A/N: The story is set between season 12 and season 13.

We're Really Not the Golden Team
Bitters' Name Became a Pun

Grif counted himself among the most unlucky persons in the universe, if not the unluckiest. Growing up with no father (survivable, especially since he'd probably be a dickhead anyway), his mother had run off with a circus (that kinda sucked, actually. Not like he'd ever work two jobs by his own choice, but, hey, life happens), then of course the one-man draft (that had to be a legitimate proof of his luck or lack of thereof – it was the opposite of winning the lottery, damnit), and then he had been stuck in a boxed canyon with a limited supply of Oreos, and now, somehow, he was stuck on a different planet (but not a canyon, at least – you had to point out the good things too) as a Captain (how did that happen again?) with (apparently) Sarge as his freaking symbol of leadership (now that was just sad. Really sad. Simmons had to be wrong, right?). But he had survived so far.

Bitters had lost his family in a pointless civil war (Felix's fault – that dickhead), was now stuck in Gold Team (no, Orange! Fuck! ) with Matthews (kiss-ass) as his teammate and Grif as their Captain (not that he'd ever asked to be that, but when had anyone ever listened him? Never! That's right!) All in all, Bitters was an honorable contestant in the Championship of Shitty Luck.

So maybe Grif had no idea of how to lead a team. Not that he cares (this isn't the first time he'd failed at something, as Sarge surely would have pointed out), but now they were losing to Caboose's team and that was just lame (not just because he was a (dirty) Blue, but come one, it's Caboose, and even Grif has standards he wants to reach). To Grif's defense, his team didn't seem to have any idea of what they were doing either.

It's not that they weren't trying. Grif had just come to the conclusion that none of them (including himself) were born to be soldiers.

Too bad Kimball didn't see that as a countable excuse.


Grif didn't know about Bitters' past because he cared. In fact, Grif had created a personality defined by not caring. The only reason he knew about it was because Simmons wouldn't shut up and the information is thrown at him carelessly along with the daily insults and admonishments.

He had almost zoned out by this point, staring at his cupboard where his pack of cigarettes was hidden, all while ignoring Simmons' speech, which was fair since he was talking bullshit, and the maroon soldier was too big of an idiot to realize it was bullshit which meant he wouldn't shut up in the near future. Grif was planning to take a well-deserved break when his Lieutenant's name was thrown into the speech of bullshit, and now Grif was actually paying attention to figure out whether Simmons was using dirty tricks or had just trailed off.

"-Bitters is probably going be there, too. I heard Jensen mention his loss of family members."

That was probably something Grif should care about since Bitters was his Lieutenant and something about mutual trust and all that shit. But then again, when did he ever give a shit about something, even when he was supposed to? "So?"

"So that means you have, you know, moral support from your platoon." Simmons was leaning against the wall, his visor hiding his expression, but Grif was sure he was looking too satisfied with himself. The maroon idiot probably thought he was coming up with clever arguments, when in reality, all he said was bullshit.

"Simmons, when have I ever needed moral support from my own team? I'm not sure if I know what it is or if I even like it."

And of course Simmons had no sense of the situation and began one of his annoying explanations that no one wanted to hear anyways. "Moral support is encouragement or a show of approval-"

"Simmons. Shut up." Grif was sitting on the edge of his bed, feeling that annoying bubble of anger that kept him from taking the easy way out of this conversation and just take a nap. Simmons had to realize just how stupid he was this time. "Look, I'm gonna take one of your endless advice and be selfless. I'll let Bitters have all of Dr. Grey's attention. See, I can share!"

"You're going to prove that statement wrong the next time someone wants a taste from your food tray," Simmons replied without missing a beat.

"That's because I take a stance, Simmons," Grif told him while pointed his thumb at himself. "My food is, surprise, my food. On the other hand, I have never craved alone time with Grey, so Bitters is all free to take that."

"I'm just saying-"

Grif cut him off with an angry wave of his hand. "I know what you are saying and it's all bullshit." Simmons opened his mouth to retort, but his fellow soldier decided that now was the time to control the conversation to end it properly. "Simmons, why do you hate me?"

