The first time either of them end up seeing one another's face after the operation has some unexpected consequences.

Pairings Beyond Grimmons:

~N/A

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.

Scars and Metal in the Shade

"Okay. That was fucking awesome."

"Tell me about it." Simmons' voice held a note of awe in it.

The two Red Team soldiers watched the plume of smoke from the aftermath of the explosion in silence for a while after that declaration.

They'd parked the Warthog in the shade so that they could get out and survey the outcome of their epic The Dukes of Hazard reenactment in about as much cover from the excessive heat of this "futuristic" landscape as they were likely to find.

Times like this were the ones in which Dexter Grif most craved a beer, or several. Or a smoke. Or possibly some kind of non-healthy snack.

Well, he craved those things pretty much all the time anyways, but especially in moments like this one.

Unfortunately, the "future" seemed to suck even worse than the present had, and he was bereft of all of his normal vices.

Figured.

Well, there was napping still. He could always do that while dreaming about how awesome that The Dukes of Hazard reenactment had been. With that idea planted firmly in mind, the orange-armored soldier dropped to the ground in the shade, his back leaning against the rock wall of the ditch they were in.

Oh, yeah. Grif had a ton of practice with sleeping in a sitting upright position when he'd been stationed on sentry duty on top of Red Base back in the past. He smirked to himself, realizing those had probably been some of his fondest memories of Blood Gulch.

Okay, that was more than just a little sad if he dwelled on it too much.

But, hey, the Hawaiian had been drafted into some idiotic war that he failed to see any point in. He was forced to live with a homicidal sergeant who constantly kept wanting to put him in harm's way. Not to mention there was a nerdy second-in-command who was always kissing said sergeant's ass, a naïve rookie in pink armor who was way too bubbly for his own good, as well as a robot no one could understand and who seemed to switch sides a lot.

Grif sort of had to take what he could get at times. He was honestly surprised when Simmons sat down next to him without a word.

He'd had been expecting the maroon-armored soldier to immediately revert to his usual kiss-ass self and demand that Grif get off his lazy ass so that they could get the Warthog back before Sarge realized they'd taken it out for their little joyride.

It had taken a lot of coaxing on his part to get Simmons to agree to come along in the first place. Grif had needed someone to hold the dynamite, after all, though it had been pretty obvious that the other soldier had enjoyed himself too once things were underway.

In an odd way, that was something Grif rather liked about Simmons. Sure, he could be annoying as fuck when he was trying to stay on Sarge's good side and play soldier, but get Simmons by himself? The kiss-ass could be surprisingly good company, even with his nerdier pursuits.

Their conversations together, even though they often devolved into bickering matches, were probably some of the only positives Grif could equate to his experiences after the one-man draft. Save his sneaked-in naps, of course.

Still, the talks with the redhead kept him grounded even amidst all of the insanity and chaos they found themselves in. If Simmons wasn't around, he'd probably have gone crazy long ago.

Briefly, he almost wondered if his teammate felt similarly at times, if that was the reason why Simmons tagged along with him on stupid assignments and continued to engage him in conversation even though he thought Grif was a "dumbass."

But, then he figured that thinking about things like that was pretty stupid and pointless. Simmons would probably mock him relentlessly if he knew. That's what he'd do if their positions were reversed: they were just teammates and barely friends in the traditional sense given their arguing and mockery of one another.

With that in mind, the orange-armored soldier decided instead to drop all random trains of thought and get to napping instead, since this seemed to be one of the rare instances where Simmons wouldn't bitch at him for it.

"I still can't believe we did that." The Dutch Irishman said, more to himself with a tone full of wonder, after a lengthy silence.

"That's how you live." Grif removed the clasps of his helmet and slowly pulled it off with a soft hiss.

He was hardly ever able to nap while on top of the base without his helmet, so he was going to make the most of this experience, "You have to do something crazy every once in a while."

"I guess so." Simmons' voice was soft, and there was a thoughtful quality to it, "That definitely was fucking awesome."

"Didn't I tell you it would be?" Grif put the orange helmet on the ground next to him.

