Are We There Yet?

Title: Are We There Yet?
Author: Kaid
Pairing: C/T, soon to be S/G
Rating: Overall NC-17
Warnings: WIP, dash of angst
Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue!
Chapter Summary: Church, Simmons, and two very uncomfortable confrontations. ~4,000 words


Chapter Six: What’s Mine is Yours


Church was an idiot. He was an undisputed, grade A, no joke bonified dipshit.

Coma. He put Tucker in a fucking coma. He groaned heavily and hit his head gently but repeatedly into the frame of the reds’ Warthog. Idiot

Oh, wait, wait, what else had he done? He’d bartered for his teammate’s life. He’d surrendered to the enemy in order to save his friend.

Helluva day to leave his reading glasses at home.

Whatever, he deserved it. After being so careless he was surprised fate hadn’t been the ultimate bitch and taken Tucker from him anyway.

Hey, hey now brain. What’s this? Taken him from you? What are you, some grieving widow? Shut the fuck up.

Church grit his teeth and held tighter to the helmet on his thigh, neck sore from a half an hour of craning it to look back at Tucker. The attached ‘Hogs rolled through the caves and into the canyon, crunching to a stop at the red’s front door. Sarge dismounted and hauled the cobalt Spartan none too gently out of his vehicle.

“Simmons’ll take his shoulders, you get his legs. Put him on the table ‘til we can figure out what we’re gonna do with ‘im.”

Even though he bristled at the unnecessarily rough treatment, Church did as he was ordered and helped the maroon soldier lift Tucker’s dead weight from the car. If it had been up to him none of the bastards would have been allowed to touch the younger blue, but since he and Simmons were kind of attached, Church didn’t make too big of a deal out of the taller man carrying him.

Red base was, essentially, blue base with different shit in it. The kitchen was in the same spot, the table was even in the same place in the room, so Tucker was swiftly loaded onto its mostly clean surface. Church swept a stray plate onto the counter, away from where it would have been smashed under the teal Marine’s leg, and then collapsed, guilt ridden, into a seat next to the Private’s head.

In the light, the difference in codpieces was now more obvious than ever. Church closed his eyes to block out the sight, wishing he could plug his ears to keep out the chuckling of the orange Spartan.

“Oh, is Tucker having nap time?”

Church’s head whipped up at the cheerful voice in the doorway, a relieved look on his face before his eyes even met their target.

His jaw dropped.

Standing in the red’s kitchen, completely oblivious to how ridiculous he looked, Caboose grinned at him with lips a dark shade of mauve.

Donut poked his head around Caboose’s arm and, seeing Tucker sprawled on the tabletop with Church at his side, assessed the situation with the startling accuracy he was known for.

“WOO! SLEEPOVER! ALRIIIGHT!”

“You pink son of a bitch!” Church yelped, aghast at the horrid color staining his teammate’s mouth. “What did you do to my rookie?!”

“I made him pretty.” Donut’s eyes were little slits of joy.

Church put his armor-clad cheek to the table and stifled a scream, switching topics as soon as he was sure he wouldn’t explode. “How long is he going to be out?” he groaned, referring to Tucker.

“Depends, how many pills did you give ‘im?”

“Only one.”

“Well, it’s anyone’s guess,” Sarge answered. “Used the stuff on those two when Ah had to replace Grif’s missin’ pieces.” Church noticed he didn’t scowl or mention the tank – the Sergeant had probably been too excited at having a chance to make a cyborg to begrudge the blues the mangling of his most hated Private. “They were out cold for a good three days. Ah used a slightly higher dose, but they reacted differently. Simmons was up about ten hours before Grif.”

“Then can we at least get him on a bed or something?” the cobalt soldier asked, eyes drifting to the gently wheezing blue in front of him.

“Meh,” Sarge grumbled. “Ah dunno, we only got four mattresses-”

“May I suggest giving him Grif’s, sir?”

“Oh you backstabbing-” the orange Spartan growled.

“An excellent idea, Simmons,” the C.O. cut him off. “Grif, go help the prisoner move the beds.”

“Eh, what was that? Physical labor?” Grif called, dashing through the front door and out into the dark before Sarge could blink.

