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“Damn it, Tucker!” Because of course, of course, by the time they figured out what he had done it was far too late to stop the temple glowing in the distance from completing its task.
Tucker unapologetically shrugs, climbs down from the warthog he'd “borrowed” for the trip to said temple, and meets Washington's eyes casually. “Stop worrying.”
Which, strangely enough, had the complete opposite effect. “That is NOT what Kimball meant by ‘needing a boost to the population’!”
“Dude, this is literally what the temple of procreation is for. Enjoy it. Get laaaaaid.” Wash takes a breath, desperately resisting the urge to throttle Tucker to death with that stupid key-sword thing. It'd probably take a while, because without the blade, it's pretty much a shitty failed rendition of brass knuckles. But Wash, he likes a challenge.
“What could possibly go wrong?” Tucker continues, apparently unaware how close he is to a savage beating.
Or of just how much child support he is going to owe as a result of this particular fuck up.
Wash has a biting retort on his tongue when Grif runs, actually runs (surprising everyone), into the garage. He's moving so fast he's forced to skid to a stop in front of them. They stare, who knew Grif could move at a pace other than meandering slowly?
Grif ignores their slack jawed stares in order to shout, “What the FUCK did you do!?”
“Only made this dirt rock a thousand times more awesome.” Tucker replies, not missing a beat. ”Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find some ladies…” Tucker strolls off, humming to himself.
Grif turns, notices which temple happens to be ominously glowing in the distance, then loudly curses. “FUCK!!! … Why is it, that every time, every goddamn time, something convoluted and INSANE happens, blue team, FUCKING BLUE TEAM, is responsible!?”
The temple chooses that moment to flare brightly illuminating the sky and surrounding area.
Wash swallows, “um, can we talk about this later?” He's ignored, so why not take the opportunity to slip away.
Grif doesn't notice. His eyes are fixed on the temple. “This is it, this is how I die.”
The garage is too exposed. “Shit.” Grif's mind whirls, he knows in all likelihood everyone is going to lose their damn minds in the next few minutes… Everyone… “Shit, where's, Simmons?”
Grif's moving before the thought solidifies in his mind. He's sprinting to the last place he saw him and no one blinks an eye at the unusual sight. Truth be told, they are somewhat distracted themselves.
Breath coming in loud pants as he runs, his mind races, keeping pace with his desperate scramble of his limbs. ‘Simmons can't be out in this.’ Not alone. ‘Can he even handle this sex pollen-esque bullshit?’ God only knows how much THAT might fuck him up.
He catches a flash of maroon out of the corner of his eye, nearly missing it down a long hallway, and stumbles to a halt. ‘That lieutenant is with him! The hot one that plays volleyball!’ Logically Grif knows he should just back off. Simmons likes her, he's fine. ‘HE'S FINE!’
And yet.. Well, let's just say no one is more surprised than Grif to find his weapon pointed at the back of her head. “Leave.”
She freezes, because helmet or no, she's not walking away from this if he fires a bullet through the base of her skull. “Sir?”
‘Maybe,’ he rationalizes, ‘he's not fine.’ Grif tightens his grip on the handle. ‘He'd never do this on his own. She's taking advantage.’ He decides.
He steps to the side, keeping the firearm pointed at her head but leaving a clear path for her to exit. “I didn't stutter, lieutenant.” Slowly she backs away, barrel trained on her until she disappears from view. Once her footsteps fade Grif turns his attention to Simmons.
Simmons is practically hyperventilating, “Grif, there's something wrong with me.”
Grif cringes, he's feeling it too. His heart is pounding, and he doubts it’s from the impromptu run across the base. “I know, buddy. I got you.” But he can't help glancing down the corridor where the lieutenant disappeared. Like she going to reappear and take Simmons away. “We can't stay out here though.”
Grif ushers him into the first empty room they find. Simmons is strangely compliant, leaning heavily into Grif and breathing deep. Once inside Grif realizes it's less a room and more a supply closet. It works, but space is limited. At least the light is operational.
Grif takes a moment. He needs to ground himself. He's not that guy. He can keep it together. Simmons is safe, it'd be fucked up if he protected him only to hurt him.
They hug opposite sides of the closet, loudly gasping for breath and overheated but mostly in control.
Simmons clutches at the shelving on his end of the tiny room. “Grif? What's happening?”
Grif isn't clutching at shelving, he's focus on keeping himself ramrod straight and still. “You know the temple of procreation?”
Simmons stares. Horror in his gaze. “He didn't.”
Exhale. Control. “Yep.”
“That… asshole” It's obvious Simmons was trying to think of something more vicious to call Tucker but couldn't find the words.
“Right?” Grif honestly was just agreeing for the sake of agreement at this point.
Simmons fidgets, uncomfortable, not even trying to hide it. “What now?”
“Wait it out?” Even Grif isn't sure that's a viable option. Every movement Simmons makes… It does things to him.
“What if,” Simmons shifts around again, much to Grif’s dismay, “what if I can't…?”
Grif inhales loudly. Even muscle locks tighter in a desperate bid to keep himself from mirroring Simmons and his not at all subtle hip movements. He pitches his voice sarcastically to respond. “Are you asking my permission to touch yourself? Kinky.”
Simmons grits his teeth. “Be serious, cockbite.” And yet, he doesn't stop with the micro hip movements that Grif loves and hates.
