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“What. The fuck. Is your face?”
Grif, in general, was not a fan of having his lunch interrupted. But the disruption was even worse when it turned out to be Felix sliding into the seat across the table.
He’d seen Felix without the helmet a few times, but this is the first time up-close. Not to mention the first time where Grif had his own face bare.
Grif said flatly, “It’s Simmons.”
“Simmons,” Felix repeated, beady eyes narrowing.
Grif had pushed his tray closer to himself, growing defensive as he opened his mouth to –
A maroon soldier appeared. “Hi?” he said at the sound of his name. He looked down at the table, obviously confused as to why Felix had stolen his usual spot in the mess hall. After a moment of consideration, he sat down next to Grif instead.
Felix’s finger moved slowly from Simmons’ helmet to Grif’s face. “That’s your eye?” he said, wincing. “Oh, that’s gross.”
“You can’t say that about someone’s face,” Simmons said stiffly.
“You called me gross yesterday,” Grif reminded him, though he appreciated the defense.
Simmons waved him off. “But that was like the entirety of you. Not just your face.”
“Oh.”
“That explains your lazy eye,” Felix said, and his face looked like he was in the middle of a sneer, though his voice remained a friendly tease. “You still need an excuse for the rest of your laziness.”
“Haha.” Grif had heard worse, but it was Felix and his unnerving glare that was getting under his skin. “Seriously, stop staring. It’s ruining my appetite.”
“Like that’s possible,” Simmons grumbled next to him. He just sat there, yet to even start to eat his well-earned lunch, so close to Grif that their elbows kept hitting each other.
Grif tilted his head and decided to meet Felix’s dark eyes. “Aren’t you normally annoying Tucker?”
“Yes,” the mercenary replied with a shrug. “But I decided to get to know you better today, and man, has that been proven entertaining so far.”
“Simmons is gonna make your day then,” Grif said under his breath, but not low enough to keep it from Simmons.
“Now I don’t want to do it,” he said, curling in on himself. “You know I don’t stand the pressure, Grif!”
“Should I find the camera?”
Grif turned to Felix then and told him and his smirk, “Don’t make him cry.” There was a real threat in the sentence, somewhere deep below the casual tone.
“I won’t.” Felix smiled grew wider. “Today.”
“Urgh.”
“What?” Felix laughed – a loud and shrill sound. “Hah, what if the real surprise is that he’s actually good-looking under the helmet. You’re not, right?”
The question caught Simmons so off-guard that it actually lowered the anxiety for a brief moment, and he removed his helmet in a quick motion. “I, uh- It’s just this.”
Felix’s face was eerily unreadable as he took in the sight of the metal, wires, and glowing left eye. Then the trance broke as he raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you two are definitely telling me the whole story.”
Grif, mouth full with an undefined stew, said, “I got run over by a tank. Sarge improvised surgery. The end.”
“Nice try.” Felix’s knife pointed at Grif’s face, moving ever so slightly as its holder said, “Real slow this time.”
Swallowing slowly, Grif looked up from his tray. “Tucker ran me over with a tank.”
He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Another laugh. Or a frown.
But Felix remained unblinking and then said, “Didn’t think he had that in him.”
“I was – Well, I don’t remember.”
“He was dying. So, uhm, we had to help him. And we did.” Oblivious to the fact that Grif had been trying to shut down the conversation, Simmons cleared his throat to helpfully add his version of the tale. “And Sarge had a spare robot-kit lying around anyway, so.”
“Which he stuffed in you.”
“Well, he wouldn’t stuff it in Grif.”
“The man never did strike me as a surgeon.”
“He isn’t,” Grif said darkly.
“Obviously.” Felix looked at Grif, then at Simmons, and then he leaned back in his seat with a satisfied look on his face. “That was a story. So –“
“Weird?” Simmons suggested,
“Unnerving?” Grif added.
“Illogical?”
“Touching,” Felix concluded for the two of them. “I mean, getting to know you assholes, it’s a shock how much you were willing to sacrifice for a partner. And the story is right there, for everyone to see.”
