"Oh, Captain!" With a sob, Volleyball shot out of her small chair and flung herself at Simmons.
Without thinking, Simmons wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight as she pressed her face into his neck. Her hands clutched tight at the worn gray fabric of his shirt. Threading his fingers through Volleyball's dirty blond hair, Simmons closed his eyes and rested his check against the top of her head. For a few moments, they just stood, sharing a moment of quiet grief and worry.
Sniffling, Volleyball eventually pulled back and scrubbed at her face with the palm of her hand. "Katie's still in surgery," she informed him with a trembling voice. "Haven't really gotten any word on how it's going."
"It's only been an hour," Simmons noted after glancing at the clock haphazardly hung on the wall of the makeshift waiting room. The small space, carved out of a supply room adjacent to the medical facilities, was lined with long, padded benches. Armrests split the benches into smaller single- and double-wide seats, some of which were torn and battered from all the armored bodies that had collapsed onto them. Far too many of the young soldiers of the United Armies of Chorus had spent time sitting in this room, staring at the clock and waiting for news about friends and loved ones. There had been moments of relief and joy in this room - and even more moments of agony and loss.
For now, at least, the room was empty save for himself and Volleyball.
Unwilling to let him drift away, Volleyball grabbed him by the hand and dragged him over to one of the benches, letting go only after he sat down in one of the two-person seats. Volleyball, meanwhile, folded herself into the spot next to him, perching on the thin seat cushion with her knees drawn up to the her chest and arms wrapped around her legs.
Eventually she spoke. "Captain, I'm so sorry," her voice cracked, face twisting with guilt. "This is all my fault."
"Vol- Sp- Jessica, you didn't do anything wrong."
"I left her behind."
"... you did the right thing."
The agony and guilt in Jessica's voice stabbed at Simmons' mind. It wasn't her fault. All she should've been doing was worrying about Katie, not sitting here feeling like she was the one who'd put her best friend's life in danger.
That was on him.
"You did the right thing," Simmons repeated with more conviction, echoing the words Kimball had said to him in her office. He couldn't bring himself to look over, to see the disbelief that he knew would be on Jessica's face. "Between the two of you, Katie had lead. And she was right that the chemical weapon you two found needed to be given priority over everything else. The only people you should be blaming are the pirates for creating that weapon, and me for putting you both in a position to find it, for not being there to help you deal with it."
The explosion played itself out in slow motion in Simmons' memory. The crack and boom as the explosive erupted, and the force of the energy wave rushing out to batter everything around it. Then, Katie's body, soaring through the air. For a moment, her flight almost looked intentional, as though she'd thrown herself clear of the blast. But the data streaming in his HUD told a different story - it registered the sudden loss of blood pressure, screamed about damage to Katie's armor, and flashed alerts as her medical suite started dumping pain medication into her system.
Then, the memory skipped and Katie was lying limp and seemingly lifeless on the ground, blood pooling beneath her shattered arm. For a moment, all he could see were the blackened marks on what remained of her vambrace, the damaged rerebrace on her upper arm, and across the side of her cuirass. Streaks of red covered the tan armor plates from knee to chest.
It's my fault, Simmons knew. Katie, sweet, kind, brilliant Katie, was under the knife right now because he'd failed to protect her. She shouldn't even have gone on the mission. An engineer with her skills should have stayed safe and sound back at base, especially with how stretched they were for resources. But that was exactly why she'd ended up going. In the end, they simply didn't have enough experienced, combat-ready soldiers to scout out all the potential pirates' nests without dipping into their pool of specialists.
Bile rose in Simmons' throat. The room suddenly seemed much smaller than it had moment earlier, the walls crowding around him. There was a faint mechanical click, then the hum of the air circulation system fell silent.
The room was dead quiet.
In his chest, Simmons' artificial heart began to beat faster and faster. Sweat dotted his brow as a wave of heat suddenly swept over him. At the same time, his breaths began to get shallower and closer together.
