A Little More Red

The base was quiet, with all its inhabitants resting peacefully in their bunks. Sarge held tight to his shotgun, his fingers absentmindedly stroking the metallic pieces as he dreamed of shooting one of those dirty blues, and maybe Grif a few times. His greying moustache fluttered as his breath came out in bursts of snores, his voice cutting through the air as he talked in his sleep.

"…shoot 'em… got 'em pinned… we'll miss that orange bastard…"

Across the base, Donut tossed and turned as he tried to find a comfortable position in his bed, which was not exactly a bed; more like a pile of empty boxes layered with spare army issue daywear. They had requested more bunks, as their number seemed to keep changing, but Command had forgotten to add the extra shipment into their last drop and now just claimed that in a few days they probably won't need it anymore. Let me just tell you, it was really weird when they had to find a place for Doc when he became… not a prisoner anymore.

While the red and light-ish red members of the team seemed to be at peace, there were still two minds busy at work as the night drifted slowly towards dawn.

Grif looked down at his hands, or what was left of them. He had finally had time to see the damage he was left to deal with after the 'operation'. His dark, tanned skin was such a contrast to Simmons' freckled, pale flesh. The sensation of his new calloused finger tips running along his arm was something that he thought he might never get used to. Everything seemed so different, so warped. His hands shook as he inspected them, his heart racing and eyes blurring as he tried to remember what they used to look like, with no avail. One of them was completely white, stripped of everything he ever was – this one he had inherited completely from Simmons. His fingers were now long and thin, and his nails were chewed down to the skin. He hated them. His other was missing the last two fingers which made his fourth finger eerily longer than his middle one. He clenched them angrily and winced at the pain in his joints and the scars that now marred every inch of him.

"I swear to God! Last week Sarge was literally crushed against our based by the Warthog and he's fine! A little run in with a tank and I lose half my body?" Grif hissed into the night, not particularly talking to anyone.

The rest of his body was just as bad. His feet were different sizes, and his ass was now two different shades. They had replaced a lot of his organs with Simmons, which now meant he was lactose intolerant.

"Fucking Simmons," he cursed, sitting up and swinging his legs out, feet slapping onto the concrete of the floor with a resounding thud. Grif groaned as he stood, his legs still feeling weak. Apart from a foot, he had managed to be able to keep most of his bottom half, meaning he hadn't lost any height. Although untested, Grif was pretty sure that meant he was still taller than the maroon soldier. That was something he had always loved – especially now his significant good looks were gone. He shuffled painfully to the bathroom, his eyes squinting at the harsh light. The mirror hung across the room, glaring at him as he stood in the doorway. His hair was still messed from sleep, but hung to his shoulder as it always had. His eyes moved slowly across his face, and it took him a few seconds to truly understand that what he was looking at was, now and forever, his. There was a patch of skin running across his cheek and down his neck, leaving a bright path of orange freckles across his face. His was still red and splotchy from the surgery, but Simmons had assured him that the redness would fade, except in time of humiliation and nerves.

"Great," Grif huffed, looking away and heading to the toilet, "I'm gonna pull in all the chicks when I finally get released from this hell hole," he finished sarcastically. The strangest thing, Grif would later admit, would be the fact that his left eye had now been replaced with a forest green one. His eyes would dart between themselves to try to make sense of the difference, but there was nothing to do. They would always be separate, different, wrong.

As he relieved himself he thanked every being above, or whoever seemed to control them, that Sarge hadn't found the need to mess around with the part of himself he liked the most. He couldn't even imagine what life would have been like if he'd woken up with Simmons'–

That was not something he needed to think about right now.

Shaking his head, and scratching at the healing stiches across his chest, he began to head back to his quarters. He was just passing his comrades room when a noise stopped him. A small sob echoed through the slightly open door and Grif found himself suddenly glued to the spot. He knew whose room this was, and he knew there was only one way that sound could be heard, but he wasn't sure if his company would be appreciated especially after what happened.

'I mean,' he thought to himself, 'it's because of that tank incident that we're both now in this mess.' With a deep breath, Grif knocked softly on the door and slowly opened it.

Simmons was on his bunk, his back pressed against the wall and head angled to the ceiling. This was the first time Grif had seen his friend after the surgery, and wasn't sure what to expect. His upper body was mostly untouched, save for the full metallic left arm which seemed to be welded to his collar bone. His other hand had one side replaced with two sleek metallic fingers, the originals were now currently curled into a fist by Grif's hip. This biggest change was the patch of metal, the size of a pirate's eye patch, sitting over his left eye socket. Grif knew that he would have a robotic eye within, solely because the one that should be there was currently staring at Simmons from the door. His inspection of Simmons was cut short when a voice ran out into the silence.

"Come to see the freak show?" Simmons' eyes were closed as he raised his mostly human hand to brush a tear from his cheek. Grif was speechless as he stared at his team mate. The other man slowly lowered his head and looked at the intruder for the first time.

