Work Text:
The first time was a trillion years ago, when Grif pulled through the surgery and Sarge declared that he’d probably, unfortunately , live, and Simmons had a whole bunch of new limbs and new functions and all the bits where his flesh met the metal in his body ached like a bruise cut clean through his chest. Hell, half his face was gone. He felt like he was missing an entire quarter of his body, because he was , and Sarge hadn’t quite gotten all the nerves sorted out yet, and his entire right arm and leg hung off him like handcuffs the size of dumbbells. Everything felt heavy and exhausted, but he couldn’t quite manage to rest in his own bed—not with half his body forty pounds heavier and cold, sometimes, if he hadn’t warmed up the metal.
Simmons sat at Grif’s bedside, listening to the beep of the heart monitor, the smell of disinfectant in his nose to bleach out the smell of blood, and rested his cheek on the sheets of Grif’s bed. Grif breathed slowly, shallowly. Simmons could see his own arm attached to Grif’s chest.
It’d been a long surgery. Simmons was still recovering himself. Simmons fell asleep listening to the beep of Grif’s newly-donated heart.
*
The fourth time was a billion years ago, when they were holed up in Rat’s Nest and Simmons was halfway through engineering the logistics of Grif’s harebrained scheme to trade bullets with Blue Team, sitting on Grif’s bed, typing up a storm on his laptop. Simmons sniped that Grif wouldn’t be bored if he’d do his own work, and Grif rolled his eyes and rolled over in bed and threw a tennis ball against the wall. Rolled over again. Wound up on his side, his head resting by Simmons’s thigh. Simmons didn’t stop typing.
“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Simmons ordered. “This is your dumbass idea.”
“It’ll make us both rich,” Grif mumbled.
“I’m only here for the money. You can take the fall by yourself,” said Simmons. He glanced down at where Grif is lying by his thigh, and for a split second, Grif could swear that Simmons’s expression looked fond.
“Time for a nap,” said Grif, and closed his eyes.
“I said don’t fall asleep!”
“Good night,” said Grif. Simmons shoved him. “Zzzzzzzzz,” said Grif.
“You’re so fucking lazy,” Simmons muttered, but didn't shove him again. Grif didn't reopen his eyes, the image of the barest moment of fondness on Simmons’s face on the inside of his eyelids, and didn't realize he’d fallen asleep until he woke up to find Simmons on his back on the same bed, laptop still open and out of battery, snoring softly into Grif’s pillow.
*
The seventh time was a million years ago, on the roof of Red Base in Valhalla, in the briefest moment of respite before Carolina tried to make them move again in search of the Director. For a bit, they thought they’d finally come back to the closest thing they have to a home, and the first thing they did was go up to the roof and sit and dangle their legs off the edge.
The sun was even setting. Simmons would say it was kind of romantic, except that Grif was there, which negated all romance by default.
“We need some Blues to yell at,” said Grif.
“Hey Tucker!” Simmons yelled. “Come over here!”
“Why?!” Tucker hollered back across the canyon. “I’m talkin’ ‘bout plot shit with Church!”
“We wanna make fun of you!” Grif yelled.
“And your team!” Simmons added.
“And your friends!”
“And your team color, too!”
“And maybe your ugly kid, too!”
Tucker flipped them the bird.
“You’re no fun!” Simmons yelled.
“Fuck you too!” Tucker shouted back.
“Aw, whatever,” said Grif. They both knew that Tucker was pissy because Church had run off to hang out with Carolina for some unknown reason, so it really was whatever. “Sarge’ll probably be around in three minutes with a plan to drill through the center of the earth for some stupid reason.”
“Maybe he’ll start yelling about the setting sun not having enough red again,” Simmons suggested.
“That’ll be a show.”
But Sarge didn’t show, and the sun slips lower, and Grif groaned and complained about his back being sore, so they got off the edge of the roof and lean against the rampart instead, side by side, while Grif fiddled with an e-cig that Simmons insisted he use instead of real cigarettes. They could see the dark orange and purples of the sky over the waterfall. Valhalla was an unironically beautiful place, Simmons realized; the problem was that Simmons had never considered himself the kind of person who stared at the sky like a dumbfuck when the planet rotated and its rotational star slipped below viewing trajectory. Didn’t seem like the sort of thing he was supposed to appreciate, being such a cool military dude and all.
Grif sighed. Breathed deep. His head bobbed twice before Simmons realized he’d fallen asleep altogether, e-cig barely in his fingers. Carolina had barely let them stop for breaks, they’d driven in shifts, and no matter what Grif said, it was actually pretty difficult for any of them to feel well-rested after a catnap in the back of a moving Warthog.
“Hey,” Simmons whispered. “Hey, Grif. You can’t sleep here.”
“Mmmf,” said Grif.
“Carolina’s gonna be up any second to tell us to go get moving again.”
“Fuck ‘er,” Grif mumbled.
“Tell me about it,” Simmons sighed, but nudged Grif in the side again anyway. “At least put your head down somewhere.”
Grif, without opening his eyes, leaned into the Simmons’s nudge, and wound up with his cheek mashed against Simmons’s shoulder plate as he rested his head on Simmons.
“Uuuuuhhhhhh. Grif,” Simmons said, voice climbing in pitch.
“What,” Grif grumbled, sounding annoyed at having his nap disturbed.
“Uuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” said Simmons, and glanced around, terrified of staying but more terrified of moving, and just said, “Nothing.”
“Mm,” said Grif, and sighed, and settled into Simmons’s side.
Simmons didn’t move for nearly an hour and spent every minute of it feeling weirdly guilty and like his heart was bursting into butterflies, and then Grif blinked awake and Simmons realized he just fucking wasted a moment he wanted to appreciate.
