Notes: I guess I could say I was experiencing a rough time and this idea decided to sprout in my easily-distracted mind during class. I truly hope this turns the way I want it to go. There is no particular time setting for this story, but I had written this during season 11, when Church and Carolina had walked out on the team. I hope I don't make you cringe.
P.S. I suck. I will get back to this and edit it all properly so it makes sense. But for now, I just want to put it out there. I would appreciate suggestions and improvements!
"That's a load of bullshit."
The nearby listeners who were tuned in on the "inspiring" speech gasped as the orange soldier spat out his words like venom. He was done with this "celebration." He was done with the speaker, talking as if he were on the battlefield himself. He couldn't stand another word of his, this, bull crap. "Those who train hard are the ones who will see to the end." Lies. Nothing but bullshit.
Silence continued to deafen the room as the crowd were confused on how to act. Some stared in shock while others shuffled around uncomfortably. Grif took another sip of his champagne as if he hadn't interrupted the speech by the leader of the colony.
"God damn it, Grif." An annoyed grunt came from behind him and tugged on his ear, pulling him away from the crowd.
Once they were outside the mansion, Grif slapped the hand away and rubbed his ear in irritation. "What the fuck?" He eyed the being in front of him from head to toe and took in the sight. Seeing Sarge out of his red armour (and in civilian clothing, mind you) was one thing, but seeing his sergeant in formal wear was a completely different story. In an expensive looking tux with a dark red inside shirt, the man growled at him and Grif mentally prepared himself for an angered lecture.
"Grif," Sarge grunted, a typical noise heard from the man. "I know it's hard, especially for you. But for the next hour could you please behave yourself. I know you have the tendency to be a disrespectful, low-life, worth for nothing," Sarge cleared his throat, obviously getting carried away, "subordinate of mine, but until we're away from this highly underclass gathering, please, show some respect." Grif knew Sarge understood his intentions, but he was just too proper to admit it. Sarge, proper? Is the champagne getting to me?
Grif nearly considered the words of his senior, "not until these assholes show some respect first."
"Grif," Sarge warned.
"Fine."
xxx
Grif would be lying if he said that the rest of the time the party wasn't that bad, which is why he straight-up described it as a complete shithole. The food was healthy, the booze lacked, the judgmental gazes were disturbing (probably due to his selection of attire—an orange button down matched with suit pants—a failed attempt to mash casual I don't give a fuck about this party and I don't actually care about any of you with formal but I'm an important person who was involved in this war so fucking respect me) and worst of all, no distraction to get away from it all.
His eyes searched over the scattered guests in attempt to amuse his eyes for the last couple of moments in hell. He swore he was going to literally die of boredom at any moment. His brain was lacking any sort of distractions to keep his mind away from the grumbling of his stomach. God, he wanted to eat, but he'd already tasted the food here and not forgetting the look of disgust a woman passing by gave him as he spat out the "food" into a napkin. He was getting a headache—damn, he could do with some Oreos right now.
Subconsciously, he'd found himself on the second floor leaning his elbows on the railing, looking upon the sea of heads beneath. Black, blonde, brunette were the typical colours filling his vision. However, outgoing pinks, blues and purples were visible too. He was just about to walk away when a particular colour of recognisable orange-red caught his eye, stuck out like a sore thumb. It was dumb, but he was intrigued. The only red-head in the entire room and he was attracted? It drew him in. His attention captured, and before he knew it, he was out of control once again. He found himself trailing across the marble floor to the man who had caught his attention. Within seconds, he was downstairs, swerving among the maze of people. He reached his hand out onto the mysterious man's shoulder and-
His breath caught in his throat, frozen. He could feel his shoulder shivering and his fingers trembling beneath his skin.
Wrong.
This was not the face he was expecting to meet.
His surroundings finally came clear to him. No. Everything was wrong. The facial features, the buff body structure, the hairstyle, lack of freckles plastered with no dumb geeky grin, way too much confidence in those eyes and no, the colour and shape were all wrong.
And all at once, everything came back to him. Every moment, every sounding explosion, every rattle of the gun, every thump as bodies fell to the ground—lifelessly.
He remembered the sole reason why he was still standing here—breathing, walking, living—at this celebration of this victorious win in the war.
"Um, excuse me?" The voice was deep, unbroken, tone clear, mature and no hint of disappointment as he spoke to Grif. The man he had grabbed looked afraid. Grif let go and slowly backed off. All was wrong. Nothing was right.