Oh god. This was the worst time for a malfunction! The bile rose up once more even as his throat tightened. Panic began to spread through him as the room seemed to get hotter and hotter. His limbs, organic and mechanical both, felt heavy and unresponsive. The smooth texture of the plastic bar bolted to the metal armrests barely registered.
It wasn't just his heart - this was a complete systems failure. He could feel his internal organs shutting down and misfiring, could picture the damage spreading throughout his nervous system until even his remaining organic parts were affected as well. He couldn't- he couldn't deal with this right now. Grey was the only person who could fix him-
-he couldn't call Grey away from Jensen-
-he was dying, dying, about to die-
The nightmarish sensations of doom and impending distress continued to build until all he could do was squeeze his eyes shut, whimpering as he clutched at the arm rest and trembled, knowing he was moments away from collapse. In the distance, he vaguely heard a voice, promising to be right back.
Then he was alone.
He wasn't sure how much time passed before he heard footsteps approaching.
"Simmons, what do you need right now?"
Grif.
He tried to speak, but couldn't get the any words out, and just ended up shaking his head helplessly. How long before his lungs shut down?
Letting out a soft, thoughtful hum, Grif shifted, moving from standing in front of him to sitting next to him, opposite where Volleyball had been sitting. The air circulation system kicked on again, and the sudden movement of the air wafted Grif's familiar scent into his noise.
A hand touched his cybernetic arm, patting first the back of his hand, then at random points up towards his shoulder and along his chest and back.
"Your cybernetics are fine. No smoke. Not any warmer than usual. Simmons, what you're feeling right now is scary, but it's not dangerous."
"It's not- It's- Parts inside," Simmons choked out, eyes still squeezed shut. "Hurts." He couldn't- he wasn't getting air. He was choking, gasping-
"Your cybernetics are working fine. This is in your head." A large hand came to rest on top of his. The sudden pressure made him jump, but at the same time, it was warm and familiar. "Concentrate on your breathing. Stay in the present. Just breathe, Simmons."
With a bit more coaxing, Simmons followed along with Grif's promptings, and began the struggle to get his breathing under control. It was an uphill battle, but they'd both been down this path before.
Grif counted softly, inhale one-two-three-four, hold one-two-three-four, exhale one-two-three-four, hold one-two-three-four, over and over.
He knew the pattern. Almost automatically, Simmons, struggled to match his breathing to the steady counting. Inhale-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, exhale-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four.
"Can you open your eyes?" Grif asked quietly, intently, once Simmons had stopped shaking quite so much and he wasn't struggling for air. "Five things you can see in the room. Go."
Terrified about what he might see, but ultimately trusting Grif, Simmons slowly opened his eyes. After a few more shaky breaths, he grappled with his own panic, focusing on looking around so he could start listing things. "Clock, digital," he gasped. He couldn't- couldn't read the numbers.
"What else? Four more things." Grif didn't ask what about the time.
"Um. Benches." Tentatively, Simmons let his head creep around, his eyes sweeping across the room to find other things. "Terminal in the wall. In the corner. Um, a table. There's a magazine on it."
"Good. Four things you can feel."
Fear still clawed at him, fueled by an ache in his gut. Out of the corner of his eyes, though, he could see Grif sprawled out in his seat next to him. He wore a relaxed expression and the overall nonchalance air surrounding him was almost comforting in its familiarity.
"Your hand," was the first thing that popped into mind. Grif's hand, big and warm, still rested on top of his. The artificial nerves registered the pressure, carried an interpretation of the heat that radiated off Grif's hand to his brain. Glancing down, he realized the cybernetic limb was clutching tight at the armrest, denting the metal with inhuman strength. After a moment, he was able to get his fingers to relax. His other hand… "The seat cushion, it's soft." His organic fingers twitched, sliding across the worn plastic of the open seat next to him.
