You should do a grimmons angst based on the end of season 13. Perhaps when they go up against Hargrove and one is falsely lead to believe the other is dead and all he can think about is how much he should have told the other how he feels.. then maybe a scene from the reproduction temples activation for a happy ending? ;)
Even now, after everything that's happened, the words get clogged in Grif's throat. A low key tremor runs through his body, his nerves still humming from the alien energy in the air that had led to… this.
Simmons is just as wrecked as he is in the aftermath. Sweat clings to his pale skin, making it hard to keep his legs wrapped around Grif's hips. His head has collapsed against the wall, eyes closed as he pants, pulse slowing minutely. Grif can feel it fluttering against his cheek as his head remains burrowed against his throat.
He really should let go, let his hands slide out from under Simmons, and stop pinning him against the wall but he can't. Not when Simmons is clutching equally tight to him with his legs and a single arm.
The other- there isn't even a stump anymore where his prosthetic used to attach.
Grey was the best doctor in the galaxy but even she couldn't save what was left of his arm. Not after the horrible fight on the Staff of Charon.
He should say the words. They're sitting right there. But he can't get them out, for more than all the usual reasons. The terror of seeing Simmons go down in the fight freezes the words in his mouth, leaves them trapped behind the solid lump in his throat that makes it hard to breath.
The sweat causes one of Simmons' legs to start to slip. He jerks with a soft whimper, clinging to Grif's shoulders as he struggles to keep from falling. Grif presses closer and lets his hand slide down the tightly muscled, lightly haired leg and pulls it back onto hip. His hand lingers, fingers curled under Simmons' knee and he can't help but turn his head slightly, to nuzzle and nip at the delicate pulse that's started to race once more.
Tucker and Wash had gone to the Temple of Procreation to nudge the planet's livestock into breeding season. Supposedly, the waves of intoxicating lust it produced could be focused to only affect animals. Grif could only assume they'd forgotten to ask if humans counted as animals.
Grif can feel the alien energy burning into him once more, making his heart race and his blood rush south. Simmons let out a soft groan and flexed against him; the energy is getting to him as well. They can both feel the stirring where they're still joined and it won't be long before they're lost in each other once more.
Or would be, if Simmons' stretching didn't twist his shoulder the wrong way and cause him to let out a sharp bark of pain. His legs convulse and slip. Grif grabs at him fast, catching him before he falls all the way to the hard concrete floor beneath them and holds him steady as he gets his feet planted under him.
This time, Simmons is the one hiding his face, burying it against the side of Grif's head, lips close to his ear as his whimpers in pain. The trembling wracking his body now has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with his still-healing injuries. There's a reason Grey hasn't already fitted him with a new prosthetic.
Holding the other man tight, Grif lets Simmons take whatever comfort he needs. Shifting his weight, he lingers close, mindful not to apply any weight to Simmons' left side. He's careful as he adjusts his stance, wary of losing his footing in the mess beneath them. On some level, he's surprised Simmons hasn't already complained about standing in the sticky slick puddle. It's probably just an incidental detail, though. Simmons is in no danger of falling, not with Grif pinning him to the wall and holding tight to his hips.
The arm around his shoulders loosens and Simmons shifts it to press against Grif's chest, his fingers coming to rest on the still healing scars and sore muscles. His whimpers are tapering off and the shaking starting to ease. The pressure from that single arm feels wrong, unbalanced without a second holding tight. Almost involuntarily, Grif's mind flashes back to the Staff of Charon.
The mercenaries guarding Hargrove are worse than any they've faced besides Felix and Locus. Heavily armed, highly skilled, and utterly ruthless, each step they take forward and each room and corridor they conquer is in itself a stunning victory. Somehow, their crew of fuck-ups and losers break through each enemy barricade and drive forward, getting closer and closer to freedom.
It helped that they've ultimately succeeded in the original task that had brought them to the ship: the Mantis outside have been shut-down and the friends they've made in the New Republic and Federal Army are safe. Even if they fall and die, it'll be with the knowledge that they've done something worth remembering.
They'd almost reached the airlock where Carolina and Wash are racing to meet them. The enhancements in Tucker's stolen armor are doing their job keeping their rear protected while Grif launches a steady barrage of explosives at the mercs trying to rush them. Doc's run out of ammo for his rocket launcher but that hasn't stopped him from turning it into a deadly melee weapon. Each time he beats a mercenary into a wall or the ground, Donut is right there to put a bullet in their head.
But the bubble shield can't run the entire time and they're on the move instead of hunkered down behind layers of protective concrete and steel.
Two shots burst past their defenses and hit Simmons dead in the arm. By some stroke of luck, one round gets lodged in the complex machinery that makes up that arm and doesn't continue tearing through him. Unfortunately, the parts it's lodged in start a cascade of failure that sends the artificial limb sparking and jerking out of control. The second round punches through and slams into his side, its velocity slowed enough that when it hits a rib, it doesn't go any further.
