Maybe, Slightly, Only Very Probably In Love
Title: Maybe, Slightly, Only Very Probably In Love
Author: Kyrianne
Fandom: Red vs Blue
Pairing: Grif/Simmons
Rating: PG. Unless you want to be a bitch about it and say it's PG13 because of two little uses of the f-word. In which case, who cares.
Word Count: 1372
Summary: It wasn't as though Grif wanted to fall in love with Simmons.
Disclaimer: RvB is copyrighted to Rooster Teeth, Budweiser the Turtle is copyrighted to Chopper the Ninja (who I just recently converted to the Grif/Simmons following, heck yes!), and the story is mine. C:
A/N: I'm having a bitch of a time with Let Me Count the Ways, so I sorta just wrote this to help me get out of my writing funk. >>;
---
It wasn't as though Grif wanted to fall in love with Simmons.
He'd come into the army knowing that he'd hate it, and relishing in the fact that he had the freedom to hate everything there indiscriminatorily; his commanding officers, his fellow soldiers, his orders, the food, the base, the new environment -- but then he met that man with the reddish brown hair and emerald eyes that glittered with hidden secrets just begging to be let out, and a tiny growth of something arguably positive had latched onto his game plan of hatred and slowly suffocated it like some exotic kind of ivy for the past few years until it was all he could think about.
Simmons, day in and day out.
Grif had pushed it off as mere curiosity at first; Simmons seemed to be very sensitive, secretive, keeping himself to himself when he didn't have to do this or that at the whim of Sergeant whatever-the-fuck-his-name-was. With nothing else to do in that god forsaken canyon, Grif found himself wanting to know more about the one mostly normal person he had to live with (and really, it only Simmons or Sarge he could converse with. Was it any surprise he'd prefer the former?). Even stranger was the fact that he found himself wanting Simmons to learn everything about him in return.
They'd had some odd yet deep conversations, nothing too personal but still requiring intellect and logic to maneuver through. It was through these talks about religion and alien life forms and plain old random day-to-day occurances that Grif learned that Simmons was a science and math whiz, with impeccable logic and an even greater aptitude for remembering pointless trivia facts. Grif never would have given a damn if anyone had wanted to tell him that the plastic ends on shoelaces were called aglets, but if the information came from Simmons' lips, Grif found himself listening intently and with real interest. He'd make fun of Simmons for all his nerdy ways, but he knew he was glad for them; how else could he keep his mind sharp and on edge around here, with nothing to think about but the dry baked ground and the scrubby grass just past the line of their territory and the bright sun and everything else this Blood Gulch was made of? Grif would sell his last oreo any day for a chance to talk to Simmons about advanced algebra instead, even if math had been his least favorite subject in school.
Grif was barely able to admit to himself that it maybe, slightly, only had the smallest of the smallest of chances it was because he liked the sound of Simmons' voice, and it had nothing to do with the words he was saying.
Sometimes, Grif would offer a tidbit of information, a little piece of himself when they sat in silence during morning patrol. "I had a pet turtle when I was a kid," he'd say, not elaborating or saying anything else until Simmons pried for more. He always felt a tingle of something just below his rib cage when Simmons asked him to tell him more, which he told himself was because of the fact anyone wanted to know more about him, not because it was explicitly Simmons. "Yeah," he'd continue after a beat of silence. "His name was Bud, which was short for Budweiser because I was a tricky little kid like that."
Grif liked to pretend it was a game. Get Simmons to tell him some secret piece of his past, win 20 points. 100 if it seemed really important, like the time Simmons confided in him that he hated having to guard the flag because he was afraid of snakes. Because Grif took his games seriously, that was the time he told Simmons he hated doing cave patrol because of bats. He felt that Simmons needed some extra points, too, even if he wasn't exactly keeping track.
It felt nice having someone to share his secrets with. He knew they were safe; he knew Simmons would never tell a soul. He was like his own personal padlocked safe, protecting Grif's secrets behind his harsh exterior, cushioned by his velvety-soft inside.
Okay, Grif knew it was a bad analogy, but it was one that made him smile, so he continued thinking of it that way.
Every once in a while Simmons would show up in his dreams. Once, Simmons had been a small terrier and Grif had been sent on a wild goose chase to find him a home before realizing that he would be the most capable of the job. Another instance had been when he and Simmons robbed a bank as two Old West desperados and were thrown into jail. "My only regret," Simmons had said before he was dragged off to a different cell, "is that we don't get to stay together. I'll be thinking of you even as I die."
Grif had puzzled over that one for at least a week before deciding to blame it on the authentic Mexican Chile their new rookie Donut had made the night before. He was a good cook, but damn if the food did give him strange dreams.
He'd decided to ignore the fact that for the most part, those dreams occurred after normal meals.
