simplifyingforces

[simplifyingforces]

Prepare to Interface [AO3 link]

Rating: Explicit Fandom: Red vs. Blue Characters: Dexter Grif, Dick Simmons Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons

The Temple of Procreation has an algorithm. Simmons doesn’t understand it.

Simmons' HUD vitals flashed ominously at the edge of his vision as he stumbled down the hallway toward the base's storage wing. It wasn't supposed to end this way. Years of waiting, hoping, wishing -- all undone by something as monumentally stupid as this.

He stopped for a second to catch his breath, slamming his hands against the wall. If he could just make it to those sweet, solitary, air conditioned storage units, everything would be fine. Perfectly, forgettably fine. Like he wasn't about to lose his virginity courtesy of an alien-made, planet-wide aphrodisiac fine.

God, he hated Blue Team sometimes. Stupid Tucker and his stupid alien sword, casually activating temples without even entertaining the possibility of something so minor as actual, real life consequences.

Statistically, the number of pregnancies alone would put the planet under a level of strain so severe that it could cripple the entire infrastructure before they even had a chance to rebuild. He'd said that at least twice, along with a lot of other good, solid reasons backed up by peer-reviewed empirical data. He just couldn't remember them all at the moment.

"Never thought I'd see someone so set against losing their virginity," Simmons whispered to himself mockingly. That had been Tucker's only response to his perfectly sensible objections. Like it was all personal for him.

Like anyone wanted their first time to be someone coerced into wanting them.

And there it was. The other main reason for his concern, otherwise known as consent and immediate impact on individual, familial, and communal dynamics! Just because it sounded like the subtitle to a scientific study didn't make it any less true.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t open to the potential merits of the temple. He’d conceded that Chorus might benefit from a jump start to the reconciliation process, and it made some kind of weird sense on a macro level to give everyone 24 hours of ”ravenous sexual frenzy” as a means to accomplish it. He supposed.

But his own micro level life didn't need that bullshit.

Forget what Santa had said about sensitivity to the intricacies of consent as plotted into the temple's algorithm, too; if someone had been interested, they would have spoken up by now, what with him being a war hero and all. Tucker had made that perfectly clear. Tucker had also been much more of an asshole than usual lately.

Simmons absently rubbed at his collarbone. Even with the slightest pressure from the armor bearing down on it, he imagined the stitches pulling against his skin and drew his hand away. They'd been so lucky, again. Again and again, and hopefully they would no longer need to be. Church wouldn’t need to, at least.

He violently pulled his thoughts away from the Staff of Charon and started back down the hall. The heart rate monitor in his HUD placed him at 142 BPM and rising. What would happen if he didn't fuck? Santa hadn't even talked about that. He could already see the headline: War Hero Dies, Determined to Remain a Virgin.

Grif would love it at least; assuming Grif wasn't also dead from a decided lack of temple-induced fucking. He hadn't even been there to know that there was temple-induced fucking to worry about. Grif had shown zero interest in showing up at the temple today -- or for any other mission lately, for that matter. Maybe if he had been there, they wouldn't be in the position they were currently in. Grif could have-- could have-- well, probably not done anything at all, if Simmons was being perfectly honest, but at least he'd have been aware. At least he wouldn't be on his own, wondering what was happening to him right now and why.

And how would Grif be taking all this, exactly? His physical fitness had always been notably well below par. The effects of the temple already felt like the slow grip of imminent death to Simmons and he was at least ten times healthier.

It was also impossible to forget just how much Grif had completely disregarded his own safety on the Staff of Charon. His chest had absorbed countless hits of enemy fire, just because he’d insisted on taking point with the Grif Shot halfway through. The exact sound of Grif’s small grunts of pain had played in surround sound via comm as Simmons bled out through his armor. It wasn’t until the end -- Tucker surrounded by dead and dying and the room suddenly horribly quiet -- that Grif had stepped down, armor burned black and smoking.

He didn't need to contact Grif. Grif was probably absolutely fine. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Usually. At least forty percent of the time. When they weren't in a crisis situation.

It wouldn’t hurt to check on him. Just a casual hello, maybe a little update on the temple.

Simmons switched over to their private channel and signaled in. Grif almost always picked up there.

No answer.

He swallowed drily and started walking faster. What if Grif was with someone? What if he wasn't and was already dead? What would Sarge say if sex (or lack thereof) literally killed half of the Glorious Red Team?

Anxiety roiled in his gut, and he groaned in irritation. Ugh, he couldn't think about Grif right now! It wasn't like he could do anything for him anyway.

The storage wing doors came up on his left and he keyed in the entry code. A couple of lieutenants ran past him as he went through the doorway, completely oblivious to his presence as they giggled and tripped over one another on the way out. His eyes followed them as they passed, face warm and heartbeat racing as he took in their roaming hands. Jealousy was stupid. Who would he even want to fuck on this planet, anyway?

He closed his eyes as a deep shudder ran through his entire body. Fucking someone, anyone, right now sounded incredible. He was actually amazed at how good it sounded. He'd put a lot of effort into not thinking about sex for so long, circumstances being what they were.

Did it matter if he thought about one person over another? Say, Tucker versus Donut, or Carolina versus Kimball?

As if on cue, images started flowing in. Very graphically.

He slapped a hand against his helmet hard enough to sting.

Focus, Simmons. Keep moving.

Around the next corner, he finally spotted the individual unit doors and let out a sigh of relief. One of them had to be available.

He yanked on the handle of the first one and let out an angry noise when it didn't budge. It wasn't like he wanted to fuck all over the canned vegetables! He just needed space and time alone, where he didn't have to worry about running into anyone and embarrassing himself for the rest of his military career. The thought of actually seeing Carolina, Kimball, Tucker, or Donut right now made him want to throw himself off a cliff.

"Let me in, come on, one of you, any of you," he demanded as he went down the line, pulling at each handle. Locked, locked, motherfucking locked. Sweat was starting to form on his brow. Heart rate at 155. He was steadily ignoring anything below his waist.

Focus.

His eyes finally lit on a door wedged open with a broom handle in the far right corner. "Thank you, god," he whispered as he bolted in, kicked the broom away, and let the door swing shut, darkening the unit almost completely. He unclasped his helmet and let it fall to the floor as he leaned back against the wall. Cool air blasted from the ceiling vent onto his sweaty hair, pushing it downward.

If Simmons had been himself, he would have checked his surroundings on entry. As it turned out, intense manufactured arousal made it incredibly difficult to focus on anything other than...well, being aroused.

And in that time, someone else in the unit had noticed him.

"Simmons?" that someone else called out from behind a wall of opened, empty cans of food. "I think there's something wrong with me." The voice paused. "Like, really, really wrong, dude."

Simmons' eyes shot open in panic.

"What the -- Grif?!"

