew he would so Grif never bothered despite his constant requests.
The warmth of a hand found his upper arm and pulled him somewhat roughly to the side. Fingers touched his jaw line, bringing the burning cigarette dangerously near to his face but he didn't flinch. He could practically feel the heat of it near his ear and the smoke made his eyes sting, forcing them closed just as lips found his through the dark. They eclipsed his for a few brief moments before a familiar tongue was gaining entry and the hand holding the cigarettes slid to the back of his neck to keep him from pulling away.
Tilting his head brought them closer and he slid a hand to Grif's bent leg to keep himself steady. His fingers tightened against the muscle, earning a somewhat surprised groan and warm digits tensing on the back of his neck in response. The tongue exploring his mouth probed at areas it knew to be sensitive, garnering a retaliation that only spurred him to continue. Simmons moaned, leaning forward as he came to the conclusion that his hand on Grif's thigh was not nearly enough contact.
But the older male pulled away, twice pressing his lips to the other's as if to ease him into the action and lack of mouth pressed to his. The only inclination he had that Grif was even looking at him was the breath being exhaled against his mouth and jaw. It smelled of cigarettes; the same disgusting taste that now plagued his mouth. But it was familiar to him in its revolving presence and he found that he wasn't sure he could tolerate six months without it.
"What about you?" he didn't whisper but something about his voice was quiet.
"Me?"
"Sarge is always going to hate me, Donut will always be a fucking idiot…" Simmons felt lips press to his shortly, like a bribe to sway his answer, "What about you?"
He hesitated for a minute before reasoning on a suitable response to the question, "I'll always be here."
Grif's forehead brushed his as he pulled away, finishing the cigarette and putting it out in his ashtray. They both retreated under the covers and warm arms found him, resulting in their position until just a few moments ago. The tanned soldier's breathing was even under his palm, the air he exhaled tickling where his nose was buried in his hair. He tugged the blanket up over his shoulders and Grif shivered slightly with the additional warmth, pulling him even closer in the process.
How sappy of me is it to think I can't handle six months without him? The arguing, the gross smell of his cigarettes, the fucking up. Simmons frowned at himself, sliding his hand around to rest on Grif's side and he pressed a kiss to the chest he was warmly smothered against. Really fucking pathetic.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Blood Gulch was cooler at six in the morning than any other time of the day. Very few of its inhabitants were up early enough to appreciate it - Simmons was not one of them. He was often up that early when Grif wasn't trying to chide him into staying in bed. He was no stranger to the dim blue light just before the sun rose, keeping the canyon in a chilled fog. But Grif was. Despite the numerous attempts at getting him to stir sometime before eleven, Simmons had never managed to succeed before today. Waking him up early hadn't been easy; it involved kicking him onto the cold floor and dumping some freezing water on him - but overall it was a success.
For much of the morning he was cursing and sulking but eventually found his way to the table and accepted the coffee that Simmons offered him. It was the first time he drank coffee given to him by his partner without flinching at the bitter taste. This probably had to do with the fact the sugar bowl and small cream pitcher would need to be refilled after their next drop. But this morning Grif looked up at him, somewhat surprised, and a bit of a smile twitched at his lips.
"Donut's going to kill you for using the last of the sugar."
"Don't worry about it."
"Worry? Whose worried?" he laughed, "I'm just sorry I won't get to see it."
"Oh, you will," he replied, sipping the warm contents of his cup, "I'm going to tell him you did it."
"Dude, there is no way in hell-"
"He will if I remind him."
"Fuckface."
"Prick."
After finishing their coffee they pulled on their helmets and Grif slung his backpack over his shoulder. The small bag contained only a few choice belongings and a carton of cigarettes. Simmons had offered to help him pack but he was convinced he wouldn't need much - he really just didn't want to carry something that heavy. They left the base behind and didn't have to walk far to spot the hulking machine that waited with loud impatience.
"That's it," Grif said after a pregnant pause once again spread between them.
Simmons felt slightly detached by the words, nodding, "Yeah."
"See you in six months."
"I'll be here."
Grif's hand closed over his and he felt something foreign get slightly crushed between their palms. He wanted to look down, to see what it was, but it felt like opening a Christmas gift before Christmas day. Soon the warmth was slipping away and he held whatever it was on his own.
