Taboo and Liberation, Part 3
Sorry it's taken me so long, but I hope this part is worth the wait. :)
Title: Taboo and Liberation, Part 3/5
Author: Kyrianne
Fandom: Red vs Blue
Pairing: Grif/Simmons
Rating: R
Word Count: 3540
Summary: Through a single drastic act, Simmons sets a new path for himself that he never knew existed, and he's not sure if he wants to take it.
Disclaimer: I am neither a Rooster nor a Teeth.
A/N: I wrote the entirety of this during my Student Aide period over like a month... I feel kind of bad writing smutty things when I should be doing errands for my teacher. And writing this on his computer, no less. Oh well. The subject matter might make him a little squeamish, but he's an English teacher. He can't get too angry at me for practicing my fiction writing skills. xD ...Hopefully he doesn't look through the history online, though. I don't know how he'd react to the sorts of things I had to research for this chapter. XD
Part One, Part Two
---
Everything around base was awkward now. Simmons had to be absolutely careful that neither Sarge nor Donut found out about his new "relationship" with Grif, and when he was alone with Grif he had to suspend his own revulsion at their actions and pretend like everything was okay. It was hard, but Simmons was used to hard; he'd grown up with hard, he'd lived with hard for the past 8 years of his stint in the army.
He just wasn't used to that hard being an emotional hard. He'd never been so mentally taxed. He'd never had such a bad time falling asleep at night, Grif's arm wrapped securely around his waist, physically shaking from the stress and the ambiguity of what he'd have to do to get out of it.
He washed himself even more thoroughly in the shower, now. Grif's scent was everywhere, invading every follicle and pore of his body, and there was no way Donut or Sarge could miss that. Cigarette smoke, snack cakes, sex. It was all he smelled anymore, all he smelled like. It turned his stomach, but he was good at keeping a straight face, a pleasant face, a face in the throes of ecstacy in the dark.
He wondered if the army had any need for actors, for people who told others what they wanted to hear, and for people who made others believe. He was certainly good enough at it to qualify for the job.
---
They'd talked about finding Tucker, a while ago. Simmons couldn't remember when that was, besides occurring before what Grif had decided to call his "accident." He wondered why the topic had gotten dropped. Grif had seemed keen enough to go, and Caboose was obviously lonely and unable to go out on his own.
Simmons laid in bed, contemplating this. It didn't make much sense. When Grif decided to do something, by God he did it as soon as possible. That's just how he was: find something you want, get that thing you want, and then you can go back to being lazy. Was there a reason he decided not to go, after all?
Grif stretched behind him, pulling Simmons closer to his bare chest. Simmons could feel the soft tanned skin even through his cotton shirt, and a wave of anxiety passed through him before he forced himself to stop thinking about it. He failed, mind spinning uneasily as Grif kissed the back of his neck lazily, lovingly.
How could Grif love someone like him, seriously? It wasn't like they had anything in common. Shit, they weren't even the same species anymore, technically. Simmons didn't consider himself human anymore, not with an eighth of his body metal and electric connections and wires and processors and synthetics.
He concluded that Grif must be insane. They'd all been out here far too long, that was for sure.
But him? Why not Donut? Donut was more feminine, someone who'd be fairly easy to pretend was a woman. He was curves and giggles and the soft flowery scent of his shampoo. Simmons was angles, muscles, metal, the strong smell of aftershave and generic soap every morning.
Something struck Simmons then, something he hadn't thought of before. Could it be that Grif was actually gay? He felt like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. There were certainly signs even before he'd told Simmons he loved him, subtle hints, to be sure, but hints nonetheless. After Donut had started acting more like a girl... Grif hadn't really seemed to give a fuck either way, did he? And all those times he made snide comments and jokes during patrol... Simmons groaned aloud as he realized the times he thought Grif was just being obnoxious, he had probably been flirting. And he'd been stupid enough to laugh, to rise to the bait and tell him to shut up. It was his own fault he lay here now, trapped after unknowingly leading on a man he hadn't even known was interested.
Grif shifted behind him, nuzzling a somewhat cold nose against Simmons' neck. "Whassamatter, babe?" His voice was groggy from sleep.
"Nothing," Simmons grunted, angry with himself. He wondered what he could have possibly done in a past life to deserve all this bad karma.
"No, really... You sound mad. You okay?" Grif was more awake now, and he propped himself up to look down at Simmons, that same concerned face burning down at him. If Simmons had to see that face one more time...
"I said I'm fine!" he snapped, then felt guilty for it. It wasn't Grif's fault, really. It was his fault, like everything else always was.