The way the maroon Captain pulled his head back in sudden confusion made the whole situation just a little bit better. "Huh… What?"

"I mean, we'd all get it if it was Sarge, but you, Simmons? I feel betrayed. I thought we'd decided that the best death for me was to die in my sleep, doing what I loved. But locking me in a room alone with Dr. Grey? That's just pure torture and a painful death."

Like every other time he was accused of something, Simmons started to stutter his way through an explanation to defend himself, until he decided it was a better idea to just shout at Grif. "It's not… Look, I am trying to be caring, you asshole!"

"Oh God, is this that moral support you were talking about? 'cause in that case, you can go shove it somewhere else. You know, to people who actually need it. Go get them killed instead."

Simmons threw his arms out in frustration. "I am just saying that perhaps it will help."

Grif crossed his arms in defiance. "I'd rather be stuck with a violent, trigger-happy, pissed-off Sarge-"

"Isn't that just a regular Sarge?"

"-than offer my body and soul to Dr. Grey!" Grif finished shouting and his lungs already hated him from all that extra work. Being angry was not easy.

Simmons tried to rub his nose-bridge but the helmet came in the way. "And I'll be sure to quote that the next time you need to go to the hospital. It'll save us the medical bills."

"Yeah, like that'll happen. I'm not the one who keeps almost dying – that's Donut."

That earned a snort from Simmons. "Sure. You got run over by a tank, fell from a tower, got thrown off a cliff –"

"Look, if you want to complain about my near-death experiences, how about you ignore Sarge's orders and stop shooting me in the fucking face!" Grif was scowling, but was pretty proud of his own argument that certainly proved how much bull Simmons was letting out.

Yep, that did it. Simmons' voice went up that one pitch that revealed he was feeling guilty. "Hey, we haven't done that in forever."

"What a consolation, Simmons. Does this belong under moral support too? 'cause that thing just becomes better and better!"

"Maybe Dr. Grey can work on that bitterness while she is at it."

Some people just didn't give up. Grif had learned the advantage of giving up long ago, and at the moment, he wished Simmons would get that revelation as well. "Simmons, I don't need to go to fucking grief counseling with Dr. Grey to talk about my dead sister because I don't fucking have a dead sister!" He got up, surprisingly fast but heck, he was angry and he should show it, but stopped in the doorway to throw over his shoulder, "And when Sister shows up, probably pregnant, I win the bet and you get to pay for the abortion she'll probably be needing." Then he slammed the door, but not before seeing Simmons slump forward in defeat, and suddenly even that stressful motion felt worth it.

But mistakes were made, and two seconds after the door was closed, Grif remembered his pack of cigarettes lying abandoned in his cupboard. That left him with two options. He could return to the room, ruining his dramatic exit and lose face (lose visor? Should it be called that?) to Simmons. Or, and this was the better idea, he could calm down with a snack instead of a cigarette. It was more than a satisfying replacement.

This type of bullshit was the reason why Grif kept his stash. He did not count it as emotional eating. This was just one of the balances of life. If you kept getting bullshit thrown at you (you know, like a fake war, crazy freelancers, a stupid stubborn Simmons and the list goes on), then you needed something to sweeten up life a bit. Like Oreos.

Or, more specifically, the pack of Oreos he had saved for a rainy day or something like that. It was kept among the rest of his stash which had been hidden strategically in one of the storage room, behind the box with manuals written in Spanish, because no one would look there since no one, except for Lopez, would ever read something in Spanish and Lopez did not need manuals. Grif was not sure why they even kept that box, but hey, if it could create a hiding place it did at least have a purpose.

But perhaps it was not best to find hiding place, Grif thought when he opened his stash and found that specific blue package that would be his salvation was gone. Of course he did not blame himself or the hiding spot (it was, in fact, the perfect spot that had taken forever to discover) because the true reason to this tragedy was obvious. It had happened before after all.

