Grif hadn't realized that being soul bonded with five different people could be so goddamned stressful.
Sure, Sarge continued to ignore and/or berate him like he always had. But for some reason, now that they were getting into regular fights with Charon Industry's mercenaries, the minute they were alone somewhere, Sarge would latch onto his shoulder, filling his nose with the smell of gunpowder and barbeque, or grab his hand and clamp it down on the orange mark covering the older man's wrist. And every now and then, he'd do both.
The contact never failed to unnerve him. He was still trying to get used to the intimate connections, the idea that he could just- want that. And have it. And that no one would get mad at him or hurt him or… or worse. (He'd spent years imagining how much worse Jezzie's abuse could have been. The different possibilities featured in a lot of his nightmares.)
If he thought about it, it did make a weird kind of sense that Sarge would want to check up on him. The grizzled colonel would probably fall apart without his favorite target for shooting practice around. At least, that's what Grif told himself every time Sarge scanned him after a close call. But when Sarge grabbed his shoulder or started a soul loop, he couldn't pretend there wasn't some genuine affection and worry hidden under all that gruf. After years of just dealing with sarcasm and derision, he was struggling to reconcile the two dramatically different emotional states.
Meanwhile, Caboose continued to cling to the idea that Grif needed a personal escort to breakfast every morning and waited eagerly outside his door to clamp onto his arm while they headed down to the mess hall. It wasn't easy walking around while being subjected to that torrential outpouring of pure emotion. Splitting his attention to feel both how much Caboose loved him while simultaneously not walking into something could be tricky. And it was probably selfish of him, but Grif couldn't deny that he'd come to enjoy that simple, uncomplicated affection.
Caboose had been injured on a mission two days earlier and was being held for observation in the hospital while he recovered from ramming himself into the side of a Warthog to save Smith and some other News soldiers. And like the fucking addict he was, Grif had been swinging by there before breakfast every morning to check on him and get his daily fix. He got up extra early, too, since the hospital was in the opposite direction from the mess hall and he didn't want to show up late to a meal. He'd never hear the end of it. But he knew nothing he ate would have sat right if he hadn't gone by to check for himself that Caboose was going to be okay.
By contrast, his interactions with Carolina were completely random and usually late at night whenever she caught him sneaking into the mess hall or slipping out for a smoke. And very, very occasionally, she'd appear at his door and hide from the horrors unfolding on the battered planet, huddling beside him in bed, her hand on his chest, and his at her waist. Those weren't the worst nights, all in all. God knows, he gotten used to Kai clinging to him for hours while she came down from some drug high or after a bad breakup. If he was the master of anything, it was lazing around while providing easy wordless comfort. (And it was fucking hilarious watching her scramble out the window the next morning.)
Like Caboose, Tucker's soul was one he was in daily contact with, and had been ever since the other soldier had spotted the mark Wash had left on him. There was never any pressure to reciprocate or any urgent reason to connect. No, Tucker just laughed and said the contact with his soul was the closest he'd come to having a proper vacation in years. The glowing way Tucker described the sensory experience was insanely embarrassing but… also nice. The list of people who'd ever spoken so openly and positively about him was so small… he kind of liked hearing it. But not too often.
Inevitably, though, these days being around Tucker meant being around Wash. And after the former Freelancer had wrapped his head around their shared soul marks ("You can't just- bond and bolt, it's supposed to be reciprocated!" "Are you kidding? You marked me while high, mostly asleep, and wanting to snuggle with Tucker. At least I had the decency to wait until we were both conscious."), he'd often lean in when he came looking for Tucker, letting his hand or shoulder rest against the battered mark between Grif's shoulder blades.
Other times, Tucker would shove Wash down on top of him while he was napping, insisting that Wash needed to dip his toes in the ocean water that lived in Grif's memory, "just for a few minutes, dude, promise". It hadn't taken long to realize Tucker had gotten good at noticing when Wash was starting to stress out, the pain of the trauma Project Freelancer had inflicted on him surging up like some deep water monster. And hell, how could Grif refuse to connect under those circumstances?
Of course, Tucker being Tucker would usually wheedle his way into everything once Grif had rolled onto his side, Wash's arm wrapped around him to reach the spot on his back while he squeezed tight to the former Freelancer's elbow. According to Tucker, they were apparently too 'emotionally constipated' to be trusted to take care of each other. Which meant Tucker would squeeze in behind Wash and they'd turn into an awkward tangle of limbs and pressed cheeks, resulting in a three-way loop which was super weird for him and Wash, but Tucker was determined and, in the end, just better at managing the flow of emotion-thought-sensation than they were. So it worked.
