Shake
Anelletti

[Shake: noun; a cast of the dice:]

"This is just like the civil war," Palomo whispered in excitement as they prepared their positions, leaning against the wall for cover.

"But, Charlie," Jensen whispered back, "the civil war is over! We're fighting the actual bad guys!"

"I mean the Captain America movie, duh! You know, friends taking opposite sides, fighting against friends. I'm still Iron Man and we're all following the law and rules and all that. We need to give you two new roles so it all matches up."

Smith looked around the corner for a moment, making sure they were not about to be ambushed. "Would that make Bitters Captain America?"

"Wha – No." Palomo snorted, obviously scowling behind the visor. "He isn't cool enough."

"I feel bad for Captain Simmons," Jensen said and lowered her glance to stare at the floor. "He has to fight his own husband."

"We're not married," the Captain shrieked as he rounded a corner with his rifle on his back. As he took his stance in front of them, he placed his hands on his hips. "It's… just something Tucker says. Okay, I set the trap. If they slip past us they won't be getting out again."

Palomo's helmet tilted upwards, revealing he just had a realization. "Ooh, like a mousetrap?"

Simmons gave him an approving nod. "The staff actually thought it was mice at first…" He trailed off, remembering how the rumors had spread and how Simmons connected the dots when Grif kept disappearing in the middle of the night and all the times he had seen his talking quietly with Bitters in the corner.

"We need to focus," Simmons suddenly said, both to himself and the three Lieutenants surrounding him. "The Generals are counting on us. You know your duty."

"Yes, sir," they all said, raising their hand to salute him.

Simmons began to pace back and forth, hands behind his back, using that loud and stern commander voice that would actually make the recruits straighten out their backs. It had taken some time before he had learned how to use it but he kept thinking back of the day where the hungover version of him had snapped at Bitters. And while he did not approve of shouting at the young soldiers like that, the day had taught him he was able to shout out orders and not give a shit when he actually focused on the goal.

"They must be stopped." He clenched a fist. "We must stop them."

Palomo raised a hand. "Uhm, sir, can we use actual bullets?"

"What?! No! Are you crazy?!" Simmons looked down at the Lieutenant, dumbfounded, but Bitters just shrugged. Finally the Captain let it go and he continued his orders, "The most important thing is to film them while they are red-handed. We need to bring back proof to Kimball. But even better if we capture them and drag them back to her. No better proof than that. But we need to catch them with their hand in the cookie jar."

"Question?" Palomo said, hand raised again. "Are we talking about the actual cookie jar or-"

"It's a phrase, Palomo."

"Good. Because that thing was stolen two nights ago."

Smith cleared his throat. "But we can attempt to locate it if necessary."

"No thanks." Simmons looked around the corner again. The mess hall was quiet. Too quiet. It would happen soon. And they had to be ready for it. "Alright, everyone on their post. We can't let them get away with this."

"We won't let you down, sir," Jensen promised with a sniffle.

As the group began to split up, the Lieutenants heading in different directions so they could cover all areas, Simmons made sure to remind them: "Remember, I want them alive."

Simmons set his jaw before he slipped into the darkened corners of the closed mess hall.

"We're so fucked."

"Shut it, Bitters."

They were both hiding behind the counter that separated the dining tables from the actual kitchen. When they peeked over it they could see the lights of the flashlights that belonged to the soldiers guarding the exit.

Grif was getting serious Jurassic Park vibes at this point, and he remained crouched behind cover. Question was whether the other Lieutenants would be stupid enough to attack a reflection. Palomo might. Perhaps it was worth a try.

They had not even managed to get their hands on the prize before they realized something was wrong. Jumping behind a table they had seen Simmons march towards the storage room and then walk out of the hall soon after. Patrolling, huh.

Simmons was not that big of a deal. They could get out of this situation easily. Bitters was quick on his feet, and all their raids had gone flawlessly the last week. Simmons, of all people, was not going to put an end to that.

Had it been Wash, or freaking Carolina, Grif would probably be hiding inside a cupboard while screaming his lungs out.

The problem right now was the fact that Simmons had brought backup. Three flashlights could be seen moving around the hall, slowly coming closer.

Bitters slammed the back of his head against the counter, keeping it gentle enough not to make a sound that could give them away. "So what do we do now?"

"Hey, do you remember the time you swore loyalty to me?"

"I never did that."

Grif turned his head to stare at him, keeping his voice lowered, "Look, only one of us can make it out of here. I'm the superior which means I get to live."

"You're not my superior. You're not even a Captain."

"You sure as hell did not mind following my orders when it could give you extra pudding," Grif hissed. Bitters flipped him the finger. They were still stuck behind the counter and the lights were coming closer.