Grif forced him onto his back by pushing down his shoulder, straddling him. Not now, Simmons pleaded, and it showed in his eyes. Please, not now.
But Grif didn't go any further. All he did was take Simmons' shoulders firmly. "Simmons," he said, eyes serious and hard as flint. "You're going to tell me what's bothering you... Or I'm going to tickle you until you can't feel anymore." He paused, deadpan expression not even wavering. "Your choice."
"Oh, come on, Grif, don't give me that," Simmons whined, and the other man's hands slipped beneath his cotton t-shirt started their cruel and unusual dance down the pale taut skin of Simmons' sides. He gasped and writhed and laughed despite himself, trying desperately to get away from the other man's deft fingers and the pit of worry they were leaving in his stomach.
Grif was grinning now, moving his hands like excitably small creatures, leaving no patch of skin untickled. "Come on~!" he laughed in a singsong tone. "You know you want to tell me~!"
"Fine!" Simmons finally wheezed, pushing Grif away and breathing hard. He took a moment to compose himself, and apologized silently to anyone who cared about what he was about to do. "Grif... I don't..."
I don't love you, I want you to go away and leave me alone. He took a deep breath, and sighed deeply. Then he apologized silently again; this time to himself.
He looked up at Grif pleadingly. "I don't need you to stay here and keep an eye on me. I'm fine now. You should go on that mission to get Tucker back. It's more important than us right now."
Well, at least it was a start. The mission would probably take more than a week... Plenty of time to think up another way to off himself.
Grif paused, looking thoughtful in his silence. He finally rolled off and flopped next to Simmons on their poorly-constructed king-size bed (made of both their cots pushed together and a huge mess of blankets). He didn't say anything.
"You know I'm right," Simmons murmured softly, scooting to his side so he could see Grif's reaction.
The other man's eyes were squeezed shut tightly, along with his whole face; it was as if he were trying to keep out the whole world in that moment. Finally, he cracked open an eye. "I know... I just wish you weren't."
There was a glimmer of that pain that Simmons swore he'd keep off Grif's face, and his heart crunched painfully, like so many empty aluminum cans. He propped himself up, and, leaning forward, did something he'd never thought he'd do: he placed a quivering, soft, hesitant kiss on Grif's cheek. He forced out a few words past the uncomfortable lump in his throat. "I'll be fine, Grif. Don't worry."
A tragic smile split Grif's face as he pulled Simmons close again, pressing his face into his hair and just breathing in his scent. Simmons hugged back awkwardly, already regretting his false show of affection. They stayed that way for a long while, Grif holding onto Simmons like he was the last life raft on a sinking ship, or maybe the last twinkie in the snack cake box. Knowing Grif, the last analogy was probably more accurate.
Finally, the silence was broken by a small sniff and a shuddering gulp, and Simmons suddenly understood that Grif had been crying the entire time. Guilt drove Simmons to hold the other man even tighter, whispering condolences and fluffy nonsense, anything to get Grif to stop. If anything, his words made it worse; Grif's shoulders shook beneath him, his hair was becoming damp with tears, and Grif's fingers twisted despairingly in the thin fabric of his t-shirt as he clutched him ever closer. At long last, Grif managed a sob-soaked sentence: "I'll talk to Sarge about it in the morning."
Simmons didn't let himself complain as he was rolled over and suddenly ravaged with kisses, Grif yanking his clothes off with a hunger in his eyes that Simmons had never seen. He didn't complain even as Grif's mouth dipped closer and closer to his navel, dipped lower, past boxers to lap teasingly around his suddenly throbbing member. He didn't complain, he didn't curse the other man in his mind as a hot mouth closed around him, tongue swirling perfectly, barely too slow, tantalizing him, coaxing soft whimpery groans from his lips, the purest form of music. He wondered how many men Grif had done this with to perfect his movements before all thoughts ceased and he was only able to brokenly lament Grif's name over and over as he was steadily and almost terrifyingly brought closer to his climax.
His mind was still fuzzy, thick, and bursting with dopamine long after Grif had finished and curled up next to him, face tear streaked and haggard, but content. Somehow, there was no regret in letting Grif do what he had. It had made Grif happy, and really, Simmons felt almost like doing that was an accomplishment.
It was the least he could do to cheer up the other man before he broke his heart.
---
Grif stood stockily next to the warthog, helmet under his arm. His dusty brown hair blew around his tanned islander face, mouth hard and eyes conflicted with emotion. His gaze kept flicking over to Simmons, and there was a pleading in his eyes. Simmons wasn't sure what he was trying to tell him, but he sent his own with his own expression: don't miss me, I'll be fine. Maybe even a hint of "I love you," if only to keep Grif placated.
