Grif gets more than he bargained for when he agrees to help give Jensen driving lessons.

Pairings Beyond Grimmons:

~Palomo x Jensen

~Docnut

Other Notes for This Story:

~Set on Chorus either during Seasons 12 and 13 or directly after.

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

Hindsight

…In hindsight, Dexter Grif probably should have figured things would turn out this way right from the start.

After all, there was a reason that the Reds and Blues, not to mention practically the entirety of Chorus, had all agreed on a united front that there was no way in hell any of them would ever allow Lieutenant Katie Jensen behind the wheel of a vehicle. Solidarity and all that bullshit.

Chorus might be a war zone, but they would probably eventually recover from that. Jensen's driving? Not so much. There were just too many things that could go wrong, too many fires that would need to be put out. Besides, the subsequent paperwork that Vanessa Kimball insisted they do after an inevitable Jensen crash was always a fucking drag.

Which stands to question why the fuck Dexter Grif was currently in this predicament when all of Chorus was practically screaming "We told you so, asshole!" and laughing mockingly.

"I…I'm really sorry, sir!" Jensen's apologetic tone matched the tanned, freckled girl's nervously wringing hands perfectly.

The two soldiers were standing in front of the smoking wreckage of a Warthog that had somehow, on what was supposed to be a routine practice drive, found itself folded into a wall.

Grif let out a customary apathetic sigh at the rookie's apology, "Not your fault, really."

…No, it was definitely more his for agreeing to these lessons in the first place.

Jensen frowned, glancing over at the smoking debris, "B—but…!"

Man, what a fucking pain.

"Let's just see what we can salvage, all right?" Grif said, not in the mood for blame placing or confidence issues.

He put up enough with that bullshit at home, he didn't need to deal with it here. Besides, he guessed it was technically his fault as acting captain or whatever. Washington and Simmons would certainly say so, if nothing else. Neurotic workaholics often thought along the same lines.

What should he have done though? Well, for starters, when Jensen had first approached Grif tentatively on the subject of driving lessons, he should have said no. After all, all of the captains and Washington had collectively agreed that it was just too dangerous to let the maroon-trimmed lieutenant anywhere near vehicles after that last pile-up.

But, when Jensen had asked, he couldn't help but remember life before the draft when he had taught Kai how to drive. Something inside him had decided that the Don't-Let-Jensen-Near-a-Vehicle Rule was something he needed to be a maverick on. If he could fucking teach Kai how to drive in the past, he sure as hell could teach Jensen, right?

Evidently, that wasn't the case.

The orange-armored soldier watched as Jensen pulled apart gears and equipment from the wreckage with an efficient speed that would make her nerdy-as-fuck captain proud.

For a moment, Grif wondered if he couldn't just stand back and dictate what needed to be done. Or not, because he could just go and take a nap instead. Right before he was about to sit down, the chubby soldier saw Jensen's hands shaking. Moments later, he heard the sniffling of barely held back tears.

Damn it. There went his napping plans.

"I…I just don't understand it…" Jensen mumbled under her breath, probably not for him to hear.

Grif sighed again as he bent over to help pull some gear from the totaled machine too, "Next time we'll empty the Puma beforehand." He told her.

The girl looked over at him, and he could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke, "Y—yes, sir!"

Jensen promptly saluted him just as Simmons had, no doubt, taught her to do. Leave it to a kiss-ass to impart respect for authority on his team. Grif couldn't help but smile fondly back.

…In hindsight, he hadn't really learned his lesson after all.

"Katie! Captain Grif, sir!" Charles Palomo called out, racing over to the two with a tool kit in hand. For some reason, he was holding a wrench out. No doubt Palomo had no clue what to do with it.

Grif raised a dark-colored eyebrow at Palomo's overly familiar usage of Jensen's first name. He lazily wondered if Simmons would be going into hardcore "overprotective parent" mode on the dark-skinned lieutenant's ass later.

"Thanks, Palomo." Jensen began standing upright to take the tool box from the rookie gratefully, "But I think this is way past repairs."

"No biggie!" Given the cheery response, Palomo's grin was apparent even with his helmet on, "We always need more scrap anyways."

"You think so?" Jensen sounded doubtful, eyes wandering to the still smoldering crash site.

Palomo nodded before giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, "You were doing great up until the wall got in the way!"

The two lieutenants stood there for a moment, regarding one another quietly. Grif definitely had the feeling that he was intruding on something private just then. The tan-skinned soldier waited a few moments before coughing awkwardly to remind the two of the burning wreckage.

"Oh, right!" Palomo swung around at the sound of Grif's throat clearing, his arm with the wrench going with him as the tool flew out of his grip, "Shit!"

Grif felt the impact of the wrench on the side of his face a second later. Damn it.

…In hindsight, he should have worn a fucking helmet.

"It's not so bad, Grif." Franklin Delano Donut tried reassuringly as they currently sat in his and Frank "Doc" DuFresne's shared room.