The first time he'd seen Simmons actually out of his armor and not just his helmet was after he'd been run over by a tank. He woke up -- alive, somehow, amazingly, like some kind of miracle -- and Sarge told him he'd received most of Simmons' organs. He recovered quickly, despite the sudden bittersweet pain in his chest after hearing that Simmons had been the one to save his life, and rushed off to thank the maroon private in person. Simmons didn't take to surgery as well as Grif did... He'd been given the only anesthesia they had to offer: hard liquer. Grif, damn the luck, had already been unconscious before his own surgery, so he'd missed out. Simmons, though, was roaring drunk, muttering something about his body being a temple and swaying back and forth unsteadily from his seat under rumpled, bloody sheets. His slenderly muscular form was covered with a faded pair of camo pants and an old beater, finally giving Grif a body to image with the face.
His hurried trip to the bathroom to take care of an urgent problem was mere coincidence and had nothing to do with the rock hard abs peeking out from under Simmons' shirt.
No, Grif would have never fallen in love with Simmons if a certain man who tended to be more in-tune with his feminine side hadn't pointed it out. Of course Grif didn't set his morning schedule to where he knew Simmons would be, of course he didn't purposefully leave odds and ends around the base so he could watch Simmons as he bent over and picked them up, of course he didn't sometimes sleep in the storage room just so he could hear Simmons' soft breathing through the thin walls of the base.
But that's exactly what Donut had said he did, and of course he was right, Grif just didn't want to admit to it yet. Because admitting to that meant admitting to the fact that he wasn't as sure of himself as he thought he was anymore, admitting that maybe, just maybe, being drafted to this fucking army had in truth been the best thing that had ever happened to him and that whenever this pointless war did get over, he wouldn't know what to do with himself unless that certain green-eyed Dutch Irish wonder was tagging along.
Sometimes, after this realization, Grif would have trouble sleeping and would pad to the kitchen for a glass of milk and some oreos. Delicious, nostalgic, and comforting.
Once, he was surprised to see Simmons sitting there waiting for him.
"I hear you wander out here every night," he'd said, deadpan expression, cookies and two glasses of milk already laid out and ready for the taking. "I want to know what's bothering you."
So Grif, feeling self conscious and more nervous than he ever had in his entire life, sat down and told him.
---
A/N: Meh, I'm not sure I'm all that happy with the ending or with the whole thing at all, really, but at least it's a start of getting out of this wretched writer's block.
Author: Kyrianne
Fandom: Red vs Blue
Pairing: Grif/Simmons
Rating: PG. Unless you want to be a bitch about it and say it's PG13 because of two little uses of the f-word. In which case, who cares.
Word Count: 1372
Summary: It wasn't as though Grif wanted to fall in love with Simmons.
Disclaimer: RvB is copyrighted to Rooster Teeth, Budweiser the Turtle is copyrighted to Chopper the Ninja (who I just recently converted to the Grif/Simmons following, heck yes!), and the story is mine. C:
A/N: I'm having a bitch of a time with Let Me Count the Ways, so I sorta just wrote this to help me get out of my writing funk. >>;
---
It wasn't as though Grif wanted to fall in love with Simmons.
He'd come into the army knowing that he'd hate it, and relishing in the fact that he had the freedom to hate everything there indiscriminatorily; his commanding officers, his fellow soldiers, his orders, the food, the base, the new environment -- but then he met that man with the reddish brown hair and emerald eyes that glittered with hidden secrets just begging to be let out, and a tiny growth of something arguably positive had latched onto his game plan of hatred and slowly suffocated it like some exotic kind of ivy for the past few years until it was all he could think about.
Simmons, day in and day out.
Grif had pushed it off as mere curiosity at first; Simmons seemed to be very sensitive, secretive, keeping himself to himself when he didn't have to do this or that at the whim of Sergeant whatever-the-fuck-his-name-was. With nothing else to do in that god forsaken canyon, Grif found himself wanting to know more about the one mostly normal person he had to live with (and really, it only Simmons or Sarge he could converse with. Was it any surprise he'd prefer the former?). Even stranger was the fact that he found himself wanting Simmons to learn everything about him in return.
They'd had some odd yet deep conversations, nothing too personal but still requiring intellect and logic to maneuver through. It was through these talks about religion and alien life forms and plain old random day-to-day occurances that Grif learned that Simmons was a science and math whiz, with impeccable logic and an even greater aptitude for remembering pointless trivia facts. Grif never would have given a damn if anyone had wanted to tell him that the plastic ends on shoelaces were called aglets, but if the information came from Simmons' lips, Grif found himself listening intently and with real interest. He'd make fun of Simmons for all his nerdy ways, but he knew he was glad for them; how else could he keep his mind sharp and on edge around here, with nothing to think about but the dry baked ground and the scrubby grass just past the line of their territory and the bright sun and everything else this Blood Gulch was made of? Grif would sell his last oreo any day for a chance to talk to Simmons about advanced algebra instead, even if math had been his least favorite subject in school.
