Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.”

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.”

Chapter Text

These meeting quickly became routine for the two of them. A few times a week Simmons would have target practice in the middle of the night, Wash always showing up within a few minutes. Simmons had a feeling the man didn’t sleep a lot but he couldn’t say much considering his own fucked sleeping schedule.

Sometimes, Wash would bring his own knife and practice alongside him, which usually ended in a competition with increasingly stupid stakes. Simmons’s last loss meant he went around for a day with a smiley face scrolling across his monocle-sized screen he had instead of a left eye. Wash’s last one meant he had paper cat ears glued to his helmet until Tucker threw a bitch fit and took them to be burned. Their last competition ended in a tie so instead of doing nothing, they welded metal cat ears onto Tucker’s helmet in retaliation for stealing Wash’s. 

The competitions were actually pretty even, though Wash seemed to win a little more than Simmons did. He was certain Wash had to be holding back some because there was no way Simmons should be able to keep up with an ex-freelance on anything, even just a silly game like this.

Other times it would be just Simmons practicing while they talked, Wash occasionally giving pointers. It was usually just normal conversations, with an equal amount of talking between the two. But some night, when it was clear Wash was awake from nightmares and not insomnia, Simmons took over most it. One thing Simmons had always been good at was rambling on about absolutely nothing. This was no different. He’d just pick a topic and go until Wash’s shoulders stopped being so tight and his face looked less haunted. 

Simmons liked the talking nights the best. Sometimes they’d talk about normal stuff, like favorite pets (Wash was a cat person, through and through), and sometimes they talked about things they’d never admit while the sun was up.

This is how Simmons learned why Wash had wanted to talk to him after learning about his preference for knives. It reminded the man of early Freelancer, back when his team was still a team and the Leaderboard hadn’t been installed yet. Apparently, knives were a thing said team had shown him how to use properly, Maine via mock knife fights and CT via target practice.

“I missed that sometimes,” Wash admitted quietly into the still night. “Not Freelancer itself, but the ‘learning with friends’ bit. That’s why I like doing this with you. It’s nice.”

Wash sounded awkward, in a sincere sort of way. It was a tone of voice Simmons only heard when they were here, at the target range. He still didn’t know how to respond to it; he was fairly sure he never would.

“I should teach you knife fighting,” Wash said, taking Simmons by surprise.

“What? No, you shouldn’t!” Simmons responded.

“It would be fun.”

“Uh, no. I’m not a close-range fighter!” Simmons argued. “Why the hell would I get close to the enemy if it just makes it easier for them to hurt me?”

“That’s exactly why you should learn, just in case you don’t have the choice,” Wash continued. “Even if you prefer ranged combat, having a decent close-range defense is better than not having one at all. And you’re good with knives so it might as well be this.”

“I’m not good with knives!” Simmons stressed, his arms waving dramatically. Wash looked unimpressed.

“Our competition board begs to differ,” Wash said, nodding towards the crude score board they had carved into the side of their target. It read “Sim-6, Wash-7, ties-1”.

“That’s target practice, not combat. It’s like a dart game. It doesn’t count.”

“Simmons, that is a reinforced metallic alloy military crate we’re using for target practice. A crate you’re consistently able to burry over half that blade into from almost twenty feet out. With your non-dominant, non-cybernetic arm,” Wash pointed at the crate that had more holes in it than Tex’s old target in Blood Gulch. “Compared to that, the undersuits are nothing. Honestly, you probably wouldn’t find too much difficulty puncturing the armor in some places. If you can do that to the crate, you can use this in combat.”

“A dude that throws kitchen knives cannot use this in combat, Wash,” Simmons said sternly.

“You’re not holding a kitchen knife, are you?” Wash immediately shot back.

Simmons stared at him for a long moment before slipping one of the mentioned knives into his open hand and holding it up for Wash to see.

“Wait, hold on. What?” Wash stumbled on his words, staring incredulously at the newly appeared knife. “Where did that come from? No, better question, where were you hiding that?”

“I always have them on me when we come out here,” Simmons said, throwing the kitchen knife at the target. It barely stuck but it still made his point. “It’s stupid to come to a throwing range and only bring one knife.”

“Them? As in plural?”

Simmons answered by holding up another knife. Judging by Wash’s shocked expression, he didn’t see where that one came from either.

“ What? ”

“I have all of them,” Simmons shrugged. “Concealed of course.”

“You’re in a tee-shirt and athletic shorts without shoes. Fucking how?”

“Why would I ever reveal hidden weapons to a Blue?” Simmons teased.

“Why are you even using them?”

“Because they’re mine?” Simmons said slowly. “I took them from Blood Gulch. They’re mine to use.”

“I’ve seen plastic ware better than those things. You need to stop using them.”

“They’re. Mine.”

“I need to take those away from you,” he said half to himself.

“You’d have to find them first,” Simmons challenged. He only realized after he said it that it sounded distinctly like flirting, considering they were hidden on his person.

“I suppose I will,” Wash said, smiling. 

Well, Simmons couldn’t redact the challenge now.  He could think of several ways this could go wrong. But, well, he kind of wanted to see where this led.

-

Pat downs. That’s where the challenge led. Pat downs.

For some reason, Wash’s way of figuring out where Simmons’s knives were was a full airport security pat down with all the flirting that comes with it. Which was none.

Rules were that if he found one of the seven knives, he could keep it (or, in his words, dispose of the monstrosity permanently). He’d found none. And Simmons was going to make sure that was the only amount he’d ever find.

It was almost a week before Washington stopped trying the pat downs, showing up to their target and shuffling awkwardly in place.

“What, no pat down today?” Simmons asked, holding his arms out briefly like he would if they were.

“They haven’t been working anyways,” Wash said, fiddling with his fingers. He was wearing his undersuit like normal but with a pair of plain sweatpants over it and a shirt saying “Meow chicka meow meow” that he had either been given by, or had stolen from, Tucker. Simmons could have sworn he was blushing but that was impossible.

“Good, I felt like I was going through TSA every night, which isn’t fun,” Simmons pointed out.

“I asked my team how they would find someone’s concealed weapons,” Wash immediately continued. “Caboose said to ask the person where they were. Or use a really big magnet.”

“That’s Caboose for you,” Simmons shrugged.

“Tucker said, and I quote, ‘they can’t hide weapons if you’re both naked and having sex.’” 

“That’s…Tucker… for you,” Simmons tried to sound just as casual but his voice pitching up half an octave ruined the effect. He couldn’t look at Wash anymore either so, yeah, thanks Tucker.

“I just…if you thought this was an entire elaborate scheme to get…that. I’m really sorry,” Wash rambled. “I didn’t even realize it could be taken like that because I haven’t done anything even resembling flirting since high school. So if I made you uncomfortable over the last few days by making you think a guy was hitting on, I’m really, really sorry. I like what we have here and I don’t want to ruin it because I’m an idiot that forgot things can be taken-“

“I’m gay.”

Ok, that was probably the worst time Simmons could have admitted that but it’s a bit late now. He stole a peak at Wash who was just blinking in confusion.

“What?” he asked, taken aback.

“Uh, you sounded like you… thought I was straight,” Simmons explained awkwardly. “I’m not. I’m gay. Oh, so very gay. So gay, in fact, that I don’t even know how to interact with women because they may as well be a different species. A powerful, terrifying species that I’m afraid to even talk to. And are not attracted to. Because I’m gay.