"Two more things you can feel. Come on."
Simmons sneaked a peek at the man sitting next to him. Sure enough, Grif was still as calm and relaxed as he'd ever seen him. Some of the tightness loosened inside him at the familiar sight. Closing his eyes again, he focused. Just feel. That's all Grif wanted right now. "My pulse is racing," he realized. "It's going too fast-"
"It's fine," Grif interrupted. "One more. You can do it."
"I feel warm."
"That works." He heard Grif shift position next to him. "Three things you can hear."
He knew this. They'd done all this before. "The air system. And … there are voices outside," he realized.
"And they're going to stay outside," Grif added in a firm voice. "Everything's fine. One more sound."
Taking a deep breath, eyes still closed, Simmons focused on his hearing and tilted his head to the side slightly. "There's a rattle. I think- I think there's something caught in the vents."
"Cool. Two things you can smell."
Working through his different senses was helping. The overwhelming panic and certainty that he was dying from before was fading. "Floor cleaner. And toast. You've been stealing Matthews' breakfast again."
"He didn't want it," Grif countered. Then, his fingers, short and wide, slipped between Simmons' own longer, narrow fingers. "Last one. Name one good thing about yourself."
Simmons felt heat spread across his face as embarrassment swept through him. This was a recent addition to… this. Grey had suggested it.
"Come on, don't overthink this. It can be something small," Grif coaxed him.
"Um. I-" His mind had gone completely blank. "I can play the banjo," he finally said with a tinge of desperation. Opening his eyes, he gave Grif a pleading look, hoping his answer passed muster.
"You did it," Grif announced. The bastard was completely relaxed next to him, he even wore a small smirk. "Good job. You got through all of it." Then, casting him a quick look, "Feeling better?"
Simmons focused inwardly for a moment, taking stock. The panic, heat flashes, and pains had faded. His organs, organic and artificial, no longer felt like they were on the verge of failure. His chest still felt tight, though, and a wave of exhaustion hit him like a cement truck. The aftermath of his panic attacks were almost as bad as the attacks themselves. And this one-
Suddenly the reason he was in this waiting room flooded into his mind. He remembered Jensen, horrifically wounded and now undergoing surgery. And worse, Cornwallis, Rowntree, Ruan - all dead.
Yanking his hand out of Grif's, Simmons covered his face with his hands, sighing slowly and deeply.
"Simmons?" Grif sounded wary, almost worried.
"Leave me alone," he snapped, voice muffled. He'd forgotten. How the hell could he have forgotten? What was wrong with him? He didn't deserve to be comforted like this.
A faint commotion sounded outside. The voices he'd noticed earlier, once distant and muffled, erupted in a flurry of arguments. And there was a new voice- A very familiar voice.
The door to the waiting room flew open and Donut raced in, looking sad and mournful. "Gosh, Simmons, I just heard the news! If you need a shoulder to cry on, I'm here for you, buddy." Throwing himself down next to Simmons, Donut immediately tried to wrap his arm around Simmons' shoulders.
Almost on automatic, Simmons dropped his hands from his face and jabbed outwards with his elbow, catching Donut in the ribs even as he recoiled from the other man. The armrest dug into his side as he jerked away, his leg pressing up against Grif's.
Unperturbed, Donut settled for patting Simmons' arm with his hand. "I bet Jensen's going to be just fine!" he exclaimed. "Dr. Grey's looking after her, after all, and we all know how good a doctor she is! Right, guys?" he asked, turning to look at Volleyball and Bitters as they hurried into the waiting room.
"She's much better than any of the doctors we had in the New Republic," Volleyball agreed, dropping down to sit on a nearby bench seat. Her hands clutched tight at the armrests as she started chewing on her lower lip.
