Work Text:
Simmons can’t breathe.
He’s standing at the edge of the cliff, hands shaking, staring out at the vast blue of the sky and the water and when he blinks he can see the orange slipping from his view and his voice screaming his name and he can’t breathe .
He failed. The most important thing he’d ever do and he failed. He was trusted to save his life and he couldn’t hold on and he failed and now he’s gone .
Simmons couldn’t hold on tight enough. And now he’s gone.
He blinks. Orange paints the inside of his eyes.
“He’s gone.” The words buzz in his head. He’s acutely aware of the shake in his voice. Sarge is saying something but the words don’t process in his brain. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
And he can’t.
The constant bickering and laziness was annoying, but it was constant . Ever since training, that first squad, no matter where he went there was that idiot smoking or eating or something , the stupid fucking thorn in his side that never seemed to leave him alone.
He thought he would be relieved once that thorn was removed.
He isn’t.
He really, really isn’t.
Simmons jolts, feeling Tucker’s armor bump into him harshly. As if to get his attention. He doesn’t move, but Tucker opens his mouth.
“You know, sometimes when somebody falls off a cliff in movies, he’s actually just over the edge hanging on a tree branch or something.”
The words cut through his fuzzy thoughts like lightning. Simmons understands the weight Tucker’s words carry, especially if he’s wrong, but he doesn’t think about that.
He thinks about a better possibility.
He could be alive.
Simmons takes a step forward. He knows he shouldn’t let himself be this hopeful but he can’t help it. He takes Tucker’s statement as what it could mean and it means that he could be alive.
Sarge protests and Simmons fights back. There’s a part of him that hurts for talking back to a superior — to Sarge — and there’s a part of him that knows Sarge is probably just looking out for him, to keep him from false hope, because Sarge doesn’t hate them – hate Grif – as much as he pretends to. But the biggest part of him needs to see. Needs to see if he failed.
Needs to see if Grif is alive.
Because he can’t be dead.
Red Team doesn’t die.
He thought of Donut getting blown up by a grenade to the face. He came back better than ever and with new armor.
He thought of Grif getting run over with a tank, which had crushed the whole left side of his body. Simmons gave up his organs to save him ( something he would gladly do again ) and he was walking around good as new.
But his mind went back to Donut, back at Valhalla, laying on the ground after Wash shot him in the chest.
He hadn’t gotten up after that.
Simmons shakes his head. He can’t think about Donut right now. This is about Grif.
Who isn’t dead.
He’s just hanging on the side of the cliff, like Tucker said.
He has to be.
Sarge says something else but Simmons doesn’t listen. He turns his head just enough to look at him in his peripherals.
“I’m looking over the edge.”
His voice left no room for argument. He barely notices Sarge’s complaints stutter to a stop as his heart pounds in his ears. Simmons knows he’s shaking as he steps towards the edge, but he ignores it.
Grif is right there. Hanging onto an icicle or something.
He can’t be dead. There’s no way.
He’s alive.
He’s alive.
He’s…
…
Simmons stares.
He stares and stares and stares but can’t comprehend what he’s seeing because all he can see is blue and white and no orange .
Where is he?
“Grif?”
The name echoes down the cliff.
He doesn’t get an answer.
“Oh shit,” Tucker says somewhere to his right. Simmons doesn’t really care right now. “Dude, I–”
“Where is he?”
Someone draws in a sharp breath. Simmons slowly turns his head to look at Tucker and Sarge, who are just standing there, watching him.
“He’s not there. Where is he?”
“Simmons, Grif’s dead.”
The words feel like a bullet to the stomach.
He doesn’t hear the hurt in Sarge’s voice through the growing white noise in his head.
No.
No no no.
He can’t be dead.
Simmons couldn’t have been given hope only for it to be crushed.
That’s not how it works.
He barely feels the hand tugging him away from the edge of the cliff and taking his gun from his grip. He limply follows, if only for the fact that he can’t bring himself to fight back; he’s too busy thinking about how he can’t be dead he just can’t be .
