Chapter Text
When the power surge happens, Grif doesn’t think much of it.
He’s in his room at the time, the one he shares with Simmons, playing video games with Donut on a beat up system they scrapped together. Simmons is out at the moment, doing recon in the cliffs outside of Armonia, and Grif doesn’t regret not going with him. He swerves past Donut in their racing game, sending the younger soldier off the road.
“No!” Donut’s yell likely echoes through the building and for that, Grif mentally gives himself an extra ten points to his total score. He pulls closer to the finish line, pressing down as hard as he can on the buttons and-
The television shuts out at the same time as the lights turn off.
That earns a yell from both Grif and Donut. Grif throws his mess that is a controller to the floor. Donut is looking at the television like it’s let him down personally.
“What the fuck!” Grif addresses that to the lights. “You decide to lose your shit after surviving an entire war? Come’ on.”
The backup generator doesn’t take long to kick in and seconds later everything turns back on. Their game is screwed now, full reboot. Grif doesn’t pick up his controler, figures the system would crash when he was finally about to win, and turns to Donut. “You wanna go another round?”
Donut doesn’t answer. He doesn’t seem to have noticed that Grif spoke at all. Grif nudges him to get his attention. “Yo, Donut, we’re not playing the quiet game over here.”
That does it. Donut turns, his eyes somewhat confused before they focus on Grif’s lips. Which is a little weird to be honest. Grif is about to comment on that when Donut reaches up for his right ear, pulling off the hearing aid that is tucked behind it. The green light that lets them know it’s working is off.
Donut flicks the on switch. Nothing. It’s dead. He reaches for his other hearing aid and grabs it too. This one is the same, except when Donut tries to turn it on, it begins to spark.
“Holy shit!” Grif says, throwing the aid to the side before it fries them both. Donut isn’t alarmed by his outburst but that’s probably because he can’t hear for shit. Grif gets up, pulling Donut with him.
“Okay, we’re going to Doctor Grey, your shit is done for.”
Donut just blinks at him and Grif remembers. Right. Deaf. He makes sure Donut can see his lips when he speaks again.
“We’re going to Doctor Grey. Gotta get you new aids.”
Donut picks that one up and he nods. They leave the controllers and the game behind them, heading for the Doctor’s with a steady pace. As they walk, Grif notices the other soldiers who are currently having tech issues. One is complaining about his com not working. Another is being helped off the floor, his robotic leg in shutdown. Grif thinks of Simmons and his arm, his organs, his heart, and for once is very thankful the man is far away from him right now.
He doesn’t consider the blast might have gotten him too for even a second.
Sarge comes into the room just as Grey is explaining that Donut is going to have to go without aids for a bit.
It stinks, it really stinks, but the electricity blast has left all electronics not connected to a back up generator fried. They don’t know where it came from, that’s all Grey can tell him, but until then, there’s just gonna have to survive. Donut seems to be taking the news well, just keeping a close eye on everyone’s lips. He’s a tough kid. Though, Grif thinks, taking in how big he’s gotten, how scared, Donut hasn’t been a kid for a long time.
Wash, Kimball and Carolina are in the corner, looking at a large map on the screen. They’ve marked out the affected areas. It’s more than just Armonia, that’s for sure. Sarge walks up behind them to take a look and freezes.
“Doctor Grey?” He says, and his accent is thicker than usual. “Where did you send Captain Simmons for your tech run?”
Silence descends over the room. Grey looks to the map, and with her helmet off, Grif can see how her eyes blow wide with mild panic. When she speaks, her voice is lacking it’s usual peppy tone.
“The cliff face. Right there.”
Everyone turns to the map. It’s in the affected zone. And Grif’s brain sort of malfunctions.
“What are you saying?” He asks, and he knows exactly what she’s saying really, but he has to make sure. The silence that pervades the room grows thicker if that’s possible. Grif turns to Sarge, tries to understand why the man is taking off his helmet. Sarge never takes off his helmet, Grif had been convinced that he welded it to his uniform his first few weeks at Red base, and to see him undo the clasps and place it under his arm seems unnatural. The Colonel’s face is drawn, his mouth a scowl, his eyes-
Wait. Why did Sarge look so damn pained?
“Grif.” And that should have tipped him off, Sarge saying his name like he was someone to be respected, like their little feud didn’t exist. “What she’s saying is that power blast would have hit Simmons.”
The tone still doesn't make sense. What is with the pity? “Okay, so it hit Simmons? So what? Dude’s down an arm and an eye. We’ll just have to save his ass- he’ll live-“
And that is when Sarge’s face breaks. It is slight, just so, like watching a crack run down a piece of tile, but Grif notices it at once. He’s seen that before. He’s seen it on Kai when explaining their mother was gone. He knows what that means.