“It’s fine, Caboose will help me,” Church stood and walked over to the two rookies in the threshold. He stared up at Caboose. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the younger man without a helmet – he’d had to clean quite a few injuries for the clumsy Spartan, and more than once had he taken off his headpiece so his tears wouldn’t fill up his visor and drown him (or so he believed would happen). “Uhg, get that stuff off,” he griped, using the thick padding on his glove to swipe off the disgusting goop.

“I am glad you are back, Churchsir,” the blond looked so damn happy that Church couldn’t help but let a tiny smile crack his features.

“Yeah, me too.” A lie, he hated this place. But he was genuinely glad the younger man was okay.

“Is something wrong with Tucker? He does not look like he is enjoying nap time.”

Church looked guiltily over his shoulder. “He’s just really tired, Caboose.”

“Why does he have a plastic thing in his nose?”

“He needs it to breathe.” Honestly, this conversation wasn’t making him feel any better.

“Oooh, ooh, Church. Maybe I need a nose-tube. Sometimes it is hard for me to breathe, too-”

“Y’know, Caboose,” the commanding Spartan took the younger man by the arm and led him away from the kitchen. “I know that, occasionally, your brain forgets to tell you to inhale. The next time that happens, I’ll stick a tube down your nose, too. Deal?”

Caboose nodded in affirmation and followed his commander contently down the hall. Donut helpfully pointed out the room Simmons and Grif shared. The beds were on opposite sides of the room, as far away as the walls would allow.

“Since Simmons is keeping him alive, I guess we should push them closer together. In case he needs to sleep … do robots need to sleep?”

“I’m not a robot!” Simmons called out indignantly from the kitchen.

“Cyborg, whatever. Sorry,” Church mumbled.

“And yes, I do need to sleep. Like I’d stand vigil next to this guy like his weepy girlfriend . . . that job’s all yours, blue.”

Church was seconds from marching into the kitchen and kicking some ‘cyborg’ ass when Sarge practically materialized in front of him, his stance indicating that he was far too pleased while staring up at his newly acquired prisoner.

“Speakin’ of jobs,” the red practically churred, “hurry n’ move those beds and get your fellow blue dog loaded onto it. There’s a clogged toilet with your name on it.”

“What?! Hell no! I’m your captive, not your fuckin’ slave!”

Sarge gripped him between the chest plates and pulled his torso forward with a jerk. “Who’re you to say what I do and don’t do with mah own prisoner? Move the beds. Move yer teammate. Then strip outta that armor. Ya hear that, Simmons? Make sure he does it.”

“Yes sir!” The kissass merrily replied.

Church glumly began shoving Grif’s mattress closer to the maroon soldier’s, his attitude growing more and more sour by the minute. Caboose had no idea what was going on, as usual. The pyjama-clad Marine kept getting distracted by the pink soldier, who had, at some point during the night, been drawn on. A giant butterfly was between his shoulder blades, and little swirls danced over his hip bones. Caboose had received his own “tattoos” during his stay: a pair of lips on his inner wrist and a unicorn prancing across his thick bicep.

Only stopping himself from saying something about the oh-so-very homosexual doodles by remembering what he’d just done in a tent with Tucker, Church finally held Caboose’s attention long enough for him to help move the beds within three feet of each other. The rookies sat and bounced, carefree, on the freshly moved mattresses.

Wordlessly, he walked back into the kitchen and lifted Tucker’s legs. Simmons took the hint and they carried the comatose Marine to the bedroom, setting him on Grif’s rumpled sheets. Upon seeing the green peas messing up his bed, Simmons gave a rather hen-like squawk and shoed them out of the room.

“What are you chuckling at, asshole? Out of the armor.”

Church stiffened, reluctant to undress in front of the enemy Spartan. It had been years since a stranger had seen him out of the comforting shell the suit provided, and those men had become his allies, if not his friends.

Before Allison killed every last one of them.

“Don’t make me get Sarge in here. I’m sure he’d have no problem ripping it off of you.”

Thoughts efficiently interrupted, Church gave a resigned growl and began shucking the armored panels until he was down to the tight, black bodysuit beneath. He waited until Simmons tapped his foot, mockingly impatient, before he shakily removed his helmet.

