Chapter Text
“So, you gonna to try it?” Grif asked after dinner. It was supposed to be their mandatory weapons maintenance time but with Donut gone, Grif refusing to participate, and Sarge’s routine of always doing his own maintenance privately, Simmons was the only one participating.
“I’m not talking to you,” Simmons said simply, continuing to clean the pieces of his rifle that were placed on the table. Grif sat next to him, ignoring them.
“Too late, you just did. Now, are you going to try that fancy new knife or not?” Grif asked, nodding towards the short bayonet sitting on the table, ready to be cleaned.
“Why should I?”
“Because you desperately need an upgrade,” Grif said immediately. “Plus it would make Mr. Ex-freelancer happy.”
“Yes, and him being happy is exactly what I’m trying to accomplish,” Simmons said flatly. “Why would I care if the leader of Blue team is fucking happy? I’m a Red, that’s the exact opposite of our job description.”
“Because if he’s happy he might teach you cool knife tricks while Sarge isn’t looking.” Grif leaned against the table, shifting several gun pieces out of their spots as he rested his head on his hand. “And you two would be bonding and getting to know each other, and then, you know…maybeendupdating.”
“What was that last part?”
“Nothing.”
Simmons stared at him for a solid minute before Grif sighed.
“You’ve been bitching for years that no one on either side of our cannon was your type. Years Simmons! I’m tired of hearing about your lack of love life,” Grif said. “Now Agent Washington comes along and I know for a fact that he’s your type. Military badass, secret nerd, the chaotic good alignment you love. Oh and he goes fucking feral at the drop of a hat. Don’t even try to fight me about that last one. I know you’re into that shit.”
Grif stopped counting off on his fingers to point accusingly at Simmons who realized he didn’t have a defense for that and stayed quiet.
“Considering how feral you get when you stop giving a shit, it works. Somehow,” Grif shrugged.
“No I don’t!” Simmons defended immediately.
“The first thing you did when we left you alone with Donut was try to burn down Blue Base for no reason,” Grif said, giving him a flat look. “And don’t make me bring up everything you did as a temporary Blue.”
Simmons winced. Yeah, he couldn’t deny that.
“When Sarge isn’t around for you to suck up to, you go ape shit,” Grif shrugged as he continued. “So you and Wash would be a perfect match. Plus the dude’s blond, freckled, and built. Very much your type.”
Simmons tried to focus on cleaning his guns and not how quickly his face was heating up. He couldn’t deny that either.
“But apparently you’re ignoring all that because he tried to take you captive that one time.”
“He did take me captive. And Doc. And killed Donut. I have every right to not want to date him,” Simmons defended, before muttering to himself, “It’s not like he’d want me anyway.”
“That’s even more bullshit,” Grif said hotly. “He likes you, I’m fucking sure of it. Dude goes all excited puppy mode every time you two talk. And he’s been stopping to talk to you a lot since he found out about the knives. I also know for a fact you flustered him with that ‘knife aimed at his neck’ stunt from earlier. I’d never heard that man stutter before and he’s been here for months.”
“So he has a knife fetish,” Simmons said flatly.
“I’m pretty sure it’s not that. Even if it is, whatever. It would probably be a bonus for you considering you, in fact, have knives,” Grif said, waving a hand dismissively. “What I’m saying is, you’re both interested so just go for it already.”
“It’s not that simple,” Simmons tried to say. Grif wasn’t hearing it.
“Yes, it is,” Grif said firmly. “You need to get laid. He needs to get laid. You should both just bone each other already but you won’t because friends with benefits isn’t something either of you will get behind. So, like, start dating so you can start screwing and everyone will be happy you two aren’t such tight asses all the damn time. It’s that simple.”
Simmons sputtered, completely giving up on cleaning his weapons in lieu of finding the words to figure out where the fuck this came from.
“I- What? No. I-…What?!” Simmons screeched, the organics of his face no doubt the shade of Sarge’s armor now.
“I thought I made myself very clear,” Grif said simply.
“Why?! Why do you even have an opinion on my sex life?”
“It would be weird if I didn’t,” Grif said with a shrug. “Plus me and Tucker have an ongoing bet because he’s convinced you’re going to end up with me, which is not going to happen. I’d rather get my money now than have to wait several more years until Tucker finally gives up.”
Simmons stared at Grif blankly.
“No offense. You’re…decent looking and all. But I have a very nice thing going with food and I refuse to ruin it by bringing another man into the relationship,” Grif explained, like that was the thing Simmons had an issue with and therefore explained everything.
It did not.
Simmons had no more words for this. None at all. His shocked expression morphed into a glare.
“Oh, wow. Pissed Simmons twice in one day. New record,” Grif said. “It was the bet with Tucker, wasn’t it?”