Grif's eyes darkened behind the visor. "Bitters."


Tracking down his Lieutenant with the least amount of work meant standing next to his assigned quarters because that was where his bed was placed and he would have to return to that eventually. Of course it was not as easy as expected since it had been half an hour since dinner had ended and still no signs of Bitters.

Grif's mood grew worse when several members of his platoon returned, their cheerful banter turning into curious questions to which Grif replied he was busy with a private investigation, and still no signs of Bitters. He had missed dinner for this. Well, of course he had grabbed a couple of chicken wings to bring along on his mission, but he never joined his friends in the mess hall, but that actually did not bother him since he was still not sure if Simmons had dropped his stupid idea.

So when Bitters finally showed up (appearing from a different direction than the mess hall – just where had the idiot been?), Grif stood ready with his arms crossed. "Bitters, Bitters, Bitters. I really thought your weak stomach taught you the lesson the last time. I guess I was wrong."

Apparently Bitters decided to try to play innocent as he stopped walking abruptly and took in the sight of his Captain standing watch with a slight tilt of his helmet. "Huh?"

"You know what you did, Bitters. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, still shame on you since that just makes you an asshole."

Bitters was still just staring at him. "Yeah, I think I might have missed something."

"You certainly did not miss special package of Oreos with extra stuffing! In fact you stole that one from my secret stash! I forgave you the last time, Bitters, but you are testing my patience! How could you do so?"

Bitters being Bitters took the accusation rather calmly. "Well, you never really moved your stash so it wasn't really difficult."

"Don't you even dare trying to deny it!"

"Yeah, I'm not doing that."

Grif placed his hands on his hips, trying to stare down his Lieutenant which was proved difficult when the younger soldier was taller than him. "You ate my Oreos!"

Bitters shrugged, looking slightly to the left. "So?"

Grif could understand if Simmons or Donut or literally anyone else had trouble with understanding the severity of the situation. But this was Bitters and Bitters appreciated food. The orange Captain was literally sputtering from bewilderment. "So?!"

"It wasn't really like you could eat it when you were dead." There was a certain tone of bitterness to his voice that was just too much of a pun to belong to someone named Bitters. At least that was what Grif told himself when he felt uneasy at his Lieutenant's strange outburst.

He could literally feel the impact of the blame being blame being thrown back at him. Grif stopped himself from staggering backwards and was happy he had his helmet to hide his baffled expression. But Bitters never continued his accusation and that left Grif to come up with some sort of response. "Yeah, but, huh, I was never dead so that isn't an excuse."

Bitters just stared at him, his visor revealing nothing.

"'sides," Grif continued, "if I died, I sure as hell haven't written you down in my will yet, Bitters. So my stuff is my stuff."

"Sure."

"I hope those sweet Oreos was worth this bitter, bitter betrayal." Grif could feel the strength fade from his words as Bitters kept his blank visor focused on him. "So you owe me a new package."

Bitters sighed , and he seemed more tired of the conversation than the actual punishment. "Fine." Then came the awkward silence as the conversation had ended in a completely different direction than what Grif had prepared for. "Can I go to bed now or…?"

Well, Grif had run out of things to say and this was an opportunity to get out of a very awkward situation. Coughing slightly, he was about to step aside to realize just why going to bed now was a good idea. "Oh shit! We have early practice tomorrow!"

There came this strange noise from Bitters, like a balloon being emptied for air, as if he was holding back a sigh over his Captain's obliviousness. "Uh-huh."

"And we're playing catch the flag," Grif whined. The horrible realizations just kept coming. It had been thrown out during the day when he had focused on coming up with those clever replies to Simmons and his already busy mind had been happy to forget the problems of tomorrow. "Fuck."

"Uh-huh," Bitters agreed.

"Well then, Bitters, you better go and get prepared so we can win."

"We're not going to do that."

