Simmons is uncomfortable with the idea of being taken care of.

Pairings Beyond Grimmons:

~N/A

Other Notes for This Story:

~Written for the 15kinks comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was "Libra: #7 Pampering."

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

Treat Yo' Self

Contrary to what some might think, Richard "Dick" Simmons had not been a spoiled child growing up. How could he be when he had been constantly berated and looked down upon by his father in the very few instances when the man even bothered to make note of him at all?

Simmons' mother had tried to be kinder to the child, at least early on. But, that had only gotten his parents into heated arguments over how she was "coddling" the boy. Eventually, his mother gave up entirely while imparting to Simmons the advice that he should learn how to simply "grin and bear it."

Simmons always sucked at listening to his mother's advice, especially as his anxiety and nerves grew along with the mounting pressure of trying to be the "perfect" son—a role he seemed destined to fail at, time and time again.

The lanky redhead left home as soon as he was able, though he was still caught under his father's looming disappointment regarding his decision to join the military.

…No, those who thought he was spoiled were definitely wrong. Simmons had far from a "pampered" life growing up.

If anything, Simmons was more likely to try and pamper someone else. It was obvious in the effort he put into always trying to please his father, exerted just so he could get some form of acknowledgement from the distant man. It was just as obvious with the Red Team in how he went out of his way to try to get Sarge to notice him, when he agreed with the older man's ideas even when he knew how ultimately crazy and bat-shit extreme they were.

Richard "Dick" Simmons was a kiss-ass. Always had been, always will be. He went out of his way to do things that would please authority figures. Of course, once he had joined the army, that desire to please and gain acceptance had only caused his reputation as a suck-up to skyrocket.

But, Simmons didn't really mind that. Not really.

"Doesn't it get tiring?" Dexter Grif asked him once when they were on the roof of the Blood Gulch Red Team base together.

The lazy orange-armored soldier's question had been asked after a particularly grueling day. It made sense that Grif had asked it since the heavyset man had spent hours watching both Simmons and Donut help enact another of Sarge's "brilliant" plans.

The plan had ultimately failed because Donut had mistaken sunscreen for suntan oil, though Simmons still wasn't entirely sure how delivering that to the bewildered Blues would have bought them enough time to steal their flag. The whole incident had caused Donut to lecture their commanding officer on the importance of proper skincare.

"Does what get tiring?" Simmons asked as he tried to work a knot out of the shoulder where his metallic parts met flesh, a grimace on his face.

Grif chucked the cigarette he had been smoking after yet another tirade from Simmons about how the lazy man was ruining his lungs. It landed on the floor as Grif ignored the distasteful look the redhead threw his way. He stared at Simmons' flesh hand as it tried to reach the troubling spot on his shoulder as if transfixed by the other's motions.

"Trying to please Sarge all the time." Grif finally informed him with such an apathetic expression that Simmons couldn't begin to gauge what was going through his mind.

"Doesn't it get tiring going against the grain all the time?" Simmons countered, wincing as his fingertips just missed the spot that he desperately needed them to reach.

Grif's own fingers twitched, and he looked away, "Not really. Then again, following his orders is a good way to get killed, so…"

"That—that's insubordination, Grif!" Simmons couldn't help but point out, biting his lip in frustration. He was so close to reaching that fucking spot…

Grif smirked, "So, report me."

"Asshole." Simmons responded because they both knew he wouldn't.

"Besides," Grif continued without missing a beat, "I know how to take care of myself."

"You do." Simmons stared at the chubby man blankly, clearly not impressed with the other's statement given that how Grif lived his life wasn't exactly what he would ever describe as someone "taking care" of himself.

A dark-haired nod, "You should try it for yourself, Simmons."

He couldn't help but sigh, "Try what, fat-ass?" Simmons, frustrated by his shoulder, decided to continue the conversation as a diversionary tactic.

Grif's eyes were back on his futilely reaching hand, an oddly unreadable look in them, "Pampering yourself."

Simmons spluttered, his hand frozen in surprise, "Excuse me?"

"Or, you know, letting someone else do it for you." There was an oddly hesitant, quiet tone to Grif's voice just then as he pointedly looked away from the cyborg sitting next to him.

Simmons snorted in disbelief, "Yeah, right. I'll get right on that after I start kissing your ass."

"Hey, you never know. I might be your commanding officer someday."

"And we'll be stuck somewhere with only Caboose nearby, right?" Simmons joked, rolling his eyes, "That would be torture on so many levels."

"Fuck you, Simmons." Grif responded with a smirk, "The part about me being in charge sounds awesome. I'd be such a fucking maverick."

The conversation quickly fell into their usual comradely silence, Simmons mulling over Grif's words of advice until it was time for them to head to bed.

He was afraid to ask Grif what he had truly meant.

The first time they shared a room together was in Valhalla. It wasn't long into their stay there before Simmons was awoken to the thrashing sounds of Grif caught in the throes of a nightmare. He cautiously tiptoed over to Grif's bedside, wringing his hands nervously and very much unsure of what to do.

The maroon-armored soldier knew about panic attacks. After all, he had dealt with debilitating anxiety his entire life. But, it was different seeing it wreathed around the face of someone else. Something in his chest ached at the fact that it was Grif who was going through his own mental turmoil.

Eventually, Simmons worked up the courage to tentatively reach out with his flesh hand to shake the other man gently awake. Grif's eyes opened wide. For a moment, they were filled with unbridled fear. That was, until he zeroed in on Simmons' face looming above him in the dark.

"Y—you okay?" Simmons couldn't help asking, though even if Grif tried to vehemently deny it he already knew the answer.