Grif looked pretty stupid with the imprint of Simmons’s armor on his cheek, though.
*
The twelfth time was a thousand years ago, on Chorus, when Hargrove had finally fucked off and everyone was exhausted and lying on the floor of the Pelican. Carolina was up at the cockpit to annoy the pilot with her backseat flying, while Wash splinted Sarge’s fingers and made affirmative grunts through Sarge’s happy retelling of the fight.
Not too happy, though. Tucker had one hand on the Meta’s helmet. Caboose was staring at it like he didn’t understand. He probably didn’t.
“Go lie down,” Wash ordered, pointing at Simmons. “Sarge isn’t going to fix your arm without his fingers, so just take the weight off it until we get back to Grey.”
Simmons moved to do so, but just shifting his weight sent out a spark from his metal shoulder, and he winced. Grif reached out to help him take the armor backpiece off. Simmons shot him an ungrateful look, but didn’t actually say anything. “Brace the arm,” Wash said. “Take the backpiece of the armor off, put your head on something, keep something under your shoulder.”
“There aren’t exactly any pillows,” Simmons complained.
Wash looked at Simmons like he was stupid, then meaningfully at Grif.
“Put your head on my thigh,” said Grif, catching Wash’s drift. “I’ll put my hand under your shoulder.”
Simmons’s face flushed red, but they’re all tired, and he did what Grif suggested without complaint. Simmons’s head settled onto Grif’s leg and Grif resisted the immediate urge to put his hand in Simmons’s hair. After some moments of uncomfortable shifting, Grif folded his other leg to fit under Simmons’s busted shoulder, and Simmons wound up framed between Grif’s open lap.
Tucker sent them a sly glance, and Grif gave him a look that physically translated to Die in a fire, Blue .
“Oh, that is better,” Simmons said, surprised. Grif snorted.
“One more hour to Armonia,” Wash said, and stuffed gauze back into a bag. “Grey will patch you up then.”
“A whole hour?” Grif complained.
“Are you being lazy again,” said Simmons. “All you have to do is sit there.”
“Yeah, but like…” Grif looked at Simmons’s tired face, and groaned. “Never mind. Whatever. Can we fly any faster?”
“No,” replied Wash, sounding amused. “You’ll be fine.”
“My leg will get crushed by Simmons’s giant brain,” Grif mumbled.
By the time they arrived in Armonia, Grif was collapsed against the wall, Simmons snoring against Grif’s leg, and Grif’s hand firmly in Simmons’s hair. Sarge took pictures.
*
Nowadays, Grif still has a stash of volleyballs with simtrooper helmets drawn on them and he won’t explain where they’re from. But he doesn’t like sleeping alone, anymore; if he does, he plays the radio like a white noise machine. He bugs people at night to watch movies, to play cards, to make pancakes at midnight. It’s not always Simmons—it could be Tucker, Caboose, Sarge, Donut, even (oddly) Lopez.
It always ends with Grif sleeping softly, sprawled across the nearest flat surface, expression clear in a way Simmons hadn’t realized it could be. “It’s kiiiiiinda obvious he needs other people around to fall asleep,” Donut says one day while buffing his nails, and blows on his fingers. “Poor thing! Too bad he, y’know, left Red Team, so that’s kind of his fault!”
When Grif comes into Simmons’s bedroom and starts wheedling Simmons into sneaking out of the base to fuck around with the Warthog, Simmons is just too fucking tired, and there’s nobody else around, and if there’s anyone he can be irritated with, it’s Grif. Simmons slams his book closed and dumps it on the bed. “You don’t have to keep making excuses to fall asleep with us around,” Simmons snaps. “The bed fits two people! You’re not that fat! Let’s just go!”
Grif stares at him in alarm. “Let’s just… go… where? Outside?”
“No! To bed,” Simmons says, still angry. “I’m tired, Grif, I wanna sleep.”
“You want to, uh,” says Grif. “You. And me. In a bed.”
“Don’t put it that way,” Simmons warns. “I wanna get a good night’s rest without you playing fucking Daughter on the radio all night long.”
“You can hear that?”
“Everyone can hear that,” Simmons says grumpily. He pulls open the covers and glares at Grif. “Get in here, asshole.”
“The minute you realize what you’re asking, you’re going to spontaneously combust into embarrassment,” Grif says.
“Well, I haven’t yet! So hurry up!”
Hesitantly, Grif crawls into Simmons’s bed, dirty orange PJ shirt and boxers and all, and Grif is super close. In Simmons’s face. Simmons can see Grif’s day-old stubble and smell the earthy tang of his skin. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“There it is,” Grif says.
“This is your fault,” Simmons says, but he’s not angry anymore, because Simmons is so bad at being nasty to Grif ever since the moonbase thing. “Why’d you have to leave in the first place, anyway?”
“Mm,” says Grif.
“Don’t make this weird,” Simmons warns. He sounds a little like he’s pleading against the inevitable.
“You’re the one making it weird by saying that. Look, I won’t even touch you. Two guys lying in a twin size, five inches apart because they’re not—”
“Do not meme at me when we’re in bed.”
Grif starts snickering. Simmons shoves him. “I mean it!” Simmons says. Grif shoves him back and Simmons huffs and rolls over on his shoulder, facing away from Grif.
“Good night,” says Grif.
“Uuughghg,” Simmons groans. Then: “...Good night.”
Simmons wakes up the next morning with Grif’s arms around his waist and Grif’s face against Simmons’s neck. Simmons has been goddamned little-spooned, he realizes. He fucking set himself up for it, turning his back to Grif. Fucking Grif. Stupid fucking Grif. Simmons rolls his eyes, and groans, and feels Grif’s arms tighten around him, and then Simmons closes his eyes and lets himself go back to sleep.