Grif was barely able to admit to himself that it maybe, slightly, only had the smallest of the smallest of chances it was because he liked the sound of Simmons' voice, and it had nothing to do with the words he was saying.
Sometimes, Grif would offer a tidbit of information, a little piece of himself when they sat in silence during morning patrol. "I had a pet turtle when I was a kid," he'd say, not elaborating or saying anything else until Simmons pried for more. He always felt a tingle of something just below his rib cage when Simmons asked him to tell him more, which he told himself was because of the fact anyone wanted to know more about him, not because it was explicitly Simmons. "Yeah," he'd continue after a beat of silence. "His name was Bud, which was short for Budweiser because I was a tricky little kid like that."
Grif liked to pretend it was a game. Get Simmons to tell him some secret piece of his past, win 20 points. 100 if it seemed really important, like the time Simmons confided in him that he hated having to guard the flag because he was afraid of snakes. Because Grif took his games seriously, that was the time he told Simmons he hated doing cave patrol because of bats. He felt that Simmons needed some extra points, too, even if he wasn't exactly keeping track.
It felt nice having someone to share his secrets with. He knew they were safe; he knew Simmons would never tell a soul. He was like his own personal padlocked safe, protecting Grif's secrets behind his harsh exterior, cushioned by his velvety-soft inside.
Okay, Grif knew it was a bad analogy, but it was one that made him smile, so he continued thinking of it that way.
Every once in a while Simmons would show up in his dreams. Once, Simmons had been a small terrier and Grif had been sent on a wild goose chase to find him a home before realizing that he would be the most capable of the job. Another instance had been when he and Simmons robbed a bank as two Old West desperados and were thrown into jail. "My only regret," Simmons had said before he was dragged off to a different cell, "is that we don't get to stay together. I'll be thinking of you even as I die."
Grif had puzzled over that one for at least a week before deciding to blame it on the authentic Mexican Chile their new rookie Donut had made the night before. He was a good cook, but damn if the food did give him strange dreams.
He'd decided to ignore the fact that for the most part, those dreams occurred after normal meals.
The first time he'd seen Simmons actually out of his armor and not just his helmet was after he'd been run over by a tank. He woke up -- alive, somehow, amazingly, like some kind of miracle -- and Sarge told him he'd received most of Simmons' organs. He recovered quickly, despite the sudden bittersweet pain in his chest after hearing that Simmons had been the one to save his life, and rushed off to thank the maroon private in person. Simmons didn't take to surgery as well as Grif did... He'd been given the only anesthesia they had to offer: hard liquer. Grif, damn the luck, had already been unconscious before his own surgery, so he'd missed out. Simmons, though, was roaring drunk, muttering something about his body being a temple and swaying back and forth unsteadily from his seat under rumpled, bloody sheets. His slenderly muscular form was covered with a faded pair of camo pants and an old beater, finally giving Grif a body to image with the face.
His hurried trip to the bathroom to take care of an urgent problem was mere coincidence and had nothing to do with the rock hard abs peeking out from under Simmons' shirt.
No, Grif would have never fallen in love with Simmons if a certain man who tended to be more in-tune with his feminine side hadn't pointed it out. Of course Grif didn't set his morning schedule to where he knew Simmons would be, of course he didn't purposefully leave odds and ends around the base so he could watch Simmons as he bent over and picked them up, of course he didn't sometimes sleep in the storage room just so he could hear Simmons' soft breathing through the thin walls of the base.
But that's exactly what Donut had said he did, and of course he was right, Grif just didn't want to admit to it yet. Because admitting to that meant admitting to the fact that he wasn't as sure of himself as he thought he was anymore, admitting that maybe, just maybe, being drafted to this fucking army had in truth been the best thing that had ever happened to him and that whenever this pointless war did get over, he wouldn't know what to do with himself unless that certain green-eyed Dutch Irish wonder was tagging along.
Sometimes, after this realization, Grif would have trouble sleeping and would pad to the kitchen for a glass of milk and some oreos. Delicious, nostalgic, and comforting.
Once, he was surprised to see Simmons sitting there waiting for him.
"I hear you wander out here every night," he'd said, deadpan expression, cookies and two glasses of milk already laid out and ready for the taking. "I want to know what's bothering you."
So Grif, feeling self conscious and more nervous than he ever had in his entire life, sat down and told him.
---
A/N: Meh, I'm not sure I'm all that happy with the ending or with the whole thing at all, really, but at least it's a start of getting out of this wretched writer's block.