Are We There Yet?

Title: Are We There Yet?

Author: Kaid

Pairing: C/T, soon to be S/G

Rating: Overall NC-17

Warning: WIP

Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue!

Chapter Summary: And Church thought blue base sucked.





Chapter Seven: As it Stands



“Wake up.”



The southern drawl shook Church from an uneasy sleep. Muscles screamed in agony as the red C.O. shoved his shoulder, cramped from an entire night spent lying on his side in a bed too small for its occupants. He unfurled and sat shakily, letting Tucker drop halfway onto his back. He didn’t even want to know how the younger man was going to feel after two or three days of prone positions.



Still wearing only a pair of maroon camo pants, Church lifted himself over his teammate. His bare feet hit the thinly carpeted floor, the blood rushing to his head almost making him fall over. Sarge prodded him out of the way, roughly shifting Tucker until he was flat on his back before he lifted one of the unconscious man’s hands.



“What’re you-” Church’s eyes widened when he saw what the older red held in his gloved fingers. After strapping on a tourniquet, the grumpy commander flicked his thumb at a few bulging veins behind Tucker’s knuckles, then quickly slipped a needle under his skin.



Church almost passed the fuck out. Only by sheer force of will (and, uh, not wanting to look like a complete puss in front of his enemy) did the cobalt marine remain standing.



“Don’t want him dryin’ up on you,” Sarge rumbled before releasing the strap around Tucker’s wrist. He rolled an I.V. stand a little closer to the bed and faced the prisoner who was looking even paler than usual. The stocky man couldn’t help but grin.



“Well, like Ah said yesterday: there’s a toilet with your name on it. Shame Ah gotta give ya the orders mahself, but yer dastardly little friend has mah best Private all tied up-”



“I MADE PANCAKES!”



The shriek startled the hell out of the two Spartans. Sarge groaned and cracked his neck irritably. “For the last time, Ah’m not eatin’ your damn pancakes, son!”



“But they’re blueberry,” Donut whined, and for the first time this morning Church could actually smell. The sweet scent of breakfast pastries hit him full in the face. His stomach gave a loud, angry gurgle.



“Oh, I’ll eat your fuckin’ pancakes,” Church murmured, eyes flashing to the side when the red responded with a low ‘Ah’m sure you would’.



Church’s brows creased, but his attention shifted when Caboose poked his head around the doorframe.



“Captain McMuffins and I made breakfast, Church. You should eat.” He smiled brightly, but then his nose wrinkled. “And shower. You’re kind of smelly.”



Church pursed his lips. “I am not,” he pouted, knowing full well that after a night spent sweating and shifting up against the hot power-source in Tucker’s back, he certainly was. But Church wasn’t going to shower. What was the point when he was probably going to be elbow deep in a shitter all day?



Caboose beckoned for him to follow but Church stalled. He felt naked without his shirt on. Not that he was ashamed or self conscious about his body or anything – his abs were rockin’ – he was just so used to being under layers of metal that he forgot how it felt to stand in a room full of people wearing anything less than a suit of hardcore looking armor.



He turned around to search for a spare article of clothing when his eyes settled on Simmons, who he’d somehow missed during his ‘conversation’ with Sarge. The man was sitting up on the bed, back in his armor, looking restless. Church couldn’t blame him for being bored out of his mind. If it were him he would be kicking things right now.



Church beat down the memories from last night as they tried to resurface, but a flicker of a pinched, pink nipple still filtered through.



“You got a shirt I can borrow?” he grunted.



Simmons gave him a glance over before he dug into his drawer and tossed a plain gray tee in his direction. Church caught it and wriggled into the shirt that was, amazingly, too small for him. His shoulders were broader than Simmons’s and he had more muscle mass, so what little fabric would have been left over from the other man’s height transferred to Church’s traps and biceps. Whatever, it covered him well enough.



When he was dressed, Church shot the C.O. a sour look and trudged into the kitchen, were his spirits were immediately lifted by the sight of a stack of delicious, vulnerable pancakes sitting on the table. Caboose nudged them towards the salivating Spartan. Church didn’t need any encouragement – he ravenously tore through the poor circles of cooked dough. Donut cooed, happy with making something that someone other than Caboose could appreciate. When Church finished, the oldest red nudged him in the back.



“You c’n go ahead n’ start by cleanin’ the dishes, Nancy,” he stated, carrying a covered plate into the hallway, presumably to Simmons. The blue sneered when a very syrupy ‘thank you, sir’ echoed down the corridor.



Church sighed and went to work.



* * * * *



The bedroom door slammed open and Simmons almost fell off the mattress. A filthy, livid Church stomped through the threshold, teeth bared and chest heaving.



“I’m going. To kill him,” he seethed. Grif shoved past the prisoner in his way, guffawing as he strut into the room. The orange soldier gave a languid stretch and his hands came to rest at the back of his neck as he admired his handiwork.



