Are We There Yet?
folder
+M through R › Red vs. Blue
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
6,290
Reviews:
29
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+M through R › Red vs. Blue
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
6,290
Reviews:
29
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Red vs. Blue, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Iron Lungs
Title: Are We There Yet?
Author: Kaid
Pairing: C/T…for now.
Rating: Overall NC-17
Warnings: Dash of angst, WIP
Disclaimer: I do not own the creations of Rooster Teeth Productions, Microsoft or Bungie.
Summary: The reds have no idea what they just signed up for. ~1300 words
Chapter 5: Iron Lungs
Church and Tucker hadn't exchanged a glance since they’d climbed inside the crumpled Warthog, enduring the ride back in total radio silence. The reds were, unfortunately, not as quiet. Every two minutes Sarge would gripe about Grif’s driving and Simmons would pitch in, resulting in the blues getting a close up view of the ass kissing the kiss ass had been fabled to excel at.
Tucker was gradually starting to feel worse. A solid ten minutes had passed before he realized his body was getting increasingly… heavy. At first he chalked it up to the fatigue from being tossed through a window, jacked off by his teammate, and giving his first blow job. But as the minutes wore on and his limbs became more resistant to his brain’s commands, eventually Tucker couldn’t move.
Panic set in pretty quickly after that realization.
“Church?” he burst through the layer of silence stretched between them. Church cringed at both the unexpected sound and the fact that his inferior was trying to…communicate with him.
“What.” It wasn’t even a question, he just grunted the word.
“I feel weird.”
“Yeah, me too, Tucker,” the cobalt Spartan grimaced under his helmet. “Really fuckin’ weird.”
“No, not because…” Tucker tried, then decided not to head down that slippery path. “No, I mean my arms…it’s not just my arms, now. I can’t move. Church, I can’t fucking move.”
Church tossed his head sharply at the rising pitch in Tucker’s voice. “What do you mean you can’t move?” he asked, concern flooding him. This was the last thing he needed, his other teammate in some sort of peril.
“It’s hard to breathe, my legs…they don’t feel like they’re a part of me. Oh Jesus, did I, like, break my neck or something during that crash and just not…know it?”
He gave an odd sounding gasp. Church reached out to grab his arm, but a bark from Simmons cut the action short.
“Hey!” the maroon soldier snapped. “You just sit there, blue. No touching. You two have done enough of that tonight.”
Church brushed off the mockery and shook Tucker’s bicep.
“Dude, can you feel that?”
“M…mostly,” he slurred, head lolling to the side. Church’s insides prickled.
“Stop the car,” he ordered the red guarding them.
“Excuse me?”
“Stop the fucking car!” he bellowed. His scream caught the attention of all the reds in the other vehicle, two gold faceplates peering back from the front seats.
“What crawled inta his panties?” Sarge grumbled.
“Just. Stop. The fucking. Car.” Church’s temper consumed him. Even with a turret in his face, his voice still carried the threat of death to his enemies. Sarge signaled Grif to ease off the gas. The orange Private complied, and soon all three of the reds were jumping out of the ‘Hog.
“What’s the problem, Nancy?” Sarge stood at Church’s side, but Church wasn’t paying him any heed. He was bent over the shoulder of his smaller teammate, poking and squeezing him, a frightened tinge to his voice as Tucker’s reactions became more and more sluggish.
“Tucker, can you still hear me? Can you feel that?”
No response came. Church whirled on the patiently standing Sergeant, distraught.
“When we crashed he went through the windshield and he was in pain so I gave him pills but I don’t think they worked and something’s wrong…something’s WRONG-”
“Woah, woah, slow down, son.”
But Church was scrambling out of the car, darting past the red trying to wave him down and circling around the back. Tucker sat in the driver’s seat, completely still. Church fumbled with the seal on the aqua Spartan’s helmet and tugged it off.
“Oh god.”
