A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue
We're Really Not the Golden Team
The Giant Flag of Maverickness
"Why are we doing this again?" Bitters asked. It was a fair question, seeing how they had spent the remaining time of the evening inside Grif's room (ahem, which he also shared with Simmons, resulting in the cyborg pounding on the door numerous times, shouting insult through the walls. To be honest, Bitters had considered letting him in, but Grif had been busy with a pre-raid nap, and Bitters could not exactly open the door without Grif's permission. Right? Simmons had seemed honestly surprised and strangely pleased the moment the door had opened, and Grif and Bitters had stormed past him with a rushed "Hey, Simmons! See ya later, Simmons!") and now he was pushing Grif's wheelchair down the darkened hallways.
Grif leaned back in his chair, enjoying to have someone pushing without that someone (cough, Simmons, cough) constantly bitching about it. "Bitters, I'm gonna give you a piece of wisdom. Work is worth it if it results in much less work in the near future."
"Huh." Bitters slowed down slightly as if pushing the chair was tiring – which was in fact the truth, but seeing how he had been the cause of the chair in the first place he probably had no right to complain.
"Also, work can be worth it if it keeps you alive. Only reason why I bother carrying around my gun. These things are heavy."
Bitters suddenly became aware of his own rifle that was secured to his back. "Why are we even bringing weapons? Not like we are going to shoot them."
"We have to make this look serious, Bitters. We're making a point."
"We are burning a flag. That's usually pretty on point."
Grif nodded in something that looked like excitement. "Should stir up some people. Teach the motherfucking flag a lesson. Do you know how many times I almost got shot because Sarge ordered me to capture the goddamn flag? A lot. And I'm not just talking about the Blues – Sarge would fucking shoot at me if I didn't go to fucking Blue Base to get shot."
"Sucks to be you."
Grif's face darkened. "Yeah, Bitters. It sucks to get shot. Take fucking notes of that."
"Lesson already learned." If Bitters had not been wearing his helmet, it would have been clear that his expression was even more sober than Grif's. But his voice matched it, and Grif became aware that he was touching a sore subject.
"Huh. Good," he replied, somewhat hesitant. At least with Bitters behind him, they were spared from awkward eye-contact. "So who popped a bullet up your ass?"
Bitters' reply came quickly. "They didn't."
Even without the eye-contact, Grif was currently trying not to squirm. This was emotional and, well, dark, and they had already had one heart-to-heart this evening. "Good for you."
"Not really."
Then came the awkward silence where Grif made sure not to ask who had been shot then, and where they both made sure to keep their gaze straight ahead. The hallways were almost empty, except for the regular patrols that would guard the halls for some fucking reason. The primary reason was probably just because Kimball had told them to do so.
Bitters stopped pushing as they reached the end of the hallway. They both knew that on the other side of the door, they would enter a monitored area. "So how are we gonna do this?" Bitters asked, thankfully changing subject.
Grif put a hand on his chin. "I was thinking strategy 4B."
There was a moment of silence before Bitters asked, "So we need to pick up four more men?"
Grif blinked. "What? No – there's not enough time…" His frown softened into a smug expression. "Wait, Bitters, did you actually read up on my strategies?"
"Uh…"
"You disappoint me, Bitters. That's something a kissass would do. Not cool." Grif was wearing a big, amused grin now, but Bitters was still standing behind him.
The Lieutenant let go of the chair to rub the back of his neck. "Shut up. Kimball was threatening us with dish duty if we got caught again."
"Oh, quit shaking. I'm not mad or anything. In fact, I was actually hoping you would be the one to show your new Captain the ropes. The tattered and very weak ropes, but, you know, I did put some work in those plans."
Perhaps it was a bad thing that Bitters was standing behind him. Grif had to stop himself from looking over his shoulder to see whether Bitters was still alive, due to his sudden silence. Finally, the Lieutenant cleared his throat. "So, you meant strategy 4F?"
"Right. 4F. Could work. If we find that tennis ball."
"I feel like I should point out that you are still in a wheelchair."
"And whose fault is that Bitters?"
Bitters sighed deeply and loudly.
Grif figured that was answer enough and said, "Just look at it as an extra tool. We can use me to run over our enemies or something."
"Which enemies? We know the people who are on patrol."
Grif nodded, staring at the closed door in front of them. "Exactly. We're alone in this, Bitters. Two mavericks against the world."
Catching up on the amused tone in his voice, Bitters had to ask, "You're really enjoying this?"
Grif shrugged. "I had a shitty week."
The hall was weirdly quiet when none of them were speaking. Most of the base had to be asleep by now. Bitters breathed out, "Yeah. Me too."
Suddenly, the noise almost echoing against the walls, Grif clapped his hands together. "Then let's get to work." The moment the words left his mouth, he winched. "Oh god, that sounded so wrong. I need to bleach my tongue or something… Must have been the painkillers."
And when the work began, it was glorious enough to be worthy of dramatic sneaky music playing in the background. Unfortunately, such music would totally reveal their presence, and that was why they worked in silence.
But as it turned out, something was needed before the work could begin.
"Okay, where do we find a tennis ball?"
"The equipment closet," Bitters responded dryly. "Which we apparently need a tennis ball to reach."
Grif scowled. "How ironic."
"Actually, it's more annoying."
"Well, shit. Bitters, go find a tennis ball."
The Lieutenant stepped back to cross him arms. "But you just said we have no idea of where to find them!"
"That's how delegations works, Bitters! You give someone else the orders that suck!"
Bitters opened his mouth, closed his mouth, opened it to grumble something that Grif could not hear, and finally he sighed. "Fine… Uh, your wheels are made by rubber? I think."
"Hmm… Would save us the extra work trying to find a ball. Hey, if my chair breaks, you have to carry me."
Bitters sighed.
The plan was rather simple – get to the equipment shack without being spotted by the patrols or getting caught by the surveillance cameras.
