A/N: My brain was fried at my Forensics tournament yesterday (we went to a Catholic prep school, none of us knew we were going there, the women I'm madly in love with went-and spent very little time with me because of a blonde midget-though-she's-taller-than-me harlot, and I did horrible) so I'm going to type and see what comes of it. Who knows, maybe something really good, or some totally random and unexplainable story.
Genre: General
Pairings: hinted at Grif/Simmons, Sarge/Simmons
Rating: T
Summary: Simmons had never believed in miracles, and the other man coming would be nothing short of such a thing.
Warnings: Short, slash hints, and slight language.
Disclaimer: Not mine and in no way, shape, or form associated with the creators.

Turning
(Because there's No Hope for a Miracle)

Grif was getting reassigned. It happened rather suddenly; one minute Grif was complaining, and then he and Sarge were behind a closed door. Simmons and Donut tried eavesdropping, to no avail-the walls were too thick and they both seemed to be uncharacteristically whispering. Finally, the private was packing, refusing to answer either Simmons or Donut's numerous questions.

They had tried asking Sarge, which he replied with a gruff, "Don't worry 'bout it." He wouldn't meet their eyes, though, and neither would Grif. Yet, they were able to at least glance at Donut; both older men would turn away from the maroon soldier.

Simmons sat, back against a rock, some ways away from the base. He was faced away from it, eyes not able to see the place he'd spent the majority of a good three, almost four, years arguing and kissing ass at. Donut, he knew, was still trying to find out some answers; Simmons himself had given up.

It was just a few hours before Grif would be picked up by command and taken out of his life forever. It was an…odd notion, to say the least. After spending so much time, so much energy yelling and arguing with him, Simmons would loose the first real friend he'd had in a long time.

The Dutch-Irish soldier had told Grif to meet him there before he left. If he wanted to explain just what the hell was going on, that is. The orange clad man hadn't replied, hadn't even looked at him (and by now Simmons expected nothing else); he just took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. The shorter soldier didn't tell him to put it out, didn't tell him to take care of his body parts. He only turned and left the room, frustrated.

He didn't expect Grif to show up, but rather to leave without a goodbye. Simmons had never believed in miracles, not since he was a small child on his father's knee waiting for his mother to get better, and the other man coming would be nothing short of such a thing.

Simmons' inner clock told him that in just a single hour, Dexter Grif would leave Blood Gulch. The lucky cockbite would finally get his wish.

Simmons sat, eyes wide open yet unseeing, face turned away from base, back up against the uncomfortable rock, seconds ticking away in his mind. Soon enough, the hour passed-in what only seemed a few minutes-and the plane from command landed close to the Red base.

Simmons, taking his helmet off, finally turned around, peeking past his rock, just as Grif, lone suitcase in hand, exited the building. He only vaguely noticed as Donut and Sarge came out as well.

Grif turned and their eyes met. They both seemed to be memorizing the other, storing everything up in the back of their minds to hold until it wasn't so hard to recollect. Then, Grif turned away for the last time and boarded the plane. Simmons' gaze didn't leave the plane as it flew until it couldn't be seen any longer.

Sarge went back into the base without a word to his remaining team whereas Donut came over and sat next to the black haired man. Simmons turned around again, back to base, refusing to look at Donut. The younger private, armorless, nervously fiddled with his blonde hair, twirling it into curls around his fingers.

Finally, he told the stoic man, "He cared about you, you know that right?" His words were rushed yet Simmons understood him perfectly. Though, he didn't acknowledge that he had heard. Donut continued, regardless. "Here, he left you a letter. I haven't read it, but I'm sure it explains what happened. He really cared about you, Simmons."

Simmons took said letter as Donut handed it out to him, but still he didn't speak. He opened it carefully, slowly, trying to prolong the inevitable. Doing so revealed the familiar chicken scratch that was Grif's handwriting. It had taken some time, but Simmons had learned how to decipher every word the other man ever wrote, no matter how badly scrawled across a page.

Simmons, he made out. There really was a good reason Sarge and me didn't get along. We were competing. Grif.

That was all the note said. Simmons didn't understand; what were they competing for? Was it that great that he had to be reassigned? Why couldn't Grif had said this to him in person?

Simmons looked up at Donut; the blonde's bottom lip was quivering so he bit it. He spewed off more words, all a jumble that Simmons had a hard time making out. His petite digits where still tangling themselves up in his longer-than-regulation hair.

Simmons turned away from the babbling young man and closed his green eyes. Sarge eventually came out and over to his two subordinates. He spoke the Dutch-Irish man's name, voice gruff, low, and-did he sound happy? Even so, he didn't respond.

Simmons stood, eyes open again-though half-lidded, and he turned towards his superior. After all, Simmons hated breaking the chain of command (he completely ignored that the links of the chain were all already dislocated and broken and just thrown around on the canyon floor).