#i hate his fucking armor i almost gave up and just did orange stripes around the edges

[sharkface-daydreams]

may I offer you a shitty meme in this trying time?

Felix has McFuckin had it with Sharkface flirting with his man

bonus early expression indecision. I do love threats served up with a shitty little smile

#red vs blue #rvb #felix mcscouty #just for the record i hate that tag lol #bastard rat man #rvb mercs #rvb sharkface #sir that's my emotional support shark #shitpostin #i hate his fucking armor i almost gave up and just did orange stripes around the edges #@people who draw actual halo armor you have the patience of a saint #my art stuff

[riathedreamer]

Prompt by @secretlystephaniebrown: “Grif comes back, only to discover that Simmons has started dating his doppleganger.” -Halfway through I realized I made the others return instead of Grif, but I am really happy with how this one-shot turned out so I hope it works anyway! Thanks for the prompt!

This story does not contain spoilers for episode 10 (but you should probably not read if you have not watched episode 9), however it goes with one of the many theories that the Blues and Reds are too suspicious to be trusted and it is very strange there is no fake Grif. So technically spoiler-free, but I just came up with this particular situation to fill the prompt. Enjoy.

No actual warnings: just a lot of angsty thoughts and heartbreak.

English is not my native language so I apologize beforehand if there are some grammar-mistakes.

Can also be found on AO3 here.

Wordcount: 3382

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Simmons returns with a raised chin, a happy tone to his voice and an orange soldier whose name Grif hates.

When the ships arrive, they fly straight through the cloud Grif has just declared a puma. Retirement gives you the time to sleep late and eat breakfast for dinner and play ukulele at 3am and drive around in the Warthog all day and when all that gets boring you can lie down to look at the clouds while not giving a shit.

Grif pushes himself up with his palm, fingers buried into the sand. He does not walk until they have all exited the ships, setting their feet upon the moon again.

He squints, counting from distance. In the hours where sleep had not come to him (it is a grave fact that you can, in fact, sleep too much, to the point where your eyelids refuse to grow heavy, no matter how long you stare at the ceiling) he had come up with scenarios.

Not all of them involve them coming back because Grif is smart and Grif knows a suicide plan when he sees one. But in all the worst case scenarios they would be fewer or entirely missing.

Bringing someone extra back with them is unexpected. Sure, the mission had been to find Church but since when does the AI have an actual body?

The journalists are there, sticking out from the rest of the group with their armors. Then come the Freelancers. Cyan. Grey with yellows stripes.

Aqua. Deep blue.

Purple. Maybe not that surprising, considering history.

Red. Pink, obviously. Brown.        Maroon.

 Orange.

 Whatever surprise Grif feels is only revealed by a small frown, black eyebrows touching each other just slightly. Making sure not to take his eyes off the soldier in the distance, he reaches down in his pocket. Years of practice allows him to light the cigarette without even looking.

It is first when he has inhaled and exhaled that he begins to walk, never raising his feet quite enough to avoid leaving a long trail behind in the sand.

The chatter dies down when he comes close enough, a faint “Do you think…” hanging in the air before someone clears their throat. Most of them are not looking at him, the bases are suddenly a very interesting sight, and Grif regrets he left the beach.

It would only have been fair had they been the ones to make the first step.

Donut sounds happy when he yells his name, ”Grif!” He suddenly freezes, pulls his head back to stare at the orange soldier in their group and he lets out a short laughter, like an intern joke or something. Grif certainly does not understand.

The pink soldier reaches out, trying to go for the hug, but Grif’s arms are crossed and he watches them all with an unimpressed stare, cigarette hanging in the corner of his mouth.

His blank expression is enough to stop Donut dead in his tracks. He let his arms fall weakly to his sides, taking one step backwards so he is with the rest of the group. Someone coughs again but it does little to help with the awkwardness. Grif hopes they have not brought the damn plague back with them or something.

He raises one eyebrow, gesturing for them to begin the conversation because he sure as hell isn’t going to.

“So,” Wash says, oh god the awkwardness, and maybe he continues his sentence but Grif is not really listening.

He is staring at Simmons. He is noticing how Simmons is not stiff as a board, how Simmons for once is not tense, how Simmons looks a bit too comfortable, shoulders relaxed and chin raised high in confidence, and his fingers are brushing against the hand of the orange soldier next to him.

