Grif contemplates how his life could have been different if he hadn't been dragged into a pointless war.


Pairings Beyond Grimmons:

~Bitthews

~Tuckington

~Docnut

~Kimbalina

~Sarge x Grey

Other Notes for This Story:

~N/A


Legal Disclaimer: I do not own Red vs. Blue or any of the show's characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

If

If Dexter Grif hadn't been drafted into a pointless war in the middle of nowhere, he would be at home in Hawaii. Maybe at some point even attending college, and somehow earning a steady income away from color-coded soldiers, crazy-ass sergeants, homicidal Freelancers, and war on a genocidal scale.

He could be eating all the fucking Oreos he ever wanted to eat right about now or napping wherever the fuck he wanted. Not that he didn't try to at least do that whenever he could anyways. Damn it, even in a dumb-ass war, a man's got to live! There are some principles you just can't break, no matter the situation. Obviously.

…Still, if Dexter Grif's role in the war hadn't been the unlucky result of a stupid fucking one man draft, he wouldn't have become the sole survivor of an attack that had scarred him more than he let on.

Some nights were worse than others, and he would wake up screaming in a cold sweat. Simmons never reprimanded him then. The redhead never looked at him in disgust during those moments at least. Not that the kiss-ass would ever say anything about it out loud.

Instead, the nerd would sit next to him on the thin mattress—almost touching. Simmons provided a supportive warmth until the shaking stopped. Afterwards, Grif would find that he was able to fall into blissful sleep yet again.

The dark-haired man would do the same when the favor needed to be returned. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud either.

However, whenever he found a quivering and sobbing Simmons with bloody knuckles standing over a shattered mirror, Grif would silently help him clean up and sit with him until the maroon-wearing soldier was calm again.

If Dexter Grif hadn't been pulled into this pointless, crappy-ass conflict, he would still be very much whole and happy. His body would not be a patchwork of tan and pale and freckled skin, with one eye brown and the other green, with organs he was constantly being told were only "on loan" to him.

…It wouldn't take him months of staring into a mirror before he once again could recognize that it was in fact Dexter Grif who he saw reflected back.

Simmons was out jogging again. It was one of the rare instances in the weeks following the surgery when the redhead would be out of armor. The sight was both entrancing and upsetting all at once: Simmons was practically glistening in the sunlight while Grif stood watching him with stolen parts.

"Fat-ass! You're up early." Simmons stated, surprise lighting up his features as though the sight of his lazy teammate standing there in the morning meant the universe was somehow ending that very moment.

Grif thought about telling him the truth, about saying how he sometimes got up early to enjoy the view of his lankier teammate running. But, wisely, the orange-wearing soldier decided to give Simmons the finger instead, "What are you doing up, kiss-ass?"

"When the cybernetics hurt, sometimes a run is the only thing that loosens them up." The other man explained quietly in reply as a frown graced his features.

Right. Because lazy-ass Grif wasn't the only one affected by what had happened. He could feel the Irish coffee in the mug he was holding going lukewarm. Great. Now he needed to squish down that little pang of guilt before it started to put a serious dent in his breakfast appetite.

"Why'd you do it, anyway?" Grif asked in a low voice, not really expecting much of an answer to the inquiry he'd been wondering about ever since waking up from the surgery. He just figured half-assed curiosity was better than guilt over shit he couldn't control.

Simmons' still flesh and blood facial features turned red all the way to his metallic face plating, "Be—because Sarge was going to do it anyways and I…" he rambled in an equally quiet voice, "I didn't want you to die."

There was an awkward silence following with Grif offering the cyborg a sip of his coffee in the midst of it. The lecture he got when Simmons realized it contained alcohol filled the entire canyon for a good twenty minutes.

If Dexter Grif hadn't been involved in the war, his little sister wouldn't have followed him right into it.

…Bright-eyed Kaikaina could have had a great life of her own instead of being dragged down into this mess with the rest of them.

"She's not dead." Grif repeated emphatically when the door to their shared room in Valhalla closed.

He was finally alone with Simmons. Away from the sympathetic glances of Donut, the commentary from Sarge, and the mechanical fucking Spanish words from Lopez that the chubby man had wished he could just tune out despite how they seemed to follow them into the quiet room.

The kiss-ass looked completely torn on what to say or do in this situation, "Grif, I know but…"

"There's no but, Simmons." He sat down on his bed, staring into emptiness, "There's no way that's true. She's dumb as fuck, but she's strong."

Lopez had gotten it wrong. Grif knew that. So, why the fuck was he still crying?

"I know." Simmons said gently, standing right in front of him, "Y—you're right, Grif. Of course you are."

"D—damn straight."

When he reached up and pulled Simmons down to sit beside him, the cyborg didn't protest. When Grif happened to also wipe the tears that his body betrayed him with on the redhead's shoulder, Simmons didn't say anything about it either.

If Dexter Grif hadn't been dragged into this stupid-as-fuck war comprised pretty much entirely of Blue Team problems, he wouldn't have been nearly killed quite so often.