"I don't understand how the fuck Katie got blown up in the first place!" Bitters snarled. Unlike Volleyball, he didn't sit, choosing instead to cross his arms over his chest as he loomed in front of Simmons. The faint greenish tint to his skin darkened as his face flushed with rage. His purple eyes, meanwhile, took on a dangerous tint. These faint hints at a mysterious alien ancestor only made him appear more threatening.
"The mission was a shit show," Simmons snapped back at him. The room was starting to feel small and confining again, causing his breath to hitch. Immediately, Grif's shoulder crossed over the armrest between them and pressed against his, giving him something solid to focus on besides the growing crowd of people surrounding them.
"I left her alone," Volleyball added, drawing her knees back up to her chest. "I know what Katie's like, that she hates leaving a job half-finished. I know Katie and I left her alone with the bomb." Misery lacing every word, she buried her head in her knees, hiding her face from everyone.
Letting out a soft clucking sound, Donut abandoned his seat next to Simmons to sit next to Volleyball. Leaning over the armrest, he wrapped a friendly arm around her and rested his head on her shoulder. This time, his kind gesture was accepted, rather than rebuffed.
"We were ambushed," Simmons finally explained after a moment of silence. Pressing closer to Grif, he kept his eyes fixed on the floor as he began to describe the incident at the farm. His voice faltered when he recounted how first Idella Ruan, then Merrick Rowntree, and finally Falk Cornwallis died at the hands of the enemy. "Caboose and Smith should arrive soon," he finally concluded. "Hopefully with a prisoner we can interrogate."
"We'll wring every possible piece of intel out of that dirtbag! And we won't stop with just the events on Chorus - we'll go all the way back to his no-doubt terrible childhood! To his parents' childhood! We'll know this pirate better than we know ourselves."
There was a collective jump at Sarge's sudden booming declaration. None of them had noticed the gruff soldier's entrance.
The older man gave them a satisfied grunt when their heads swiveled to stare at him. Crossing his arms, he nodded confidently. "This insult to the glorious Red Army will not go unpunished," he vowed.
"That's right, Sarge!" Donut beamed, delighted by the dramatic pronouncement. "We'll whip the truth right out of him and leave him raw and aching!"
"For the love of-" Grif's voice broke off with a strangled sound. Glaring, "Shut the fuck up, that isn't helping."
"None of you are helping!" With a surge of frustrated energy, Simmons forced himself to his feet and cast a teary glare around the room. "People are dead!" Simmons wailed before he bolted from the room.
Without looking back, he raced deeper into the ship. It wasn't long before his sudden burst of energy faded away, leaving Simmons to slump exhaustedly against a wall. Pressing his hand against his face, Simmons squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the hot prick of tears in his organic eye. Three people were dead. Gone. On his watch. He'd failed again, this time with devastating consequences.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there, silent tears leaking down his face before footsteps came running up to him.
"Captain Simmons! Captain, is- is Katie-"
Taking a hasty breath, Simmons rubbed at his face and looked up at Palomo. The young officer stared up at him with wet, terrified green eyes.
"She's still in surgery."
"Surgery," Palomo whispered. Then, giving him a jerky nod, he spun on his heel and raced away, headed towards Medical. As he rounded the corner, he rebounded off of Tucker and kept going, too frantic to even think of offering his superior any kind of apology.
Rubbing his shoulder, Tucker grumbled at Palomo's retreating back. Then, glancing up and down the corridor, he made his way over to Simmons. Leaning his back against the wall, he stared forward, hands shoved in his pockets.
"Me and Palomo just finished reporting in to Kimball," Tucker began in a quiet voice. "We didn't have any trouble with our sites. Once we were done, she told us what happened. It, uh, really sucks, man," he finished awkwardly. "But hey, if Dr. Grey's on the case, Jensen's going to be alright."
"I know that," Simmons whispered. "I know that! I know that Grey will be able to- to fix her! That doesn't make it okay!" Hands balled into fists, Simmons shoved himself away from the wall. His emotions felt like a roller coaster, rocketing up and down, and up and down. "It's not okay that Jensen got hurt in the first place! It's not okay that three people are dead!"