(Grif wasn't bad at soothing Wash's discomfort but Tucker flowed through both their souls with stunning ease, darting directly to the source of his pain with pinpoint accuracy. So instead, Grif focused on tugging Wash closer to himself, sharing memories of surfing and playing on the beach while Tucker ran his metaphorical fingers across throbbing wounds, leaving a sensation of healing wherever he went. And sometimes, very rarely, they indulged in Wash's memories of skateboarding on a world with three moons while Tucker's soul curled protectively around Grif's.)
Basically, Grif suddenly had people. And liked having people. But goddamn managing all that shit was ridiculous. Which meant he really didn't have the time or energy to indulge Donut's sudden need for company.
"Come on," the petite soldier pleaded in a wheedling tone. "It's just that, after lending a sympathetic ear to so many of the soldiers, I realized I just didn't have the kind of deep, intimate contact with you guys that I used to." A small pout spread across Donut's face, tugging slightly at the scars winding down the side of head. "I've already planned out some fun activities for us all to do together, and gotten myself loose and ready for whatever you guys can dish out!"
Dropping his spoon into his bowl with a soft clatter, Grif covered his face with his hands and groaned.
"But if you'd rather just pound on me for a few hours, that's okay too! I'm okay with whatever you're into."
With an increasing amount of panic, Simmons shoved his breakfast at Grif and fumbled for his helmet. "Gee, I just remembered that I promised Doyle I'd update the inventory on our… uh, food supply today. Sorry, guess I'll have to miss out."
Peeking through his fingers, Grif weighed the free meal against having to keep hanging around Donut. Then, with a soft sigh, he dropped his hands and snatched up the bowl. Donut was a friend. Most of the time.
Simmons, meanwhile, had vanished from the table as thoroughly as activating a fully functional camouflage unit. Grif couldn't help but envy him; if he hadn't be loudly and publicly banned from the food stores shortly after they'd moved to Armonia, he'd be tagging along right now, not sitting here at Donut's mercy.
The other soldier clucked disapprovingly. "He works way too hard," Donut declared. "We need to help him find to relax, maybe help him rub all that tension out."
Taking another bite, Grif eyed Donut for a moment, then gulped down a swallow of coffee, chasing down the mushy grain shit Simmons liked eating in the mornings. "Seriously, it's just us, dude. I gotta know: you're doing this on purpose, right?"
Blinking his mismatched eyes (one blue, one a fainter, milky blue-gray), Donut stared back at him with a confused expression. "Doing what on purpose? Being Red Team's go-to guy for the best man-on-man moments? You've got me!" he finished with a grin.
Grif briefly tilted his mug at the other soldier. "I'm going to get you to admit it one of these days," he growled. "It'll happen."
"Whatever you say, best buddy!" Donut watched as Grif polished off the remainder of Simmons' breakfast mush. "Sooo, I was thinking that to start of our day of manly bonding, we should go visit Caboose in the hospital! Take him some flowers, maybe some fruit-" Voice breaking off, Donut clapped his hands together in excitement. "I should go get some oil! A deep tissue massage will definitely do the trick to give his day a happy ending!"
"Never, ever, say those words again," Grif hissed. A heavy sigh slipped past his lips. Raising a hand, Grif rubbed his brow, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. He had two options: (1) hang out with Donut all day and endure the endless stream of double-entendres, or (2) get roped into some BS inventory duty or sent off to train with Wash. Neither option was actually all that appealing. If Donut actually knew what he was saying, well, that would be funny. But his apparent ignorance to the actual meaning behind his blithe statements just made it embarrassing for everybody. At the same time, though, training with Wash was pretty awful.
Grif let out another sigh. God help him. He was going to be spending a lot of time with Donut today.
It took almost an hour to clear away the remains of breakfast, for Donut to settle on exactly what he wanted to bring Caboose, and to make the actual trek across Armonia to the hospital.
"Hello!" Caboose greeted them cheerfully, then winced as his welcome jostled his injuries. "Is it time to leave? I do not want to stay here any longer."
"You're not going anywhere until Dr. Grey says so," Grif retorted shortly. His lips pressed briefly together as he took in the sling holding Caboose's arm and shoulder still, the bruises on his face, and the slightly glassy look in his eyes. He'd seen it all just a few hours earlier but it was still felt like getting a punch in the gut seeing Caboose like this.
"But I don't want to see the scary doctor lady again," Caboose whined. He slumped back against the crisp white linens, pouting as he tugged morosely at the rough mustard-colored blanket draped over his legs.
