Taboo and Liberation 4/5
Title: Taboo and Liberation, Part 4/5
Author: Kyrianne
Fandom: Red vs Blue
Pairing: Grif/Simmons
Rating: R
Word Count: 1360
Summary: Through a single drastic act, Simmons sets a new path for himself that he never knew existed, and he's not sure if he wants to take it.
Disclaimer: I am neither a Rooster nor a Teeth.
A/N: OH MY JESUS it's been a billion years since I've updated this story. Since OCTOBER. Yeeeeeesh.
Well, here's the next part. Nothing much happens, but it's still important to read. The canon's a little bit screwed up here just because I didn't have time to go back and rewatch the parts that actually happen in canon. Plus I kind of wanted to make up my own Lopez lines instead of recycling the real ones.
Part One, Part Two, Part Three
READ THOSE, TRUST ME. I doubt any of you remember what the fuck's going on in this story. Even I had to reread it before this part, and I'm the WRITER. D;
---
He was out of movies. He'd watched a few twice, even, but they didn't help keep his mind off of worry. If anything, it made him worry worse; he'd find himself analyzing why Grif liked the movies so much, and find himself imagining his reactions to certain parts of violence or humor or romance.
His stomach coiled at the romantic parts. He didn't want to think about it, but every time there were kisses or more onscreen, he found his mind wandering back to Grif and their sticky, spider-web tangle of a relationship. He tried to tell himself Grif didn't matter, that now that he was ignoring him Simmons could take another chance at ending his life, and hopefully win this time. But every time he tried to steer his mind to another plan, stark cold terror gripped him and he knew he didn't have it in him anymore.
Simmons wasn't sure what had changed. Nothing had, really. Why was he so afraid of death all of a sudden? He shook it off as exhaustion and padded to the kitchen to see what food he could scrounge up. He hadn't eaten since... when was it? More than a few days ago, that's for sure. His stomach growled impatiently as he opened the fridge.
It was mostly empty. A saran-wrapped plate of potatoes and broccoli sat forlornly next to a bottle of ketchup. That must be the dinner he never ate way back when, before he...
He shook the thought out of his head, trembling slightly. He could hardly believe he'd actually tried that... It was truly terrifying. But he was still torn. He still felt there wasn't a need for him to stay here... But now, instead of wanting to die, all he wished was to crawl into some dark corner and hide until the sun in his heart would learn to shine again.
What a stupid, romantic dream.
He decided to concentrate on his pressing hunger. The green ceramic plate was frigid in his hand as he pulled it from the fridge. It plinked coldly as it hit the wood grain of the table, the saran-wrap crinkling slightly, the sound of wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Simmons tore it off in one angry motion, then stared down at the potato mountain and broccoli forest as if he didn't know what to do next.
Oh, right. Silverware.
He stood, feeling like a zombie as he shuffled over to the utensil drawer and retrieved a fork. His mind flashed to self mutilation via tines, and he winced. He imagined the feel of metal squelching into hard flesh, the fountains of blood dark as midnight painting his skin the color of fear and death--
He winced again, focusing his attention on his little edible landscape. It was winter there, calm, peaceful. He hummed slightly, carving a river through the valley with his fork. He frowned, then expanded it into an ocean, flipping little waves over and imagining them crashing against the mushy potato shore.
Grif used to surf back home, didn't he? Simmons tried to remember the stories Grif had told him, but they were just out of his grasp.
It didn't matter. What use did he have for memories that weren't even his own, anyway?
The waves were smashed, destroyed with the tines of a fork guided by his sudden anger, and then the burst was gone again, and he was all but dead, silent and poking uninterestedly at the mess he'd made. But still he ate it; it tasted of nothing and everything on the sandpaper of his tongue.
---
"Lopez." The single word shot through the piercing silence, interrupting the robot's measured tweaking of some mechanic dream of Sarge's. The android lifted his head, expressionless behind his mask of a visor.
"I need... I want... Can you make something so I can go after Grif?"
"¿Por qué le puedo ayudar?" It was as sarcastic as a robot could manage, dry and deep and monotone.
