Red Vs. Blue. Dick Simmons. 004. Insides.
(little damn table)
Title: Personal Spaces
Fandom: Red Vs. Blue
Characters: Dick Simmons
Prompt: #04 - Insides
Word Count: 1,085
Rating: PG (slash implied)
Summary: Simmons and Grif need to feel more "comfortable" with each other.
Author's Notes: I was supposed to post "70 Storm" tonight, but it isn't quite done. This one is. So "Storm" will come soon. This fic based off the mini-series that RoosterTeeth are doing (so if Sarge seems a little OOC, talk to RT) regarding the transition from Halo 2 to Halo 3 -- specifically the second video, "Personal Spaces." If you don't know what I mean..... uh, when I said mini-series, I meant donuts.
It was dark. Dark and cramped. Dark and cramped and far, far too "cozy," as Sarge called it.
Tension was running high as Simmons and Grif entered into their third week of being quarantined together in the basement hallway at Red base. Not the basement itself. The basement hallway. Three hours would have been too much. But Sarge was ruthless in his mission to prepare his men for the new weapons and vehicles upgrades, and he cared not for his soldiers' level of comfort. Actually, it was this smoke screen behind which he stood in his assertion of this whole incarceration in the first place.
"My body still aches."
There was a loud thud and a grunt. Fifteen days. Fifteen days of discomfort, arguing, bonding, and more discomfort. And silence. Followed by uncomfortable, forced conversation.
"Dude, shut up. Stop being a little bitch."
Whatever Sarge had intended for the two soldiers to do inside these small confines was obviously not working. If anything, the soldiers were growing tired of each other's company and longed for nothing more than to be rid of this ridiculous imprisonment.
"I miss Donut."
A beat.
"That's sad."
"Well, it's true," Grif snapped. "I prefer his company to yours."
Two beats. Then...
"I'm sorry. It's just - it's this -"
"It's okay," Simmons said, but there was still slight hurt to his voice.
Discomfort. Arguing. Bonding. Discomfort. And silence.
But the silence was always worse than the rest of it. They tried to keep that as abbreviated as possible.
"I hope the driver's seat of the Mongoose is adjustable," Grif said aloud, more to himself than as a spark for conversation.
"What? What makes you think you'll be the one driving?" Simmons demanded.
"Oh, Simmons," Grif said with a dragging tone to his voice, "how could you possibly drive with all that pain you're in?"
"You body-slammed me!" Simmons shrieked.
"And now you're disabled by the agony," Grif carried on, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Simmons found himself unable to argue, trapped by his own words.
"Fine," he conceded, "you can drive. If you want to be the little spoon, I guess."
"Oh, dude, come on! Don't put it that way!" Grif cried.
"Well, we might as well face facts, Grif. We're not exactly confined to the basement cellar hallway for the hell of it, are we? Sarge knows what he's talking about."
"Oh, here we go," Grif said exasperatedly. "This 'Sarge can do no wrong' bullshit."
"No, I'm just saying. He's spoken to Command. He knows what it's going to be like."
"Right, because information from Command has been so useful in the past."
"Don't you ever get bored of being the cynic all the time?"
"Believe it or not, that's the one area where I never get lazy."
"Well, at least you're good for something," Simmons snapped.
Discomfort, arguing....
"I'm a pretty good dancer," Grif murmured, partly to break the unbearable tension, partly to boost the self-esteem that Simmons had just destroyed.
"Oh yeah?" Simmons scoffed. "I'll believe that when Sarge allows Donut to wear his marshmallow-flavored g-string to dinner."
"I'm dead serious!" Grif exclaimed, slightly affronted. "I'll prove it!"
"And how do you propose to do that?" Simmons asked. "I can't see you in this darkness."
"Well, then I'll have to show you some other way, won't I?"
Simmons was wrenched to his feet before he could properly ground himself.
"What - I - the fuck!?" he spluttered as a warm arm snaked around his waist.
"Nobody insults my dancing," Grif mumbled as his other hand took Simmons's. He felt Simmons's body tense up, his fingers go cold with the loss of blood. "What's the matter?" Grif said so nonchalantly that it actually terrified Simmons.
"What do you mean, 'What's the matter?'!?" he shrieked. "What the hell do you think is the matt-"
"Oh, get over it," Grif said with a tone to accompany rolling eyes. "I promise not to step on your pedicured toes."
