Chapter Text
Knowing how to use a knife wasn’t a special skill. At least, it wasn’t for Simmons. It was just a collection of stupid tricks he picked up in the Red Base kitchen, that’s it. There were few things that would make Grif so much as pause while trying to steal cooking food, or even steal from Simmons’s plate. But, Simmons soon realized, a knife happened to be one of them. A steak knife embedded into the wall right next to him, a paring knife just brushing the top of his helmet. Even simply holding a knife seemed to make him back off temporarily, if it was a big enough knife that was.
The kitchen knives were shitty, ill-balanced things that took a lot of effort to throw without accidentally skewering Grif. (Some accidents did happen, but armor negated that. Usually.) But it kept the orange soldier on his toes, and kept Simmons’s food purely belonging to Simmons.
At some point it turned into a weird sort of game. Grif, ever determined to get past Simmons and his shitty steak knives to win his prize, tried a variety of ways to sneak past him. Simmons, on the other hand, learned to keep one ear open and his knives at the ready.
By the time they left Blood Gulch, Simmons rarely missed his target, the walls and countertops of Red Base’s kitchen sporting a variety of closely knit knife marks to show for it.
Simmons was good with knives.
But Simmons didn’t seem to think so. There was no skill involved in using kitchen utensils as impromptu ammunition against a teammate. It was just a game, after all. One stupid game that had stopped when Grif got a promotion and Simmons almost got arrested for attempted “assault a superior officer.” It had at least made Blood Gulch a little more bearable. And that was where he left it.
It was just a game.
Just a game, until Agent Washington did something similar.
After Sidewinder, both groups had stopped at the first sign of civilization, landing their stolen hornets roughly in the parking lot of the first open diner they locked eyes with. Dinner was a fairly somber affair, the loss of Church weighing heavily on everyone’s shoulders, even Red team. Caboose sniffled in his seat, Grif nodding off unable to stay awake even for food as he used Simmons’s shoulder as a pillow. Agent Washington seemed only about two steps behind him as he picked at his fries.
Tucker tried to steal Washington’s fries when the man started blinking a little too long. Washington’s eyes weren’t even open when he buried a knife into the stained wood of the table, right between Tucker’s outstretched fingers.
Tucker yelped, his fingers never having moved so fast back to his side of the table.
Simmons stared, the scene far too familiar for him not to notice.
“Simmons does that too,” Grif muttered, one eye open briefly before it closed again. “He usually throws them though.”
All eyes were on Simmons now, making the organic parts of his face burn bright red the longer they stared.
“You can use throwing knives?” Washington questioned, a little more awake as he pulled his knife back out of the table. The waitress shot him a dirty look that he missed. “Impressive.”
Simmons sputtered, trying to deny it. He was making it sound much more official than it was.
It was, after all, just a game.
But apparently Agent Washington didn’t think so.
The months they spent at base upon their return were the strangest Simmons had ever experienced. Despite the normal environment and standard duties, there was an odd tenseness in the air that Simmons couldn’t name. It felt like the calm before the storm; like they were all waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn’t feel like the adventure was over yet.
The strangest development though, had to be Washington’s nagging over the knife thing. Any time they ran into each other, whether it was patrol or one of Sarge’s failed attempts at swiping the Blue flag, their conversation always got turned towards Simmons’s apparent knife skills. He made offers to train together, to spar, or even simple target practice.
Simmons wasn’t exactly sure why Wash was always awkwardly offering, and Simmons never asked. He also never took the man up on said offers. It wasn’t a skill to be honed, not for him. It was just a game Grif started up again upon reaching Valhalla. Nothing he could use in combat like Agent Washington could. It was useless. Simmons refused to show off a useless party trick of a skill.
-
Simmons could hear Grif sneaking into the kitchen, his army crawl far from subtle. The cyborg sighed. He had hoped Grif would give it a rest today. Just because it was Simmons’ turn to cook didn’t mean he had to try to steal all the food before dinner was done. But Simmons supposed the promise of pancakes was just too much of a temptation for Grif to stay patient for, even if they were pretty shitty pancakes. It’s not like Command was sending them proper pancake mix after all.
Simmons slipped a couple old Blood Gulch kitchen knives out from beneath his hoodie’s sleeve. He had a magnetic strip installed on his robot arm just for this reason. He never cooked without those shitty knives just in case his orange teammate started his shit again.
He waited until Grif made his move before flinging one just past the man’s ear to embed itself into the wall behind him, the second to stick into the counter between the pancakes and Grif’s fingers.
Grif let out a not-so-manly shriek as Simmons turned back to his cooking pancakes, hiding a proud smirk in the process.
“Get out, Grif. There’s more where those came from and you know it,” Simmons stated, flipping a pancake in the pan.
“I’m impressed,” Washington’s voice said, making Simmons freeze. “That’s some good aim despite these being cheap kitchen knives.”
“How’d you get into Red base!” Simmons exclaimed, spinning around as another knife slipped into his hand. He held it up, ready to throw it at the blue and yellow soldier leaning in the doorway as Grif peaked out from below the counter. It took him a second to realize he really shouldn’t be aiming a knife at an ex-freelancer but it was a little late now.
“We have a truce,” Washington said, unfazed by the knife. “Grif lets me accompany him on this ‘raid’ and I don’t singlehandedly steal your flag.”
“Traitor,” Simmons said, shooting a glare at Grif.