“Plus, I kind of started the whole accidental flirting thing. On accident. Since I didn’t realize it could be, you know, flirty, until after I said it. So really, I should be apologizing to you for that and not the other way around,” Simmons said quickly. He was about to continue when Wash started laughing. “What?”

“No, just…Oh God, we’re bad at this,” he said behind chuckles, his hand rubbing at his forehead even as he laughed.

“Bad at what? Being friends?”

“No, well, probably that too,” Wash put his hand down, a small smile on his face. “It’s just…I’m not straight either, so apologizing for flirting isn’t something either of us should be doing, I don’t think.”

“Oh.” Simmons said briefly. “Can I ask-“

“What? No idea. I haven’t really had the chance to sit down and think about it, if I’m being honest,” Wash said with a shrug as he decided to sit in the grass. “I just know that the few people I’ve liked, gender didn’t exactly matter. But labels don’t really matter when you’re in the military.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Simmons muttered. He thought for a moment before joining Wash on the ground, figuring it would be awkward to be the only one standing. He didn’t sit next to him, just across; close enough that he could poke Wash’s foot with his toe if he wanted to.

“So, are you and Grif-“ Wash tried to ask after a moment, only to cut off when Simmons glared at him.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been talking to Tucker about my dating life too,” Simmons said flatly.

“Not intentionally? He just talks about it. A lot.”

“I fucking hate that man,” Simmons muttered, shaking his head. “And no, Grif and I aren’t like that. And if that dumbass thought with anything besides his dick, he’d already know and wouldn’t have made that stupid bet with Grif.”

“You two are pretty close though. Anyone can see that,” Wash said simply.

“Grif’s AroAce. Or, as he likes to call it ‘having an exclusive relationship with food.’” Simmons said with a shrug. “He has no interest in romance, or  sex, or, much to Tucker’s eventual annoyance, dating. Not that I’d want that with him anyways, but that’s beside the point.”

“So you’re just friends,” Wash said. Simmons made a face, flopping down onto the grass to stare at the sky. It was a clear night, the stars twinkling softly in unnamed constellations.

“I don’t like the phrase ‘just friends.’ It feels like it cheapens the idea of a platonic relationship simply because it doesn’t involve romance and sex,” Simmons said, lightly picking at the grass at his side. “I literally gave that asshole a third of me so he wouldn’t fucking die. Just because we’re not making goo-goo eyes at each other and fucking in a supply closet doesn’t mean it’s any less serious of a relationship.”

Simmons tilted his head up to peek at Wash, who looked confused.

“It’s complicated,” Simmons said, dropping his head back into the grass. “We have a QPR thing going; it keeps us sane and out of trouble.”

“Oh, right,” Wash’s voice brightened with understanding. “A queer platonic relationship. Maine had one of those with another former Spartan. I never met Maine’s partner, they were separated into different groups when they got to Freelancer, but he used to talk about him sometimes before, well, everything.”

“Right, as weird as that is to think about, I’m just going to be glad I don’t need to explain that to you,” Simmons said, shaking his head.

“Does that mean you don’t want to date someone else?”

“As long as the dude I’m dating doesn’t give a flying fuck that he has to share my attention, then it’s fine,” Simmons shrugged. “Grif’s fine with it too, before you ask. He’s been trying to set me up with someone for over a month now so he can win that bet sooner rather than later.”

“Who?”

“Ah, um, no one in particular,” Simmons said in a rush, his voice jumping an octave as his face heated up. How did they end up at this stupid topic anyways?

“I could probably figure out who it is,” Wash teased, poking Simmons’s foot with his own. “There’s only so many people in this outpost. It wouldn’t be very hard, I don’t think.”

“Don’t you dare,” Simmons shot back up pointing at the man threateningly. He didn’t think it worked considering how amused Wash looked.

“Maybe I could help Grif in his endeavor,” Wash continued. “You know, in finding you a boyfriend.”

“I swear to God, I’d rather have you find my fucking knives than find me a boyfriend,” Simmons stated.

“Even considering Tucker’s searching suggestions?” Wash teased.

Simmons swore he blue-screened. Just straight up, old school computer, blue-screened. He didn’t think that’s how his cybernetics worked but they must have.

Yeah, no he was done here.

“I’m going to bed,” Simmons said briefly, climbing to his feet and heading to Red Base.

“Simmons, come back! It was a joke!” Wash called, still sounding amused. “I swear I wouldn’t take Tucker’s suggestions on anything, not even food.”

Simmons didn’t answer. He knew it was a joke but between the awkwardness of their start today and all the bullshit they talked about, he’d reached his social limit quite some time ago.

“We haven’t even done target practice yet!”

Simmons stopped for that, but only long enough to slip a kitchen knife out of its hiding spot and throw it between Wash’s feet.

“Practice done! I’m going to bed!” Simmons called back before starting to leave again.

“Does this count as being found?” Wash yelled back. Simmons stuck up his middle finger over his shoulder. “I’m taking that as a yes!”

Chapter Text

“So we never actually figured the flirting thing out yesterday,” Wash mentioned, throwing a knife at the crate. They had to turn it around and paint a new target on the back because the one side had become so riddled with holes the knives were going completely through the target more often than not.

Simmons glanced over at him briefly. He looked extra dorky tonight, like he was nervous but trying desperately to seem casual. The fact he was wearing one of Caboose’s tee-shirts, which was absolutely massive on him, didn’t help matters. It was an old, worn-out shirt that was now a very sun-bleached shade of blue, with the barely legible lettering of MKL-111 on the sleeve. Caboose loved that shirt; it was his favorite. The fact he was lending it out to Washington spoke more to how well he was settling into Blue Team than anything else.

“I thought we did,” Simmons said, throwing his own. He was working on his right again with the bayonet, though he was ready to switch back the second it looked like they were turning this into a competition. “We’re both dumbasses who accidentally flirted with each other and neither of us were that upset by it. What’s more to figure out?”

“Is flirting… alright?”

“I don’t mind,” Simmons shrugged, fetching the knives and handing Wash his before focusing on the target again.

“Me neither,” Wash offered. He was silent for a moment before tentatively continuing. “Would it be alright if I flirted with you?”

“Why?” Simmons asked before immediately regretting it. That was not what you said when someone you like asks if they can flirt with you! Simmons tried again. “I mean, there’s really no point.”

Damn it.

“The point is I kinda like you. More than-I mean, I like you. In a starter romantic feeling sort of way. Not dating stuff, really. Not yet but, you know, basics,” Wash explained, tripping over his words as he twisted his knife in his hands. “And as much as our last flirting thing was accidental and shouldn’t count, I do like the idea of flirting with you. More intentionally, that is. If that’s not an issue.” 

Simmons stared at him, confused. This is what he wanted, right? He liked Wash. He wanted to flirt with Wash and have Wash flirt with him. He just never expected Wash to want the same.

“But I’m just a nerd. A nerd who couldn’t even run away to the military without fucking it up,” Simmons said, starting to get worked up. He threw his knife at the target, giving him something to do. It didn’t really work since all it did was leave him empty handed with nothing to do except panic. “Why would you like someone like that?”

“Do I need a reason to like you?” Wash questioned.

“Yes! Of course you need a reason,” Simmons said, throwing his hands in the air. “I mean I have plenty of reasons why I like you-“ 

Simmons froze, his mind catching up with his words. Fuck.

Wash was grinning as Simmons buried his face in his hands. This was so stupid. He was pretty sure romantic bullshit was supposed to be smoother than this, not just falling head first into the feelings pit and hitting every awkward bolder on the way down.

“You like me?” Wash asked, sounding too happy at all this. Simmons nodded into his hands. “Like ‘starter romantic feelings’ like?” Simmons nodded again.

A hand came to rest lightly on his wrist, gently pulling it away from his face to reveal Wash closer now, tilting his head down to look Simmons in the face.

“Does that mean we can flirt with each other?” He asked, still smiling.

“Yeah,” Simmons answered, the organic parts of his face practically on fire.

“Great!” Wash said. 

“You’re going to be sorely disappointed,” Simmons mumbled.

“Who says I’m the one that’s going to be disappointed? It could be you,” Wash stepped back, giving Simmons some room again once he stopped trying to bury himself into his palms. “I’ve never had a mutual romantic interest before. I could completely fuck this up.”

“Seriously?” Simmons asked.

“I was a troublemaking outcast in high school, immediately joined the military, got court-martialed by said military, then sent to Freelancer where I spent the last decade dealing with everything that entailed,” Wash said, counting them out on his fingers. “When would I have time for anything other than the occasional passing crush?”

“I was the awkward nerd no one wanted to associate with in high school, dated one dude in college that turned out to be a manipulative bastard, and then tried to join the military only to end up buried in sim trooper bullshit,” Simmons retaliated. “The little time I could have been dating, I didn’t want to because of said manipulative bastard. By the time I even considered it again, I was too busy with Freelancer escapades to do so.”

“That explains why we both sound like we just walked out of the eighth-grade lunchroom,” Wash said offhand. Simmons let out a surprised laugh, covering his mouth and the crooked smile that came with it. “Not that I mind. It’s kind of nice not being in a rush for once in my life.”

“Welcome to sim trooper life,” Simmons stated, “where everything happens slowly, unless a Freelancer shows up.”

“I really hope no one shows up anytime soon,” Wash said with his own smile. “I’m enjoying the slow. And I want to enjoy flirting with you at that pace too.”

“That would be nice,” Simmons replied. A realization seemed to dawn on Wash, his smile slipping slowly off his face. “Is something wrong?”

“I just realized, I…uh, don’t know how to flirt,” Wash admitted.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God!”

“I’ve never had to flirt before! It wasn’t a skill I needed! Now I do and I don’t know how! How does one flirt?”

“How am I supposed to know?!” Simmons all but shrieked.

“You’ve been in a relationship before. You must have flirted.”

“There was little to no flirting involved on my side of things,” Simmons answered immediately.

“So you’re telling me, neither of us know how to flirt?” Wash asked skeptically. 

“Fucking hell. This is so stupid. We’re so stupid! How can we be this stupid about this!?”

“I don’t know! Do we look it up? Do we ask someone?”

“I swear to God, if you ask Tucker for advice, I’m redacting your flirting permission!”

“I’m not that stupid!”

-

Simmons had no idea how to figure out the flirting problem. Normally, he’d go to the internet. But the internet had nothing but shitty pickup lines and other such tactics similar to what Tucker would no doubt recommend. It was useless and leaving him with only one option. An option he hadn’t wanted to even consider.

Asking Grif.

“Hey, Grif,” Simmons asked, trying to sound casual while they were out on patrol. It wasn’t for any useful purpose but it made Sarge happy. “Theoretically, how would one flirt?”

“Why are you asking me?” Grif said, then paused. “Wait, why are you asking at all?”

“No reason!” Simmons immediately responded. “Definitely nothing you need to worry about. It’s…for science! Yeah, boring science stuff.”

Grif stared at him intently, his face unreadable behind his helmet.

“Science?”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck that, you’ve been hanging out with Wash, haven’t you?” Grif said, sounding excited. 

“No!”

“That’s where you’ve been going at night? Secret rendezvous with the Blue Team leader.” Grif teased. Simmons could practically hear him wiggling his eyebrows at him.

“No they’re not!” Simmons reiterated. “Stop insinuating I’m banging a Blue in the middle of the valley!”

“Oh so that’s where you meet him, huh?”

“This was a mistake.”

“Ok, ok, I’ll stop,” Grif said, laughing with his hands up. “But you have been meeting Wash at night, right?”

“Not intentionally,” Simmons grumbled. “I go out at night and he just…shows up.”

“Every time?”

“Every time.”

“Does that dude even sleep?” Grif asked, scandalized.

“I have no idea. Probably not. PTSD is a bitch,” Simmons said with a shrug.

“I know one way you can get him to sleep,” Grif was immediately back to teasing him.

“It’s not like that,” Simmons whined.

“Why not? It’s-“

“If you give me that stupid ‘you’re both interested so just fuck each other’s brains out already’ speech, I will stab you with my knife,” Simmons said flatly. “The big one.”

“Alright, gees. If you two want a snail’s pace romance, then fine. Go for it. You two do you,” Grif waved a hand dismissively. “Real talk, I’m just glad you’re actually going for it. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Thanks,” Simmons muttered. Grif bumped his shoulder against his, prompting a small smile on the man’s face.

“So, what was this about flirting?”

“I’m taking back that question. It no longer exists, you can forget about it,” Simmons said immediately.

“Come on! As your literal other half, I deserve to know what you’ve been doing at two AM with Washington,” Grif insisted.

“No, you don’t! And that’s horribly inaccurate. You’re like a third me, tops,” Simmons insisted.

“I think you’ve forgotten how many internal organs of yours I've got. Because that makes me at least half you.”

“I did not forget how many of my organs are synthetic,” Simmons said, glaring at Grif from behind his visor. “That’s not something you just forget, asshat.”

“No, you definitely forgot.”

Simmons was about to retaliate when they caught sight of Caboose wandering towards Blue Base with a flag pole in his hands. Grif and Simmons shared a confused look before calling out to him.

“Hey Caboose! What are you doing?” Grif called.

“Oh! Hello Simmons! Hello Grif, with two ‘F’s!” Caboose called back, making Grif sigh. “I am doing my chores!”

“Blue Base has chores?” Simmons asked.

“Yes! Tucker has to do the dishes, and Agent Washing-Church does the laundry, and I collect the laundry so Washerman can wash it!” Caboose yelled proudly. “Oh, and we’re washing our flag. Washingtub said we should be nice and wash yours too.”

“That’s pretty kind of him,” Simmons said as Caboose continued towards Blue Base.

“One less thing we have to clean,” Grif said with a shrug.

Wait.

“The Blues just stole our flag, didn’t they?” Simmons stated, watching the red fabric disappear over the hill.

“Yup. Your boyfriend is a smooth operator.”

“Not boyfriend.”

“If only you knew how to flirt, then you could seduce him into giving us our flag back.”

Chapter Text

“I’ve figured it out. Kind of,” Wash said immediately upon meeting that night. Simmons sent him a flat look.

“Did you figure out how to fix our flag? Because that’s really all I want to hear from you right now,” Simmons said, pointing a finger at him.

