Are We There Yet?
folder
+M through R › Red vs. Blue
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
6,293
Reviews:
29
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+M through R › Red vs. Blue
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
6,293
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.
Say What?
Title: Are We There Yet?
Author: Kaid
Pairing: C/T, soon to be S/G
Rating: Overall NC-17
Warning: WIP. Unbetad, all mistakes are mine!
Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue!
Chapter Summary: Yeah...about that Blue base... ~1,219 words
Chapter Eight: Say What?
“You sleep like a rock, you know that?” a gruff voice beat through Church’s subconscious. Though it wasn't so much the words that beat through as it was the blunt end of a shotgun burrowing into his kidney.
Church felt like he’d been hit by a truck. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to think. Yesterday he had only been a little sore, a little tired. Today, even the slightest push from the gun made the muscles beneath it howl. “Fuck, old man,” he grimaced and struggled to sit up, a shaky arm lifting to push the butt off of his hip. “Get that fucking thing off of me.”
His chest met with the business end of the weapon the other Spartan so cherished. “Watch the tone, Bluetard. Get up and get in the kitchen.”
Grumbling irritably to himself, the captive soldier managed to drag his screaming body into a sitting position. He made a mental note to never do any sort of physical labor without his suit again. The Marine almost fell off the bed when he crawled over Tucker, legs stiff and unresponsive.
“Git goin’, Sarge prodded him in the back, earning a scathing glare and a snarl from the hunched Blue leader. Hissing inaudible curses at the enemy C.O., Church shuffled and limped his way out of the room, followed by the pink soldier who’d been perched silently in the doorway. The Blue glanced cautiously back at Donut. The look earned him a low chuckle and, he imagined, a wink. God, today was going to be long.
As soon as the prisoner was out of earshot, Simmons swung his legs over the edge of the bed and confronted his Sergeant. “Sir,” he put his hands on his knees and leaned forward earnestly, “you’ve got to get me out of this room.”
Sarge’s brows knit together under his helmet at the slightly manic lilt in Simmons’ voice. “Ah’m not sure Ah can do that any time soon, Private. Been looking for spare parts but-”
“Sir,” he pleaded, lolling his head to stretch his neck. “Please. There has to be something. I’m losing it in here.”
“How are the-”
“They’re fine,” Simmons snapped, cutting him off rudely. He winced visibly as his superior tilted his head. “Sorry, sir…I just…it’s…I can’t stand being in here any more. Cabin fever.”
“Ah know,” Sarge mumbled in understanding and moved to the bed, setting the shotgun next to Simmons’ thigh. “Let’s take a look at ‘em. Really quick. Gotta make sure.”
Simmons nodded and dropped his head, allowing the older man to dip his hand between metal suit and muscle. The C.O. stripped away the suit fabric, tugged it down just far enough to see the casing on the back of Simmons’ neck. A series of tiny lights met his eyes, blue and green, all glowing happily from a clear slab. Sarge’s eyes flickered over the exposed bone and tissue under the protective shell, over the intricate lacing of wire and flesh inside. He nodded and pulled the suit back in place.
“All right, Ah guess we’ll be taking a little visit to Blue base. Fucknuts might not know what a ventilator is but that doesn’t mean they don’t have one,” he rumbled, sounding both irritated and amused. Simmons’ shoulders sagged in relief and he slumped into the mattress.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do you need any-”
“No,” Simmons cut him off again, gently this time. Sarge nodded briskly and retrieved his gun.
“Grif!” he barked over his helmet’s comm. He sighed heavily when no response came. “And this is why Ah hate havin’ my best Private out of commission.” Sarge tipped his faceplate at the peacefully sprawled cyborg. “We’ll be back in an hour. In the unlikely event that he,” he flicked the gun at Tucker, “wakes up, gimme a call.”
Simmons gave a slight nod and watched the older man swagger out of the room. Hidden eyes traced the outline of the comatose Blue’s still form. Resentment frothed up and lapped at the inside of his chest in an incessant wave. He was so sick of being stuck in here - incapacitated, helpless to affect the happenings within his own base - and it all stemmed from Tucker.
Or rather, his teammate. Simmons took a deep, calming breath and sat up again, dragging himself out of bed to stand. He could pace back and forth in the small space between the mattresses without pulling on the tubing, so he kept his blood flowing and redirected his frustrations to the Blue leader, who was, truly, much more to blame than the prone Spartan next to him. Fucking surgical field kit. What a moron. Simmons began working over a list of soul-sucking chores to pour on the prisoner as soon as he was relieved of his duty as Blue Team life support.