"I-I, sorry, I-" Grif stuttered uncontrollably.
A firm hand grasped his arm and gently dragged him back. "Sorry, seems like some of us have to go now. Please, enjoy the rest of your night." Grif turned to face Washington, eyes lost and confused. He didn't belong here. This wasn't right. There was nothing to be celebrated.
His mind was racing, all these scenes he had forgotten, or perhaps pushed away. Their stupid, pointless conversations and debates over the most random topics. His tight grip on his hand as he held onto it for dear life. His nerdy remarks as Grif would call out a witty insult. Geez, he was such a geek. The times in battle when he had his back—and sometimes the battles weren't even out on the battlefield. Grif would offer his shoulder as he wept, but never would he question why. Finally, there were the last memories, God... the vivid imagery would haunt him, surely. How long had it been? Two days? Four? More than a week?
"-if? Grif? Are you listening to me?" Grif blinked several times before he realised Washington's grip on his shoulders, desperately shaking him back to reality. "Are you okay?" Grif just sighed in response. "Look, I know you're having a difficult time. We all are. But you need to get a grip before anything else happens. It could get worse. Trust me," Wash's face hardened with concern, "I've seen worse." Grif rolled his eyes, then realised that they were both outside. "I'm sending you back so you can relax. Just go take a rest, okay? Don't do anything crazy or irresponsible. Or do I need to escort you back?"
Grif was going to retort, then realised what Washington was implying. "Dude, I'm not going to-" end myself. His sentence was interrupted as Washington managed to shove him into the back of a pink car that rolled up beside them.
"Good to hear. I'm going to stay back a bit with Sarge to discuss some matters. Be good." Wash shut the door on him to prevent him from escaping. Fucking hell, you're not my adult. Grif crossed his arms over his chest, playing along the role of a disobedient child without fully intending to. He looked across and saw Caboose was already at one end of the car, so Grif stuck to his end at the back. Donut was at the wheel and turned to the rear-view mirror to grin at Grif. He groaned. He knew what was coming, God, he just had to endure.
"Are you okay?" Here we go. Donut paused for a response but continued when Grif offered none. "Sarge and Washington are staying back to chat with some important people. I suspect Tucker is staying back for a completely different reason though. Caboose needs to go back because it's way past his bedtime so you don't have to worry about him. But could you stay in his hotel room before I come back? The kid tends to sleepwalk, or so I've heard. After you two get off together I'm going back to the party for more action!" Grif groaned internally. Usually someone would tell him not to say it like that, but that someone was absent.
Grif's thoughts processed at a slow pace. If Caboose was resting, he would be alone with his own thoughts. No distractions. Grif turned his attention to the blue soldier beside him. The child-like brawn was unusually tired. His attention was on whatever happened to pass by out the window and his usual pout was accompanied with distant eyed.
"Caboose?" Grif attempted to pull him out of his current state of mind. "You cool?"
Caboose didn't speak for a while. Grif was half convinced that the question hadn't passed through his brain gears yet or got lost somewhere in the process.
"I just want our family back," Caboose turned to Grif with puppy-like eyes. Grif nearly fell apart. He didn't realise how broken Caboose really was. "I know we fight a lot, especially against you reds, but I just," Grif noticed Caboose's eyes begin to water and his bottom lip trembled, "I just like you guys a lot. I don't want to lose anymore friends."
Grif's heart shattered. He had forgotten how Caboose lost so much more compared to anyone else. Even to the child-like mind of Caboose, losing Sheila, Andy and Freckles left a huge scar. He knew he didn't like Tex all that much, but he had heard of the family picture he had drawn in the dirt with sticks, and in a weird way Doc—who was now nowhere to be found—fit into this fucked up "family" too. He couldn't imagine how he was feeling now that Church and Carolina had walked out on him. Now, another had disappeared on Caboose.
Caboose turned back to the window. A distraction. God, Grif needed his.
xxx
As soon as they watched Donut's car drive away, Caboose followed his nightly routine best he could and headed to bed. Grif was left in the living room, alone with his thoughts. The hotel room was dead silent, but Grif's mind was raging. Everything that happened on that fateful day came flooding back, overflowing his memory bank.
They were at war, just like any other of their battles. They had survived so many; naturally, this became their way of living. This was what they grew accustomed to—battles that weren't even their own. They were all certain this would turn out fine just like the many others they participated in.
Too bad it didn't.