“Ok, in my defense it wasn’t actually supposed to go through our washing machine,” Washington said awkwardly. “Caboose snuck it in while I wasn’t looking and-“

“Our flag is purple, Wash. Purple !”

“So is ours, at the moment.”

“Sarge was having an existential crisis because there’s no Red Team without a Red Flag.”

“Why doesn’t he requisition a new one? That’s what we’re doing.”

“I already did before Sarge could tell me not to. Because if he knew I was doing it he’d tell me ‘no, Simmons, we can’t admit such a horrible defeat to Command’ and then mope for the next three weeks until I did it anyways.”

“That’s… good,” Wash said. Simmons glared at him. There was an awkward silence between the two as Wash shifted from foot to foot before relenting. “If I promise not to steal your flag again via telling Caboose to put it in the laundry, will you stop glaring at me?”

“That depends, are you going to put it through the shredder next?”

“We don’t actually have a shredder.”

“Wait, how do you shred all those important ‘destroy immediately after reading’ documents from Command?”

“Apparently Blue Base has a long-standing tradition of handing them to Caboose and telling him we need confetti for a party,” Wash said with a long, suffering sigh. “It’s strangely effective.”

“Ok, yeah. That tracks,” Simmons nodded. “It also explains where Donut used to get all the random confetti from.”

“Donut?”

“The pink guy.”

“Oh. Yeah. The guy I shot.”

“That’s the one.”

There was a long moment of awkward silence.

“I swear I see him around sometimes, like early mornings when no one else is awake yet,” Wash said tentatively. “It’s…odd. I don’t exactly believe in ghosts but I don’t think he’s a hallucination either.”

“Sometimes I think I hear him,” Simmons offered.

There was another silence as they traded worried looks.

“You don’t think he’s-“ Wash started.

“No. Definitely not. That was a pretty lethal bullet wound,” Simmons answered before he could finish. “But then again, he’s survived worse. And his body is missing.”

Silence.

“You know what? Fuck that. I don’t get paid enough to wonder what the fuck happened to Donut,” Simmons said, shrugging dramatically with both hands. “Anyways, what did you figure out, if it wasn’t how to turn our flag red again?”

“Oh, right,” Wash grinned, holding up a tablet. Simmons frowned at the device, starting to get an inkling to what he was talking about and not liking it. “I’ve figured out flirting.”

“Please say you didn’t ‘figure out flirting’ via the internet,” Simmons asked, rubbing at his forehead.

“Is that bad?”

“Yes! It’s horrible!” Simmons exclaimed, throwing his hands up dramatically. “I know because I looked it up and found nothing but pickup lines and Tucker approved methods. Which are both very horrible!”

“I thought some of the pickup lines were good,” Wash said, tapping at the tablet to bring up some sort of page.

Simmons stared at him for a long moment, not believing his ears.

“You liked the pickup lines?” Simmons asked incredulously.

“The pun ones. They were funny.”

“I can’t believe I like a man that thinks pun pickup lines are high class flirting material,” Simmons said with a sigh. “You really are just a nerd underneath all that agent, aren’t you?”

“I mean yeah, kinda,” Wash said with an unrepenting shrug. “Do you want to hear some?”

Simmons sighed again, clearly having lost the war against pickup lines.

“Sure. Might as well.”

“Are you Wi-fi? Because I swear we have a connection,” Wash read off with a grin.

“Wow,” Simmons said flatly. Wash was not deterred, immediately finding another one to read.

“Are you a forty-five-degree angle? Because you’re a-cutie.”

“Seriously?”

“You and I are like nachos with jalapeños. I'm cheesy, you're hot, and we belong together.”

“Oh, my God. These are horrible,” Simmons said, burying his face in his hands. “How are these worse than the ones I saw?”

“Oh, here’s a good one. Someone must have hit you with a phaser set to stunning.”

“Wait, where the hell did you find Star Trek pickup lines?” Simmons demanded, hands dropping away from his face to stare at a far too pleased Washington.

“Why? Did you like that one?” Wash teased, looking up from his tablet.

“No. Maybe. Shut up,” Simmons felt his face heat up as Wash grinned back at him. “Just keep going. I want this torture over with.”

“I’m sure,” Wash said turning his focus back to the tablet. “Oh, do you like Star Wars ?”

“I guess?”

“Because Yoda only one for me.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“If you were a Transformer, you’d be Optimus fine ,” Wash said.

“Where the fuck did you find all these?!” Simmons demanded as Wash laughed.

“Spent most of the day on Google,” Wash answered, still chuckling. “I wanted to get more Star Trek ones but the only other ones I could find weren’t exactly funny.”

Simmons shook his head.

“So, did they work? Are we flirting yet?” Wash teased.

“No, definitely not.”

“I think we are,” Wash nodded to himself.

“Reading off a few inaccurate pickup lines doesn’t constitute as flirting,” Simmons said. Wash frowned a bit before speaking.

“Who says they were inaccurate?” Wash asked, sounding oddly serious. “Other than the fact it’s a little soon to be figuring out commitment stuff, I thought they all were quite accurate. I mean, I’ve definitely proved how cheesy I can be.”

“What part of this is considered hot?!” Simmons demanded, gesturing towards himself. “Or stunning or anything really other than a mess.”

“Do you need a list? I’ll make a list. I’ve got my tablet right here and several hours before anyone bothers to notice I’m gone,” Wash gestured towards his tablet. “I can get a good size list going and it wouldn’t even be that hard.”

“Now you’re just fucking with me.”

“I’m not!”

Simmons watched him carefully. He looked sincere but Simmons just couldn’t take his words seriously. They just didn’t work.

“I’m a hobbled together cyborg made from a gangly nerd and a lot of spare parts. There is nothing hot about that.”

“You might not think so, but it’s a good look from where I’m standing,” Wash offered. Simmons gave him a skeptical look that made him shake his head. “That’s it. I’m making that list.”

“Don’t make the stupid list,” Simmons whined.

“I’m doing it. Right now,” Wash brought his tablet back up and started typing into it. “And it’s going to be like five pages long, full of all the things I like about you.”

“No.”

“Maybe longer. Because you definitely need the confidence boost.”

“Nooooooo….” Simmons whined.

“Including, but not limited to, how badass you look with a knife.”

“I’m not badass! I’m not even close! I’m like the opposite of badass!”

“According to my list you are. It’s at the top. ‘Number one: Badass with a knife.’”

“That’s it. Give me the tablet!” Simmons demanded, taking a swipe at it. Wash artfully dodged, not even looking up from his word document.

“You can have it when I’m done,” Wash said in a singsong voice as dodging another grab. “Hmm…what should be number two. So many choices.”

“I’ll stab you,” Simmons threatened as he tried to grab it again. Another miss.

“You’re right. That should be number two. ‘Willing to stab’. Though, I think that might end up included in number one,” Wash pretended to think as he twisted out of Simmons reach. “Hmm…We’ll put that as 1B.”

“Wash!”

Wash smiled at him, no doubt noticing how red Simmons’s face had gotten throughout the whole thing.

“Right, how could I forget. ‘Number two: Fantastic blush.’ Ten out of ten. Would make blush again,” Wash said. Simmons didn’t say anything as he frowned at the man, trying to figure out how to get the stupid fucking tablet away from him. There had to be a way.