Black locks flopped into his eyes, spikes heavily cow licked and sticking out in odd directions. He ran a bare hand self-consciously through the thick mess in an attempt to tame the flattened mass, but only succeeded in making it wilder.

Simmons didn’t say anything, but Church noticed the light shift on his visor as he glanced almost imperceptibly at the sleeping Marine. He looked like he wanted to say something about him, if his suddenly shifting weight indicated anything, but instead he cleared his throat.

“The rest of it.”

“Yeah right,” Church lifted a lip. “You know damn well we don’t wear underwear with these things. I’m not walking around this base naked, unclogging toilets or doing dishes or whatever menial labor your asshat of a C.O. decides to assign me. That’s sick.”

Simmons reached into a drawer beside his bed and tossed a pair of fatigues at him. Grif caught the pants in one hand and eyed them distastefully. The mottled camo was the same color as the other Spartan’s armor.

“Uhg. At least turn around or some shit, man. I don’t want you staring at my junk while I change.”

Simmons grunted and sat down on his bed, facing away from the disgruntled prisoner. Church stripped and pulled the fatigues over his hips, grimacing as they slid a little snugly over his ass. But the worse part, he thought as he snapped the top button closed, had to be that the things were three inches too long for him. He stood in the middle of an enemy base, a prisoner, stripped of his armor, feeling like a child in pants far too big for him.

“I really hate my life,” he said to no one in particular, though Simmons hummed in agreement anyway.

Exhaustion was creeping into Church’s very soul. It had to be at least midnight by now, if not later, and the day’s stress was wearing on his last nerve.

“The prisoner is out of his armor, sir,” the red reported to his superior. Simmons gave the slouched man a good look over and clicked on his radio again. “May I suggest waiting until tomorrow to give him any tasks, sir?”

Church was caught between fury and relief at being shown pity from the jerkoff, but he settled on relief when a loud ‘harrumph’ of affirmation could be heard from inside the man’s helmet. Resentfully, the stripped man nodded his thanks and sat next to one of Tucker’s legs.

“I don’t want to leave him in his suit for two days. It’s gotta be uncomfortable as fuck.”

“Not like he could tell at this point,” Simmons laid back on the mattress and crossed his ankles, “but he’ll wake up feeling like Satan sat on his chest and punched him in the kidneys for about a week.”

A black eyebrow rose. Simmons shrugged. “Sarge put us back into our suits for convenience after the surgery. Waking up was a bitch and a half.”

“Convenience?”

Simmons looked at him with what Church assumed was a ‘duh’ expression, considering his next words.

“You want to put a catheter in him? Then by all means, take off his armor.”

Church blanched. “No thanks,” he murmured, his crotch wincing in sympathy with the memories that flooded him.

Deciding to at least make Tucker a little less likely to suffer through sore muscles, he began removing the pieces that they’d taken off in the tent, rolling him so he could release the seals on the asspad and, thank god, finally take off the fucking codpiece. In order for the suit to work properly the chunk covering his torso would have to stay on, unfortunate considering it was probably the hardest thing to rest soundly in while wearing.

Simmons casually motioned to a spare locker under Grif’s bed. Church piled the blue armor inside, then checked the tubes lodged in Tucker’s throat, made sure his neck was properly supported, and generally fretted over his incapacitated comrade.

The maroon Spartan watched, gold façade showing no outward expression of interest, but Church could still feel his eyes on his hands, the side of his face, the naked skin of his chest.

“Staring is rude,” he finally spat, unsure of how to handle someone paying such close attention to his actions.

Simmons shrugged. “You two are the most interesting thing in the room,” he admitted. A few seconds passed before he spoke again. “So did you guys really…”

Church turned glacial blue eyes on the inquisitive Private. “No.”

Simmons felt the chill, but pressed on. “The way you’re acting says otherwise.”

Church turned his focus entirely on the lounging Marine, eyes so intense it actually sent a tiny jolt of shock down Simmons’ spine. “I almost killed him today.”

“I just never knew you gave a shit, considering half the time he’s talking about getting pussy and the other half he’s badgering the shit out of you with idiotic questions. Would’ve seemed like a blessing to be rid of him.”