Grif becomes aware that he has lowered his head, revealing just where he was looking at, and he raises his glance to stare directly into the stranger’s visor.

“’sup?” the man in the orange armor says, arms crossed as well.

When the name is revealed, a noise escapes from the back of Grif’s throat. It sounds more like a bark than a laugh, low and raw.

“Griff,” Simmons says, eyes darting the room. “But, uhm, with two F’s,” he adds quickly, as if that improves the situation somehow.

Grif nods – of course that’s his name, of fucking course – and turns away. “You found Church yet?” He throws the question into the stuffed air of the Base, trying to sound like he does not give a shit because he does not.

Carolina tenses – that’s a no then. “Not yet.”

“Dude,” Tucker says. His helmet is off and judging from his expression the next words to leave his mouth are not going to be nice. Still mad, obviously. To be expected.

But Wash cuts in, “We’ve found some leads. We’re working on it.”

Grif nods again and points to his left, towards the couch that has already been invaded. “So where, when and why did you adopt the yellow copycat?”

“Orange,” the guy says, looking like he is about to flip him off but Simmons’ hand is on his arm, holding it back. The cyborg does not withdraw his hand even after the- the imposer takes his glance off Grif.

“Right,” Grif huffs, and is about to point at his own chest plate to prove a point but then realizes he is not wearing armor. He took it off the day they left and has not seen a reason to wear it since. After being stuck in that metal can for years it is only right to let your skin breathe. Especially with no one around to comment on your smell.

The others are still in their armor, though a few have removed their helmets. It makes Grif feel like the small person for once, almost naked (but not in the way Donut prefers) and the many armored figures only make the room feel too crowded.

Wash steps on something, makes a face, and tries to rub it off the bottom of his boot.

“Yeah,” Caboose says, inhales, and he is obviously going to try out with an explanation. If anything, it is going to be amusing. “So we found our evil twins and they turned out to be nice. They let me play with their toys. But not the big one. It would invite all the fish inside and they don’t like that. Then they turned out to be evil evil twins. But then Griff came and he invited all the fish and a lot of other things happened but he got to join our rescue mission. He brought popcorn.”

Grif does not even blink. “Right.”

“You got all of that?” Wash asks him. “I’m pretty sure he might have skipped some details.”

“See, I never really gave a shit so-“

“What is that diabolical smell?!” Sarge enters the base and immediately makes his presence known. He turns his head to stare at Grif. “Did you invite the rats to live with you? Aw, did you get lonely?”

There is a mocking tone to his last question which Grif matches perfectly when he says, “You know, better company than what I had before.”

The following thick silence is broken by Donut, appearing from behind Sarge, who chirps, “Did you remember to water my flowers, Grif?” He pulls his head back again, laughs, and looks at the orange soldier in the couch. “I suppose there’s a bit of name problem there. Nothing more awkward than calling out the wrong name. Ooh, we could give you a nickname! What about Double F?”

“What?” Grif asks with a snort. “Short for Fuckface?”

Simmons is still staring at the floor. Griff merely tilts his head and from behind one of the couch pillows he fishes out an unopened snackbar. Grif had not even known it was stashed there, and that just makes the insult worse.

“What is… Ugh.” Wash has stepped on something again and he looks in distaste at all the trash littering the floor. “I suppose you have not found the time to clean up since we left.”

Carolina opens the fridge before Grif can attempt to warn her. “That’s… a lot of mushrooms.”

“Uhm, I’m pretty sure I just saw that pile move.” Tucker is pointing at some of last week’s laundry with his rifle. “Caboose, don’t touch that!”

Grif shrugs. “Yeah, right, sorry I did not tidy up. I didn’t expect guests.”

He leaves before the other one can take off his helmet to eat the snack, before he can reveal if this whole thing is weird enough for him to have a scar across his face as well. But if Grif has to choose between having a clone with scars or with an intact face, he is not quite sure which is worse.

Sarge is blocking his path through the doorway, and the Red Leader stands firmly, not intending to move.

Grif brushes shoulders with him on his way out, hitting a hard armor plate, and keeps his expression neutral so no one can see that it hurt.

 Grif has never had a mother-in-law before, for obvious reasons, but he has seen the horrors in movies. He is pretty sure this situation is equivalent to those nagging monsters. He lives here, and yet people just walk right in and start criticizing his way of living. Not cleaning up isn’t a choice; it’s a lifestyle and a beautiful one.