Caboose and Sarge were already in the jeep. Caboose was looking off in any direction but the reds who were saying goodbye, as if he knew what was going on was private. Sarge just kept huffing impatiently, gesturing with his shotgun.
Grif ignored them both. "Simmons," he muttered. The maroon soldier took a step closer to hear him better over the whine of his broken electronic ear, still yet to be fixed.
His eyes were wet. They glistened in the sun, but no tears fell. "I'll call you every day."
Simmons nodded, shifting slightly on his feet, uncomfortably. "I'll be here waiting."
Donut stood to the side, watching the two say goodbye. Now, he took a step forward, his cheerful voice cutting in an interruption. "I can't wait to start redecorating! You think of any color palettes yet?"
Simmons turned to answer him, and Grif crawled into the driver's seat. He secured his helmet, revved the engine, and drove off into the ocean. Simmons turned to yell one more goodbye... But Grif was already gone, slipping beneath the waves.
He stared after them for a while, until Donut touched him gently on the shoulder. "He said he'd call," the lightish red man reminded him. "You'll be fine." After a moment, he added, "He'll be fine, too."
With a snort of derision, Simmons turned and, ignoring the soldier padding along behind him, made his way slowly back to base. Already he could feel his depression returning, sending him into a deep pit of loneliness and despair.
He'd try out the medicines tonight at dinner, he decided. Now that Grif was gone, there wasn't much of a reason for him to stick around.
---
Dinner was silent. Simmons could feel Donut's worried glances boring through his skin, but he tried to ignore them. He wasn't eating much; he didn't want his body to have to digest a ton of food before it got to the bottle of pills he had hidden and ready in his room for later.
"I'm sure he'll call anytime now," Donut offered feebly. Simmons glanced up at him, saw his weak smile, and looked back down at the landscape he was making with his potatoes and broccoli. He hoped Grif wouldn't call. He didn't want to hear his voice, his concern and love, right now. He told himself he was being silly for thinking it would cripple his resolve, for thinking he wouldn't be able to go through with his plans later.
The radio link on the wall buzzed.
Simmons waited to see if Donut would answer it, but he stayed seated. Simmons sighed and stood, pretending he didn't see Donut's encouraging smile as he answered the call. "Hello?"
"Simmons!" Of course it was Grif. Who else would it be?
"Hi, Grif..." He hoped his voice didn't give away his annoyance.
"Are you doing okay?"
"Uh, yeah..."
There was a pause, then a slightly embarrassed, "Is Donut in the room with you?"
Simmons chuckled. "How could you tell?"
"You're being... distant. Here, tell him to leave, will you?"
Donut frowned, but got up and left, winking mischievously on his way out.
"He's gone."
"Good. Holy shit, Simmons, it already feels like I haven't seen you in forever."
"It's only been about 5 hours."
"I know! But that's like the longest we've ever been apart! ...I miss you."
"I miss you too," Simmons mumbled.
"We're taking a short break so I can drive all night."
"Lucky you."
"Not really. Especially since I'm using my sleep time to call you instead."
"I was being sarcastic anyway, dumbass."
Grif laughed warmly. "I love you too, baby. Oh shit, Sarge is coming over. I think he wants us to get going."
"Oh."
His voice was a little desperate now. "I'll call again in the morning."
"I'll be waiting."
"Remember that I love you, okay?"
"Okay."
"...Don't sound so excited."
Simmons mumbled something inaudible and then said stintedly, "I love you, too."
"Bye, Simmons. Sleep well for me, will you?"
"I will. Talk to you tomorrow, Grif. Bye."
The radio clicked off, and Simmons groaned. He was right: now the subtle guilt was coming back, and he wasn't sure if he could leave Grif without that morning call.
But it was his life. Grif was gone. He should realize that things happen, and that he shouldn't have left Simmons alone without his supervision. Simmons pushed the guilt out of his mind and tromped off to his room a little angrily.
Donut poked his head out of his room, looking curiously surprised. "What's wrong?"
"He shouldn't have done that!" Simmons griped as he opened his door.
"I know! He should have just let Sarge and Caboose go off on that mission. Or at least take you with him."
"That's not what I... Nevermind. He's just a jackass."
"Don't say that..." Donut chided, but Simmons was already in his room with the door slammed shut.
---
The large white and orange morphine capsules felt sticky in his palm as he shifted them back and forth, rolling them over the lines that some believed would foretell his future. He didn't need anyone to tell him what was going to happen to him; he already knew. A few hours from now he'd be unconscious, and then he'd never wake up.
