Red Vs. Blue. Dick Simmons. 014. Green.
(little damn table)
Title: Dialectical Tensions
Fandom: Red Vs. Blue
Characters: Dick Simmons
Prompt: #14 - Green
Word Count: 1,220
Rating: PG
Summary: Simmons doesn't like what's developing between Sarge and Tex
Author's Notes: I wrote this mainly with another fic in mind -- this fic is going to be a scene in a larger production I'm going to do where Sarge falls in love with Tex. Should be interesting. "Simmons likes to go in the bathroom and cry while he punches the mirror" (said by Grif, ep 72). O RLY?
Simmons yanked off his helmet and, thoroughly infuriated, he ruffled his hair with his ungloved fingers. He locked his elbows and leaned over the sink, staring up at his furious expression in the mirror. His eyebrows were severely narrowed, and the lines on his face were defined in a harsh and dangerous way. If Simmons saw that expression on another soldier, he'd run for his life.
He didn't even realize how tightly he had grasped the sides of the sink until his arms jerked in a convulsive rage, and the sink nearly came clean off the wall. What was the matter with him? He hadn't felt a surge of raging envy this intense since Doc arrived in Blood Gulch. But the focus of his emotions had shifted this time. Instead of it being Grif's attention to Doc, it was Sarge's attention to Tex that Simmons couldn't handle.
It shouldn't matter. What seemed to be developing (or not developing, depending on how you looked at it) between Sarge and Tex was something of a romantic element. And Simmons had no romantic feelings for Sarge. Really, the man had been the only steady father figure in his life for the last ten or so years. Even before Sarge came into his life, Simmons had never had a father that he could rely on for love and support. His own father was never around; when he was around, he claimed to care for his son but never made the effort to spend any time with him. With Sarge, though, Simmons always felt like he was well cared for. Simmons was just used to the attention and didn't like the idea of anyone interfering with that. The bond he had with Sarge was valuable; anyone who threatened that was on his shit list.
And what was with the name "Tex," anyway? What business did a woman have, sporting that name? It drove Simmons insane the way she was strutting around the canyon like she was better than everyone else. Admittedly, she was better than everyone else, but would a little modesty kill her?
What upset Simmons the most was that he knew he couldn't compete with Tex. She gave Sarge a challenge, gave him something to work at. It wasn't exactly engaging to have someone kissing your ass all the time. Sarge must have tired of it over the years. Either that or Simmons's remarks had become so typical that they just didn't have the same effect anymore.
Tex, however, was new. She was exciting and invigorating, a challenge. Sarge just didn't know what to do with himself around her. She was everything Sarge could want.
Damn her.
In what seemed to be a sudden yet completely appropriate outburst, Simmons threw his fist through the mirror image of his angry and jealous face. Right before the glass shattered his reflection, however, he saw tear tracks running chaotically all over his face. He didn't even realize that he had been crying until he saw it in the mirror. He raised his trembling and now-bleeding fingertips to his face to feel for the tear stains as though he didn't quite believe that the shattered mirror had told the truth.
He brought his fingers away from his face to examine them. The fresh tears had blended with the blood from his hands, leaving a sickening maroon hue on both his cheeks and his fingertips. Simmons vaguely perceived footsteps approaching fast and, before he could react to make himself presentable, the door to the bathroom swung open and Grif came racing in.
"What the hell is going -" He stopped short when he saw Simmons face. He looked as though he were about to laugh. "Oh God, what happened to your face?" Grif asked a little too derisively for Simmons's taste. The maroon soldier quickly wiped a hand across his face to remove any signs of tears or blood; he wasn't fooling anyone.
"What's the matter with you?" Simmons snapped. "You don't just go barging in on people when they're in the bathroom!"
"You do when it sounds like Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Sequel in here!"
Texas.
"Go away, private," Simmons mumbled, turning back to lean over the sink.
"Can't even call me Grif, huh?" the orange soldier observed.
"What do you want?" Simmons demanded through gritted teeth, still hunched over the sink.
"Sarge wants you to help him -"
"No," Simmons answered immediately, turning back to give his teammate a fierce look.
"No!?" Grif gasped. "Simmons, are you feeling all right?"
"Sarge is too busy chasing after that chick in the black armor. Don't tell me now he wants to do something productive."