Most of the people Simmons had met over the course of his enlistment held the same ideas about the existence of a higher power. Sim troopers, freelancers, and the people of Chorus had no reason to believe some omnipotent being looked after them from behind the scenes. Not with everything they'd been through.

Simmons had never been in that camp. No, he was confident that God existed -- in fact, God had always had it out for him specifically. He'd known that since his fifth birthday, when his dad made him cry in front of his entire kindergarten class for getting last place in Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

Moments like this just continued to confirm it for him.

"Why are you in here?!" He pushed off the wall and gestured angrily at Grif's canned food wall. Grif was just on the other side of it. Close enough to touch, if he just took a few steps forward. Not that he wanted to or anything.

"I've been coming here for weeks, dumbass! Why are you in here?!" Grif responded in kind, and maybe if Simmons had been thinking straight, he would have thought about the likelihood of Grif holing up here with endless amounts of food and dark space and silence. He would have just assumed Grif's laziness for not answering a comm instead of being dead or in the middle of orgasm. But he didn't, because half of his blood was no longer in his brain.

"God damn it, Grif!" He kicked his helmet away and slid to the floor. If he held his arms against his cheeks, he could cool himself slightly off the armor metal. It helped him focus well enough to hear Grif's indignant, irritating response.

"What the hell, dude? I tell you I'm sick -- after you barge into my space, by the way -- and you get mad at me?" Grif began to haul himself up and make his way over to Simmons' side of the room.

"Stay back!" Simmons scooted away hurriedly, slamming his back against the door. Grif didn't know. He didn't know anything, and that was dangerous as hell.

"Okay, chill," Grif said, taking an exaggerated step backward. Simmons saw his head tilt down slightly, taking him in. "Wait. You look like how I feel, which, by the way, is really, really shitty. What's going on?" Grif picked Simmons' helmet up off the floor, sweaty skin shining off the dim light of the HUD as he peered into it. He clicked the headlamp on and set the helmet on a shelf so that they could see each other more clearly.  

Simmons slightly hated him for that.

"Well, if you had bothered to come to the meeting today, you would know." Simmons rubbed his temples, looking away. Of course Grif would hang out in the storage closet in his undersuit -- why wear full scale armor anymore? The war was over, and Grif's bruises probably felt a lot better that way. Unrestricted beneath breathable fabric and open to the cool, cool air. Simmons swallowed thirstily.

Silence reigned for a moment, until --

"Seriously, that's all you're going to give me? I'm trying not to die of heat exhaustion and--and-- whatever this is," Grif said as he flailed his arms in confusion, "and you're going to hang missing a meeting over my head? Cut the shit, Simmons."

"I am trying," Simmons said measuredly through ragged breath, "to focus." He clenched his fists tightly before setting them to work on his own armor. Grounding himself in simple tasks could work. Plus, he was just so hot. Maybe if he could cool off a bit, he could warn Grif. Grif needed to know.

"Focus here then, Simmons, and tell me what's going on," Grif said shortly. Simmons could see his fingers tapping against his folded arms in stiff, agitated motions in the lamplight. It was very un-Grif-like. Simmons could grab them, just for a second, put them where they'd be of better use, and --

With shaking hands, he pulled his chest piece off and placed it on the floor. Santa's algorithm was clearly bullshit. He took a knee and started methodically working on a leg, staring intently at the ground. Cool down, Simmons. Cool. Down.

"Simmons," Grif ground out impatiently, and fuck his voice, honestly, for sounding so beautifully gravelly deep.

"Grif," he said hoarsely, fumbling with the clasp on his calf. "Stop." He'd never thought of Grif's voice as beautiful before. Once he got out of this mess, he was going to write these reactions down just to prove how right he'd been.

"Stop what? You stop! No, wait; you start! Tell me why I woke up feeling like I have the biggest case of blue balls known to man!"

"Fine!" Simmons yelled, and it felt good to do it, like the smallest, greatest release. He stood and pelted the wall with the rest of his armor, satisfaction growing with each loud rattle to the floor.

"If you had gone to any of our meetings since the battle, you'd have known that conducting alien tech research is a top priority for Chorus right now." He paced as he drew on his anger to maintain his train of thought. "And Tucker's sword makes us the perfect candidates to do it. Not like you care, since you've been MIA for every mission." He paused for a second to let that truth bomb sink in, a bomb so full of truth that he actually wanted to hear Grif's inevitable excuse-laden reaction.

Instead, he got nothing but silence. "Are you even listening to me?"

And then, he made the stupid, stupid mistake of looking at Grif's face. It was unnerving how intently Grif was staring at him. Grif's body had lost all of its usual studied calmness and looked ready to spring. At him. Imminently.

Simmons let out a long, shaking breath and felt himself sway slightly, the room closing in on him and Grif in the small beam of light. Was he getting lightheaded? What was his heart rate right now?

"Forget it." Grif's voice cut through the quiet, hurried and high-pitched. "You're totally right, Simmons. I don't care enough, so you should just go ahead and take your nerd explanation somewhere else. Yeah."

"Um," Simmons responded eloquently. His anger had dissipated, leaving nothing but wanting in its wake. He should turn around and walk out. He should stop staring at Grif. He should move his ass, immediately. Right now. Any moment --

"Look," Grif continued, completely unaware of his inner turmoil. "You can tell me later, okay? I can't do this right now, with you -- I mean things! Being, you know --" He trailed off and fluttered his hands in Simmons' general direction.

The thing was, Grif had never really been the type to tell Simmons what to do. That had always been more of a Simmons-to-Grif dynamic. So Simmons should definitely go. It would be reasonable to leave. If he could bring his body back online, he would honor Grif's request, because he was someone who did the right thing. Really, he was. He didn't want to do this to Grif. He didn't. He just needed a second. Just a second to --

Without warning, Grif lurched towards him. Simmons fell backwards as Grif gave him a graceless shove, almost as if he were undecided between pushing Simmons or falling down himself. And then, inexplicably, Grif's hand clamped down hard on contact, and he pulled Simmons back towards him, making their heads bump together in the whiplash.

Simmons hissed through his teeth. Grif's touch burned through the fabric of the undersuit, and Simmons felt every part of himself radiate toward it.

"What the hell," Grif whispered, wide-eyed and half-shadowed from the narrow beam of the headlight. This close, Simmons could see one iridescent eye, and it was the clearest he'd seen Grif maybe ever. As long as Simmons had known him, he'd been awed and slightly jealous of Grif's uncanny ability to maintain the most dull and uninterested stare, regardless of person or situation. To add insult to injury, Grif's eyes were so dark that his pupils were practically invisible, giving him an added layer of immunity from the betrayal of any instinctual reactions.

Simmons had actually thought for an embarrassingly long time that Grif's eyes were black. It hadn't been until after the surgery, when Sarge had shined a flashlight in Grif's face during an implant check-up, that he'd finally realized they were a deep, warm brown. Hidden depths, he'd thought ridiculously at the time, but it didn't make it not true.