“I AM being serious.” ‘Joke, tell a joke’ he wills himself. “What if we don't discuss safewords and I need a snack break? I could die.”
“I'm going to fucking murder you.” Simmons promises. Grif decides even if Simmons doesn't follow through on his threat, his stupid hips will be the thing that kill Grif dead.
“See. That's why we need safewords.” Grif is clenching both his fists and jaw at this point. “Mine’s, pumpernickel.” He declares through clenched teeth.
“Oh my god, I hate you so fucking much right now!” Simmons shouts removing his helmet and letting it fall to the floor. His skin is flushed, cybernetic grafts contrasting brightly.
Grif meets his eyes, the green one is dilated. “Simmons, listen.” He takes another breath, telling himself to ignore Simmons and his stupid flushed cheeks. His brain screams at him, ‘this was a bad idea, I'm not in control. I.. I’ He takes a breath, speaks aloud. “I need to go.”
“That's,” Simmons swallows, “not a good idea.” He tells him, voice deceptively calm.
Grif wasn't expecting him to disagree. “I'm, sorry, what!?” He wants to laugh at the absurdity.
Simmons explains, “you are in no state to be wandering around.” Voice neutral, as if he's discussing the weather.
Grif does laugh then, before he too removes his helmet and lets it fall. He feels as flush as Simmons looks, sweat pouring off him, unlike Simmons and his stupid freon cooled body. He meets his eyes, he knows how wrecked he looks, but he needs Simmons to understand just how far gone he is. Why he needs to leave.
Grif locks eyes with him. “I'm going to level with you. OK?” Simmons nods. “Right now it's literally taking everything I have to stay on this side of the room. Do you know why?” Simmons shakes his head. “Because I don't know what you taste like, and I really, really, want to find out.”
Simmons startles, shaking the shelving behind him loudly.
Grif continues. “If you don't let me leave…” The implication is clear. “You need to let me leave. You'll be ok, just, stay here.”
“And I'm suppose to let you just wander off?” Simmons is stubborn. He crosses his arms like they might make decisions without him. Gripping his elbows tightly.
“Yes.” Grif responds as he pushes off from the wall, movements stiff, breaths coming far faster than even a few minutes ago. His hand touches the knob, fingers wrapping around it when Simmons speaks.
“Stay.” Simmons voice is low but clear. “You can taste me, if you stay.”
Grif reacts so sharply he snaps the handle clean off the door. For a moment he just holds the broken piece in his hand, helplessly stunned. Lost. Only to redirect, turning to glare incredulously at Simmons. “Damn! You can't say shit like that!” Grif yells closing in, bringing a fist filled with door knob up next to Simmons’ head into the shelf with a resounding smack.
“Sorry.”
“You don't look sorry.” Grif says and leans in, stopping a fraction away. They breathe together for a moment. “Last chance to stop this, Simmons.”
Simmons reacts by closing the distance.
The whole affair isn't pretty.
Grif slides a leg forward and suddenly there is sloppy grinding, uncoordinated kissing, more grinding. Save their helmets, their armor mostly stays in place. Few words are exchanged as they desperately work for just the right amount of friction at just the right tempo.
“Please..” Simmons repeats again and again. Grif responds with a kiss and rough thrust every time. The only word he seems capable of during is “more.” They find release fairly quick only to near immediately start up again. Quickly losing track of how many times the temple winds them up, and wrings them out. Rather they throw insults or endearments in the short space between bouts is entirely random, and quickly forgotten.
When it's finally over, its not sweet, it's awkward. They are both a mess, the miniscule supply room reeks of sex, and Grif still has the door knob in his hand for some reason. They try to pull apart and their armor gets snagged trapping them against one another.
Grif sighs because, of course. “So that was, something.” He says trying to distract from, well everything.
Simmons is quiet, too quiet, as he works to untangle their armor plating.
“I think I need a cigarette after that.” Grif says just as Simmons frees them and pushes him away. Grif, suddenly off balance, stumbles backwards to his side of the room. “Alright fine. I won't ruin your precious lungs.”
“Can you, for once, be serious! This, this was a mistake!” Simmons is gasping, trying to rationalize and deal with the after effects of alien technology. Grif knows that. Knows Simmons doesn't feel anything more than friendship for him. Knows he hates that this happened.
Knows he's embarrassed.
And stressed.
That he feels violated.
Grif knows all that. But hearing the words this was a mistake wrecks him. Hurts like nothing else.
But, despite all that.
Despite all that, Grif loves Simmons.
Simple.
“Ok.” Grif says. Voice calm. “Then it never happened.” Decision made.
Simmons shakes his head. “What are you talking about of course it…”
“No. It didn't.” Grif cuts him off.” As far as your concerned it didn't.” Grif waits until Simmons meets his eyes. “It. Didn't. Happen. Ok?”
“Yeah, yeah. Ok.” Simmons agreed.
“So we're cool?” Grif asks.
“Yeah. We're cool.” Simmons agrees.
“Good,” Grid gestures to the broken knob, “because that's a reinforced door and I'm not sure how we're going to open it.”
“Fuck.”
Fuck indeed.
***
It took twelve hours for them to be found. Despite the ease at which the knob snapped, the door proved studier then two exhausted post coital sim troopers could manage. Everyone easily put two and two together, but Grif was quick to snarl at anyone stupid enough to bring it up. It was agreed that “we just won't talk about it.”
They still don't.
Mostly.
Grif kept the door knob.