Sometimes actions speak louder than words.
Pairings Beyond Grimmons:
~N/A
Other Notes for This Story:
~Fighter AU
Legal Disclaimer: I do not own Red vs. Blue or any of the show's characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.
Fighting
Dexter Grif winced as Doctor Emily Grey finished bandaging up the last of the lacerations on his face.
"Finished!" She exclaimed happily, snapping her medical tools back into her kit, "Though that could have gone better."
"You mean if he'd actually applied himself?" The scathing tone in Richard "Dick" Simmons' voice was hard not to overlook.
Great. The nerd was fucking pissed at him now.
"No, if he hadn't even done his usual half-hearted blocking attempts I would have had even more exciting work to do patching him up!" The dark-skinned woman smiled brightly before sighing and shaking her head slightly, "It's always the same scrapes and bruises whenever Grif comes here after fights."
"I've noticed." There was a flash in Simmons' eyes that promised Grif they would be having their usual shouting match later.
However, he'd worry about what was to come later when it happened. Right now in this particular moment, Grif was busy pondering whether or not he should be relieved that Doc hadn't been the one in the medical clinic today, or scared that it was the eccentric Doctor Grey instead.
Of course, then Grif remembered that last time when he'd had cuts on the inside of his mouth thanks to a well-placed punch from his friend Lavernius Tucker. Back then, Doc had still insisted that drinking orange juice would be a good treatment option for him. It had hurt like a bitch.
So, it was probably for the best that it was Doctor Grey all the same this time around. No matter how bored she got with her usual patchwork.
"You're not even trying."
Simmons didn't even wait until they were more than two steps out of the clinic before he started in again. They were heading back towards the Fighting Quarters, the place where both Red Team and Blue Team, two middle-ranked teams on the fighting circuit, were housed and trained.
Fortunately, his last bout had been within walking distance of the clinic and the quarters so they didn't have to pay to get back using public transportation with their hard-won cash.
Grif sighed in response to what was obviously the beginning of an argument, "No, Simmons, I'm not."
His training partner was frowning: "Why? I've seen the specs on your opponents. I know your strengths. You could be easily dominating these brackets if you applied yourself!"
The tan-skinned man rolled his eyes, "Not everyone wants to be a kiss-ass to Sarge and win his adoration like you."
No, for some of them fighting was just a means to have a safe roof over their sister's head and enough money for food. It was stability and security that he'd be hard-pressed to find elsewhere.
Grif glanced over at the frowning, lankier man standing next to him and his eyes caught the metal arm that never quite moved right. He looked away.
What he said was true. Dexter Grif wasn't like Simmons, who had come to train with Sarge in order to escape a way too demanding family and find himself, only to then get injured and nearly thrown away again if he hadn't had a mind for training and data-collecting.
Or if he didn't help to motivate one lazy asshole. Just a little bit. …Not that Grif would ever admit it to the redhead currently sulking next to him.
No, life was too comfortable and too stable right now for Grif to ever risk it by applying effort. But, he wasn't about to explain all of that to his fuming friend.
"Let's just get home, Simmons," he said instead, "The couch is calling me."
The first time they had met was when Simmons joined their mismatched group when Grif had been twenty-two.
They didn't care much for each other at first, so naturally to Sarge that meant they would make the best sparring partners. Oddly enough, the crazy old fighter was right at the time.
Their daily attempts to beat the living shit out of one another, their constant bickering and name-calling? Against all odds, it had somehow developed into a strong rapport as time went on.
There was a fondness to their insults, a lingering eye contact between blows.
They had even stayed well into the night after everyone else had left the training room. When they were alone together, they would talk about nothing and everything. Grif had never been happier.
Simmons wanted to get to the top, and he was oddly inspiring even to an apathetic person like Grif.
Then the accident had happened. Prosthetic limbs and crippled arms were against fighting rules, and as a result Simmons' main job became just as an assistant to the rest of Red Team.
Suddenly getting to the top didn't seem so important, especially since Simmons couldn't advance with him.
So, Grif stopped trying in general.