You know, pretty simple. But it did require some work.
"Okay, careful. Don't fucking tip me over! Oh, shit!" Grif clung to the pipe running up the wall in order to keep himself (and his chair) from falling to the ground. With only three wheels left on the chair, it was no longer able to carry Grif's weight – something that did indeed require some strength.
Realizing his method somehow worked, Grif held on even tighter and called out, "Okay, get going. And don't fucking miss."
"Or what?" Bitters asked, turning his hand upwards in order to look at the small rubber wheel he had taken from the chair. It was big enough to fill his palm, and hopefully it should bounce off rather well.
"Or we accept dish duty and you're stuck on Simmons' squad. No pressure."
Bitters grunted something in reply and took his stance on the other side of the door. When it opened, he leaned in to see the camera on the top of the wall in the middle of the hall, placed so there was no way they could get to the other side without getting filmed. To make things worse, it was one of the few cameras that were always turned on, unlike some of the other areas where cameras would turn on and off every ten seconds in order to save power.
Taking in a deep breath, Bitters moved his arm backwards, aimed, and-
The wheel hit the camera with enough force to push it to the side, causing it to film the wall and leaving half of the path unsupervised.
The wheel bounced back on the floor and continued to roll its way back to the intruders. They both turned their heads in order to see it roll undisturbed back the way they had come from.
"Uhm, I suggest you fetch that," Grif said, slowly losing his grip on the pipe. "But yeah, good throw."
"Your wheel is squeaking."
"What?"
"Your wheel is squeaking," Bitters said, somehow with even more irritation in his voice.
Grif threw up his hands. "I know that! I'm sitting right next to it! Don't tell me you've brought along oil for some fucking reason – that'd be something Donut would do."
"I'm saying –"
In fact, Bitters was not saying anything because in that exact moment the door opened behind them.
The patrol, consisting of two rebel soldiers, came walking down the hall, quietly bickering about when they could go the fuck to sleep, when the light flickered above them.
They froze in the middle of their tracks. "That's weird. You think the power supply is running low again?"
"Nah, man, this is Armonia. Probably a ghost or something."
"You really think so?"
"It's the most logical explanation."
Apparently it was, and most definitely when an empty wheelchair suddenly made its way down the hallway, its squeaking echoing against the walls.
"Oh shit."
They both raised their rifles but backed away on the same time, as if unsure whether to attack or run away.
The decision was made when a ghost-like voice called out, "I'm hunti- haunting you… Boooh… Something."
"Holy crap!"
The two soldiers turned around on their heels and ran as fast as their legs could carry them. The door on the other end of the hallway opened, revealing Bitters who went to fetch the wheelchair and Grif who was sitting on the ground close enough to the entrance to be able to reach up and flick the light switch.
"Nice," Grif said and accepted the hand that helped him up. He even managed to walk the few steps to the wheelchair, only limping slightly. The wound was basically healed by now, but why put stress on it (and why not avoid all kind of stress in the first place?), so Grif had learned to appreciate how he could be sitting down the entire day. "Should be three minutes before they return with backup. Should be four minutes before someone calls them paranoid idiots and tell them to stop watching horror movies before patrol. Let's get the fuck out of there."
In fact, the wheelchair proved most useful when they were reaching one of the final hallways.
"Just why is the equipment shack more secure than the fucking mess hall?!"Grif muttered angrily as he glanced up at the camera. The light switch from red to green with only a few seconds interval.
"Maybe because the shack contains weapons."
"Yeah, shitty training weapons. It's not the fucking armory!" He let his arm fall, realizing shouting probably won't help them in the long run, and he went back to glaring daggers at the camera instead. "How the fuck do we get past that shit?! No way any of us can run that fast."
That was very true – considering the fact they were the two soldiers that never put any effort into the obstacle courses.
They stared at the camera for a minute, realizing the light was basically fucking blinking like it had some dirt in its eye.
"I think I have an idea."
As it turned out, none of them were able to run fast enough. However, if you pushed the wheelchair with enough force, you could make it to the other end of hallway before the camera turned on again.
Had the camera been recording the entire time, Church would later have been able to watch the glorious video of Grif grasping the armrests as Bitters ran up and let go of the chair, sending it flying down the hall. It was fast enough for Grif to be unable to stop it as the distance between himself and the door became less and less. "Oh shit!"
The door did not open fast enough, and Grif crashed directly into it. "Ow."
He somehow managed to get himself off it, placing himself on the ground, and pushed it back to Bitters. The Lieutenant was having a harder time completing the tactic, as he had to run up and then in the process throw himself onto the moving chair.
It somehow worked. Well, it did, until the wheel that had previously taken off and put back on suddenly fell off, resulting in Bitters crashing to the floor. "Crap."
"Hey, careful with that – I was only allowed to rent it!"
Well, at least they made it across the hall.
"I can't believe this actually worked," Grif declared out loud. He was actually more than a bit shocked with how easy they had made it through their obstacles. Especially since this was fucking Bitters who had not even known when to stay fucking put instead of running to your death only some days ago.
He wrote the codeword in the door's panel (all the Captains had been given it in order to be able to reach the equipment – thank you very much, Kimball) and when the door opened, they reached their destination. Breaking into the actual closet was easier than fucking getting to it.
As Grif wheeled his way inside (they had managed to get the wheel back on the chair again, though Grif was now tilting slightly to one side), Bitters followed him. "I have a feeling you shouldn't be saying that yet."
"Don't be a pessimist, Bitters. The goal is in fucking sight." He made his to the corner of the room, after wheeling into a training dummy that had fallen to the floor, and sure enough – a blue, a green, a red and an orange flag was resting against the wall. "Okay, hand me the lighter."
"Uhm…" Bitters was standing in the hallway, as if he did not dare to move further into the room.