The others left. Grif owns this place, this moon. He may not have signed any contracts but that is clearly how it all works. His place, his rules.

And yet he is forced escape the base. Too many people, too much tension. Grif has grown used to silence these last couple of weeks; these new voices and new insults are too annoying, and he has had too long a break to grow thick skin for it all.

He is on the way back to the beach, hoping to hide behind an umbrella and escape this shitty situation with a nap, but Doc appears from out of nowhere, opening his mouth before Grif even has to time to sigh.

“Hey, Grif! Long time no see, huh?”

Grif’s headache is too big for him to answer the medic.

“The others did say you were taking a sabbatical. Didn’t believe it at first; you guys never really quit before. And I suppose it did take some days to realize you weren’t Griff. Pretty weird how much you all have in common, huh? Except the whole being evil thing. At least Simmons is happier now.”

Grif sets his jaw.

“Wait, that sounded wrong.” The medic holds up both hands to apologize. “I mean, before Griff arrived. Caboose told me how sad he was after you… Well…”

Without speaking Grif lights another cigarette.

“Oh, those are really not good for your health. Or your fellow man’s. I thought Simmons had made you cut down on-“

Grif hopes Doc can take a hint and exhales the smoke into his face. Well, visor, technically, but the rude gesture should still work.

When the medic finally stops coughing he wrings his hands and says, “I’ll- I’ll just leave you to your bad habit then. But I do have a free brochure I can find for you later.”

He runs off when Grif inhales deeply, as if preparing for another round of smoke cloud.

How strange. Doc is gone more often than he is actually here, and yet he has never been replaced. Maybe because he is so useless. Probably. Definitely.

The moon is suddenly too small, and Grif finds no other option than to retreat to his cave.

He is not even surprised when he finds Dylan at the entrance, obviously waiting for him. The reporter has tilted her head, obviously curious about him and, oh god, is she going to talk about feelings again? At least the camera guy is absent, probably too busy trying to shoot a documentary about hoarders inside the Base.

“I figured you would come here,” she says, and congratulations to her if she believes that means she knows him well. She has already proven she is under the false belief that she can figure out them all and their actions as well. “I can give you the whole story, if you want.”

“No thanks,” Grif snorts and puts out his cigarette with his heel. He uses the foot that has once belonged to Simmons, the one that has nerves too badly sewn together to truly feel the pain from the heat. “Already told you; I don’t give a shit about it. You guys found a whole bunch of lookalikes and did not cry out bullshit? Joke’s on you, then. Because that shit is creepy as fuck.”

“It… took an unexpected twist.”

The visor is too focused on his face, obviously trying to gain some sort of eye-contact but Grif moves his head to stare into the darkness of the cave instead. “So why the fuck are you guys here?”

“We figured it was only proper to give you a visit. You’ve been without any news for a while.”

Without news, without insults, without human presence in general. Not a lot has happened on the moon while they were gone but Grif is not about to tell her that.

“What makes you think you can trust Wannabe-Orange?”

“He was the first one to call bullshit, as he put it,” Dylan says softly. “A lot like you, I suppose.”

“Great!” he exclaims too loudly. “Maybe, if he’s lucky, he can keep the others alive for a whole month! Looks like he drew the short straw. Poor guy.”

“Grif-“

He walks past her into the cave, sighing slightly relief when she does not follow. Maybe she does not want him to shout at her again. Or maybe she has realized he deserves a nap.

She does, however, betray him and informs Donut of his hiding place. That at least seems to be the case, since no one else knows of the cave, and Grif had been extra careful to make sure that Donut of all people would not wander in here by accident.

To be fair, Grif is not sleeping but he is resting against his head against the cliff wall and his eyes are closed which should be enough hints to make an intruder fuck off.

But Donut is not too good when it comes to hints, and he sits down in front of Grif, helmet in his lap.

“He is a nice guy,” he begins, and Grif opens his eyes only to roll them. “Well, Sarge still needs to warm up to him but-“

“Does he threaten him with a shotgun?” Grif asks, more out of spite than actual curiosity.

“Oh yes! Only silly threats of course; no one wants anyone to get hurt.”

“Right.”

Donut is fiddling his thumbs. Even silence is uncomfortable when you are stuck with the pink soldier. “Simmons likes him.”

“I can see that.”