In an instant, Simmons goes from firing the alien needlers to stumbling into a wall, frantically trying to get his finger off the trigger before he shoots someone. Meanwhile, pain radiates out of his side, each movement he makes causing the bullet to grind against his rib.
"Hold position!" Sarge bellows and they all hunker down, forming a protective circle around the maroon armored soldier. They don't have to look know he's in pain; he's growling and panting over the comms, teeth grinding together as he struggles not to scream. Sarge is on him in an instant, hands confident as he looks at the damage. He reaches out and grabs the limb, struggling to pin it in place then lets out a long string of Southern-flavored curses; the malfunctioning parts are overheating. His other hand is already fumbling for his biofoam, which he jabs directly into the wound in Simmons' chest and fires the canister. The swarm of proverbial ants flooding the injury tears a scream out of the wounded soldier's throat.
"Sorry, son, we'll get you a new one," Sarge grunts, as he struggles to hold down the spasming limb. "Tucker, we need to take Simmons' arm off."
"We need to what?" Tucker yells he triggers the bubble shield; an explosive erupts around them, causing the entire corridor to shake.
"Cut it off, right below the shoulder!" Sarge bellows back. Once the biofoam is put away, he slams both hands onto Simmons' arm, pinning it to the wall.
With his own string of curses, Tucker spins around, takes in the situation, and lashes out with his sword. The plasma blade slices effortlessly through the armor and the flesh and bone beneath. "Jesus fucking christ!" he screams as the limb drops to the ground and continues to writhe.
Simmons crumples. Sarge catches him and throws him over his shoulder, hooking his remaining arm and leg in a fireman's carry. "Alright, let's move!"
Grif catches sight of Simmons collapsing out of the corner of his eye; for an instant, all he can see is red- maroon red armor, red arm crawling along the ground, red on the wall where Simmons collapsed. Red haze fills his vision and all he wants to do is tear away from the group and find whoever shot Simmons and kill them. He wants to smash their face in with the Grifshot, beat them into the ground, and peel open their armor like a can of beans; put the curved bayonet to work until the mercenary is as red as Simmons.
Before he can break away, though, Donut is jerking at his arm, screaming at him to keep going. "Grif, come on!" the small soldier yells. "You have to stay with Simmons!"
That gets him moving, breaks through the bloodlust filling his mind. He tucks close to Sarge, making sure he's always between Simmons and any more bullets. They make it to the airlock and onto the rescue ship, Carolina and Wash tearing through the hatch to lay down cover fire. When they take off, Grif stops caring about the Staff of Charon and focuses completely on the bioreadout in his HUD; in all the years he's had it there, he's never seen Simmons' readout look so bad.
Doc looks him over, momentarily setting aside his O'malley-like manic state, and confirms he's stable. Tucker's sword cauterized the amputation; the biofoam is doing is job and stopped the internal bleeding.
"And now you, Grif," the purple medic continues as he stands up and turns to him.
Hearing his name catches his attention and Grif looks up, away from Simmons, in confusion.
Scanner in hand, Doc hurries over and starts running the device over his chest. Struggling to angle his helmet down, Grif is shocked to see red seeping down his armor. Doc, meanwhile, pulls out his own canister of biofoam and presses it into the bullet wound in his chest. The application is like a thousand needles stabbing him all at once and Grif is suddenly painfully aware of his injury.
"You're really lucky, Grif, the bullet missed your lung!" Doc cheerfully informs him. "It's still in there, though, so don't move around too much."
"Any other injuries?" Wash demands. He's anxious, exhausted, but refuses to stop hovering near Tucker and Caboose.
"Just those two knuckleheads," Sarge gruffly informs him from his seat besides the injured soldier. For once, Grif can't find it in him to shoot off his mouth. Not when he can just make out the red stains on the red plates of Sarge's armor. Blood. Simmons' blood.
The rest of the flight is a blur. They leave the battlefield behind and return to Crash Site Bravo where the United Armies of Chorus have re-established a command center. Simmons is promptly wheeled into surgery while Grif finds himself at the tender mercy of one of the nurses, who extracts the bullet and patches him back up with the battle-honed confidence all the Chorus medics have.
Hours later, Simmons is out of surgery and recovery. He's still loopy when they're allowed to go see him and keeps repeating himself, giddy as he earnestly makes sure they understand what he's telling them, even when it's nonsense.
Grif's seen Simmons without his prosthetic before; he and Sarge are forever tinkering with the mechanical limb and his heart had stopped racing at the sight of the stumpy remain of his organic limb years ago.
But now, lying against the white linens, Simmons look small and fragile. The nerve damage from the bullet-caused malfunction had been more extensive than they'd realized and Grey had been forced to take off everything below his shoulder. Triage, the nurse who'd led them in, had explained. If there hadn't been so many other injuries to deal with, they might have been able to repair the damage but under the circumstances, they'd done all they could.