Now, Grif's closeness had let Simmons see everything, and it was so much. Too much.

"Grif," he said, and it was whiny as fuck, so annoying, he hated everything about it. What was he supposed to do? He wasn't equipped to handle this. Grif didn't know. It wasn't his fault. It definitely will be Simmons' fault if he lets this happen.

Grif released a heavy breath through his nose before releasing his grip. The loss of contact felt like losing a piece of Simmons’ own self, and it was...sad? How could a body be sad? What was the temple doing to him?

"Simmons, just...leave." Grif paused. "Please." His hand was now running through his hair, fingers agitatedly pulling at the strands as if to keep it from flying forward onto Simmons again. But he looked more at ease now. That was good. Safe.

"Well," Simmons tried to say lightly, "if you're going to bust out the niceties." He fumbled blindly for the door handle behind him.

"It might help to turn around," Grif said absently. He dragged his hand down to rub at his cheek. "Just a...just a thought."

Simmons tore his eyes away from Grif's hair, which now looked really well-tousled instead of like its usual greasy tangle. "Right." He spun around clumsily, banging his shoulder against the door.

"Fuck," he breathed, jiggling the handle. His arm still burned where Grif had touched him. "It's locked." He paused. "Wait. Why is it locked from the inside?"

Realization hit him like a lightning bolt. I've been coming here for weeks, dumbass. Weeks in which Chorus leadership had noted in meetings -- meetings Grif had skipped! -- a concerning drop in food supplies and begun creating fail-safes against smuggling. Grif's exceptional fatassery had finally gone a step too far. Why hadn't he thought for one second about the purpose of that goddamned broom handle.

Simmons stared at the door as if he could will it to open. There was nothing else to do. If he turned around, though -- if he looked at Grif -- his body sang at the thought, and he pushed down on it, hard.

"Simmons," a voice suddenly whispered against his neck, because Grif was shorter than him and holy fuck when had he gotten so close? "Simmons." Grif's exhaled breath tickled his skin, and he shivered. All he could think about was Grif touching him again. Why hadn't Grif touched him again? Grif couldn't touch him again, or it would all be over.

Simmons braced his hands against the door to stop his knees from shaking. There had to be another way out of here; all he needed to do was find it. Then he wouldn’t even have to explain the temple. It would be the most sound, practical solution to this...problem. For the best, really.

"Something's wrong with me," Grif muttered against his neck. "Talk to me, Simmons, come on, you always talk, say something, give me anything--"

Okay, Simmons, think. No other exits, no windows, nothing but Grif and his helmet’s headlight shining on their backs.

Wait. His helmet?

"I'm sorry," he said to the wall, and then pushed back hard, sending Grif sprawling with a yelp of surprise.

Simmons turned and leapt forward, fumbling for the helmet, the light careening wildly against the walls. "Come in, hello? We're stuck!" he cried out as he jammed it on his head. His hands itched to touch Grif's skin. "In here. Alone. Anybody?"

Comms couldn't be down, not for all of Chorus. That was impossible. He scrolled frantically through his HUD until he got to the alerts screen and read:

COMMS SHUT OFF FOR DURATION OF TEMPLE EFFECTS BY ORDER OF PRES. KIMBALL

"Right," he sighed, shoulders drooping. "Of course. Privacy is important, and," he let out a short, defeated laugh, "who'd be able help us right now anyway?"

He pulled the helmet off and dropped it on the floor. The light faced somewhere left of them, leaving them in semi-darkness. Below him, Grif was concerningly silent.

“Grif?” He looked down, heart pounding. “Did I kill you?”

“No. Not yet at least,” Grif muttered. Unlike the unnerving panic attack from earlier, he’d seen Grif like this before. You know, relatively calm, but also bright-eyed, slightly flushed and...wriggly, for lack of a better term. It had never been personally directed at him. Some things you just couldn’t avoid after sharing a room for long enough. Especially when your roommate decided to look at porn with you in the room.

This still wasn’t personally directed at him, Simmons reminded himself firmly.

“Look,” Grif said from the floor, "can we be real for a second?" He bit his lip and let out a soft, frustrated noise as he shifted restlessly. "I need to get off. Like, now."

Simmons could actually feel the flush that spread across his cheeks as he took Grif’s words in. This is happening. This is happening. This is happening, his brain supplied helpfully. His body stepped in to painfully remind him that it was completely and totally on board.

Grif glared up at him. "Come on, dude. Throw me a bone here.”

Simmons swallowed. Grif was proposing it, so it was fine, right? Or the algorithm made it okay for Grif to propose it. And for him to accept it, if he was understanding it correctly. "Me...me too. I guess.”

Grif nodded in satisfaction, and squirmed on the floor for a bit longer before settling on an apparently slightly more comfortable position. "So, obviously neither of us are happy about it or anything. But I -- we -- gotta do it, man."

"Right, okay.” Simmons paused. “Do what exactly?"

Visions swam in his mind of what Grif could say. What he wanted Grif to say. Correction: what the temple wanted him to want Grif to say. Obviously.

"Uh, the bare fucking minimum. Also, losing your virginity like this would be pretty awful, so. Win-win."

"Win-win," Simmons echoed, voice cracking slightly.

He was going to touch Grif, and they were going to get off. Together. Grif was going to touch him and he wanted him to. He could admit that, right? It was the temple, after all.

"Okay," he said, heart in his throat.

"Okay," Grif repeated, and it was so anxiously giddy, Simmons felt himself grimace. It wasn't Grif's fault. It wasn't Grif at all actually, so Simmons might as well make it easier.

He knelt down next to Grif. "Uh." What came next, exactly? He made an aborted motion towards Grif's chest. “Should I...?”

Grif reached out and pulled Simmons on top of him by his undersuit.

The effect was immediate. "Oh god," Simmons breathed, eyes squeezed shut. He could smell Grif's sweat. Only two layers of undersuit separated his suddenly embarrassingly hard dick from Grif's leg.

Grif let out a pained sound before his hand landed on the back of Simmons' head, sifting through his hair in a way that would have been soothing under literally any other circumstance. He reflexively bucked against Grif instead, scalp tingling from Grif's fleeting touch.

When Grif pushed back, he felt hardness against his hip and moaned. Actually moaned, like a horny teenager. Jesus Christ. The sound of it rang out disgustingly in the almost silence.

Almost, because of Grif's loud breathing, which Simmons had attributed to Grif's general state of health until he actually listened to it. He'd never made anyone respond like Grif, not in almost thirty years of living. It's the temple, his mind whispered at him, as he hitched a thigh between Grif's legs, craving another breath, another sigh, another anything at all.

