Originally Written in June 2013

Drabble - Grimmons Hurt/Comfort

(Contains Adult Language)

Their armor never malfunctioned.

It could take a direct bullet hit or two easy. It was why no one blinked an eye when Sarge occasionally landed a hit when he fired at Grif on a daily basis. The orange soldier was knocked over, and after heavy breathing and readjusting his heavy gut, made it to his feet to complain again for another day.

Until it didn't work, and the bullet went straight through the black fabric between the armor pieces.

"Grif! Grif, breathe, it's okay. It'll be okay," Simmons said, as he carefully undid each clip of armor. Grif was laid out on a table in the heart of their base.

Sarge cursed worse than usual in the background, but had already pulled out his surgery kit, and had a needle between his teeth ready for threading. Donut had lit a fire to sterilize it before Sarge could start sewing. Simmons was worried, but if Sarge could handle cyborg implantations, he could handle stitching a wound. Simmons hoped.

At least Donut was a decent nurse. He had already placed the torch under the needle as Sarge moved it down toward the ripped open and burnt skin.

"He shot me!" Grif shouted, pawing at Simmons hands. Simmons shoved him away and threw the armor piece to the side and out of Sarge's way. "He really shot me!"

"He shoots you every day, fatass," Simmons said, leaning forward as Sarge moved to the exposed area. Simmons snapped his fingers just over Grif's face, and kept his attention on him. They didn't have any anesthesia, and Simmons knew from experience this was going to hurt. Grif grunted, when Sarge pulled Grif's undershirt up from the blackened and burnt skin. "Hey, up here. Look at me."

"Nothing up there I want to see, Simmons."

"Well, there's nothing down there, either," Simmons leaned over, trying to avoid Sarge's hands moving furiously around Grif's stomach and Donut hovering with water and rags. Simmon's filled Grif's vision, and grabbed his chin to shove his face away from staring at Sarge. "You're lucky all that fat was in the way."

"Fuck you, Simmons," Grif grit his teeth together. "Fuck you."

"Later," Simmons said absently. "Right now, you want something to bite on? I might be able to get Donut to find something."

Grif tried to squirm, and Simmons dropped down to hold his arms down, and leant on his chest. "Hold still!"

"Your bed side manner sucks," Grif said through gritted teeth.

"This isn't bed side," Simmons snorted. "You'll get that later, I bet. And you'll whine like a baby the whole time."

"If I survive this!" Grif shouted. "Are you sure Sarge is trying to save me, and not kill me!?"

"If I wanted you dead dirtbag, I would have let you bleed out outside!" Sarge snarled, pouring alcohol around the wound to sterilize it. He wiped away the remains with a clean rag, and concentrated on the wound. "Now stop reminding me I'm saving your ass, or I'll kill you!"

"I'm filled with confide—AH!" Grif threw a still gloved hand up, and bit down on the bottom of his palm. He grimaced, and Simmons rubbed his shoulder. Sarge had started sewing, and as predicted—it hurt. Grif moaned, "Son of a bitch!"

"It'll be over soon," Simmons said. "Soon."

Soon was two hours later, and Grif unconscious in a bed. Sarge was out taking a shower in the waterfall, scrubbing the 'filth' off of himself from having to save Grif. Donut was with Caboose making get well cards.

So that left Simmons providing true "Bed side" comfort.

Simmons unwrapped the package of Oreos and handed one over to Grif. "You're lucky you're alive, idiot."

"I wouldn't have to be lucky if Sarge wouldn't shoot at me all the time," Grif grumbled, eating the cookie in a single bite as he spoke.

"Well, I have a feeling he'll lay off for a bit," Simmons said, biting into one of the cookies himself. It didn't taste as good as he'd hoped. Simmons blamed his blood pressure that had yet to calm down after the initial terror of seeing Grif drop, and realizing Sarge was their only medic with Doc away. Simmons reached for another cookie.

"Hey don't eat all of those! They're mine!"

"Fine! Take them, you greedy idiot," Simmons threw the bag at his head. The package spilled open, covering Grif in cookies and crumbs. "See if I care."

"Jerk," Grif said, leaning back and rubbing the bandages around his waist. "But, uh. Simmons?"

"What, jackass?"

"Thanks for uh, distracting me. Earlier, I mean." Grif said, scooting down in the bed. "It helped."

"Anytime," Simmons sighed. He reached over and grabbed a cookie off Grif's chest. "And you owe me."

"What!?"