“Don’t make it weird,” Grif said and looked like his stew tasted bitter all of the sudden. Instead of a knife, he pointed at Felix with a spoon. “Seriously, if you are into weird shit, go ask Tucker about his alien pregnancy or something.”
“I’m just saying, at least I get to end this entertaining conversation with some advice for both of you. Cover up your weaknesses.” There was a heavy pause as they all looked at each other, the Reds shifting slightly, before Felix chuckled again. “So, you know, full body armor.”
“It’s not that weird, is it?” Simmons would ask later that night, into the darkness of their shared room.
It took a beat, but it hadn’t even been a minute since Simmons turned on the light – Grif was still awake, despite what he might want. “Probably is.”
Simmons frowned as no one could see him. The talk in the mess hall had left him feeling unbalanced, as if suddenly aware of a stain on his shirt. Had everyone else been finding it weird, all this time, while it’s just been another backstory to be shrugged off in the shadow of Blue Drama for them?
“But, you would have done the same,” Simmons said. One can never blame instincts.
The silence was thick – and lacking snores.
“Wouldn’t you?” Simmons asked, more quiet this time.
“S’not really an option, was it? Sarge would never have had a problem saving your life.”
“Yeah,” Simmons said and swallowed something bitter. It was the truth, even as he remembered it: Sarge arguing and huffing while the blood spread and reached their boots. “Do you think other people find it weird?”
“Let me tell you this: don’t let Palomo find out about it. Ever. Or Matthews.” In the darkness, Grif shuddered. “They will make it weird.”
“Oh. Okay.” Truth, again. At least Jensen knew the worth of privacy and diaries. Simmons bit his lip, trying to calm the strange gnawing feeling in his chest. It didn’t work. “Would you have done it for Donut?”
“No.” Grif didn’t even hesitate. “He’d bounce right back if we run him over, right?”
“That’s true,” Simmons said. At least metaphorically. He didn’t want to think about Donut right now – not when they didn’t know if he was alive or not; if he really bounced back as always. But still: it’d been a truth until now. “I mean, he’s probably totally fine right now! Sarge as well!”
Grif rolled over and what sounded like an empty can hit the floor. It echoed. “Donut’s gonna make it so fucking weird,” Grif groaned. “Do you think we can threaten him into staying silent?”
The thankfulness warmed when relief didn’t. Simmons knew what Grif was doing – on purpose or not – and appreciated the attempt at light-heartedness. “I think that would just make him talk more.”
“The real problem is Felix, though,” Grif said.
Something heavy had settled in Simmons’ stomach. “Really?”
“How did you not see his giant smirk?” Grif asked without expecting an answer. “I tell you, that guy creeps me out.”
“Aand Grif is dead!”
Simmons blinked and tried to find the right way to react to such an announcement. He went through a wave of horror first, then cold confusing, and then finally he looked down at the training rifle in his hands and he remembered what they were doing.
Peeking over his current cover, Simmons saw Grif on the ground, Felix walking towards him with the rifle raised.
“Nah,” Grif said and flailed a hand at the green paint covering his torso. “I’m pretty sure I could live without my liver for –“
Another green splatter now decorated the front of his helmet. Simmons felt grateful they’d chosen the color green instead of red.
“Okay, I’m dead,” Grif said, collapsing.
It wasn’t a conscious decision to move. It was more like a flinch where Simmons was still internally debating whether to move to Grif or not. Though, a logical part of his brain protested: it didn’t make sense to come to the aid of a dead teammate. But this was supposed to mirror a real situation, and if that was the case, if Grif’s torso had been covered in red, Simmons would have been there -
Green covered his visor.
“And now Simmons joined you in Heaven. Or Hell. I don’t know enough of your pasts to judge,” Felix said loudly, waving his weapon again. “Did I say the round was over?”
The green stuff was dripping off his fingers while Simmons tried to clear his vision. “No-“
“You’re dead,” Felix reminded him. “Just give me a minute to kill Tucker and we can start over.”