Simmons continued staring down at the handful of pills. For some reason, the effort of putting each into his mouth and swallowing, ten, twenty times, seemed too much of a hassle. He lifted a capsule to his lips, let it balance there, its smooth casing arousing the muscles in his throat. He cocked his head back and let the morphine drop into his waiting mouth, caressed it with his tongue for a moment before swallowing it dry. He felt it carve a path in his throat on the way down. His empty stomach growled, hungry.
And suddenly, he was a flurry of motion, taking the pills as fast as he could, not even waiting for one to completely be swallowed before hurriedly shoving another into his mouth. He didn't let himself think, he didn't let his body react in the terror he'd had the first time he'd tried to die, and it wasn't long before they were all gone. Nothing left but a memory and the slight residue on his hand left from the humidity-sticky capsules.
Simmons dragged his tongue across it, tasting the time-release plastic, wishing he had more.
A burst of terrified adrenaline shot through his veins suddenly, and then his energy fled him and exhaustion took hold. His eyelids were heavy, so heavy. His breathing slowed as he fell to the floor, as slow as a movie. His knees were both completely silent as they hit the floor, and they were a piercing echo. His vision clouded... His concentration left, his mind was a blur...
The scruffy carpet beneath his cheek felt nice. He smiled, or tried to, but the muscles in his face were too heavy, he couldn't move them. He was so tired...
So tired...
---
He woke later with a pounding headache and damp, concerned blue eyes staring down at him. Simmons tried to sit up, but a soft hand pushed him back down.
Donut's voice was faint and tinny. "Just lay down. I don't want you hurting yourself any more than you already have."
Simmons ignored him, sitting up again. The other man shied away at his angry glare. "What the hell did you do?"
"What do you mean?" The response was timid and fearful.
"Why am I still alive?!"
Frowning, Donut pushed him gently back to the bed. "I found you unconscious on your floor, and I freaked out and called Doc. He said you'd be okay, because, well... I guess you wouldn't have died anyway, something about your synthetic organs having a poison filter."
Simmons groaned. "Fuck my life."
He tried to ignore the concerned, pitying look that Donut gave him then. "Why do you want to die so badly?" the effeminate man asked bluntly. "You're devastatingly handsome, you're second in command, you're smart, and funny, and sensitive, and caring, and you have a boyfriend who loves you dearly. Why?"
He mumbled something incoherent and concentrated on the weave of the sheets covering him. "You don't understand."
"Explain it to me. I want to understand."
He paused, thinking. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because it's too complicated."
"Try me."
"No."
After that, he was silent, and nothing Donut said or did would make him open his mouth again.
---
He got four calls from Grif that day. Any chance the orange-clad soldier had, he'd call and make sure Simmons was okay. It tore Simmons apart to hear the pain and panic in Grif's voice... He knew he shouldn't have pulled that stunt, but he really had no choice. He didn't want to stay here.
Now, it seemed, he was between a rock and a hard place. And he wasn't really sure where to go from there but keep listening to Grif on the other line.
"Simmons, remember that I love you, okay?" Grif said, the same way he ended all of their conversations.
"I know, Grif," he responded, a painful lump in his throat preventing him from saying what he really wanted to.
"Okay. Talk to you later. Don't hurt yourself." The last sentence was meant to come out as a joke, but Simmons could literally feel the plaintive fear in it.
"I promise I won't," he said confidently, consolingly, apologetically. He waited a beat, then, "I love you." It sounded fake. Simmons hoped Grif wouldn't notice.
He didn't. His voice was a low, relieved breath. "I love you, too." And then the connection was lost, and so was Simmons.
He had no idea what to do.
---
It was 10 the next morning, and Grif hadn't called.
Simmons worried more than he'd care to admit. Sitting in the rec room and staring unseeingly at one of Grif's favorite movies for hours on end hadn't helped; it had only made him more worried. His mind spun with foreboding possibilities. Had he died? Had Sarge finally had enough and shot him, in the head, in the stomach? Had he forgotten about Simmons, was he really not that important to the other man? Had he just not had the chance to call today? What if he was injured, what if he needed help? Oh God, Sarge would just leave him to die, and there's no way Caboose would know what to do. Why had Simmons even let him go in the first place? HE wasn't the one who was supposed to die! That was Simmons' job! Grif still had a full and exciting and important life ahead of him!
He tried not to think about it. He knew he was overanalyzing. He knew he wasn't helping. But still he found himself worrying about the Hawaiian.