No, they were not, and Grif knew that too. But he couldn't really say that in front of one of the soldiers from his platoon. "Then we're going to do better than last time. And that's possible, Bitters, 'cause I can't come up with any ways we could have done worse than last time!" Grif really hoped that his words were true. Last time had been a fucking disaster, almost as bad as his own first round at Griffball, and he really did not want to imagine a scenario worse than that.

Bitters sighed again and moved forward to reach for the door which he kept looking straight at. He was clearly looking for a way out, too. Grif was suddenly not sure if this was a sign of whether his mood had grown worse or better. "Whatever you say."

His tone made it clear he was not happy. So was that a problem Grif needed to take care of? He really hoped that was not the case. "Pretty sure there's supposed to be a 'sir' at the end of that sentence, Bitters."

"Sure," the Lieutenant muttered and stepped inside his room.

"That's not how you pronounce 'sir', Bitters!"

Grif managed to hear a grunt as an answer before the door slammed shut and Bitters was gone.

So there he stood, outside his Lieutenant's room with no cigarettes and no Oreos and tomorrow his team was going to lose again. Life sucked.

But definitely not enough to see Dr. Grey.


"Where the hell have you been?!" So Simmons was still in the mood for shouting. At least it was not directly accusing – Grif recognized the tone as curious and then that tiny bit of worry that Simmons would deny if he asked him about it.

Of course Simmons had reason to be perplexed by Grif's behavior. So they had finished their conversation earlier in an angry manner, but there was nothing new about that (having to share quarters (again) always led to arguments about cleaning or smoking or pronunciations or literally anything). But then Grif had missed dinner, which was a giant warning sign in itself, and when Simmons had convinced himself that his fellow Captain had returned to his bed for a nap the moment Simmons had left, he had entered his quarters and there had still been no sign of the orange soldier.

"Had to talk to Bitters." Grif immediately started to take of his armor. He was too tired and grumpy to come up with any sort of lie, and now finally being close to his bed, it felt like it was calling out to him.

Simmons had scooted forwards on his bed so he could stare at Grif in wonder. He obviously thought he was about to win the argument they had been having earlier, and now he was surprised that Grif had been won over that easily. It was even more unsettling than his absence the hours before. "About the grie-?"

"Unless you are going to finish that sentence with 'Grifball practice', I don't want to hear it," Grif growled and threw himself on his bed. His armor lay as a mess on the floor, but Simmons had had that argument too many times and knew that his friend would not clean it up.

So the argument was still going on. Simmons ran a hand over his forehead and felt the change between his organic skin and his cold metal.

Grif was staring at the ceiling when he felt something land and bounce on the mattress next to his head. "Brought a pudding for you, fatass. In case you hadn't eaten."

"Like that would ever happen," Grif snorted but had already peeled off the lid of his dessert. He sat there in silence, eating the treat while he thought about cigarettes and Oreos and flags and stupid Bitters' stupid remark.

There was silence for a moment where Simmons tried to get a clear hold on the mood. Then he quietly asked, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Grif threw the empty pudding package on the floor, rolling over on his side just to note the irritation in Simmons' expression. "We've already talked, dumbass."

"Oh."

So they both lay on their bed, staring at the ceiling because that apparently was an interesting thing to do when looking at anything else was too weird. Simmons had turned off the light, preparing himself for a good night's sleep so they could make sure their teams had woken up early too, because that was only fair.

As Simmons closed his eyes he could only hear the faint humming from his mechanical parts. At least that was until Grif called out quietly, "But, yeah, thanks, nerd."

"Whatever, fatass."

You know, all their arguments had at least taught Grif one thing. Being angry took too much effort. If he had to hold a grudge every time Simmons said something idiotic his back would break from the weight. Being bitter was easier. And it faded in the long run because no one could remain bitter for too long.

Right now Grif really hoped Bitters agreed on that theory.


First attempt at an RvB-fanfic, and just a heads-up: English isn't my native language, so there will be grammar mistakes and typos I don't catch. Otherwise I hope you enjoy the start of this story of friendship. Nearly all dialogue has been written for the next chapter, so hopefully it won't be long until the next update. Thank you for reading.