"Maybe like a motorcycle or something. That would be cool." Simmons felt foolish asking for help from Lopez of all things (people, he reminded himself with an internal snort of incredulity. Robot was a race now, apparently), but he had nowhere else to turn. How else was he supposed to check on that stupid, stupid man? How else was he supposed to find him and scream at him until his throat was raw, then continue berating with an angry whisper for not calling?
"También sería genial si murió en el camino y nunca tuve que verte otra vez."
"So you'll do it?"
"Sí."
Simmons didn't know that much Spanish, but that was one word in his limited vocabulary. He suppressed the excited arm pump that was threatening to take over him, managing just a tight, pinched smile instead. "Thanks."
"¿Por qué estoy de acuerdo con esta mierda?" Lopez muttered to himself, but Simmons didn't hear it as he started back to the hallway to pace. At least now he had something to wait for.
---
He should have known it would be a bad idea to mention his trip to Donut. He'd thought maybe it would just get the younger man off his back about moping around, but no. Instead, the guy was begging him to go like some sort of preteen girl asking her mother for some stupid pop star's poster. Against his better judgment, Simmons found himself saying yes. God dammit, why couldn't he find it in himself to say no once in his life?! He didn't want Donut hanging around when he finally got to see Grif again! He didn't want him influencing him to do anything more retarded than he was already doing!
It was too late now, though. All he could do was hope that Lopez wouldn't make two motorcycles, or one that was big enough for two people. He shuddered at the thought of Donut clinging to his back as they drove however far it was to Grif and Sarge and Caboose. He could just barely stand Grif grabbing onto him like that, but if Donut did it, he'd have to murder something. Preferably something fuzzy and cute whose death would make Donut cry.
God, that kid was obnoxious. He'd been a complete chatterbox for the past few days, filling all the silence with fluffy nonsense. Sometimes he'd even tried to hug Simmons, like that kind of affection would even begin to fill the hole that Grif had left. All he wanted was for people to leave him alone. Somehow he must have given off "hug-me" vibes, though, because that wasn't happening.
Simmons finished his fourteenth patrol down the main hallway before he finally gave up and decided that he'd have to go check on Lopez's progress again. He'd been about halfway done twenty minutes ago. Maybe he had finished already.
"Hey, are you close?" he asked as cheerfully as he could, but his voice was still clouded heavily with impatience.
"Cállate y déjame trabajar, idioto."
The motorcycle gleamed in Simmons' view like it was sent from God himself. His heart lurched painfully in his chest as he took a step closer, admiring the work Lopez had put into it. "This is beautiful," he breathed.
"Y es mucho más bonita de lo que nunca lo será."
"How much longer do you think it'll take?" His hands ghosted over the smooth chrome of the metal, imagining himself soaring over the landscape in pursuit of Grif on the back of this capable machine.
"En unos tres segundos, si sólo podía callar."
Simmons hung around, silently watching the robot finish putting together the final touches with a spark of anticipation. As soon as Lopez moved away, he was jumping on it, testing the engine, gripping the handlebars with all his might. "Thank you so much," he managed past a sudden lump of emotion, and then he was driving off, into the ocean, following the way he'd seen Grif and the others go when they'd left him.
He didn't hear what Lopez had said before he took off.
"Qué idioto. Ni siquiera este plan a cabo. Está muerto."
---
Lopez lines (translated via Google Translate, so if it's effed up that's why): ¿Por qué le puedo ayudar?, Why should I help you; También sería genial si murió en el camino y nunca tuve que verte otra vez, It would also be cool if you died on the way and I never had to see you again; ¿Por qué estoy de acuerdo con esta mierda?, Why do I agree to this crap?; Cállate y déjame trabajar, idioto, Shut up and let me work, idiot; Y es mucho más bonita de lo que nunca lo será, And it's so much more beautiful than you will ever be; En unos tres segundos, si sólo podía callar, In about three seconds, if you could just shut up; Qué idioto. Ni siquiera este plan a cabo. Está muerto, What an idiot. He didn't even plan this out. He's dead.
