Are We There Yet?

Chapter Ten: Relapse

Water.

Grif and Simmons were staring each other down, visors tilting and lifting at random intervals, arms and legs subtly shifting. It took a moment (several) to realize that the two were talking through their short frequency. There was an odd, silent-film quality to their conversation, the standing Red shifting from foot to foot, the reclining soldier rubbing his thumbs over his plate-covered stomach.

The orange Spartan sat at the foot of the other’s bed, hands on his thighs as he continued his unheard conversation with Simmons. They seemed to enter a kind of standstill, neither looking at each other, helmets refusing to tip in a way that would indicate communication. Finally, Grif broke the silence their body language emanated and lifted his hands to his chin. A snap followed by a low his filled the room, and the soldier removed his helmet.

“Different than I thought you’d look.”

Annoyance – no, anger – flashed over Grif’s naked face. Shaggy, dark hair clung to his face and the back of his neck. Square jaw, short nose, a crease under each of his tired looking eyes. He looked like some of the guys that studied and partied too hard back in college. Which was odd, considering there was the accurate impression that the orange prick never did anything.

“’The fuck were you expecting?”

“I don’t know,” Simmons answered and slowly removed the helmet from his own head. Simmons had to be the opposite of Grif in every way. Short, spiked hair that looked almost the same color as his armor. His face was long and pale, his nose pronounced, eyes eerily piercing but just as tired looking as the other man’s. An odd glow came from somewhere on the other side of his head; couldn’t really see the origin.

“You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

Each tried to inconspicuously examine the others’ face.

“I was expecting uglier,” Simmons finally admitted.

Grif snorted and rolled his helmet between his hands. “Yeah, I bet. Uh…your eye’s pretty cool. Can’t really see it like this,” he flicked his hand in the air, motioning to the poor light that rose from beneath the closed door. A second later the bedside lamp was on, illuminating the blond in Grif’s brown hair and the shimmering metal on the side of Simmons’ head.

“Woah,” Simmons leaned forward and beckoned for Grif to turn his face. “Since when…? You never said you had my…”

“Where did you think it went?”

“I thought Sarge just did this for the effect.”

Grif huffed, a small smile curling his lips. He turned his body, turned his face into the light.

One of Grif’s eyes was a dark gold, the other a brilliant green. When Simmons moved to inspect the mismatched eyes, he turned just enough to display the faint blue glow that shone from where his iris should have been. A slab of metal curved over the bridge of his nose and over his socket, hugged the top half of his cheek and disappeared above his ear into his hair.

“Blue, huh? Would have picked Sarge for a red kind of guy,” amused sarcasm rolled from Grif’s mouth. “Is it even solid?” he asked. “It looks all…watery. Can I touch it?”

“No, you may not touch it.”

“C’mon, I won’t break it.”

“No.”

“Well can I touch the edge, right there?” he lifted a tan finger and pointed at a spot above Simmons’ ear. “It looks like it goes right under the skin. Does it?”

The maroon soldier frowned. “It does. Why do you want to touch it?”

Grif shrugged. “I dunno. Looks like it feels weird.”

“…Fine. Just don’t poke my freakin’ eye. And don’t leave greasy fingerprints.”

An intense expression of concentration crossed Grif’s face as he leaned in and ran his thumb along the very edge of the metal, brushing over skin when he traced the curve towards Simmons’ cheek. To his surprise, a metal eyelid sank halfway over the false iris, ready to protect it should Grif’s finger slip.

“So. Fucking. Cool.” Grif shook his head and pulled away, dour, jealous. Simmons blinked away the odd feeling of another person’s hand on his face, metal lid slapping down with a soft ‘click’.

“Can I see your arm again?” Grif asked after a short pause.

“Why?”

“God, man, why do you always have to be so paranoid?”

“I don’t know, maybe because the last time this happened we ended up being fucking dickheads to each other.” Despite the words, he was already shedding chunks of armor.

“That’s nothing different.”

“No, it was different that night. It was fucked up. We were jerks, Grif.”

“Yeah? We’re always jerks.”

Simmons’ gloved hand rubbed at his face. “Stop being obstinate, you know what I mean.”

“Oh, oh you mean Frankenstein?” he sneered.

“Yes, I mean Frankenstein. And tin man.”

“I could call you iron man.”

“Smartass,” Simmons growled and unclipped Tucker’s tube so his suit could be shoved down. “What are you doing?”

The other soldier was peeling off his armor as well. “What does it look like?” he asked as he offered a long, pale arm to the other Red. “I know you miss it.”

Cheeky. Simmons glanced down at the offered hand and curled cold, articulated fingers around the wrist.

“Sometimes,” he murmured and brought it down to his thigh, pressing the back of his old knuckles into the plating. He pushed down on the center of the white palm, the rubber lining on his much stronger thumb digging lightly into the muscle. He watched curiously as Grif flexed his fingers at the action.

“Ooh, do that again.”

“I’m not giving you a hand massage,” Simmons snorted.

“Well, technically you’d be giving yourself a hand massage…”

“Oh ha-ha,” he pushed down again and Grif let out a grunt. Grif’s other hand came down hesitantly on an icey forearm, hissing at the temperature before he let blunt fingernails dig into a thin crease.

“If you pull right there it opens,” Simmons nodded at the seam.

“What’s in it?”

“Look.”

Grif picked at the indentation until a tiny compartment flipped open. He peeked inside.

“…Oh one hundred?” Grif shook his head. “Lame. Sarge could’ve put something useful in there, like a laser. It’s not like the time isn’t displayed on our visors.”

“I know,” Simmons sighed. “I guess it’ll be nice for whenever this shit ends. I won’t need a watch.”

Grif pushed the small flap closed and ran his hand over the smooth surface down to where his teammate was still rubbing his palm. He stopped the false hand, glanced up at Simmons’ face and took the metal between warm, two-toned flesh.