It was his first real look under Tucker’s helmet, not counting just moments ago when he’d lifted the visor to…
He was young. Maybe twenty, with light, shaggy hair that just brushed his eyelids. The kid was pretty. But what had Church cursing so hallowly were the light blue smudges at the edges of Tucker’s lips.
He wasn’t breathing.
Sarge stood next to the frozen blue, gazing down at the unconscious Marine. Wordlessly, he reached out to check the enemy’s pulse.
“Lucky day, he’s alive.” The eldest red didn’t sound too excited.
“Help him,” Church managed to whisper, his throat so tight he could barely push out the request.
“’Scuse me? You want me to what now?”
“HELP HIM!” Church was in a full blown panic attack, shaking, sweating, screaming hysterically. “DEAR CHRIST! HE’S DYING!”
“Yes, so Ah see,” the red murmured calmly. “What, exactly, would you like me to do about it?”
The tone he used was so fucking arrogant that Church’s panic cooled into a hard lump in his chest. The moonlight glinted off of his visor as he pushed his face close to the shorter man’s.
“Stop fucking with me. I know you can save him.”
“Ah could. But why would I?”
Church closed his eyes. Everything for a price, Leonard.
“I surrender.”
Dead. Fucking. Silence.
“Really?” Grif chirped, thoroughly amazed.
“Yes, really!” Church snapped. “I surrender, okay? I give up. You’ve got yourself an honest to god prisoner of war now. Just….just help him, Jesus!”
“Simmons, get over here,” Sarge’s voice actually sounded teary as he beckoned his favorite Private. The taller man stepped closer to the stocky Sergeant, jumping when he reached for his chest plates and began pulling tubing from a slot below the rib casing. Simmons stared, transfixed, while Sarge kept talking.
“You said you gave him pills,” he stepped close to the suffocating blue and tilted his head back. “What were they?”
Church hesitated. He sighed and hung his head, all of his frustration suddenly turning on himself.
“I don’t…I didn’t exactly see what I gave him,” he bit out.
“Whaddaya mean you ‘didn’t exactly see’ what you gave him?”
“I mean I’m fucking farsighted and I didn’t read the damn prescription because I couldn’t see it, okay!?”
“Get me that bottle, you moron.” Sarge demanded before slowly shoving the tubing down Tucker’s nostrils.
Church pursed his lips but did as he was told, rummaging quickly through the medical kit and returning with the requested cylinder. Sarge titlted it, read the label, and sighed.
“Did you even check to see what kind of case you brought?” he asked.
“Uh…no.”
Sarge shook his helmeted head. “This is a surgical field kit, smart one. And let me guess, you fucknuggets don’t even have a ventilator back at your base, do you?”
“A venti-what?”
“That’s what I thought,” Sarge sighed.
“That’s what this is, sir?” Simmons asked in awe, twisting the tubing in his fingers and touching the spot where the mechanics inside of him hummed. “I didn’t even know I had one of these.”
“Ah put a fax machine in your ass and you think Ah’d leave out something this important? You insult me, Private.”
“Well, sir, you did remove my-”
“Sacrifices, Simmons. Sacrifices. Now relax, you’re breathin’ for two now.”
“He’ll be okay, won’t he?” Church asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice.
“He’ll be fine. If we hadn’t come along you sure as hell would’ve killed him. Shame. Ah well. As it is, the coma won’t be fatal.”
“C-coma?!” Church squeaked.
Sarge smirked under his visor. “Yes, numbnuts. Coma. What you gave him is used to put patients under for recovery. If you were a medic…or had a brain, fer that matter… ya would’ve seen the instructions under the kit’s lid. But what else could ya expect from a blue?” he continued before Church could retort. “Prisoner, get up next to Grif. Simmons, passengers seat,” he drawled, then climbed in next to the turret and leaned against the tower of metal.
Brain on automatic, Church took his seat. If we hadn’t come along you sure as hell would’ve killed him.