Grif found himself here after Palomo and Jensen had both volunteered to see to the Warthog wreckage following his getting smacked in the head with a wrench, though Grif suspected the two lieutenants wanted to enjoy the private time his being accidentally injured awarded the two of them.

…He was already gleefully imagining the training he hoped Washington would give them in the future out of spite.

"He's right." Doc supplied helpfully, "A little orange juice and you'll be right as rain!"

Grif glanced up from the ice pack covering the shiner on his left eye to fix the purple medic with a glare, opting not to say anything. He could only deal with so much stupid in one conversation.

"Gee. I don't know, Doc." Donut tapped his chin thoughtfully, "Wouldn't that just sting?"

"You still just drink it, Franklin. You don't stick it on the injury." Doc told the pink-armored soldier in that fond voice he only used for Donut. The one that Grif, Tucker, and Simmons would secretly gag at.

"Oh, that makes more sense!" Donut replied, laughing "I love holistic medicine!"

It didn't make more sense. At all.

Grif sighed, already feeling like this was a horrible mistake. Which, obviously it was. He went voluntarily to see Doc and Donut. That lapse of judgement instantly meant it was a mistake.

"It's very nice of you to try and teach Jensen to drive despite her difficulties, Grif." Doc informed the chubby soldier gently.

"We'll keep it our secret, don't you worry!" Donut reassured Grif before sharing a conspiratorial nod and wink with Doc, "Even if we get caught from behind!"

"Thanks." Grif couldn't help but reply dryly, "Though I think the secret's out of the bag thanks to this."

He motioned to his black eye with his ice pack. There was no way no one would not notice the bruise, though he supposed it would be easy enough to make up some lie if he had the energy for it. Damn it. He was too lazy for this secretive shit.

Doc and Donut smiled at each other again, and Grif couldn't help but be afraid.

"Leave it to us, Grif!" Donut told him emphatically, "No one will even pay attention to your eye with the right accessories!"

…In hindsight, Grif probably should have taken his chances with Doctor Grey.

After what felt like hours, Grif headed back to the room that he shared with Simmons while trying to appear as nonchalantly apathetic as always. All while wearing a garish amount of necklaces and a tie-dye neon orange shirt to complete the "look."

What "look" exactly that Donut had been going for, Grif couldn't say, but the younger Red Team member had been convinced that the dark-haired man dressing in such a way would be enough to turn people's attention away from his eye. Grif had felt too tired to really argue with Donut even though the plan was needlessly stupid.

"Who gave you that black eye?!"

The door hadn't even fully closed behind him when Richard "Dick" Simmons had made his exclamation and jumped up from their shared bed (sharing one saved space for Simmons' nerd projects and Grif's impromptu snacking, all right? No need to make it weird). The redhead stood before the chubby man, his flesh hand automatically hovering over the other's injury.

Grif sighed lazily. So much for Donut's "ingenious" plan. What an unnecessary pain in the ass.

"I um…got into a fight over the last snack cake back at the mess hall." Grif said, deciding to go with a truly maverick story as he smirked, "You should see the other guy."

"Huh," Simmons replied, raising a red eyebrow, "And here I thought Palomo beamed you in the face with a wrench after Jensen crashed the Warthog during your driving lesson."

The maroon-armored soldier smirked at the dumbfounded look currently spreading over Grif's features. "Who told?" Grif finally got out, realizing there was no point in wasting energy by denying the truth.

"Jensen." Simmons informed him, "She just wanted to make sure that you were okay."

Grif expected Simmons to go into a high-pitched rant about safety protocols and how they had all agreed to never let Jensen behind the wheel of anything ever again, but the cyborg surprised him.

"Next time, can I come along too?" Simmons finally asked with a slight blush on his cheeks, "Jensen is my subordinate, so…"

Grif grinned lazily, "And here I thought you just wanted to see me in action."

The nerd's blush intensified at the exposure of his true motive, "We—well, that is something of a miracle in and of itself…!"

Grif couldn't help the fond smile that spread across his face then, "Kiss-ass."

"Fat-ass." Simmons smiled back.

…In hindsight, Grif probably shouldn't have worried so much.

They stayed like that for a few minutes longer, Simmons' fingers and eyes still lingering upon the shiner on Grif's tan face.

Grif smirked again, finally breaking the comfortable silence between them: "Aren't you going to kiss it and make it better?"

Simmons' face went a color so red that Sarge would have been proud, "Jackass." He muttered under his breath.

But, after glancing around tentatively despite the two of them being the only people in the room, Simmons leaned forward and placed his lips gently on the darkened skin just under Grif's eye.

"…B—better?" he asked hesitatingly, face still beet red.

"Better." Grif replied lazily as his smirk widened.

"Good." Simmons pulled away rather reluctantly, his eyes then sweeping downward over the rest of Grif's body, "Maybe now you can tell me just what the fuck it is you're wearing."

…In hindsight, Grif probably should have immediately left the room when Donut had started talking about "accessorizing."

Author's Notes: A gift for my sister using the prompt "Who gave you that black eye?!". This was a rather fun one to write, and I hope that you enjoyed it! :)