A/N: Yeah getting a lot into RvB. No slash yet. I'm seeing if I can hold back but it's just so damn tempting and slashable! Grif/Simmons are adorable, there needs to be more RvB slash out there in general.
To kick things off, here's a little quote from Private Tucker which inspired me:
"Nah, it's just the same two guys bickering like an old married couple. I've only be listening for like five minutes and I can already tell they're really in love. Why can't they see it?" –Tucker ep. 38. K.I.T. B.F.F
WHEN GRIF MET SIMMONS
"Grif! Grif! What the fuck? Where did that lazy ass go?" Dick Simmons called out loudly after his repeated radio calls went un-answered.
This new rookie, a Dexter Grif, had joined the Red army just a week ago and within moments of his arrival displayed insubordination, a lack of motivation and a complete ineptitude. His choice of armour, an orange bordering on yellow, in itself came across to Simmons as a complete non-commitment to the Red cause and Sarge hated him from the first. And whatever Sarge hated, Simmons hated too. You know, so that Sarge would in turn like him more. Grif's excuse was that he had been drafted into the war and didn't want to be there anyway.
"Well you're here now, son so you damn well better get used to it!" Sarge had yelled in his face.
"Pft, whatever...Sir? Sarge is it? Man, this is gonna be so hard to get used to. Can't I just call you by your last name like er... "whatsisname" here?" Grif drawled nodding his head in Simmons' general direction.
"No you cannot call me by my last name Private Grif; you will call me by my rank which is Sarge, which is short of Sergeant! And for your information my last name is Sarge!"
"Okay what? So your last name is Sarge? AND your rank is Sarge. So then doesn't that amount to me calling by your last name anyway if I just call you Sarge?" Grif asked perplexedly.
"What are you talking about Boy? Simmons! What is this moron yabbering on about?" Sarge turned to Simmons who was standing stiffly at his right hand, for the moment silently bemoaning that they were to be saddled with this dead weight.
"I don't know, Sarge. As you put so succinctly just before, the guy's an idiot." Simmons said leaping at the opportunity to snidely add his two cents.
"So what he's on a last name basis? Fuck this I'm getting a beer."
And that had been day one.
Stepping out of the shade Red Base into the blistering sun of Blood Gulch, Simmons could still see no sign of the orange soldier. That is, until he heard an especially loud snort of snoring emanating from the roof. Simmons rolled his eyes and climbed to the top of the base which was glaring bright this time of the day without the protection of his regulation head gear.
There, lying slap-bang on the middle of the roof, no shirt, let alone a helmet on, was private Grif...sunbathing and clearly napping on the job. This would be occurrence that Simmons would soon become used to but initially he was shocked by his blatant unprofessionalism. What if the Blues were to attack? Grif would be totally unprepared to protect himself or anyone else. Bare-chested baking in the sun as he was, beer cans left discarded around his person, a still slightly glowing cigarette burning an unnoticed mark into the skin at his collar bone. The guy wasn't even in particularly good shape! His chubby stomach reminded Simmons of the puppy fat of a prepubescent boy before a growth spurt and just added to his overall boyish appearance. The illusion was only broken by the small amount of sandy, sun-bleached hair growing sporadically on his chest and face against darkly tanned skin. Clearly the guy didn't give a flying fuck about the need to get in shape in the army and was making a point of this as he lay drunk and passively smoking with the smoke still balanced precariously between parted lips.
Simmons would have liked to have used this opportunity to get some leverage on Grif in future, if he couldn't get him booted out for this directly, but regretfully he let his temper get the best of him. How dare this cocky little shit lounge up here on his fat ass and ignore Simmons' radio summons!
He marched over and kicked Grif in the side and watched the other man roll over and whine in pain.
"Hey Fat-Fuck, wakey-wakey!" Simmons yelled down at him.
"Hey what the fuck was that about Asshole?"
"Don't you have a job to be doing here other than lying around? Why weren't you answering my calls?"
"Guess it must be radio interference from these teleporter thingies. Maybe it was getting lost with all the radio ga-ga from all those other dimensions. "
"Being that this is where we pick up all our transmissions I think that's highly unlikely," Simmons interrupted to point out what he believed to be the obvious.
"Oh really? Well here's a better theory for you. Maaaaybe it's cause I know that you're just going to get me to do stupid, boring, pointless shit like the last couple of times you radioed me so I just turned my radio off," Grif said spitefully turning hazel-blue eyes to glare at Simmons. "You didn't have to kick me for it though..." he continued in the same tone but almost pouting.
"Hey, wake up! You're in the army now whether you like it or not and from time to time you're going to actually have to do stuff. Or at the very least be ready in case we get attacked!" Simmons chastised, becoming steadily more and more irritated by Grif's petulant, immature behaviour.
"Oh yeah? From who? The Blues? Everyday I've been here they've just been trying to spy on us, never to actually attack us, just spy on us as we do... NOTHING! I figured if I'm going to do NOTHING all day I might as well fucking enjoy it!" Grif folded his arms behind his head and lay back down. Casting a glance to his side, he reached out for the butt of his cigarette...
... instead, his hand met with the heel of Simmons as he crushed both the cigarette and Grif's hand.
"Ahh! Ouch!" he squeaked in pain.
"You listen to me Grif. You may be committed to doing "nothing", but the "nothing" that you're going to do will be the "nothing" that Sarge orders you to do." He ground a little more at the ash of the cigarette and the fingers of Grif, earning a muffled curse through gritted teeth. "Oh and by the way; Red Army is smoke free. Read the booklet. Downstairs ten minutes ready for duty." With that Simmons turned on his heal and left Grif, satisfied that he'd made his point and had thoroughly put the Rookie in his place and that he'd put an end to the insubordination.
Grif narrowed his eyes as he stuck his fingers in his mouth as soon Simmons' back was turned. Getting to his feet he growled out in frustration as he booted a crumpled beer can off the roof.
"That's the way you want to play it Simmons," he said sticking a fresh ciggie in his mouth, lighting up and sucking in sharply. "Two can play at that game."