They were all training when the first sound of gunfire was heard. One of the privates were in a panicked state and basically acted as their alert signal. Luckily, Washington and Tucker had previously mustered up a plan to help bring the numbers of soldiers down. The both of them left to pull the plan into action, but not before giving the rest instructions. Donut and Lopez were assigned to defence with several other rookies while everyone else was assigned to the front lines. Grif hated the fact that he and the rest were basically in charge of the dumbest blue member on the whole team, but he decided they could use it to their advantage. In other words, telling Caboose to "help the enemies" led to their almighty destruction. As soon as they decided to back off for a while, the team got together and decided to bring the action to them.
The battle lasted just under three days. Planning and gathering information by interrogating captured soldiers was a technique Wash managed to master. They were able to initiate their well-thought out plans successfully as soon as they found intellect on their base and supplies. They invaded their base successfully, taking back what was rightfully theirs, well, the nation's, and after a long, difficult discussion among colonies, an agreement was met and settled.
That should have been it. It should have been the end.
Unfortunately for them, the deal did not satisfy everyone. They returned to their beds in the poorly constructed building that night to rest after a tiring couple of days in the battle zone. It was a highly deserved rest for them all before they returned to their homeland. Just as Grif was beginning to drift asleep, he'd heard rummaging in the construction and noticed a shadow creep out the door. He would have ignored it, believing that the character was simply taking a piss or grabbing something to drink, but the sounds of harsh whispers of a heated discussion captured his attention and he stumbled out of bed to follow suite.
As he turned the corner, his fellow soldier in maroon was conversing with one on the colonies people. The man looked dishevelled and aggravated, as he pointed a small dagger at his teammate. He recognised the acquaintance, the old man who lost his son to the enemy. He had come along to the soldier's hideout camp, bringing along with him years of knowledge of the enemies' location and history. Grif had told him he would take care of them, which they would get what they deserved. It was completely out of hand what they'd done—killing a child. The man spat out venomous words as the maroon soldier tried to reason with him but failed to calm the older man. He turned to Grif and gave a frightened look, as if calling for help. The man turned and recognised Grif; eyes sparked with realisation, but for now Grif needed to get that weapon out of his hand. He took one step forward but was stopped when he heard a distant pop in the distance, followed by cheerful singing. The soldiers were celebrating peace that was brought upon both colonies and Grif couldn't help but feel happy for them, and slightly proud of him, if he could be honest.
He turned back to the pair, wanting to express his appreciation for the soldiers' high spirits, but before he could speak a single syllable, his body was shielded by the other soldier who screamed in agony.
No.
"Please sto-" his teammate's breath was caught in his own throat. The man tugged the dagger out of the scrawny figure only to stab a second time. Crimson drenched his fingers as he pulled it out a second time-
The body fell to the ground. Grif froze. Everything seemed to play in slow motion. His mind failed to process what his eyes just experienced in front of him. When he gathered the pieces of his brain back together, he was kneeled and the body, his teammate, his friend, was in his arms.
Simmons. Simmons. Simmons.
Simmons was in his arms. Simmons was in his arms and not moving.
Simmons was in his arms and dying.
"Simmons! Simmons, listen to me! Breathe! Oh God-" his free hand moved to his abdomen and he applied pressure to the wound. Bandages from previous wounds during the battles were soaked in blood. His body was already weak as it was. No. No no no.
"You said you'd get rid of them, not fucking discuss matters with them. They took my boy and fucking killed him and this is how you repay them?!" The old man was holding his dagger with two hands, ready to take out Grif as well, but all he could think about was Simmons. In the corner of his eye he saw the old man fall to the ground accompanied with the fire of a gunshot. Washington, most likely. But that wasn't the issue right now.
"Get Doc!" Grif screeched desperately, then realising that Doc hadn't been around for a while. "Get medical! Get someone, please!" He'd heard the scrambling of feet and several words being called out, but refused to take his eyes off Simmons. God, he'd looked away once. Tears rolled down Grif's face as he leaned his forehead to Simmons'.
"Grif."
Grif blinked, and leaned back to see Simmons' eyes struggling to open. "Oh my god, why did you do that? Look, hey, you're going to be fine, just hold on okay? We'll get you patched up-"
"Grif, shut up." Grif shut up. He paused, signalling for Simmons to continue, "I'm so glad I met you."
