Chapter Text
Grif is drowning in the euphoric feeling of kissing Simmons! Head tilted, cheek cupped, face flushed. It’s like… Snow in the Sahara! Summer in the arctic! It feels different! It feels interesting! It… It feels so…
Wrong .
Something’s wrong.
Simmons doesn’t call him babe. He doesn’t touch his cheek. He also doesn’t kiss Grif out of fucking nowhere. He likes when Grif won’t shut up, no matter how much he denies it. Which is often! Grif can’t quite explain it, but this is all wrong, and that big floating wrongness, while still outside of his consciousness, gets more tangible even as the warmth of being kissed engulfs him.
Warm , Grif thinks. That’s it. The kiss is just warm. Not… good. And not in the way that he finds a bad kiss endearing, because trust him, he’s not the best kisser. For a second, all he feels is the pressure against his lips, a fuzzy electricity in his fingers, and the sound of the gears turning in his mind. It’s like… Like… Okay, imagine you steal snack cakes from the mess hall only to realize that Simmons replaced them with the vegan version when you took the first bite. You know. Coke to diet coke. M&Ms to Skittles. Red to blue. Point is, Simmons is kissing him and he is not internally combusting. Huh. Must be stronger than he thinks. Or not. In fact, he can’t seem to make himself pull away. Because - well, okay. Grif doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but a tiny voice in the back of his head warns him that maybe this - whatever it is - is real . His new reality. Maybe he’s just not used to it yet . Theoretically, this could be good for him.
Grif’s not one for love. Grif knows if Cupid were aiming for him, that bastard might as well be fucking Church. He knows that, while, hypothetically, he could describe what he feels for Simmons as the big L word, that label doesn’t sit well in his brain. Not because love doesn’t sound good. Love sounds great! Basic! A human right! Grif wants nothing more than to settle down with a spouse who he’s madly in love with, buy a dog, get a townhouse in Hawaii, and lounge around all day. I mean, that’s kind of his brand at this point. Something lazy, stable, drama and work free. What he has with Simmons, on the other hand, doesn’t feel like that at all . If you asked him if Simmons was handsome or if he was charming or if he was husband material, Grif would probably fold with laughter almost immediately. If you asked him if Simmons made him feel butterflies or if he was good in bed, Grif might just crack a rib. You might even kill him if you ask about going on dates to the damn movies. No, no. What he has with Simmons is not love like that. Or maybe it is. But just… differently. Grif reckons that it feels a lot more like work. But it’s, strangely, a good kind of work. It makes him feel like one of those people who actually WANT to be in a cubicle and come home happy at the end of a long day because they feel like they’ve accomplished something. You know, happy that they are making a change in this world. Satisfied. Purposeful. Except, instead of filing paperwork or handling stakeholders, his job is filling this place in Simmons’ life by making him laugh, or disgusting him, or retaining their back and forth jokes. And instead of money, he gets paid in Simmons. What ‘Simmons’ entails is different depending on the day. Most of the time, it’s just being together. Goofin’ off, shootin’ shit, maybe Simmons would touch his shoulder or something if it's a particularly good day. I mean, these things are definitely not exclusive to Simmons. Grif shoots shit with anything that moves practically. But it’s weird - it’s different with Simmons. Rewarding, exciting, energizing. Grif should want to gag at this thought because it flips everything he’s ever stood for on its head, but he doesn’t. Simmons is a good currency to get paid in. In fact, he’d like to work the rest of his life knowing he’d be paid in Simmons. He’s a… funny guy. And he cares about Grif and his opinions. Grif still doesn’t really know how to handle that, considering the majority of his life has been dedicated to cigarette companies, eating junk, and the goddamn military (by choice, mind you). So how the hell could he even begin to reciprocate? Sometimes he thinks he’s better off just giving up. When in doubt, just give up and forget about it. That’s a pretty common certified Dexter Grif classic. Yet every goddamn time he attempts to bury all this shit and be satisfied with what they have, a part of him doesn’t want to try. He wants to work it out and to - get this - have hope . For what? He has no fucking clue. He only feels like there is something to work towards, and it isn’t this. In the end, Grif is constantly mortified by how much Simmons alters his character. Maybe that’s what love is.
