tosbox | just need to try.

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just need to try.

["We're really all that made it?"

The question echoes through Grif's head, bouncing around the walls of his skull. No matter how much food he stuffs into his body, the ringing of those words continues, filling him up with something much worse than plaque in his arteries. Even if the others are alive, he's not sure how long that will last, or how long they will last. The uncertainty of their fate - of everyone's fate - has never sat particularly well with Grif-- it rolls around in his stomach like cold leftovers. But not seeing them, losing all contact, is a severed link he's not prepared for.

Top that off the the responsibility of leading and Grif feels like he's going to be sick.

Their quarters are small and hardly private, but at least they're separated by team color, and that adds some familiarity to this whole mess. They're supposed to meet the new recruits tomorrow; Kimball let them off for the rest of the day so they can recover. Not that Grif can see that happening any time soon.

He barely makes it to his cot before he rubs a hand over the front of his helmet.]

Simmons, I swear to christ, this better be a dream. Make that a nightmare, goddammit, so wake me up already!

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[ No don't give him ideas he will actually do all of those things happily. ]

Okay, no. This was more of the usual 'happens without warning' stuff. Like pretty much everything else we get dragged into. [ Why won't bad guys learn to let him prepare first???? ] By now I've just adapted, I can plan for terrible things on the spot.

[ He can't. He really can't. He's terrible under pressure and he knows it.

But losing the armour is another good idea—not like he's hiding behind his or anything, nope. But it could use a good cleaning... yep. He'll start with his feet and slowly work upwards just to prolong the moment he can pull his helmet off. ]

[He's not sure who Simmons is trying to convince here, but Grif won't ask. Instead he continues working off his armor, chucking the pieces noisily onto the ground. They've been here only a few hours and he's already setting up his territory.

Eventually, he crosses his legs and leans his elbows onto his knees. When he speaks again, he doesn't look at his teammate.]

...How do you think they're doing, anyway?

[ And Simmons is already suffering from his mess—it's just like any other time they have to live together.

Which isn't a comforting thought he's having; he's contemplating the question as he pauses over his shins. ]

Donut's probably talking about being manhandled. [ If he's alive... he's surprisingly resilient. ] Lopez is probably giving Sarge dumb escape ideas. [ He doesn't want to care if Lopez is dead... he does, but only a little!! ] Sarge is probably coming up with wild ideas that won't work, or threatening to implement "Operation: Shotgun to the Face" despite not having a shotgun. [ He misses Sarge so much. ] Actually, he's probably doing both.

[ He starts removing his stuff again once that thought is out, placing his chest pieces in a neat line next to his bed. ]

And Agent Washington is probably ignoring them all and working on a proper plan. Or...

[ Or he's dead too. Sarge was hurt, he could be dead—Donut was out and Lopez... well who cares.

Simmons chooses not to share that. ]

Or he's biding his time with like, Freelancer skills. [ He has no idea what that means. ] And he already has a plan, and just needs a way to implement it!

[He mulls this over with a straight face. It all sounds terribly optimistic, though considering their history, maybe Simmons isn't too far off.

Sighing, Grif rubs a hand down his face.]

I guess we won't know for sure until we get more intel. But fuck it, I'm supposed to be taking a break. With our luck, those assholes are doing just fine.

[Just how much denial can he cram into one sentence? Sure, they've gotten out of plenty of messes before, but who knows if this time their luck will hold out this time?

A groan vibrates through his chest.]

I'm supposed to feel good about not being able to do anything. [Well, maybe if it were more of a choice rather than a lack of options.] This fucking sucks.

[ He's finally at his helmet, pausing before he pulls it off and then staring at Grif with eyebrows furrowed—Simmons worries about everything, he's constantly concerned about something. Grif is usually predictable, so he only worries about him when he's obviously in danger. Most of the time he can count on him to be doing, well, very little. ]

They at least need to come back so you stop acting so weird. Is this what I'm like?

[ Look, now he's worried about Grif too. As much as he appreciates the sudden heart to heart, he just wants everything to go back to normal. ]

You're so much worse.