Simmons didn't answer him, and he figured the conversation was over with and that Red Team's second in command now had his thoughts elsewhere.

So, he was surprised when he turned his head slightly to see the maroon helmet fixed pointedly at him. Even through the opaque-orange visor, he could feel the intense scrutinizing regard that Simmons was currently giving his face.

Despite himself, his cheeks flushed slightly in a self-conscious manner, "What are you looking at?"

Crap, if there's a bat behind me I'm going to fucking scream!

Simmons shook his head slightly, thankfully tearing his gaze away at the exact same time, "It—it's nothing." He managed to stammer out, clearly embarrassed at having been caught staring, "It's just…your f—face!" He gestured helplessly, "I wasn't expecting it."

Grif frowned, confused and more than just a little annoyed now.

"It's a face, Simmons." He said flatly, "We all have one. It's not that hideous."

No, Grif would never probably describe himself as handsome or anything of the sort, but he was comfortable with his body and looks. He didn't think he looked that bad, even though the alterations Sarge had made during the surgery that had saved his life and that had made Simmons a cyborg had taken some getting used to.

Simmons shook his head enthusiastically, his body language all sorts of uncomfortable and awkward as he flailed his arms out.

"N—no, that's really not what I meant at all, Grif!" He squeaked out, "Your face is more than fine, believe me."

Grif raised an eyebrow, and even with the helmet on he imagined that Simmons' face was turning the bright shade of flustered red it usually became when the soldier thought he had revealed something particularly embarrassing.

"I—I mean…shit!" Simmons continued to stammer, "That's not what I meant!"

"O—kay." Grif let the word trail in the air as Simmons' frantic panic at this point and his odd choice of words was just making him incredibly confused.

"Your face!" The other man was continuing to dig himself in further, "Your…face. That's what I meant."

The orange-armored soldier nodded again, "Yes, Simmons, we've been over this already." His tone was patronizingly slow, as if he was talking to a child, "I have a face, and it's one that apparently you think is fine to openly gawk at."

A groan came from the other man, "Please kill me."

He grinned, "Why, Simmons, if I did that how would I be able to mock you for all of these entertaining conversations we have?"

"You're an asshole."

"You're a kiss-ass." Grif shrugged nonchalantly at the insult, "So, are we going to just state what we both already know, or are you going to explain what you think is so weird about my face?"

"It's not weird." He mumbled so lowly that Grif to lean in slightly just to hear him, which in turn caused Simmons to fidget slightly as he added weakly, "Not in a bad way or anything like that! It's just different."

"How?" Grif was past the point of teasing his teammate now given how long this whole thing had been playing out and was just genuinely curious as to what he meant.

The visor of the helmet turned to look at him point-blank for the first time since their conversation had begun, "This is the first time I've seen it since the operation."

Oh.

Grif blinked, momentarily surprised. Neither of them really spoke about the operation with each other. Not in any real serious way. It was something they'd seemed to silently agree would be better left to joking and bickering insults if it was going to be a forced constant in their lives.

Now that Grif really thought about it, he supposed they really hadn't had a chance to see one another without armor afterwards. Or, maybe they'd been purposely trying not to do so just to avoid awkward moments like this. He hadn't really thought much about it until just now.

No wonder Simmons had reacted the way he did. It must have come as a huge shock to see the parts on Grif that had once, in not too long a past, belonged to him.

Fuck.

It was still taking adjusting time for Grif, even with some of the more visible scars now starting to fade and the pale, freckled skin starting to get a slightly tanner hue to match his own darker skin. He still thought he looked like a science experiment gone horribly wrong.

It didn't help to remember that the pale patches of skin, along with quite a few of his organs and other appendages now, had until only recently belonged to the embarrassed maroon-armored soldier sitting next to him.

Grif wondered, not for the first time though he'd never admit it, about the raw deal that Simmons had gotten out of the exchange.

"Hey, Simmons?"

Simmons' shoulders slumped lower, as if he was bracing himself for even more jokes from his teammate at his expense.