"Fuck," Grif choked out, chest vibrating against Simmons. He slid his hand down to rest on Simmons' neck. The heat of it felt like jumping into a hot tub on a cold day, scalding water that made his skin break out in goosebumps.

He clenched his jaw tightly to suppress a new wave of noises from escaping into the room.

And now he sounded like a duct taped hostage. How incredibly sexy. The temple was a miracle worker if Grif’s libido survived all of that intact.

Wait, why did he even need to sound sexy? Simmons shook his head, planted his hands on either side of Grif, and pushed up and away for better leverage. It was so much easier to remember how things stood from here. They had been forced into this, Grif was the least intimidating person he knew, and so if it had to happen, who better? Just two guys helping each other out in their time of need, totally casual and mutually rewarding. So what if Simmons could still feel everything: Grif's fingers digging into his wrist and Grif’s stomach expanding outward to brush against his arms and Grif’s dick grinding on his leg, gradually making his undersuit wet? That was fine. He was just the most convenient option.

Simmons closed his eyes and concentrated on the steady, agonizing slide of pleasure until it began to lead to a rhythm that made his mind go hazy. Below him, Grif kept taking in long, shuddering breaths. It was the perfect spot, perfect pressure, more euphoric than any jerk-off session.

And then Grif did the worst possible thing. An unforgivable thing. He started fucking talking.

"Holy shit, Simmons," Grif whispered frantically, bringing him completely out of the moment. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit." Simmons felt Grif's hands on his hips, patting him as if to convince himself that Simmons was actually there.

"Simmons, ah --" His breath hitched and he arched up, hands gripping tightly. "That's good, so good, it's perfect -- you're perfect --"

Simmons jerked forward roughly enough to move both of them a good foot across the floor. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck.

"Simmons? Do you like it?" Grif babbled beneath him. "Does it feel okay, or good, or --"

"Shut up," Simmons said tightly as he pressed down against Grif's leg. He desperately fixated on Grif's Adam's apple, ears prickling. It wasn't Grif. It wasn't him. It felt so good, though, hearing his name that way.

From Grif. His mind stuttered and came to a halt.

The lazy back-and-forth that had been so mind-numbingly good before was now woefully inadequate. He felt impatient with need. It burned him from the inside out, and he leaned into it.

“Okay.” Grif’s voice broke and wavered. Simmons jumped slightly at the sensation of Grif’s fingers running against his stitches. It was a weirdly gentle gesture. “Good.”

Simmons sniffed loudly as the pressure mounted under his skin. Grif’s irritating, insistent touch made him want to scream. Why were his eyes watering?

And then, Grif’s soft, shaking fingers slid away and upward to stroke his cheek, less delicate than clumsy. He could look up; it would be easy enough. Grif swallowed hard, the Adam's apple slid downward, and Simmons felt his stare, but kept holding on and away, grinding down hard and fast and panting. He was close, so close, fuck.

If Grif would just stop talking, they could finish getting off and forget this ever happened. But Grif had never listened to Simmons, not once in all their years together.

"You -- your face -- Simmons," Grif stuttered, and it was wobbly and wanting and full of unspeakable things. Grif pushed up hard and let out a startled sound from deep in his throat before falling limp, chest heaving.

"Goddamnit, Grif," Simmons gasped. "I'm gonna -- gonna --" He went taut as he shuddered into climax. "Nnnngh."

He let himself lay on top of Grif for a moment and tried to catch his breath. He had never even hugged Grif before, and now he felt like he was falling into a chasm, dark and terrifying.

He needed to get up.

"Uh, Grif, about the temple," he started haltingly, before he lost his nerve. "It causes --"

A rumbling snore interrupted him.

Simmons sighed and shifted slightly over to Grif’s side. There was come drying in his undersuit and Grif shouldn't have this much pressure on his bruises. But he was warm, and there was nowhere else to go. Also, sex with another person had been a lot more tiring than Simmons had thought it would be.

For awhile, he lay in a state of sleepy semi-panic. Should he get up? Would Grif think it was weird that he hadn’t gotten up earlier? Who cared what Grif thought anyway? Did he care? The algorithm had clearly been all wrong -- it had made two people who couldn't even procreate fuck, hadn't it? So neither of them should care about any of it, least of all some post-coital napping.

But what if Grif did?

"Shut up," he murmured to himself as he concentrated on Grif's even breathing. Eventually, he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Simmons woke to bright light flooding behind his eyelids.

"Oh look, Freckles, we have found more best friends laying down together in the dark!" Caboose's helmet stared down at them, framed by fluorescent light. "Santa says you can come out now."

Simmons pulled away from Grif so fast, his head hit the floor. "Caboose! Uh..." He looked up from the ground and groaned when he saw pink armor.

"Heyyyyy, guys! I can't believe it! I mean, I can believe it -- well, we all can, really --"

"Fuck. Off. Everyone," Grif's flat, tired voice came from behind Simmons. Simmons sat up abruptly and discreetly checked himself for decency. Somehow, Grif had found the time to put his own helmet back on. "I'm trying to sleep."

"Fine, Mister Grumpy Pants," Donut pouted. "And here I'd thought you'd be a little more happy." He stared meaningfully at Simmons before following Caboose down the hall, leaving Simmons scrambling to catch the door before it closed.

He cleared his throat as Grif made his way back behind his canned food wall. "Do you, uh, want to talk about it?"

"Did you or did you not hear me the first time, Dick?" Grif said, voice devoid of anything beyond irritation.

"Oh, thank god." Simmons grabbed his armor and fled, propping the long-forgotten broom handle in the doorway on his way out.

Simmons never directly tells Grif about the temple. He knows Grif knows when he joins Simmons at the lunch table the next day and says, "Fucking Santa and fucking Tucker," and they leave it at that.

When Donut and Tucker come in and ask for a million details, Grif threatens to gut them with the Grif Shot, and Simmons is infinitely grateful. It’s honestly better than any other conversation they could have mustered up on their own.

Simmons is also infinitely grateful that Grif doesn’t bring up his terrible sex noises or his pathetic almost-tears.

No one mentions the algorithm at all.

Simmons sees Grif in the showers later and locks eyes with the wall until he leaves. No one says anything to anyone, really, since most of the room's got their own horror stories and the scars to prove it. Thank god he has his own quarters. He has no desire to see anyone else out of armor for the foreseeable future.

That night, he jacks off and thinks of Grif's voice, just to see. Simmons, you're so good, Grif-in-his-mind says, you're perfect. He thinks of how Grif's open face might have looked, his gasps, all the things the temple made him do.

It fucking sucks.

#dexter grif #dick simmons #rvb #grimmons #red vs blue #fanfic

[simplifyingforces]

Ahh, thanks so much! I think that’s my favorite opening of the work I’ve done.

So, I got recommended @simplifyingforces A Regulaly Scheduled Flight and this beginning paragraph is amazing. I can practically see the building it’s describing. 