"Aww, she's just trying to make sure you get better." Donut trotted around the bed, pausing long enough to dump his helmet and gauntlets in one of the visitor's chairs set against the far wall. He then dug into one of the storage compartments at his hip. "Here, I brought you something!" he beamed, then produced a small black slab and a mess of tangled wires. "I know how boring it can be in the hospital and I thought you might like some music to listen to! Um, once I get the wires untangled, you'll be ready to go."
Shaking his head as Donut turned his attention to the mess of wires in his hands, Grif pushed away from the doorway and started peeling off his layers of armor, piling the pieces in the corner. Once he was free of armor from the waist up, Grif marched over to Caboose and lightly tapped his forehead. "What's the rule?" he demanded.
"I should not try to break a Warthog with my head," Caboose dutifully repeated, as he did each time Grif came to see him. He'd memorized the mantra but Grif had his doubts about whether or not the lesson had actually sunk in. A smile spread across the uninjured half of Caboose's face and he reached out and grabbed Grif's forearm. Sure enough, the emotions pouring out of him were wholly unrepentant, and were instead filled with love and appreciation for Grif's visit.
Grif let his hand drop onto Caboose's shoulder, squeezing slightly as he let his worry and frustration pour into the other man.
Giggling softly, Caboose wriggled on the bed, causing the metal frame to rattle. "Tickles," he breathed.
Out of the corner of his eye, Grif could make out Donut's lips pursing briefly and his cheeks round in a silent coo. Embarrassment flashed through him like lightning and only Caboose's iron grip on his arm prevent him from jerking away.
Donut's long, clever fingers finished untangling the headset wires and he gave the others a saucy wink as he stretched the cords out. "Now, don't mind me," he teased. "I can just slide in between my two favorite guys." Matching words to action, Donut hip-checked Grif, nudging him back from the side of the bed slightly. Before he could move very far, Donut started to slip into the narrow opening.
"What the fuck, Donut?" Grif demanded as he felt the smaller soldier's booty slide along his leg. Reaching out with his free hand, he seized Donut's shoulder and started to push him back towards the foot of the bed.
Donut locked his legs, eyes going wide. "Oh!" he gasped.
For a moment, Grif stared at him in confusion. Then, he felt Caboose's sudden moment of recognition, the memory of the moment Grif's hand had fallen onto the unfilled mark on his shoulder flashing through both their minds.
The urge to run and hide was almost overwhelming, but with Caboose's delight giving him courage, Grif stood firm.
Donut turned slowly, careful not to jostle Grif's hand. Dropping the music player onto the bed, he stepped forward and wrapped an small arm around Grif's thick middle. "Thank you," he said softly, smiling up at him. Almost absently, his other hand came to rest on Grif's chest. Underneath Grif's black bodysuit, pink flared on Grif's skin, tinting the white scar tissue.
Connecting with Donut and Caboose at the same time was disorienting. The world seemed to take on a glittery hue, the lights in the hospital room gleaming brightly overhead. The faint sound of pop music echoed in his ears.
Donut was so fucking happy right now. His excitement that their marks, pink and orange, were finally filled in was so palpable Grif half expected a neon sign to pop up over the smaller soldier's head. The moment he noticed Grif's discomfort, though, Donut did his best to put a damper on his emotions. The sensation of sheepish apology was odd but unmistakable.
"Sorry," Donut mumbled. He pressed his face into Grif's chest, feeling the rapid pulse of the heart in that chest. "I promised myself I wouldn't get emotional." He sniffed, voice starting to wobble. "And I won't. I really mean it-" Breaking off with a soft sob, Donut took a few deep breaths. "I'm just so happy."
"That's- that's great," Grif stuttered. "You can let go now. Seriously."
"Aw, but this is the perfect time to really get deep inside each other!"
"Damn it, Donut!"
"Oh, fine." Reluctantly, Donut pulled his hand away and took a step backwards, allowing Grif's hand to fall. He wiped teary eyes with the back of his hand, sniffing hard.
"Now we're all Best Friends!" Caboose exclaimed.
Swearing under his breath, Grif jerked away from the injured man and shuffled backwards. Crossing his arms, he tried to pretend his face wasn't burning. "You're both idiots," he grumbled.
"Whatever you say, Best Friend," Donut agreed, perfectly white and straight teeth flashing as he grinned. Turning back to Caboose, he grabbed the music player and passed the earpieces to Caboose so he could show him how it worked.
Leaning back against the wall, Grif shook his head slightly. Now he had six assholes to take care of. Just his luck.