"Don't work too hard." He wasn't sure why he said it, but he was pretty sure it was a stupid attempt to make him stay longer. As if Grif was leaving of his own volition and it was up to him to make him stay…and he was failing.
"Good one." He laughed but it was almost mocking. He was rolling his eyes; they both knew what Simmons was doing. He turned, walking toward the machine that now seemed to be looming despite standing so far from it. The wind created by the craft hurled the pathetically short grass every direction but the retreating form of Grif's armor was still and steady in its strides.
"Grif!" For a minute he was afraid he wouldn't be heard but the orange solider turned, his visor focused where he stood. The idea occurred to him to run after him, even though he had no idea what he would do when he got there, but he couldn't move. Instead he continued, "You'd better come back in one piece!"
He waited, not looking away from where the private stood but not saying anything either. Simmons couldn't tell if he hadn't been heard or if it was just him being an ass again.
"Promise!" He nodded, "Who else is going to balance out all your sucking up to Sarge?"
Without another word he turned again, finishing the trek to the craft and disappearing inside, not turning his visor back towards the maroon Spartan. He stayed facing forwards while the one on the ground found it impossible to look away. Simmons stood immobile, watching until the ship was eclipsed by the walls of the box canyon.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
The room was glowing dimly when he finally returned from seeing Grif off. Their bed was made, a meticulous habit that Simmons had never been able to shake, and his partner had once joked was "programmed into you before you could actually be programmed." He set his helmet on the dresser and ran gloved fingers over the circuitry embedded into his skin. It was warm under his fingers, the heat contained by his helmet helping the process greatly.
His mismatched eyes scanned the room, one observing in a simple passing while the other analyzed pointless details. He absently adjusted one of the pillows as the cybernetic eye pointed out that its angle was slightly off. By standing on his side of the bed, his gaze naturally drifted to Grif's bedside table. Though it was entirely stupid, some part of him had expected it to be cleaned off and bare - he was relieved to see that wasn't the case.
"Dumbass," he lectured to no one as he walked around the bed, "Can't manage to get off his lazy ass and clean even when he's going to be gone for six months."
The constant whirring that came with his motion settled when he sat down. When he reached out to pick up a wrapper he realized he still had something in his hand. Forgetting something so painfully obvious made his body tense with agitation - though it was solely with himself. He had walked all the way back to base with whatever it was Grif had given him and he forgot all about it. Some partner he was.
He recognized what it was before he completely opened his hand. The corners of the small rectangle protruded beyond his fingers and made opening his hand the rest of the way seem pointless. But the face of the cigarette pack staring up at him was almost as pleasant as noting that Grif had failed to clean off his nightstand. It was the only brand the soldier smoked - though Simmons could hardly imagine him being deterred for more than a couple of minutes if something should force him to switch brands.
Before he realized it, he was picking at the plastic tab and peeling away the thin line that indicated where it would tear. He let it drop to the floor, lifting the top and tentatively opening the packaging inside so he wouldn't rip it. The twin rows stared up at him neatly, baring that same sort of perfection that compelled people to forgo birthday cake. It was an image, a tidy little thing that sent a weak twinge of guilt through him to even consider ruining it. But there was no point in thinking it would last - imperfection was unavoidable and he'd already come this far.
Tapping the pack against the side of his hand a few times caused two of the tightly packaged sticks to slide out just enough that he could pull one free even with his bulky gloves on. The silver end of a lighter protruded from the rubble of Grif's stand and he placed the cigarette at his lips, lighting it the way he'd seen the older male do so many times.
The taste was vile and his mechanized parts whirred to life in an attempt to figure out what to do with the smoke. He couldn't last five seconds before he was coughing, the smoke stinging his organic eye to tears. His arm stretched away from his body, keeping any more of the offending smog from polluting his senses but the damage was done.
"God, how the hell can he smoke this disgusting shit?" He asked to no one except, maybe, the cigarette itself. He squinted through the dry tears in his eyes, planting the burning tip into the pile of ashes. It looked so prematurely snuffed compared to the butts of Grif's, smoked practically to the orange-encased cotton.
