Part 2 of the "where there's poison, there's a remedy" series

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Fandom: Red vs. Blue

Characters: Dexter Grif, Dick Simmons, Sarge (Red vs. Blue), Locus | Samuel Ortez

Additional Tags: time-travel, GFY, no editing we die like man, god blood gulch characterizations are so fucking hard, grif is very gay and i didn't know he was going to be when i started, i blame nile

"Just because Flowers died and you keep yelling shit at us, that doesn't make you the leader! That just makes you a massive douche!"

Simmons strolls up to at the edge of the base. "Blues still arguing?"

"Yup," Grif replies, watching avidly through the scope as the turquoise guy gets all up in the cobalt guy's space. The new freelancer—new recruit, maybe?—casually inserts his bulk between them, but that just makes the cobalt guy start shrieking again.

"They've been at it for awhile," Simmons notes, cringing delicately beside him at the pitch.

"Uh-huh."

"… Ten bucks says Screechy throws the first punch?"

"You're on, dude," Grif scoffs. "Regulation Blue is lookin' pretty shifty."

He grudgingly hands over the credits two minutes later when the cobalt guy lands a glancing blow across the turquoise guy's jaw. Simmons takes it and wanders off again. Grif keeps watching until the big fucker pulls the sniper rifle out of cobalt's hands and points it towards Red Base.

Grif immediately ducks to make a tactical retreat.

.

"What the fuck do you mean, 'simulation exercises'?!"

"Private Grif!"

Grif sighs and steps away from the edge of the base. When he turns around, Sarge's shotgun is about two inches from his face. He stays very still. "Uh… yes, sir?"

"Those dirty Blues still plottin' and screamin' and whatnot?"

"Pretty sure they never actually stopped, sir," Grif says carefully. His eyes are nearly crossed, trying to watch both barrels.

Sarge does one of his weird little growls and mutters something about those damn dirty Blues. "And what in the Sam Hell was that racket?"

Grif takes a grateful step back to peer around the corner of the teleporter pad. He pulls back a split-second later just as a distinctive crack! rings out across the canyon. "New guy doesn't like me spying on him," he answers needlessly. There's a blackened, fist-sized hole in Red Base where the bullet struck. "He takes a pot-shot every time he remembers I'm here. Or whenever I laugh too loud."

"Hmph! Too bad he keeps missing…" Sarge grumbles predictably before stomping back down the stairs. Grif doesn't bother mentioning that he's 99% sure the new guy isn't actually trying to hit him.

.

"You left! What the fuck was I supposed to do?!"

"Hi, Grif—"

"Walk away, Donut."

"—bye, Grif!"

.

The third day after the maybe-freelancer shows up, Grif wakes to find Blue Base suspiciously quiet. No movement, either. And as much as Grif hates taking the initiative for anything, he's been watching a soap opera unfold in real time for the last two days, so—to the cliffs it is. Only problem is: the cliffs are already occupied.

By the probably-a-freelancer.

Reclined against the perfectly-slanted rock of Grif's favorite napping nook, the new guy has his helmet resting next to his hip, hands laced behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles, and a smooth, placid expression. He's also, Grif notes with a fair amount of panic, way bigger up close than Grif had assumed.

The guy's eyelids didn't so much as flutter when Grif stomped his way up the path, so tip-toeing back down and then sprinting away seems like a solid plan. Grif doesn't take more than four baby-steps backwards when the guy, eyes still closed, says, "You don't have to leave."

Grif freezes. "Uh."

Voice roughened with sleep, he continues, "I've been told that 'I'm not going to hurt you' is a poor way of saying hello. So. Hello, Private Grif—I'm Sam."

"Uhhhhhhhh."

The guy—Sam, Grif self-corrects hysterically—finally cracks his eyes open. His sigh is very expressive. "What unnerving thing did I say this time."

There's no evidence of a question mark at the end of that sentence, so Grif stays quiet, but the guy just keeps staring. So. "Gah, um?" Mmm, nope, no words detected, please try again. "Hhhhh—ahem—how the fuck do you know who I am?"

Grif closes his eyes and prays that his death is quick; he knows dignity is too much to ask for in this fucking canyon. The guy doesn't say anything for a good thirty seconds, though, and doesn't shoot him either, so Grif carefully lets one eye open back up.

The very large, very pretty, definitely-a-fucking-freelancer is staring at him with his face scrunched up almost exactly like Grif's, only he manages to make it look like a Dolce & Gabbana ad. It's weird and fucked up and an incredibly gay thought for Grif to have about a guy who's probably going to kill him very soon. Has literally shot at him several times within the last couple days.

Kai's always said he's got terrible taste in guys and if this is how he finally dies Grif just knows that she'll put I fucking told you so, big bro on his fucking tombstone. Do people still have tombstones?

"I read your file," Sam-the-freelancer eventually says, after his face goes through what looks like the five stages of grief plus a couple new ones, and then smooths back into something neutral. He looks like a painting. Or a sculpture. Something that someone a thousand years ago would have made because they were so gay and thirsty and couldn't watch porn.

It's extremely upsetting.

"How the fuck did you get my file," Grif immediately replies, because he has zero impulse control or self-preservation and is so very extremely gay even if he's technically bi. It's—it's a problem.

Sam-the-freelancer's face does something like frown and smile at the same time and it's still stupidly beautiful and Grif is having a crisis. "I—needed to make sure—that it was safe for me to be here," he says, halting in weird places which tells Grif he's lying and is very bad at it. Then the smile part goes away and he's just frowning all the way. "What are you doing up here?"

"Um." Grif takes half a step back because, oh yeah, Sam-the-freelancer-sir might be all post-nap relaxation on the ground but he literally fired real, actual, deadly bullets in Grif's general direction, presumably for spying on him and the Blues. Unfortunately, he's not any better of a liar. "Napping? Coming up here to nap? Here? In my napping spot?"

Another expressive sigh. "You're here to keep spying, aren't you?" Sam-the-freelancer-sir asks, with a voice that sounds like it's trying to be reproachful and indulgent at the same time, and therefore failing at both. He's so fucking weird and Grif has only been talking to him for like five minutes but knows that he fits right fucking in with the rest of the canyon. He cocks his head to the side and points out, "I shot at you yesterday for that."

"Mm-hmm," Grif says, his voice very high.

Mr-Sam-the-freelancer-sir looks at him sternly. "It's very rude of you."

"Yes, sir."

"If you want to know what's happening at the base, you should come by and ask, like a civilized person," Mr-Sam-the-freelancer-sir tells him very firmly while looking very deeply into Grif's eyes.

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Mr-Sam-the-freelancer-sir nods very cordially at him, like he isn't sprawled out on the ground like a three-course meal, before smoothly getting to his feet and putting on his weird fucking helmet. God, he's so fucking big; he can never be allowed to meet Donut. "Have a nice nap, Private Grif."

Then he walks very calmly down the path towards Blue Base and Grif collapses on the ground to have that crisis. He'll—he'll figure something out to tell Sarge. And Simmons. And fucking Donut. Just, later.

"What the fuck," he whispers to himself. "What the fuck…"