"What?" He finally let out, followed with a defeated sigh.

"Let me see your face then too." Grif's request sounded oddly serious for him.

"What?!" the maroon helmet turned sharply in his direction, the disbelief in Simmons' voice practically palpable.

"This had to be some kind of prank, right? Grif was an asshole and he'd gotten a ton of amusement out of this exchange earlier, so he was probably just going for Round Two now."

Grif could practically see that train of thought making its way through Simmons' overly-sensitive, nerdy brain.

He raised both hands up in a placating gesture, "Relax, Simmons." He informed him, "For once, I'm being serious here."

The orange-armored soldier chose to ignore the snort of disbelief this comment caused ("now who's being a dick, Dick?") and continued, figuring he didn't have anything better to do anyways.

"You saw my face for the first time since the operation and had an oh-so-subtle reaction to it." He ignored the please-just-kill-me-now groan this evoked from his teammate, "But I haven't seen your face at all yet. Fair is fair, Simmons."

"But!" The redhead was trying to grasp at any idea that would keep him from having to go through with the request, "You hadn't even realized that until I told you!"

Grif raised a black eyebrow, "I know, but now I've remembered that I haven't seen your face either."

Simmons said nothing, his posture suddenly going rigid. He stared straight ahead at the bleak future wasteland around them, not giving Grif an ounce of notice.

Now, Grif was suddenly a little unsure of his footing here. What if there was more to why his friend wasn't keen on showing his face now beyond just Simmons being, well, Simmons and oddly self-conscious for no apparent reason as was his usual want?

To be honest, he hadn't really thought of that. What if Simmons looked like The Terminator or something?

Grif, arguably, thought that would be pretty fucking awesome himself. But, someone like Simmons? Even with as much love as the nerd had for sci-fi, probably not so much.

"C'mon, Simmons, it's not like it can be that bad." He goaded a little more gently this time, "You saw how I turned out and didn't think it was hideous, right?"

The visor turned slightly in his direction, and his maroon teammate let out another tired sigh. With slow, hesitant body language that clearly showcased his reluctance in the matter, he unclasped his helmet and started to pull the thing off his head.

Well, to Grif's slight disappointment, Simmons didn't really look a whole lot like The Terminator beyond the fact that his right eye seemed to glow faintly red.

The right side of Simmons' face down to the armor at his neck and some of the left portion of his forehead was tinged somewhat with a metallic sheen. Grif knew there was some sort of nearly translucent synthetic skin covering the metal plating on those portions of his face now. The scarring connecting the organic remnants and the synthetic was almost completely gone now.

It figured that Sarge would be a little more adept at repairing his second-in-command when compared to his resident space-waster. One could tell that Simmons was a cyborg now just by looking at him, but it wasn't the hideous monstrosity that Grif had braced himself to see given Simmons' earlier reluctance to show his face.

The difference between the organic and robotic in Simmons' facial features was disconcerting, yes, but far from being visually unpleasing. In a weird way, Grif found it hard to look away. He kept on staring probably way longer than he should have.

Simmons fidgeted uncomfortably under his regard, "It…it doesn't look too bad on the surface, huh?"

His orange-armored teammate blinked, getting his eyes to focus on Simmons' own as the one normal-looking green eye and the glowing red eye were fixing him with a level gaze.

"It's a different story below the surface."

Simmons' meaning was not lost on Grif.

"How much?" As he asked the question, he found his voice suddenly dry for reasons that had nothing to do with the desert they were in.

How much of Simmons had they taken out and replaced with metal parts and circuitry in order to save Grif's life? He didn't want to really know, and yet he knew he had to all at the same time.

"Over sixty percent." Simmons gave him a wry smile, "Technically speaking, I probably wouldn't even qualify as a human anymore to some."

"Fuck." He'd heard a little bit about this from Sarge and Donut, but seeing Simmons like this and hearing him say those words with that weird look on his face, that smile, made things seem real now, "Why did you even agree to it?"