Simmons didn’t like the dark smile that pulled at the edges of Church’s mouth.

“Really? Because as far as I knew, you didn’t have to donate most of your body to the bastard you’re constantly arguing with-”

The red’s gut gave a lurch, his defenses snapping up in an instant as he leapt into a sitting position.

“I did that for Sarge-”

“Sure,” Church pushed a piece of hair out of Tucker’s face before he could stop himself, his hand curling into a fist halfway through the motion. His anger died. “Sure you did. Whatever you tell yourself when you look in the mirror and see all that metal.”

Simmons felt his stomach drop. “When the fuck did you see…?” he rasped, his left hand gripping the sheets so tightly they were starting to rip.

“We spend all day up on that ridge, watching you guys,” Church flicked his head in the general direction of their surveillance point. “That one time you took off your glove in front of your C.O. to show him...something…I don’t know, maybe a loose wire. Whatever. We’d heard about the operation, we just didn’t know how far it went.” His eyes had a nasty glint in spite of himself as he looked up at the sitting man. “How much did you give up?”

Simmons didn’t answer. He simply pulled a book out of the same drawer he’d retrieved the pants from and laid back on the mattress.

“Turn the lights off whenever. Or don’t,” he said, voice lacking any emotion. He thumbed idly through the pages of the book until he found a suitable spot and then went quiet. Church watched him read for a few pages, the only sound in the room the low humming inside of the other Spartan’s chest.

Church glanced around. Realizing he probably wouldn’t have any luck talking to the red and, at this point, having absolutely no desire to, he decided not to ask where he was supposed to sleep and made the choice on his own. He stood to turn off the lights, unsurprised when a small lamp on the dresser flickered to life. Carefully, he turned Tucker on to his side, making sure the tubes wouldn’t slip free, before he crawled behind him, back touching the cold concrete wall. His head settled on the pillow next to Tucker’s and he subtly adjusted the Spartan until there was enough room for both on the small twin bed.

His breath ruffled the teal marine’s hair. Ignoring the flicker on Simmons’ visor as he undoubtedly tilted his face in their direction, Church closed his eyes and willed sleep to take him.

* * * * *

“How fucking cute.”

Church was instantly awoken by the ruthless snarl.

“SHHHhh!” Simmons whispered, jerked from his own dozing by the orange Spartan hovering over his bed. Church stayed completely still, his eye slitting just enough for him to peek out through his lashes.

Simmons was staring at him. He kept his breathing deep and feigned sleep. Apparently convinced by his act, the maroon soldier closed the book lying open on his chest and confronted the fuming man before him.

“You should try that a little louder next time. Maybe wake the whole base. What the hell do you want?”

“I want my bed back,” Grif hissed, sounding infinitely childish. Simmons rolled his eyes under his visor.

“Not gonna happen. Go take the couch.”

“Donut and Caboose already did. In pretty much the same position as those two fags.”

Church felt his teeth bare against Tucker’s shoulder, but somehow kept his flash of rage in check.

“Then go sleep in Donut’s bed.”

“Ew! No fucking way! Do you have any idea what he’s probably done in that thing?!”

“Probably no worse than what you’ve done in yours,” Simmons deadpanned.

“Exactly,” Grif responded in the same tone. The two eyed each other down through their gold masks.

“Sucks that you’re being such a bitch about it then. You don’t see them complaining," he nodded towards the blues.

“Yeah, because they like the cock. The thought of sleeping on a come stained mattress probably drives them wild.”

Church had to hold his breath and bite into the lining of Tucker’s bodysuit to keep from leaping up and tackling the fully armored Spartan to the ground.

“Stop being such a bigot,” Simmons reprimanded. “Church is about the biggest asshole in this place and the other one’s a cunt-craving, immature little fuck. He’s just worried about him. Give them a break.”

The cobalt Spartan tried to wrap his brain around that sentiment, considering that Simmons had been relentlessly taking the piss out of them since the moment they stepped out of the tent. Grif seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“Wait, so all of the sudden you’re all…compassionate and understanding and all that shit? Awww, the tin man has a heart.”

“You shut your fucking face, Frankenstein.”

