"Wash! Get the fuck up!" Tucker shouted into his radio. An explosion near the pelican had launched the freelancer twenty feet in the air. Limply, he bounced hard on the concrete floor and slid dangerously close to the gaping edge of the hangar. Tucker shouted again into his radio, eyeing the bloody skid marks on the ground.
By the time the freelancers docked to the Staff of Charon, the fight was already a bloodbath. The Charon soldiers assigned to eliminate the reds and blues were not battle-hardened or experienced, yet the number of guns on the ship was overwhelming, even with the AI—oh my god, shut up, I can't take anymore—and Tucker kept leaning on the glass in the control room high above the fray. Every thought is a fucking scissors in my brain. He felt short of breath and dangerously warm. If you would stop—stop screaming—I could… Tucker fumbled against the glass and removed the Meta's helmet. I just need a breather, just need a break, I just need you to stop screaming. Tucker gasped for air and steadied himself with helmet in hand.
The pelican came under intense fire as soon as it landed in the hangar. Tucker, along with Caboose, Donut, and Doc, were searching frantically for something in the controls, anything, that they could use to help their extraction. The reds were on the upper level nearby, locked in a firefight to clear a path to the pelican. Even with the mounted machine guns, these fuckers just kept coming.
The pilot had the engines running under protection of the freelancers. Grey and blue suits bashed into the soldiers who rushed the smaller ship. What initially looked like quick work against one or two squadrons deteriorated into a scrambling effort to stay the onslaught of enemy combatants. Carolina blasted through three Charon soldiers at a time while Washington's assault rifle perforated enemies. By the time he saw the first incoming rocket missile, it was too late to evade. Many missiles later, the door of the pelican was gone, and Washington was thrown by the blast.
"I can't leave this position or the Pelican is good as lost," Carolina radioed to the crew. "Someone better get down here and HELP US!"
"We're working on it!" Simmons' shrill voice called out. "Get those turrets, Grif!" Tucker could hear them hustling out there, coordinating with Carolina as best they could manage.
"Beep Bop Boop!" Caboose blurted suddenly.
"Wait, what are you doing?" Donut shouted frantically at Caboose, who was already pressing buttons on the control panel. Doors opened and closed rapidly, lights flickered, and one airlock opened for a moment and swallowed several Charon soldiers into space. "You're gonna accidentally kill our guys!"
"No, I'm pretty sure this is helping," Caboose said.
"Hey! The exits are sealed!" Doc called over. "No more soldiers can get in! Do you think maybe we should try to get on the pelican now?"
"You are not helping," Tucker bit back at Doc.
Doc sighed flatly. "I know."
"Dude fuck this, Wash isn't moving. Donut, cover me, I'm going down." Tucker shoved the helmet on his head and bolted down the scaffolding steps. Donut was close behind. Whatever one-liner Donut had up his sleeve was lost to the cacophonous sound of gunfire.
Tucker ran under cover as best he could. He didn't know for sure Donut was actually supporting him until two soldiers fell dead in his path and a grenade launched into a small formation who'd been giving Carolina hell from behind a flipped tank. