Author Notes: I'm posting the second chapter WAY earlier than I originally intended because I've gotten a small response across the different sites I'm posting to and I'm desperate to keep them invested. 90% of the story is done, should be 11 chapters. MIGHT stretch to 12 or an epilogue depending on how the wrap-up goes.
The first several weeks with the New Republic Army were interesting, to say the least. Grif happily pawned the training of his team off on Tucker who seemed to think he needed to be the new Agent Washington in the man's absence. And watching Simmons fall apart trying to talk to his all-female unit was downright hilarious.
There were downsides, though. Tucker insisted that all the "Captains" do their own training and years of watching Grif slack off meant he had an excellent handle on all his usual evasion and diversionary tactics. Despite his best efforts, Grif couldn't fully avoid having to run and do push-ups and target practice or whatever other bullshit the aquamarine soldier could think of.
Gold Team also had it's share of disappointments. Matthews seemed incapable of expressing a contrary opinion and while Grif had originally thought of Bitters as a cool, doesn't-play-by-the-rules maverick… well, he kept going back and forth on that classification.
It could be worse. As a Captain, he had the authority to order most of the New Republic soldiers around, including one's of Caboose's officers: Smith.
"Smith is insane," Grif explained in a serious voice. "It's the only God-damned thing that makes sense."
Across from him, back safely to wall of the bar, Nick made an amused sound. After several night of companionable drinking, Grif had finally concluded that, despite living more or less in constant state of intoxication, he was one of the few sane people on the planet.
"Caboose is an idiot. I have literally seen him load his gun with crayons." Shaking his head, Grif downed more of his beer. "And Smith treats every word coming out of his mouth like some kind of prophecy or thought problem."
"I'm pretty sure crayons don't have a lot of stopping power," the blonde mused, taking a long pull of his drink. The number of empty glasses around him was still alarming but Grif couldn't help but feel a small flicker of satisfaction: the overall number Nick consumed by the end of the night was going down. Somewhat.
"They have zero stopping power," Grif agreed. "And just get clogged in the barrel of his rifle. The only thing," he jabbed a finger at Nick, "that he's ready for is some kind of fuckin' art emergency. It's messed up."
"And the soldier, Smith, you said? He sees Caboose doing this kind of stuff and hears him talk and thinks he's testing everyone or something?" Laughter bubbled out of the other man's throat, something he hadn't done in a long time and couldn't suppress. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a few heads turning towards the corner at the sudden sound.
North wasn't used to noticing the more subtle currents of emotion in the bar. He'd long gotten used to just keeping an eye out for overt threats or the occasional bar fight. With Grif around, though, the pounding ache in his head, the raw, gaping hole where Theta used to live, simply wasn't as bad as usual. He was simply too random, jumping from complaining about food or people to questions about destiny, failure, or the morality of lying all in the same breath. North had to focus to keep up and no matter what he told himself as he went to the bar each night, he couldn't help but be drawn into whatever topic Grif had on his mind.
"I think Caboose has realized what Smith is doing," Grif continued, unaware of North's idle musings.
North tried not to laugh again at the disgusted look on the other man's scarred face.
"Oh, you aren't having to be around it every day." Pausing for a moment, Grif turned briefly and waved his empty glass at the bar, signalling for another drink. "On top of his usual insanity, I think he's trying to be wise and mysterious. And Smith is just eating it up."
North waited for the server to come over and swapping out Grif's drink before replying. "Maybe you shouldn't have crashed on Chorus," he suggested. "That really seems to be where it all went wrong."
A visible wince crossed Grif's face. "Yeah, that- that was a real clusterfuck. I wish I could say we were shot down or something but…" Groaning, Grif buried his head in his arms on the table. "We're such screwups. A lot of people died. That is messed up."
Biting his lip, North settled for awkwardly patting Grif's arm. The story of the crash and the Reds and Blues' subsequent struggle for survival was equal parts tragedy and comedy and it had taken him several nights to pry even the barest outline of the story out of the simulation soldier once they had started talking. Grif had been far more willing to talk about Blood Gulch than recent events.
"How'd you end up on Chorus?" Grif finally asked as he peeked up from his arms. "I heard you weren't from around here." Pushing himself back upright, Grif returned to his drink. "I mean, yeah, you're the town drunk and all but you're still pretty with it and shit. Bet you didn't end up here by accident."