He stalked away, sliding into a combat stance so fast and easily that it left Simmons feeling like the amateur he was.
According to the rules, Simmons should play dead on the ground, but it’s way more funny to play dead next to Grif. When Simmons had crossed the distance between, Grif was still on the ground.
“You okay?” Simmons offered a hand, then withdrew it as Grif was still dripping green goo.
“Do you think they reuse this?” Grif asked while trying to shake it off his fingers. “It’s stickier than last time.”
“Stop getting hit then.”
But Grif continued to get hit. Over and over, for the rest of the session. It became a routine; Simmons cowering when the familiar oomph from Grif could be heard as a fake bullet hit him. After two hours, the green had started to seep into the cracks of his chest plate.
It was an act of desperation to stop the circle when Simmons decided to leap at Grif, after spotting the lurking shadow of Felix in the distance.
It just earned themselves a shade of green. They couldn’t outrun Felix’s trigger finger.
“And you two really like to stick together, huh,” the mercenary said, looking down at the two of them and announcing them dead.
Later that night, while nursing his new bruises, Simmons would ask, “Are you even trying?”
“Wut?” came the sleepy reply from Grif.
Simmons inhaled, flexing his metal hand. That limb would ooze black liquid. Not green, not red. “Never mind.”
Simmons would usually appreciate praise. But when it came from Felix, it felt like missing the final step of a staircase. Like he’d stumbled and it was just a matter of time before his face hit the ground.
“Not too bad,” Felix said while observing Simmons taking down the training dummy with a knife. They all carried one in the case of emergencies, but Simmons couldn’t remember using it for anything but cutting wires. Usually, when they were de-armed, the game was already over. “Not good, but better than your aim. Ever tried stabbing someone before?”
Simmons blinked. “Eh?”
“One free lesson, from me to you.” Felix patted his shoulder, then called out, “Grif! I know you’re good at playing dead, so come over here.”
And then Felix taught him just where to stab Grif in order to kill him as quickly as possible.
“Ow.” Grif was looking into the mirror to admire the blue color spreading across his stomach. “That’s what your eagerness gets me. Look at the size of this bruise.”
“You could have dodged,” Simmons said while his brain kept repeating neck, kidney, through the Kevlar and then wrench upwards.
“You could have seemed less happy about trying to kill me. Yow –“
“Then learn to dodge,” Simmons said, flicking his wrist in the motion Felix had taught him.
They didn’t die. The others were back. Felix was evil, but also gone for now. Things should be better, despite it all, but there was a gnawing feeling in Simmons’ gut, like a stab wound that kept bleeding.
“Hey, Donut. If I didn’t exist, you would totally have become a cyborg to save Grif, right? It’s not a weird thing to do, right?”
He’d missed chats like this with Donut. In theory, at least.
Donut, in the middle of scraping dried mud off his precious pink gloves, looked up. “No way,” he said and didn’t even stop to think longer about it. “I don’t want to ruin your self-esteem, Simmons, but I don’t know how I’d live with uneven makeup. I mean, you just can’t get the glitter to stick to metal. At least your left side was already your bad side, but, Simmons, it’s a sacrifice we appreciate.”
“…My left side is my bad side?”
“It was. Now it’s not really comparable, is it?”
Donut patted his cheek, the right one, and walked away after a single sympathetic sigh.
“Grif.”
“Mhgn.” The word itself was swallowed by the pillow.
“How does my left side look?”
“Shiny?” Grif tried. “Did you polish it? Did Jensen?”
“No.”
“What? Did Sarge upgrade you or something? Ooh, is it that toaster we talked about?”
“No!” Simmons said hoarsely. “Nothing’s changed!”
Grif was sitting up in the bed now, hair falling into his face, covering his eyes. “Then why are you worrying about it?”
“Before the metal stuff,” Simmons tried and made a point out of not answering his question. “How did it look?”
“That’s forever ago,” Grif said very slowly. He sighed, stretching his hands over his head. Simmons still couldn’t see his face. “I don’t remember. Like your right side? Just mirrored?”