"The chick in the black armor? Her name is Tex," Grif said snorting derisively.
Simmons flinched at that name on yet another's lips. "I don't care," he barked. "All I know is, Sarge is too preoccupied with her to be thinking about the war now."
"Who says he's thinking about the war?" Grif asked. "He wants you to help him with his plans for Tex."
"No way," Simmons said flatly as he refastened his helmet. He always felt uncomfortable with it off around other people, especially Grif. "Tell him to pursue his own romantic endeavors without enlisting my help. Hell, have Donut do it. I'm sure he'd love to."
"Wow," Grif said with a tone of surprise, "that may be the first time you've ever flat-out refused Sarge's orders. I think I've rubbed off on you."
It was lucky that Simmons had finished replacing his helmet, safely securing his features, because he could feel the heat rushing quickly to his cheeks. "Well, you haven't, so don't flatter yourself," he snapped. "I just refuse to be a part of this little romantic escapade of his. If he wants to employ my military help, I would be more than happy to oblige. But I refuse to perpetuate this dialectical tension of hate-the-enemy, love-the-enemy that's completely tangential to our primary objective."
There was a slight pause before Grif spoke. "There were a lot of words in that sentence that I didn't understand," he said blankly, "so I'm just going to tell Sarge that you're being difficult and a big cry baby."
Simmons opened his mouth to retort, but before he could deliver a word, Grif was gone. Simmons turned back to the mirror frame, forgetting that he had already smashed it with his fist. It still had a few shards of broken glass in it. In the few remaining pieces that trimmed the edges of the frame, he could see his eyes flashing dangerously through his helmet. Damn it, he was having a hard enough time before Grif came in and pushed his buttons. Why did he always pick the absolute worst time to be an ass?
Not only did Grif belittle and humiliate Simmons, but he also brought with him a new problem - now Sarge wanted to solicit Simmons's help? What an awkward position in which Simmons now found himself! He could refuse Sarge's orders for now, but how long could he really expect to keep it up? By disobeying him, Simmons would only succeed in driving himself farther away from Sarge. But what other choice did he have, when helping him would yield the same undesirable outcome?
Simmons wished he weren't so green with envy.
Title: Dialectical Tensions
Fandom: Red Vs. Blue
Characters: Dick Simmons
Prompt: #14 - Green
Word Count: 1,220
Rating: PG
Summary: Simmons doesn't like what's developing between Sarge and Tex
Author's Notes: I wrote this mainly with another fic in mind -- this fic is going to be a scene in a larger production I'm going to do where Sarge falls in love with Tex. Should be interesting. "Simmons likes to go in the bathroom and cry while he punches the mirror" (said by Grif, ep 72). O RLY?
Simmons yanked off his helmet and, thoroughly infuriated, he ruffled his hair with his ungloved fingers. He locked his elbows and leaned over the sink, staring up at his furious expression in the mirror. His eyebrows were severely narrowed, and the lines on his face were defined in a harsh and dangerous way. If Simmons saw that expression on another soldier, he'd run for his life.
He didn't even realize how tightly he had grasped the sides of the sink until his arms jerked in a convulsive rage, and the sink nearly came clean off the wall. What was the matter with him? He hadn't felt a surge of raging envy this intense since Doc arrived in Blood Gulch. But the focus of his emotions had shifted this time. Instead of it being Grif's attention to Doc, it was Sarge's attention to Tex that Simmons couldn't handle.
It shouldn't matter. What seemed to be developing (or not developing, depending on how you looked at it) between Sarge and Tex was something of a romantic element. And Simmons had no romantic feelings for Sarge. Really, the man had been the only steady father figure in his life for the last ten or so years. Even before Sarge came into his life, Simmons had never had a father that he could rely on for love and support. His own father was never around; when he was around, he claimed to care for his son but never made the effort to spend any time with him. With Sarge, though, Simmons always felt like he was well cared for. Simmons was just used to the attention and didn't like the idea of anyone interfering with that. The bond he had with Sarge was valuable; anyone who threatened that was on his shit list.
And what was with the name "Tex," anyway? What business did a woman have, sporting that name? It drove Simmons insane the way she was strutting around the canyon like she was better than everyone else. Admittedly, she was better than everyone else, but would a little modesty kill her?