He was aware of his staring even as he was doing it, comparing the two very different marks left in the gray and white flecked mound. The material of his glove felt rough when he wiped it across his cheek, intending to clear away the tear that had slipped down it. But when the time came for it to fall back to his lap or the bed or to start the task of cleaning off the bedside table, he couldn't move. His fingers dug into the skin resting above his organic eye, forming a broken dome around it. Elbows rested on the cool, maroon metal covering his thighs. Gradually his shoulders shook, even the infusion of cybernetics unable to fend off the subtle tells of the pain.
He couldn't blame these on the smoke.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It had been two months since Grif left before anything inclined that he was still alive. The usual stupid shenanigans had started up again but it wasn't as fun without Grif around to insult or argue with. While it was true that Donut was an idiot, he wasn't lazy and thus there wasn't anyone to yell at for being a bum. Plus, most of the time he couldn't even find him and when he had he really wished he hadn't. There was absolutely no value in knowing the private could stretch that much. None.
Of course, he still had Sarge to suck up to but without Grif around to belittle there weren't as many instances to support his quips. He had taken to spouting words of flattery when Sarge was working on the Warthog but was eventually given orders to go "anywhere but here." The blow was eased by a somewhat hidden appreciation in the other's voice when he was told his "ass kissing is as ass kissing as ever" but maybe he'd rather "go practice in a cave that looks like it's about to cave in". It lightened his spirits but he chose a post on the top of Red Base over the cave suggestion.
That was where Donut found him, overly chipper voice breaking the silence like the glittery unicorn sticker found on the hood of the Warthog last week. "Simmons! Hey! Heeey! HEY-!"
"What Donut!?"
"You weren't answering me."
"I've been staring at you for the past five minutes waiting for you to talk to me!"
"Well how am I supposed to tell that? I can't see your eyes through that visor!"
"I put up my visor two minutes ago."
"..." The pink solider hesitated and Simmons had the distinct idea that he was being squinted at. Even knowing the question was coming he was unable to stop it, "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Really? Because I think I would have-"
"No, no you wouldn't have noticed," he groaned, "What do you want?"
"Oh!" It wasn't much of a relief but Donut sounded as though he had genuinely forgot why he was yelling. Not the most comforting thing to hear from someone who, apparently, had something important to relay. "We got a letter in today's drop and I was wondering who I'm supposed to give it to."
"Who do you usually give letters do?"
"I think I know where you're going with this," he said with all the enthusiasm of a person who thinks they're incredibly clever, "But there's no address-"
"Whose name is on it?" he asked through gritted teeth.
"Yours."
"What?" He reached out to snatch the envelope in Donut's hand. Sure (and surprisingly) enough, his name was indeed scrawled across the front in a messy and almost unreadable handwriting. He reached up to pull off his helmet while attempting to simultaneously open the letter. When that plan failed he settled for removing his helmet first and then opening the letter. His eyes flew to the signature - "Grif."
"What's it say?"
"Shut up and give me a minute, Donut."
Hey -Well, I'm not dead yet. Unless they stamped 'deceased' on here or something. Anyway - dude! This war is hard work! It's fucking bullshit. There has to be a mistake or something - why the hell would they call a draftee instead of a person who volunteered anyway? Fuck this war, it doesn't make any sense.I thought this letter would be longer but writing is way too much work. You'd better be keeping up your half of that promise - or I'll kick your ass.
- Grif
P.S And you'd better be taking care of my shit.
P.S.S And don't let Donut eat my Ho-Hos.
P.S.S.S Or let Sarge throw them out just to spite me.
P.S.S.S.S Oh, and tell Sarge I said "Fuck you!"
P.S.S.S.S.S Without the "Sir"!
P.S.S.S.S.S.S Because I blame him for me being here.
P.S.S.S.S.S.S.S What does PS mean anyway?
"What does it saaay!?" Donut whined, "Did he say hi? Did he send any pictures? Gifts? Meet anyone?"
"Donut, look at the size of this envelope," he said, holding it up, "Do you really think he could fit anything in here besides the letter?"
"Weeell~"
"He's at war! What kind of gifts is he supposed to send!?" He realized that he probably shouldn't have asked because Donut had an answer for everything. It was usually an incredibly stupid answer, but there was always an answer.
