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"Oh man, these cigarettes are ass," Grif says. He takes another drag anyway, making sure to pull an exaggerated face of disgust at Tucker when he blows smoke. Tucker rolls his eyes.
"Oh, I'm sorry your highness, I must've left the good cigs in my other armor. We're stranded in another fuckin' box canyon, dude, quality cancer sticks aren't exactly growing on trees here."
It's late afternoon and they're perched on the edge of Blue base, smoking from one of the cheap packs of cigarettes that Tucker got from God knows where.
"No, I know that , but…" He shrugs. “I mean, if I'm not bitching about mildly annoying shit I can't help, what would I even do all day?"
Tucker shrugs.
"A fair point," he says with a nod, but seconds later, a mean little sideways smirk finds his face and makes Grif's stomach turn. The orange soldier raises an eyebrow, suspicious.
"But also… Simmons. You would be doing Simmons all day," he says, and Grif starts choking. Tucker raises an eyebrow and grins.
“You good, dude? Having an allergic reaction to the truth over there?”
“Fu-huh-uck off , Tucker,” he manages. Tucker gives a little self-righteous head waggle in response.
“C’mon, dude, it’s not like it’s a secret you two are banging. Donut told all of blue team last week at his godawful brunch thing that, and I quote, it’s nice to know how much they love each other, but they could be more considerate neighbors. Man, fuckin’ Donut is saying y’all are fuckin’ too loud,” Tucker points out, taking a drag from his cigarette. The fair-skinned Simmons half of Grif’s face lights up bright red.
“Change the subject right now,” he says through his teeth, “or I’ll piss in your water supply. No, worse- I’ll tell Wash that you like him, and that you’re just being a pussy about it.” Now it’s Tucker's turn to go stiff.
“What? That’s- you’re full of it. Fine, do it, see if I care! I couldn’t care less if Wash thinks that I… that-!”
Grif laughs. Tucker’s voice dies out unceremoniously.
“Oh man, you’re whipped. I mean, even if I hadn’t been in a room with you two when you’re…” He gestures loosely with his cigarette. “Y’know, doing the whole ‘old married couple witty banter’ bit, that reaction alone would’ve fuckin sold it.”
“Rich coming from you!” Tucker spits, still cagey. Grif shrugs.
“Dude, you got me already, alright? Pistols down. I’m super gay for Simmons, whoop-de-fuckin’-do. It’s been, like, a decade, man; I’m well aware that I’m in too deep.” Tucker huffs a laugh with a twinge of relief and his regular smirk returns.
“ Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”
Grif groans, dragging his free hand down his face.
“I fucking hate you,” he says through his hand.
Tucker’s shit-eating grin widens.
“Feeling is mutual, buddy.” Tucker looks self-satisfied, perfectly ready to fall back into a shallow conversation. Anything but this mortifying shitshow.
"Tucker," Grif intones. The former hums in response.
“You do realize that I practically invented changing the subject to avoid my problems, right?" Grif says this with a stupid and smug 'gotcha!' smirk that Tucker fucking resents. "I can tell when someone tries to worm out of a conversation with a shitty joke.”
Tucker rolls his eyes, his grin fading.
“Man, fuck off.” He takes a drag, holds it for a second, blows it out nice and slow. “Listen, if I wanted to talk about my feelings or whatever, I’d get Donut. Or Caboose.”
“Oh, I know that,” Grif says. “But I also know that, one -" He puts up a finger, "if we waited for you to 'want to talk about your feelings', you'd be bottling shit up until we planted your sorry ass six feet down, and two -" He raises the second finger, "I’m the only person on this damn planet that you actually talk to, other than Wash. I’m the only one who’s actually gonna call you out on your shit, and that’s why you don’t wanna talk to me about this.” Grif fixes Tucker with a pointed look, then shrugs. “But fine, whatever. We can go back to talking about how shitty these cigarettes are, if you're determined to be obtuse." He takes a drag, blows it out. Tucker says nothing, absently picking at a loose chunk of concrete on the base they're perched on. "Denial is a river in Egypt, Tucker, and you're skinny-dipping in it.”
Tucker shoots Grif a glare for a second, studying his patchwork face. The orange asshole is laid back as ever and twice as smug. Eventually, Tucker sighs, dejected.
“Whatever, man. Hey, at least I haven’t slept with my man a million times while still being scared to admit I have a crush on him. You’re worse off than I am, jackass.” He smiles wryly, but it’s more honest than before. It’s a smile of we’re really in the same boat, huh? Grif returns it with one of his own.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m pretty pathetic.”
Tucker taps his chin in mock thought.
“What was it you called me again? A pussy?” Grif rolls his eyes.
“Fine. I’m a pussy.”
Tucker claps him on the back.
“Damn right you are.”
“Takes one to know one,” Grif says, almost defensively, but he’s smirking.
“ Takes one to know one,” Tucker agrees, nodding.
They both take another drag. Grif blows a smoke ring. Tucker tries, but has no idea how to blow a smoke ring.
“God,” Grif says, staring over the empty canyon. It reminds him of Blood Gulch for the millionth time, back when shit was easy, and he feels older every second he spares to think about it. “We are so fucked.”