He sent up a prayer to the Gods that Grif would be okay.
---
Title: Taboo and Liberation, Part 3/5
Author: Kyrianne
Fandom: Red vs Blue
Pairing: Grif/Simmons
Rating: R
Word Count: 3540
Summary: Through a single drastic act, Simmons sets a new path for himself that he never knew existed, and he's not sure if he wants to take it.
Disclaimer: I am neither a Rooster nor a Teeth.
A/N: I wrote the entirety of this during my Student Aide period over like a month... I feel kind of bad writing smutty things when I should be doing errands for my teacher. And writing this on his computer, no less. Oh well. The subject matter might make him a little squeamish, but he's an English teacher. He can't get too angry at me for practicing my fiction writing skills. xD ...Hopefully he doesn't look through the history online, though. I don't know how he'd react to the sorts of things I had to research for this chapter. XD
Part One, Part Two
---
Everything around base was awkward now. Simmons had to be absolutely careful that neither Sarge nor Donut found out about his new "relationship" with Grif, and when he was alone with Grif he had to suspend his own revulsion at their actions and pretend like everything was okay. It was hard, but Simmons was used to hard; he'd grown up with hard, he'd lived with hard for the past 8 years of his stint in the army.
He just wasn't used to that hard being an emotional hard. He'd never been so mentally taxed. He'd never had such a bad time falling asleep at night, Grif's arm wrapped securely around his waist, physically shaking from the stress and the ambiguity of what he'd have to do to get out of it.
He washed himself even more thoroughly in the shower, now. Grif's scent was everywhere, invading every follicle and pore of his body, and there was no way Donut or Sarge could miss that. Cigarette smoke, snack cakes, sex. It was all he smelled anymore, all he smelled like. It turned his stomach, but he was good at keeping a straight face, a pleasant face, a face in the throes of ecstacy in the dark.
He wondered if the army had any need for actors, for people who told others what they wanted to hear, and for people who made others believe. He was certainly good enough at it to qualify for the job.
---
They'd talked about finding Tucker, a while ago. Simmons couldn't remember when that was, besides occurring before what Grif had decided to call his "accident." He wondered why the topic had gotten dropped. Grif had seemed keen enough to go, and Caboose was obviously lonely and unable to go out on his own.
Simmons laid in bed, contemplating this. It didn't make much sense. When Grif decided to do something, by God he did it as soon as possible. That's just how he was: find something you want, get that thing you want, and then you can go back to being lazy. Was there a reason he decided not to go, after all?
Grif stretched behind him, pulling Simmons closer to his bare chest. Simmons could feel the soft tanned skin even through his cotton shirt, and a wave of anxiety passed through him before he forced himself to stop thinking about it. He failed, mind spinning uneasily as Grif kissed the back of his neck lazily, lovingly.
How could Grif love someone like him, seriously? It wasn't like they had anything in common. Shit, they weren't even the same species anymore, technically. Simmons didn't consider himself human anymore, not with an eighth of his body metal and electric connections and wires and processors and synthetics.
He concluded that Grif must be insane. They'd all been out here far too long, that was for sure.
But him? Why not Donut? Donut was more feminine, someone who'd be fairly easy to pretend was a woman. He was curves and giggles and the soft flowery scent of his shampoo. Simmons was angles, muscles, metal, the strong smell of aftershave and generic soap every morning.
Something struck Simmons then, something he hadn't thought of before. Could it be that Grif was actually gay? He felt like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. There were certainly signs even before he'd told Simmons he loved him, subtle hints, to be sure, but hints nonetheless. After Donut had started acting more like a girl... Grif hadn't really seemed to give a fuck either way, did he? And all those times he made snide comments and jokes during patrol... Simmons groaned aloud as he realized the times he thought Grif was just being obnoxious, he had probably been flirting. And he'd been stupid enough to laugh, to rise to the bait and tell him to shut up. It was his own fault he lay here now, trapped after unknowingly leading on a man he hadn't even known was interested.
Grif shifted behind him, nuzzling a somewhat cold nose against Simmons' neck. "Whassamatter, babe?" His voice was groggy from sleep.
"Nothing," Simmons grunted, angry with himself. He wondered what he could have possibly done in a past life to deserve all this bad karma.
"No, really... You sound mad. You okay?" Grif was more awake now, and he propped himself up to look down at Simmons, that same concerned face burning down at him. If Simmons had to see that face one more time...
"I said I'm fine!" he snapped, then felt guilty for it. It wasn't Grif's fault, really. It was his fault, like everything else always was.