So this was how he died.

He should at least have made it to the storage locker.

But there was a certain familiarity to this situation. Thinking back caused a faint memory of pain and oh fucking Christ had that hurt but at least it was not a tank this time. And maybe his strategy could work this time.

"Bitters, I have a plan."

"Why am I not convinced?" the Lieutenant asked but then fell quiet to listen.

"We're gonna make a run for it." When Bitters snorted, Grif had to continue, "Look, I've tried it before and it worked. We're gonna go on three. One." He turned his back to Bitters, remaining crouched. "Two-"

As if he did not see Bitters jump over the counter from the corner of his eye. Stupid teen thought he could escape while Grif was still counting.

What a maverick.

Too bad Grif was smarter. Having picked up a spoon from inside the counter, he now slammed it as hard as he could against the metal, and immediately all flashlights were turned towards the sound coming from the kitchen where Bitters had just landed on the other side of the counter, having left his cover.

For a second Bitters froze like a deer in a headlight. Then:

"You fuck."

As the other Lieutenants started to chase him, Bitters had no choice but to leap over the nearby table and run as fast as he could towards the exit.

"Get him!" Palomo's voice yelled in the darkness, and all the flashlights began to chase the poor soldier out of the hall.

Grif stayed low as he heard the sound of fast footsteps fading away, but then he stood up with a grin. He was the freaking ruler of the mess hall. And now he had the entire place for himself.

After all this work he could just as well get his prize.

Grif slipped into the storage locker quietly, knowing Bitters would be enough of a distraction to give him some minutes to find the good stuff. Too bad the biscuits with the chocolate layer were stowed away on the tallest shelf and Grif's height was definitely not an advantage.

He was standing on his toes, trying to reach the package, when the door to the locker suddenly slammed closed.

"Hello, Grif."

Grif did most certainly not let out an eep of surprise. But Simmons did look rather menacing in the darkness with his cyborg eye casting a red light. The nerd was not wearing his helmet… Things were about to get serious then.

"Hi, Simmons," he replied, crossing his arms. "What brings you here?"

"Oh, I just love this place. It's so… comfy. The perfect place to visit every night this week at 01.20am, don't you think so, Grif?"

Well. Nerd had done his homework. Of course.

"Wow, did you just admit to being the midnight thief?" Grif faked a gasp of surprise. "I never thought you'd have the guts! You could have asked me to join, I would have taught you some tricks!"

"I know it's you, Grif." In the faint light he could see how he folded his hands. "And now everyone will know."

"How? You forgot your helmet-cam, dipshit."

Simmons froze before slamming his hands against his face. Grif crossed his arm in amusement while the other man finally came to the realization that he was in fact not wearing a helmet. When he finally recovered from the horror, Simmons let his arms drop. "Well, I may have forgotten that detail but it does not matter. All I need is to take you to Kimball."

"Yeah? Then what if I tell her I was the one who caught you in the storage room." Grif was not wearing armor either but only because of the simple fact that it was comfier and made it easier to sneak around quietly.

"No one is that stupid," Simmons said and took one step closer. "We already know you have been the mastermind of these raids."

"Then what if I tell you this was all Bitters' idea?"

"That… actually would not surprise me."

"Nah, kid had ideas but did not have the mind to put it all together. I am the one you are after, Simmons."

Simmons had turned on his flashlight, bringing a true source of light into the small room. "You've gone too far, Grif."

He set his jaw. "I'd like to see you try to stop me."

"Be careful with what you wish for."

And then Grif lunged. Simmons tried to block his way, but he faked a jump to the left, then proceeded to kick Simmons' shin so he stumbled and two seconds later Grif was at the door. He was about to tear it open – when he realized that he could not.

"It's too late, Grif," Simmons informed him as he slowly got up from the floor. He brushed some dust off his knees and picked up his flashlight. "I sabotaged the door, knowing once you stepped inside, you would not get out before you were let out. Kinda like a mouse trap."

"…So what happened to you being on the other side of the door to gloat?"

Once again Simmons froze. "Fuck."

While the fake tension slowly seeped out of the small room, they both started to rub their neck awkwardly. "Well," Grif finally said, looking up, "that was fun. Are we going to die from lack of air now?"

"No, this place has vents. Too small for us to crawl through – definitely too small for you to crawl through – but as soon as the others catch Bitters they will notice I am missing."

"Too bad Bitters will outrun them." With nothing else to do Grif let himself slowly slid down to sit on the floor. No reason to waste energy standing up. Maybe he could even get Simmons to fetch the biscuits in the corner; the nerd had the height and everything.

"Please. I've seen Bitters running in the training drills. Smith has already caught him."