Grif turned around, well, actually he turned his head since turning the chair was too much work. "You don't smoke?" he asked, unable to hide his surprise. Though he had never actually seen the Lieutenant with a cigarette, he seemed like the type of guy who would hang out behind buildings in order to smoke in peace.
"No." He crossed his arms and nodded accusingly in the direction of Grif. "So why didn't you bring?"
"And give Simmons an excuse to freaking body check me? I can barely hide my packs when I have my armor on. Sarge must have installed freaking x-ray vision in him or something."
Bitters glanced at the flags and tilted his head. "So the plan failed?" he asked, almost sounding curious in order to see if he was right on his hypothesis.
"No, Bitters. Luckily for us there are other ways to destroy a flag. Use your imagination."
The Lieutenant finally stepped inside the room, moving closer in order to get a better look. "Can't we just steal them?" he asked, sounding tired. To be fair, it was the middle of the night.
"Bitters, have you completely misunderstood the purpose of this mission? We are here to put an end to the game where we have to steal the fucking flag. We are here to bring freedom to us all. So, no, Bitters, we are going to rip these things to pieces."
As he ended his speech, he reached forward to grab the flags. Unfortunately, the wheel decided it was too weak to keep supporting Grif's weight, and when the chair became tilted, Grif accidently knocked over the flags.
And then came the chain reaction.
They both watched in wonder how the red flag fell over to slam against a cupboard from which a ball fell down, bouncing against the floor, then the wall, into the training rifles stacked against a rack, causing Bitters to back away as they fell in his direction, and the movement caused him to trip over the rolling ball on the floor, slamming into the steel hurdles standing behind him, which all proceeded to knock the next one down, until the final hurdle fell towards the door, the sharp corner hitting the door panel.
The glass surface shattered upon impact and the two soldiers watched how sparks emerged from the crack. Bitters went over to investigate and discovered that the door was indeed malfunctioning and they were now stuck in a closet. While he had expected something to go wrong, he had never dared to be this specific.
"So mission…"
"Don't say it," Grif snapped, both annoyed and amazed that this could happen to them. "This is not failed. This is delayed victory. Completely different. Also, we can still destroy the flags."
As Grif leaned down to pick them up, Bitters just watched the chaos they had created. "We're fucking stuck."
"So?"
"So?"
Grif shrugged while trying not to fall out of his tilted chair. "Won't be the first time I've napped in a closet." Trying to make himself comfortable, he stretched out his arms over his head. "Reminds me of a time I managed a 5 hours nap in a locker back in Blood Gulch. Then Simmons found me and he had to go tell Sarge. He made me clean the base's floors with my toothbrush as punishment. Took for fucking ever. Tough luck for Simmons, though, since I didn't have a toothbrush. I'm sure he didn't mind that I borrowed his." As Bitters grimaced at that scenario, Grif nodded gravely. "That's what I'm telling you. You sure as hell are the luckiest person on this planet to draw me as your Captain. Sarge hates mavericks."
Understanding that they were going to be stuck here for a while, Bitters took off his helmet and stared at it as he held it in his hands. "You're pretty full of it."
"Really? I'm sure Matthews would disagree."
"That's Matthews," Bitters said distastefully.
"Huh, good point."
They sat in silence after that, since Bitters' tone had turned just a bit too sharp for them to continue their conversation. Grif placed the flags in his lap, fiddling with the fabric as he tried to decide how to rip it to pieces.
Bitters kept looking at his helmet, as if trying to see his own reflection in the visor.
"What you did wasn't selfless."
That came out of nowhere, so Grif lifted his head to look at his Lieutenant. "Huh… What?"
Still examining his helmet, Bitter began to recite: "Appearing just when we felt so helpless, they disappeared again in a sacrifice so selfless. But you just dumped us."
"Are you… Holy crap, is that Matthews' poem?" Grif squinted in suspicion. "You totally learned it by memory. What a kissass."
"You ordered me to," Bitters defended himself weakly. Finally raising his head just a tiny bit, he saw Grif's smug smile.
"And you followed orders. A kissass in disguise. I never saw the betrayal coming."
"Shut up," Bitters said harshly and shifted his feet.
"Alright, fine." Grif held up his hands. "I crossed the line. No more calling you kissass. Or brownnose. Or-" Noticing Bitters cold, very cold, glare in his direction, Grif cut himself off. "My bad. Okay, so what was messed up about Matthews' poetry? Except, you know, all of it."
Bitters put down the helmet to pick up the red flag that had been lying on the ground. "I don't –" He ripped the first piece off. "-buy-" There was another scratching sound as he continued. "-the bullshit."
Grif paused from his own work and asked, "Are we still talking about the poem? 'cause yeah, that's a pile of rhyming shit."
Bitters continued to rip the flag apart with angry motions, refusing to say more.
After watching him for almost a minute, Grif decided not to change the subject. "Look, I'm having a hard time following your thoughts, but yeah, whatever. Bitters, I promise you, next time I'm going on a suicide mission, I'll take you with me. There. You happy?"
Bitters shrugged him off. "Better than being left behind."
Gripping the green flag tightly, Grif told him, "You are a strange individual, Bitters. What's with the sudden suicidal tendency?"
"I'm not-" Bitters cut himself off and corrected it to, "We're not as bad as you think we are."
"You do realize I just got fired 'cause you guys suck dick?"
Bitters waited for some seconds before he pointed out, as smugly as he could, "You said you quit."
Rolling his eyes, Grif waved a piece of flag in his direction. "Quit, fired, whatever. Point still is, I'm fucking unemployed. Or, well, I am until Kimball figures out what we are doing. Then we're both stuck on dish duty for so long we have to count on Felix to come back and stab us like the dickhead he is to put us out of our misery."
"Speaking of misery-"
Grif could not help but sigh, knowing this was a classic Bitters line. "Yes, Bitters?"
"Dumping us was a pretty lame move."