Grif forced him onto his back by pushing down his shoulder, straddling him. Not now, Simmons pleaded, and it showed in his eyes. Please, not now.
But Grif didn't go any further. All he did was take Simmons' shoulders firmly. "Simmons," he said, eyes serious and hard as flint. "You're going to tell me what's bothering you... Or I'm going to tickle you until you can't feel anymore." He paused, deadpan expression not even wavering. "Your choice."
"Oh, come on, Grif, don't give me that," Simmons whined, and the other man's hands slipped beneath his cotton t-shirt started their cruel and unusual dance down the pale taut skin of Simmons' sides. He gasped and writhed and laughed despite himself, trying desperately to get away from the other man's deft fingers and the pit of worry they were leaving in his stomach.
Grif was grinning now, moving his hands like excitably small creatures, leaving no patch of skin untickled. "Come on~!" he laughed in a singsong tone. "You know you want to tell me~!"
"Fine!" Simmons finally wheezed, pushing Grif away and breathing hard. He took a moment to compose himself, and apologized silently to anyone who cared about what he was about to do. "Grif... I don't..."
I don't love you, I want you to go away and leave me alone. He took a deep breath, and sighed deeply. Then he apologized silently again; this time to himself.
He looked up at Grif pleadingly. "I don't need you to stay here and keep an eye on me. I'm fine now. You should go on that mission to get Tucker back. It's more important than us right now."
Well, at least it was a start. The mission would probably take more than a week... Plenty of time to think up another way to off himself.
Grif paused, looking thoughtful in his silence. He finally rolled off and flopped next to Simmons on their poorly-constructed king-size bed (made of both their cots pushed together and a huge mess of blankets). He didn't say anything.
"You know I'm right," Simmons murmured softly, scooting to his side so he could see Grif's reaction.
The other man's eyes were squeezed shut tightly, along with his whole face; it was as if he were trying to keep out the whole world in that moment. Finally, he cracked open an eye. "I know... I just wish you weren't."
There was a glimmer of that pain that Simmons swore he'd keep off Grif's face, and his heart crunched painfully, like so many empty aluminum cans. He propped himself up, and, leaning forward, did something he'd never thought he'd do: he placed a quivering, soft, hesitant kiss on Grif's cheek. He forced out a few words past the uncomfortable lump in his throat. "I'll be fine, Grif. Don't worry."
A tragic smile split Grif's face as he pulled Simmons close again, pressing his face into his hair and just breathing in his scent. Simmons hugged back awkwardly, already regretting his false show of affection. They stayed that way for a long while, Grif holding onto Simmons like he was the last life raft on a sinking ship, or maybe the last twinkie in the snack cake box. Knowing Grif, the last analogy was probably more accurate.
Finally, the silence was broken by a small sniff and a shuddering gulp, and Simmons suddenly understood that Grif had been crying the entire time. Guilt drove Simmons to hold the other man even tighter, whispering condolences and fluffy nonsense, anything to get Grif to stop. If anything, his words made it worse; Grif's shoulders shook beneath him, his hair was becoming damp with tears, and Grif's fingers twisted despairingly in the thin fabric of his t-shirt as he clutched him ever closer. At long last, Grif managed a sob-soaked sentence: "I'll talk to Sarge about it in the morning."
Simmons didn't let himself complain as he was rolled over and suddenly ravaged with kisses, Grif yanking his clothes off with a hunger in his eyes that Simmons had never seen. He didn't complain even as Grif's mouth dipped closer and closer to his navel, dipped lower, past boxers to lap teasingly around his suddenly throbbing member. He didn't complain, he didn't curse the other man in his mind as a hot mouth closed around him, tongue swirling perfectly, barely too slow, tantalizing him, coaxing soft whimpery groans from his lips, the purest form of music. He wondered how many men Grif had done this with to perfect his movements before all thoughts ceased and he was only able to brokenly lament Grif's name over and over as he was steadily and almost terrifyingly brought closer to his climax.
His mind was still fuzzy, thick, and bursting with dopamine long after Grif had finished and curled up next to him, face tear streaked and haggard, but content. Somehow, there was no regret in letting Grif do what he had. It had made Grif happy, and really, Simmons felt almost like doing that was an accomplishment.
It was the least he could do to cheer up the other man before he broke his heart.
---
Grif stood stockily next to the warthog, helmet under his arm. His dusty brown hair blew around his tanned islander face, mouth hard and eyes conflicted with emotion. His gaze kept flicking over to Simmons, and there was a pleading in his eyes. Simmons wasn't sure what he was trying to tell him, but he sent his own with his own expression: don't miss me, I'll be fine. Maybe even a hint of "I love you," if only to keep Grif placated.