“Number 3 has to be your eyes. No contest. Your natural eye is a very pretty shade of green which looks great with the red LED one. The eyescreen emotes are a definite plus as well.  It’s such a great combination really,” Wash continued. “And it goes great with the blush.”

Simmons made a swipe for it again, groaning when it was easily dodged. Wash’s smile was far too smug for his liking.

“You know, if you learned how to knife fight, you might have an easier time getting the tab-“

Wash cut off abruptly as Simmons tackled him to the ground. 

Washington let out an oof, that sounded half like a laugh, as they hit the ground, Simmons landing on top of him. Immediately, Simmons lunged for the tablet, but Wash hadn’t been a Freelancer without reason. Even with nowhere to go, he still kept it out of Simmons’s grasp, furiously typing as he did.

“Hold on! I just figured …out four!” Wash said, holding the tablet above his head with one hand while the other kept Simmons from reaching it. “Fucking feral. That’s hot shit right-ow! Watch the metal arm.”

“Give me the tablet!” Simmons demanded, not at all guilty about accidentally hitting Wash in the face with his left arm.

“Nope, I think I have number five ready-“

Both men froze as, in an effort to keep the tablet out of Simmons hands, Wash swung it a little too hard, sending it through the air to land several feet away.

Simmons reacted first, using a few steak knives to pin Wash’s clothes to the ground before lunging for the tablet.

It was blank. The page Wash had been typing into was absolutely blank except for a small emoticon heart in the center of it. Simmons looked over to see the guilty bastard laughing and making no effort to free himself from the ground.

Simmons stared at him blankly.

“What, I’m not going to write it down where Tucker could find it,” Wash said between laughs. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not compiling a list. By the way, number five? This, definitely.”

“You’re an asshole,” Simmons muttered, tossing the tablet at the prone man.

“Everyone in this canyon is an asshole. Case in point.” Wash gestured to the several knives still pinning him to the ground. “You should really let me teach you knife fights, by the way. Based on this alone, I think you’d be great at it.”

“I’m leaving you there.”

“If you leave me here, I’m considering these knives as found by me and will be disposing of them properly,” Wash pointed out.

Simmons glared at him, his face still red and thus undermining the intensity. He stalked over to grab the knives, slipping them back into place before Wash could figure out where they went.

“I’m going to bed,” Simmons declared, starting off to Red Base.

“Simmons,” Wash called, making Simmons pause briefly. He was sitting up now, watching Simmons leave. “I think I figured out the flirting.”

“You haven’t figured out jack shit,” Simmons said, pointing a finger at him. Wash smiled.

“Number six,” was all he said. But that was apparently enough.

Whatever blush had faded from Simmons’s face over the last minute or so was back with a vengeance.

“G-goodnight,” Simmons sputtered out, making a beeline straight for base. And his room. And his bunk to hide in for the next week.

Simmons didn’t need to see Grif to know it was him poking his shoulder through the blanket.

“I know you’re awake under there,” Grif stated, continuing to poke him even as Simmons feigned sleep. “Come on, it’s like noon. I’m the only one that’s supposed to stay in bed this long. You’re stealing my thing.”

Simmons groaned, pulling the blankets farther over his head. He wasn’t ready to deal with today. Not by a long shot.

Grif sighed but stopped poking his shoulder. There was some movement outside the blankets before the end of the bunk dipped, indicating Grif had taken a seat on it.

“And to think I even stole coffee from the Blues for you,” Grif said almost mournfully. When Simmons still didn’t come out, his tone turned more serious. “What happened? Did the flirting attempt go that horribly?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Simmons mumbled into his pillow. 

“Does it have anything to do with why Wash has a black eye?”

“What?” Simmons peaked out from under the blanket to see if Grif was fucking with him. He wasn’t in his armor yet, instead sporting an old orange hoodie, shorts, and flip-flops that have seen better days. He had Simmons’s favorite mug full of steaming coffee that didn’t smell like Sarge’s burnt monstrosities. He was also absolutely serious.

“I assume you gave it to him, unless he’s meeting someone else at night in the middle of this deserted canyon,” Grif said with a shrug. “Just so you know, if he crossed a line or some shit, I won’t hesitate to give him another. That’s not cool.”

“No, nothing like that,” Simmons said. “Does he really have a black eye?”

“Not a lot of one. Just a faint bruise on his cheekbone,” Grif said. “No one even noticed it was there until Tucker pointed it out.”

Simmons thought back to yesterday, trying to figure out when that could have happened.

“Oh, right,” Simmons muttered, remembering the impromptu grappling match that led to him accidentally smacking Wash in the face.

“Was that you?” Grif asked again.

“Not on purpose,” Simmons mumbled. “I may have accidentally smacked him.”

“How?” Grif said. Simmons went to answer but was cut off. “How about you tell me all of what happened last night instead of us playing twenty questions for the next hour?”

Simmons groaned, not wanting to go through this at all. But Grif was right, it was better to start from the top. Grif held out the coffee mug as a peace offering as Simmons sat up. He took the mug, savoring the first sip for a moment before grudgingly explaining what happened the night before. He even admitted to the knife practicing, which Grif didn’t say anything to, but looked far too smug about.

“So, let me get this straight,” Grif said, once Simmons was done. “ Both of you didn’t know how to flirt.”

“Yep.”

“Wash used some nerdy pickup lines that lead to him figuring out that you can take compliments about as well as a fish can fly.”

“Yep.”

“So now he’s compiling a list of things about you he thinks are great and using it to flirt with you.”

“Pretty much.”

“And your response was to tackle him, give him a black eye, and steal his tablet?”

“I gave the tablet back!” Simmons defended. Grif gave him a flat look.

“You really are fucking horrible at this,” he said flatly. Simmons wilted slightly, staring into his half full coffee mug.

“I know,” he admitted.

“You have no idea how close I am to calling Kai and having her give you lessons,” Grif said.

“Please don’t,” Simmons whined, slouching back against the wall. “She’s as bad as Tucker when it comes to this shit.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Tucker couldn’t talk someone out of their pants if their clothes were on fire. My sister, on the other hand, actually knows how to pick-up chicks.”

 “Please don’t,” Simmons reiterated.

“Fine, but you’ll have to put up with my shitty advice as a dude that doesn't do any of this,” Grif said with a shrug. He leaned back against his own wall.

“Better than nothing,” Simmons muttered.

“Alright, so the list is what’s making you hide in your room like a little bitch, right?” Grif asked. Simmons glared at him mildly but nodded nonetheless. “Is it because it’s making you uncomfortable or that you just don’t know how to take a compliment? Because if it’s actually makes you uncomfortable, I have no doubt Wash would stop in a heartbeat if you ask him to.”

“It’s not that,” Simmons said, fiddling with the cup as he figured out his words. “I just…I don’t think it’s right. I’m not any of those things on the list. I’m just…me.”

“He certainly thinks you’re all those things otherwise he wouldn’t have put them on the list,” Grif pointed out.

“But that’s the thing. I’m not. I know I’m not. He’s going to figure that out at some point and…” Simmons’s voice trailed off, not wanting to finish the words.

“You think he’s going to stop liking you when his version of you and the ‘real you’ don’t match,” Grif finished. Simmons hesitated briefly before nodding.

“His version of me is fake. It’s not real,” Simmons murmured.