“Oh,” Simmons said, and the word tasted dry in his mouth.
“I mean, can you remember how this mug looked like before you got your hands on it?”
“No.”
“My face’s the weird one, Simmons,” Grif insisted and pulled the long hair back to point at the green eye. “It’s like staring yourself in the face. I think.”
Something landed in the hole in Simmons’ gut. The impact made dread echo throughout the rest of his body. The words – not quite the same, but Felix had said – Felix had said -
“Ohmygod.”
Grif, already about to sleep again, said, “Wut?”
“Nothing,” Simmons lied and left the room. Grif did not call out for him so that, at least, was okay.
Despite the quiet of the medical wing, Tucker was still awake. Maybe he was still awake because of the quiet. Simmons didn’t ask, but just dropped into the waiting chair, earning a look of surprise from the injured Blue. It was fine, though, just some days of resting and he’d be up again.
Felix hadn’t gone for an instant killing blow – like the ones he’d taught Simmons. He’d made it slower, more agonizing. He’d taught those moves to Simmons as well, pointing into Grif’s gut with a stick.
“Felix is fucked up.”
“You first realized this now?” Tucker said, gesturing towards his bandage.
“No!” Simmons wrung his hands. “No, I always thought he was creepy.”
That earned him a snort. “Sure.”
“You knew him the best though.”
“Stop putting it like that.” All the exhaustion was wiped away from Tucker’s face, replaced with annoyance. There was anger in his stare, too, but it wasn’t directed at Simmons. “Makes my gut feel even worse.”
Simmons inhaled, watching his metal hand curl around the arm of the chair. For a brief moment, he wished he could feel the worn fabric – touch always seem to calm him when the anxiety was spiking. “I think he was threatening me,” he admitted thickly.
“Did he look at you weird or did he say something?”
“Both.”
“So what did he say?”
It felt stupid, saying his thoughts out loud. They seemed more hollow once outside the confinement of his head. But once spoken, he couldn’t take it back, and Tucker just stared at him with a frown.
He wasn’t panicking, at least. Not like Simmons.
“Well,” Tucker finally said. “Doesn’t really matter, does it? He’s trying to kill you both anyway.”
True. True.
But there’s the difference between a slashed throat and a gut-wound, to kill or to inflict pain before death. And they’d shown him – no choice about it either, it’s right there in their faces – that Simmons was willing to go to every length to keep Grif alive.
It’s about weaknesses, and keeping them hidden. And Felix had not only spotted it – he’d commented on it.
“Stop thinking,” Grif would say when Simmons stared at the ceiling, doing a bad job of pretending to be asleep. “I can hear your whirring.”
“But –“
“Whatever it is, it’s nothing,” Grif told him so firmly that instead of finding it comforting, Simmons gave in to the instinct to argue against it. “Sleep.”
“But –“
“We might die tomorrow,” Grif grumbled from the other side of the room. “Or worse: Wash is in charge of morning practice. So we are gonna fucking sleep.”
Simmons stayed quiet to improve his fake sleep. Grif was right – an annoying habit he’d begun to grow – and they might all die tomorrow. Felix might kill them all.
But there’s the nagging, the threat of something worse …
There was no morning practice. Instead, they are all sent on reconnaissance mission in the eastern forest where they were told to split up to cover most ground.
Grif didn’t move – he never moved, out of pure principle – but Simmons had taken a step forward when he reconsidered and changed direction.
“I’ll go with Tucker!” he exclaimed and practically dragged the Blue along, disappearing between the trees with Grif’s visor turned towards his back.
It looked odd – maroon and aqua together. Most would expect maroon and orange.
Felix would expect that.
“Uhm.” Tucker kept looking over his back, like he was expecting Wash or Grif to rush after them, but he stayed by Simmons’ side as they walked. “Okay, what are we planning against Grif?”
“I’m not planning anything,” Simmons said. “I’m just – thinking ahead.”
“No, you are thinking about Grif. Or – you’re thinking about Felix. Aren’t you?”