He slid gloved fingers over the aqua helmet cradled in his lap, eyes locked on the slack face of his comatose teammate.
“I’m sorry.”
But the engine ate both of their apologies that night.
Author: Kaid
Pairing: C/T…for now.
Rating: Overall NC-17
Warnings: Dash of angst, WIP
Disclaimer: I do not own the creations of Rooster Teeth Productions, Microsoft or Bungie.
Summary: The reds have no idea what they just signed up for. ~1300 words
Chapter 5: Iron Lungs
Church and Tucker hadn't exchanged a glance since they’d climbed inside the crumpled Warthog, enduring the ride back in total radio silence. The reds were, unfortunately, not as quiet. Every two minutes Sarge would gripe about Grif’s driving and Simmons would pitch in, resulting in the blues getting a close up view of the ass kissing the kiss ass had been fabled to excel at.
Tucker was gradually starting to feel worse. A solid ten minutes had passed before he realized his body was getting increasingly… heavy. At first he chalked it up to the fatigue from being tossed through a window, jacked off by his teammate, and giving his first blow job. But as the minutes wore on and his limbs became more resistant to his brain’s commands, eventually Tucker couldn’t move.
Panic set in pretty quickly after that realization.
“Church?” he burst through the layer of silence stretched between them. Church cringed at both the unexpected sound and the fact that his inferior was trying to…communicate with him.
“What.” It wasn’t even a question, he just grunted the word.
“I feel weird.”
“Yeah, me too, Tucker,” the cobalt Spartan grimaced under his helmet. “Really fuckin’ weird.”
“No, not because…” Tucker tried, then decided not to head down that slippery path. “No, I mean my arms…it’s not just my arms, now. I can’t move. Church, I can’t fucking move.”
Church tossed his head sharply at the rising pitch in Tucker’s voice. “What do you mean you can’t move?” he asked, concern flooding him. This was the last thing he needed, his other teammate in some sort of peril.
“It’s hard to breathe, my legs…they don’t feel like they’re a part of me. Oh Jesus, did I, like, break my neck or something during that crash and just not…know it?”
He gave an odd sounding gasp. Church reached out to grab his arm, but a bark from Simmons cut the action short.
“Hey!” the maroon soldier snapped. “You just sit there, blue. No touching. You two have done enough of that tonight.”
Church brushed off the mockery and shook Tucker’s bicep.
“Dude, can you feel that?”
“M…mostly,” he slurred, head lolling to the side. Church’s insides prickled.
“Stop the car,” he ordered the red guarding them.
“Excuse me?”
“Stop the fucking car!” he bellowed. His scream caught the attention of all the reds in the other vehicle, two gold faceplates peering back from the front seats.
“What crawled inta his panties?” Sarge grumbled.
“Just. Stop. The fucking. Car.” Church’s temper consumed him. Even with a turret in his face, his voice still carried the threat of death to his enemies. Sarge signaled Grif to ease off the gas. The orange Private complied, and soon all three of the reds were jumping out of the ‘Hog.
“What’s the problem, Nancy?” Sarge stood at Church’s side, but Church wasn’t paying him any heed. He was bent over the shoulder of his smaller teammate, poking and squeezing him, a frightened tinge to his voice as Tucker’s reactions became more and more sluggish.
“Tucker, can you still hear me? Can you feel that?”
No response came. Church whirled on the patiently standing Sergeant, distraught.
“When we crashed he went through the windshield and he was in pain so I gave him pills but I don’t think they worked and something’s wrong…something’s WRONG-”
“Woah, woah, slow down, son.”
But Church was scrambling out of the car, darting past the red trying to wave him down and circling around the back. Tucker sat in the driver’s seat, completely still. Church fumbled with the seal on the aqua Spartan’s helmet and tugged it off.
“Oh god.”
It was his first real look under Tucker’s helmet, not counting just moments ago when he’d lifted the visor to…
He was young. Maybe twenty, with light, shaggy hair that just brushed his eyelids. The kid was pretty. But what had Church cursing so hallowly were the light blue smudges at the edges of Tucker’s lips.