“Hate to tell you this, Simmons, but every version is fake to some degree,” Grif said. Simmons’s gaze snapped up to him, confused, but he kept talking. “How I see you is different from how Wash sees you. How Wash sees you is different from how you see you. And none of them are going to be exactly right. That’s the brilliantly frustrating thing about being human. There is no ‘right version.’ Just millions of different takes on the same person.”

“I don’t…” Simmons started to ask, but stopped when he realized he didn’t know where he was going.

“You’re never going to see what Wash sees in you because you’ll never be Wash. Just like Wash will never see what you see in him because he will never be you,” Grif stated. “And telling him what he sees is wrong simply because you don’t see it, it’s not cool man. Especially when it comes to this.”

“Oh,” Simmons muttered briefly. He thought he knew where Grif had been going with this. It made sense, kind of.

“So basically, if Wash thinks you’re a hot, knife wielding cyborg, let him. He’s obviously seeing something you don’t, and is very much liking it,” Grif stated. “Anyways, I doubt there would be much you could say to convince him otherwise, regardless. He likes you, probably more than even he realizes.”

“I don’t know about that. It’s beginner feeling stuff. Nothing serious,” Simmons explained.

“The dude went out of his way to find you the nerdiest fucking pickup lines and is now flirting with you via a list. A list, Simmons. The dude’s already fallen for you,” Grif pointed out. “You better start flirting back because he’s not going anywhere.”

“But how ?”

“Flirting is just showing the other person you’re interested,” Grif said, rolling his eyes. “Like doing shit with them and enjoying their company. It’s not complicated. You’ve been doing that for, what, over a month now? Just keep doing it.”

“But things are different now! He knows I like him romantically! And I know he likes me, so we have to act different now, don’t we?”

“No. Just be nerdy Simmons practicing throwing knives with nerdy Washington,” Grif said with a shrug. Simmons sent him a disbelieving stare making the man sigh. “If you want it different then, I don’t know, take him up on those knife fight lessons I guess.”

“How is that-“

“It’s different than what you’re doing,” Grif interrupted, starting to count the reasons on his fingers. “He has said multiple times he wants to teach you, so you know he would enjoy it. It’s also a physically closer activity involving more casual touch, definitely a good thing for romantic prospects.”

He made a lot of good points, Simmons had to give him that. As much as it felt stupid to try to learn knife fighting from Wash, it did make sense.

“I guess I could try that,” Simmons muttered, wincing as he took a sip of his now cold coffee. “It doesn’t sound completely stupid.”

“And it will give you plenty of opportunities to check out his ass,” Grif added.

“Grif!”

Chapter Text

“Grif says I should check out your ass more.”

Wash paused halfway across their target range. Simmons sat on the target itself, his focus on the bayonet he was cleaning. It was going to need to be sharpened soon but he could do that on his own time. A time where he wasn’t half panicked over saying something so forward.

“What?” Wash asked. He sounded confused, and slightly amused.

“You asked Tucker about the whole ‘how to find concealed weapons’ problem and then told me the weird answers you got. Well, I asked Grif about the ‘how to flirt’ problem and am telling you the weird answer I got,” Simmons explained. “It’s only fair.”

“Is that…all he said?”

“No, but it was weirder out of context,” Simmons said, looking up from his knife finally. “I…um… kinda wanted to see what you’d say to it.”

“Is it weird if I didn’t expect him to suggest something like that?”

“Just because he’s not interested, doesn’t mean he doesn’t know shit,” Simmons said with a shrug. “Plus you’ve met his sister. She’s like the female, more successful version of Tucker. The only way he’d not learn anything would be out of spite.”

“Ok, I can see that,” Wash said, walking over to the target crate and hopping up to take a seat on Simmons’s right side. Simmons shifted over a bit to give him more room, but it was a small crate, especially for two grown men to be sitting on together. They sat shoulder to shoulder, their knees occasionally bumping against each other.

“He also said I should take you up on that knife fighting lesson thing. Since it’s a different activity we’d probably both enjoy and would involve a closer proximity to each other,” Simmons explained, trying not to be distracted by the heat of Wash’s shoulder pressed against his. He tapped his foot against the crate, trying to expel some of the nervous energy before it made him too awkward. “And that it would give me a chance to check out your ass more.”

“Do you already check out my ass?”

“…I’m not answering that,” Simmons said, trying and most definitely failing not to blush. Wash grinned.

“I mean I don’t mind,” Wash said. “You can check out my ass all you want.”

Simmons groaned, no longer able to make eye contact with him. This was a stupid idea. Stupider than his normal ones. He probably shouldn’t have even brought it up in the first place.

“As long as I’m allowed to check yours out, that is,” Wash continued.

“What ass?! I don’t have an ass!”

“I don’t think it’s that bad of a view,” Wash said with a smirk. “Probably List worthy. What are we on, seven now? Yeah, definitely adding that as seven. ‘Nice ass.’”

“Can we not talk about each other’s asses please?” 

“You started it,” Wash teased, elbowing him lightly in the arm. 

“I know! And if I knew it was going to go like this, I wouldn’t have. Maybe,” Simmons said.

“Ok, we won’t talk about number seven anymore,” Wash relented with a chuckle. “For now.”

“Good.”

They were silent for a while; not uncomfortably so. It was actually kind of nice, just sitting there next to him, the only sound being this planet's version of crickets and whatever those beams of energy shooting from their bases were. 

Simmons tried to watch the stars. The sky was clear and it was a perfect time for it. But his attention kept drifting elsewhere. Specifically, to the man sitting next to him. Wash must have been having the same problem since they kept catching each other looking at the other instead of the sky. Simmons smiled to himself. Somehow this didn’t feel as awkward to him as the rest of it. It made him happy, trading glances with Wash. Not a word was said, but it felt more like flirting than anything they tried before.

Simmons leaned a little heavier against Wash’s shoulder. He liked this. He could get used to this, just sitting there, casually touching. 

“Do you actually want to try?” Wash asked quietly after about twenty minutes went by.

“Try what?” Simmons mumbled. With his nerves calmed down and the comfiness of his company, he was about ready to fall asleep right there on Wash’s shoulder. It didn’t help that he got little to no sleep the night before and certainly didn’t sleep before coming out here.

“The knife fight training. Do you want to try it?” Wash reiterated.

“Sure. I guess so,” Simmons’s eyes drifted shut on their own accord. He knew he shouldn’t fall asleep here, on a crate in the middle of the canyon, but Wash’s shoulder was far too appealing as a pillow to stop him. “It will give you a better chance to find my knives.”

“I suppose it would,” Wash said with a bit of a chuckle. His shoulders jostled Simmons’s head briefly but he didn’t mind. He also doesn’t quite know when he put his head on Wash’s shoulder, but he wasn’t going to question it.

“Not tonight though. ’m tired,” Simmons muttered.

“Alright, not tonight,” Wash answered. He could have sworn he heard a note of fondness in his voice, but Simmons was too tired to question it. “If you’re that tired, maybe you should head back to base.”

“No. Comfy.”

“Pretty sure your bunk would be comfier,” Wash tried to reason.

“No. You’re not there.”

Wash was silent for a long moment before letting out a small sigh.

“Simmons, you’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered. A tentative hand came to rest against his hair, light fingers running through it. Simmons hummed contently in response, far too close to sleep to really care. “I guess I have eight things on my list now. Maybe nine.”