While Simmons paced, Sarge made his way down to the garage to ready the functioning jeep. Ignoring the ever-present trill of unknown mariachi bands, he made his way over to Lopez. The robot was tinkering merrily with the workings under the Blue ‘Hog’s hood, humming, low and monotone, words the human couldn’t understand.
“Hola, amigo,” Sarge greeted him in horribly accented Spanish. It earned him a dip of the head and a synthesized sigh from the machine.
“Yo le odio.”
“And a fine day it is. I see you waxed the vehicle. Mighty nice job, my metal compadre. We’re takin’ her out today. Promise not to bring her back any worsen’ last week.”
“Usted es la plaga de mi existence”
Sarge lifted his armored body into the driver’s seat and nodded in Lopez’ direction, starting the ‘Hog simultaneously. “Adios!”
“Por favor no regrese.”
* * *
Church resisted the urge to crack his fist across the Red Sergeant’s mask, mostly because he knew it would result in broken knuckles and quite possibly a gaping hole in his midsection. “Like fuck I’m going to help you take shit out of our place. I may be your prisoner, but-”
“But your team is at our mercy,” Sarge growled and hauled him over to the truck. Donut trailed close behind, Caboose trodding obliviously at his side. “Right now my only concern is getting my Private out of that room, maybe picking up the rest of yer supplies since those two-” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder “insist on cookin’ everythin’ we got.” He shoved Church into the ‘Hog and motioned the other two Marines inside. His gauntlet-clad forearm came to rest on the frame beside the pissed Blue leader. Head tilted and voice rumbling low from his mouthpiece, the filter did nothing to conceal the smugness that radiated through.
“When your friend wakes up I’m callin’ into command. You may have not realized it yet, son, but this little war is over.”
The words hit Church like a fist to the throat. Satisfied with his delivery of the news, Sarge made sure the Blue rookie was strapped in next to the turret before took his seat behind the wheel. The jeep roared to life and Donut burst into song, wailing something happy, upbeat and mindless.
Church stared blankly out the passenger window, deaf to the noise of the Warthog and its occupants as it rolled toward Blue base.
The words of Lopez (Viva la internet translation devices!):
"I hate you."
"You are the bane of my existence."
"Please don't come back."
A.N. I despise throwing out short chapters. However, re-writing the next portion is proving to be a daunting task. If it didn't contain so much important shit that I now have to remember without my outline...gar.
Ah well. Just know that it's being worked on, mmkay?
Author: Kaid
Pairing: C/T, soon to be S/G
Rating: Overall NC-17
Warning: WIP. Unbetad, all mistakes are mine!
Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue!
Chapter Summary: Yeah...about that Blue base... ~1,219 words
Chapter Eight: Say What?
“You sleep like a rock, you know that?” a gruff voice beat through Church’s subconscious. Though it wasn't so much the words that beat through as it was the blunt end of a shotgun burrowing into his kidney.
Church felt like he’d been hit by a truck. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to think. Yesterday he had only been a little sore, a little tired. Today, even the slightest push from the gun made the muscles beneath it howl. “Fuck, old man,” he grimaced and struggled to sit up, a shaky arm lifting to push the butt off of his hip. “Get that fucking thing off of me.”
His chest met with the business end of the weapon the other Spartan so cherished. “Watch the tone, Bluetard. Get up and get in the kitchen.”
Grumbling irritably to himself, the captive soldier managed to drag his screaming body into a sitting position. He made a mental note to never do any sort of physical labor without his suit again. The Marine almost fell off the bed when he crawled over Tucker, legs stiff and unresponsive.
“Git goin’, Sarge prodded him in the back, earning a scathing glare and a snarl from the hunched Blue leader. Hissing inaudible curses at the enemy C.O., Church shuffled and limped his way out of the room, followed by the pink soldier who’d been perched silently in the doorway. The Blue glanced cautiously back at Donut. The look earned him a low chuckle and, he imagined, a wink. God, today was going to be long.
As soon as the prisoner was out of earshot, Simmons swung his legs over the edge of the bed and confronted his Sergeant. “Sir,” he put his hands on his knees and leaned forward earnestly, “you’ve got to get me out of this room.”
Sarge’s brows knit together under his helmet at the slightly manic lilt in Simmons’ voice. “Ah’m not sure Ah can do that any time soon, Private. Been looking for spare parts but-”
“Sir,” he pleaded, lolling his head to stretch his neck. “Please. There has to be something. I’m losing it in here.”
“How are the-”
“They’re fine,” Simmons snapped, cutting him off rudely. He winced visibly as his superior tilted his head. “Sorry, sir…I just…it’s…I can’t stand being in here any more. Cabin fever.”