Something flashes across Donut’s expression. Pity, Grif realizes with horror. Even the scarred part of his face seems to soften as he looks at Grif. “Simmons was very heartbroken after… Well, after you told him… And there are some obvious similarities. Oh how they can bicker. But at least Simmons does not seem that devastated now. There are some positions you do not want to see a man in, Grif, and I have never seen Simmons that low before.”

Grif wonders how much he has in common with the imposer.

He wonders if Griff’s mother left him.

He wonders if Griff once had to dig twenty-seven graves alone on an outpost that quickly became forgotten by anybody else.

He wonders if Griff has a dead sister.

“You could apologize,” Donut continues, voice echoing in the cave. “The others will warm up eventually. And I’m sure Simmons would not mind an extra man.” He hesitates for just a second before adding, “I think you should come along.”

Grif glances at the ground as he snorts, “Not a fan of hanging around suspicious doppelgängers. I have less creepy things to entertain myself with.” He wonders if Griff is being called a fatass too, or if that is an insult only to be used on him.

Donut inhales once before saying, “I suppose you don’t like him.” He is not the guy who snaps at people or keeps his voice bitter, but there is a certain tone to that last part of the sentence that informs Grif that he hurt him too back then.

Grif sets his jaw and says nothing.

Eventually Donut leaves, and Grif is alone in the solitude of the cave.

Later he ventures out to grab something to eat (he refuses to starve because of him) but his appetite dissolves when he sees Simmons and Griff on the top of the base. They have their backs turned towards him, staring together into the sunset, rifles on the backs.

They are standing too close to each other; Sarge has to appear soon, threaten Griff with his shotgun…

For a moment Grif can almost hear their conversation –

                                       “Hey?”

                                       “Yeah?”

                    “You ever wonder why we’re here?”

-but then he realizes he is too far away to hear anything. His mind is probably playing a trick on him; isn’t it unhealthy for it to be alone for too long or something?

Then Griff leans closer and grabs Simmons’ hand.

It’s all wrong, the scene is all wrong, Grif never did that-

“Grif?”

Simmons has seen him. He lets go of Griff’s hand, jumps down the base, and Grif remains where he is standing.

Grif expects him to wring his hands or stutter or just act a tiny bit like he has acknowledged how weird all of this is. But his back is straight and as always he as taller than Grif, looking down at him. “Did the others ask you? Are you coming with us?”

Trying to keep up, Grif blinks, but his mind is still too busy replaying the scene.

Simmons continues, “I mean, you can’t stay here.”

“’course I can, there’s no law ‘bout it,” Grif cuts in quickly to disagree. “It’s my moon now.”

“Don’t think anyone is going to try to take it from you,” Simmons huffs and turns his head to stare at the base and the endless amount of trash bags surrounding it. Suddenly he seems to deflate, and he inhales deeply before saying, “You could at least come with us to Chorus. We- We need some supplies before heading towards the next clue, and since you don’t really have any food to spare…” He trails off.

Grif fills in the missing words. “A fatass gotta eat.”

“We could at least drop you off,” Simmons says again, ignoring Grif’s statement.

Grif does think about it. But, honestly, Chorus has nothing more to give him, maybe except some extra MRE supplies. He does not miss being Captain, does not miss having to count each member of his team after a mission to make sure no one got lost in the gunfire.

Matthews is probably sucking up to Kimball now. Always wanted to be her personal assistant. Grif hopes he succeeded; Kimball has dealt with headaches bigger than Matthews. Bitters is probably… Well, it’s hard to predict a maverick. But he’s probably making himself comfortable. Grif doubt he wants a Captain back in his life.

He can’t blame them; he was the one who taught them not to give a shit in the first place.

Simmons is still staring at him, expecting an answer. Grif looks past him, towards the Base, towards Griff who sucks at pretending he is not watching the scene with great interest.

Finally, Grif turns his head to meet Simmons’ glance. He can feel his expectation through the visor, he can almost imagine the soft glow from the cyborg eye, even though it has been so long since he has seen the face…

“Don’t really think anybody needs me,” is his final answer, followed up with a shrug.

Simmons inhales. Swallows. Raises his head so he no longer trying to gain eye-contact. “I guess you’re right.”

He waits for just another second before turning around to join Griff on the roof.

The ships leave the day after.

This time Grif does not leave the cave to say goodbye.

#rvb angst war #grif #simmons #grimmons #angst #my rvb fic