Caboose and Sarge were already in the jeep. Caboose was looking off in any direction but the reds who were saying goodbye, as if he knew what was going on was private. Sarge just kept huffing impatiently, gesturing with his shotgun.
Grif ignored them both. "Simmons," he muttered. The maroon soldier took a step closer to hear him better over the whine of his broken electronic ear, still yet to be fixed.
His eyes were wet. They glistened in the sun, but no tears fell. "I'll call you every day."
Simmons nodded, shifting slightly on his feet, uncomfortably. "I'll be here waiting."
Donut stood to the side, watching the two say goodbye. Now, he took a step forward, his cheerful voice cutting in an interruption. "I can't wait to start redecorating! You think of any color palettes yet?"
Simmons turned to answer him, and Grif crawled into the driver's seat. He secured his helmet, revved the engine, and drove off into the ocean. Simmons turned to yell one more goodbye... But Grif was already gone, slipping beneath the waves.
He stared after them for a while, until Donut touched him gently on the shoulder. "He said he'd call," the lightish red man reminded him. "You'll be fine." After a moment, he added, "He'll be fine, too."
With a snort of derision, Simmons turned and, ignoring the soldier padding along behind him, made his way slowly back to base. Already he could feel his depression returning, sending him into a deep pit of loneliness and despair.
He'd try out the medicines tonight at dinner, he decided. Now that Grif was gone, there wasn't much of a reason for him to stick around.
---
Dinner was silent. Simmons could feel Donut's worried glances boring through his skin, but he tried to ignore them. He wasn't eating much; he didn't want his body to have to digest a ton of food before it got to the bottle of pills he had hidden and ready in his room for later.
"I'm sure he'll call anytime now," Donut offered feebly. Simmons glanced up at him, saw his weak smile, and looked back down at the landscape he was making with his potatoes and broccoli. He hoped Grif wouldn't call. He didn't want to hear his voice, his concern and love, right now. He told himself he was being silly for thinking it would cripple his resolve, for thinking he wouldn't be able to go through with his plans later.
The radio link on the wall buzzed.
Simmons waited to see if Donut would answer it, but he stayed seated. Simmons sighed and stood, pretending he didn't see Donut's encouraging smile as he answered the call. "Hello?"
"Simmons!" Of course it was Grif. Who else would it be?
"Hi, Grif..." He hoped his voice didn't give away his annoyance.
"Are you doing okay?"
"Uh, yeah..."
There was a pause, then a slightly embarrassed, "Is Donut in the room with you?"
Simmons chuckled. "How could you tell?"
"You're being... distant. Here, tell him to leave, will you?"
Donut frowned, but got up and left, winking mischievously on his way out.
"He's gone."
"Good. Holy shit, Simmons, it already feels like I haven't seen you in forever."
"It's only been about 5 hours."
"I know! But that's like the longest we've ever been apart! ...I miss you."
"I miss you too," Simmons mumbled.
"We're taking a short break so I can drive all night."
"Lucky you."
"Not really. Especially since I'm using my sleep time to call you instead."
"I was being sarcastic anyway, dumbass."
Grif laughed warmly. "I love you too, baby. Oh shit, Sarge is coming over. I think he wants us to get going."
"Oh."
His voice was a little desperate now. "I'll call again in the morning."
"I'll be waiting."
"Remember that I love you, okay?"
"Okay."
"...Don't sound so excited."
Simmons mumbled something inaudible and then said stintedly, "I love you, too."
"Bye, Simmons. Sleep well for me, will you?"
"I will. Talk to you tomorrow, Grif. Bye."
The radio clicked off, and Simmons groaned. He was right: now the subtle guilt was coming back, and he wasn't sure if he could leave Grif without that morning call.
But it was his life. Grif was gone. He should realize that things happen, and that he shouldn't have left Simmons alone without his supervision. Simmons pushed the guilt out of his mind and tromped off to his room a little angrily.
Donut poked his head out of his room, looking curiously surprised. "What's wrong?"
"He shouldn't have done that!" Simmons griped as he opened his door.
"I know! He should have just let Sarge and Caboose go off on that mission. Or at least take you with him."
"That's not what I... Nevermind. He's just a jackass."
"Don't say that..." Donut chided, but Simmons was already in his room with the door slammed shut.
---
The large white and orange morphine capsules felt sticky in his palm as he shifted them back and forth, rolling them over the lines that some believed would foretell his future. He didn't need anyone to tell him what was going to happen to him; he already knew. A few hours from now he'd be unconscious, and then he'd never wake up.