Simmons grunted with exasperation but spoke not another word against it. After all, it wasn't exactly the act of dancing with Grif that he opposed - he just refused to appear to enjoy it right from the get go.
Grif turned out to be a bit of a clumsy dancer compared to Simmons. He tried to lead, but soon it became clear that, while he knew a few moves, he really didn't know what he was doing.
"Your carriage is all wrong," Simmons said, shaking his head to himself.
"My -? Huh?"
"The way you hold yourself," he replied. "Come on, you've got to stand more upright." He put his hand at the small of Grif's back and pressed lightly towards himself to straighten the other man out.
"Well, look who's getting all into it," Grif teased.
"Hey, jackass, this was your idea," Simmons snapped. "And if we're going to do this, we're going to do it right. Unless you want to look like an idiot."
"Okay, okay, jeez," he said defensively. "Just watch the hands."
Simmons immediately lifted his hand from where it was, leaving it somewhere between Grif's shoulder blades.
"You should keep your elbows up," he was saying, lifting Grif's elbows with his own. "Keep your arms parallel to the floor."
"What the hell," Grif grumbled as he did as Simmons instructed. "This is so awkward."
"Yeah, no kidding," Simmons mumbled. "Now, when you move, be sure to keep your toes pointed; it enables mobility."
"Wait a second, when the fuck did I become the girl!?"
"When you sucked ass at leading."
Grif grumbled again, clearly starting to regret his decision to show a clearly professional dancer his amateur skills on the dance floor. "When did you learn all this, anyways?"
Simmons turned red, unseen in the lackluster lighting by his dance partner. "I - I took ballroom dancing in high school."
"No shit?" Grif asked as the two made a swift motion towards the side of the hall.
"No shit."
"Your mother encouraged that, did she?"
"Hah, not exactly," Simmons said with a laugh. "She didn't even know I was going."
"Then how the hell did you afford lessons?"
There was a loud bang and a flood of light into the hallway. "Getting along, eh?" came Sarge's gruff voice from the silhouette at the doorway. Grif gave a sudden shove to Simmons's chest and sent him tumbling into the wall.
"Ow! Stupid fuck!"
"No need to act innocent, heh," Sarge laughed. "You're doing exactly what you should be doing."
Bonding... discomfort...
And silence.
Title: Personal Spaces
Fandom: Red Vs. Blue
Characters: Dick Simmons
Prompt: #04 - Insides
Word Count: 1,085
Rating: PG (slash implied)
Summary: Simmons and Grif need to feel more "comfortable" with each other.
Author's Notes: I was supposed to post "70 Storm" tonight, but it isn't quite done. This one is. So "Storm" will come soon. This fic based off the mini-series that RoosterTeeth are doing (so if Sarge seems a little OOC, talk to RT) regarding the transition from Halo 2 to Halo 3 -- specifically the second video, "Personal Spaces." If you don't know what I mean..... uh, when I said mini-series, I meant donuts.
It was dark. Dark and cramped. Dark and cramped and far, far too "cozy," as Sarge called it.
Tension was running high as Simmons and Grif entered into their third week of being quarantined together in the basement hallway at Red base. Not the basement itself. The basement hallway. Three hours would have been too much. But Sarge was ruthless in his mission to prepare his men for the new weapons and vehicles upgrades, and he cared not for his soldiers' level of comfort. Actually, it was this smoke screen behind which he stood in his assertion of this whole incarceration in the first place.
"My body still aches."
There was a loud thud and a grunt. Fifteen days. Fifteen days of discomfort, arguing, bonding, and more discomfort. And silence. Followed by uncomfortable, forced conversation.
"Dude, shut up. Stop being a little bitch."
Whatever Sarge had intended for the two soldiers to do inside these small confines was obviously not working. If anything, the soldiers were growing tired of each other's company and longed for nothing more than to be rid of this ridiculous imprisonment.
"I miss Donut."
A beat.
"That's sad."
"Well, it's true," Grif snapped. "I prefer his company to yours."
Two beats. Then...
"I'm sorry. It's just - it's this -"
"It's okay," Simmons said, but there was still slight hurt to his voice.
Discomfort. Arguing. Bonding. Discomfort. And silence.
But the silence was always worse than the rest of it. They tried to keep that as abbreviated as possible.
"I hope the driver's seat of the Mongoose is adjustable," Grif said aloud, more to himself than as a spark for conversation.
