Down Down The Seventeenth Rabbit Hole
Title: Down Down the Seventeenth Rabbit Hole (Part 4)
Fandom/Series: Red vs. Blue
Characters: Church, Simmons, Grif, Doc, Donut, Tucker, Agent Washington; mentioned by name: Sarge, Lopez, Caboose, Delta
Pairings: Church/Simmons, Church/Tucker, Church/Donut, Church/Caboose, Grif/Church, Grif/Simmons, Wash/Church
Summary: If Church is the internet and Simmons is the only computer guy around, why is Simmons the only one who isn't using Church? In any way? Takes place sometime after Recon.
Rating: R for suicide humor, disturbing word choices, graphic descriptions of drunken buttsex, fruit screwing, extremely rough angry-love you-hate you-jealousy sex (actual scene, not implied!), and because this is the only chapter where the F-word can be fully counted for all of its occurances through out the story -- 132 total, 40 in this chapter alone.
Genre: Satire/Humor/Parody
Status: Complete, but unBeta'd at time of this post. (I actually don't have a Beta, but I did do a few edits.)
Notes: This is the final bit. Rereading it last night, I added a lot more to it. In fact, the sex scene orginally wasn't there, but I was in the mood for that sort of thing. xD The jokes reach their all-time "WTF" mode with my discussion of certain questions and what the answer is for those three. Also, the Director is not spared of this madness and he's probably voicing the collective opinion of this story held by many who read it. The fic is ended, but my craziness has not. It is a high possiblitty that this level of randomosity may be maintained in another story, but for now, enjoy the ending.
* * *
The end began with a tree. It was a lovely tree, simple and simply green. It provided simple comfort and simple shade in a complex universe and a complex situation. Simmons found the tree to be his closest best friend, next to Wash, who was sitting to next to him beneath his tree-best friend.
“Well, it’s Tuesday,” Wash said. “Are you planning on committing suicide any time soon?”
Simmons had read the same paragraph of that same literary novel four times in that same minute, which wasn’t anything new because every time he sat down to read that same book, Wash always sat down with him and they got to talking.
“Are you rushing me?”
“No, just checking on how much longer I have to be on suicide watch, if you’re being serious at all this time. You mentioned committing suicide a couple of other times in the past. Can’t let this one go unnoticed. It might end badly.”
“What, you don’t want me killing myself?”
“You think I would?” Simmons could barely see that Wash’s eyebrow popped up, hidden behind the glare of day star’s rays screaming off the helmet. “What kind of a guy would I be if I just let you kill yourself? Not a very good one.” he said. “Bottom line is, don’t kill yourself. There are plenty of other opportunities for you to die in other ways that don’t involve you hurting yourself.”
Simmons sighed, just like Wash was expecting him to. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m a soldier. I should just die like everybody else.”
“Good boy.”
“…Think anybody would miss me?”
Wash caught something coming towards them from the corner of his eye. “That’s a tough question, but why don’t you ask Grif?” He was avoiding the question.
“Ask me what?”
“-Jesus!” Simmons jerked up suddenly, his book nearly torn in half from his startlement. “What the fuck, Grif?”
“I should be asking you the same thing, Simmons,” Grif said, his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re talking about committing suicide and Donut’s not involved this time. There is now something officially wrong with you.”
“Now there’s something wrong with him? There was something wrong with him before he even said anything about killing himself,” Wash put in, now standing up from his favorite spot under the tree which was marked from his butt sitting on it for too long. “I’ll leave you two alone. Got some business to take care of….”
Whether there was actual business to be taken care of or what didn’t really matter because Agent Washington had missed his true calling in life as a ninja. He would have made one hell of a ninja. Everybody always told them that. Oh well.
He was gone within seconds, almost like vapors wafting from the nearby ocean.
It was just Simmons and Grif now. Silence. Staring. After that, two more minutes of silence combined with two more minutes of staring.
“Mind if I sit down next to you?” Grif asked, politely - what the hell happened to him? Since when did Grif know manners?
“Not in particular,” Simmons said, inwardly freaking about Grif new manners-related mannerisms. He had given up a long time ago on ever finishing that literary novel, so he just closed it and put it behind him for now.
Grif sat down in Wash’s spot, sitting perhaps a little closer to Simmons than Wash had ever sat.
“Sooooo…” Simmons was tired of the silence. “Catch any new STDs these days?”
“Still clean as far as I know,” Grif said. “I’ll get tested since I’m not planning on getting sick in my dangly bits.”
