Luck of the Irish - RVB

Title: Luck of the Irish
Author: Kyrianne
Fandom: Red vs Blue
Pairing: Grif/Simmons
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1608
Summary: Grif decides that Red Team needs to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day properly.
Disclaimer: RvB is to me as snakes are to Ireland.
Author's Notes: The idea for this is credited to ptath over on RT. Fun times in the Grif Thread. <3

---

Grif wasn't really one to remember the dates for or get excited over inane holidays like President's Day, or Veteran's Day, or Columbus Day, but when it came to the seventeenth of March, he became a ball of anticipated energy weeks before the day, like a small child the month before Christmas.

March 17th, arguably the best holiday ever: Saint Patrick's Day. The day where it was okay -- no, encouraged -- to get completely sloshed.

He'd already squirreled away all the beer Command had sometimes put in their drops. He'd planned months ahead for this. It had been hard to keep from drowning his pain in the bottles of alcohol on those weeks where nobody seemed to care about him, but he'd held out, and how glad he was that he had. He had two cases of beer. Two cases! That was 48 bottles, more than enough to get everyone in the base shit-faced until next Tuesday.

The only problem now was persuading the rest of his team to help him drink it all.

"No. Absolutely not."

Simmons glared at him with the power of a thousand suns. Unfortunately for him, Grif was used to the sun. He didn't grow up in Hawaii for nothing, after all.

"This is the holiday for getting drunk, dude. You have to." Grif hoped his tone of voice was convincing enough.

"I said no, Grif, that means no!" If it were possible, he looked even more angry now.

Time to pull out the big guns. "Simmons, you're half Irish. This is like an abomination that you aren't celebrating."

He received a grumble for that, so he knew he was starting to break through to the guy, at least. "I still don't think this is a good idea. We have to go on patrol in a few hours."

"Well, we can get just a little drunk?"

"No."

Grif sighed. This was much harder than he'd thought. He knew Simmons was a tightass when it came to getting drunk and celebrating things when they had work to do, but this was practically his holiday!

Suddenly, he remembered a crucial piece of Saint Patrick's lore. His mouth turned up in a cheshire grin, and he took a step closer to Simmons, who'd gone back to reading his Asimov novel.

"Hey Simmons."

"I said no, goddammit. Let me finish reading this already."

"Simmons. Did you know that Saint Patrick drove all the snakes out of Ireland?"

A beat of silence hung over the room before Simmons answered. "You're shitting me."

"Nope, it's totally true. You could even look it up. He's a badass. And that's why you need to celebrate with me."

The sigh that escaped from Simmons' lips was a little reluctant, but he closed his book and set it back on his shelf.

"So where's all this beer you're talking about?"

---

As it turned out, it was hidden under Grif's bed in a large box labeled "Hawaii" in his usual lazy scrawl. Grif could feel Simmons' curious and somewhat dubious stare on his back as he pushed aside old mementos from his home (old dried leis, a broken ukulele he used to know how to play, the red and black tassel from his high school graduation) and got to the rows of bottles carefully laid out beneath it all. He pulled four from the box, two in each hand, cradled between fingers.

"Here," he said, sticking his left hand toward Simmons, beers out like alcoholic claws. The other soldier looked at them like he'd never seen a beer before in his life, then gingerly took one. Grif watched as he examined the Guinness logo, then lifted the cap off with his left hand. It made a plink, foaming up slightly. Simmons gasped and bent forward to slurp the excess before it dripped on the threadbare carpet.

"Holy crap, you never told me you could do that!" Grif yowled in excitement.

"Do what?"

"You know, open bottles with your bare hand!"

Simmons glanced vaguely down at his hand before taking a sip of the beer again. "Well, it's not technically a bare hand. I do have cybernetics underneath this synthetic skin."

Grif didn't answer. Instead, he stuck his own bottle toward the Dutch-Irishman with a grin, who sighed and rolled his eyes and carried on, yet still opened his bottle.

Relocating to his bed, Grif kicked up his feet and lifted his beer bottle in a casual toast. "To the best Saint Patty's Day ever," he said, and Simmons clinked his bottle to Grif's in agreement.

---

Halfway into his second beer, Grif forgot entirely that he'd planned on sharing the beers with Donut and Sarge as well. It wasn't that he was drunk; he wasn't even close. It was just how entertaining Simmons was, halfway into his own second: slightly tipsy, starting to slur his words.

