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“Okay, men,” Grif says. “This is a very important mission. Bitters, you were in charge of recon. Do we have the green light?”
“Oh, yeah,” Bitters says. “They’re totally fucking. At least they were an hour ago. I’ve got Mitchell keeping a stakeout, he’ll radio me if either of them leaves.”
“We don’t have much time,” Grif says. “I know this seems like a serious thing, but Tucker’s always been more of a ‘wham, bam, thank you, man,’ kind of guy. We can’t miss our window of opportunity. We’ll have to work quick.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Mathews asks. “You don’t usually join us on missions.”
“This one, I do, Private,” Grif says. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to do this kind of thing.”
*
See the thing is, Grif’s actually pretty shitty at stealth. They make it into the kitchens, but they’ve only gotten as far as finding the flour before they’re caught.
Private Cooke, the cook, wears no armor. Just a fierce Mohawk, two ears full of piercings and an apron with zir personal pronouns on it. Zhe is the only person on base who even comes close to being as scary with knives as Felix, at least before Wash got back.
So when zhe appears in the doorway of the kitchens, cleaver in hand, all of Orange Team may scream a little bit. Or a lot.
“What the FUCK are you doing in MY kitchen at THREE FUCKING O’CLOCK in the MORNING?” Cooke screams.
All three space marines cower. Grif ineffectually tries to hide behind Bitters, which isn’t working because Bitters is a fucking beanpole and Grif is not. He might be muttering something akin to “Protect me, Bitters!” He should really know better than that by now. Mathews would have at least tried.
For a minute, there is silence while Cooke continues to wave a cleaver at them.
"We need a cake,” Mathews whispers.
“Like you needed my entire supply of bacon?” Cooke demands. “Or all those burritos that went missing? I know that was you—“
“It’s for Agent Washington,” Grif protests.
“Wash? That boy needs to eat more,” Cooke agrees. “My grandamama would not approve. But I still don’t see what that has to do with you breaking in to my—“
“Tucker and Wash are getting laid,” Bitters interjects, tone bored. He’s mostly recovered from his terror, or at least is making a good show of it.
“What do I care?” Cooke snaps.
“With each other.”
“Oh, good, it’s about time,” Cooke says, nodding. The cleaver lowers and Orange Team relaxes a bit.
“That’s what I said!” Mathews says.
“Yes, good for them,” Cooke adds. “Now get out of my kitchen. You want something special, you put in a request, just like everyone else.”
“You don’t understand,” Grif pleads. “We need it now. ASAP. Our window of opportunity for—“
“I’ll kick you out my window of opportunity,” Cooke interjects. “My boot. Up your ass.”
“We’re gonna show them that we’re supportive of their relationship!” Mathews says, a tad too cheerily for someone who’s probably supposed to be a rebel soldier. But Grif’s met Palomo, so he doesn’t push it.
“I don’t get it,” Cooke says. “This is great and all, but why do you need a cake? What could that possibly have to do with—“
Grif tilts his folder, shows zir the plans.
“I’ll help you make it,” Cooke replies instantly. “What color icing do you want? Would frosting flowers be appropriate for this situation?”
“Always,” Grif says. “Always appropriate.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bitters sighs.
“This is going to be so cool,” Mathews gushes.
*
And that’s why when Tucker leaves Wash’s room the next day, Grif, Caboose, and Felix are waiting outside with a cake with the words “Congrats on the Sex,” carefully piped on in bright orange icing.