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Simmons enters the kitchen with his hands in the air and his voice raised into a frustrated rant, “Science spent decades creating advanced, technical wonders of high-powered weapons, and here I am, holding a piece of sharpened metal like some sort of uneducated caveman.”
“Good morning,” Wash says and takes a sip of his coffee.
“You agree with me, right?” Simmons asks and holds out the knife with the tip of his fingers like someone would handle a snarling racoon with rabies.
Turning in his chair without letting go of his mug, Wash looks up at him. “What did the knife do to you?”
“Nothing. But I am going to do something with the knife.”
“Okay.” It requires another mouthful of coffee before Wash finds the strength to ask calmly, “Simmons, what are you going to do with the knife?”
Simmons inhales deeply, nodding to himself in reassurance. “I’m going to throw it.”
“You’re going to throw it?”
“Yes.”
He’s run out of coffee. “Okay.”
Simmons looks like he is about to drop the knife rather than throw it. “I just think I’ll be wasting my full potential sticking with knives instead of firearms.”
“Depends on where you stick it,” Wash mutters under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing.” The puts his mug away and folds his hands. “I know it’s not exactly a rocket launcher-“
“Oh, it’s definitely not a rocket launcher!” Simmons huffs in a tone that would have been suitable if Wash insulted his ancestors or the value of his chess team diploma or the color red. “Rocket launchers are examples of clever technology where you can immobilize your enemy from a distance by blowing them to small, harmless pieces. That’s science. Stabbing someone in their face is the opposite of science. It’s… It’s brutality.”
“I admit it can be a bit… bloody. But- Who knows? It might be your style.”
“My style?” Simmons frowns, apparently considering the idea. Eventually he seems to like it, judging from the eager way his head bobs up and down. “Yeah. Yeah, I can be brutal.”
Wash says nothing.
Simmons is quiet as well.
And, finally, Wash has to ask, “Do you want me to teach you how to throw a knife?”
“It has to be easy, right? If you know the theory. I suppose it’s sorta physics – angles and volumes and velocity. I read up on it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, theoretically, if I hold the knife like this and throw it from this angle.” Simmons lets go and the knife sails through the air, hits the wall with the handle first, and it falls to the floor with an unimpressive thump.
They both stare at it.
Simmons scratches the back of his head. “Okay, so maybe that didn’t go exactly as planned.”
Wash fetches himself a new cup of coffee.
Meanwhile, Simmons goes to the corner of the room to pick up the weapon that has betrayed him. “I think I might have chosen the wrong angle. It’s the knife’s fault. It clearly isn’t built for being thrown. Actually, I should have seen this coming – it’s Donut’s knife.”
“Donut’s knife?” Wash repeats, stunned, and his mind starts to conjure up images of just what the pink soldier’s throwing skills can accomplice with a knife.
“Yes, for his wine and cheese hour,” Simmons explains with a shrug. “At least, that’s what it smells like. Or maybe Grif just touched it. But anyway – this is a blunt knife. It’s useless. No one can throw a knife like that.”
Wash picks up the knife he used to butter his bread earlier. With his mug in his other hand, he throws the knife towards the wall with a shrug.
“Hi, Mister Washingtub!” Caboose says as he enters the room. “I have been looking for you-“
The knife sinks into the doorframe right next to his head.
Caboose turns around on his heel and walks away the way he came from. “Actually, I think I need to look for my keys first! Once I get some keys! I’ll be back, bye!”
Simmons sends Wash scowl. “Okay, so you can throw a blunt knife, but you are also you.”
“Point taken.”
Simmons sighs deeply, falls into the nearest chair and puts his face in his hands.
Wash goes to give him a cup of coffee. “Simmons, why do you want to learn how to throw knives?” he asks after pushing a new mug towards him.
“Uhm, self-defense? I know we are retired and all that, but I think it could be very useful. I don’t even have to throw the knife! I could just not throw it. Like stabbing. With a knife. Yes. You can teach me how to do that. You never know when you might have to stab someone in the face. Okay, I have absolutely no idea who I would ever hate enough to stab in the face, but it’s the principle. I totally have reasons for learning this. It’s not just because I want to look cool. Of course not. Principles.”