“You think?” Simmons said, reaching for the new bayonet as Grif started to leave the room.
“Yeah, I’m just going to go-“
Grif disappeared through the doorway, the knife imbedding itself into the now closed door immediately after.
“Fucker did that on purpose,” Simmons muttered to himself, glaring at the now closed door. He got up and retrieved the blade from the door, examining it as he did. It was about a foot from where he had been aiming, which wasn’t great but not bad considering it was with an unfamiliar knife. The weight was definitely different from his standard kitchen knives but it felt more sturdy, which Simmons liked.
All in all, it was a good blade, one that Simmons was interested in using some more. If only so he was more familiar with a piece of his equipment. The only question was how would he be able to conceal it on his person.
Simmons shrugged, sitting down at the table to finish maintenance. He’d figure it out. It’s not the first blade he hid on his person and it wouldn’t be the last.
-
Simmons needed to practice with the new knife. He really did like it, from what he’d seen of it. Wash was right, it really was better than the shitty kitchen knives he’s had for the last seven years.The grip was good and the weight much more even. It felt nice in his hands. Official, even if he knew it wasn’t. Not for him anyways.
But that didn’t make the need to practice with it go away any faster. His aim wasn’t as good as with the kitchen knives, but practice would certainly fix that. Then he would have a bigger knife to threaten Grif with when he tried to steal food again.
The problem came with the fact he didn’t want to be caught practicing with it. If Grif saw him, he’d be smug and think his ‘plan’ was actually happening. It wasn’t. If Sarge saw, he would want to know where the knife came from, which was not a conversation Simmons wanted to have. Tucker would mock him for trying to ‘look cool’. Caboose would probably think standing in front of the target was the best idea.
And Wash? Simmons really didn’t want to know how Wash would react to him practicing with the knife he gave him. He might think Simmons changed his mind and was taking knife wielding seriously. Which he wasn’t. He just…wanted to make sure he could hit things with it. That’s all.
This is why, at a little after two in the morning, Simmons found himself sneaking out of base in his pajamas, and setting up a basic target range (an old crate with a bullseye painted on one side) near the dropped pelican. It was far enough away from Red Base to keep from waking anyone there but not even close to Blue Base. It would be safe.
Better yet, it would be secret.
Simmons stood there for a long moment, weighing the blade in his left hand. It was a nice night, cooler than usual with a slight breeze coming off the water. It almost made him want to go back and grab a hoodie to go over his bulky, red tee-shirt. It wasn’t worth the effort though since he could only feel the chill with one arm. He would be fine for however long he stayed to practice.
The knife went flying, the blade burying itself into the crate but missing the painted target by an inch. Yeah, this was going to take some getting used to.
Simmons threw it a few more times; his aim getting closer but ultimately not where he wanted it to be. He frowned, trying to figure out what he was missing.
“The knife is heavier than what you’re used to,” a voice called out.
Simmons shrieked, spinning around to find Wash standing there, hands up defensively. The man was out of armor, or mostly anyways. He still had his undersuit but Simmons wasn’t sure he ever took that off. Over it he had a pair of boxers one of the others had lent him and a shirt that may have been Church’s at one point since it only said ‘fuck off’ in cobalt.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Wash said, wincing a bit.
“What are you doing here!?” Simmons demanded. This was exactly who he didn’t want to find him practicing.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Wash said with a shrug. “Then I saw someone messing around near the pelican and figured I’d see what was going on.”
“In your pajamas?”
“I still had my undersuit. It’s fine,” Wash said dismissively. “But yeah, the blade is heavier than those cheap fly-aways you got. It’s not going to take as much work to keep it steady and on target. It also has a hilt, which throws off the balance a bit.”
Wash walked over to the target pulling the knife out of the crate to balance it horizontally on two fingers from the start of the hilt.
“See? A very well balanced blade would let me do this from the center, but I’m more on the hilt right now,” Wash explained. “It means, though the heavier weight makes sure it spins and sticks easier, the imperfect balance will throw it off a bit. Not as much as your old ones though so it’s still an upgrade.”
He passed the knife to Simmons handle first, waiting for the man to take it before stepping out of the way of the target.
“Try again, but with less overcorrecting, and a little less power,” Wash said. “You don’t have to fight against this blade. Let it work with you.”
“Right. Ok. I…I can do that,” Simmons nodded, trying not to think about how Grif’s ‘getting Simmons a boyfriend’ plan had started like this.
Instead, he focused on the target, made the adjustments Wash had suggested, and threw it.
Wash grinned as the blade hit the inner part of the target only about an inch away from the being considered a bullseye.
“See? Better than those kitchen knives, right?” Wash asked, sounding almost excited.
“Yeah, definitely,” Simmons agreed, a grin of his own spreading across his face. “I might need a few more of these.”