"I think you might be confusing the term 'dumping' with 'selflessly giving you a chance to live'."
Narrowing his eyes, he shot back, "By leaving us to die."
"Hey, we came back," Grif pointed out, because it was only fair to let them know that. "Turns out we just have a weakness for suicide missions. We should probably see someone about that."
The last comment softened Bitters' expression a little bit. He breathed out before grumbling, "It wouldn't have hurt to bring us along."
Grif snorted loudly. "Yeah, 'cause pulling in a bunch of kids would be a great help."
"We're not kids."
The reply came too quickly, so harshly, that Grif was reminded of his teenage self, when people had denied him the job he desperately needed, when people had doubted his abilities even though he was the only reason his sister and himself were still alive.
"You're soldiers." Grif sighed. "Yeah, I get it." He ripped another piece of the flag, taking joy in the fact that it was green and that Tucker had won so many rounds that he definitely deserved losing his flag. "So truce? I pissed you off, you shot me. Now we're stuck in the same boat – well, closet."
"Fine." It sounded like he meant it, his voice not exactly gentle but not irritated either, and so they continued their work with less tension in the air. Bitters suddenly froze, as if remembering something from an earlier conversation. "You think Kimball's going to put us on dish duty?"
Grif huffed and pushed colorful pieces of fabric off his lap. "Well, I'm certainly going. You can probably excuse yourself by having to follow my orders."
"Not when you're not my Captain," Bitters pointed out. He seemed strangely less horrified by the thought of joining Grif in the punishment than he would have expected.
"Oh," Grif said, because Bitters was technically right. "Well, they can't do shit without any evidence. And we skillfully avoided all cameras. They don't have any dirt on us. That's what I always say, Bitters – you can't claim shit without proof."
Bitters opened his mouth, bit his tongue, grimaced and earned a strange glare from Grif. Finally, he decided he should probably speak his thoughts out loud.
"I should probably warn you that Simmons is trying to get Doctor Grey to analyze you."
"Huh?" Grif looked up again, and his expression revealed that he was both surprised and wary when it came to the sudden change of conversation.
Bitters shrugged as carelessly as he could. "Seemed fair to let you know. I've already sent you to her office once. Which was an accident," he had to point out in case Palomo had been spreading any conspiracies.
Grif gripped the pole of the flag tighter, hesitating. Licking his lips and scolding himself for not bringing any snacks with him, he sighed and asked, "He tell you why he wants me psyco-analyzed?"
"You have a sister," Bitters said briefly, keeping his voice empty from all sort of curiosity. He knew how it felt to have people asking into things they did not need to know shit about.
"Yeah." Grif's voice turned uncharacteristically cold, earning him Bitters' full attention. "I have. And Lopez can go fuck himself, 'cause whatever he said doesn't mean shit. It's fucking Spanish! And my sister can't be killed. Did I ever tell 'bout the time we went ice-skating? Three hours under water – came back pregnant. Lopez wouldn't stand a chance. So my sister isn't dead."
"Okay." That was all Bitters said. He did not even send Grif another glance.
Grif looked up at him, squinting with sour eyes. "Oh, don't you go Simmons on me! I know what your 'okay' means. That's like Simmons-ish for puling yourself out of an argument."
Bitters glared back at him, not even flinching. "I mean – okay. Fine. Whatever. You're right."
"What, really?" Grif's voice was now a hundred percent suspicious and he leaned slightly forward to get a better look at the young soldier. "You're just going along with my rant?"
He shrugged. "Can't judge. I don't know your sister."
Letting out a deep breath, Grif allowed himself to lean back in his chair. "And that's good since you and her would probably have… Oh gosh, never mind, I don't need those mental images." He was silent for a moment, wrapping fabric around his finger before he suddenly said, "But yeah, thanks. I guess dead relatives is just the number one subject on Chorus when it comes to things in common. Remind me never to witness a speed dating session on this planet. The topic of conversation go all the way from 'how many Feds did you kill on the last run' to 'which military rank do you see yourself in in five years'?"
That earned him a snort. They could both feel the tension slowly leaving the cramped space.
"Yeah, Felix has it coming for him," Grif finally breathed out, thinking about all the men Felix had screwed over, himself included.
"So why are we all wasting time on pointless training sessions?" Bitters were asking the right questions here. Well, not the right question, but the night was still young.
"Well, tomorrow we'll be one training session less. But I've heard it's something about how they improve leadership, teamwork and the feeling of fighting for the same cause – you know, that kind of shit. Except, that doesn't really apply to our team."
"That's because the training sucks."
"I like the way you think, Bitters." Grif managed to rip off another piece, only to realize he was only halfway through the green flag and his fingers fucking hurt. "Ah, this takes for fucking ever. How long until the others come?"
Bitters picked up his helmet to glance inside of it, looking at the numbers displayed on the visor. "Uh, it's 2.15."
"Meaning we have, uh…" He trailed off. The truth was that Grif was always late for their training sessions, leaving him with no clue of how when they actually began.
"Still a bit more than 4 hours," Bitters told him, not even sounding like he was scolding him.
"Right. Enough time. More than enough. Plenty. I can even find time for a nap." When Bitters glared at him, he let go of the idea even though it was tempting. "Fine, I'll save that one for later." He shifted his entire body in order to get comfortable in the chair and grinned. "Seems like we have some time to kill. So… You ever wondered why we're here?"
"Nope."
The flat reply took him by surprise, but Grif knew an opportunity when he saw one. He clapped his hands together. "Well, Bitters, I have a lot to teach you then."
Matthews breathed in deeply, mentally going through his version of the dialogue before straightening out his back, and then he marched towards the group of Captains with long steps. Kimball was there as well, talking with Simmons, and Matthews tried to hold up his chin even higher.