Which brings him back to his point: Maybe this is good for him but he just can’t tell. Maybe this is love and Grif just doesn’t feel like he deserves it or he just can’t notice it. After all, there is no roadmap to navigate this sort of thing. By all accounts, Simmons is doing what he’s supposed to be doing. He’s showing him affection with pet names. He’s kissing him. He’s holding his hand. Grif knows that he should want this. Right? He’s always wanted this. This was the goal he had aimed to achieve! And yet, he thinks bitterly, when the moment comes, I’m too damn fucked up to even enjoy it . Grif balls his hands into fists, clenching and unclenching them by his sides. Maybe that’s why it feels so wrong. He feels guilty . God damn. What is your damage, Grif?
Before he can think more on it, though, there is a soft creak of a door opening and light spills into the dimly lit room. Grif yelps and instinctively jumps away from Simmons as if he has just been caught red handed stealing cookies from Sarge’s cookie jar. Grif may be severely touch starved and lost in his thoughts, but being intimate around others is still a work in progress. Plus, he had to have those fast reflexes around base. Couldn’t have Sarge finding him snacking. In the process of finding an empty place at Simmons’ side and wiping his mouth, he doesn’t notice the Maroon soldier sliding back on his helmet as fast as he can.
Giving the man walking through the door a quick once over, Grif realizes that it’s…Someone who… looks a lot like Church? His eyes widen as it dawns on him that maybe his friends have found that fucker after all. Another pang of guilt radiates through him. Fuck, he’s so fucking stupid. A shit friend. He opens his mouth to speak, to say something snarky perhaps, but the man speaks before he can react.
“Sorry to halt your fun,” He says. Definitely not Church, by the sound of his voice. “But we’ve got to get a move on.”
Simmons nods and hands Grif his helmet back. Grif nearly drops it, his jaw closing shut. “Yeah! Grif, meet Temple. He’s our new boss!”
Temple nods at him. “Hey, Grif.”
“Hey…” Grif says weakly. He looks down at his helmet, rolling it around in his hands uncomfortably. He’s beginning to feel a lot more like himself. “So, uh, who are you again ?”
“Temple. G- Uh, Simmons just told you.”
“No, like, why do you look just like-”
“Oh!” Temple laughs softly. “I’m a Sim Trooper. Just like you. Abused by Freelancer, discarded like a toy. I understand your struggles, Grif. I was trying to help your friends find your pal Church, but it turns out the hologram message was a dud. After that, they decided to stay with me for a while to get things sorted.”
Grif’s heart stops. He glances at Simmons, eyebrows furrowing. He tries to mask how much that shit hurts, but he isn’t sure it’s working. “ What. The. Fuck . You didn’t come back for me? Or at least tell me you were fucking staying?”
“... I was just mad at you,” Simmons tries, almost too careful. Almost like he’s guessing. “I felt like you didn’t love me anymore. When you left.”
“I-” Grif wilts. Fuck! Fuck . It WAS his damn fault that he was alone on Iris and he couldn’t really dispute that, could he? Goddamn. And here Simmons was already forgiving him, giving him kisses and love. “ Fuck. Okay. Deserved. I’m sorry. I know I already said it before, but holy shit. I’m so fucking sorry.”
"It's okay, babe!" Simmons replies. Grif cringes at the word once more despite his efforts.
Temple looks between the two of them with a grin, clapping his hands. “Alright, all made up. Let me take you to the others, Grif.”
Grif nods solemnly as he slides his helmet back on. He came here to do the right thing, to apologize, and he achieved that. Now it was time to step back into being a member of the Red Team, and to live with this new reality.
“Cool. Just don’t tell Sarge I told Locus he could be an honorary Red.”
Temple blinks. “Uh... Who’s Locus?”
“Where,” Locus grumbles, exasperated.“Is Grif? He should be here by now.”
Everyone looks at Simmons, which only serves to make him more snappy than he already is. “They locked him in one of the rooms with Gene. Temple’s trying to get him on their side. We have to find him before they escape.”
Locus sighs. “Of course.”
“I’ll go on my own if I need to,” Simmons offers. “You guys can stop Temple and the rest. I can take out Gene on my own.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Locus pries a huggy Caboose off of him. “I’ll leave you all with Wash and Carolina. They’re going to need some help due to their current states. You stay in place. Does that sound like a plan, Simmons?”
There is no reply.
Locus turns around. The Reds and Blues stare back at him silently.
“Yeah, uh,” Tucker says finally, turning to the empty spot where Simmons was a few seconds ago. “He’s fucking gone."