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They’re just taking the Warthog for a drive. Sarge called it a ‘perimeter patrol’ before he sent the two of them off, but there’s nothing to patrol for here on their private moon. Grif has his helmet off, clearly enjoying feeling the wind rush across his face and through his hair, and Simmons can’t even bring himself to feel even the slightest bit upset at how fast they’re going. They’re driving across a flat plain, seemingly nothing for miles to crash into, and Simmons is sitting next to Grif because Sarge isn’t here and there’s no one to shoot at with the mounted gun anyways.
He likes the feeling of holding firmly onto the mounted gun, of knowing exactly what to do in case enemies suddenly appear, but he had gotten into the shotgun seat and Grif hadn’t pushed him back out with a flustered ‘what are we, dating?’ It’s making him feel way too happy.
“Hey, Simmons,” Grif says, not taking his eyes off where he’s driving, but tilting his head towards him. “Put on some music.”
“The Warthog theme, or…”
“Fuck, no! If I have to listen to Polka music one more time I’m gonna puke. Are we gonna take advantage of Sarge not being here or aren’t we?”
“Fair.” And he fiddles with his HUD until he comes to the Red Team Spotify, which Simmons doesn’t think for a moment that the actual manufacturers put there, no matter what Sarge claims.
Sarge’s playlist. No, his only criteria is that the lyrics have to say something about the color or red or the glory of war.
Donut’s playlist. It’s near exclusively ABBA, musicals, and early 2000’s pop stars. Not Grif and Simmons’ thing.
Lopez’s playlist. One hundred percent Spanish love ballads. Eesh, no thanks.
Simmons settles for his own playlist, of course. There may be a few things in there Grif doesn’t like, but they’ve got mostly the same taste. He likes that.
He does not notice that the playlist he picks is spelled out in all lower letter case, which had been supposed to be a subtle sign to himself to NEVER play it in public.
He selects the playlist, connects it to the Warthog, and presses shuffle. There’s a moment of silence as the music cues up, and then--
Baby seems we never ever agree
The sweet tones of Paula Abdul come out of the Warthog speakers, crooning her hit 90’s song ‘Opposites Attract’. Simmons stares at the radio in horror and betrayal.
You like the movies
And I like T.V.
Grif laughs lightly. “You picked Donut’s playlist?” he asks.
No. He picked his own private playlist, the one with all of the embarrassing mushy love songs on it that he listens to after hanging out with Grif for no reason at all, really.
“Yyyep! Yup. This is Donut’s playlist. Donut.”
I take thing serious
And you take 'em light
“I thought he liked Britney Spears and stuff,” Grif muses.
“Guess he just likes love songs in general! I picked this on accident, by the way. Accidentally.” He actually had, so why does it come out sounding like a guilty, squeaky lie too?
I go to bed early
And I party all night
“Hmm, wait, no,” Grif says. “Spotify says this is your playlist.”
“What, no way,” Simmons says. “How did Opposites Attract get on here?”
“How do you know the title?” Grif asks.
“Donut must have put it on my playlist by accident,” he goes on, ignoring Grif’s question, absolutely not sweating underneath his helmet.
Our friends are sayin'
We ain't gonna last
“We can just go on the next song, then,” Grif says, but there’s something suspicious to his tone now, like he’s catching on and luring Simmons into a trap. He isn’t going to fall for it, though!
Simmons then realizes that they’re on his ‘embarrassing love songs’ playlist, and he can maybe play off Donut accidentally adding one or two love songs to his ‘normal manly dude’ playlist, but all of them?
He was screwed from the moment Paula Abdul opened her mouth.
“Oh, uh, that’s fine, no, that’s good, I’m good, it’s okay. It’s honestly not that bad! Not that I like it. But I don’t hate it. Are you driving slower? Why is this patrol taking so long? I feel like we should be back at base by now.”
“Are you seriously asking me to drive faster?” Grif asks.
Cuz I move slowly
And baby I'm fast
“You?” Grif asks.
Simmons just has to get this radio turned off in a non suspicious way before it moves onto the next song, and then everything will be okay. They just have to get back to base ASAP.
“Well,” he says, voice a little strangled. “You’re going kind of slow, aren’t you?”
Grif flashes him a mischievous smile that makes his heart skip a beat--which is totally unnecessary--and then he fucking revs the Warthog and they go impossibly faster. Simmons swallows a yelp. He hadn’t realized Grif had been holding back so much.
I like it quiet
And I love to shout
He takes off his helmet just so his hands can have something to do besides clutch nervously at things because he’s not supposed to be nervous right now, he’s supposed to be impatient and wanting for Grif to go faster. This is a mistake. He is now sitting in a speeding Warthog without a helmet on, and he’s sitting next to his sort of (okay, definitely) crush with an undoubtedly red face. Simmons prays Grif’s keeping his gaze firmly fixed ahead for more reasons than just that they’re going dangerously fast.
“Hey, Simmons?” Grif asks as they speed across the dirt like a bullet, trailing romantic lyrics in the wind behind them.
“Yeah?” he asks, clutching at his helmet in a definitely calm looking way, sitting stiffly in his seat.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, voice fond and soft.
But when we get together
It just all works out
Later that day, Grif invites Simmons to his room.