After dinner, Grif stopped by the training hall on a whim. He supposed he was feeling oddly nostalgic, especially since Simmons had still refused to talk to him following their walk home.
As was expected, the place was empty at this time of night. Or it would have been save for a gleam of something metallic in the far back corner of the space, followed by the sound of a punching bag being smacked and a sharp intake of pained breath.
"Simmons?"
Grif flicked the lights on, surprised to see the redhead hunched over in the corner of the hall, sweat covering his body.
From his hunched over position and wince, it looked as if he was in pain. Grif raced over when he saw his flesh hand gripping the shoulder where metal fused with organic material.
"What the fuck are you doing?" He felt an angry, almost protective feeling wash over him.
"What does it look like, fat-ass?" Simmons seethed through gritted teeth, "I'm training because someone fucking pissed me off!"
"With the arm that can't stand too much stress?" Grif gripped his other shoulder and helped pull him up, "I thought you were supposed to be the smart one!"
Simmons shoved him off with a thrust of his metal arm, choosing to ignore that the motion made him wince even more, "Well, I thought you had the ability!"
The punch he threw next was with his flesh hand, and Grif barely dodged it as he was sent stumbling backwards. It was true that he had more power due to his size, but Simmons had the advantage in speed. Grif barely had time to move under the next assault, using his momentum to grapple Simmons around the torso and pin him to the ground.
"Simmons, calm the fuck down!" He told his friend, both angry at the sudden attack but also worried at the pain he saw flashing in Simmons' eyes.
"I—I can't fight anymore, Grif, but you can!" Simmons was practically sobbing now, though he'd totally deny it if he was called out on it, "You keep fucking wasting that and—!"
The redhead was surprised and caught off-guard when Grif's lips crashed onto his. In another second, he was returning the gesture just as needy and desperate as Grif was.
By the time they pulled apart and were lying side-by-side on the mats, panting, Grif had already interlaced their fingers together and met Simmons' questioning gaze head-on.
"There's no point in trying to advance if you're not there with me, Simmons."
Simmons looked at him incredulously, "That's it?"
"Well, I am lazy too, and if I got injured—"
"Sarge would still let you work here no problem, especially with the new Chorus team needing training," Simmons reasoned while cutting the tan-skinned man off, "And we all know you're lazy as fuck."
He frowned, "Yeah, but—"
"You do know I'd be making sure you were training every step of the way, right? That's my job, fat-ass." Simmons continued as if he hadn't heard the other man's attempt at excuse-making, "You couldn't fucking get rid of me even if you tried."
"Wouldn't want to." Grif admitted, shrugging, "Not anymore."
"Besides, I wouldn't let you." Simmons grinned.
Grif raised an eyebrow at that, "So I actually put effort into being angst-ridden for nothing then?"
Simmons nodded, smirking, "Yes, because you never pay attention worth shit!"
Grif grinned when, despite his annoyance, Simmons actually snuggled closer to him. He squeezed his fingers gently in a reassuring gesture.
"Listening's for chumps and kiss-asses like you, Simmons." He joked, "But, I'm sorry I got you upset for nothing."
"You need to apologize for a lot of shit then," the redhead smiled, "Which you probably won't since it means you'd have to actually do something."
"But we're in this together?" Grif asked.
Simmons nodded, "Would have totally kicked your ass if it weren't for that last surprise attack."
From his face reddening just then, Grif knew he was referring to the kiss.
He smirked, "I dunno. To me, that counts more as motivation." Grif informed Simmons, "You should totally put that into your usual training routine."
The dark-haired man laughed at the way Simmons' spluttered at the suggestion before leaning forward and closing the distance between them once more, hands still entwined the whole time.
Yeah, Dexter Grif was totally fine with this kind of training, and he was especially glad to know Simmons was too.
They could get anywhere they needed to go together. No matter what.
Author's Notes: This was an older story of mine and I was never quite sure what I wanted to do with it. I finally decided to post it here since it was just sitting in my notebook! It was originally meant to be the start of a longer story. That sort of fizzled out as I wrote it up, but I still think this stands on its own as a short story. Hopefully it was at least somewhat enjoyable to read. Thank you for taking the time to read it!