Recovery takes time. It's days before Grey lets Simmons out of bed and Grif isn't allowed to even think about putting on his armor and helping out in anyway. Eventually, though, they're put on light duty. Grif trails along behind Simmons, compensating for his missing arm and the still-healing stump. They don't talk much about the Staff of Charon, or about their injuries. They'd mastered the art of avoidance years ago and this just puts their skills to the test.
But the terror of almost dying lingers between them. Grif can't sleep without seeing all that red. And one of the few times either of them brings up the fight, Simmons had been horrified that Grif hadn't even noticed he'd been shot.
Grif can't explain how frightened he'd been when he'd seen Simmons go down. It had been a horrifying, electric moment where everything had suddenly become so. Damn. Clear. He can't hide from how intense his feelings for the other man are any longer. The moment he'd found himself faced with the idea of a world without Simmons, he'd realized he would never survive in such a place.
But he can't bring himself to say the words. This new realization comes with a fresh layer of terror. He's only ever told one person he loved them; there's only ever been one person he's trusted enough to be so open with. He wants to say it, to hold Simmons tight and tell him everything but-
There's a chance Simmons might not feel the same way. That he would wince at Grif's words, stumble over an apology then awkwardly offer to just be friends. Grif remembers how much it had hurt in the past when he'd tentatively offered someone his heart; what he feels for Simmons is so much stronger that the idea of putting himself back in that vulnerable place is terrifying.
He knows he's not lovable - every time Mom had gotten drunk, she'd never held back in tell him how much better Kai was than him. His biological father had given him the back of his hand more than anything else before he'd died in a robbery. He knew Kai loved him but he'd basically raised her, made sure she always had food and protected her as best he could. It made him squirm inside but the day he'd realized he'd basically found a cheat code to guarantee her affection, he'd clung even tighter to her, working himself to bone to give her everything he could in exchange for whatever scraps of fondness she'd give him in return.
The lessons he'd learned in childhood made everything perfectly clear. If his own parents hadn't loved him, why would Simmons? Especially since he'd never been able to give him all the things he'd given Kai.
So he kept his mouth shut. When the words began to build up in his throat, he swallowed them down. There were times, here and there, when he thought about saying them. Times when Simmons smiled at him or made a joke, bumped his uninjured shoulder against his in silent thanks. Those moments made him wonder…
They hadn't thought anything about continuing on in their duties when Tucker and Wash went to the Temple of Procreation. They'd been doing inventory in a supply closet when the alien device was triggered and the moment the energy had swept over them, every worry and concern he had melted away.
Everything was okay because he was with Simmons.
He hadn't thought twice about pulling him in for a kiss, hands reaching up to tangle in his red curls. Simmons had let out a soft, surprised gasp, then melted against him, his lone arm wrapping around his neck. Their fumbling to strip down had broken the lock as Simmons' shirt caught on the door handle and pulled the wrong way. They'd ended up pressed together against the far wall, deeply entwined. Whenever they weren't caught up in a deep kiss as their hips rolled, Simmons looked at him like he was all that mattered in the world. Grif knew he was doing the same.
But everything had to come to an end and so did they. It wasn't long before they were both panting against each other, coming down from that euphoric high. And as their minds started to catch back up, he remembered Tucker's mission and… that certainty he'd had vanished.
As Simmons held him close, the pain in his shoulder and side easing off, Grif felt a flicker of uncertainty even as the alien lust began to work on him once more. He was thinking straight again; with that big brain of his, Simmons had to be doing the same. Surely it wouldn't be long now before he pushed him away and made a joke about sex pollen. With their minds working again, they could pull their clothes back on and part ways, take care of the lust lingering in their systems alone.
Grif couldn't stop his hands from running back down Simmons back, feeling the flex of strong muscles and that lean body. No matter what happened, he'd never stop loving Simmons, the corny jokes, his meticulous attention to detail, how indignant he got when they argued about Battlestar Galactica.
Just this once, he'd left himself be selfish. He'd never get to have this again once Simmons came to his senses. Once he said to back off, that would be it.
He pressed a kiss against the side of Simmons' head, then started kissing his way down his neck. The other man groaned in his ear, the sound more a rough purr than the pain filled sound from earlier and his hand pressed harder against his chest, Simmons' long, delicate fingers rubbing carefully against the scar on his chest. Hips rocked against his and Grif let out a moan, pulling back so he could hungrily kiss Simmons mouth.
Just this once, he'd be selfish and take whatever intimacy Simmons would let him have. Because once this was over, he'd never get to have it again.
Couldn't quite bring myself to do a happy ending, seeing as this is the RvB Angst War but I'm really thinking hard about doing a sequel at some point. The tricky part is deciding whether or not to try and keep this in canon with Season 15… decision, decisions.