What upset Simmons the most was that he knew he couldn't compete with Tex. She gave Sarge a challenge, gave him something to work at. It wasn't exactly engaging to have someone kissing your ass all the time. Sarge must have tired of it over the years. Either that or Simmons's remarks had become so typical that they just didn't have the same effect anymore.
Tex, however, was new. She was exciting and invigorating, a challenge. Sarge just didn't know what to do with himself around her. She was everything Sarge could want.
Damn her.
In what seemed to be a sudden yet completely appropriate outburst, Simmons threw his fist through the mirror image of his angry and jealous face. Right before the glass shattered his reflection, however, he saw tear tracks running chaotically all over his face. He didn't even realize that he had been crying until he saw it in the mirror. He raised his trembling and now-bleeding fingertips to his face to feel for the tear stains as though he didn't quite believe that the shattered mirror had told the truth.
He brought his fingers away from his face to examine them. The fresh tears had blended with the blood from his hands, leaving a sickening maroon hue on both his cheeks and his fingertips. Simmons vaguely perceived footsteps approaching fast and, before he could react to make himself presentable, the door to the bathroom swung open and Grif came racing in.
"What the hell is going -" He stopped short when he saw Simmons face. He looked as though he were about to laugh. "Oh God, what happened to your face?" Grif asked a little too derisively for Simmons's taste. The maroon soldier quickly wiped a hand across his face to remove any signs of tears or blood; he wasn't fooling anyone.
"What's the matter with you?" Simmons snapped. "You don't just go barging in on people when they're in the bathroom!"
"You do when it sounds like Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Sequel in here!"
Texas.
"Go away, private," Simmons mumbled, turning back to lean over the sink.
"Can't even call me Grif, huh?" the orange soldier observed.
"What do you want?" Simmons demanded through gritted teeth, still hunched over the sink.
"Sarge wants you to help him -"
"No," Simmons answered immediately, turning back to give his teammate a fierce look.
"No!?" Grif gasped. "Simmons, are you feeling all right?"
"Sarge is too busy chasing after that chick in the black armor. Don't tell me now he wants to do something productive."
"The chick in the black armor? Her name is Tex," Grif said snorting derisively.
Simmons flinched at that name on yet another's lips. "I don't care," he barked. "All I know is, Sarge is too preoccupied with her to be thinking about the war now."
"Who says he's thinking about the war?" Grif asked. "He wants you to help him with his plans for Tex."
"No way," Simmons said flatly as he refastened his helmet. He always felt uncomfortable with it off around other people, especially Grif. "Tell him to pursue his own romantic endeavors without enlisting my help. Hell, have Donut do it. I'm sure he'd love to."
"Wow," Grif said with a tone of surprise, "that may be the first time you've ever flat-out refused Sarge's orders. I think I've rubbed off on you."
It was lucky that Simmons had finished replacing his helmet, safely securing his features, because he could feel the heat rushing quickly to his cheeks. "Well, you haven't, so don't flatter yourself," he snapped. "I just refuse to be a part of this little romantic escapade of his. If he wants to employ my military help, I would be more than happy to oblige. But I refuse to perpetuate this dialectical tension of hate-the-enemy, love-the-enemy that's completely tangential to our primary objective."
There was a slight pause before Grif spoke. "There were a lot of words in that sentence that I didn't understand," he said blankly, "so I'm just going to tell Sarge that you're being difficult and a big cry baby."
Simmons opened his mouth to retort, but before he could deliver a word, Grif was gone. Simmons turned back to the mirror frame, forgetting that he had already smashed it with his fist. It still had a few shards of broken glass in it. In the few remaining pieces that trimmed the edges of the frame, he could see his eyes flashing dangerously through his helmet. Damn it, he was having a hard enough time before Grif came in and pushed his buttons. Why did he always pick the absolute worst time to be an ass?
Not only did Grif belittle and humiliate Simmons, but he also brought with him a new problem - now Sarge wanted to solicit Simmons's help? What an awkward position in which Simmons now found himself! He could refuse Sarge's orders for now, but how long could he really expect to keep it up? By disobeying him, Simmons would only succeed in driving himself farther away from Sarge. But what other choice did he have, when helping him would yield the same undesirable outcome?
Simmons wished he weren't so green with envy.