Grif groaned, "Simmons, you're not-"
"I said shut up," he coughed up blood. "Grif, you," he struggled to breathe, but he still managed to look nervous as hell, "you're, God, I-I appreciate you. So much." His voice grew hoarse and low, "I'm so grateful for your existence and I'm honoured to be part of your journey. But God, I l-I don't know, I just-"
"I love you."
"I-what?" Simmons choked. Grif saw the genuine shock that struck against Simmons face. For a moment, he realised exactly what he'd just said, but he couldn't deny it. It was weird, the way those words felt, but who was he kidding. Simmons wasn't going to say it anytime soon.
"I love you, Simmons. I love you, and you're going to fucking make it. So don't give me this bullshit dying speech. You've done this before, hell you've had worse, so you can do it again. You have to fucking live because you can't leave me alone. I would never forgive you if you did."
Simmons smiled sadly at Grif. "I'm sorry," his voice grew weak and his eyes began to unfocus. "I love you too, Grif. If you don't forgive me, well..." Simmons closed his eyes slowly. "It's okay."
Grif hadn't noticed the medics beginning to surround Simmons. Grif was slowly pushed out of the way as they began to get to work. An arm squeezed around his shoulders while another gripped his hand tightly, but his eyes never left Simmons' face as his smile.
Grif rubbed his eyes. He had a headache, and an upcoming migraine. He couldn't deal with the burdening weight on his shoulders and the last memories of his teammate.
Simmons. Simmons had jumped in front. Grif had made unnecessary and empty promises with the old man to get him off his back and Simmons had fucking taken the punishment. He'd lost him in that one fucking second he had his eyes off him.
He always thought he would die before Simmons. That it would be Simmons, the fragile one out of the pair who would suffer. The soldier who actually trained would survive. Not the lazy, unenthusiastic other. The one who gave no fucks about this war. He was willing to sacrifice himself for his significant other. It wasn't meant to be the other way around.
He fucked up. Bad. Now he was paying for it.
He remembered the moments that followed after that. Simmons didn't live another hour. Grif had full confidence that Simmons would return the next day, awake and breathing. That everything would be okay all over again and maybe they would talk about the words exchanged previously which Grif would be okay with that because every word was sincere. He hoped they would all go back home, together, as a group.
But they didn't. It took every muscle in his body to hold him back from raging at the medics, to ask why they couldn't help Simmons, why they couldn't bring him back. But he had to accept they did their best, hell, Simmons knew it was his end. So the next two days, he said nothing. Not a single word.
Grif dug his hand in his pocket, pulling out a small badge they'd retrieved off the body. They'd given it to Grif, learning that he was the only person who understood why Simmons would treasure a plain badge marked with the variable x.
"Once you find x, the equation is complete. It's straightforward and makes sense and finished. I hope we'll find what will one day complete us, too." Simmons eyes were full of hope as gave Grif that geeky grin of his.
"God, that's so gay." Grif smirked, but understood Simmons' intention.
A plain badge that helped aid Simmons and encouraged him to find what he was looking for. Grif's eyes began to water. He'd do anything to hear Simmons' voice again—a geeky remark, a compliment to suck up to Sarge, a witty intellectual statement, anything.
Instantly, he was reminded of Simmons' laugh. Simmons' voice when it trembling, tears daring to escape his eyes. Simmons' yelling at him to get back to work. Grif was so thankful, so grateful for Simmons being in his life. When he refused to work, he would go to Simmons for entertainment. Before he knew it, hours would pass by and they would be sitting atop their base, ranting on about stupid thoughts and meaningful decisions. He hated to admit it, but sometimes Sarge's remarks got to him. He would feel real shitty about himself, and somehow, Simmons would know. He would invite Grif to the tattered sofa and pull out a comic, something stupid he had found in the hidden basement and yes, it was so geeky of him but it took his mind off everything. There were times when he thought of his family, his sister, when he thought of home, he would gaze over to Simmons and focus on the way his dainty arms moved as he reloaded guns, or cleaned his armour, hell, even when he was washing the dishes for Grif when he lazily refused.
He lost all of that. All of him. All of Simmons.
Grif would never forgive himself for taking his other's life. He looked away for one second, but all it took was one second for total destruction and that would haunt him for the rest of his dying days.
He had decided that night that a world without Simmons wasn't a world worth living in. He looked at the desk in front of him and noticed papers requesting their assistance again. "A few disagreements between two parties," it read. Perhaps this was where he would end it all. Perhaps, they would meet again.
The one person who completed him was gone. He picked up the x badge and tucked it in his front suit pocket, beside his heart.
I forgive you.