The Elliott Building, which now sits in the heart of what is not-quite-affectionately called Old Gotham, was built in 1884 through the funding of Edward Elliott, one of the esteemed founders of modern-day Gotham City.  It was a model of Gothic Revival architecture, rising majestically into a sky that would soon become crowded with an overabundance of similarly designed buildings, fighting for a sliver of sunlight that never filtered down to the masses below.  The ribbed vaults of dark stone reached into a darkness that hid its elegantly pointed arches, the stained glass along each wall beautifully warped by time.  The slate tile floor had been methodically cared for since its placement on the uppermost level, with countless gray tones that flecked and swirled across its surface.

#superbat #my one and only multichapter fic

[simplifyingforces]

Fives (Phase I helmet)

Fives is one of my favorite characters in the Star Wars universe, and there’s just not enough love (or merch) for him and his bravery and intelligence and caring nature and determination and and and…

Anyway! This is my one DIY project of the year, which I’ll be wearing for Star Wars Night at the D-Backs/Giants game this Saturday. I’ll be somewhere on the lower level with Captain Rex :).

Short details about the process under the cut:

Since I just bought a plain Phase I clone trooper helmet off eBay, the only thing I needed to do was attach the design. I used sticker paper (like what you use for Cricut) and made the pieces based off this model of Fives’ Phase I helmet using scissors and an X-Acto Knife. Super easy, and I think it looks pretty good! I want like 5 million more of these so I can make all my faves (AKA every single clone trooper ever).

#arc trooper fives #fives #tcw #the clone wars #diy #hi little rex and ahsoka on the bookshelf!

[simplifyingforces]

Thanks so much! I’m super flattered to be on this list, honestly.

RvB Rec Day: Grimmons

I’m big into Grimmons for RvB, so I’m going to rec some faves off the top of my head (and the first few on my Ao3 bookmarks). Twist, Lick… Dick? by simplifyingforces - Grif perves on Simmons eating oreos for the first time My Husband, My Boyfriend, and Me by eggstasy ( @sex-cymbal ) which is part of the cosmoverse. Set during the Chorus trilogy, Simmons and Grif get together. It’s awesome.

Retrograde by @goodluckdetective - There’s a power surge on Chorus. Simmons is part cyborg. Grif POV.

Contact by Papershrine - Told with flashbacks interspersed with present day, it’s a great character study and get-together fic.

#grimmons #fic rec #all of these other fics are SO GOOD #man i love this pairing #red vs blue

[simplifyingforces]

This is the first thing I've written for Red vs. Blue, and it is so ridiculous and stereotypical, I'm sorry. I love these two a hell of a lot though, so I just wanted to try my hand at something...and this is definitely something.

Twist, Lick, ...Dick? [AO3 link]

Rating: Teen (mainly for language) Fandom: Red vs. Blue Characters: Dexter Grif, Dick Simmons Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons

Can Grif resist the ultimate temptation of watching Simmons eat Oreos for the first time? (No.)

Grif is a man of simple pleasures. In fact, the Grif happiness pyramid™ -- created and ratified in Honolulu, Hawaii at the age of ten with one Kaikaina Grif, age six -- consists of only three layers: a solid base of sleep, followed by a central layer of consistent food supply, and topped off with access to decent TV. Thanks to his cot and Simmons’ borderline neurotic pop culture collecting habits, the outer two sections have been consistently covered ever since he ended up in Blood Gulch.

The center (a hopefully gooey, fried center) is a bit harder to come by. MREs are an actual affront to the word food. Any possible natural vegetation in this hellhole is also a solid no, because vegetation’s root word is veggie and that makes it awful by default. Under these conditions, Grif has to resort to drastic measures. He actually has to ration the few good things he comes across. Fortunately for him, the best food in the galaxy is both reasonably accessible and savable.

Every day he’s stuck in this hot, godforsaken canyon, he thanks UNSC transport for carrying Oreos, America’s greatest gift to mankind.

They’re not easy to keep in steady supply, but he’s an islander. He knows all about being stuck in remote places with ridiculously high markups on luxury items. He’s prepared his entire life for this very scenario.

Grif’s Oreo-saving strategy consists of three simple rules:

Rule #1: All Oreos sent to Red Base are Grif’s Oreos. Granted, no one else has ever seemed all that interested in them, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a process. Grif has made friendly with so many (too many) UNSC pilots to ensure those Oreos are his and his alone.

Rule #2: There are three secret locations dedicated solely to Oreo stockpiling:

Location 1 - Stuffed deep inside a large bag of rice in the kitchen pantry,

Location 2 - In the back of his underwear drawer, and

Location 3 - Under his cot behind the cardboard box marked “Grif’s Porn - Do Not Touch!!”

Rule #3: He does not fuck around with his Oreos. Oreos are not to be shared, bartered, or used as bribes. The only person ever in possession of an Oreo on Red Base is Dexter Grif --

-- until today.

It seems today is the day someone finally decided to fuck with his Oreo stash.

That someone is his former sort-of-friend, Dick Simmons, currently about fifteen paces away in the shared kitchen. The betrayal feels like a hot knife sliding through his gut.

Simmons is sitting at the table, casual as Simmons gets, with an entire stack of chocolate creamy goodness. He’s got a whole little setup, too: a fucking ceramic plate organized with a precisely centered tower of three--three!--premium quality Double Stuf Oreos. It’s like Simmons knows about Grif’s affinity for simple three-step living and decided to shit all over it with his perfect Oreo stack.

(Simmons does, in fact, know about his affinity for simple three-step living, because he’d argued very vigorously against the value of the Grif happiness pyramid™ only a month ago.

Where are the people? Simmons had asked as he’d stared at Grif’s crude recreation of it. He’d sounded aghast, which aptly describes Simmons’ tone about sixty percent of the time.

When Grif had responded, What people? Simmons’ face had gone slack. He'd probably thought he was being very unreadable, but his reaction was painfully obvious to anyone that knew Simmons in the slightest. Simmons, generally speaking, sucked at being unreadable.

So maybe Grif had had to say that pyramid lines were there for a reason. The Grif happiness pyramid™ suddenly had to become way more complicated because each line was now representative of some overarching structure in his life just to make Simmons not look so goddamn sad.

But Simmons’ eyebrows had risen in this surprised, pleased little arc when he’d said it. It had been something of a moment until Grif realized that he hadn’t even asked who the lines represented. He’d just assumed, which -- Grif isn’t gonna say he’s wrong, but it annoys him. He takes a certain level of pride in his aloofness, and Simmons is ruining it.)

The only possible way Simmons could have Double Stuf Oreos is if he-- shit. Grif only keeps Double Stufs in Secret Stash Location 3, for obvious reasons. It would be a good idea to go check if Simmons has been through his box of porn. There are things in there that Simmons doesn’t need to know about and probably shouldn’t touch.