After a moment of hesitation Simmons sat down next to him. Grif shoved his shoulder. "Bitters is quick on his feet. That's something else."

"Just how did you convince him to get into this mess?" Simmons asked and placed his flashlight in the middle like some sort of campfire. It did make him look like he was about to tell a ghost story.

"The dude is stuck in pink armor. Being the midnight thief would only help on his reputation." He reached out for the nearest shelf, hoping to grab some sort of snack, and he let out a sigh of disappointment when he ended up holding a package of some sort of pasta with weird name. Well, at least it was crunchy. "So is Kimball going to skin us alive?"

"You know our resources are limited, Grif."

"Dude, this people have dragged us into an actual war. They could at least compensate by giving me snacks."

Simmons let out a quiet snort, fidgeting with the flashlight. "So did the Feds satisfy your hunger?"

"The assholes shot me, Simmons," Grif reminded him gravely. "I ate everything I could find."

"But… Grey fixed you up, right? It's not… It's healed, right?"

There was something about Simmons' voice, a bit too quiet and a bit too careful, and Grif tilted his head. "It's fine. One more scar to the collection. Let's wait with the counting until the war is over."

Simmons suddenly looked up at him sharply. "You better not get shot again."

"Fuck, I'm not planning to. If we kick Felix and Locus' asses, do you think these people will just give me their snacks?"

"If you make it through the war; yes, probably."

Grif sent him a smile. "I'll make it through the war then." His fingers had begun to open the package of pasta, something to keep himself busy with. "What about you, nerd?"

"Well, I'm a Captain now. I can't die, I need to lead my team." Honestly there were a lot of other good reasons to stay alive but perhaps the locker was just too small, too hot to say them all out loud. The air felt stuffed but not in a way that annoyed him.

Burrowing his hand in the package to play with the pasta, Grif kept his fingers busy. They were shaped like hoops, he realized, as he held one between two fingers, pressing the skin against it. "We can have the wedding after the war then."

Even with the limited light it was easy to see how red Simmons' face became. "But we aren't… You know…"

Reaching out with his left hand, the one that had once been Simmons', Grif grabbed the cybernetic hand in front of him, and pushed one of the pasta hoops down a slender, metal finger. "Here," he told him. "As much romance as we need."

Simmons pulled the hand back, not in rejection but to use his other hand to feel the gift. He had turned his head to stare at the wall. "You- I- We- …Grif."

He nodded. "Simmons."

They sat in silence for a while, Simmons fidgeting with his new gift while Grif watched him carefully. Screw the biscuits on the top shelf; they were not worth leaving the floor now. "So," he said after some moments where Simmons had just been staring at his finger, "you said the others were going to find us?"

"They'll notice I am missing," Simmons told him sternly. "They'll be here soon."

"How soon?" Grif continued to press him.

"How should I know?"

"If you came here to capture me, Simmons, did you bring any handcuffs?"

"Grif!"

He let out a short laughter, the kind that seemed to warm his chest for just a little while. The kind he had missed while being trapped in the Feds' cold bases.

When he looked up from the package, Simmons was staring at him, cyborg eye glowing dimly. Grif met his stare without blinking.

So they were still stuck on Chorus. And a war was still happening. A different kind of war, but still.

Shit was still going on. A couple of weeks ago Grif had been sharing room with Wash and it had been cold and the Freelancer had woken up trashing from nightmares and the nights had been so long. It was warmer here in Armonia, but the nightmares were still there. When Simmons woke up with that choked scream Grif would pull him closer, and when Grif was kicking in his sleep Simmons would run a hand through his hair.

The nights were still long but they were getting through it, and Grif would enjoy every piece of it that he could. If Chorus had taught them one thing it was that you could never count on how long things would last.

So Grif would gladly flip of Tucker when the unavoidable teasing would begin.

"Hey, Simmons?" he said and shoved the package of pasta into the corner of the small room. It disappeared in the darkness. "You did not bring your helmet." He pushed himself a bit forward with his palm.

Simmons rolled his eyes. "Just rub it in."

Grif waited for a moment, sending Simmons an amused smile, and with a smug voice he let him know; "I'm not wearing a helmet either."

He then leaned forward to let their foreheads rest against each other, proving that he was speaking the truth. Simmons did not pull back.

"Seriously, Grif?"

"Take a hint, nerd."

A/N: I made Simmons propose through a shared gravestone. You better believe I made Grif propose with pasta.

IMPORTANT!
This is the end of this story and I won't be active on this site any longer(only to finish "Offer Me Your Hand"). However I have a user called RiaTheDreamer on Archive of Our Own where I have so many more RvB stories, and I keep making new ones, so if you want to read more from me, go find me there.

Thank you for this journey.