The training session was about to start, with the soldiers slowly beginning to warm-up while the course was being prepared. But, sad as it was, Gold Team was without a Captain. The others probably believed Grif to be late, but Matthews knew the truth and that was why Kimball's presence only made him even more anxious. Perhaps she was only there because Grif wasn't, and then she had to be the one to give the others the news.
Clearing his throat, he gained their attention. "Uhm, we are actually missing some people."
Church flickered to life on Tucker's shoulder, and he snorted with crossed arms, "People failing to show up in Grif's squad? Yeah, I'm very shocked."
While showing up late was not punishable on Gold Team, Matthews continued, "Actually, we are kinda missing our Captain and Lieutenant."
Simmons and Kimball shared a glance, but then the maroon soldier shrugged in a bit too relaxed fashion. "They probably went out to raid the mess hall. They always do that on Tuesdays."
"No reports about any incident in the mess hall yet," Kimball told them all and her glance jumped from Simmons to Matthews and back again.
The Captain shrugged again. "Maybe they got away with it?"
Church made a disapproving noise. "Because Gold Team's statistics would say that is very possible."
Palomo appeared from out of nowhere, earning a flinch from Tucker as his voice called out: "Ooh, maybe Bitters shot him again and now he's a fugitive. Or maybe Grif shot him as revenge."
"Palomo, do us all a favor and shut up."
"Can do, sir!" There was a moment of silence, but then, "For how long?"
Before Tucker could answer (and the answer was obviously until one of them died), Smith decided to join the group as well, hands empty despite hang been ordered to set up the course. "Uhm, sirs? I think you might want to see this."
Matthews and Palomo were left behind, as Smith led the Captains and Kimball to the corner of the hall.
"It looks like someone has tried to break into the equipment room," he explained and pointed at the panel that kept flashing on and off, displaying glitching numbers.
"Door's jammed," Simmons concluded shortly after trying to pry it open. Perhaps he was not the best person to try and force it open, but Caboose was too busy telling Smith that this was why he liked keys better than numbers. When Church tried to explain to him that keys were definitely outdated by now, Caboose responded that at least his keys never locked him out (which would explain why the panel on Caboose's door was so dented – not that it mattered since they had removed the door's locking abilities just to prevent Caboose-related incidents that surely could happen should he be left alone in a room).
Tucker took a step forward and activated his sword so quickly that Simmons had to jump backways in order to avoid getting cut. "I can take care of that! Swish!" With a surprisingly accurate attack, he cut all the way down the line that indicated where the metal sliding door would spread apart had it worked.
"Holy fuck! That almost hit me!"
At the sound of the muffled voice, they all tilted their helmets. "Grif?" Simmons was the first to call out, crossing his fingers that his ears had betrayed him.
"Uhm… Yeah?"
Too bad Simmons was never wrong (well, almost never)."What the fuck are you doing in there?!"
"Well, the panel's smashed," Grif explained with a voice so flat that Simmons knew that he was rolling his eyes as he spoke.
"No, I mean what were you doing in there in the first place?"
"I bet he went to find Narnia."
"Shut up, Caboose," Tucker barked, not even looking away from the still closed door.
The Blue soldier instead turned to Smith who would never deny him the right to speak. "I tried that too, once, but it turned out it wasn't a closet. It was my room. And it turned out it wasn't a talking lion. It was a dog. Which is strange since I didn't have a dog. Maybe it wasn't really my room."
Simmons, deciding that was not a story he needed details about, talked to the metal door again. "How did you get stuck in a closet?"
"It wasn't my fault."
"Right," a new voice, also muffled, snorted.
"Shut up, Bitters."
Tucker, turning off his sword to secure it to his hip, tilted his helmet. "Wait, Bitters is in there too? Wow."
Kimball, who knew the Captain well enough to know what was about to happen, warned him with a low voice, "Tucker."
"What? Are you expecting me not to make a joke about two guys stuck in a locker?"
"I'm expecting you to help get that door open."
Since Kimball was their leader, Tucker kept himself from complaining, and with the help of Simmons they both dug their fingers into the crack the sword had created and tore the metal pieces in each direction. They were not exactly light, and they both grunted as they strained their arm muscles.
"Maybe they moved in with each other," Caboose suggested, watching them work with great interest.
"You can't live in a closet," Church told him from an aqua shoulder.
"But Tucker once told me that Donut lives in a closet."
"That's not what I meant, Caboose!"
The Blue soldier crossed him arms, showing how offended he felt by having his friends lie to him. "But you said that was why I couldn't come visit him. I could have brought him fruit cake and extra coat hangers."
With a final screeching noise as the metal was pushing along the floor, they finally got the door open, revealing Bitters sitting on a crate and Grif in his wheelchair in a room that looked like a tornado had passed through it.
Trying to ignore the growing headache the mess caused him, Simmons turned to give Grif an accusing stare with his visor. "Of course you didn't help at all."
"I'm in a wheelchair, you fuck." Indeed he was – a very lopsided wheelchair. See, that was the sort of details that Simmons would not mind to hear about.
"What were you doing in here?" Kimball cut to the chase, her tone revealing that she was not too happy about the situation.
Bitters' eyes flickered towards Grif. "Uhm…" He then quickly put on his helmet to hide even the slightest ghost of an expression.
"Night time training session?" Grif suggested as if unsure of his own words. When it sounded right, he nodded to prove that he was in fact telling the truth.
Palomo, disobeying his orders to stay behind and far away from Tucker, suddenly appeared behind the Captains, letting out a sad moan. "Aw, we never have special night time training sessions," he complained while glancing at Tucker.
"That's because my nighttime workout is reserved for the ladies. Bow-chica-bow-wow." While he appreciated the opportunity to use his catchphrase, he quickly waved his disappointed Lieutenant away.
"Classy," Simmons snorted before turning to Grif again. "Seriously, Grif?"
"What? We were just having fun."