“I should never have removed that fucking helmet.”
“Not to spoil your protagonist-moment – but Felix is my nemesis. Not yours. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t give a shit about you. When he’s not trying to kill you.”
“He’s still trying to kill us. All of us,” Simmons said, using Tucker’s own point against him. “You’re not that special.”
Tucker looked at him, then proceeded to jump over a fallen log without waiting for the Red to catch up. “Yeah, this is the last time we go on patrol together. I prefer Caboose over this. At least he’s nice.”
“I’m nice,” Simmons said weakly. To keep up the pace he’d bought out his knife, slashing it around to cut vines and release some fumes. “I’m just – stressed.”
“Then let Grif deal with it!” Tucker waved a hand around all while keeping a steady grip on his pistol. “I don’t know what to do! Are you gonna paint yourself Blue again?”
“No. Maybe.” Actually, that would just fail the whole idea of keeping distance from Grif. Felix needed to know where they were in order to see that – that they weren’t connected by the hips. “No.”
“Next time, just ask to tag along with Caboose,” Tucker said, and Simmons made a note of that.
They didn’t find anything on the mission – that was bad. No one found them – that was good. Simmons kept looking around even as they came back to Chorus, though, ready for Locus to drop his camo and step into the open.
A bigger problem turned out to be Grif who had figured out Simmons’ way of avoiding him by staying up until Grif was out cold. The moment Simmons stepped into their shared quarters, Grif was awake and waiting.
“Is this ‘cause I didn’t remember your face?” he asked with his arms crossed. “That’s why you’re so pissy?”
“No.” The answer was true, but now – now Simmons was thinking about that as well. It didn’t fill him with the same anxiety as the thought of Felix’s vengeance, but it did nag him, like an old bruise that’d make him flinch. It wasn’t the answer he’d hoped to hear from Grif. It wasn’t the answer he would have given himself. “But I remember yours.”
Grif rolled his eyes and pointed to the right side of his face – the unscarred one where a brown eye had narrowed.
Simmons shrugged. “We didn’t look like that back then.”
“Right. You looked like an asshole,” Grif snorted. “C’mon, Simmons, it’s not like we liked each other back then.”
“Then why the hell did I save your ass?”
“To get some pipes to match the stick in your ass?” He threw out his hands. “I don’t know. It was your decision.”
“Right.” Simmons’ mouth felt dry again, tongue sticking to the roof of it. “My super weird decision. That’s what Felix said.”
Grif’s stare softened as the frown appeared on his face. “Why are you bringing up Felix? Why are you agreeing with him?” The last part sounded bitter and worried at the same time.
Simmons could understand that but it’s not his fault that Grif was slow as always when it came to these things. He wasn’t doing anything wrong – he was trying to keep them safe. “I’m not. I’m just taking it seriously.”
“It’s a war. Pretty hard not to take it seriously.”
“You’re doing a great job.”
“It’s not my fault I can’t keep up,” Grif insisted and the exhaustion in his voice broke their previously dead mocking tone. He ran a hand down his face, covering the green eye in the process. “I’m not – I don’t know – Wash. Or Carolina. Or even Sarge. But – my team ain’t dead yet and neither am I, and that’s a passing grade in my book, so give me a break.”
“For the hundredth time – a D is not a thing to celebrate, Grif.”
D is not enough when it comes. D is not enough to keep you alive. Not against Felix and Locus.
“Depends.”
“Right.” Simmons had turned away then, lowering his head, trying to stop thinking about faces – how had they looked back then, back in Blood Gulch, before everything? How did they look now? Form an outsider’s angle? “Right.”
“Simmons.”
That’s why they were helmets. To protect themselves.
The helmet had cracked when the tank had run over Grif. Simmons remembered that, remembering staring down at it, watching the blood, and clearing his throat twice before daring to speak.
The thing is, it was easier to stay away from Grif during patrols where nothing happened. Where Simmons could imagine the mercs spying on them, waiting to make their move, watching the colors, Felix telling Locus to take the shot –
In theory, it could work. That the distance could be a shield.