…Both he and Kaikaina would be home safe and sound while he watched the waves at night. Life would be peaceful. Relaxing. The boring kind of shit he craved.

Simmons glanced at the beer in his hands with obvious trepidation.

"Come on, Simmons, what do you say?" Grif asked him, "It's not every day you survive getting thrown off a cliff."

That seemed to be enough of an excuse to celebrate as any. Eventually Simmons agreed to share a few drinks with Grif in light of what they'd all been through recently.

As the night wore on, Simmons' screaming his name and the feel of his hand desperately trying to keep a grip on his kept on bouncing back into Grif's mind. It lingered like an alcoholic buzz, or the hangover they were both definitely going to have tomorrow.

"Hey, Simmons?" Grif finally got up the nerve to ask.

There was a hiccupped "Hmm?" from a beyond buzzed Simmons leaning heavily against his shoulder. The nerd was a total fucking lightweight.

"Why'd you…?" Grif began, though the chubbier man stopped himself from finishing the question and simply let it hang in the air between them as he took another swig of beer.

Instead, he stared down at their hands sitting so perfectly close together, barely resisting the drunken urge he had to suddenly interlace their fingers.

"I don't want you to die, Grif."

The orange-wearing soldier hadn't expected an answer, so his voice caught in his throat at the one he got.

If the Red and Blue Teams hadn't been caught up in all of this stupidly pointless fighting, then perhaps they wouldn't have ended up stranded on Chorus. Maybe Epsilon wouldn't have sacrificed himself for his asshole friends either. Perhaps Donut, Tucker, and Sarge could have even avoided their extended hospital stays too.

Then Grif could have also avoided awkward hospital visitation moments. Such as walking in on some of the more personal moments between Donut and Doc on more than one occasion, as well as some of those same kind of particular moments between Tucker and Washington. From what he was unlucky enough to witness, he was also pretty sure Doctor Grey's visits with Sarge often stretched the boundaries of patient and doctor quite a bit.

If they hadn't fought Hargrove's forces, then perhaps so many of them wouldn't be recovering from potentially serious injuries now. They wouldn't have wounds and scars from a war they'd been tossed into yet again with no warning.

Even Lopez was still locked in heavy repairs, though the robot always seemed like he was getting more and more energetically exasperated every time Grif saw him. Not that Grif could really tell since the guy only spoke Spanish, for fuck's sake!

If they weren't on Chorus, maybe they wouldn't be so fucking sad and depressed over the fact that there were fights most likely waiting for them on the horizon still.

…Dexter Grif would be smiling happily in the sunlight, a bright future waiting for him instead.

Following his hospital visits for the day, Grif found Simmons standing beside the hospital room where Bitters was watching over a recuperating Matthews. Miraculously, he, Simmons, Doc, and Caboose had somehow only gotten through the fight with minor scrapes. The chubby man just equated it to one of life's great mysteries.

As he approached Simmons watching the two lieutenants holding hands, Grif heard a sniffle. Sure enough, when he turned around to look at the cyborg, Simmons was hastily wiping at his eyes to cover up the fact that he had been moved to tears yet again.

"Hey," Grif greeted, holding up the two beer cans he had managed to procure from Kimball and Carolina's not-so-secret stash, "Figured we could use the booze."

For once, Simmons merely nodded his head instead of protesting and reprimanding like a little bitch.

It was true. A lot of things would be different if Dexter Grif hadn't been placed on Red Team. A lot of them, he knew, would probably have been for the better. But, if he hadn't been placed in such a shitastic fight? Well, if he hadn't been, then he wouldn't have met Richard "Dick" Simmons.

He guided them gently back to their makeshift room in Chorus to sit on his bed. Simmons' head rested on his shoulder as Grif's arm wrapped tightly, reassuringly, around the redhead's waist and the beer forgotten.

…In this moment, he wasn't sure any of those "what if" possibilities would be worth missing this over.

Grif kissed Simmons' forehead where flesh met metal as he pulled both of them backwards to lie down for a long overdue nap.

…Actually, he was pretty fucking positive about that fact. After all these years spent in a horrible-as-all-fuck war, he found that life was too freaking short to be filled with angst all the time.

He was Dexter Grif, an apathetic soldier in orange armor with an annoying kiss-ass always by his side. Not to mention, as Simmons pressed closer to his body, he was just too fucking lazy to spend time on regrets.


Author's Notes: Since I don't have a Tumblr, I technically can't actively participate in the ongoing Angst War. However, my sister, who is not feeling well and is also my awesome beta, requested a Grimmons story from me but "in my own personal angst style." Naturally, I could not refuse her request. :D Thus, this little plot idea got stuck in my head and demanded to be written down. Honestly, I think my sister said what she did because she knows that I don't write angst all that often. So, this is more my own take on writing an angsty story: Angst with a Comfort/Healing angle to it. XD

At any rate, I hope it wasn't too terrible or confusing of a read and that you enjoyed it! :D