Tucker suddenly sounded like he had something in his throat, and he doubled over slightly as he tried to hold back his snarky comment to Grif's statement. Church, still on his shaking shoulder, glared at Grif. "You're giving him a hard time."
"Okay, seriously, you're all just teasing me now. Bow-chica-"
"Enough," Kimball cut him off, and then put her scolding glance upon Grif. "This area is locked down during nighttime. How did you get in here?"
Both Grif and Bitters turned their head to share a glance. The Lieutenant's visor did not give him much to work with, so Grif slowly explained himself with: "Uh… We didn't?"
"You are making no sense," Simmons just had to clarify, in case his idiotic teammate had not noticed. Which was probably the case.
"Actually," Church cut in, sounding rather amused which was never a good sign. "According to the surveillance cameras, they didn't."
"What?" Kimball and Simmons exclaimed in unison and they both turned to look at the AI for clarification.
"Yeah, if any of you were brilliant, all-knowing AI like me, you'd be able see that Bitters and Grif were last caught by the camera outside the stalls on level 2 at…" He paused as he checked whatever he was currently seeing, being made out of numbers and all that. "00.14. Definitely outside curfew, but you can barely slap them on the wrist for that."
"You were on a raid," Kimball concluded, eyebrow raised behind the visor.
"Maybe they were trying to capture the flag!" Caboose exclaimed. "That's cheating. We have not begun yet."
"Looks like you took the wrong turn trying to find the mess hall," Tucker snorted, though his voice did not hide the fact that he was a little bit impressed with how they had ended up here.
"Which we all know Grif can find in his sleep," Church pointed out. "That was proven by last week's recording of the kitchen area." He let out an amused grunt, revealing that he was indeed playing the clip for himself at the moment. "Want me to run that video? In case you all want to see Grif sleepwalk into a wall."
"Do we begin now?" Caboose asked but did not wait for an answer. Instead he walked straight past them all, into the deepest corner of the closet in his search for the flag. No one tried to stop him.
"How the fuck didn't you wake up, by the way?" Tucker asked Simmons. "A sleepwalker should freak you out."
Ignored by all of them, Caboose called out from the closet, "I found the flag."
Church crossed his arms as he too addressed the maroon soldier. "More importantly, how didn't you notice Grif wasn't in your room earlier?"
Tucker nodded. "You always complain about how he snores every night."
"I found it again," Caboose's voice sounded from somewhere behind Grif. "It's very small."
"Wait, this isn't my fault!" Simmons shrieked, both shocked and surprised that the blame had somehow landed on him.
Grif came to his defense. "Yeah." Well, actually he didn't. "And I don't snore!"
"Yes, you do," Simmons told him flatly. The maroon soldier was painfully aware that Grif was unable to keep quiet at night.
"No proof. I haven't heard myself snore yet."
"That's because you are fucking sleeping!"
"There are a lot of flags in here." Caboose gasped loudly. "Is it my birthday?!"
Church let out a brief laughter and floated a bit higher in order to stare down the Red soldier. "Nice try changing subject, Simmons, but I'm sensing an accomplish here."
"We can all have our own flag!" Caboose called out, "Smith, come choose your own."
"On my way, sir." The Blue soldier disappeared inside the closet as well.
Kimball turned around slightly to stare at Simmons who cowered under her glance. "I – I didn't – you can't honestly believe-"
"Bitters, report."
When Kimball called him out, all eyes were put on him. The Lieutenant seemed more than a little unsure with all the attention on him. He rubbed the back of his neck and revealed, "Uh... I guess Captain Simmons did suggest this was a good idea." He actually remembered to include the title, now when Kimball was staring directly at him.
The attention did not last long, however, since all eyes now jumped back on Simmons. "No, I didn't! I told you that you could raid the mess hall." Simmons realized his mistake when all the glares intensified. He cleared his throat and tried to explain himself, "So they could end their stupid argument and – and Grif can stay a Captain and then I don't have to have to listen to his pouting."
There was an intense awkward silence until Tucker whistled and said, "Wow."
"I know." Church snorted. "Red Team problems. How adorable."
"At least our problems don't involve crazy military secrets, fucking AI's and Freelancers!" Grif barked and glared daggers at them. "You guys' problems have 'Death Trap' written all over it."
"Yeah. Well, yours have 'Boring' written all over it."
It did not seem like Church's comment bothered Grif. The orange soldier merely shrugged. "Boring is fine. Boring is safe. I like boring."
Smith suddenly walked back to the closet's entrance, appearing behind Grif. "Uhm, sirs? I think that we are announcing that-"
"We have captured the flags!" Caboose yelled very loudly, and stormed out of the closet with his arms filled with small, colorful pieces of fabric. He lifted them proudly in the direction of Church.
They all stared at his treasure before going back to stare at Grif. "Huh," Tucker said. "So that's why you were in that."
"This is actually the most sane reason I could come up with." Church looked down at the soldier in the wheelchair. "Not that it does much to praise your sanity."
Simmons sighed and tried to face-palm only for the visor to come in the way. "Really, Grif?"
Said soldier crossed his arms in defiance. "You can't prove anything!"
"Am I getting my medal now?!"
Kimball ignored Caboose who had inched closer to her. She sighed before addressing the orange soldier. "Grif, please follow me to my office. Bitters –" She turned towards the Lieutenant who was still relaxing on the crate but froze slightly when she declared, "You'll start searching for thread and needle."
"Hey, are we going to forget Simmons' role in this?" Church asked, earning a surprised 'eep' from the maroon soldier. "'cause it would seem like Red Team have been pretty naughty."
"Shut up," he hissed out from the corner of his mouth. "What are you – five?"
"I'm not the one getting my ass dragged to the principal's office."
"Technically-"
"Simmons," Kimball cut him off sharply. "-can help Bitters. Later. For now, go assemble your squad before they start believing today's lesson has been cancelled."
They all headed off to fulfill their orders (Grif slowly making his way with his busted wheelchair) with the exception of Caboose who remained standing in front of the smashed closet.