“You missed it, Simmons. Sarge actually praised me.”



Simmons tilted his covered head, obviously giving Grif a curious look. “What? That doesn’t sound like Sarge…” he glanced at Church looking for some kind of confirmation. The shorter man only scowled and crossed his arms, eyes pinned on the lockbox under his teammate. No doubt thinking of donning his armor and strangling the life out of the cocky orange prick.



“Pft, you’re just jealous. I walked in while he had this guy scrubbing the can, and gladly offered to ‘oversee the prisoner’s duties’,” he rocked back and forth on his heels, tremendously pleased with himself. “So I had him do every dirty job I could think of. Incinerate the garbage, clean all of the toilets, scrub the sinks, do the laundry-”



“Oh, that’s just cruel…”



“Clean out all the grit from their ‘Hog…aw man, I worked his ass into the ground. I’m surprised Sarge didn’t promote me, he was so happy.”



Simmons gave a snort. Like hell Sarge would ever give Grif a promotion. Simmons wasn’t even sure their C.O. could do that, but if he could he would definitely never do it for Grif-



“No. Really. Do you have a gun? Because I’m going to fucking kill him.”



Donut popped into the room and immediately backed out the door, a hand clamped over his nose. “Pe-EW! You’re certainly ripe, aren’t you?” He looked at Church as if he were the most offensive thing he’d ever seen, then pinched a corner of Simmons’ soiled t-shirt between two carefully extended fingers. “Come with me,” he ordered, the other hand still firmly covering his nose as he gave the sleeve a gentle tug. “There’s no way you’re standing in here a second longer stinking like you do.”



Church bit back a very uncalled-for insult and allowed himself to be led off to the showers. Simmons set down the book he’d just finished and picked up another. He had read them before, but as he was technically just as bed ridden as the man he was attached to, he didn’t really have much else to do. His attempts to read were, predictably, interrupted by the gloating marine.



“Betchya are jealous, Simmons. Sarge giving me all of that attention today that would’ve been yours if you weren’t stuck to this blue fucktard.”



“Jealous of what, having him say ‘good job’ after making the prisoner do the work you were supposed to do weeks ago, you lazy bastard?”



Grif held up his hands defensively. “Hey now, fuckin’ sue me for knowing how to procrastinate until the perfect opportunity comes along-”



“Yeah, an opportunity that wouldn’t have come if it weren’t for some freaky twist of fate.”



“Fate likes me. She’s not a fickle bitch like destiny is.”



Simmons rolled his eyes heavily under his visor. “Fate is supposed to lead you to destiny, dumbass. If either of them is going to be fickle, it’s going to be fate.”



Grif seemed to ponder that for a moment, much to the annoyance of Simmons, who really just wanted him to get out of the room after what had happened between them last night.



“Hn, I guess you’re right,” Grif concluded. “Whatever, I still say you’re a jealous little biiioootch-”



“I AM NOT JEALOUS!” Simmons roared and flung his book at the aggravating shithead. It bounced harmlessly off of the standing Spartan’s chest and flopped open-faced on the carpet. Grif picked it up and began reading where the book had propped itself open.



Simmons felt goosebumps prickle his good arm. “Give it back,” he commanded, holding out his metal hand.



“Why? You threw it at me, you obviously don’t want it.” He flipped the paperback closed so he could read the title. “Rage Against the Machine, how to cope…with artificial…limbs.”



Grif blinked under his mask, completely floored. He coughed.



“What a shitty title,” he tried for some humor, but Simmons simply sat there, shaking, both hands curled tightly in the sheets at his hips. Grif took a small step forward and dropped the book on the mattress.



“Um…” Grif fished for something to say, something to lessen the crushing depression that practically oozed from the seated marine.



Church settled his dilemma by walking stiffly into the room.



“I don’t know who’s underwear I’m wearing,” he announced, miserable.



Grif looked down at the black shorts with little red lips adorning them. “Son of a bitch,” he pointed at the undergarments. “Those are my boxers. Where the fuck did you get those?”



“I gave them to him,” Donut said over the cobalt private’s shoulder. “Your asses are about the same size – though yours is just fat. His is a cute little bubble-butt.”



Church cupped his hands over his face. Grif wanted to laugh but was too pissed at being so blatantly insulted.



Simmons, though, howled uproariously.



“I take it back!” Church cried. “I’m going to kill HIM!” he rounded on Donut, but the younger man had already dashed behind Caboose.



“Wh-why, Donut…?” Grif whined, confused at the pink Marine’s sudden callousness.