But now bullets were flying between the trees, pirates and colorful soldiers everywhere, shouting, and Simmons was running for Grif. He could see the orange color in the distance, holding its stance, unmoving as Grif fired round after round.
Simmons leaped over a rock and proceed to fall on top of the pirate that had used it as cover. Simmons groaned, frozen as they both seemed to catch up on what had been happened. He’d been trying to sneak up on Grif.
The pirate’s hand twitched, reading for the pistol that’d fallen just out of reach.
Simmons had already grabbed his knife.
There was a firm grip around his wrist, pulling him back to reality.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Grif asked. He wasn’t yelling, but despite the gunshots in the background, Simmons could hear his voice loud and clear.
He withdrew his hand, blood dripping from the knife and his wrist. The entire torso of the dead pirate beneath him was just red.
“I- I just saved your life.”
“Thanks?” Grif said as a question. He kept pulling at him. “Seriously, you gotta stop.”
“I’m –“
Simmons tripped, dead limbs getting in the way. Blood was running down his arm, down his torso. Hard to see in the maroon color but there was so much -
“Break time,” Grif announced. He was struggling to keep his rifle raised with only one arm. “Don’t look down.”
Simmons did. He’d done so the moment before, but now it was like the image became clear to him. The body, a pirate, dead, stomach torn open where Simmons had kept stabbing -
Grif cursed, but just used more force as he pulled Simmons away from the spot, towards the large tree he’d used for cover earlier. “Should have added a side-effect page in that military pamphlet. Sit down and breathe, you idiot.”
“We can’t – We’re not-“ Simmons flung himself loose, patting at his chest plate. It was so hot in here, sweat and wetness, like he could feel the blood. “It’s not safe.”
“Just breathe,” Grif said, firm and sturdy as always. “And follow. You can do that. Right?”
Simmons nodded and let himself be pulled along by Grif. It seemed almost effortless, how he pulled them both through the forest, between friends and enemies and bullets and a few grenades. Despite it all, he brought them both back safe.
“I’m okay,” Simmons said as the first thing.
“Right.” They’d climbed into an empty Warthog, not that it provided much cover, but they were at the outskirts where a few of Simmons’ men (girls, really) had been left behind to hold the ground. Worst case scenario, Grif could drive them away.
“You’re okay?”
“Yep,” Grif said and shrugged. He’d found a towel on the floor of the vehicle and threw the already stained cloth in Simmons’ lap. “And last I heard, so was the others. Apparently Sarge and Tucker are having a kill count contest and Sarge is in the lead.”
“Oh?” It was making it easier, the banter. So familiar. Simmons could feel something in his chest untighten as he wrung the towel between his gloved hands. It was quickly stained red.
“Yeah, but Tucker thinks the grenade’s triple kill is cheating.” There was a pause as Grif exhaled before going straight for the real topic. “So, I know Felix’s taught you, but those knife skills are surprising. And disturbing. You might want to clean that thing up.”
He gestured towards the knife resting on Simmons’ thigh, ready to be grabbed just in case.
“I will.”
“Simmons,” Grif said, and Simmons saw how his hand twitched, as if about to reach for something. “What’s going on?”
“It’s a good thing,” Simmons muttered. He’d lowered his head and couldn’t find the strength to raise it again. “The knife thing. He might have killed you.”
“You made him very dead, yeah. But it’s – This is so weird. You’re weird. Do you even know that? And not in the normal weird way.”
“I saved you.”
“I can kill my own enemies,” Grif said, and Simmons could hear the flinch in his voice. “I don’t really like doing it, might not be good at it, but I can do it.”
Simmons didn’t doubt that. Not the core of it. He’d seen Grif take hits and deliver more. They’d made it this far. But – There was a difference between Blues and Robots and rogue AIs and this.
“Like you could kill Felix.”
“So it is about Felix.”
Simmons couldn’t really escape the Warthog or the full intensity of Grif’s focus. He kept himself busy by rubbing some dried blood off the thumb of his glove. “He –“ Simmons swallowed and tried again. “Remember that lunch?”