"Caboose sent me a gift when he went away," he said, planting his hands on his hips.
"Really? Well what...wait, Caboose went to war? When!?"
"Two weeks ago!" He sounded caught between disbelief and offense, "He sent me the head of the evil Pirate King and some of the treasure he found to tie me over financially until he returned."
"I'm talking about a real war, Donut!" he shouted desperately, "And that means you're the reason Church came over here so pissed! I thought he'd finally lost it!"
"You mean Caboose's traitorous best friend who snuck off to kidnap me?"
"He wanted Tucker's helmet and his wallet back! You didn't even go anywhere!"
"That's what he gets for underestimating Captain Caboose!"
"I'm not having this conversation," he sighed and shook his head as he headed towards his room. The paper of the letter was hastily stuffed into his helmet and he couldn't get to his bed fast enough.
He sprawled out on top of the covers without removing his armor, feeling the springs creak warningly under the additional weight. Above him the ceiling remained stationary despite the slight feeling of light headedness circling him. Crinkling broke the momentary vacuum as he pulled the letter from his helmet again. Looking at it a second time, he wasn't sure how he'd managed to decode Grif's atrocious hand writing - he was certain someone using a broken hand could have done better.
He rolled over, reaching for his drawer to pull out some paper. There wasn't any point in ordering envelopes - hindering him only until he pulled the original envelope from his helmet. Scratching an 'X' over his own name, he neatly printed 'Private Dexter Grif' beside it.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Grif hadn't replied to his letter even as the fifth month rolled around. In truth, he wasn't sure if that should have worried him or if he had been expecting it on some level. There was a ridiculously good chance that just reading the reply had stripped him of any motivation to do the same - Simmons' response had totaled four-and-a-quarter pages. It was also possible that the letter had never reached him - he didn't exactly have an address to send it to. Though Dexter Grif didn't seem like it should have been a very common name.
So, when a meeting was called after a message from command he felt perfectly vindicated in being more than a little nervous. He took a seat beside Donut at the table, glancing towards the seat Grif was usually sleeping in. Tearing his eyes away to focus on the screen in the wall was more difficult than usual but he managed. He wasn't sure if it would have been any easier even if the damn thing was on.
"I bet this meeting is to say they're taking some of my suggestions!" Donut announced as if he had suddenly realized the answer to the universe.
"I don't think so, Donut," he sighed.
"Don't be that way, Simmons! All my suggestions were very helpful."
"I bet." He replied, rolling his eyes at the strawberry-blonde. Donut seemed like he wanted to protest but Sarge beat him to it.
"You two shut yer yaps! Command said this meeting was of vital importance!" he shouted gruffly before leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, "I'm hoping they'll give us some news on Grif. Preferably that he died in a gruesome manner or was captured by the enemy!"
"It's been three months since we got his letter, Sir," Simons replied, "Don't you think Command would have already called if that happened?"
"Not if they just finished collecting the fragments of his body!" he said, his voice cheerfully rugged.
As if triggered by some cosmic cue, the screen at the end of the table came to life. A figure, male but not Vic Jr., appeared on the screen.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I'll be filling in for Vic today." Simmons didn't much care for the sound of the voice but it was far more pleasant than the one he was used to. It didn't pause to allow for questions. "I'm going to be frank; we've decided to relocate you all out of Blood Gulch."
"What!?" Simmons was sure his question was tinted with different feeling than the rest of his team but he was thankful he wasn't the only one to raise the question.
"That base has been deemed obsolete in this war and you can all be used in more vital areas." Simmons felt his stomach drop so low that wiggling his toes might have caused him to throw up.
"But what about the Blues? They-" He wasn't surprised that he had been cut off, he knew he was grasping at straws.
"Our Intel sources have told us that the Blue Base residents are also pulling out within the week." He hesitated. "Do you have a problem, Private Simmons?"
"I...wait, how did you know my name?" That revelation didn't shock him either, his mind had been hurled into a brief state of utter confusion at the news. Command knowing his name would make perfect sense on a normal day but not now, not after hearing that. A thousand questions had come up in his head, demanding to argue the relocation as well. But none of his reasons were good enough and they died prematurely in his throat.
"We know all your names."
