A/N: Warning for brief language throughout and mentions of past abuse.

…

Dick Simmons was a nerd, and he knew it. He learned pretty quickly what was expected of him – where his place was in the social hierarchy. He was to be quiet, to keep his head down, to do whatever was asked of him. That lesson was further beat into him at home by his father. At least that is, until he turned seventeen. Two weeks after his birthday, he had a massive growth spurt and he filled out, all lean, hard muscle that he toned with the highest discipline. He stood at six feet tall, now, an easy six inches on the man that had beat him since he was a toddler.

So he started hitting back. In the end, all that got him was time in a jail cell. And when he got out, his dad and his friends beat him so hard he could barely walk. As he healed in the hospital – told them it was the bullies, so he could get revenge without getting beat on more – he searched desperately for a way to get off the planet. To get safe….

In the end, he signed up for the army. "The Red Army", they called themselves. When he asked why, they threw insults and paperclips, sometimes fists. So he learned to do it all again – to be quiet, keep his head down, and do whatever was asked of him. From Basic Training to Sanchez-Chrisey Outpost to Blood Gulch, he excelled at meeting expectations. He never did any less than expected of him, because that would be asking for pain. Nor did he do any more than expected of him, because that would be asking for way more attention than he was comfortable with.

At Blood Gulch, it was easy. He was expected to play up the Sergeant's ego, and he knew exactly how to do it. He supposed his ability to read people was another thing that made him a nerd, but, let's face it, it got him places in life.

It was how he knew when to leave Grif alone, when Donut had enough needling, and when Sarge just wanted to be alone.

So when he found their Sergeant nearly sobbing in the broom closet, he knew it wasn't one of those times. He sat on the floor, gun resting on his knees, and waited for the older man to speak.

"Have you ever lost someone?" Sarge asked eventually.

Simmons shook his head. "People don't usually care enough about me for me to return the favor." He said it factually, it was a fact, after all.

Sarge nodded. "I just got a letter from my backstabbing childhood best friend."

Simmons raised an eyebrow at the venom with which that was said.

"He stole my girl. And now he's killed her. Fuck the doctors. Money will shut anyone up, and everyone knew he beat her." Sarge sniffed and wiped a hand across his face. He held up the thin datapad and read softly but clearly. "Jackson – I want you to know that Melia's passed away. She fell down the stairs when I was not at home and hit her head. She's in a better place now. Feel free to find her son and tell him," something caught in Sarge's throat, "tell him who you really are. I won't stop you, there's really no point in keeping it from him anymore. I think he's on your side of the war, and I know you'll try, so do me a favor and let him know about this. The messaging fees are an arm and a leg that I can't spare. – Zach"

Sarge let loose a strangled breath. "How the hell am I going to find my son from here?"

"You have a son?" Simmons asked, something niggling in the back of his mind.

Sarge chuckled angrily. "She was with me, and I got her pregnant. I was going to marry her, then the next thing I know, she's eloped with him. They sent me a picture of him when he was born, with a warning to stay the fuck away. Something about children needing a stable home. I doubt Zachary Frederick," he spat the name, "provided much of that."

"Zachary Frederick?" Simmons rubbed the back of his neck as something tried to be remembered. "If messaging fees are that much, and he can't be bothered to tell her son, why would he tell you?"

"Because he knew it would cause me pain," Sarge answered simply. "And that's something he's been way invested in for the past twenty-six years." He drew a haggard sigh. "Where do I start, Simmons?"

Simmons got up, struck with an idea. "Well, a glass of scotch always helps. I'll be back shortly."

Simmons frowned to himself as he checked his armor. He knew for a fact there was no alcohol left on base at the moment, as he and Grif had downed it all last poker night. That only left one option.

…

Leonard Church was nothing if not vigilant. Even when Caboose and Tucker were fast asleep, he stayed on the roof, watching over the base. The perks of being a ghost, he guessed, not having to sleep.

He fired a silenced warning shot at the red soldier approaching. The soldier stopped and held up his hands, showing that he had no weapons.

Church frowned and walked over. "Simmons, right? What do you want?"

"A forty-eight hour truce," the man said before he could stop himself. "Our leader took a heavy emotional hit today. He needs the break."

"You didn't trek over here all the way for that," Church growled, still trying to figure out where the play was going to come from.

"No." Simmons reached behind him slowly, extremely conscious of Church's rifle in his face. He held up a small box for inspection and then opened it to reveal an assortment of chocolates from Earth. "It came in the last supply drop, and we've been saving it for emergencies. I was wondering if we could trade."

"What for?" Church demanded.

"Do you have any booze?"

…

When Simmons walked into Sarge's quarters without knocking, he was prepared for a mad tirade, and held up the bottle and two glasses as a peace offering. He wasn't expecting to see his commanding officer laying on his back, gazing at a worn picture.

Richard sighed and pulled up a chair. "Can I see?"

Sarge reached for the bottle and handed over the picture carefully.

Dick gripped it only by the very edges, then frowned in recognition. "That's my mama. And me. Growing up, there was a copy of this on the mantle."

Sarge looked up, processing the words very carefully.

Dick snarled. "That's what I was forgetting! Zachary Frederick was my dad. Or the man that raised me, I guess. That bastard! He beat on me for eighteen years of my life, just because I wasn't his." That brought up another thought. He looked Sarge dead in the eye. "That means…."

Sarge moved, but then hesitantly held out his hand. "My name's Jackson Wayne Robertson."

Dick smiled a little. "Richard Jackson Simmons." He traced a gloved finger over his mother's face. "That means, too, that Mama's gone." He sighed and ran a hand over his face, catching his tears before they could fall.

Then Sarge was taking off his helmet and pulling him into a hug, carding his fingers through his hair, and Dick just broke, sobbing openly.

Sarge's breath hitched, and he started to silently weep as well, so mixed in grief and joy and anger he didn't know why he was crying. He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of Dick's head, and he held his son tight.

There wasn't anything else he would rather do.

Except maybe snipe fucking Zachary Frederick. Yeah, that sounded like a good plan.

…

A/N: First RvB fanfic completed! R&R!

Namarië!

~River