He wasn’t breathing.
Sarge stood next to the frozen blue, gazing down at the unconscious Marine. Wordlessly, he reached out to check the enemy’s pulse.
“Lucky day, he’s alive.” The eldest red didn’t sound too excited.
“Help him,” Church managed to whisper, his throat so tight he could barely push out the request.
“’Scuse me? You want me to what now?”
“HELP HIM!” Church was in a full blown panic attack, shaking, sweating, screaming hysterically. “DEAR CHRIST! HE’S DYING!”
“Yes, so Ah see,” the red murmured calmly. “What, exactly, would you like me to do about it?”
The tone he used was so fucking arrogant that Church’s panic cooled into a hard lump in his chest. The moonlight glinted off of his visor as he pushed his face close to the shorter man’s.
“Stop fucking with me. I know you can save him.”
“Ah could. But why would I?”
Church closed his eyes. Everything for a price, Leonard.
“I surrender.”
Dead. Fucking. Silence.
“Really?” Grif chirped, thoroughly amazed.
“Yes, really!” Church snapped. “I surrender, okay? I give up. You’ve got yourself an honest to god prisoner of war now. Just….just help him, Jesus!”
“Simmons, get over here,” Sarge’s voice actually sounded teary as he beckoned his favorite Private. The taller man stepped closer to the stocky Sergeant, jumping when he reached for his chest plates and began pulling tubing from a slot below the rib casing. Simmons stared, transfixed, while Sarge kept talking.
“You said you gave him pills,” he stepped close to the suffocating blue and tilted his head back. “What were they?”
Church hesitated. He sighed and hung his head, all of his frustration suddenly turning on himself.
“I don’t…I didn’t exactly see what I gave him,” he bit out.
“Whaddaya mean you ‘didn’t exactly see’ what you gave him?”
“I mean I’m fucking farsighted and I didn’t read the damn prescription because I couldn’t see it, okay!?”
“Get me that bottle, you moron.” Sarge demanded before slowly shoving the tubing down Tucker’s nostrils.
Church pursed his lips but did as he was told, rummaging quickly through the medical kit and returning with the requested cylinder. Sarge titlted it, read the label, and sighed.
“Did you even check to see what kind of case you brought?” he asked.
“Uh…no.”
Sarge shook his helmeted head. “This is a surgical field kit, smart one. And let me guess, you fucknuggets don’t even have a ventilator back at your base, do you?”
“A venti-what?”
“That’s what I thought,” Sarge sighed.
“That’s what this is, sir?” Simmons asked in awe, twisting the tubing in his fingers and touching the spot where the mechanics inside of him hummed. “I didn’t even know I had one of these.”
“Ah put a fax machine in your ass and you think Ah’d leave out something this important? You insult me, Private.”
“Well, sir, you did remove my-”
“Sacrifices, Simmons. Sacrifices. Now relax, you’re breathin’ for two now.”
“He’ll be okay, won’t he?” Church asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice.
“He’ll be fine. If we hadn’t come along you sure as hell would’ve killed him. Shame. Ah well. As it is, the coma won’t be fatal.”
“C-coma?!” Church squeaked.
Sarge smirked under his visor. “Yes, numbnuts. Coma. What you gave him is used to put patients under for recovery. If you were a medic…or had a brain, fer that matter… ya would’ve seen the instructions under the kit’s lid. But what else could ya expect from a blue?” he continued before Church could retort. “Prisoner, get up next to Grif. Simmons, passengers seat,” he drawled, then climbed in next to the turret and leaned against the tower of metal.
Brain on automatic, Church took his seat. If we hadn’t come along you sure as hell would’ve killed him.
He slid gloved fingers over the aqua helmet cradled in his lap, eyes locked on the slack face of his comatose teammate.
“I’m sorry.”
But the engine ate both of their apologies that night.