They barely counted as friends in the first place. Truthfully, Grif had been surprised when he'd woken up and found that Sarge had even bothered to exert any effort to save his life. That to do so Simmons had given up parts of his body and, from the sound of it, what some would consider his humanity.

Grif would have honestly been less surprised if they'd had just left him to die, only for Red Team's resident slacker to have somehow miraculously recovered later just to spite them.

Simmons fidgeted slightly and looked down at the ground again before speaking quietly, "The operation to make me a cyborg was going to be done anyways, regardless of what happened to you."

True, Sarge had wanted a cyborg soldier to replace Lopez and Simmons, being his most competent and trustworthy kiss-ass subordinate, had been picked for the "honor."

"So, when you got run over by the tank, there was no reason to waste the parts I wouldn't be using anymore." Simmons glanced over at Grif and smiled, "That was the line of reasoning Sarge came up with, at any rate. I just volunteered to go into the operation without a fuss if he actually carried it out and saved your life."

"Yeah, but," the Hawaiian paused, having to push the words out over his sudden hesitancy, "Why even do that? I mean, it's not like I'm not grateful or anything…"

"Still, I didn't think either of you really liked me."

The words seemed too childish and too low self-esteem filled that they were probably more likely something Simmons would say instead, to which Grif would then mock him incessantly for. So, he kept his mouth shut on that line of thought.

The maroon soldier looked down at the ground. The cheek that was still very much flesh and blood on the left side of his face turned a shade of red that would have probably made their commanding officer very proud to see.

"I know we don't get along all the time, and we argue a lot."

Grif snorted slightly. That was a pretty big understatement if he ever heard one.

"But, I actually like talking to you, Grif." Simmons sighed and seemed to be rushing through the rest of his thoughts in an embarrassed frenzy, "If—if you were gone, then I'd never do stuff like this at all."

He turned to look at Grif again, his expression both embarrassed and serious all at once, "Be—because of that, I couldn't let it happen. I just didn't want you to die."

Grif couldn't find any way to retort, so the two just sat there regarding each other silently.

The orange-armored soldier could feel his own face getting hot. He wondered if the red on his face, on the right side in particular, was as prominent as it was on Simmons' left side.

This was a much, much deeper level of topic than either one of them were used to, so neither of them seemed quite sure how to approach it. The seconds seemed to drag on into minutes.

Then, just as suddenly, the air pressure around them seemed to change and everything was on its head.

Grif wasn't sure who initiated it first, or what had really caused the intense change in action, but it didn't really matter in the long run.

All he was aware of was that they'd gone from sitting next to each other staring like a couple of deer in the headlights, to him suddenly practically in Simmons' lap. Their lips were touching: cool metal and dry, chapped heat all in one sensation.

Simmons' gloved hands were knotted tightly, almost painfully, into Grif's dark hair to keep his head in place as their kissing deepened until the simple initial lip contact became more of a thorough exploration into the insides of one another's mouths. Grif had somehow managed to get his arms around the maroon soldier's waist and was pulling his body closer as well. Anything to increase the sudden frantic contact they had.

It was an uncomfortable position, given that they were both fully armored besides their helmets, but neither seemed to care or notice.

This was, after all, more of a human connection than either of them had in a long while.

Both of them seemed determined to hold onto it for as long as they could.

When they finally, finally pulled apart for air it seemed like quite a bit of time had passed given the lengthening shadows on the ground around them.

Grif reluctantly unlocked his arms from around Simmons' waist. The rough, desperate grip of Simmons' fingers digging into Grif's scalp disappeared as they disengaged from one another and moved back to their original positions with their backs against the rock wall.

The two stayed silent, a ton of thoughts racing through their heads.

Finally, Grif spoke up: "That was…um…"

"Y—yeah." Simmons' reply was just as eloquent.

With neither of them wanting to yet broach what exactly the intense encounter had truly meant, they quickly picked themselves up and went to check on the Warthog.

Which for some reason now didn't want to work.

Author's Notes: My own interpretation of what happened between Grif and Simmons during those three hours in the shade! :D Hope it was at least a bit entertaining. :)