But he really wants his goddamn Oreos back.

Simmons is completely oblivious to his dilemma. He’s got one hand on the top Oreo in the stack and the other propping up one of those moldy old training manuals they’d found back when Red Team first landed in Blood Gulch.

The manuals are the most boring thing in the sea of boringness that is this base. Simmons has read all five of them front-to-back at least twice, and those puppies are long.

He must still be really engrossed, though, because he’s taking f o r e v e r to twist the Oreo open. He’s balancing the manual on his forearms to use both hands instead of putting it down and focusing on the good stuff.

This abomination has to end. Now.

Grif’s two steps from the kitchen entryway when Simmons finally gets the top wafer off. He nibbles on it, front teeth working it like a rabbit with a carrot. Little crumbs are getting stuck in the corner of Simmons’ mouth and all over his fingertips, all because he doesn’t know how to eat an Oreo properly. It’s making Grif’s eye twitch.

Here’s the thing -- Grif has never, not once, seen the value of twisting open an Oreo. The Oreo is designed to be eaten in one bite, no matter what Nabisco’s advertising department claims. Sure, efficiency is part of it, but come on -- the ratio of chocolate wafer to vanilla creme, the contrasting textures of crunchy and smooth, the way it all perfectly melts in your mouth? There is absolutely no reason to twist open an Oreo other than for the novelty of doing it.

He may have to reassess his opinion, though, once he sees Simmons get to the Oreo’s center.

Simmons’ tongue is committing the filthiest acts to the creme filling. Grif is positive that he has no idea how it looks because it is obscene, and Simmons has never wanted to be associated with anything beyond mildly endearing. Meanwhile, his eyes are flicking back and forth over the manual pages, like making love to a cookie is normal eating procedure. This is coming from a guy who regularly rides Grif’s ass for using “improper” silverware. (A fork, by the way, works perfectly fine for cereal. Especially when there are no clean spoons.)

His mouth falls open when Simmons holds the bottom half of the Oreo right up to his lips and flattens his tongue against it. He swipes up, and Grif spots a peek of white before Simmons pulls his tongue back into his mouth. When he swallows, his eyelids close for the briefest moment in satisfaction.

Grif can feel goosebumps forming on his skin as he watches. He should stop being creepy and either announce himself or fuck off. He doesn’t want to fuck off, though. He also doesn’t want Simmons to stop sexing up his Oreos, and Simmons totally will if he knows someone else is watching. Simmons cannot -- and should not -- be brought out of the Oreo-eating zone at this point.

So he stays. Simmons does not disappoint.

He abandons flat licking for a poke-and-swirl method. The tip of his tongue dives into the creme (which is now all wet and sticky and making Grif think...things) and digs it out in a rough circular pattern. Simmons just circles and circles until there’s a good amount gathered, and then he swallows.

Grif chokes on his own spit when he sees the creme disappear into Simmons’ mouth. His cheeks are burning, and it’s one hundred percent shame -- total, fascinated, secret shame. Who would have ever guessed Simmons had such a long and skillful tongue?

He’s almost disappointed when he realizes that the creme’s gone. Simmons seems to notice the same problem when he licks again and gets nothing. Still completely absorbed in the manual, he slowly pushes the remaining wafer between his lips.

“Man, am I glad I gave Simmons those cookies!” a whispered voice says right in his ear.

Grif jumps about a foot in the air. “Donut?!” He drags his fellow voyeur back behind the doorway and out of Simmons’ sight.

“He really knows how to get every little bit of that delicious white stuff into his mouth, huh? Great technique. I’ve gotta try it sometime.”

“Ugh,” Grif says. “Wait -- you got Simmons those Oreos?” Secret Stash Location 3 flashes briefly in his mind. If Donut actually dove through a sea of naked women to get his Double Stufs, he might be impressed enough to let it slide.

“Don’t worry, they aren’t yours. I’ve got my ways,” Donut responds with an eyebrow waggle. Grif isn’t even going to try to interpret what that means.

At the sound of a slurp from the kitchen, they turn back to Simmons, who’s now going to town on the second Oreo. It’s a lot more uncomfortable to watch this with Donut next to him. The guy is breathing all labored and excited right into his ear.

“Donut,” he says after a minute. He keeps his eyes on Simmons and winces when he swallows another gob of creme. “Why did you give Oreos to Simmons?”

“Can’t a guy give another guy a special, private gift every now and then? I mean, I didn’t think it would feel this good to watch him enjoy it, but wow!”

“But--but I'm the Oreo guy!” Grif exclaims as loudly as he can without alerting Simmons to their conversation.

“Yeeeees,” Donut says patiently, “and now Simmons tastes like Oreos.”

Grif freezes. He never thought he’d be whispering to Donut in a secluded spot with a hard-on, but here he is all the same.

Beyond the doorway, he can see Simmons’ long, twisty tongue covered in Oreo creme. His lips are dusted with chocolate crumbs. Simmons and Oreos. His brain is short-circuiting the more he thinks about it.

A small, hungry sound pushes up out of his throat before he can stop himself. Goddamnit.

Donut is surprisingly self-contained when he pats him on the back. “Don’t say I never did anything for you. And, y’know, since you’re just peeping back here...if you don’t mind a little company...”

“Donut, I swear to god--” Grif has probably fulfilled at least four of Donut’s fantasies already, and he’s not looking to entertain any more.

“Okay, okay, I’ll get out of your hair!” Grif can hear him skip all the way back down the hallway. Now that he’s alone again, he's overly aware of all that his reaction entails. He will not jerk off in the kitchen doorway. No matter how much he wants to.

While Grif works on keeping his boner in check, Simmons starts on the last Oreo. This time he decides to keep the sandwich intact and run his tongue in and out of the middle seam. It doesn’t even make sense from a practical standpoint. Grif watches him anyway.

He should have known that keeping his boner in check is not going to happen. Staring at Simmons too long out of armor is not something Grif does, and for good reason. He’d figured that out fairly early on when Simmons had pulled off his helmet during a training exercise. It had been exceptionally hot that day, and Simmons’ power armor coolant had malfunctioned instead of his own for once. Sarge had cursed up a storm about it -- Don't you know you're outside, Simmons? The Blues'll have a field day with target practice on your head! -- and Grif had looked up to say something snarky that was forever lost to the ether, because everything flew out of his brain when he saw Simmons.

It wasn’t like he was unfamiliar with Simmons’ face (they did share a base, after all) but holy hell was this different. The lighting, for one -- Simmons’ hair absolutely shined in the sunlight. The top was all smushed down from the helmet, but it didn’t really take away from the overall effect. Below his ridiculous gleaming hair, his skin had flushed a deep red entirely different from his usual mild embarrassed blush. It made his eyes unbelievably bright in contrast. They were also a little glassy, which was a possible sign of heatstroke, but it was still oddly captivating.