"What? What makes you think you'll be the one driving?" Simmons demanded.
"Oh, Simmons," Grif said with a dragging tone to his voice, "how could you possibly drive with all that pain you're in?"
"You body-slammed me!" Simmons shrieked.
"And now you're disabled by the agony," Grif carried on, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Simmons found himself unable to argue, trapped by his own words.
"Fine," he conceded, "you can drive. If you want to be the little spoon, I guess."
"Oh, dude, come on! Don't put it that way!" Grif cried.
"Well, we might as well face facts, Grif. We're not exactly confined to the basement cellar hallway for the hell of it, are we? Sarge knows what he's talking about."
"Oh, here we go," Grif said exasperatedly. "This 'Sarge can do no wrong' bullshit."
"No, I'm just saying. He's spoken to Command. He knows what it's going to be like."
"Right, because information from Command has been so useful in the past."
"Don't you ever get bored of being the cynic all the time?"
"Believe it or not, that's the one area where I never get lazy."
"Well, at least you're good for something," Simmons snapped.
Discomfort, arguing....
"I'm a pretty good dancer," Grif murmured, partly to break the unbearable tension, partly to boost the self-esteem that Simmons had just destroyed.
"Oh yeah?" Simmons scoffed. "I'll believe that when Sarge allows Donut to wear his marshmallow-flavored g-string to dinner."
"I'm dead serious!" Grif exclaimed, slightly affronted. "I'll prove it!"
"And how do you propose to do that?" Simmons asked. "I can't see you in this darkness."
"Well, then I'll have to show you some other way, won't I?"
Simmons was wrenched to his feet before he could properly ground himself.
"What - I - the fuck!?" he spluttered as a warm arm snaked around his waist.
"Nobody insults my dancing," Grif mumbled as his other hand took Simmons's. He felt Simmons's body tense up, his fingers go cold with the loss of blood. "What's the matter?" Grif said so nonchalantly that it actually terrified Simmons.
"What do you mean, 'What's the matter?'!?" he shrieked. "What the hell do you think is the matt-"
"Oh, get over it," Grif said with a tone to accompany rolling eyes. "I promise not to step on your pedicured toes."
Simmons grunted with exasperation but spoke not another word against it. After all, it wasn't exactly the act of dancing with Grif that he opposed - he just refused to appear to enjoy it right from the get go.
Grif turned out to be a bit of a clumsy dancer compared to Simmons. He tried to lead, but soon it became clear that, while he knew a few moves, he really didn't know what he was doing.
"Your carriage is all wrong," Simmons said, shaking his head to himself.
"My -? Huh?"
"The way you hold yourself," he replied. "Come on, you've got to stand more upright." He put his hand at the small of Grif's back and pressed lightly towards himself to straighten the other man out.
"Well, look who's getting all into it," Grif teased.
"Hey, jackass, this was your idea," Simmons snapped. "And if we're going to do this, we're going to do it right. Unless you want to look like an idiot."
"Okay, okay, jeez," he said defensively. "Just watch the hands."
Simmons immediately lifted his hand from where it was, leaving it somewhere between Grif's shoulder blades.
"You should keep your elbows up," he was saying, lifting Grif's elbows with his own. "Keep your arms parallel to the floor."
"What the hell," Grif grumbled as he did as Simmons instructed. "This is so awkward."
"Yeah, no kidding," Simmons mumbled. "Now, when you move, be sure to keep your toes pointed; it enables mobility."
"Wait a second, when the fuck did I become the girl!?"
"When you sucked ass at leading."
Grif grumbled again, clearly starting to regret his decision to show a clearly professional dancer his amateur skills on the dance floor. "When did you learn all this, anyways?"
Simmons turned red, unseen in the lackluster lighting by his dance partner. "I - I took ballroom dancing in high school."
"No shit?" Grif asked as the two made a swift motion towards the side of the hall.
"No shit."
"Your mother encouraged that, did she?"
"Hah, not exactly," Simmons said with a laugh. "She didn't even know I was going."
"Then how the hell did you afford lessons?"
There was a loud bang and a flood of light into the hallway. "Getting along, eh?" came Sarge's gruff voice from the silhouette at the doorway. Grif gave a sudden shove to Simmons's chest and sent him tumbling into the wall.
"Ow! Stupid fuck!"
"No need to act innocent, heh," Sarge laughed. "You're doing exactly what you should be doing."
Bonding... discomfort...
And silence.