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Simmons knows Morse code. Grif knows this. But Grif doesn’t know Morse code, so it takes him a while to realize that the idle tapping Simmons does on his arm actually means something.
He doesn’t say anything when he figures it out. Instead, he quietly learns on his own. What is Simmons saying? Government secrets? Probably just thinking through his stupid spreadsheets or whatever boring thing he cares about.
Imagine his surprise when it isn’t anything of the sort.
He picks up fragments as he starts to learn it. Simmons taps too quickly sometimes for him to get every letter. Three short, short long, two short long short, and a short. Safe.
Safe? Despite appearances, they’re not really in any danger in Blood Gulch. Nothing wildly out of the ordinary has happened lately either. Almost unnervingly quiet, if Grif’s honest.
The sound of gunfire in the episode they’re watching draws his attention back to the screen.
He doesn’t let himself get distracted the next time they watch. Like clockwork, a fourth of the way through the episode, Simmons starts tapping. Grif’s pretty sure by now that Simmons doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. In fact, there’s no way he does, because then he’d definitely stop.
At first he only gets random words, though they’re all related to things that happened earlier in the day. He gets a Donut and glass (Church broke a window with a stray shot). Careful follows glass.
The next pattern seems to be a phrase, and Simmons repeats it over and over. It takes Grif a moment to parse, attention half on the TV and the fact that Simmons is tapping it quicker than the other words.
Love you.
It takes everything in him not to immediately turn. How long has Simmons been doing this? How many episodes have they sat through that Grif has just let him tap out love you over and over on his arm?
He sits there paralyzed, and only realizes once the credits roll that he has no idea what happened in the second half of the episode.
When Simmons gets up to put in the next DVD he can’t tear his eyes away. Love who? Was he still thinking about the day’s events? Simmons gets along better with Donut than Grif does, but he still didn’t think they were that close.
He gets his answer a few minutes later, once Simmons has sat down and pressed play.
Grif. Just his name, over and over and over again on his arm.
He has no idea what happens for the rest of the episode.
It’s not exactly a surprise how Simmons feels. Grif’s loved him for years, assuming Simmons felt the same. They just never talked about it. The signs are all there anyway, from Simmons grumbling about Grif always sleeping in but never failing to go shake him awake, to Grif helping him clean his cyborg parts. Speaking of cyborg parts.
He’s not under the impression Simmons would do that for just anyone. And yet Grif’s got one arm that’s paler than the other, an eye green instead of brown. Lungs that Simmons always gives him shit for ruining. A heart that beats steadily, speeds up when Simmons is around. How dramatic, offering his literal heart on a plate instead of confessing like a normal person.
So no, Grif isn’t surprised that Simmons loves him. What surprises him is that Simmons has been admitting it, almost screaming it at him for months now.
How is he supposed to admit that he knows without scaring him off? Ignoring it isn’t an option. He can’t go on pretending like Simmons isn’t tracing messages into his skin every movie night. And maybe Simmons, with his schedules and his constant nagging and how he’s wound tighter than a spring half the time—he deserves to know that he’s loved, too.
God, he’s getting sappy. If Donut found out, it would be all over for him.
The rest of movie night is uneventful as Grif ponders his options. But when it’s getting late and the credits roll, he decides that next movie night, he’ll say something.
The wait is agonizingly long. They have to reschedule twice because Blue team decides to have a goddamn crisis and nearly get them all killed. Grif doesn’t stop thinking about it the entire time, the words constantly on the tip of his tongue. He can never bring himself to say them out loud. See, the thing about Grif and Simmons is that they can talk and snark like no one’s business, but they’re not great at actually saying anything. He supposes that’s why Simmons taps it out on his arm.
Finally, things calm down enough that they can curl up on the couch, free of their hot and sweaty armor, and enjoy another season of Battlestar Galactica. Grif waits until Simmons starts tapping, saying his usual random words that relate to the day before switching to love you. He runs the pattern through his head in the meantime, carefully memorized and practiced in his head. Three words is a lot of dits and dahs to remember.