It was Simmons undone, which was never really a thing Simmons was, physically speaking.

At that point, all it took was Simmons letting out a breathless, Sorry, sir, and licking his dry lips for Grif’s dick to come to attention. Simmons’ voice had a husky mode, and all it had needed was a little dehydration to draw it out. Grif had turned away after that, because sexy Simmons was making him question too much of the last two years of his life.

After that, every time he saw Simmons without a helmet, he couldn’t help but think of that day. So he avoided it with every fiber of his being, because he and Simmons had a good thing going, and there were so few good things that got to stay in his life.

Today is apparently the day of reckoning, though. Fuck Donut and fuck repression. When Simmons finally gives up and pops the whole thing in his mouth, Grif decides it’s time to step in. Enough is enough.

He stomps into the kitchen so loudly that Simmons finally glances up from the manual. “Grif!” he yelps around a mouthful of cookie. He looks entirely too guilty.

“You know,” Grif says, and it’s stupid, so stupid, but he’s too turned on at this point to care, “I’m an Oreo man.” There, he said it. He can die happy now that he’s worked Oreos into a sexual proposition.

Simmons swallows and drops the manual on the table. “A what?”

There’s no time to reevaluate his poor life choices. Grif straddles the other seat at the table and scoots right up next to Simmons. “Some guys are ass men, or boob men, or dick men, but me? I’m a slut for Oreos.” He flicks his eyes down at Simmons’ lips for good measure.

“Oh. Okay?” Simmons is either the most oblivious or most polite person on the planet, and Grif knows from personal experience that Simmons is not polite. But he catches Simmons eyes flick downward in response and he’s already come this far. He’s not gonna stop now, when the potential payoff is so good.

He tips the chair forward onto two legs. “So you like Oreos, too?” he says, and it’s supposed to sound all cool and seductive and shit but he’s pretty sure it actually sounds totally desperate. He literally just watched Simmons eat three Double Stuf Oreos like they’re grade-A pussy.

Simmons considers him for a second. He’s only inches away from Grif’s face when he says, “Actually…I’d never had them before.”

Grif will be scandalized about that later. You know, when he’s not otherwise occupied.

“But after meeting you,” Simmons hesitates, and Grif actually can’t take another second of this, because Simmons’ breath smells like Oreos, which means Simmons smells like Oreos, and now his dick is pressing really painfully into the chair back.

“I wanted a taste,” he finishes in a rush. He’s got this nervously expectant look on his face.

“Yeah, me too,” Grif breathes. “Wait...what?”

Simmons lets out a deep, relieved sigh. “Just kiss me already, dumbass,” he says, so Grif does.

It’s fucking glorious. Before he can even think about it, he’s running his tongue over every inch of the inside of Simmons’ mouth. He may or may not be moaning really embarrassingly.

“This is actually your kink,” Simmons says once they finally break apart. “I so called it.”

It’s just like Simmons to ruin the moment. But when Grif opens his eyes, he can see that lift in his brow, and he settles. He guesses he can admit that the new Grif happiness pyramid™ is alright, even if it is more complicated and the line representation thing makes no goddamn sense.

“Shut up, asshole,” he says, and kisses him again.

#red vs blue #rvb #grimmons #dexter grif #dick simmons #this is silly and self-indulgent #and also a little corny #fanfic

[simplifyingforces]

This is my first attempt at Star Wars fanfic; I fell in love with it fairly recently via TFA, although clones and Ahsoka stole my heart. I spent the last month rushing through The Clone Wars and Rebels just in time to watch "Twilight of the Apprentice" and cry a lot, and this is my first finished result. Hopefully I did it justice! 

In the Twilight of Memory [AO3 link]

Rating: General Audiences Fandom: Star Wars: Rebels Characters: CT-7567 (Rex), Ahsoka Tano

Ahsoka's heading to Malachor, but Rex can't let her go without finding closure.

It’s late, and Rex is so very tired. He’s tired a lot these days, and it’s only going to go downhill from here. Sore muscles and creaking joints aside, they’ll all live to fight another day, and he can’t be too upset about that.

This may be the last time he thinks that, after all.

He gingerly makes his way around the base, looking for the spot he knows he’ll find the Commander. Ahsoka, he tells himself, and it’s another reminder he’ll probably forget the next time he thinks about her.

When he finds her, it’s like a memory come to life. She’s sitting in a corner of the empty makeshift mess hall with a cup of caff in her hands, knees pulled up tightly to her chest with her head pillowed on them.

It always seems to slightly throw him off when he catches her here, for as many times as he’s done it. He’s seen her meditate a thousand times, often in the oddest places, but this has never been about clearing her mind. He knows her; has known her since she was just a youngling. It’s preparation, a pre-battle ritual, and it always involves a silent, lonely cup of caff in a place meant for camaraderie and friendship.

“Heard you had quite a time with the local wildlife,” she says as she raises her head slightly and offers him a smile. It’s open and genuine, and his heart breaks a little because it feels so old. He can’t imagine what she sees when she looks at him.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he replies. “Mind if I join you?”

She unfolds an arm in welcome, and he sits across from her. Closer up, she looks tense around the eyes. There’s a holoprojector on the table that looks like it’s one of the Spectres’, judging by the heavy amount wear-and-tear on the thing. He’s putting his money on Jarrus.

“Please don’t tell me that you’ve gotten hooked on holodramas in the time you’ve been underground.” And it’s hard, hard as hell, to think about the arguments they used to have on the Resolute about the latest holo releases. There was that one time, on a planet he can’t even remember anymore, where they’d spent a full day of leave trying to find the latest comedy for the boys. He was pretty sure they both had ended up on some sort of watch list for that adventure, but it had been worth it. The Commander had always gone all-out for his brothers, to help them find a little more happiness in the bad draw they had all gotten in this galaxy.

“Rexster, you wouldn’t know a good holodrama if it bit you in the shebs,” she says, and he laughs. He’d forgotten just how much Mando’a she’d learned during the Clone Wars.

“True enough. I’ve always been a holoadventure man, myself.” She smiles back indulgently and, in their comfortable banter, he’s not sure how to broach the topic that’s been on the tip of his tongue since he found himself working beside her again.

With the swift push of a button, she does it for him. The projector turns on, and staring back at him is the face of his General.

“I’d say this particular disk straddles the line between both of our preferred holo genres,” she says. It’s some sort of training video, nothing of much value to a clone like him, but you can see all of the power and innovation that the General had possessed, even filtered through the recording. It had saved both of them more times than he can count.

“I never thought,” she begins as he watches, and he can see her throat working to get the words out from the corner of his eye. “Not until the Siege of Lothal, that there was any possibility, any at all…” Her face is covered mostly by the holo of the General, but he can see her hand shaking slightly on the table, and he grabs it.