“…the hell? Dangly bits…? Grif, I’m slightly disturbed by your choice of words.”
“There’s a lot more you’re going to be disturbed by, so don’t let that end you just yet.”
“Is this some kind of we-need-to-talk-thing?”
“Yep, and if this were one of those crappy romance novels you pretend you don’t read when nobody’s around,” Grif said. His gaze was towards the ocean, the melting sunset yolk shimmering its beautiful death on his tinted visor. “This is the part where we talk everything out, the guy asks the chick if she wants to get hitched, and they live happily ever after.”
“You’re not going to ask me to marry you.”
“Don’t think that just yet,” he said. “We aren’t done talking everything out yet.”
* * *
There it was again - that flippy thing in Simmons’ heart. It happened when Grif started talking about him ending his not-relationship with Church, when Grif talked about the romance novel thing again, and now it was flippy-floppy over what else was being said.
“Let’s start from the beginning, I want to get this out in the open as soon as possible.” Grif stated with great purpose, having relaxed enough to rest on his palms and lean back to look at the stars.
“’Kay.” Simmons was still incredibly tensed and hadn’t relaxed in over an hour. His hunches were going numb.
“I doubt it, but do you remember the night you got seriously smashed with me and Sarge?”
“Bits and pieces, yeah.” Simmons was inwardly panicking. “I remember quite a few things, actually.”
“Well…it was me.”
“Huh?”
“Church told me,” Grif said. “He said that you weren’t sure if you got laid or not, but that you thought you did…The answer is yes. It was me.”
If it were humanly possible, Simmons was now choking on air. Since he was only half-human and half-robotic thing, the robotic thing part of him made it perfectly possible to choke on air. Which he was. Hard.
Grif slapped his buddy-love on the back until Simmons was breathing somewhat normally. “You okay?”
“Fuck no! You just told me that I fucked you!”
“Other way around, actually.”
“WHAT?! Are you fucking serious?”
“Am I fucking serious that I fucked you? Fuck yeah.”
“What the fucking fuck? Grif, that’s - that’s - I don’t even know what that is!” Simmons, although no longer choking on air, was now hyperventilating and very, very neurotic-seeming. “That doesn’t…” His vision was starting to darken, dark spots frolicking like sugar-crazed faeries across his eyelids as he tried to regulate his breathing.
Simmons lay down in the grass. He realized he was having a panic attack, and, not panicking any further over the current situation, steadied himself.
He asked calmly, “Grif, if you’re the one that fucked me, why was Sarge naked too?”
Simmons couldn’t see Grif shrugging and lighting a cigarette at the same time. “He walked in on us and thought we were wrestling in the nude so he stripped down and decided to join in. He wasn’t too successful at that,” he explained. “I finished you off, I finished inside you, and Sarge charged headlong into the wall above our heads and was knocked unconscious.” He inhaled a relaxing dose of nicotine, savored it deep in Simmons’ alveolar sacs, and exhaled. “You and I fell asleep shortly afterward.”
Simmons had calmed down and could now speak without worrying about passing out from a panic attack. The stars above him were pacifying delights; they were serene and watchful angels above that he totally forgot could have been alien mother ships waiting to descend upon them. “How do you remember all this? You were hammered, but then again, so was I….”
“I have a much stronger alcohol tolerance than I like to demonstrate,” Grif said. “I was fake-drunk that night, but I was still buzzed.”
“My god, you’re killing my lungs and liver, you bastard! And here I lovingly donated those to you…”
“Lovingly? So you admit it?”
Simmons at up fast, giving himself head rush. “What? What am I admitting to?”
“You know.” Grif took in another puff of cytocidal fumes. “The L-Word.”
Simmons absentmindedly picked at the blades of grass poking out from underneath his folded knees. “…Grif, something’s not right.”
“Hey man, if you’ve got a problem with being in love with another guy, that’s not my problem,” Grif said, hoping to make a preemptive strike. “You need to take responsibility for it.”
“No, Grif, I’m not talking about that,” he said. He flicked the grass at Grif’s shiny, armored leg. “Well, since I know no other way to bring this up, I’ll just do it straight.” He stopped himself from indulging in his habitual sigh. “Are you in love with me? Just like that? It’s too convenient… I don’t believe it. Can’t. You’re with Church, now you’re not, so now you want what we’ve never had in the first place. Something’s off.”