WHEW. THIS PART IS FINISHED. *oh joyous day* The word count is probably a bit effed up because that's what it was before I translated Lopez's lines. I just didn't feel like going through the hassle of figuring it out again xD
Author: Kyrianne
Fandom: Red vs Blue
Pairing: Grif/Simmons
Rating: R
Word Count: 1360
Summary: Through a single drastic act, Simmons sets a new path for himself that he never knew existed, and he's not sure if he wants to take it.
Disclaimer: I am neither a Rooster nor a Teeth.
A/N: OH MY JESUS it's been a billion years since I've updated this story. Since OCTOBER. Yeeeeeesh.
Well, here's the next part. Nothing much happens, but it's still important to read. The canon's a little bit screwed up here just because I didn't have time to go back and rewatch the parts that actually happen in canon. Plus I kind of wanted to make up my own Lopez lines instead of recycling the real ones.
Part One, Part Two, Part Three
READ THOSE, TRUST ME. I doubt any of you remember what the fuck's going on in this story. Even I had to reread it before this part, and I'm the WRITER. D;
---
He was out of movies. He'd watched a few twice, even, but they didn't help keep his mind off of worry. If anything, it made him worry worse; he'd find himself analyzing why Grif liked the movies so much, and find himself imagining his reactions to certain parts of violence or humor or romance.
His stomach coiled at the romantic parts. He didn't want to think about it, but every time there were kisses or more onscreen, he found his mind wandering back to Grif and their sticky, spider-web tangle of a relationship. He tried to tell himself Grif didn't matter, that now that he was ignoring him Simmons could take another chance at ending his life, and hopefully win this time. But every time he tried to steer his mind to another plan, stark cold terror gripped him and he knew he didn't have it in him anymore.
Simmons wasn't sure what had changed. Nothing had, really. Why was he so afraid of death all of a sudden? He shook it off as exhaustion and padded to the kitchen to see what food he could scrounge up. He hadn't eaten since... when was it? More than a few days ago, that's for sure. His stomach growled impatiently as he opened the fridge.
It was mostly empty. A saran-wrapped plate of potatoes and broccoli sat forlornly next to a bottle of ketchup. That must be the dinner he never ate way back when, before he...
He shook the thought out of his head, trembling slightly. He could hardly believe he'd actually tried that... It was truly terrifying. But he was still torn. He still felt there wasn't a need for him to stay here... But now, instead of wanting to die, all he wished was to crawl into some dark corner and hide until the sun in his heart would learn to shine again.
What a stupid, romantic dream.
He decided to concentrate on his pressing hunger. The green ceramic plate was frigid in his hand as he pulled it from the fridge. It plinked coldly as it hit the wood grain of the table, the saran-wrap crinkling slightly, the sound of wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Simmons tore it off in one angry motion, then stared down at the potato mountain and broccoli forest as if he didn't know what to do next.
Oh, right. Silverware.
He stood, feeling like a zombie as he shuffled over to the utensil drawer and retrieved a fork. His mind flashed to self mutilation via tines, and he winced. He imagined the feel of metal squelching into hard flesh, the fountains of blood dark as midnight painting his skin the color of fear and death--
He winced again, focusing his attention on his little edible landscape. It was winter there, calm, peaceful. He hummed slightly, carving a river through the valley with his fork. He frowned, then expanded it into an ocean, flipping little waves over and imagining them crashing against the mushy potato shore.
Grif used to surf back home, didn't he? Simmons tried to remember the stories Grif had told him, but they were just out of his grasp.
It didn't matter. What use did he have for memories that weren't even his own, anyway?
The waves were smashed, destroyed with the tines of a fork guided by his sudden anger, and then the burst was gone again, and he was all but dead, silent and poking uninterestedly at the mess he'd made. But still he ate it; it tasted of nothing and everything on the sandpaper of his tongue.
---
"Lopez." The single word shot through the piercing silence, interrupting the robot's measured tweaking of some mechanic dream of Sarge's. The android lifted his head, expressionless behind his mask of a visor.
"I need... I want... Can you make something so I can go after Grif?"
"¿Por qué le puedo ayudar?" It was as sarcastic as a robot could manage, dry and deep and monotone.