“No.” It takes him seconds to realize he said it.
“Captain Grif,” that comes from Dr. Grey, Doctor Grey who is always so chipper and so kind, and never sounds this hurt. “Captain Simmons’ organs are connected to his robotic limbs. Half of his organs are artificial as it is. The blast, it would have-“
Grif holds up his hand. His gloves feel like they were sticking to his skin. “Dr. Grey,” he says, and there’s a feeling in his chest he doesn’t recognize, something raw and hot. “Are you telling me Simmons is fucking dead?”
The silence is his answer. Grif lets his hand fall to his side. He feels Sarge’s hand, still in his gloves,land on his shoulder.
“Son,” Sarge says in that too soft voice. “I’m-“
Grif sess red.
He doesn’t remember lunging, doesn’t remember hitting Sarge right in his goddamn mouth, for real this time. He doesn’t remember knocking Sarge’s helmet from his hands to the side. He only comes back to himself for the screaming.
“Don’t! Don’t you fucking dare! He’s not dead! He’s not dead because of your stupid mad scientist experiment to save my ass! Not until there’s a body.”
There’s a hand on his shoulder. For a second, Grif thinks it’s Wash, but when he turns it’s Donut. His eyes are red but they’re also hard. Grif is never more aware of how tall Donut is, how scary he looks when he’s really determined.
“Grif,” Donut’s voice is wrecked, but it’s enough to get him to drop his fists. “Stop.” Then, in a tone Grif has only ever heard from Freelancers. “Now.”
Grif does as he’s told. His fists are covered with blood, and Sarge’s nose is still bleeding. He’ll high a shiner, a split lip and a broken nose tomorrow.
Grif doesn’t give a fuck. Simmons is dead. Sarge can drown in his own blood for all he cares.
(He doesn’t mean it. But it feels like he does. And for that, he will hate himself later).
Donut lets him go as soon as he’s on his feet and away from Sarge. The pink soldier turns his attention to Sarge, helping him back on his feet. Sarge spits out a mouthful of blood onto the floor. A tooth goes with it. He’s looking at Grif like he’s both painfully proud and terribly sorry. Grif hates him for it.
“We need to find him,” Grif says, turning towards Kimball. He can’t see their expression through their helmets, but he honestly doesn’t care.
“You’re right. That catches Grif by surprise, Wash agreeing with him for once. “We’ll get a party; me and Carolina. With a jeep we should-“
“No.” Grif has never put so much rage into one word before. It feels almost right. Like he can breathe. “None of your Freelancer bullshit. I’m coming with.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Wash says. Kimball nods along. Carolina, on the other hand, is entirely silent. Wash takes a step forward. He has the sense of mind not to try to touch Grif. “Look, I want to think he’s fine, you’re all tough bastards, but if he’s not-“ There’s a pause. “You don’t want to see that.”
That statement tells Grif more about Wash than he’d ever expect. Because if Wash knew what it was like to be in love, he’d never dare to say such a thing. He’d know why Grif can’t not see it. How he can’t leave any memory of Simmons untouched, even if it’s a bad one. To do otherwise, would be to leave him alone.
“You’re right,” Grif says and his tone is enough to set Wash on edge. “I don’t want to. I have to. So make room on your damn jeep.”
Wash doesn’t say anything to that. Grif has a feeling he’s looking at him like he’s grown two heads. He doubts Wash is going to let him go without a fight. Which is fine; Grif is willing to fight his way through black armor and yellow stripes if it means getting to Simmons faster.
Thankfully, he doesn’t have too. Carolina steps forward. “Okay. I’ll take him. We’ll go.”
Wash’s head turns so fast, he might have given himself whiplash. He recovers himself before he speaks. “Are you sure about that?”
“I’m sure.”
Grif looks at Carolina. Really looks at her. She’s covered head to toe in armor, but from her stiff posture, he can see things. Read things. Like understanding.
She knows what this is like. She gets it. And for that, Grif allows one second to feel sorry for her.
The moment passes. Grif pushes himself past Wash and walks over to Carolina. “Let’s go.”
No one says a word as they make their way to the garage.
“You have to be ready for anything.”
It’s what Carolina drills in him the while they’re still in the city. To not get his hopes up. To expect the worst. To let her handle it if the worst did come to pass.
Grif doesn’t fight her on it. He doesn’t want to talk. The drive is almost painful given the silence. Once they make it out of the city, she gives into the silence. The car is full of a nervous energy as they go through the desert and the plains. When they make it to the hill, neither says a word as they get out of the car and head up the side to the top. Without words, they know Grif is in charge of this mission, no matter what Carolina says otherwise.
