Part XII
Grif blinked; bright, white light pouring into his eyes and blinding him momentarily. He groaned. Why did he let himself yell at Simmons Like that? It wasn't worth it, he knew now he was likely to have ruined his time here... He blinked again, trying to clear his eyes and get them working. Hm, his skin felt pleasantly warm... if not a little sore. Grif shifted, his limbs tingling, his--- He sat up quickly, gasping and heart pounding.
His arm--- his leg! Grif groaned, planting his face into his two very fleshy palms and rubbing his eyes vigorously. Holy fucking shit, he was back home. That was... easier than he thought it would be. He slumped, thinking back over the last moments with Simmons—that Simmons, not his Simmons. A fight, choking on air and falling unconscious. Was it the almost dying part, or the yelling that he wanted to go home? He shook his head.
"Suppose it doesn't really matter... Way to go to ruin it though, jackass." Slowly Grif stood, making his way down from the roof of the base and back into it. It was still silent, they obviously weren't back yet. He sighed, lugging himself into the lounge room and plonking himself down on the couch. He sure was sighing a lot. Grif slumped back into the couch, letting his head roll back and eyes stare listlessly at the ceiling. Not much to do. Wasn't there some chore Sarge wanted him to do while they were gone? Hm. Maybe that was just his imagination.
A few hours later Sarge came rumbling in with Donut and Sarge behind him.
"Pity ya weren't with us, Grif. Coulda used yer as a distraction—maybe ya woulda died in the progress. Woulda been reaaal satisfying!" Grif sighed, acknowledging the man with a raised eyebrow. "But then again, ya woulda jus' held us back! You an' yer lazy ways, boy. Simmons! Clean ma shotgun and re-load it fer me. Ah wanna teach this boy a lesson latah!" Simmons straightened, calling out his duitiful 'Yes, Sir!' before collecting the shotgun and scuttling off. Donut stayed behind after Sarge left for the kitchen.
"Grif... are you okay? I thought you'd be gone longer..." Grif sat up straight, turning to look at Donut with a wide-eyed expression. Donut gulped, wringing his hands before him in a nervous action. "Well, actually, forget I said that... Would you like a hot chocolate? You look a little pale.." He turned around and swiftly left, but not before throwing a curious, if not unsure, glance over his shoulder.
Grif stared after him, mouth agape. Simmons returned, rolling his eyes at his orange teammate.
"Grif, did you clean your side of the room while we were gone? It's getting a bit ridiculous... But knowing you, you probably just left it and went to sleep on the roof again. Maybe one of these days I should take Sarge up on one of his offers to kill you..." Simmons sighed, sitting down on a lounge chair. He rubbed at his temples, ignoring Griff completely who now stared at him. Grif paled. All he could think about... He gulped, closing his eyes and muttering to himself.
"Don't be stupid, don't be stupid... Simmons doesn't think of you that way here. Never has, never will. That's the way it is here..." He shifted, looking away from Simmons and staring at the wall. They didn't have photos here. They weren't happy unless he was in pain, or dying, or not in the room, or sleeping, or actually doing work—they weren't happy, ever, to be honest. Even when one of those things occurred... they still hated him. They still were unhappy. Grif was still unhappy. He flinched.
Grif stood up, an abrupt motion that caught Simmons off guard.
"Where you going, haven't you slept enough today?" Simmons sounded bitter, his eyes slightly narrowed as they followed Grif's rigid back. "Don't tell me you're pissy. Are poor Griffy's feelings hurt?" Grif slammed the door behind him.