The sudden personal question made North choke on his beer. For an instant, time froze and sudden vertigo made his head swim.
North clutched at his battered glass, panic building inside him. How could he answer? What could he say? Grif had become- a friend? North had worked for the people who'd recruited him, messed with him-
-they'd messed with his life. Him, Washington, York, Tex, the Director, South-
Dead, dead, dead, all dead, you were part of it, your responsibility-
-they'd messed with his life and they hadn't even helped anyone. They all just fought and died and hurt people.
THETA come back please don't be scared please please please why maine why-
I was a Freelancer. I was in the program that got you stuck you in a box canyon and tortured you. We ruined your life, ruined my life, I lost Theta, lost South my sister, gone all gone gone gone-
Something started poking at his face, patting his cheek. Slowly, he roaring in his ears began to subside and the usual sounds of the bar returned as well as something else..
"-it, shit, shit, shit, Nick, man, don't do this to me. You're fine, forget I asked anything. Nick? You in there? Come on, you're okay. Whatever it is, you're not there."
North blinked. Nick. He was Nick here, not North. He was-
"You're on Chorus, the shit planet with the endless civil war going on. Nick? You hear me? You're okay. You work in a factory, you grow food and sell it. You're drunk and you're funny and you're smart and you're not a soldier anymore."
Chorus. He remembered Chorus. One the edge of civilized space, far from the war and Project Freelancer. It was alone, forgotten by both sides. He'd found it, a rare supply ship delivering goods to the planet. He's hitched a ride…
He blinked, grabbing Grif's hand and pulling it away from his face. Even through their metal gauntlets, Grif's overlarge mitt was solid, anchoring him to here and now.
North took a deep breath, then another, blinking again and again, slowly pulling his mind out of its toxic downward spiral. Looking up, he let his eyes sweep the bar. Barkeep was watching, eyes wary but no one else seemed to have noticed his panic. Good, that was- he had to hide or they'd find him, hurt him again, he didn't know what else he could lose-
"Keep breathing, man. Deep breaths. Your heart's going, like, a million miles an hour. Just breath with me, it's okay. In and out. You're okay."
Grif's hand rotated, took hold of his and squeezed, slow and steady, over and over. And slowly, North got his own breath to match, in and out, slow and steady, focusing all his attention on that single point of contact. Finally, he felt his heart start to slow, the adrenaline surging in his veins slowly subsiding.
Though the panic attack was finally fading away, North could feel his hands shaking. Suddenly exhausted, he just wanted to go home and hide, to peel off the armor he lived in and crawl into bed. The panic had also burned away much of the alcohol in his blood. Not all of it but he felt far more clearheaded than he had been in a while.
His free hand groped for his forgotten beer. He drank, downing every drop. When he set the glass back down, he found Grif watching him with intense eyes. Neither tried to break their handhold, the anchor that had helped pull him out of his panic.
"Haven't- haven't had that happen for awhile," he finally stuttered, his breath still shaky.
"It's fine. I mean," Grif hesitated, "it happens. It's fine. Um. I'm sorry. For- for asking- I won't bring it up again."
"S'alright." North sighed. He really did want to leave now. But he also wanted Grif to stay with him. Grif was- solid, real. He took up more space than anyone North had met in a long time, physically and otherwise, and that was very comforting.
Grif gave their still joined hands a small shake, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Hey, you look like you just ran a marathon. You got a room or something? It might not hurt to call it early tonight."
"I- yeah, I've got a place." He hesitated. "Come with me?" The words were blurted out before he could stop them, rethink asking. He didn't want to be alone, not with the echo of Theta screaming extra loud in his mind.
Grif's eyes widened and his golden brown skin changed color slightly. "Sure. I mean, you probably shouldn't head out by yourself." There was a hint of nerves in his voice and the speed with which he downed his mostly untouched beer was certainly suggestive. But once the glass was empty and he'd set it back on the table, he didn't hesitate to pull his helmet back on and climb out of the booth, slinging his weapon onto his back.
North followed suit and found the enclosed environment of his helmet was almost comforting. It was familiar, certainly. He'd spent more time over the last ten years in armor than out of it. Taking a deep breath, he gave the other man a brief nod and one after another, wound their way through the crowd and left the bar.
As I mentioned to a commenter, North has basically put himself on hold since losing Theta. It's going to hurt but it's finally time to start processing the trauma response to that awful day.