“You want to look cool?” Wash concludes looking at Simmons’ face which has now turned pink.
“No.” Simmons finished his cup of coffee in one gulp. “I just gave you a whole speech about how being cool is not one of my principles. Why does no one ever listen to me?”
Wash holds up his hands. “Alright. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
“Good.” He looks down into his empty mug. “I want to look cool.”
“I had a feeling you might say that.” Wash stands up from his chair, and gestures for Simmons to do the same. “Alright, I suppose I could find the time for some training sessions. But first I think we should get you some balanced knives-“
“There you are!” Grif yells as he runs into the kitchen. For once he doesn’t head straight for the fridge, but instead stops at the table to look at them. He's panting, having obviously run all the way. Or maybe just having walked in a slightly above average speed.
Simmons sighs loudly. “What do you want Grif?”
“Not you,” the orange soldiers huff and crosses his arms. “I need Wash.”
Simmons blinks, apparently even more surprised than the Freelancer himself. “For what?”
“Special training.”
Wash almost chokes on his coffee. “You are asking for extra training sessions?” he asks, staring at Grif who stubbornly stares back.
“Yes.”
Simmons looks at the two of them, trying to figure out if the world is ending or if they have to call a hospital. “…Did you crash yesterday? Did Grif hurt his head?”
Wash almost shudders at the memories of Grif offering to get him more comfortable with cars which had resulted in a too long Warthog ride with the orange soldier who refused to slow down. “While his way of driving would suit the one of a maniac, he somehow managed to get back home with causing us to crash.”
“Why did I have to hear it from Carolina?” Grif yells in a tone that would fit perfectly to one of the characters from Donut’s soap operas. “I thought we were friends!”
It takes a second before Wash realizing he is yelling at him. “What?”
“Okay, maybe we’re just teammates. On different teams. But we’ve at least reached the stage where you no longer try to kill us, so I think you owe me this!”
“What do you want, Grif?”
Grif narrows his eyes. “Teach me how to eat with my helmet on,” he orders as if he was talking to his former squad.
“You… Don’t know how to do that?” Wash blinks. “That actually surprises me.”
Simmons turns to stare at him. “But you smoke with your helmet on!” he reminds him, voice a bit too high.
“You don’t inhale food, Simmons.”
“With the speed your meals disappear in, it wouldn’t surprise me if you’d found a way.”
“Whatever. I didn’t come here for your approval. Wash, you have to-“ His eyes trail to the side, towards the knife stuck in the doorway. “Holy crap, who pissed you off?”
Simmons grips his mug more tightly. “Uhm…” he says.
Wash looks at him. Then at Grif. Then back at Simmons. “Actually,” he says, after noticing the slight blush. “I didn’t throw the knife.”
“You didn’t?” Simmons says, surprised.
“Simmons threw it.”
“I did? …I did,” Simmons says again, firmly, all while nodding.
Grif tilts his head as he looks Simmons over. He seems pleased with the results. “Nice,” he finally says, and Simmons looks like he is about to explode with pride.
“It’s all in the wrists,” he explains to Grif as he follows him out of the kitchen. Grif grabs a snack bar from the counter and they all pretend to not see it. Or maybe Simmons is just too caught up with his sudden newfound skill to notice it. “But of course you need to get the theory right! It’s all about angles and velocity and-“
“Simmons, for the love of everything sweet and salty, do not turn this thing nerdy. Only you can do that, and I’m asking you, please don’t.”
“I can be a nerd and brutal at the same time, Grif!”
Wash leans back in his chair, watching them go, and decides he might as well start training Simmons later, in case Grif asks for a demonstration.
Plus, here on the moon they have plenty of time to start new hobbies.
Somewhere outside the base, Sarge makes something explode again. The Freelancer can hear it even from the safety of the kitchen, but it’s followed up by the Sergeant yelling about a successful attack against the Blues, so it can’t be that bad.
Wash sighs and closes his eyes.
Maybe they have just a bit too much time on their hands.