Grif had seen a few artificial limbs, but nothing quite like what Simmons’ had. Most were made to blend with the wearer, encased in a synthetic skin to camouflage the machine. Maybe what Simmons had was what they looked like without the synth.

Its palm was covered in a thick layer of black padding, allowing it to mimic the shape of an actual hand. Grif turned the padding to the light and snorted at the tiny swirls thinly imprinted on each fingertip.

Just another detail…

He closed the meal into a fist. Hydrolics hissed as fingers eased closed . At each joint a thin black material protected the wires that pulsed beneath the alloy.

“Why didn’t Sarge give me this?”

Simmons had almost slipped into sleep during the quiet examination until that question grabbed his attention. He looked up sharply.

“What?” Like he didn’t hear the question.

“Why didn’t he just do this to me? You didn’t need to lose anything-”

“You needed… a kidney… and lungs-” Simmons fished for something else to add, something that would explain.

“Not that,” Grif seethed. “This.” He squeezed down hard on the false hand. “This. He didn’t need to take your arm, he could have just put the pieces on me. I could’ve been the cyborg and only one of us would be-”

What he insinuated sucked the words out both of them, leaving a myriad of adjectives hanging in the air. Simmons’ mouth opened several times before he dropped back against the bed, shaking his head and looking down at the crushing grip Grif had on his hand.

“I don’t know. I don’t know why. You know Sarge-”

“He’s fucking crazy,” Grif snarled.

nucking futs

“He’s not crazy, he just…he had an idea…”

“No, don’t you try to defend him, don’t you dare. You know that he just didn’t want me to be his cool little pet experiment, not Grif, not that asshole that never follows orders or pays attention, not that rebellious dick that hates everyone and everything in this canyon, including his teammates and his Sergeant, not-”

“Stop it.”

“-that kid who shows no respect to his superior, who never does the dishes, who always leaves the milk out-”

“Grif…”

“Who never puts the toilet seat down, who never puts the cap on the toothpaste, who never picked up his sister from school, who never called Dad on father’s day, who never fed the dogs or washed the car or mowed the lawn-”

Simmons ripped his hand away from Grif’s and grabbed the rambling man by the shoulders. “Grif,” he grit his teeth. “Stop it.”

“-or even deserved to make it through that fucking tank running over him. Not Grif, not that son of a bitch, that ugly son of a bitch. Why would he ever deserve something so cool?”

He held out his hands, mismatched eyes boring into Simmons. “Look at this. How fucking ugly this looks.”

“It’s not ugly,” Simmons shook the shoulders under his hands, as If he could jar the words into place. “It’s not ugly, okay?”

“Bullshit. You’re just saying that because they’re your pieces.”

“There’s nothing wrong with them!” Simmons insisted.

Grif shook his head vehemently. “They don’t look right on me, they belong on you! If Sarge had just given me the synths-”

“You selfish fucking bastard,” Simmons whispered. Grif’s mouth snapped shut. “Do you think this is easy, Grif?” He asked and waited expectantly for an answer. Predictably, he didn’t receive one. “Alright, let me ask you this: how do you like taking those immunosuppressants?”

Grif sneered. “It sucks.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it does. I’m sure it really fucking sucks. I’m sure you’d much rather take eighteen pills a day rather than two. I’m sure you’d love randomly waking up in a pool of hydraulic fluid when this shit breaks,” Simmons hissed and lifted his metal arm. “I’m positive you’d have a great time with constant, painful malfunctions. With the bleeding...”

The anger fled from Grif’s face, a sort of reluctant comprehension taking its place.

“You want that, Grif? You want Sarge opening you up for two hours a day, fucking around with whatever the wants, putting you back together? And it hurts, shit hurts so bad…” he trailed off and snorted maliciously. “You wouldn’t have been able to handle this. It’s better this way.”

“You…” Grif stood abruptly and looked down on the Marine who was determinedly looking at the tubing in his chest. “You fucking. Asshole,” he could barely bite out the words, rage visibly swarming over him. He gave a short, barking laugh and paced at the end of the bed. “I can’t fucking believe it. “Volunteered”. Oh man,” he put his head in his mismatched hands and ran his fingers incredulously through messy hair. “Wow. You’re a real piece of work, Simmons.”

“It’s better and you know it-”

“I’m a fucking FREAKSHOW!” Grif yelled, slapping the raised, mottled scarring in the middle of his chest.

“SO AM I!” Simmons screamed back and leapt from the bed, savagely violating the shorter man’s personal space, their furious faces almost touching. “Face it, Grif.” A blur of silver and false fingers closed once again over a light nipple. “You can’t even handle this.”

Like it happened before, Grif went completely lax, needing to grab onto Simmons arm to keep himself standing. Simmons yanked him closer, ignoring the threatening growl from the younger man. “You are,” Simmons whispered harshly into Grif’s ear. “The most. Lazy and selfish bastard I’ve ever met. You want what I have because it looks cool, don’t you? DON’T YOU?!” He shouted into Grif’s ear.

“Fuck off!” Grif screamed and desperately tried to pull away.

“You want the only good thing about this fake shit and you don’t even know, couldn’t possibly dream what comes along with it. Well I could show you, Grif,” he whispered into Grif’s neck. Goosebumps exploded over the smaller man’s skin. “I could show you everything-”

A sick slurping sound interrupted the maroon soldier’s disturbing advance.

“Christ, you dicks are loud.”

The reds ripped away from each other at the low gurgle, and they stared, dumbstruck, at the occupant of the cot beside them.

“Tucker?”

“Hi,” the previously unconscious blue rasped, bloodshot eyes narrowed at the men hovering over him. “Someone want to tell me what the fuck is going on?”