Title: Fronts and Almosts
Summary: Their first night back, Grif doesn't sleep well. [Post S8, coda to episode "n+1"]
Characters & Pairings: Grif/Simmons, Sarge
Genres: Fluff/Angst/Hurt-Comfort
Rated: PG-13
Disclaimer: I love RT and RvB, I don't own anything, yadda yadda.
Warnings/Rated For: Language.

Notes: Un-betaed as always, crossposted on AO3 and Tumblr ages ago (links for those are in my bio~) and I'm far too lazy to edit or rewrite it to be less sappy and shit. I miss writing but haven't really had time to do much more than drabble, so I figured I'd bring my account up to speed with old fics.

Fronts and Almosts

Their first night back, Grif doesn't sleep well.

He's not one to fret or stress over things – the total opposite. It's how defines himself: by not giving a fuck.

But almost dying by some rogue, AI-rabid Freelancer in a fucking arctic wasteland sort of harshes his mellow. Just a bit.

So he's pacing, not even in sleepwear, but black cargo shorts and a loose orange t-shirt. Armor is too stifling, too much of a reminder of what they'd just gone through, but sleepwear is too vulnerable.

He's spacing out so much he almost knocks over a stack of boxes. He makes a meek noise and moves over to a wall. Maybe if he makes enough noise, Sarge'll wake up and he'll think Grif is doing work and have a stroke.

Too much hope.

He sighs and goes for the fridge, but the mere sight of food makes his stomach do a back-flip. Fuck, he can't even rely on any of his coping mechanisms, this is bullshit.

"Grif?"

Jumping a foot in the air is totally a justifiable response, for a variety of reasons. One, the voice could've been Sarge (thankfully it was Simmons). Two, it was late and he was sure the others were asleep. And three, they'd just come back from a fucking suicide mission and he's still not entirely convinced the Meta didn't somehow fucking survive that fall.

"Hey Simmons." he says, pretending his voice isn't cracking like a pubescent boy and he hadn't just had a miniature heart attack.

He gets a raised eyebrow in return. "What are you doing up so late? Sarge is letting us sleep through the night for once." he rolls his eyes at the fridge behind Grif's back. "Oh. Midnight snack?"

"Yeah. Something like that." Grif replies, forcing a smirk on his face.

"Did you eat already? Or did I interrupt your fatassery?"

"Jesus Christ Simmons, what's with the third degree?" Grif demands, half-whining and half-suspicious. And 100% deflection.

Simmons fidgets at that. He was always a shitty liar. "No reason, I was just seeing if you left anything."

Oh yeah. Still a shitty liar.

Grif is about to make a rude dig, but there's something that stops him. Maybe it's the fact his last word would've been "Simmons" or maybe it's that he'd never heard fear in Simmons's voice like that before and when the cyborg had taken off his helmet he had tear-tracks on his face.

"You okay?" he asks, trying for casual and missing.

Simmons glares at him. "I'm fine, asshole. You're the one that fell off a cliff."

There's no heat or venom to his words. It's a front, just like their stupid war.

"Yeah. How fast do you think it would've taken Sarge to throw a party?" he cracks a grin. "Pretend it's New Orleans style or some shit and play jazz and celebrate my demise."

Simmons doesn't smile and Grif slips into a frown. "Hey. What's wrong?"

"Just shut up and move so I can get to the fridge." Simmons snaps.

Grif blames it on the lack of sleep and post-adrenaline crash, but when he moves it's only forward, not sideways, enough to grab Simmons and pull him into a hug.

His brain takes a second to realize the mistake, but Simmons doesn't hit him or shove him off, so maybe it wasn't a mistake. In fact, Simmons is wrapping his arms around Grif tightly, clutching at his back and the nape of his neck. Not a mistake.

Grif threads his fingers through Simmons's hair, and Simmons leans against him, burrowing his face against Grif's neck and inhaling sharply.

"I'm here." Grif whispers.

Simmons digs his nails into Grif, tugging at the fabric of his shirt. "You almost weren't."

Grif wants to make some jerkass reply, but it's true. He almost died. He was literally on the verge of it.

Simmons continues, his voice a little pitchy, just like it had been back in Sidewinder. "You almost weren't, and I didn't save you. I didn't hold on and you fucking fell."

Grif pulls him closer, pressing the side of his face into Simmons' hair. "But I'm here." he repeats quietly into his ear, reassuring and gentle.

The weight of the statement starts to sink in. Simmons shudders, still tormented by what could have been.

"Yeah. I guess you are." he admits softly.

They stand there, hugging, for quite a long time. With anyone else it'd be awkward, this extended close contact, but with Simmons it feels comfortable, and Grif refuses to name the sentiment warming up his cheeks and making him smile.

Simmons yawns, and Grif lets him lean on him, taking most of his weight. "Tired?"

He gets a half-hearted scowl for an answer, which he leans back to see anyways. It doesn't remove his smile, just makes it a little smarmier.

"Then let's go to bed." he replies, sliding an arm around Simmons' hip and walking towards their shared room.

Simmons is rather silent, drifting away to collapse on his bunk immediately, while Grif changes into sleepwear. The cyborg opens his mouth to say something, most likely a question, but Grif just slides in next to him on the bed and buries his face into a pillow with a contented sigh.

Simmons shuts his mouth with an audible 'click' of his teeth, and he stares at Grif for a long moment before deciding he's too damn tired to think about this anymore.

So he lays down and settles in next to Grif. The orange soldier throws an arm over him, pulling him close, and Simmons takes this as permission to wrap his arms around Grif.

They fall asleep.

Sarge opens the door to Simmons and Grif's bunk, fully intent on shouting at them and making their wake-up call as unpleasant as possible, because god damn it the world doesn't stop just because they defeated one damned Meta.

He stops at the sight of them.

They're asleep, even at the sound of the door opening. Simmons is on his side and latched onto Grif's shirt, clinging to him like he's scared he'll vanish. Grif is on his side as well, arms wrapped protectively around Simmons, nuzzling their faces together. Their legs are tangled up and they're remarkably close together, the picture of mutual comfort.

If it had been any other day, he'd have thrown something at them and started yelling. But Grif had almost died, and as much as Sarge likes to say otherwise, it would've been a terrible blow if he hadn't miraculously made it. Especially to Simmons.

So he fights down his warring emotions of usual gruff loudness and guardian's concern, and leaves the room, pretending the smile on his face is from imagining how he'll run them through drills later.

He'll let them sleep in. Just this once.