Tucker's alien-tainted yellow eyes went wide at the sudden verbal assault. "Dude, calm down!" He reached out to rest a hand on Simmons' shoulder, only to have it smacked away. Shaking the now stinging-hand, he aimed a fierce glare at the other man. "Jesus Christ, what crawled up your ass? I'm trying to be comforting and shit here."
"Well, you're doing a crappy job of it," Simmons snapped.
"Yeah, at least I'm trying." Folding his arms across his chest, Tucker snarled, "So your team died. Guess what? I've been there. You took a risk and your team paid the price. I know how much that sucks." Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Tucker continued in a calmer voice. "My team died so I could steal the intel on where the Feds were holding Wash and the others. Do you remember what Kimball said when I got back from the operation?"
Simmons stared back at him, stone-faced and unwilling to respond.
Rolling his eyes, Tucker pressed on. "She said that the choice cost lives, but got us valuable information. And that I'd have to decide on my own if it was the right thing to do or not. And you know what?" He tilted his head to the side, some of his long dreadlocks slipping off his shoulder. "That operation is what lead us to the guys - and let us find out just what kind of dick weasels Felix and Locus were. That operation is what eventually led us to ending this fucking civil war and saving the whole goddamned planet. So looking at the big picture? I'd say that operation was a win, even if it did cost most of my men their lives."
"What exactly are you trying to say?" Simmons demanded in an outraged voice. "That I should be happy three people died?" Fire raced through his nerves, filling him with a simmering tension. A vice seemed to grip his head, screwing tighter and tighter while his gut began to churn.
"I'm saying that with our track record, your shitty op could be what leads us to finishing off the pirates once and for all! Dude, that's totally worth it."
As Tucker offered him a tentative smile, the fury ripping throughout his body became almost unbearable. His breathing began to emerge in short gasps, then before he could think, his fist collided with Tucker's jaw, sending the other soldier slamming back into the wall.
"Oh, you fucking didn't," Tucker gasped as he cradled his jaw with a hand. "Fine," he hissed, then lunged forward.
Holding a piece of his torn shirt to his nose, Simmons wearily debated just collapsing on the ground there in the corridor. Fighting with Tucker had probably been a mistake, even if he'd had it coming.
Their brawl had been swift, but violent. Tucker out-massed him, had better fighting skills, and wasn't feeling hungover and punchdrunk after prolonged stress and a panic attack. All Simmons had going for him was a cybernetic arm and the kind of rage that made the entire fight an angry blur.
He was pretty sure he'd gotten in several good blows, but in the end, Tucker had kicked him into the wall before stomping away, blood falling in his wake like scattered raindrops.
In hindsight, getting into a brawl with someone who'd done hand-to-hand training with Wash was an obvious mistake. But Tucker must have taken some kind of pity on him; he hadn't actually broken any bones and Simmons felt somewhat confident that the other soldier had pulled several of his punches. Even if he himself hadn't. There were several dents in the walls that could attest to how wildly he'd been lashing out.
Miserably, Simmons pushed away from the wall and started trudging towards his and Grif's room. He wanted to know if Jensen was okay, to go and wait, but he was a wreck right now. He shouldn't be around anyone.
If nothing else, he reflected, he could patch himself up in private. Cover up the signs of how badly he'd broken down. Cover up his shame.
God, he was tired. The corridors seemed to sway as he lurched through them, his cybernetic hand running along the wall to keep himself from falling over. He couldn't let Jensen see him like this. He needed to be strong for her. Not exhausted and flailing about like an angry toddler.
Simmons' new to-do list was short by the time he reached his room. Bandage his wounds. Clean away the blood. Take a nap. Once he'd done all that, he could go see Jensen. Once he'd done all that, maybe everything wouldn't be so terrible. Maybe. Just maybe.