Chapter Text
Here is the truth of the matter; his last name really isn’t Simmons.
It’s his mother’s surname actually, something Simmons wrote down on the fly when they asked him for a last name that no longer truly felt like his own. He was surprised when they took it as fact without checking, something to show for the fact checking division of the USNC he supposes, and unwilling to admit he lied on his official records, he’s been Richard Simmons ever since.
It’s a good name, he thinks, even with the jokes that come with it. Reminds him of his Grandparents on his mother’s side, gentle people who owned a small farm in Texas. Simmons spent his summers there as a kid, shoeless and delighted, his brothers often chasing him through the reeds that lingered near the edge of the farm. Even after they died, their place felt like more of a home than his family mansion in Virginia ever did.
As a result, Simmons feels like a better last name, a more accurate portrayal of the man he has grown up to be. An echo of his grandfather’s laugh, and his grandmother’s handwriting on the morning crossword puzzles. Not the face sneering back at them.
Hargrove. Proud, hard and so stern.
The word Dad lingers on Simmons lips until he remembers the man hasn’t had the right to be called his father since he kicked him out of the house at seventeen.
He doesn’t look at Simmons during the entire call, which Simmons supposes is a relief, because it feels normal, feels like the last months he spent back home when he was all but disinherited. Epsilon keeps his voice steady as he delivers their message and Simmons keeps his head high at the scowl that stares back at them.
How disappointed he must be, Simmons thinks, to see him alive and kicking despite his efforts.
When Epsilon finishes his speech, Hargrove looks at them all. Sneers in a way that is almost comical. His gaze brushes past each of the men he has just tried to kill. He lingers on his eldest son for only a fraction longer than the rest. Enough for Simmons to get the message.
You’re a disappointment
Simmons stomach turns but it isn’t enough to stop the grin from spreading across his face. A disappointment? To this monster of a man? It’s a bigger honor than any award he’s ever won.
“Fuck you Sir,” he whispers into his helmet, soft enough so no one hears.
On record, his name is Richard Hargrove.
He’s never been happier to not live up to the name.