How are they supposed to be Simmons and Grif – Grif and Simmons – without Grif?
That’s not how it works .
They’re supposed to stay by each other’s sides, saying stupid shit and annoying each other.
Even when they were separated, Simmons always knew Grif would come back. Even when he sometimes didn’t want him to.
He now resents his past thoughts where he wished Grif just wouldn’t show up.
Simmons has to apologize to him.
He’ll come back once he apologizes.
Simmons looks around, turning his head this way and that, ignoring Sarge and Tucker motioning to each other, trying to find any trace of orange.
Red, aqua, white, blue, white, white, so much white–
–yellow?
There, a cluster of yellow flowers growing from the side of a tree. Innocently standing by, unaffected by the chaos.
Like Kai .
Kai is back at Blood Gulch. By herself.
Kai is Grif’s sister.
Kai has no idea what is happening.
Kai doesn’t know that her brother is…
Her brother is–
Simmons screws his eyes shut and forces the yellow away. He can’t let himself think of Kai hearing the news, see her burst into tears and scream at them that they killed him –
He shakes his head as if to shoo the thoughts away. It doesn’t work as well as he wants it to.
Memories of Blood Gulch flood his mind.
Getting shipped over. Church dying. Tex beating the shit out of them. The Doc and O’Malley drama. Donut getting crushed by a Pelican. Tucker having his alien baby. Burying Sarge alive. Blowing up a plane.
And Grif was always there, right by him.
Even when Simmons joined the Blues for that short time. Grif still showed up and mocked him. It seemed like he just never left him alone.
And he realizes.
He is alone.
Despite all the people around him, Simmons is utterly, gut-wrenchingly alone.
Because the Meta dragged Grif off a cliff.
Because he (Grif? Simmons?) couldn’t hold on tight enough.
Simmons doesn’t know who he is blaming anymore.
But he has to blame someone.
It has to be someone’s fault.
Right?
It was whoever brought them into this mess. If they hadn’t come to Sidewinder, then Grif wouldn’t be…
Simmons purses his lips.
If they hadn’t come to Sidewinder, then Grif wouldn’t be dead.
So who brought them here?
Why did they play along?
Why are they here?
( “You ever wonder why we’re here?”
“It’s one of life’s great mysteries, isn’t it?” )
“Hey, is everything alright over here?”
Simmons’ head snaps up.
Washington.
Wash keeps talking but Simmons doesn’t let him finish. He barely registers the feeling of slamming into the distracted Freelancer and sending them both into the snow.
All he can see is red. He can’t think but he knows that if Wash hadn’t gotten involved and gotten them all together and sent them on a wild goose chase and if he hadn’t killed Donut and betrayed them then Grif would be here Grif would be here and he would be alive–
There’s hands on his arms. They pull.
He doesn’t make it easy for whoever is tugging him away, he struggles and screams to be let go to put him down he’s not done yet–
“Simmons! Snap out of it, son!”
Simmons grits his teeth at Sarge’s command, bringing him down from the red haze clouding his vision enough to see Tucker helping Washington up and the crack in the Freelancer’s visor.
His cyborg arm pulses.
“Yeah, dude, what the fuck was that?!”
“Simmons–”
“ You killed him! ”
He doesn’t notice Wash freeze. He doesn’t notice Tucker ball his hands into fists or Sarge tighten his hold under his arms.
“I already apologized–”
Wash doesn’t understand. That makes Simmons angrier. “ Grif is dead because of you! ”
Tucker is yelling. Simmons isn’t listening.
Washington is talking now. Simmons still isn’t listening. He doesn’t want any of his fucking excuses or weak attempts at sympathy.