Simmons wondered briefly what those new things on the list were but was asleep before he could try to ask.

-

Simmons made his way over to Blue Base with his coffee mug in hand. He felt like a truck had run him over and then hit reverse to do it again. Apparently, he’d slept far heavier than he normally did, considering he was a light sleeper in a canyon full of varying sleep schedules, and he just couldn’t shake off the lingering exhaustion. 

He didn’t know why he slept so well. The last thing he remembered was dozing off on Wash’s shoulder during their two AM meeting. He assumed he woke up at some point and headed back to Red Base since he was in his own bunk by morning, but he must have been barely awake for that since he didn’t remember it at all.

Simmons probably should have stayed at Red Base but with Grif refusing to explain why he was looking so smug, he felt like he was going to need some decent coffee to get through the day. 

“Hi Simmons!” Caboose exclaimed as Simmons walked into Blue Base kitchen. Everyone winced at the volume but otherwise said nothing. The large man was working his way through an entire box of cereal while Tucker picked at some cold toast. Wash, ever not the morning person, stared intently at the coffee machine, a hand on a nearby empty mug.

Simmons waved silently at Caboose before heading straight to the coffee maker, setting his own mug down pointedly next to Wash’s.

“Coffee,” he demanded. Wash glanced at him, his lips twitched in an attempt to smile through the morning haze.

“Not done,” he answered. Simmons groaned, head dropping to the side in despair. “Three more minutes.”

“You’re going to have to get in line, Red,” Tucker stated from his spot at the island counter. “We get coffee first before you thieving bastards get any.”

Simmons flipped him off before joining Wash in his vigil watching the coffeemaker brew.

“How do you even convince Sarge to let you over here anyways?” Tucker continued, obviously not knowing the first rule of coffee drinkers, do not talk before coffee. “You’re here at least once a week. He has to know. I’m surprised he’s not convinced that our coffee will turn you into a Blue or some stupid shit.”

“I’m stealing valuable resources from the enemy,” Simmons answered grudgingly. Wash huffed in amusement, eyes not leaving the coffeemaker.

“What? That’s bullshit. It’s just fucking coffee.”

“Coffee you can’t drink because I drank it,” Simmons shrugged lightly. “Suck it, Blue.”

“Still fucking bullshit,” Tucker muttered.

Wash and Simmons perked up immediately as the coffeemaker beeped, letting the room know it was done. Wash had the pot in his hand before it went silent, filling Simmons’s mug before his own. Simmons hummed in thanks, taking a sip of the barely hot coffee. The Blue’s coffeemaker didn’t do a very good job heating anything up, but it was better than burnt and that was good in his books. A smile snuck its way onto Wash’s face before he poured his own mug.

Simmons leaned against the counter, content to stand there enjoying his coffee until Grif came to fetch him. He had caffeine, the room was quiet, and Wash was standing next to him enjoying his own cup in the content silence. There wasn’t much that could ruin this mor-

“Are you two fucking?”

Wash and Simmons choked on their coffee in unison, coughing as Tucker stared between the two of them in shock.

“What?” Wash said, having recovered faster than Simmons had. Synthetic organs didn’t have any special resistances against breathing liquid, as useful as that would be right now.

“Are you fucking? Because that’s the only explanation I can think of for this!” Tucker demanded, gesturing vaguely towards the two of them.

“For what? Coffee?!” Simmons asked, finally having gotten his lungs back under control.

“You got the first cup! Wash is a coffee addict! He doesn’t just give away the first cup,” Tucker explained heatedly. “If someone tries to take the first cup of coffee, people die! Yet he just gave it away to you.”

“He’s a guest,” Wash muttered, taking a drink from his mug. Simmons thought he saw a faint blush hiding behind the cup but he wasn’t sure if it was about the coffee, or just Tucker being crude.

“You didn’t give Grif the first cup yesterday and he was a guest,” Tucker stated. “What’s the difference with Simmons?”

Wash glanced over at Simmons before taking a longer drink of his coffee.

“Maybe it’s because Simmons is sleepier than Grif?” Caboose offered around a spoonful of cereal. “Donut said he saw him sleeping in a weird spot last night and that Washingtub had to carry him back to Red Base really early in the morning. Because he was so sleepy.”

Wait, was that how Simmons got back to base? He looked over at Wash to find the man was now definitely blushing behind his mug, looking anywhere but Simmons. Yep, that’s how he got back to base. Now Simmons was blushing too. Fantastic. Luckily Tucker found something else to distract him for a moment.

“For the last time, Caboose, Donut isn’t here!” Tucker stressed.

“Yes, he is, you just don’t see him.”

“I think I’d see a fucking pink armor set if there was one in the damn canyon, and there’s not!”

The two continued bickering about Donut’s possible existence, meaning Simmons and Wash were very much ignored.

“Carried?” Simmons whispered only loud enough for Wash to hear him. The Blue glanced at him briefly.

“What else was I supposed to do?” He muttered into his coffee mug.

“I don’t know, wake me up?”

“Couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Reason number twelve,” He said simply.

“Wait, you were on seven last night,” Simmons pointed out.

“I came up with more while you were sleeping,” Wash said with a shrug.

“You’re going to have to tell me what’s on that list at some point.”

“Since that would probably mean seeing reasons two and possibly four in action again, I’d love to,” Wash said, smiling briefly at Simmons as he blushed again once he remembered which reasons he was hinting at. “A good day starts with two.”

“I’m sure,” Simmons muttered, taking a sip of his coffee as he watched Caboose and Tucker bicker. “It’s going to start with one-B if Tucker doesn’t leave shit alone.”

“Please don’t stab my subordinates,” Wash said simply. “I’d have to listen to him bitching all day.”

“I make no promises,” Simmons stated. He thought for a moment. “Grif saw you bringing me back, didn’t he?”

“He was on a snack run.”

“Of course,” Simmons sighed. “He was far too smug for a standard morning. He was also awake so I should have known something was up.”

“Yep.”

“I guess I’m going back to base to deal with that,” Simmons stated.

“Good luck,” Wash said, raising his mug briefly.

Simmons was just about out the door when Tucker seemed to realize he was still there.

“Wait, you never gave me an answer,” Tucker called back to him.

“Fuck off, Tucker,” Simmons threw over his shoulder. “My sex life has nothing to do with you, which, considering what I heard from Kai, I’m infinitely grateful for.”

“I need to know!” Tucker yelled, ignoring the jibe, “If you two are fucking then I lose that bet and-“

Tucker cut off with a shriek of rage as Simmons’s coffee mug upended over his head.

“What the fuck was that?!” Tucker yelled. Simmons ignored him, contemplating his now empty mug and whether half a cup of coffee was really going to get him through the day.

Simmons went back to the counter, setting his mug next to Wash for the second time this morning.

“Refill?” Simmons asked, Tucker still yelling indignantly in the background.

“You just upended yours over Tucker’s head,” Wash said flatly. “Why should I refill it?”

“I could have stabbed him,” Simmons offered. “I still could.”

Wash thought for a brief moment.

“You two got to be fucking! That’s the only reason Wash would be whipped enough to even consider giving you another fucking cup!” Tucker yelled.

“I’ll give you Tucker’s if you don’t stab him,” Wash reasoned.

“Sold.”

