A/N: This is a little drabble for Icy because it's his birthday. Happy birthday...uh...can't call you Redtard anymore but...happy birthday anyway, dear. Love you~

He could count the number of times he had seen Grif without his helmet on one hand, and he couldn't decide whether that was a blessing or curse.

When it came to situations when he was at a loss at what to do or think, Private First Class Dick Simmons made a list. Many lists. The cork bulletin board above his bed was covered in them, in an order known only to him. But this idea…this thought…couldn't be written down.

Not only because Grif would not let him hear the end of it should he ever stumble upon such a list, but because he had no fucking clue how to begin. Simmons liked looking at Grif- at his dark brown eyes, surprisingly sharp cheekbones despite the baby fat that Grif seemed to have never lost, and full lips- more than he would ever admit.

One point for without.

Then again, Grif was a habitual smoker and Simmons' allergies could barely take a breath of the stuff without sending him into an oh-so-attractive fit of sneezing.

One point for the helmet.

Damn.

A tie.

He could feel his nerves swelling at the thought, a panicky rush of hormones clouding his mind. That was another thing Simmons hated about making decisions- when he was at an impossible stalemate he had no idea which outcome he was more afraid of.

He was about to write it off as bullshit and save his mental list making for another day when he remembered what he had neglected to include in his pros and cons of Grif's appearance: his hair.

That hair.

Simmons swore that Grif had never seen a brush in his entire life, if the appearance of his hair was any indication. Dark brown and in a mass of tangles, like a perpetual case of bed head. Or as if he had been…Simmons turned bright red at the thought, and tried to shift his focus to other things.

Like Sarge's newest nonsensical ambush plan. Or the fact that he needed to remind Command to include headlight fluid in the next supply drop.

But it was no use; Simmons couldn't tear his thoughts away from Grif, nor could he stop himself from wishing that he could run his fingers through it.

"Hey, kiss ass."

Simmons stood up so quickly that he banged his knees into the underside of his desk. Pain shot through his body so fast that it left him lightheaded. "Motherfucker!"

He heard smacking sounds, and sure enough, the orange clad Private was munching on a Twinkie. "Sargesh sesh," Grif spoke with his mouth full, and Simmons shuddered in disgust. Grif swallowed and continued, "To get your ass down to the Pu-I mean, Warthog."

"Why?"

Grif shrugged his shoulders, "Hell if I know."

"Thanks, I guess," Simmons muttered gruffly, pushing past Grif.

"Whatever."

As soon as he was out of Grif's eyesight Simmons collapsed against the wall, his head spinning. His dizziness had to do with his throbbing kneecaps. It wasn't related to the fact that Grif hadn't been wearing his helmet.

Not at all.