Grif’s orange helmet bounced up and down. “Yep. Told Tucker: I hated him from the beginning.”
“He – He kept going on about it. And the sacrifice thing. That it was on our faces. Weaknesses and all that.”
“I’m weak?” Grif tried to guess but Simmons shook his head. “I’m your weakness?”
Simmons nodded, voice still missing. Maybe he should have said something. The situation felt oddly intimate. Maybe that was a reason to shut up. He wasn’t sure. It was new territory, an admission of something they hadn’t really spoken about out loud before.
“I think he was trying to mess with my head,” he finally admitted, voice hoarse. “I was so worried-“
“Then stop.”
“Can’t,” Simmons forced through gritted teeth. His heart had begun to echo inside his armor again, body sweaty and tense. “Not about you.”
“I can keep up,” Grif said, voice deep and gentle like during the talks they’d had very late at night when they couldn’t sleep, back before Chorus and things went crazy. “A bit slow, but I’ll catch up. Won’t be turning people into jam, though. I can take care of myself, Simmons.”
Simmons nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. He knew it. He just had to believe in it sometimes.
“But –“ Grif said, looking away, through the window. “I get it. I worry too.”
“Right,” Simmons couldn’t help but snort. If Grif worried, they wouldn’t be in this situation. If Grif worried like him, then maybe Simmons could tone it down, just a bit.
“I’m just not a nervous mess like you,” Grif replied. “Or maybe I am and I just don’t show it.”
Simmons tilted his head. “Which one’s true?”
“We might die, yeah,” Grif said and finally looked back at him. The visor was hiding his stare, but Simmons could feel it. “But we also might live. I like thinking about that part more. Makes it easier. You might want to try that.”
Simmons nodded again. He was struggling to swallow something back in his throat again. It was warm, and this time it didn’t really hurt.
“I know this is you having a prolonged anxiety attack,” Grif said, “But are you mad? About the face thing?”
“No,” Simmons said immediately. “Just scared.” It felt so much easier to admit out loud than in his own private thoughts. That layer of paranoia he hadn’t been able to shrug off as long as he remembered, and how Chorus kept adding to it, one fear after another, with Felix’s smirk haunting him in the background.
“I would now,” Grif told him so softly. “If it was the other way around. But that’s not what you asked and, urgh.” He groaned and made this weird deep noise that Simmons appreciated. He knew how it felt to run out of words. “I didn’t think you cared. Back then. And then I woke up with you guts and I was confused and I didn’t know why, and – sometimes, I’m still confused, you know. I can’t figure you out. I’m not that smart.”
There it was. Unsaid, but still there.
We both care now.
“But it’s not like we are gonna need more self-sacrifice,” Grif said in a lighter tone to change the subject. He wasn’t that smooth – Simmons could tell. Not that it mattered. “With your knife skills. Might want to turn down the gore a bit, but can’t say it’s not cool.”
“Did you just call me cool?”
“I said the knife was cool,” Grif corrected him, but it didn’t stop Simmons’ flesh cheek from feeling warm. “Wow, aren’t you listening to me?”
Simmons reached down to grab the knife, cleaning it with the cloth. “I might come in handy,” he admitted. He couldn’t let go of it. Not yet. He’d keep it strapped to his thigh, just for now, just in case. But it didn’t feel so heavy to carry now.
“You look out for me,” Grif told him. “I look out for you. I bring the extra ammo, you bring the confetti.”
“Confetti for what?” Simmons frowned and a brand new fear appeared: had he forgotten a birthday? What if it was Sarge’s?!
“For the party.” Grif elbowed him in the side. Despite the armor, it hurt, but not really. It was just an old bruise. “When it’s over. Deal?”
Simmons sheathed his blade and inhaled deeply. Both things felt easier now.
“Deal.”
Grif hummed under his breath and turned on the Warthog.
As it came to life with a small roar, Simmons closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. He could trust Grif to drive them both home safe and sound.