Summary: Red Team isn't like the Blues. For North, this squad of misfits is exactly what he needs to keep fighting.

Post Battle Comfort (Isn't in a Bottle)

The war on Chorus is turning brutal. Today's conflict had been short but terrible, a blur of Chorus soldiers in tan and white fighting to escape the ambush the mercenaries of Charon Industries had set. The air had been filled with the snarl of alien weaponry and the ear piercing shriek of automatic rifles. Then a grenade flew and everything would turn white as the ground exploded underfoot and bodies tore through the air.

It's been years since North rushed to take a bloody battlefield against a tide of terrified bodies. His training and fighting skills came back easily and he never lost the burning desire to protect his team. The mental fortitude to charge into danger, to kill the enemy before they kill you, is considerably harder to reclaim.

The Battle of Armonia had been easy. He'd been dead inside, the enemy's attack an inconvenience more than a personal threat. Protecting the Reds' and Blues' lieutenants was only a means to an end; with them, he had an additional weapon to wield against Locus.

Against all odds, the Reds and Blues reappeared alive and triumphant, tearing away the mask of deception Locus and Felix had worn while carrying out their genocidal plan. And suddenly, North had reason to live again and everything got hard again.

In the battles that followed, it's Red Team's unflinching determination and willpower that keeps North going. Grif and Simmons manage to yell and argue throughout each and every fight while Donut's wicked tongue causes the pirates to freeze and stumble in surprise and confusion, leaving themselves vulnerable attack. Even Lopez's monotone, incomprehensible insults have become a welcome, familiar sound. Most importantly of all, Sarge howls with the fury of a berserker, always pushing them forward and keeping them focused on their mission to slaughter the enemy. His team grounds him in why he's fighting, who he wants to protect, and prevents him from getting lost as they all plunge into chaos.

Wash had teased him for not taking command of the Reds, dryly pointing out that he could hardly do worse than he had as Blue Leader but North doesn't want that. And whatever Sarge's faults may be, it's his voice roaring in North's ear that stiffens his spine to race forward into danger, that send hims tearing into clusters of foes an agent of Project Freelancer is especially suited to dispatch. Without Sarge, North doesn't know if he could keep fighting like this.

Ultimately, Red Team isn't like the Blues. Their numbers and membership have remained steady over the years and they operate with a cohesion the Blues lack. North slides into the dynamic like a perfectly fitted glove.

The fights end and Red Teams checks itself over, breathing a sigh of relief each time they all make it through alive. And on days like today when one of them gets hurt, no one gets left alone to deal with the aftermath.

Grif caught some shrapnel in his shoulder shoving Private Matthews out of danger. His armor handled most of the deadly pieces of metal but a few got through. Enough that he's spending the night in the hospital in a room they aren't allowed to linger in.

His lover's first injury had turned out to be minor but as Grif had been wheeled away covered in blood and gore, North felt something in his head breaking. Somehow, he'd had just enough presence of mind to clutch at Sarge's elbow and blurt out Don't let me drink.

He wanted to stop thinking, wanted to blur the memory of Grif's orange armor plates covered in dark red. There was a lump of ice in his stomach he knew a few drinks would melt and a few more after that would make everything stop until the next day. It would be so easy and that terrifies him.

Sometime between then and now, Red Team adjusted how they wind down from battle to make sure he doesn't drink himself unconscious after each fight.

Sarge bellows and berates them while herding them like lost ducklings to the Armory where he forces them to strip and clean every bit of their armor, to check over their weapons, and sharpen their knives. They're stupid, useless, good-for-nothing, horrible soldiers. He's ashamed to be seen with them, he may as well kill them all himself and find a new batch of Reds to train up properly. The litany is familiar and soothing. North's hands usually stop shaking by the time he's scraping mud or dirt out of the audio projectors in his helmet, listening to Sarge glorify other, better, Redder soldiers he's fought with before.

From there, they move to the small office Red Team has commandeered as their personal breakroom and the more colorful parts of their personalities come out.

On days when Simmons has turned pale and won't stop clutching at his cybernetics, North ushers them around the battered, unsteady coffee table and pulls out his notes from the old fashioned pen and paper roleplaying game he's leading them through a few hours at a time. (South used to roll her eyes and grumble about his weekend activities. How had she ended up with such a nerd for a brother? He was cool in so many other ways, why did he play these lame games about wizards and knights in shining armor?)

Donut's bad days lead to manicures and pedicures all around. Grif refuses to let Donut work on his hands and Simmons gets panicky when the pink (lightish-red! Seriously!) soldier starts flourishing homemade nail polish he's bartered for. Sarge, on the other hand, is always dead asleep by the time Donut is lifting his feet out of the hot water bath to clean and trim his toe nails.

When glass bottles start singing their siren song to North, it's Grif or Sarge who start telling stories. Sometimes both. Sarge's are, of course, all about the battles he's fought. There's a fanciful air to them as he embellishes the height he'd dropped into battle from, the number and size of the enemy, the thrilling heroics he'd performed. Grif hits back at the exaggerations with a roll of his eyes and adds his own spin while Sarge sputters in indignation. Other times, Grif digs into the mythology of his childhood and spins out unfamiliar, brilliant stories of ancient Polynesian gods and demigods, the complex consonants and vowels of his native language rolling effortlessly off his tongue.

Grif's discomfort is harder to spot, buried as it is behind layers of derision and nonchalance. It's only as he relentlessly nitpicks at Simmons, snarls at Sarge, and leans against North that they realize something's wrong. Those are quieter nights where they put on a movie they've already seen a hundred times and just talk while the film rolls in the background. Meanwhile, snacks materialize and are passed without acknowledgement around the room. (Alcohol used to flow freely as well but disappeared after the first time Grif got hurt.)

The hardest nights are when Sarge can't shake the fury of the battle or the terror that he might lose one of the soldier's he's struggled to keep alive for so long. When that happens, when Red Leader's personal demons lash him with poisoned whispers, there's nothing else they can do but let him yell at them while he tinkers with and repairs Lopez, to scream and fight back, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that they're all alive and that he hasn't failed.

The rest of the time, when they're all just tired and happy to be in one piece, they relax together, taking comfort in the others' familiar presence and letting each of them wind-down however they like. And that means Sarge grumbling while Grif and Simmons banter and share slightly stale rations. Donut grins wickedly at North and shows off the latest polish colors he's acquired, insisting that he pick one so he can see how good or bad this batch is. (Wash laughs every time North shows up to breakfast with different color nails while Carolina shakes her head in resigned incomprehension.)

Tonight, though, Grif is in the hospital and North can't stop shaking. The memory of Theta's pain surges in his head and fear of losing Grif sight-unseen like he had South clogs his throat. He won't sleep tonight but neither will Sarge, slouching in a battered armchair and grousing about some clean-up duty years ago on some distant world. Donut is filling a bowl with warm water for manicures while Simmons lounges on the other end of the couch, a battered fantasy novel in his hands while his legs stretch across the cushions so he can't help but jab North's side every now and then whenever he shifts weight.

With luck, Grif will be back with them tomorrow or the day after with new scars and thoughts he wants to share about whatever came to mind as he lay in the hospital. North lets Donut dunk his fingers in the water while he interrupts Sarge to ask about a detail in his story. Simmons's toes press briefly against his hip and some of the terror clawing at him loosens. He won't be okay until he has his lover back but as long as he has his team, North knows he'll make it through the night.