[Maybe he's been talking too much. That's Simmons' job. He avoids his teammate's eyes, staring at his knees.

Sighing, he collapses onto his back again.]

Whatever, I'm done talking. Go be neurotic to your heart's content.

[Grif drapes an arm over his eyes. He's not sure if he'll be able to go to sleep right away. He's exhausted, but his mind's still running. Way too much energy spent on these assholes... But they've never been separated like this before. They're a team. They're not supposed to be apart. But Grif will just have to deal, won't he?]

No! You can't just start being talkative and sensitive and then throw it out!

[ He's nudging his leg with his foot from across the room. ]

You'll just bottle it up and feel worse.

[ He has experience with this. ]

[With a quiet groan, Grif removes his arm from his face and throws his teammate A Look.]

You're the one who said I was acting weird! Make up your fucking mind!

[Nudging that foot with his own.]

"Talkative and sensitive". Do you know who you're even talking to?

Please, like I could mistake you for anyone else. [ Too literal, Simmons. ] You were being weird. It wasn't a bad weird, like finding Donut's glitter projects in your sock drawer.

[ The weirdest comparison. He's very proud of that drawer. ]

Look, if it helps, I've always considered myself leadership material! But now that it's here I'm not as excited as I thought I'd be.

[Sometime Grif forgets that the person who actually takes Simmons seriously the most often is Simmons himself. Usually that's a comical thought to him, but right now it's looking kind of sad. But apparently Grif (and maybe Tucker, once guy gets his head out of his asshole) is the only one out of the four of them who realizes that none of them are fit for leadership.

But, as he said, he's done talking about that. Instead of voicing his thoughts, he chews the inside of his cheek, craving something comforting in his mouth instead.]

Simmons, you competed against like, a rock and a skull for second in command that one time. Get over yourself. Yeah, and maybe then you wouldn't be a nervous wreck.

[As much as Simmons can repeat his excitement over having a position as leader, that whole sock drawer thing really isn't helping his case.]

That's—that's what I was trying to say, asshole! [ It was only half of what he was trying to say, though. ] No matter how I thought I was ready for this, it doesn't feel right at all!

[ ... ugh he doesn't like saying it, even if he should like it. ]

That skull had a head start. Sarge talked to it more than me.

Man, I wonder why.

[It's a little cold, and he doesn't mean it that way. He gives a small frown in his teammate's direction.]

There's just nothing about this that's right, and I guess that's the end of that.

[Now he's overly aware that trying to continue the conversation makes him weird or something. But there's nothing better to do, and he doubts he can go to sleep with all this restless energy. Time for irritation tactics. He sits up and puts his hands on his knees.]

Simmons. Let's play a game.

Why should I play a game with you? I'm pretty sure you just insulted me.

[ Regardless, he's staring at him anyway—mostly wondering what he means by game and how not-fun it'd be. Then there's the fact that he might not even mean a game game and is gunning for some other way to be an asshole, either to Simmons or at the expense of someone else. ]

I insult you all the time, get over it. Just-- come on, I'm not gonna turn around and kick you while you're down.

[Not this time. Grif throws him a wry grin. It's incredibly stupid, but damn him if either of them are anything besides incredibly stupid. After approaching Simmons, he holds out his hands.]

Let's play Slide.

[A children's clapping game. Hopefully Simmons actually knows what he's talking about, or he'll be standing there with his hands out like an idiot.]

[ YOU'RE ONLY NOT KICKING HIM BECAUSE YOU'RE TOO LAZY, GRIF.

Regardless, Simmons shoots him one last suspicious look before stretching his arms and then holding out his hands in a similar manner. ]

Not even going to ask why you thought of this. [ Though he can't go look for silly road signs now, and the terrible super powers one is something he'd easily win. (So he thinks). ] Ready?

Fuck yeah.

[The ridiculousness of his game suggestion is just plain genius at this point. A stupid, pointless, mindless competition is just what they need to get their minds off the more taxing stuff. Of course.

Grif's reflexes are pretty good, though his ability to concentrate is not quite up to par. He can maintain speed, but keeping count of how many claps he needs to give is kind of up in the air.

