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Simmons really wanted to hold Grif’s hand. Ever since it had slipped out of his at Sidewinder.
It was probably Grif’s own damn fault it did, because his hands were always greasy and he was never prepared for shit.
It was such an adrenaline high when Sarge gave the word and they were working together like this amazing machine, wordlessly knowing where each other had to be and moving in sync to push the Warthog over the edge. Those precious seconds of triumph. They’d defeated that seven foot tall fucking monster, and then before they were able to catch their breath, Grif was following him over the edge.
Simmons was running towards him before his mind even caught up with what was happening and he stumbled through the snow and he had Grif’s hand. He had it. They’d be fine.
And then the weight was too much. And no one else was close enough. And Grif was calling Simmons’ name and then he was just fucking gone.
Simmons had suddenly felt so light afterwards. He weighed nothing at all and the arctic wind at Sidewinder was going to take him out over the edge to follow Grif. He stood up and couldn’t stop staring at the spot orange armor had been a second ago.
He’d never have to chase him around to try to get him to do work again. They’d never commiserate over the latest diet fad Donut was making them all try. No more using Lopez to project Netflix marathons of Sharknado.
They’d never argue again.
Grif’s body was a mangled mess with the Meta’s over the edge of the cliff. He was really gone. Forever. Because Simmons couldn’t get a good grip, couldn't hold him until the others got there, and he failed at everything.
But Grif was okay. He'd managed to wedge the Meta's gun-knife (knife-gun?) in the ice and survive. They’d pulled him up. He slipped twice while they were doing it, and both times Simmons’ metal heart stuttered in its mechanical rhythm, but they’d pulled him up. And he’d actually flown a UNSC copter home. He was fine.
They were back in Valhalla at Red Base and Grif was eating chips and it was like any other night. But that chill Simmons felt when he thought Grif was gone wouldn't leave him.
Simmons sat across the table from him, watching him stuff his face. He looked fine. Simmons’ fingers twitched. He just wanted to hold Grif’s hand. Maybe then it would feel like they were really both still here.
Independent of conscious thought, his hand shot out and his fingers were slipping around Grif’s clenched fist. Grif swallowed his last bite, freezing a little. His mouth became a wavering line on his face.
Simmons' brain whited out in panic. What if Grif thought he was weird or that this meant something? It didn't mean anything! He didn’t even know why he was doing it! He was such an idiot. Why was he suddenly trying to hold Grif’s hand?
Then Grif’s face settled into a grimace and he let out a hard breath, clenching his eyes shut. His hand closed back around Simmons’ so tightly that the skin underneath went white. Grif was trying to hold himself rigid, but his shoulders were shaking slightly. When he looked up, his dark brown eyes were shiny in the light. Simmons gaped, his stomach flipping.
Grif had seen Simmons cry a couple (dozen) times and he was a total asshole about it. He even brought it up during team meetings sometimes to deflect attention from himself. This was an opportunity for Simmons to be the bigger man.
“Are you crying?!” Simmons yelped.
What did Grif even have to cry about?
Well, other than falling off a cliff.
And his sister being dead.
And unlike everyone else here, as he had confessed to Simmons one night, he hadn’t even signed up to join the UNSC. Sister probably wouldn’t have joined up at all if Grif hadn’t been drafted, and then she’d still be alive.
Maybe Grif did have a lot to cry about.
Maybe he shouldn’t say that out loud.
“Shut up. You’re the one sitting here holding my hand,” Grif said, sounding a little hoarser than usual. “You’re the weird one.”
When Simmons tried to take his hand back, Grif squeezed it and wouldn’t look at him, still holding himself so stiffly… Simmons could recognize from experience when someone was trying to prevent themselves from having a total meltdown. Grif having feelings was freaking him out.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asked softly. He expected Grif to say no and drop it and go back to normal. He didn’t.
“I thought I was going to die,” Grif said.
When they’d gotten Grif back up, there had been this moment where Simmons wanted to hug that stupid asshole. Also punch him in his stupid fat head because if he wasn’t so out of shape it wouldn’t have been as hard to pull him up and they almost lost him.
But everyone was around and they were all in armor and the Blues were having their drama, and the moment passed. He ran over to try and stabilize the memory unit instead.
But now…
“I thought you were dead too,” Simmons sniffed and Grif finally let go of his hand, blinking like he hadn’t realized he was still holding it, or didn’t know why he had in the first place. Simmons flexed his fingers to get the feeling back.
“Yeah…” Grif got up from his chair, but didn’t leave immediately, that look he got on his face sometimes like when he was contemplating the nature of the universe or wondering how someone came up with fig newtons. But there was a lot more weight to his expression now. It was more raw than it used to be. They all were.
Simmons nearly knocked over his chair when he got up. With all the stress of the fight, his cyborg parts must have been malfunctioning, because before he knew it, he was holding Grif, arms circling him in a tight hug.
Grif must have been having an issue too because he didn’t bother to give him a weird look this time, he just pushed his head down against Simmons’ chest.
Grif was warm and alive and didn't seem opposed to Simmons randomly touching him in the kitchen. Simmons really wasn't sure what to do. After a few more seconds, Grif's arms closed around his back, fists clenching in the material of his shirt. He breathed out harshly into Simmons, pressing closer, and didn’t move for a long time.
Simmons never completely relaxed, but it seemed like just standing there and not saying anything helped Grif. He wouldn't know what to say anyway.
It was nice. Quiet. He felt... needed.
And he had ammunition next time Grif made fun of him for anything. But he didn't feel the need to disrupt the moment and use it just yet. He wasn't sure how long they stood there until Donut came in and tried to join the hug. Moment shattered, they yelled at Donut in unison before going their separate ways.
Simmons never did end up bringing up how Grif cried into his chest at the next team meeting. Grif found other things to tease him about.
They never talked about it again.