"Oh! Oh! What's mine?"
Simmons started, though he really should have been relieved that Donut was prolonging the time before they had to hear any more of this "Shut up-"
"Private Franklin D. Donut," he stated, almost haughtily, "And Sergeant-"
"Enough!" This time it was Sarge who stepped in, "Where the heck are we going that could be more important than this base right here!?"
"Your individual assignments will be relayed to you this coming Friday."
"You're not telling us today?"
"No. Operatives will arrive to take you to your designated bases at 0600."
"Wait! You're splitting us up!?" Donut demanded, his voice slightly tinted with desperation.
"That is correct." He confirmed and once again continued without waiting. "Have a nice week, gentlemen."
The room fell into silence when the screen flicked off, Simmons mouth was partially opening an attempt to make the conversation last for whatever pointless reason. It wasn't like whoever had just given them those commands would have listened to his reasoning anyway. He couldn't leave because he had to wait for his potentially dead lover to return? The excuse sounded like the back of a really bad movie box.
"Well I'm not leaving," Sarge said, crossing his arms as he leaned back in the chair, "We don't know what those Blues are up to! Command probably got their messages mixed up, there's no way the Blues are leaving this canyon!"
"It's weird, we've been here for so long I kinda forgot what the outside world looked like," Donut piped up almost cheerfully. Simmons detected the faint attempt at helpfulness giving his voice a useless lift, "Well, except for Iowa-"
"No one cares, Donut," Simmons snapped, turning to snatch his helmet off the table and leaving the room. He wouldn't argue with Sarge and Command was above even him. If they said he was needed elsewhere…
But Grif is coming back here. What if I'm not…but the cold burn of reality set in. He didn't even know if Grif was still alive. They wouldn't have sent a letter here, except maybe to Sister, because he had no family on the Red Base. But if she had found out about it there was no way Simmons couldn't have found out as well. Someone would have said something; wouldn't they?
When he got back to his room he felt tired, drained of whatever pathetic strength he had been clinging to in order to make it this far. His eyes lifted and he realized, for the first time, how bare the room looked. The floor was clean; Grif's clothes weren't laying around in an awkward trail leading towards the bed, dresser or closet. The bed was made; Grif wasn't around to take the afternoon nap that always left the blankets askew and in need of being tucked in. The dresser drawers and closet were closed; Grif's pants weren't hanging out like monsters slain in their attempt to escape the rectangular prison of their drawers. It was like no one lived there anyway.
He fell onto the bed and it once again groaned threateningly under the weight of his armor. His helmet was tossed, without care, somewhere beside him. Blank eyes stared at the smooth, clean surface of his bedside table that held only a bottle of motor oil that was half empty. Even it was clean of any drips that may have come from awkward attempts at drinking in the night. Had he always been this orderly?
Lazily he lifted his head, letting it fall to the pillow again with his eyes closed for a couple long seconds that undoubtedly lead into minutes. When he did finally open them again, Grif's bedside table was in view and he felt like he'd swallowed an egg without breaking it out of its shell first. It was still messy, only a few wrappers halfheartedly tossed into the trash can that was never used by the other room's inhabitant. Simmons still couldn't bring himself to clean it off, finding that it carried some stupid sense of hope in it's filth and rubble.
"Fuck him!"
Suddenly he was sitting up and his arm lashed out, sending the mess onto the clean floor. The ashtray shattered while particles of its contents drifted slowly towards the ground, hurled by the imaginary wind of his motion. Wrappers fell without pattern or reason, some of them clear and some of them standing out brightly against the gray floor; mismatched and contrasting.
"Fuck it all…"
He was aware that his eyebrows were furrowed deeply, that one of his eyes was burning violently and summoning up moisture as though a blow drier had been aimed at it. He watched the mess become nothing but an uneven blur in his vision before dropping his face into his hand and he choked on the lump that was stuck in his throat.
"Goddammit Grif…goddammit."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The waves are crashing down on me
But I know this cannot be the end
Be the end
Right now I feel like copping out
Will you hold me up if I just say
That I will stay?
I will hold onto this hope that I have
You gave me a promise
You gave me a promise
I'll push through this moment
I'll never give up
You gave me a promise
You gave me a promise