They find him at the top. He’s curled up in the center, knees to his chest, his robotic arm sparking a little. For a second, Grif can breathe again, because Simmons is here, Simmons is here and Grif can fix him. Until Church, who has been missing the entire drive flicks into the existance only to state one word.
“Fuck.”
It is then Grif notices that Simmons isn’t moving.
Grif feels his heart crack in his chest. It’s like cold blood is seeping into every crevice of his torso, furthering out into his limbs and his fingertips. His breath catches in his throat, strangling on itself, and the ability to stand up straight is harder every second. Because despite traveling all this way, despite expecting the results, despite knowing how unlikely it was to find Simmons alive, he didn’t believe. He couldn’t. Simmons couldn’t have died, not while he was miles away.
Simmons remains perfectly still and Grif feels his heart shatter entirely.
“Grif.” There’s a hand on his shoulder. Carolina’s. Grif ignores her, shaking it off to step forward. Towards Simmons-Simmons body. Every step takes an immense amount of energy getting worse as he gets closer. Simmons should never be this still. He should be breathing. Laughing. Bitching at Grif about his mess of a room.
Grif doesn’t realize he was on his knees until he finds himself kneeling before Simmons. He reaches forward, tucking Simmons up in his arms like he’s something precious. Because he is. His red hair is flopped over eyes, his face is streaked with dirt, and Grif doesn’t bother to pick up his helmet as he stood up. Carolina can get the relic of this stupid war. He has heavier burdens to carry.
It will be work to carry him home, even with the jeep. Simmons isn’t a light load; the robotics add a lot of weight. But Grif isn’t going to let him go anytime soon. Not until he has to.
“Jesus Christ, Dick,” he says. His eyes sting, and due to his visor, he knows it isn’t from the dust. Carolina saying something behind him, Epsilon’s voice mixing in with hers but it is lost due to the roar in his ears.
Simmons is gone. Simmons is fucking gone. Grif will have to carry him home. Have to bury him. Have to crawl into their shared bed after the funeral and try not to miss the phantom grip of arms around him and he can’t do this, he can never do this. But Simmons is gone. Simmons is….looking at him?
“Dex?” Simmons says, voice tired and detached. He peers at Grif and his eyes go wide with alarm. “You’re crying? Aw shit, is someone dying?”
Grif feels his heart piece itself back together. His blood starts to flow in his veins once more. His breath begins to fall back into step.
“Dick?” He asks, voice soft. Like words can break the both of them.
Simmons responds by promptly passing out
Simmons survived through sheer luck.
That is what Doctor Grey tells him later, after they race back to Armonia and Simmons is in a cot at the medical center. Apparently his location was high up enough to save him from the worst of the blast, only frying his arm, leg and eye instead of his entire body. It’s a statistical abnormality, she says.
Grif has never been more thankful in his life.
Simmons gets a new arm and a new leg, something to replace the old ones. These guys have backup generators, just in case this sort of thing happens again. It’s good planning, brilliant planning, and while Grif is glad for the failsafe, he is sure if something like this happens again, he’s still going to panic until he can find Simmons alive and breathing.
He’s breathing fine now. He’s in his cot, still half-asleep, his human eye open just enough to look at Grif. At the moment, they don’t want to waste the backup generator’s energy just to run his eye, not when they’re still unsure of what caused the outage. There’s a smile on his face when he speaks.
“You look terrible, fatass.”
Grif knows how he’s supposed to respond to this, how he’s supposed to grin and call him a kissass, and fall into their old routine of false bickering. But he can’t manage it. He can’t pretend not to still be wrecked by the thought of wearing a crisp suit and being handed a flag as Simmons got lowered into the ground. He can’t.
He doesn’t realize he’s sobbing until he feels Simmons hand on his cheek. It’s the human one, and Simmons has to twist himself to make the gesture.
“Okay, no insults,” he says. He rubs his thumb across Grif’s cheek getting rid of the tears. “I’m okay.”
“You weren’t.”
“Am now.”
Grif lets Simmons guide his head to his chest, letting him rest there to hear the other man’s heartbeat. Alive. He feels small, smaller than he has in years, and thinks back to that horrible moment when he thought Simmons was gone. When he thought he would never have this again. What he wanted to say.
“I love you.” Simmons’ hand stops stroking his cheek. They don’t say those three words outside of fucking, not in public, not in a way that can’t be excused to the heat of the moment. Grif doesn’t regret it, he can’t, and when Simmons presses a kiss to his hairline, he’s glad for it.
“I love you too. Sap.”
Grif falls asleep a minute later, still listening to Simmons heartbeat.