"Does this mean I win?" he asked, and looked down at the bunch of fabric he was holding. "Because in that case, I already have the confetti."
"So… Dish duty?" Grif asked the moment they were inside the office. He felt a bit too familiar with these surroundings the last week.
"Not quite," Kimball replied as she sat down in her chair.
Mentally praying that his chair would not collapse, Grif narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "You're going to have Wash make me run courses?"
"Tempting, but no."
"If I admit guilt, can we keep Carolina out of this? 'cause I like my face as it is right now."
Kimball breathed in deeply before turning the conversation in the right direction. "You do realize you and Bitters became a security breach tonight."
"Well…" Grif trailed off when he noticed the strange tone in her voice. "Wait, why are you sounding so happy about that?"
Kimball folded her hands. "I am very curious of how you two managed to avoid both the patrols and surveillance cameras."
Grif mentally swore. If she was going to make him write a goddamn rapport about this, he would try to convince her that his nearly healed wound caused his fingers to cramp. Or something. Writing rapports sucked enough without them revealing the secrets that actually made his strategies work. "Look, if I swear this will never happen again – which are the exact same words I told you the last time we got caught – but third, no wait, fourth time's the charm, right?"
"Actually, I would like to see you do it again."
"I… Huh?"
Kimball nodded and continued, "Preferable not our own base. But if you could use the same infiltration strategies on the enemy's compound – and, which I would like to emphasize, avoid getting stuck in a closet, it would prove most advantageous for us."
"Wait, wait, wait, wait." Grif held up his hands. "You want me to infiltrate the enemy's base? That sounds like something Sarge would order me to do. Besides, it didn't even work! And not just tonight with the closet – if my strategies work, my team wouldn't suck so bad that I had to quit on them."
Kimball leaned back slightly in her seat. It was clear that she eying Grif closely as she said, "Did you know Bitters came by my office yesterday? It would seem that your demotion was revealed before time." Grif lifted his head, surprised as this was news, and when she realized she had his full attention, she told him, "He explained that he had been sabotaging Gold Team's team spirit."
"Saboteur of team spirit is pretty much just Bitters' character trait. Along with severe pessimism and an extremely cool maverick attitude. You can't really blame him."
"According to him, this attitude has been the cause of Gold Team's lack of obedience in the last week's training sessions."
"Huh." While Grif did his best to keep his expression neutral, his eyes revealed that he was indeed impressed.
Kimball sounded like she was smiling, which was weird, since she then told him, "In fact, he suggested that the most effective solution would be for him to switch team in order to let you remain a Captain."
Grif frowned. "Wait, you're not seriously – Look, I never given any shit about Sarge's orders and he hasn't switched me out yet. I mean, he has tried to kill me, but that doesn't really count."
"I am not moving Bitters."
He fell back in his chair again and it creaked in a warning manner. "Whew. Good."
"And I'm not demoting you."
Grif raised an eyebrow. This was not how he had expected the talk to sound like. "Is this because we actually captured the flag?"
"I think you confuse 'capture' with 'destroy' but yes." Grif stayed quiet as he waited for her to explain, and Kimball continued, "While I am in no way encouraging destruction of our training supply, I am highly impressed with how you and Bitters managed to work together in order to infiltrate, well, infiltrate your own base, but the effort is still there."
Grif raised his hands again, giving himself the opportunity to speak. His eyes darted around slightly. "I get what you're hinting at. And, well, thanks. But I'm not gonna send my men out there."
"I'm not asking you to. I'm giving you another chance to step up, inspire your team and teach them the strategies you've been using for your mishaps." 'Mishaps' was a strong word. Grif thought 'brilliance' fit better.
"Wait, so this whole 'come-to-my-office-you're-in-trouble-façade' was just to tell me I'm a good soldier?" There had to be some sort of plot-twist. Maybe Sarge would appear out of nowhere to shoot him with his shotgun.
"No," Kimball replied incredibly flatly and adjusted some papers on the table. "When it comes to shooting targets, general stamina and overall willingness of a soldier, your comrades beat you by far. But we need an infiltration team, and, as strange as it is to say, I think you are our best shot."
"Huh." Grif thought about a proper response, and then he realized he had none. He had not exactly planned for this. "Huh."
Kimball had to be smiling behind her helmet. Grif could feel it. It was creepy. "That is if you are willing to take another shot at this. It would seem that Bitters have changed his mind about this situation."
"Yeah. Sure. Whatever." While fiddling with the armrest of his chair, he thought about what all this meant. "Wait, does this mean I'm not stuck at dish duty?"
"Not a chance," Kimball replied with missing a beat. "I'll inform them you'll stand ready at the kitchen the next week."
Grif sighed. "A man can hope."
Kimball chuckled slightly before asking, "So will you be the one to deliver the news to your team?"
"Actually," he said, and the word visibly surprised her. He pointed at the wheelchair that was somehow still supporting his weight. "I kinda need to deliver something first. This thing fucking squeaks. It's driving me crazy."
Later that day.
"But- but what about the armory storage we were going to organize?" Simmons stuttered, actually following Matthews a couple of steps before he realized how wrong it was for a Captain to chase a Lieutenant like this. Grif snorted at the sight at he slowly made his way towards the maroon soldier. His leg was still sore, mainly stiff from the lack of use, but the wheelchair was no longer of use. Mainly because it was no longer usable. Hopefully, Grey had other chairs.
Matthews failed at sounding complexly apologetic since the news of Grif keeping his title made him too happy. "I'm really sorry, sir, but Captain Grif ordered me to practice my sneaking skills. I have to go now before the kitchen serves all the tacos!" And so he ran off to steal Grif's extra lunch.
"But we could sort the bullets after size!" Simmons called out. "Or, or alphabetically!"