“You’re mean to me,” he glared from behind the hulking blue. “And you wouldn’t eat my pancakes this morning, either.” He smiled sweetly at Church. “But he ate them, and he does have a really hot-”



“OH my GOD, now we KNOW you check us out, Donut. It was much easier to live with you when we didn’t. I have to go boil my ears now, thank you.” The orange Spartan paused, then casually glanced over his shoulder. “And my ass isn’t fat,” he added, pride hurt more than he’d like to admit.



Simmons, crying now as he rolled back and forth on the bed, finally got his fit under some control. “O-oh god, it hurts. It fuckin’ hurts so good. OHoohaahahaha!” His attempts to calm himself down degenerated into more laughter. He slapped the mattress and gripped his stomach, then let out a long, whooshing breath. “Okay, okay. Woooo. Fuck, Donut, that was great.”



He cocked his head in Grif’s direction. “You get to donate the clothes to him this time. He already trashed my stuff because of you.” He let a grin creep over his face. “And really, his ass would fit much better in your pants than mine.”



“You know what? Fuck you guys,” Grif snapped and stormed out of the room.



Church stood with his arms crossed protectively near the door while Simmons endured more cramp-inducing giggles. When the red came down from his high he pointed towards a dresser on the other side of the room. “That one’s his. Watch out for porn.”



Church, sore from working after so many months of inactivity, hobbled over to the dresser and opened the middle drawer first. Statistically, it was the least likely to contain said porn. A black shirt and a pair of red plaid pjs were crammed in the corner, so he extracted the wrinkled pieces of cloth and struggled into them, muscles screaming in pain despite the brief, hot shower he’d just taken.



Simmons watched the blue’s shoulder blades churn as he worked the cloth over his torso, forcing himself to look away for the hundredth time in the past two days. He didn’t understand how he could look at Donut and the other rookie without their shirts on and not feel the same level of absolute jealousy as when he looked at the blue leader.



Probably because his skin was what Simmons should have looked like. Smooth and pale – but different. It was better. Church didn’t have freckles splattered over his shoulders, or a thin scar that ran along his side, or a large, ugly birth mark at the base of his spine…



Then again, neither did Simmons. Not anymore.



Stoppit.



Needing a distraction, he looked down at the book Grif had dropped on the bed, his stomach clenching a little in anxiety. He wondered what the younger red thought of him now. Probably thought he was some emotional basket case, needing self-help books to guide him through the ‘painful experience of losing a limb’. Not like he cared how the lazy fuck viewed him.



Simmons tossed the paperback on the floor. Church, fully dressed and on his way to Tucker’s side, sidestepped the projectile, glancing curiously at the red. He sank into the mattress next to the comatose private and gazed down at his face. Tucker’s lips were slightly parched and his eyes had gathered little crusties in their corners.



He expected Simmons to say something when he lifted his hand and rubbed the eye goo off of Tucker’s face, but he stayed quiet, simply watching Church as he continued scraping off little bits of mucus and wiping his fingers on Grif’s pants. “Is he always an asshole?” the dark haired man asked.



“We both are,” Simmons replied with a shrug. “We’re bored. We pick fights. That’s just how it is. I would’ve been making you do the same things if our places were reversed.”



“Fantastic. I can’t wait until it’s your turn to boss me around,” Church murmured sarcastically and scooted in behind the armored Spartan. “He should be awake by now,” he said, more to the back of Tucker’s head than to the enemy on the opposite mattress.



“You sure you didn’t give him more than one?”



“Yes.”



“Positive?”



“Fucking yes I’m positive,” Church growled.



“Then I don’t know what to tell you.”



“I wasn’t asking you,” the blue said irritably, shifting his leg and wincing as his hip popped, “just talking.”



Simmons let his helmet drop back against the wall and drummed his fingers over his thigh. He let out a heavy sigh. “Look, I’m bored as fuck. Excuse me for attempting to engage in some conversation.”



Church lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at the taller marine. “I don’t want to talk to you.”



“Obviously.”



“I don’t want to be here.”



“Again, obvi-”



“Just shut the fuck up, I’m trying to sleep.”



“You know,” Simmons bristled, “it would probably serve you a lot better to try and make nice while you’re here, or things could end up being very difficult for you-”



Church sprang up, one muscled arm hoisting his torso above Tucker’s back. “Are you threatening me?” he hissed, teeth glinting in the low light of the room.



Simmons closed his false hand over the tube that clipped into his chest. “No,” the bigger soldier said calmly. “I’m not threatening you.”



“Get your fucking hand away from that,” Church said, face strained and ashen.



“Lay down.”



“Get your mother-”



“GET THE FUCK DOWN!” Simmons screamed. Church’s elbow collapsed out of shock and he bounced against the mattress. Simmons let go of the tubing and folded his hands over his stomach. “Sleep.”



“You’re fucking psycotic,” Church wheezed. He curled an arm protectively around Tucker’s waist and let his contempt-filled glare latch onto the gold visor across from him.



Simmons said nothing.