“Ah know,” Sarge mumbled in understanding and moved to the bed, setting the shotgun next to Simmons’ thigh. “Let’s take a look at ‘em. Really quick. Gotta make sure.”
Simmons nodded and dropped his head, allowing the older man to dip his hand between metal suit and muscle. The C.O. stripped away the suit fabric, tugged it down just far enough to see the casing on the back of Simmons’ neck. A series of tiny lights met his eyes, blue and green, all glowing happily from a clear slab. Sarge’s eyes flickered over the exposed bone and tissue under the protective shell, over the intricate lacing of wire and flesh inside. He nodded and pulled the suit back in place.
“All right, Ah guess we’ll be taking a little visit to Blue base. Fucknuts might not know what a ventilator is but that doesn’t mean they don’t have one,” he rumbled, sounding both irritated and amused. Simmons’ shoulders sagged in relief and he slumped into the mattress.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do you need any-”
“No,” Simmons cut him off again, gently this time. Sarge nodded briskly and retrieved his gun.
“Grif!” he barked over his helmet’s comm. He sighed heavily when no response came. “And this is why Ah hate havin’ my best Private out of commission.” Sarge tipped his faceplate at the peacefully sprawled cyborg. “We’ll be back in an hour. In the unlikely event that he,” he flicked the gun at Tucker, “wakes up, gimme a call.”
Simmons gave a slight nod and watched the older man swagger out of the room. Hidden eyes traced the outline of the comatose Blue’s still form. Resentment frothed up and lapped at the inside of his chest in an incessant wave. He was so sick of being stuck in here - incapacitated, helpless to affect the happenings within his own base - and it all stemmed from Tucker.
Or rather, his teammate. Simmons took a deep, calming breath and sat up again, dragging himself out of bed to stand. He could pace back and forth in the small space between the mattresses without pulling on the tubing, so he kept his blood flowing and redirected his frustrations to the Blue leader, who was, truly, much more to blame than the prone Spartan next to him. Fucking surgical field kit. What a moron. Simmons began working over a list of soul-sucking chores to pour on the prisoner as soon as he was relieved of his duty as Blue Team life support.
While Simmons paced, Sarge made his way down to the garage to ready the functioning jeep. Ignoring the ever-present trill of unknown mariachi bands, he made his way over to Lopez. The robot was tinkering merrily with the workings under the Blue ‘Hog’s hood, humming, low and monotone, words the human couldn’t understand.
“Hola, amigo,” Sarge greeted him in horribly accented Spanish. It earned him a dip of the head and a synthesized sigh from the machine.
“Yo le odio.”
“And a fine day it is. I see you waxed the vehicle. Mighty nice job, my metal compadre. We’re takin’ her out today. Promise not to bring her back any worsen’ last week.”
“Usted es la plaga de mi existence”
Sarge lifted his armored body into the driver’s seat and nodded in Lopez’ direction, starting the ‘Hog simultaneously. “Adios!”
“Por favor no regrese.”
* * *
Church resisted the urge to crack his fist across the Red Sergeant’s mask, mostly because he knew it would result in broken knuckles and quite possibly a gaping hole in his midsection. “Like fuck I’m going to help you take shit out of our place. I may be your prisoner, but-”
“But your team is at our mercy,” Sarge growled and hauled him over to the truck. Donut trailed close behind, Caboose trodding obliviously at his side. “Right now my only concern is getting my Private out of that room, maybe picking up the rest of yer supplies since those two-” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder “insist on cookin’ everythin’ we got.” He shoved Church into the ‘Hog and motioned the other two Marines inside. His gauntlet-clad forearm came to rest on the frame beside the pissed Blue leader. Head tilted and voice rumbling low from his mouthpiece, the filter did nothing to conceal the smugness that radiated through.
“When your friend wakes up I’m callin’ into command. You may have not realized it yet, son, but this little war is over.”
The words hit Church like a fist to the throat. Satisfied with his delivery of the news, Sarge made sure the Blue rookie was strapped in next to the turret before took his seat behind the wheel. The jeep roared to life and Donut burst into song, wailing something happy, upbeat and mindless.
Church stared blankly out the passenger window, deaf to the noise of the Warthog and its occupants as it rolled toward Blue base.
The words of Lopez (Viva la internet translation devices!):
"I hate you."
"You are the bane of my existence."
"Please don't come back."
A.N. I despise throwing out short chapters. However, re-writing the next portion is proving to be a daunting task. If it didn't contain so much important shit that I now have to remember without my outline...gar.
Ah well. Just know that it's being worked on, mmkay?