Simmons continued staring down at the handful of pills. For some reason, the effort of putting each into his mouth and swallowing, ten, twenty times, seemed too much of a hassle. He lifted a capsule to his lips, let it balance there, its smooth casing arousing the muscles in his throat. He cocked his head back and let the morphine drop into his waiting mouth, caressed it with his tongue for a moment before swallowing it dry. He felt it carve a path in his throat on the way down. His empty stomach growled, hungry.
And suddenly, he was a flurry of motion, taking the pills as fast as he could, not even waiting for one to completely be swallowed before hurriedly shoving another into his mouth. He didn't let himself think, he didn't let his body react in the terror he'd had the first time he'd tried to die, and it wasn't long before they were all gone. Nothing left but a memory and the slight residue on his hand left from the humidity-sticky capsules.
Simmons dragged his tongue across it, tasting the time-release plastic, wishing he had more.
A burst of terrified adrenaline shot through his veins suddenly, and then his energy fled him and exhaustion took hold. His eyelids were heavy, so heavy. His breathing slowed as he fell to the floor, as slow as a movie. His knees were both completely silent as they hit the floor, and they were a piercing echo. His vision clouded... His concentration left, his mind was a blur...
The scruffy carpet beneath his cheek felt nice. He smiled, or tried to, but the muscles in his face were too heavy, he couldn't move them. He was so tired...
So tired...
---
He woke later with a pounding headache and damp, concerned blue eyes staring down at him. Simmons tried to sit up, but a soft hand pushed him back down.
Donut's voice was faint and tinny. "Just lay down. I don't want you hurting yourself any more than you already have."
Simmons ignored him, sitting up again. The other man shied away at his angry glare. "What the hell did you do?"
"What do you mean?" The response was timid and fearful.
"Why am I still alive?!"
Frowning, Donut pushed him gently back to the bed. "I found you unconscious on your floor, and I freaked out and called Doc. He said you'd be okay, because, well... I guess you wouldn't have died anyway, something about your synthetic organs having a poison filter."
Simmons groaned. "Fuck my life."
He tried to ignore the concerned, pitying look that Donut gave him then. "Why do you want to die so badly?" the effeminate man asked bluntly. "You're devastatingly handsome, you're second in command, you're smart, and funny, and sensitive, and caring, and you have a boyfriend who loves you dearly. Why?"
He mumbled something incoherent and concentrated on the weave of the sheets covering him. "You don't understand."
"Explain it to me. I want to understand."
He paused, thinking. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because it's too complicated."
"Try me."
"No."
After that, he was silent, and nothing Donut said or did would make him open his mouth again.
---
He got four calls from Grif that day. Any chance the orange-clad soldier had, he'd call and make sure Simmons was okay. It tore Simmons apart to hear the pain and panic in Grif's voice... He knew he shouldn't have pulled that stunt, but he really had no choice. He didn't want to stay here.
Now, it seemed, he was between a rock and a hard place. And he wasn't really sure where to go from there but keep listening to Grif on the other line.
"Simmons, remember that I love you, okay?" Grif said, the same way he ended all of their conversations.
"I know, Grif," he responded, a painful lump in his throat preventing him from saying what he really wanted to.
"Okay. Talk to you later. Don't hurt yourself." The last sentence was meant to come out as a joke, but Simmons could literally feel the plaintive fear in it.
"I promise I won't," he said confidently, consolingly, apologetically. He waited a beat, then, "I love you." It sounded fake. Simmons hoped Grif wouldn't notice.
He didn't. His voice was a low, relieved breath. "I love you, too." And then the connection was lost, and so was Simmons.
He had no idea what to do.
---
It was 10 the next morning, and Grif hadn't called.
Simmons worried more than he'd care to admit. Sitting in the rec room and staring unseeingly at one of Grif's favorite movies for hours on end hadn't helped; it had only made him more worried. His mind spun with foreboding possibilities. Had he died? Had Sarge finally had enough and shot him, in the head, in the stomach? Had he forgotten about Simmons, was he really not that important to the other man? Had he just not had the chance to call today? What if he was injured, what if he needed help? Oh God, Sarge would just leave him to die, and there's no way Caboose would know what to do. Why had Simmons even let him go in the first place? HE wasn't the one who was supposed to die! That was Simmons' job! Grif still had a full and exciting and important life ahead of him!
He tried not to think about it. He knew he was overanalyzing. He knew he wasn't helping. But still he found himself worrying about the Hawaiian.
He sent up a prayer to the Gods that Grif would be okay.
---