"Freak show?" Grif's voice was soft as he took a step back. His face twisted into a frown as looked at Simmons, then back at his own mangled body.

"Oh," Simmons' voice lost all is edge as he stared at Grif, his eyes filling with sadness, "I didn't think it was you. It's just…" He didn't seem to know what to say, "Donut was here before asking to… I'm so sorry." Grif shook his head slowly. Simmons quickly jumped to his feet, trying to bridge the gap between them.

"Grif, please. I didn't mean that… I just– "

"No, Simmons," he spat, "I get it. We're both freak shows now."

Grif turned, ready to lock himself in his room until breakfast – where he would leave only to grab his ration and return to solitude – but was stopped by a surprisingly warm metal hand resting on his shoulder.

"Dexter."

He stopped.

"Dex, I'm sorry, I really didn't mean it like that," Simmons tried to explain. Grif turned back, not used to hearing his given name. The red team wasn't fond of such familiarities. Grif tried to fully take in his comrade's form, giving Simmons a once over. While his face and chest seemed decently off, he had lost a lot of his lower half. His legs seemed to be fully metallic, and his steel sides seemed to form a v-shape down to his pants.

"How much of you is left?" he asked, unsure of how to ask it without sounding like a complete idiot.

"Not much," Simmons sighed. "My back is history and my legs are toast, but they let me keep my namesake, so I guess you didn't need that." Both of the men chuckled, the tension in the air seemed to lift as they stood there. Simmons' eyes seemed to be doing a very similar check of Grif, which made the orange soldier feel strange. He also had a sneaking suspicion that his patch of Simmons skin on his face would be heating red for a completely non-medical reason in this moment.

"You look thinner?" Simmons asked, his lips twisting into a smile.

"Yeah," Grif groaned, "I got all of your thin, not fat-coated organs and my body is compensating," he smiled too. "But don't worry, Dick, I'll get back to my beautiful weight."

"You were dangerously obese for a soldier, and worryingly unhealthy?!" Simmons scoffed, shaking his head.

"Just the way I liked it!"

The two of them seemed to exhale their cooped up emotions as they stood with each other, their imperfections suddenly seeming insignificant as they stared at each other. Simmons moved back to his bunk, patting the bed beside him – inviting Grif to join him. The other soldier smiled, shuffling across the immaculately clean room to join Simmons on the bunk. Grif chuckled, his thoughts running off in a tangent as he sat beside his friend.

"Hey, Simmons."

"Yeah?"

"I forgot what healthy lungs feel like," Grif said, taking a deep breath and exhaling loudly.

"Don't you fucking dare ruin them," Simmons smiled, smacking Grif across the shoulder.

"You know I can't promise anything like that," the orange solider smirked into the night.

The two of them sat together for a few minutes, both comfortable in the silence. Grif had a small smile on his face as he let his head hit the wall, his eyes falling closed for a moment. Grif felt Simmons shift beside him, and he wondered if the red-haired man was suddenly looking at him.

"You asleep?" Simmons' voice was soft, as though he was expecting no answer.

"Nah, just resting my eyes."

"You mean my eye?" Simmons chuckled, looking back at the door. Grif turned to the other man, his brows angled to a frown. His stomach suddenly felt tight as he tried to imagine how his friend would be feeling; having to watch his skin, his body, sitting in front of him – taken away forever by the man that now wears it. All because of something he should have been smart enough to avoid.

"How is that? Having a robotic eye?" He clarified when Simmons shot him a confused look. A sad smile spread across the cyborgs' face.

"Weird."

The hours crept to dawn as both men evaded sleep, choosing instead to sit in moments of silence, cut by small bursts of conversation. They didn't talk about anything too substantial, deciding to stay away from the conversations involving feelings, or their new bodies. They talked about Sarge, the new equipment shipment they received last week, and even what they thought was wrong with the 'doctor'. The lights in the hall flickered on, indicating that it was time for the base to start their new day. Grif sighed as he got to his feet, stretching his aching limbs and itching again at the scars.

"You shouldn't scratch that," Simmons barked, also on his feet by this point.

"You know I'm not going to listen to you." Simmons smiled slightly, shaking his head. He moved to put on his armour, groaning as he bent down to pick up the pieces. By the time he looked back, Grif had already left the room, probably on the way back to his quarters to put his own armour on. A good idea in Simmons book, because if Sarge found anyone without their armour on, he would mount an attack on the soldier; claiming that if you didn't keep vigilant at every point, the attack was justified. Donut had been caught quite a few times in the shower. But Simmons didn't like to think of how Sarge knew to go there.

The base hummed with movement now, the rec room already filled with those ready for breakfast. Simmons quietly sat beside Grif, pulling his food closer to him. After a beat, Simmons automatically passed his biscuit to Grif, a smile on his face. The man let out a small, huffed laugh, accepting the gift.

It looked like it all might just go back to normal. Eventually.