“He has a sister ! Do you want to look Kai in the eyes and tell her that her brother is dead?! ”
Sarge makes some sort of noise behind him, but he is focused on Washington, who had clearly been surprised at this revelation since he jumps a little. Tucker’s shoulders slump, as if he had just forgotten that Kai is sitting at Blue Base all by herself and has no idea her brother is dead and never coming back–
“I-I’m sorry–”
“ Sorry isn’t going to cut it , Wash!” He doesn’t care that his voice is squeaking. He is mad and he has to get his goddamn point across.
Simmons tries to break free of Sarge’s grip to no avail, despite being taller and part robot. A desperate scream lodges in his throat as he tries to push forward, nearly doubling over from the lack of movement.
Voices filter through the haze on the edge of his vision.
“Simmons, calm down! Stop trying to fight!”
“What is happening!? Why are we yelling!?”
“Grif fell off the cliff.”
“Dude, it’s not a big deal!”
What. “Not a big deal?” He snaps. “ Not a big deal?!?! ”
“Simmons–”
“ I love him! ”
Everything stops. His thoughts screech to a halt, eerily silent. The haze disappears from Simmons’ vision and his knees go weak. The only thing holding him up is Sarge’s arms underneath his.
Simmons can feel burning behind his eye as he comes to the revelation that–
“I love him,” he says, sinking to his knees, “and I never got to tell him.”
He doesn’t hear Tucker swear or Sarge yell through the ringing in his ears. Doesn’t feel Sarge let go of him or see him walk over and punch Washington in the face.
All he can think about is the conversation after the tank incident, when he told Grif not to die on him again because he couldn’t give him any more of his organs, and Grif had just smiled at him and said in his signature mocking tone that he wouldn’t since Simmons wouldn’t know what to do without him.
And he was right.
Simmons had thrown a wrench at him at the time, but now he knows Grif was right.
He doesn’t know what to do.
So he sits in the snow and can’t bring himself to feel anything besides absolutely terrible , facing the fact that Grif would never smile at him again or laugh at any of his stupid mannerisms or make comments at the horrible movies they watched together or do anything because he was gone .
And it’s Wash’s fault.
But…
But it’s his fault too.
Simmons was the one who went along with his stupid plan. Simmons was the one who didn’t help Grif up sooner. Simmons was the one who wasn’t fast enough to get Grif out of the way.
Simmons was the one who wasn’t strong enough to hold on.
It’s his fucking fault.
Wash might have brought them here–
–but it was Simmons’ fault .
He’s the reason Grif is dead.
He killed Grif.
A sob wrenches its way out of Simmons’ throat. Then another. He can’t be bothered to stifle them. The one who pokes fun at him for crying is gone so it wasn’t like he had to hide it (but it was always useless wasn’t it because Grif could always tell when Simmons was upset and oh God it all circles back to Grif doesn’t it ). He just can’t bring himself to care if anyone else hears him. His father always condemned crying but he just killed his best friend who he’s had a crush on for who knows how long and goddamnit he killed Grif–
A sudden pressure around his chest makes him let out a strangled noise. It doesn’t knock him out of his thoughts, but it’s enough to let him clock in the blue armor wrapped around his torso.
Not much gets through his numb mind – he’s still thinking about Grif and how he killed him and fuck Grif is dead – but some of Caboose’s words filter through the haze: “Don’t worry…best friend…come back…remember…like Church!”
Simmons can’t tell Caboose that Grif isn’t coming back. No matter how much he wants to, his mouth refuses to release anything but cries and his thoughts consume him with the facts; Grif is not Church and he isn’t coming back no matter how much Simmons cared and it’s his fucking fault .
Simmons slowly lifts his arms around Caboose and puts his head in his shoulder, taking the comfort he doesn’t deserve as he cries his heart out.
He can’t help but think that this was wrong – the armor should be orange and the figure should be shorter and wider and he should be whispering familiar insults into his ears – and he knows he’s selfish for thinking it. He should be grateful someone is even taking the time to comfort him even though he is a murderer but he can’t stop thinking about how it was his fault that Grif was dead and never. Coming. Back.
Ever.
Simmons wonders if it’s possible to die of heartbreak.