"Maybe like a motorcycle or something. That would be cool." Simmons felt foolish asking for help from Lopez of all things (people, he reminded himself with an internal snort of incredulity. Robot was a race now, apparently), but he had nowhere else to turn. How else was he supposed to check on that stupid, stupid man? How else was he supposed to find him and scream at him until his throat was raw, then continue berating with an angry whisper for not calling?
"También sería genial si murió en el camino y nunca tuve que verte otra vez."
"So you'll do it?"
"Sí."
Simmons didn't know that much Spanish, but that was one word in his limited vocabulary. He suppressed the excited arm pump that was threatening to take over him, managing just a tight, pinched smile instead. "Thanks."
"¿Por qué estoy de acuerdo con esta mierda?" Lopez muttered to himself, but Simmons didn't hear it as he started back to the hallway to pace. At least now he had something to wait for.
---
He should have known it would be a bad idea to mention his trip to Donut. He'd thought maybe it would just get the younger man off his back about moping around, but no. Instead, the guy was begging him to go like some sort of preteen girl asking her mother for some stupid pop star's poster. Against his better judgment, Simmons found himself saying yes. God dammit, why couldn't he find it in himself to say no once in his life?! He didn't want Donut hanging around when he finally got to see Grif again! He didn't want him influencing him to do anything more retarded than he was already doing!
It was too late now, though. All he could do was hope that Lopez wouldn't make two motorcycles, or one that was big enough for two people. He shuddered at the thought of Donut clinging to his back as they drove however far it was to Grif and Sarge and Caboose. He could just barely stand Grif grabbing onto him like that, but if Donut did it, he'd have to murder something. Preferably something fuzzy and cute whose death would make Donut cry.
God, that kid was obnoxious. He'd been a complete chatterbox for the past few days, filling all the silence with fluffy nonsense. Sometimes he'd even tried to hug Simmons, like that kind of affection would even begin to fill the hole that Grif had left. All he wanted was for people to leave him alone. Somehow he must have given off "hug-me" vibes, though, because that wasn't happening.
Simmons finished his fourteenth patrol down the main hallway before he finally gave up and decided that he'd have to go check on Lopez's progress again. He'd been about halfway done twenty minutes ago. Maybe he had finished already.
"Hey, are you close?" he asked as cheerfully as he could, but his voice was still clouded heavily with impatience.
"Cállate y déjame trabajar, idioto."
The motorcycle gleamed in Simmons' view like it was sent from God himself. His heart lurched painfully in his chest as he took a step closer, admiring the work Lopez had put into it. "This is beautiful," he breathed.
"Y es mucho más bonita de lo que nunca lo será."
"How much longer do you think it'll take?" His hands ghosted over the smooth chrome of the metal, imagining himself soaring over the landscape in pursuit of Grif on the back of this capable machine.
"En unos tres segundos, si sólo podía callar."
Simmons hung around, silently watching the robot finish putting together the final touches with a spark of anticipation. As soon as Lopez moved away, he was jumping on it, testing the engine, gripping the handlebars with all his might. "Thank you so much," he managed past a sudden lump of emotion, and then he was driving off, into the ocean, following the way he'd seen Grif and the others go when they'd left him.
He didn't hear what Lopez had said before he took off.
"Qué idioto. Ni siquiera este plan a cabo. Está muerto."
---
Lopez lines (translated via Google Translate, so if it's effed up that's why): ¿Por qué le puedo ayudar?, Why should I help you; También sería genial si murió en el camino y nunca tuve que verte otra vez, It would also be cool if you died on the way and I never had to see you again; ¿Por qué estoy de acuerdo con esta mierda?, Why do I agree to this crap?; Cállate y déjame trabajar, idioto, Shut up and let me work, idiot; Y es mucho más bonita de lo que nunca lo será, And it's so much more beautiful than you will ever be; En unos tres segundos, si sólo podía callar, In about three seconds, if you could just shut up; Qué idioto. Ni siquiera este plan a cabo. Está muerto, What an idiot. He didn't even plan this out. He's dead.
WHEW. THIS PART IS FINISHED. *oh joyous day* The word count is probably a bit effed up because that's what it was before I translated Lopez's lines. I just didn't feel like going through the hassle of figuring it out again xD