Baltar is in the middle of a hallucination when Simmons begins his familiar rhythm. Grif lets him do it a few times, then reaches over and taps back. Ten letters, twenty nine taps. Love you too.
He can tell the moment Simmons realizes because his entire body stiffens.
Everyone knows fight or flight, but basic training decided to teach them all freeze and fawn. Grif remembers his CO telling them that they needed to all know what their reactions were, so that they could prepare to counteract it. Basic was a waste of time, but fight, flight, freeze, and fawn was probably the most useful thing Grif got out of it.
Grif’s a big fan of flight, personally. When shit goes down, does he want to be part of it? Fuck no, that’s work. Flight suits him just fine, really. See the fire blazing, get the hell out of Dodge.
Simmons, though, likes to freeze. Grif has seen the way every muscle in his body locks up, trading off with his brain to let it go a million miles a minute. If thoughts had form, they would be spinning around Simmons’ head right now, looping and weaving through each other and tying themselves into knots. As it is, he can see it anyway out of the corner of his eye in the way Simmons’ mouth opens and closes, eyes wide and darting around.
Grif wonders for a moment if he’s fucked up, that maybe Simmons hadn’t intended that code to be about him. But he shuts it down quickly. They may not talk, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t some sort of silent understanding between them. Grif is well aware of how they’ve been orbiting each other these past years, circling ever closer. Let them collide.
So he forces himself to take a breath, to keep his voice calm and casual when he says, “We should watch Caprica after this.”
Simmons coughs.
“The only decent prequel ever made,” Grif continues. He keeps watching Simmons out of the corner of his eye as he blinks rapidly. “Way better than the Star Wars prequels.”
“Yeah,” Simmons finally manages, circling back. “Only seen it once.”
“Once? C’mon, man.” Grif bumps their shoulders and watches the tension slowly dissipate.
“Unlike you, I’ve been busy with training and defending our base,” Simmons counters.
“Wow, Simmons. You know, I’m busy too.”
“I don’t know if stuffing your face and napping in the storage room counts as ‘busy.’”
Grif scrunches his nose, but doesn’t say anything, instead turning back to the episode. He starts a mental count of 20 and waits.
Simmons shifts beside him.
17, 16, 15…
Their arms brush ever so slightly as Simmons inhales.
9, 8, 7…
Grif resists a smile.
3, 2, 1.
“When did you learn Morse code?”
“Month ago,” Grif replies. “Figured, if you were going to be such a nerd I might as well figure out what nerdy ass shit you were saying.”
“That makes you a nerd now too.”
Grif hums. “Nah. Two negatives cancel out.”
Simmons sputters beside him before grumbling and refocusing on the show.
And Grif starts his count again.
20, 19, 18…
Simmons shifts so their arms are pressed together.
12, 11, 10…
Simmons’ hand leaves his own and inches toward the space between them.
3, 2, 1.
He carefully slips his hand into Grif’s. It’s cool, the metal plates smooth against his skin. Grif wonders how much feeling in it Simmons actually has. If he can feel the callouses, the sweat. Feel where his skin split because he hit the edge of an armor plate yesterday.
He’s pretty sure Simmons can feel when he closes his hand and squeezes lightly.
He’s definitely sure Simmons can feel when he shifts close enough to rest his head on his shoulder.
They’re not good at speaking, sure, but they understand each other nonetheless. They know that bickering day in and day out is just their way of entertaining each other, playing an elaborate game when there’s nothing else to do in this godforsaken canyon. Grif knows how Simmons works, knows how he’ll react before he even does it. Simmons knows when to press and when to let Grif be, to let him go and nap an off-day away. They take care of each other, in their own ways. Grif couldn’t imagine being here without Simmons and his kissass-ness and nerdiness and grumbling.
They’re inextricably linked now, binary stars locked in the gravitational pull of the other. Simmons’ heart in his chest, beating to keep him alive. It’s Simmons for Grif. It’s Grif for Simmons. Some quiet, strange love they’ve built in a box canyon in the middle of space.
Simmons begins his tapping again, and this time, he doesn’t startle when Grif replies.
They’re not good at speaking.
They’re always saying it anyway.