Chapter Text

Simmons would never admit this to anyone, even Grif, but he really enjoyed learning how to fight with knives. There was just something about it that gave Simmons bits of serotonin that were normally reserved for solving a difficult math problem or watching old Star Trek episodes. Especially considering the company he kept while doing it.

Another thing Simmons would never admit? Grif had been right about the training. It really did, somehow, work as flirting between him and Wash. And it was nice. Maybe that was one of the reasons he was enjoying it so much. The two of them got to spend time together, alone, with no one to call them out for wandering eyes or lingering touches. They had been doing this for almost a month now and it still didn’t get old. Though Simmons didn’t think watching Wash get excited about something could ever really get old.

There was one issue. It was a fairly recent issue that Simmons wasn’t entirely sure how to handle.

Simmons really wanted to kiss Wash.

Ok, it wasn’t exactly a fully-fledged problem. It was more that they had both agreed to take things slow, and Simmons wasn’t exactly sure if that still counted as slow. He was pretty sure Wash wanted much the same. There had been a few times it looked like they were going to in the heat of a practice spar, but nothing ever happened. Wash wouldn’t make the first move as far as kissing went.

Which was fine, but also increasingly frustrating. If Wash wouldn’t kiss him first how was Simmons supposed to know for sure that Wash was alright with Simmons kissing him?

So he did what any self-respecting man who desperately wanted to kiss their romantic interest would do. He whined about it to Grif until the man finally got fed up with it and helped him make a plan.

He just hoped the plan worked better than most Red Team plans did.

“Do you want to do target practice tonight?” Simmons offered, nervously nodding towards the target crate, which hadn’t seen nearly as much use lately. “You know, just for a change of pace. No nefarious reasons, I assure you.”

“Not nefarious, you say?” Wash said as he stepped into their area. He had on a pair of standard issue sweatpants over his undersuit along with one of Simmons’s Battlestar Galactica tee-shirts. It fit him tighter than it did Simmons but he didn’t seem to mind, neither did Simmons. He really liked whenever Wash ended up wearing something of his, even if he only wore it because he literally didn’t own clothes of his own at the moment.

“Nope, not nefarious at all. No need to be concerned. Just…normal non-nefarious target practice.”

“You know, the more you say it’s not nefarious, the more it makes me think something is going on here that is, in fact, nefarious,” Wash said, his skeptical tone being actively undermined by the amused grin he had on his face. “But sure, let’s do this definitely-not-nefarious target practice you have planned.”

“Planned?! I don’t have anything planned! Why would you think I have a plan? I have no plans!”

“Sure, and I’m a Red.”

“If you were a Red, this whole knife practicing thing would be a lot easier,” Simmons muttered. “At least Sarge wouldn’t have a coronary if he caught us.”

“If I was a Red, you’d be too busy being a kiss-ass to flirt with me. And that would be a crime,” Wash teased. “I’ll stay a Blue, for the flirting perks.”

“Asshole,” Simmons said, no heat in his voice even as his face turned red. “Are we practicing or what.”

“Is it just practice or is it a competition?”

“Wait, shit,” Simmons swore. He hadn’t even started the plan yet and he was already fucking it up. The whole point of this was for it to be a competition and Simmons almost forgot to make it one. “Um yeah. Competition. Definitely.”

Simmons ignored the chuckling Wash was hiding behind a fist. He was hoping this would go smoothly but there was nothing smooth about this.

“Ok, competition it is,” Wash said, far too amused. “What are we competing for?”

Alright. Here it was. The very thing he was here for.

“We’re um…we’re competing for…uh, first kiss privileges,” Simmons said, making a stuttering mess of it. Damn it.

“First kiss privileges?”

“Yeah,” Simmons kept his gaze away from Wash, not able to look at him or else he’d mess this up even more. “If I win, I kiss you first. If you win, you get to kiss me first. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

Simmons really hoped he’d take the deal.

“That sounds more like a win-win to me,” Wash said. “What happens if we tie?”

“Last time we pranked Tucker.”

“I’m not kissing Tucker if we tie,” Wash said flatly.

“Oh hell no,” Simmons said, making a face. “I guess we both kiss each other? I don’t know. I didn’t plan for that.”

“Plan?”

“Because I didn’t plan for anything!” Simmons amended quickly. “There was no plan!”

“If you say so,” Wash said. “Are we doing this or what?”

-

The only thing memorable about the following competition was how little either of them paid attention to it. The “prize” as it were, was proving to be far too distracting. It made Simmons nervous, but it was an excited nervous, one that had him barely noticing where his knife was landing beyond ‘somewhere on the target.’ Wash was simply grinning, occasionally stealing glances at Simmons to the detriment of his aim. He didn't seem to notice it much himself except the one time he had to go hunting in the grass for a knife when it completely missed its mark.

By the end both scores were the lowest to date, but Wash’s was slightly lower.

“So. You win,” Wash said with a grin.

“So I do,” Simmons said.

“Congrats.”

“Thank you.”

Neither one of them moved.

“Do you want your prize now or later?” Wash asked, still grinning.

“Now, of course,” Simmons stated immediately. “I wouldn't have planned all this for an IOU.”

“Ah, so you did plan it,” Wash teased.

Simmons gave him a flat look, not dignifying that with an answer.

There was a long moment of silence, Simmons fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Well?”

“Are you sure you're alright with me kissing you?” Simmons said in a rush. “Because you don't have to be if you don't actually-”

“I'm gonna stop you right there,” Wash said holding up a hand. “I want to kiss you. I've been wanting to kiss you for weeks now. If I didn't want to kiss you, I wouldn't have agreed to the bet.”

“We agreed to take it slow,” Simmons countered, cursing himself out the entire time. This is what he wanted, damn it! Why was he being so weird about it?!

“I don't think a small victory kiss is going to speed things up very much, do you?”

Simmons didn't answer, continuing to pick at the hem of his shirt. Wash sighed.

“Simmons?” Wash called, getting his attention back on him.

“Get over here and kiss me already.”

Simmons let out a breathy chuckle. Ok, yeah, he was thinking too much on this one. He knew that, but still.

“You know you're not my boss, right?” Simmons said, stepping into Wash's personal space. He was about an inch or so taller than Washington, but that didn't really matter. “We did establish this, right?”

“Pretty sure,” Wash said, though his attention seemed to be mostly on Simmons's mouth. Simmons couldn't exactly blame him, with his own gaze drifting to Wash's. “You wouldn't be about to kiss me otherwise.”

There was maybe an inch between their noses by then, so Simmons didn't bother to answer. All he really needed to do was lean forward. Just lean forward a couple inches, then-

“WASHINGTON!”

The men jumped apart at the sound of an unfamiliar voice.

“Oh god, what was that?” Simmons said, immediately switching into panic. “Who was that? Are we getting invaded? Who the fuck would want to invade simulation bases? All we got are flags and shitty mres! They can't invade, I don't even have my armor on ye-”

“Carolina?” Wash's whispered.

Simmons's head snapped towards him, focusing on him once again.

Oh. The voice may have been unfamiliar to Simmons, but Wash certainly recognized it. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

“WASHINGTON, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!” The voice called again.

Wash looked back at Simmons briefly.

“I...have to go,” he whispered before taking off at a sprint towards whoever it was shouting his name. He was gone within seconds, leaving Simmons alone in the middle of the valley without a sinking feeling their time here was just about up.