A/N: Written for the 2016 RvB Secret Santa over on Tumblr! It's a present for bloodmulch.

It had never snowed in Blood Gulch.

Blood Gulch's weather at all times could generally be described as awful. It was either too hot or too humid. And even when "winter" rolled around, it never snowed.

Their first winter there, Grif had wondered out loud if it was because snow might actually make Blood Gulch decent to look at, so obviously snow was out of the question. Blood Gulch was doomed to be ugly and awful all the time. It couldn't be cheered up or made to look nice.

At Rat's Nest, there had been slush when they'd first arrived there, in the late spring. Small, dirty piles of it which were quickly stomped down into tiny ice patches. Simmons caught Grif moving them into strategic places so the ice patches would slip up certain people.

He'd probably try to stop him, but Simmons noticed that they were usually people he and Grif both hated, so he said nothing, and at least once, helped Grif move it into positions so that reds who'd been giving them a hard time would fall right on their asses.

Grif, Simmons knew, was from Hawaii. Despite this, he was oddly fond of snow. His old snowmen trick was only one of the ways he loved to express it.

"One day, Simmons," Grif told him, sprawled across his bunk, staring at the ceiling. "I'm going to make the biggest, most beautiful snowball, and then I'm going to drop it right onto Sarge's head."

"That seems like a lot of effort," Simmons pointed out.

"Yeah," Grif said. "But it'd be so big he'd be buried and Lopez would have to dig him out. He couldn't yell at me for like a whole hour!"

"Maybe you could just put it somewhere and he'd walk into it," Simmons offered, vaguely remembering an old newspaper comic he'd read once.

"Simmons, that's genius!" Grif said. Simmons could hear him rolling over in the bunk bellow him. (Grif always took the bottom bunk, because ladders were effort. The first time it had happened, Simmons had constructed a crude rail for himself, because he lived in fear of rolling out of bed. But now it had been several years. Simmons had refined his rail to the point that it no longer dug into his back when he leaned against it.)

Grif started talking about getting Donut to do all the work, and about how big and wonderful the snowball would be.

Neither of them mentioned that it had been months since they had heard from any of the other Reds back at Blood Gulch.

Sidewinder was shitty for many reasons—the Meta, the Blues adopting yet another Freelancer who was likely to kill them, Caboose crying about Church leaving again—but Grif managed to grab a handful of snow and drop it down the back of Washington's under suit when they were putting him in the new armor.

So Simmons figured that things were going to be alright.

Chorus was the first time Simmons had seen a proper winter since he'd signed up for this stupid army.

It had been different at Sidewinder—they'd only been there for like half an hour, and so Simmons hadn't had the time to realize just how awful winter was.

Or catch a cold.

"Ah-choo!" He sneezed for the third time in less than five minutes.

The New Republic's base was miserable and drafty. It was constantly cold, with snow poking through the cracks in the walls. Simmons had never really thought he hated winter—but then again, back… not home, he knew better than to think of that place as home, but back where he'd lived before the army, he'd always experienced winter from the nice, safe position of inside, where it was warm. Then, Simmons had thought that snow was pretty and delicate, and associated winter with things like… ice skating and skiing and all those other things he'd never actually done but looked nice at least.

Now, Simmons realized that winter was really awful, and just meant piles of meltwater in inconvenient places, increased difficulty in running drills, and fogged up glasses. All of which, Simmons felt, was a good argument against winter.

"Are you still sniveling?" Grif said, poking his head into the room. "Jeeze, lighten up and stop sulking."

"I'm sick," Simmons protested, although it came out pretty garbled because his nose was so stopped up.

"You're such a whiny baby, Simmons. What would your cadets think if they saw you like this?" Grif tisked, shaking his head. Simmons glared at him.

Grif sighed. "Get down here."

"No."

"Simmons. I'm not going up there, and if you don't come down here, I'm going to be forced to eat all these oranges myself, and then where will you get your vitamin c?"

Glowering and grumbling, Simmons forced himself down the ladder, dragging his blanket with him, because he wasn't about to unwrap himself from his comfortable burrito, not even for Grif. When he finally made it down onto the safety of the ground, Grif promptly shoved him, so he was sitting on Grif's bunk.

Which, he noticed, was actually relatively tidy. Not made or anything ridiculous like that, but Simmons couldn't help but notice that there was a distinct lack of crumbs or candy wrappers or any of the other usual detritus that he associated with Grif's personal spaces.

He didn't know what to make of that.

Grif sat next to him. Simmons drew his blanket further around himself, well aware that his nose was dripping and he looked awful and flushed.

Grif deposited two surprisingly pristine oranges onto Simmons' lap, and then picked up what looked like a maroon thermos, and shoved it at Simmons.

"Here. I made you hot chocolate."

Simmons stared at him. "You know how to make hot chocolate? You're from Hawaii!"

"It's not that hard to learn, Simmons," Grif said. "Besides. It's fucking cold outside, and it's liquid chocolate. What's so hard about that?"

Simmons stopped, the thermos halfway up to his mouth. "Please tell me you didn't actually just melt chocolate chips and put it in a thermos."

"That was just the first time," Grif said dismissively. "Just try it Simmons."

Simmons did.

It was rich and creamy and tasted vaguely like peppermint, and it left a familiar warm feeling in his chest.

"Did you spike this?" He spluttered.

"Peppermint liquor is a gift, Simmons, do not complain." Grif had his own thermos—bright orange, of course—and was drinking from it.

"How do you find these things in the middle of a warzone?" Simmons asked, honestly confused.

"Stop asking stupid questions and drink your fucking hot chocolate Simmons."

Simmons instead started peeling the orange. Grif sighed, and shifted slightly, so they were sitting right next to each other, legs touching.

"I'm going to get you sick too," Simmons protested.

"Great!" Grif said. "It's not fair you get to hog all the sick days. I deserve some bed rest and relaxation too."

"Grif, I'm not enjoying this!"

"That's because you are boring, Simmons, and don't know how to appreciate sick days."

Then Grif leaned in and kissed Simmons soundly on the mouth. Simmons shoved him away. "Grif! I'm covered in germs! That's disgusting!"

"What, do you want me to leave or something?"

"No!" Simmons said, way too quickly. Grif was smirking at him.

"Great, guess we'll both be sick together."

Simmons plopped an orange slice into his mouth, mulling over the next thing he was going to say.

"Thanks," he said, quietly.

Normally he'd expect some sort of brush off. Maybe a reprimand for making it weird He braced, waiting for it.

"Sure thing, Simmons." Was all Grif said, instead.

So Simmons leaned against Grif's shoulder, and just sat there, eating orange slices and drinking hot chocolate.

There were worse ways to spend a sick day, Simmons supposed.