"Stop being pathetic, Simmons," Grif told him and grinned. "Oh, wait, isn't that a paradox?"
Simmons turned his head to stare daggers through his visor. "You're sucking the joy out of my life."
Grif sighed happily. "And everything is as it should be."
"I can help you organize, sir!" Jensen told him as she walked past him, a happy bounce in her steps. Why she was so happy, Simmons could not understand, but he gave her a sad nod which she accepted with a smile and continued her way down the hall.
Sighing, Simmons noticed a couple of gold-striped soldiers that were chatting happily as they strode down the hallway.
"Gold Team seems pretty be in high spirits."
"Orange," Grif corrected him automatically. "And yeah – they're still running high after Kimball agreed to give us points for successfully apprehending everyone's flag."
"Point. She gave you one point. And dish duty service."
"Meh," Grif said and shrugged. "We'll take it."
"Your men were cheering. It was almost sad."
"I actually think it was beautiful, Simmons. And delicious." He rubbed his hands together at the thought of all the food they were going to secure (as a part of their training, of course – it was a valid excuse). "We are going to feast with tacos tonight."
Bitters left the soldiers he was walking with to place himself next to the Captains. "Jewett and Parr have already secured the first five trays."
"Good work, Bitters."
"How is the needle project going?" Simmons asked him dryly. At least Kimball's order for him to help the Lieutenant had been an empty threat, since the leader was quite pleased with how things worked out for the Gold Team.
"Great." Bitters sounded a bit too sure of himself, so Simmons turned towards Grif.
"Kimball didn't mention how we should put them back in one piece," the orange Captain told him smugly.
"Grif."
Grif waved the hiss away and continued, "So Donut is making a new quilt. By tomorrow I'll have my own special nap blanket. Bitters, find out Donut's status on the Giant Flag of Maverickness."
"Now?"
"No, fucking yesterday. Yes, I mean now, Bitters. And remember to bring extra ammunition tonight."
Bitters tilted his head. "Are we talking about tennis balls again? 'cause some of the others already stole the whole box in order to train their throwing arm." That would explain why Simmons had seen numerous golden-striped soldiers walking around carrying balls.
"Then delegate shit and tell Matthews to bring extra."
"Is this before or after I search for Donut? Because two orders qualify for in-between break. Your words. Sir."
Grif used a second to take in Bitters' attitude (he had used the s-word), but then decided to let it go. It was not like Bitters was actually mad or something. Grif knew what his anger felt like – pretty much like a bullet to the thigh. "Fine. Whatever. Just get it done before Donut expresses his creative skills and make a dress or something."
Without saluting, Bitters turned around to shuffle away. Simmons watched him and his Captain in astonishment. "I don't understand how you get anything done."
"I don't expect you to understand you to understand, Simmons. This is a thing between mavericks. And you're a kissass – our natural enemy." That earned him a snort. Grif hesitated slightly before raising his head, "Which reminds me – just why did you suggest to Bitters that we should raid the mess hall? What – did you need some private time in our bedroom? 'cause that sounds pretty dirty."
"Shut up," Simmons snapped and they both knew that he was blushing behind the visor. "Somebody needed to make sure you didn't spend the rest of your life pouting. Besides, if you kept comfort eating, we'd all be starving soon."
"Huh." Grif hesitated slightly, before deciding to end the mystery once and for all. "So you didn't put him up for this in order to send me to Grey?"
Simmons tried to scratch the back of his neck. "Could have been nice side effect, but… Well, going to therapy is something normal people would do. I don't think you would qualify."
"That is the smartest thing you've said all week," Grif declared. "Hey, how about I go see Grey when you've begun your therapy."
"Wha – I don't need therapy."
Grif rolled his eyes and wished that Simmons could see it. "Sure thing, Simmons. I am sure your head is completely fine. No issues at all."
"What do you mean by that?" Simmons stuttered, arms crossed, and Grif was just about to say something that began with 'father' and ended with 'issues' when a loud crash sounded somewhere close to them.
Freezing on the spot, they both turned their head and waited in anticipation.
When the door finally opened, a fuming Agent Washington limped towards them.
And he was holding something yellow in his hand.
"Why are there tennis balls on every hallway from here to the mess hall?!"
Simmons tilted his head to whisper into Grif's ear. "Remember when you said you were never going to run again? Because I have a feeling –"
"Fuck you, Simmons!" Grif called out, already a few meters away, yelling over his shoulder as he tried his best to outrun the limping Washington. "Fuck you!"
A/N: In my original plan, Bitters and Grif was going to invade an enemy base. Then I realized there was no fucking way they could do that on their own, so I made them do something just as dramatic but less dangerous. Well, they risked Carolina's anger and that's pretty dangerous if you ask me. Also, in one version, they actually managed to burn the flag. And the entire equipment closet. It was glorious. But then I realized Kimball probably wouldn't promote Grif after wasting their few supplies, so the closet lived.
Also, the chapter became so long. But I never felt like I could end it somewhere, since this is the last chapter, so I hope you enjoyed all of it.
Special thanks to TyranotthesaurusRex who has been such an awesome friend! She supported this story from the moment I showed her the first sentence, and she is probably the reason I actually ended up writing RvB fics to begin with! So super giant shout-out to her! Tak, min ven – your support means everything!
So sorry for the wait! I've been busy with other unpublished stories – new Grimmons fic is coming up, along with several one-shots – and school has been a killer. Also, someone tell my computer to stop being a bitch and deleting my shit again and again! *stares angrily at computer* Yes, I'm talking about you. Please explain to my readers why you decided to delete 800 words at three different occasions?! Bitch.
And I was stupid enough to buy Skyrim Remastered and now I have to tear myself away from the game in order to write. Which reminds me that I really should update my Skyrim fic soon. Sigh. Too many stories. Expect an update for Seeing Red next!
Thank you so much for all your support! This is the fic that started it all and it feels weird to end it. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I have!