It was Grif’s turn to choke this time, this time on death smoke. He angrily crushed his cig on his boot tread. “Hey, I’m trying here! How the hell do you expect me to do this correctly when my only experience regarding a male-male intimate relationship is drunken, meaningful buttsex with a guy I could never actually admit anything to, followed by souless fucking with an A.I. that’s not even really a guy? Have you any idea how seriously fucked up this is for me?”
Simmons didn’t move, didn’t say anything. Multiple mental processes were whirring through his head all at once. He didn’t believe what he was hearing, even though he inherently knew it was the truth because of how well he knew Grif.
Fuck.
Was he supposed to make a decision because of Grif’s half-assed love confession? He had no fucking clue.
Fuck fuck, fuckity fuck fuck.
And now, once more for good measure: FUCK!
* * *
Fucking seemed like the answer for a lot of things. Such questions would be some of the following:
Q. How does one go about world domination?
A. Fucking everybody who’s important to your cause.
Q. How much orange juice should you put in a diet protein shake specially made for dieting?
A. Fuck the fruit, then recycle the juice left over from your liquid love. The amount should be sufficient.
Q. How do you fix a broken relationship with the one you truly love after you’ve gone and fucked it up by fucking everybody else but the one you truly love?
A. Apologize while he’s fucking your ass hard and unrelenting.
That’s what Church did. He waited for his moment, watched as Grif went to Simmons and Wash got up to leave, and made his move. He intercepted the agent in an uncharacteristically polite manner, and they went into Blue base for a chat. The chat took place in Church’s room.
The chat allowed for Church to finally get some things off his chest. The chat allowed for Wash to curse and cry and laugh and loathe. The chat was the perfect moment to accept the things that were in the past, to accept that sometimes, as perfect as He might be, God fucks up too. Get over it.
Church had royally fucked and fucked up many times, before and after his God-mode.
After a lot of other things brought up and sorted through in the conversation, he went to the main idea. “I’m such an ass,” he said in confidence with Wash during that chat. The sun had long set and they were still chatting. “I’ve had such a fucking power charge off being God and the Internet. Being important just made me feel…”
“Important?” Wash finished for him.
“I was avoiding sounding redundant, but I’ll go with that.”
“It works for me.”
“So… do you want the long version, or the short version of what I’m about to tell you?”
“You should know me enough to know how I want it.”
“Well, the short version is: I fucked up, I’m done fucking around, and I fucking love you.” He paused, perhaps to let what he had just said really sink in or maybe he just wanted to be dramatic. It was highly probable that he paused for both reasons, for it truly was a dramatic thing to say. “How’s that for simple?”
Wash was smirking when he took his helmet off. He ruffled his hair free of helmet-hair, and set the thing aside. “That’s it? That’s all you wanted to say?”
Church took his helmet off in a hurry that belied a snatch of angry. “Hey, fuck off! I just told you that I love you. That shit isn’t easy!”
“Right,” Wash said. “I love you, too. But that’s not what I’m aggravated about.”
“Then what the hell is it?”
“As soon as everybody ignores you, you come crawling back to me. You’ve hurt me, Church. You betrayed me, and you know what I do with traitors.” Washington’s gruff voice became darker, an edge of an even greater darkness bordering his tone. “I don’t let them get off easy.”
Church felt like shit, but he was trying. “Look, I’m sorry that I fucked around behind your back and that you had to go to Simmons to find out what was going on,” he said. “You could’ve broken up with me, but you didn’t. You stayed, despite me being a cheating bastard.”
“Me staying has nothing to do with this,” Wash said, eyebrows sharp. “I told you I won’t let you get off easy, and I intend on keeping my promise.”
“Jesus, you sound like you’re going to murder me.”
“Not murder you, just hurt you… You know, at some point I had considered sleeping with Simmons to revenge cheat, but I decided not to.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I’m a bigger man than that.”
Church had a pervy smile. “Yeah, Grif told me about Simmons’ being average.”
Wash’s encased hands ran through his limp light hair hanging in front of his eyes, still weird-looking from the helmet suffocation. “So we’re done here,” he said.
“…WHAT?” Church’s panic gear shifted into high.
“Done talking, I mean.”
Church’s panic gear shifted low. “Now what?”
Wash stood from the bed and started working latches to get his armor off. “I’m going to accept your apology, pretend all of this Internet-God-fucking business never happened, say I love you, and keep my promise. Right here. Right now.” His pants dropped, and his erection met the night air. “With my dick.”