The words scored Grif deeply. Church could see his neck jerk as if he’d been slapped. He took a step back from the bed.

“Fuck,” Simmons whispered, immediately regretting the insult.

“No, no, that was…that was real good, Simmons.” Grif squeezed out, clearly hurt but trying to make up it with malice. “I’ll remember that one for later. Frankenstein. Ha ha. Funny stuff.”

“Grif, I didn’t mean-”

“No, you meant it,” Grif’s voice was lifeless as he reached up to pull at the slabs of armor covering his arms. Church looked on, curious and slightly afraid at the cool demeanor that had settled over the red. Simmons’ feelings mirrored his. He stared on with growing concern at Grif’s seemingly calm and methodic removal of his suit.

“What are you doing?” Simmons whispered.

Grif remained silent, undoing each clasp quickly until his upper body was encased only in the fitted black lining. Hesitating only a second, he slid down the seal and slipped out of the top portion of the suit, bunching it at his waist.

Church’s jaw went slack.

Grif was a freaky sight. The arm that wasn’t his was almost white compared to the tan the Hawaiian naturally possessed. The pale skin stretched across his shoulder and down to the middle of his chest where it connected with his own skin. A dark, jagged line where the two complexions meshed ran down his sternum and along the bottom of his pec, disappearing under the armpit to trail over his back and connect at the top of his collarbone.

Simmons was just as dumbstruck as Church, which the blue saw as odd considering they shared a room – he should have seen this type of thing by now. Then he thought of himself and Tucker, who, although they hadn’t shared a room in months, still hadn’t seen each other under the armor when they had lived in the same space.

The older red finally tore his gaze away and frantically pulled at his own armor. Whether he wasn’t one to be outdone or if he was just running on automatic, Church couldn’t tell. But fear did grip him when Simmons swiftly unclipped the tube connecting he and Tucker to remove his breastplate. The cobalt Spartan could literally feel Tucker’s lungs remain deflated, which scared the shit out of him until Simmons ripped down the bodysuit and plugged the cord back in place.

Church’s jaw dropped further.

Where Simmons’ skin was sewn to Grif’s chest, metal gleamed on the taller red’s own body. For each chunk of flesh that had been removed from his torso, smooth alloy plates took their place. A cold, articulated hand twitched against a pale stomach as the two helmeted males stared, hostile, expectant, each unnerved by what they saw.

“Sarge did such a better job on you,” Grif rumbled, anger and awe lacing his voice. Simmons looked down, metal fingers making a fist against his belly, and said nothing. “You can barely see the scars where the parts are attached. And your hand…”

Grif reached out with his left hand, Simmons’ hand, unintentionally emphasizing his statement, to run along the back of false knuckles. Simmons jolted at the touch, the sight of his own, unattached fingers too much to handle.

“He put so much detail into you,” Grif’s said bitterly, leaning further over the bed. “But you know what it is I hate the most, out of all of this?” Simmons didn’t answer the question. Grif brought his chest into the light.

“Your fucking girly pink nipples.”

Church would have snorted loudly in laughter if the situation hadn’t been so fucking tense. Sure enough, where Grif’s own nipple was a dark brown, Simmons’ was a light, dainty pink. They weren’t even the same shape.

The words shook Simmons from the quiet state he’d entered.

“It’s not like I wanted to give you my fucking body parts, dumbass,” Simmons said lowly, and Grif leaned in closer.

“Well I definitely didn’t want them!” he hissed.

“You were dead. You didn’t want anything. I saved your life.”

“Oho, Saint Simmons, here to save the day with his powers of kisassery-”

Without warning, Simmons’ robotic arm whipped out and his fingers clamped, hard, over the very nipple in discussion. Grif’s hips jerked and, curiously enough, a dark pink blush spread down over his chest, only really visible on the lighter half.

“Can you feel that?” Simmons asked.

“Yes.” Grif’s voice was husky. His hand, his own hand, came down on rounded metal.

“Good," Simmons glanced at the palm on his shoulder. "I can’t.”

Grif recoiled. Simmons released his hold. The two Spartans waded through the awkward silence before Grif finally gathered his armor and left the room.

Church watched Simmons stare at the opposite wall for a long, long time.