Are We There Yet?

Title: Are We There Yet?
Author: Kaid
Fandom: RvB
Pairing: C/T…for now.
Rating: NC-17 over all
Warnings: Slash! WIP
Disclaimer: I do not own the creations of Rooster Teeth Productions, Microsoft or Bungie.
Summary: Church, Tucker, and one very unfortunate Warthog.


In a whirl of arms and legs and grasping hands, the two scrambled to replace the scattered pieces of their armor. Church elbowed Tucker in the face in his haste, knocking a yelp of pain from the younger Private. Church cringed and hushed him as the vehicle traveled closer, quickly identifying the machine as another Warthog.

“Dear god, it’s the Reds,” he groaned. Tucker smacked a piece of armor against his helmet in frustration before sloppily shoving it back into the clasps of his suit.

The vehicle came to a smooth stop a good ten feet from where the two Blues were desperately trying to suit up. Grif flopped his arm over the edge of the driver’s side door and perked in interest at the squawks and rustles emanating from the shaking tent.

“Now whaddaya suppose is goin’ on in there?” grumbled Sarge, glancing up at Simmons, who pointed the muzzle of a massive chain gun at the dome. The spotlight mounted below the barrel settled on the zipped door.

“Who cares. Can I shoot them, sir?” Simmons asked, barely controlling his quivering trigger finger.

“As much as I’d like to say yes, Private, Ah’m afraid Ah’m gonna hafta deny-”

“Just a little?” Simmons interrupted. “C’mon, just a few hundred rounds.”

The commanding officer felt his chest swell with pride. Sarge actually felt a tinge of pain when he told Simmons to settle down. “We’re here for a reason, Private. Wouldn’t do us any good to blast the bastards before we got what we came for.”

Impatient, Grif slammed his orange plated fist on the horn. “Hey! Fucktards! Get out here already!” he barked. With a final rustle and a screech from the ripped zipper, two armored bodies stumbled into the light.

“Oh…dear…god…” Grif choked.

“Hands in the air, dirtbags!” Sarge boomed, unfazed by the stricken sound in his inferior’s voice and the stifled laughter that broke from Grif’s throat. Confused but obedient, Tucker and Church lifted their arms skyward, eyes glued to dozens of barrels that made up the mounted weapon on the enemy ‘Hog. Simmons, as intent on killing as he seemed to be a few seconds ago, let the tip of the chain gun sag as he saw what was making his teammate double over behind the wheel. Coughing out a laugh of surprise, the maroon soldier nudged his C.O. and opened a private channel between them.

After a deafening moment of silence, during which the two Blues shifted their weight nervously and imagined a flurry of bullets exploding from the B.F.G., Sarge let out a soft murmur, darkly amused.

“Hmn, why it seems you’re right, Simmons,” he grinned. “Oh my. That’s terribly embarassin’.”

Church felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle. “What?” he snapped, pissed that the Reds were enjoying their capture so openly. The tip of the stocky C.O.’s pistol flicked downward, and Church’s gaze automatically followed the motion.

Adorning his crotch was a block of metal that shone bright teal in the spotlight. Beside him, Tucker let out a low groan. “No,” the younger Private nearly sobbed, as Church stared in absolute horror at the codpiece that wasn’t his.

Flushing in rage and flustered beyond the point of words, Church let out an inarticulate shout. His mind scrambled for something to blame for the situation before settling on the perfect subject. “Son of a bitch!” he cried, “Caboose, I’m going to fucking kill you!”

“Shut it!” Sarge regained his earlier gruffness. “Simmons, locate the vehicle.”

“Yes, sir.” Simmons swung the light around until it landed on the crumpled Blue Warthog, and Sarge smiled serenely behind his helmet, a happy sigh escaping his external speakers.

“Serves you little bastards right. Get yourselves a shiny new toy and whaddaya do? Go out n’ break it. Kids these days.” The veteran grumbled as he swung himself over the side of the ‘Hog and strode towards the wrecked car.

“Hey…hey!” Tucker yelled in impotent rage. “You stay the fuck away from her!” The Red C.O. ignored him and shone the lens of a hefty flashlight under the bent hood. He shook his head and tsked.

“Yep, yer lucky we were able ta find you retards at all. This heap’s so busted you can’t tell the radiator from the solar converter. You have any idea how far from Blood Gulch you are, numbnuts?” The flashlight was pointed directly into Church’s visor, which, thankfully, immediately adjusted to the glare.

“An hour, at most,” he said, confidently. Tucker coughed quietly next to him.