And that’s exactly how it happened. It was bullet-shot fast -
Wash managed to get Church naked and on the bed before he commenced with the angriest bout of angry-hate sex in all of human history. Making sure to keep his promise of not letting him get off easy, Wash teased and lapped at Church until his cock throbbed in brutal pain, stopping before he blew his load. He repeated the process - teased and stopped, teased and stopped, deep throated and stopped - and then went on to tearing up that ass: a rough animalistic fucking, the rage and hurt and angst burning through his being into Church’s, leaving bloody marks on his skin, on his insides.
Inflicting pain was hot, empowering.
Wash pulled hair near the root, bit down on flesh until strange bruises formed on the synthetic skin, raked fingernails all over the other man, yanked at Church’s cock without gentleness and care. He allowed himself to be devoured by the rage and jealousy, by the hurt and neglected love boiling hotly inside him. He was overcome with so many emotions, so many sensations, he was afraid of igniting from the emotional, sexual overload.
He wanted Church to remember who he first belonged to before he went astray. He loved him so goddamned much, he was blazing with passion and it threatened to swallow him whole. To make him think about that, Wash never let him come.
Church loved every minute of it, loved that this love between him and Wash was hot like hellfire, but pretended that it was a painful punishment to endure just to make sure that Wash didn’t stay mad at him. Out of all the people he fucked, nobody gave rough jealousy sex quite like Agent Washington.
With a substantial piece of man meat making easy and nearly bloody work of his raw colon, Church pleaded and apologized until his throat was just as red and raw and well-loved as his ass.
* * *
They were staring at the glittering mother ships in the sky, waiting for the aliens to probe them in the name of science and misery. Until then, Grif was happy just seeing Simmons not freaking out.
“So you’re not freaking out?”
“Should I be?”
Grif resisted the urge to turn his head to the side and gaze at Simmons, not wanting to make this important relationship minute more sappy than was really necessary. “Dude, I just told you I love you. I’m surprised you’re not freaking out.”
Simmons shrugged - sort of - which was kind of difficult lying on his back and looking at the stars peeking out through the tree branches over head. “I’m glad,” he said, “that you finally realized it.”
“It took fucking forever,” Grif said.
“Tell me about it.” Simmons sat up and made to stand up, grabbing his book. “Let’s get going.”
Grif nodded solemnly, and stood up, too.
They left the fate tree behind them, walking in step back to the base.
* * *
“By the way, Grif,” Simmons said once they were inside and nobody was around. “I… love you, too.”
And that was that.
* * *
The outcomes of the others went like this:
Tucker found out that his on-line girlfriend was actually a man named Charles; oddly, he was okay with this and never told anybody about his shocking revelation.
Caboose had no idea what was really going on with everybody else. He was too busy hoping Santa Claus would bring him a puppy this year.
Sarge avoided the madness by taking care of his NeoPets in secret via his BlueBerry, which broke three weeks later. He repaired it, and named it Larry. Larry then promptly committed suicide.
Lopez was happy for this, and wished that he, too, could commit suicide. Sadly, he did not.
Donut, along with all his other projects, made a living as a living pop-up ad and continued to ruin romantic moments between the rest of his teammates.
As for the couples, Church and Wash were together, but not in a happy-fluffy way. Wash made sure that Church suffered for what he put him through with more angry-love-hate-jealousy sex; Church didn’t mind in the slightest. His days as the Internet were done, but he wasn’t letting go of his God-mode. This would be happening for many months to come while they worked out the rest of their problems and tried hardest at this shot of love.
Simmons and Grif had lots of problems with love and such. They still argued and spent time debating issues back and forth, and Sarge spent most of that time trying to kill Grif as usual. This time, though, Simmons didn’t help out. He was too busy trying to make the sex with Grif not as awkward and to make himself comfortable with the idea of kissing the guy on a daily basis. It was very stressful, but he enjoyed it.
Grif also managed to propose to Simmons in front of everybody, just like he promised he would because of the sucktacular romantic comedy that was their life.
He is still in a blunt-force induced coma at the date of this writing.
So it goes.
* * *
And that’s how it all ended. Kind of.
Washington ended up writing a detailed report to the Chairman, and through some technological tricks and advanced hacking such as frying the keyboard with coffee, the Director had gotten a hold of it.
He read through all the events, all the way up to the happily-ever-after-buttsex parties. Read the part about God and the Internet. Mused over all the curse words and seemingly endless repetition. His emotional response to the story he had just finished reading was quickly distilled into one key combination of words:
“…What the fuck…?”
* * *
The End, perhaps....
* * *