When he messes up, he swats at Simmons's hands.]

Hey, that was definitely five, not four!

It was not! You just suck at keeping track.

[ He can excel at keeping track of which one they're on... but the next time is his fault, completely missing Grif's hand and freezing. ]

You were supposed to be over here!

[ Not admitting to his own bullshit... what a good player. ]

I wasn't supposed to be anywhere. Keep up, man.

[He slaps at Simmons' hovering hand for good measure.

It's... calming, maybe, sort of, to maintain some sort of consistent physical contact with someone. Maybe Simmons especially. To make sure he's still there, that bad circumstances and luck that's finally run out hasn't gone and stolen him too.

Another slap aimed at Simmons' palm. Then he goes for Simmons' wrist, aiming to pull up his hand and pretend to examine it closely.]

How am I supposed to trust you to aim a gun if you can't even hit my hand? Christ.

I can't hit your—?

[ Ughhhh okay, he'll drop it because right now of all times is not a time he wants to spend rebutting all of Grif's (obviously wrong) comments, opting to glare at Grif as he inspects his hand. He's still, except for the eyebrow he's raising. ]

My shooting is fine. Didn't you see me with that rocket launcher?

[ Not the one with heat seeking that one didn't do any good. And maybe not the one the Meta cut in half. ]

Like you really need to aim with a rocket launcher. Splash damage has nothing to do with aim.

[Grif isn't really one to talk, either, but he'll keep going because that's all he really knows how to do at this point.

Frowning, he squeezes the middle of Simmons' palm with his thumb. Both their hands are rough, worn despite the layers of armour they so often wear. Just as he starts to trace the lines of Simmons' skin, Grif sighs and lets go.]

What about Red Hands? Kinda fitting, huh?

[ If he were to be honest with himself, the texture of Grif's hands surprise him. If there are callouses, he'd blame the cookies normally.

When he gets his hand back, he squeezes it before rubbing it over his thigh; the sensation doesn't wear off like he figures it should. ]

Hm? Red hands... [ Sarge would like that, just for the name. ] Oh, thaaaaaaat one. Yeah, I guess.

[ He doesn't know how to play. ]

You're just saying that 'cause you'd lose.

[In a game of petty endurance, Grif isn't sure which of them would be more stubborn, if he's honest.]

If you can't even get Slide right, you'd definitely lose Red Hands.

[Hasn't picked up the fact that Simmons doesn't know. He figures his teammate is reluctant because he's a bitch who doesn't want to have his knuckles slapped around.]

I would not!

[ He's giving him an indignant huff, and then holding out his hands.

The wrong way. ]

[Grif lifts his eyebrows. His hands hover above Simmons' for a moment, then he taps the backs of Simmons' hands.]

Dude, what the hell are you doing?

[He's about to nudge Simmons' hands into the proper position before he smirks.]

Oh my god, you don't know how to play, do you?

I do so. [ Now he's making a fist, in an attempt to show that he knows how. But he doesn't. ] Maybe I just play with a different set of rules. You know, like the CFL and the NFL.

What are you-- oh my god.

[The fist pretty much does it. He reaches out to slap the top of Simmons' hand just because.]

Red Hands is a game where you slap the top of the other player's hands until you miss. Then you switch and play until someone pussies out. There aren't any fists involved. Unless you're really itching to punch me in the face, in which case I gotta say, I didn't think you had the balls to do.

I could punch you in the face! I'm just too nice and patient. Or I get Sarge to do it. [ Unless Grif uses his toothbrush. Then all bets are off. ] But okay, I remember those rules now.

[ As if he fucking knew them to begin with. Master bullshitter, Richard "Dick" Simmons. He almost believes it himself. ]

Sarge doesn't really do punches. He's more of a pistol whip kinda guy. Or I guess shotgun whip, in his case.

[He leans back, weight resting on one leg.] Don't strain your brain too much. Maybe we oughta call it a night.

He also doesn't listen to my requests, even when it's to hurt you. [ He huffs. ] No, just refresh my memory and we'll play. My brain can handle anything.

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just need to try.

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holiday struggle sob

here too q_q

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