The guy hadn't drank much before, had he? It wasn't surprising. He was always so uptight about alcohol, and he probably never got invited to a party in his life.

Pity, considering how absolutely hilarious he was. And he wasn't even drunk yet.

"And then I told her, that there is no way I was going to wear a shirt that was that ugly, but she told me I had to, and then the principal showed up, so it's not like I could say no..."

Grif wasn't really sure what the story was about anymore, but he didn't care, so long as he could keep Simmons drinking and talking. Speaking of which, it was time to bust out another beer. He was down to the last dregs.

"Want another?"

Simmons paused his story to blink in confusion before he realized what Grif meant. "Oh, yeah, definitely."

After pulling out the next round of beers, Grif leaned forward with an encouraging grin. "So what did the principal do after you looked at him funny?"

---

Two hours later and into their fifth beers, the haze of drunkness was starting to take over Grif's mind. Everything Simmons was saying was just about the absolute most hilarious thing he'd ever heard in his entire life.

And he was so goddamn cute while he was saying it, too. There he was, flushed red with the drink, giggling his drunk ass off, slurring so badly he was getting hard to understand.

"'M favrit fing hasta be snugglies. Ya know snugglies?"

Grif beat down his snort of laughter to answer. "No, no snugglies. What's a snugglie?"

"Ya know those fuzzly fings wif tha arms? An' they're warm, 'n like a blanket, but for your arms."

"Oh, ya me snuggies? Man, snuggies are for chumps. You a chump, Simmons?"

Simmons giggled slightly, looking up at him from his spot on the floor with doe eyes. "Ya think 'm a chump?"

A nervous snicker burst from Grif's throat, and he tried not to think about the feeling that zinged through him when he looked into those vibrant green eyes, but he was too drunk to ignore it. "You're kinda pretty. Is that 'cause you're Irish?"

"Irishes are uuuuuuugly," Simmons said with his nose scrunched. "My dad is uuuugly." He snorted, almost tipping over. His eyes widened with surprise, clutching at the closest thing he could find: Grif. His long fingers gripped the islander's baggy shirt tightly, and he tipped toward him instead. His face careened into the crook of Grif's neck, but he didn't move away. He relaxed, breathing slowly as the alcohol took greater hold of his mind.

"Ya smell kinda nummy." He nuzzled the line of Grif's jaw with his forehead.

It might have been the alcohol, or Grif might have just reached his breaking point, but one minute he was sitting on the edge of his bed with Simmons at his neck, and then next, he was straddling the other man to his bed, taking deep heaving breaths as he stared down at the suddenly-timid soldier beneath him.

"Griffy?"

Simmons' eyes were wide and dilated, his lips parted like a question mark.

And Grif, thrumming with beer and inhibition, leaned over to answer.

His cracked lips met Simmons' smooth ones brashly. A groan leapt from him as Simmons threaded his fingers into his hair unexpectedly, kissing back with a ferocity Grif didn't know he possessed. Encouraged, Grif pressed onward, splitting legs, positioning himself to rock against the other man, not really knowing what he was doing and not really caring.

Simmons pulled away with a nervous, tittery gasp, dissolving into giggles the moment Grif looked down at him in confusion. "What's wrong?"

He looked so much like a silly schoolgirl, grinning widely up at the Hawaiian with his eyes crinkled, nose and cheeks red. "Irish are lucky. 'N I'm lucky too now. 'Cause you can't leave." He wrapped his legs around Grif with another fiery giggle, eyes filling with glazed mischievous glee.

Well, it was now or never. Grif crashed his mouth to Simmons' again, eliciting a groan from both of them as he continued grinding against him, faster, harder --

The door opened loudly, and it took Grif a disoriented moment before he could figure out why.

In the hallway stood Donut. A very excited Donut, hands clasped over his mouth to contain the girly squeals fighting to get out.

Grif knew there was something about this situation that was wrong and should be feared, but at this point, he couldn't figure it out, nor did he care.

"Go away, Donut. I'm about get lucky with a lucky Irish."

The door slammed back shut, and happy giggling, along with the pattering of feet, paraded down the hallway.

Grif turned back to Simmons. "Where were we?"

Simmons answered with a drunkenly aimed thrust upward.

Well, that answered that question.