“Is he alive?” His throat is tight, and it makes the question come out hoarsely. Her hand turns under his to grasp back, and it’s cold like the rest of her, but it conveys such strength and understanding. He holds on tightly like it’s a lifeline, because it is. She has been, for decades now.

“Yes,” she breathes, and with that admission, he wants to shrink back and away from his massive failure. All those years, the messages she’d sent him, asking for his help, and -- he doesn’t blame Wolffe, he couldn’t. But he’s a capable man. He was bred to be. His Jedi had needed him and he hadn’t been there.

“Can we--is he on Malachor?” She jerks back slightly in response, but he doesn’t let go. He can’t, not yet.

“He will be,” she says with such subdued finality that it worries him. He watches her look at the General, still going through the motions of some Jedi combat technique, so young and confident. After a moment, she stretches her other hand out toward the tiny figure, like she can reach in and save him, keep him in a time and place that’s long gone. Maybe she wants to go back there herself.

“We were the best, weren’t we?” she whispers, the blue light of the holo reflecting on her skin, and he squeezes her hand again.

“Never saw a better pair than the two of you,” he responds, and that’s never been a lie. “Made it damn hard to keep up, as you well know.” She blinks swiftly a few times, and then reaches down and powers off the projector. The room feels empty and motionless.

Half-formed theories and questions are swirling in his head, dredging up old algorithms and battle plans. If they can save him, he wants so desperately to do it. A man like General Skywalker could turn the tide, bring back the Republic. A man like him could be there for her, because Rex knows he’s only got so many years left in him and she needs someone.

Like all Jedi (no matter what she says these days), she’s giving him that look, like she knows all the things he’s considering. She doesn’t need to be a Jedi for that, with all that they’ve been through. He has no problem waiting for the opinion she’s never had a problem giving.

“The dark side of the Force is powerful and tempting,” she says, finally. “I know that as well as any Jedi. It’s very difficult to return, from something--from something like that.” She hesitates as she looks at him, and he can see that there’s some knowledge there that she’s still working through. He can tell that she’s afraid.

“You have to embrace your anger, your hate, and when you do...it broadcasts. And some people broadcast so strongly and so uniquely in the Force that you know.” She pauses and breathes in, slowly. “You know who it is. Even if you don’t want to believe it.”

He should say something, anything, but he can’t think of what to say. General Skywalker -- the man who stopped at nothing to save millions of innocents, who called his brothers by name, who loved the Senator so fiercely -- had Fallen. There were no words of comfort for that, not for his padawan, whose heart is breaking in front of him.

“Then he’s working for the Empire,” he finally gets out, to put them back on some sort of firm footing. They need a plan, and he’s always been good at those, even when everything is crashing around him. “An Inquisitor?”

She shakes her head. “We thought they were long gone, before Maul. We were all fooled by Palpatine.” He’s shaking his own head now in disbelief, because he knows where she’s going; he knows it and he can’t believe it.

“There’s always two, Rex. A master and an apprentice.”

He stands up before he can even register he’s doing it, ripping his hand out of hers.

“You can’t go to Malachor!” he shouts and it’s pathetic how petulant he sounds. “I won’t let you, Commander.”

Her face is stoic, so opposite of when she was young and her cartoonish expressions had been able to get even General Windu to crack a smile every now and again. He can hardly read her like this, and it makes him nervous. “Nobody lets me do anything, Captain.”

He places his hands on his hips to keep them from clenching. Breathe, he commands his traitorous old body, and think.

“I was assigned to have your back,” he grits out, switching tactics, “and I haven’t abandoned that duty, even if I’m no longer a soldier. Take me with you. We know his strengths and weaknesses better than anyone. Between us and Jarrus, we might have a shot.” He’s running through scenarios in his mind full speed, and it’s like preparing for Dooku all over again. If he can ignore the man he’s facing.

It takes him a bit of time to notice that she’s gotten up and is now in front of him. She leans in and folds him into a hug. “Old sins cast long shadows,” she whispers in his ear. “I’ve got to do this on my own, Rex.”

“See?” he whispers back, and deflates in her arms. He can feel his eyes watering, because this is it, and it’s come too damn soon. “Knew you were still a Jedi.”

He can feel her shake against him in laughter, even if no sound comes out. He knows he’s gripping her too tightly, but he can’t make himself stop. She’s holding him pretty tightly herself.

“If I don’t come back,” she whispers, and he lets out an ugly, choked sound. “If I don’t come back, promise me something, will you?”

“Anything,” he says.

“Keep up with Ezra. I’ve heard you’re pretty good with raising padawans, and rumor has it that you might have even enjoyed it a time or two.”

He flexes his fingers against her back and closes his eyes. He can see both of them in his mind, impossibly young. And they’re happy, for whatever happiness had been worth in their lives. He sees them playing sabacc on the bridge, and leaning together to stay upright during night watch, and giving each other glances around the general as he details their latest questionable mission. He’ll have that forever, even if he’s the only one left to remember.

“Be smart, Ahsoka,” he says, “and he’ll get to hear those stories himself.”

Gradually and too soon, he relaxes his grip and peels away. She’s taller than him now, so he has to look up at her to see her face. He can tell by her eyes that she’s prepared for the journey ahead, and if he could at least do that for her, it’s enough.

“Looks like I need a new cup of caff,” she says, with a glance at the table. “Care to join me? I’d like to review a few of the finer details of those stories before I go. I don’t think I trust your memory, old man.”

“I should have known you’d go there. Let’s start with Christophsis, shall we?”

“You mean the time I made you laugh so hard you had to cover your mouth so you wouldn’t embarrass yourself in front of Skyguy? Yeah, let’s start there.”

By the time dawn rolls around, they’re as content as they’re going to get. He only realizes once she’s gone that she’d indulged in his own pre-battle ritual. The sharing of stories, important to the millions of brothers lost to a meaningless war, and they had shared in it, one last time.

Ni partayli, gar darauum, Ahsoka. He won’t say the rest unless he has to.

The last little line here in Mandalorian is the second half of the full phrase (Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum), a phrase of remembrance for the dead, which means, “I’m still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.”

The title is taken from “The Farewell,” in The Prophet (1923) by Khalil Gibran, and I had this excerpt in mind when I wrote this:

“Farewell to you and the youth I have spent with you. It was but yesterday we met in a dream. You have sung to me in my aloneness, and I of your longings have built a tower in the sky. But now our sleep has fled and our dream is over, and it is no longer dawn. The noontide is upon us and our half waking has turned to fuller day, and we must part. If in the twilight of memory we should meet once more, we shall speak again together and you shall sing to me a deeper song. And if our hands should meet in another dream, we shall build another tower in the sky.”

#captain rex #ahsoka tano #star wars rebels #rexsoka #if you want it to be...this fic is gen though really #fanfic