“I don’t see how keeping our flag safe is being a traitor but I suppose you would know better than I,” Grif answered as he leaned onto the counter, still barely looking over it.
“Because I defected to Blue Team once five years ago?”
“I was going to say because you’re the only one to have read the entire Red Team manual, but hey, that works too,” Grif shrugged.
“I’ll throw another one, don’t tempt me.” Simmons raised his knife in emphases. “And I’ll make sure it hits you this time.
“No you won’t. I’m not wearing armor.”
“That’s your problem, not mine.”
“How old are these knives?” Washington asked, having pulled one of the knives out of the counter to examine it. Grif and Simmons stared at him for a long moment, having forgotten he was still there. “They look ancient.”
“Who knows? They were at Blood Gulch before we ever were,” Simmons answered with a shrug.
“How many did you keep?”
“All of them?” Simmons said slowly. “It’s not like whoever got Blood Gulch after us would need them. It’s a desert outpost. They never sent us steak to use steak knives on. The only thing they were ever used for is this.”
“They once sent us those steak MREs,” Grif offered, trying to sneak one of the pancakes again. Simmons rolled his eyes.
“The key word there is MREs. If you really think those things had ever even seen a cow, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought. Which would definitely be saying something,” Simmons replied, throwing the knife in his hand to intercept Grif. It buried itself half an inch from the tips of the man’s fingers, making him jerk back with a frown. “Don’t touch the pancakes.”
“Where?” Wash asked, giving Simmons his full attention again. Simmons tried to ignore him as he poked at the cooking pancake.
“Where what?”
“Where do you keep them? The knives?”
“I don’t see why that’s any of your-“
“He has a magnetic strip on his prosthetic arm,” Grif revealed as he stared longingly at the pancake pile. “He can keep about four there without it being obvious. The other four are on another magnetic strip on the robot side of his torso, just in case.”
“Grif!”
“Why seven?”
“We had a solid dozen but he broke a few over the years. Most of which were when he was getting used to his robo-bullshit.”
“Wait, how much of you is cybernetic?” Wash asked in confusion, still trying to talk to Simmons. Which was a pity for him since Simmons had wanted nothing to do with this conversation even before it started. He especially didn’t like talking about the specifics of his prosthetic parts and certainly not going to tell a Blue, or an ex-freelancer that had kidnaped him that one time, about them.
“I’m not answering-“
“A third of his face, his entire left arm, his left, the left side of his torso almost to his hip, and multiple internal organs. Oh and he had an exospine installed at Ratsnest because his normal spine was getting wrecked from trying to support all the extra robotics,” Grif answered for him. “Basically, every part of me that looks like a pasty, white boy is cybernetics for him.”
“Is there a reason for that?”
“Sarge.”
“That explains everything.”
Alright. Simmons was done here.
He stepped away from the stove, smoothly pulling a knife out from under his shirt as the last knife strapped to his arm slipped into the opposite hand. He stood on one side of the kitchen island, leveling the knives at each of the intruders, not caring that one of them was ex-Freelancer.
“Get out,” he said, glaring at both of them. “I’m done hosting whatever bullshit this is. Get the fuck out.”
“Oooh, we actually pissed him off. A rare sight for you, Blue,” Grif said, sounding carefree even as he took several steps back towards the kitchen door. “Doesn’t happen often. Cherish this memory, preferably after we leave the kitchen. Because pissed Simmons will actually stab you and tetanus shots aren’t fun.”
“R-right,” Wash said, his voice sounding odd but Simmons didn’t care enough to question why. Grif was already gone as Wash riffled through his armor compartments briefly, pulling out a knife of his own, holding it up neatly by the tip. “Um, here. As good as you are with those, I don’t really feel comfortable leaving you with blades that would fall apart if you looked at them wrong.”
Wash flipped it downwards, burying it into the countertop next to Simmons’s blade.
“It’s not a throwing knife, per say. Technically it’s a military bayonet, though a little on the short side. Only seven inches, which is bigger than what you got but…” Wash cleared his throat mid rant. “Just…try it out. It’s a good blade. One that doesn’t give tetanus if you stab someone with it. I can see about finding some actual throwing knives but that might take a while.”
“Why?” Simmons asked briefly, still glaring at Wash.
“Because Inner-galactic Amazon delivers everywhere except here,” Wash answered immediately. “I’ve checked. Plus, I’m technically dead so I have no bank account. And the only Blue with a working credit card that isn’t maxed out is somehow Caboose. Probably because even though Innter-galactic Amazon doesn’t reach here, but websites like Pornhub and Onlyfans somehow do.”
“Why the knife?” Simmons asked again, nodding towards the mentioned blade.
“If you’re going to be wielding knives, I’d rather it be decent equipment and not something that could hurt you more than it does your opponent.”
“I don’t use knives.”
Wash glanced down at the blade pointing under his chin, sending Simmons a flat look he could practically feel through the cobalt and yellow helmet.
“This is different. It’s just a game. Like darts,” Simmons immediately explained. “It’s not a legitimate strategy.”
“I knew several Freelancers that would fight you on that, including me,” Wash started. Simmons' glare increased. “But in the interest of not getting a tetanus shot anytime soon, I’m not going to do that today.”
Wash immediately started to follow Grif out the door, pausing in the doorway briefly.
“Seriously though, try the knife. Let me know what you think.”