“What you need are actual throwing knives. You think this knife is good, those would blow you out of the water with how easy they are to throw,” Wash explained excitedly. “CT used to have a few she’d let me borrow for practice, and holy shit. The target may as well have been magnetized.”
Simmons continued practicing with the knife, chatting with Wash a bit as he got accustomed to the difference. Once he was certain he got it down, he switched hands, making Wash pause.
“You’re ambidextrous?” Wash asked curiously.
“What? No. Not really,” Simmons said, weighing the blade in his right hand. It somehow felt heavier in his flesh hand than it did in his robot one, but that wasn’t new. His robot arm was a lot stronger. “I’m left-handed but…”
Simmons paused, unsure if he wanted to continue. He didn’t like talking about his cybernetics and Wash already knew more about them than he should, thanks to Grif.
“You had to learn to compensate when you lost your arm?” Wash offered tentatively. Simmons sighed, he might as well get it over with or he would just ask later, probably at a very inconvenient time, like when there are people around to listen and chime in.
“I didn’t lose it. I know exactly where it is, which is currently attached to that lazy asshole asleep in Red Base,” Simmons said, throwing his blade at the target. It didn’t hit as nicely as with his left hand, but that was what practice was for. “But yeah, kinda. My prosthetic wasn’t exactly trustworthy for a while. Don’t get me wrong, Sarge did fantastic work and I’ll always be grateful. But we were in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but spare parts. Some things were bound to go wrong. I had to learn to use my right for a lot of things until we had the resources to fix it.”
“Can I ask how or would that be rude?” Wash questioned. Simmons laughed while he fetched the blade.
“I mean yeah, it’s rude, but we’re in the middle of nowhere so who gives a fuck,” Simmons said with a shrug. “It’s not like it’s a secret or anything. Everyone else here knows, mostly because they were there for it or were part of it.”
Simmons was quiet for a long moment, throwing the knife again before going to fetch it. Wash didn’t push him to continue, instead waiting patiently to see what he’d say next. It was nice not to be badgered for answers every two seconds.
“Grif had an accident early in our Blood Gulch days, back when we were all still buying the sim trouper bullshit in its entirety,” Simmons explained slowly as he continued target practice with his right. “It left his upper left side completely unsalvageable with several of his internal organs in need of replacing.”
“Then why did you get the cybernetics and he got your parts? That doesn’t make sense?” Wash asked.
“As much as Grif likes to bitch that it’s because Sarge is psychotic, it’s not really,” Simmons said. “Or not entirely. The man is psychotic, but not when it comes to stuff like this. Grif is allergic to a material that some of the wires and hardware are made up of. We didn’t have the resources to switch them out so the only way Sarge could save him was with donated parts. I volunteered to become a cyborg so Grif wouldn’t die. Pretty simple really.”
“Damn.”
Simmons wasn’t sure if Wash was impressed or just awed, but it didn’t really matter.
“Yup, so we both ended up living and I ended up being the cyborg one, which is pretty useful considering I do all the computer stuff,” Simmons nodded. “Well, it was once I stopped shooting myself in the foot all the time.”
“You what?”
“I learned quick it was better to keep my gun in my right hand rather than my left. Also where the safety was on those horrible excuses for weapons,” Simmons continued.
“You should have learned that in basics.”
“Did you see the guns they gave us in Blood Gulch? One of those fuckers had the safety at the end of the barrel. Another had it labeled as a self-destruct button. I swear Command was intentionally hiding it to see if sim troopers were smart enough to find them.”
“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Wash said with a sigh.
“Exactly,” Simmons said, fetching the blade but not throwing it again. His right was going to need more work than his left did, mostly for muscle reasons, but that was enough for tonight. “Anyways, that’s the whole reason I learned to use my right side just in case. Especially in case my left fails or breaks, I don’t want to be left unable to do anything.”
“Thanks for explaining,” Wash offered. Simmons fought down a blush, most definitely not used to getting thanked for random conversations.
“Yeah, whatever,” Simmons said quickly. “I’m…heading back to base now. Have to be up in a few hours.”
“Will you be back here tomorrow night?” Wash sounded tentative.
“Yeah, probably. My right needs more time to get used to the knife so I’ll probably be back a few times over the next week or two,” Simmons shuffled his feet awkwardly.
“See you then?” Wash said, making it sound like a question. Simmons examined his face briefly, watching hope flicker in the man’s amber eyes. Really, really pretty amber eyes, underlined by freckles and scars and what must be permanent dark circles.
Grif’s ‘get Simmons a boyfriend’ plan flashed through his mind again, which was… fine. He guessed. As much as he bitched about no one in the canyon being his type, he still wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to date again. But this, whatever this was, seemed alright. He had liked this.
“Yeah, see you then.”