“An hour?” Sarge barked out a laugh. “An hour. Right. Simmons! How many miles to the Gulch?”

“Approximately thirty, sir.”

“THIRTY?! THIRTY FUCKING MILES!? TUCKER!” Church screamed, leaping at his teammate and attempting to strangle him. The Reds watched with excitement as the two struggled in the sand, Church throwing his weight on the younger soldier and pinning the guiltily sulking male into the ground. “Tell me he’s joking, Tucker. Tell me we’re not thirty god damn miles from base.”

Despite himself, the aqua Spartan blushed hotly under the weight of the bigger man. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to take the scenic route.”

“Scenic!? It’s fucking pitch fucking black fucking NIGHTIME you fucking … Arg!!” Church finally succumbed to his incoherent rage and slammed Tucker’s shoulders repeatedly into the sand.

“Look at them.” Grif gave a staged sigh of adoration. “Young lovers, exploring their passion in the moonlit desert. It was forbidden and new, an experience that neither would have ever considered if it hadn’t been for-“

“You,” Church’s focus shifted in an instant to the cocky orange dick behind the wheel. He jumped to his feet, ready to spring at the driver. “You shut the fuck up before I-”

“As entertainin’ as watching you ladies scuffle has been, Ah think it’s high time we got what we want and get out of here.” Church gnashed his teeth at the pistol pressed into his chest. “If you ever want to see your brainless lump of a teammate again, you’ll can it ‘n’ do what Ah say. Kapeesh?”

“Caboose?” The commanding Blue’s face immediately sank, his anger completely forgotten as the words of the enemy filtered in. “You have Caboose? Where is he? Is he okay? What did you do to him?” His questions came rapid-fire, stopped only by Tucker’s hand on his shoulder. The Private pulled him away from the Red he’d unconsciously been advancing on.

“Church,” he whispered. “Calm down.”

“Caboose…”

“Is our prisoner. An’ we’ll release him under two conditions. When we get back, we get half your ration drop and we keep the ‘Hog.”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to kill us and take all the rations? Or just take the food and the car and leave us to fend for ourselves? Are you guys fucking retarded?” Tucker asked incredulously.

“Tucker,” Church’s voice was strained as he laid a crushing hand on the back of the smaller Blue’s neck. “If you open your mouth again, I’m shoving a grenade in it.”

“It’s not a bad idea, Sarge. We should just shoot them right here, right now, and take all their shit.” Simmons chirped gleefully from his spot atop the vehicle.

“I second that,” Grif added helpfully.

For one brief, horrifying moment, the Sergeant said absolutely nothing. Then, in a quick, sickening motion, he raised the pistol and pressed it to Church’s visor.

“I was kidding!” shrieked Grif, gripping the wheel in shock. Tucker reached out and snatched his superior’s arm, clinging fearfully to the older man as he stood frozen under the Red’s gun. Sarge watched as Tucker tilted his face into Church’s shoulder and molded himself to his side, fear seizing his body just as tight as the other Spartan's.

The gun dropped with a disgusted sigh. “Ah can’t. You two are too pathetic. Weapons, girls. Put ‘em here.” He held out his palm. Tucker quickly deposited his firearm into the outstretched hand, but Church stayed glued to the spot. Shaking his head, Sarge unholstered the man’s pistol himself before turning around and twirling one finger in the air.

Grif, still shaken, put the ‘Hog in gear and swung the vehicle around, backing up to the other car. Simmons dutifully kept the gun on the Blues as the unit swiveled, only slightly disturbed by his superior’s actions. Their C.O. grabbed the other vehicle by the back bumper and pulled her to the side, lining the smashed nose near the cables tucked in the rear. Deftly, he strapped it up and put it in neutral, ensuring that it would roll smoothly behind their functioning Warthog. He turned back to the captured Blues and waved their own pistols at them.

“Alright, fruitcakes. Load up.”

Church had shaken himself from Tucker’s grasp and stood, stiff and silent, a few feet away. The aqua Spartan frowned beneath the veil of his helmet, then calmly climbed into the diver’s seat of the slightly elevated ‘Hog. When Church refused to move, Simmons rolled the barrels of the chain gun. The machine released a series of metallic clacks so monstrous that it jerked the Blue out of his brooding and sent him clambering into the vehicle.

The two sat quietly next to each other, Church’s posture so rigid and upset that Tucker could barely look at him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. But his words were lost under the roar of the Red engine.

* * *

“Do you think they will be back soon?” Caboose asked the shirtless man leaning against the table, his expression charmingly innocent.

A white grin split the sharp, handsome features before him.

“I hope not.”