Grif said nothing in reply, looking down instead at Simmons' hand lingering on his shoulder.

"Sorry." Simmons said, getting ready to remove the obviously offending appendage.

But, Grif's hand shakily rested atop his hand before he could move it from the other's shoulder. The larger tan hand covered Simmons' and kept it resting in place. Simmons' breath hitched in his throat and, for a split second, the world seemed to stop.

When Grif's fingers started to relax and his grip loosened, Simmons tried pulling away once more, only for the other man's grip to tighten again as he looked up at the redhead in wordless panic.

Simmons smiled reassuringly, "I'm just going to get you a glass of water, fat-ass."

At length, Grif nodded and hesitatingly let Simmons go.

When Simmons returned to their room with the water a few minutes later, he was greeted by the sight of Grif sitting up in his bed. The blanket that had been twisted around the orange-wearing man just a few moments before was now draped haphazardly over his shoulders.

Simmons handed Grif the glass before sitting down next to him. The cyborg watched the other man empty the contents of the container in one lengthy gulp, averting his gaze when Grif glanced in his direction.

"You want to talk about it?" Simmons asked gently, unsure if he was breaking some unspoken code of theirs.

Grif shook his head as he set the glass down on the floor.

"Okay then." Simmons managed to reply as he struggled with what else he should say, "Do you need me to, um…?" He trailed off helplessly, frustrated by his inability to offer more support to his friend.

But, to his surprise, Grif regarded him with an oddly fond smile on his face, "You are good at this." He murmured.

Simmons felt the heat rush to his face, "G—good at what?"

"Pampering, kiss-ass."

With that, Grif closed his eyes and fell backwards onto his mattress seemingly without a care in the world.

Simmons didn't mention the incident afterwards, unsure of whether or not Grif's remark was meant to be a joke. However, he wordlessly helped Grif through his reoccurring nightmares from that point onwards.

"Holy shit. You're bleeding."

"Who is?" Simmons asked as he blinked at Grif's comment, his fuzz-addled brain trying to process the words that had just been spoken and just why it was that the heavyset man looked so upset.

That was, until he felt something wet drip down the side of his face. Simmons ran a hand across the liquid. Gazing down at his hand a few seconds later, he found the color red smeared against his fingertips.

"You are, idiot." Grif replied as he made a face, "Gross, dude. Don't fucking touch it."

Simmons turned to stare at him disbelievingly, "Like you're one to talk about being gross, Grif."

"I'm not the one decorating the halls with red splotches." Grif pointed out, a frown on his face as he regarded Simmons' cut carefully, "What the hell happened?"

The injury was probably more minor than what Grif was making it out to be. Simmons didn't really feel anything beyond a light sting, and he certainly wasn't "decorating the halls" like Grif was saying he was. That would be so unhygienic that the very mental image had him wanting to run for the cleaning equipment.

Simmons frowned in recollection, "Caboose wanted to show me a new trick that he had taught Freckles."

"And you're still alive?" Grif whistled appreciatively, "Those safety precautions that Doctor Grey and the other tech gurus here at Chorus set up are legit."

Simmons nodded, "One of the pieces of shrapnel must have grazed me."

"No shit." Suddenly, Grif was reaching over and grabbing Simmons' hand, "Come on."

"W—where are we going?"

The redhead wanted to point out to the orange-armored man that he was now getting blood all over his own hand since Grif had grabbed onto the one that Simmons had just used to wipe his forehead with. But, something stopped him from doing so. Instead, his freckled face warmed up at the sudden contact.

Maybe Simmons was more injured than he thought if he couldn't even muster up the energy needed to nag at Dexter Grif like normal.

Not that it would garner much of a response even if he had said anything since Grif didn't even bother answering his question. The tan-skinned man had a determined gait instead of his usual lazy walk as he dragged a dizzy Simmons along.

Simmons blinked in bewilderment as Grif wrapped the cut on his forehead in a fluffy, sterile gauze. Who knew where he had pilfered that medical kit from? Grif was a man of mystery sometimes, although Simmons wouldn't be shocked if Grif had just "lifted" the kit from Doc.

The maroon-wearing soldier imagined he looked ridiculous with his red hair wet and hanging plastered to the sides of his skull thanks to the dunk under the warm water of the sink that Grif had just insisted on subjecting him to.

Grif leaned over the redhead as he admired his handiwork in the mirror, "Better?"

Simmons could only gulp and nod, the last several minutes mostly a blur in his mind. Blood, hands, sink, water, gauze, awkwardness.

Grif smirked, "Good. Figured you wouldn't want to go to the crazy doctor lady if you could avoid it."

Simmons nodded his head in rather earnest agreement, "Th—thanks."

"Besides," Grif continued as if he hadn't heard Simmons, "I figured that this way, I could finally do it."

Simmons was thoroughly confused by this point, "Do what?" He asked, red eyebrow raised in genuine curiosity.

Grif looked down at the cyborg and his smirk only widened, his large tan hand still resting noticeably on Simmons' shoulder, "Take care of you for a change, kiss-ass."

Simmons said nothing in response, but he felt his face become even redder than it had been a second ago.

"So," Grif gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his touch lingering right on that troublesome spot where Simmons' metallic parts met his flesh, "Anything you'd like to do next?"

That was right about when Simmons decided that he could be all right with getting pampered by someone else. At least every once in a while.

Author's Notes: I have no idea what prompted this story, save for a sudden urge to write something fluffy and copious amounts of caffeine. XD I hope it wasn't too random or out of character! :)

Also, bonus points for you if you happen to know what sitcom the title for this story comes from! XD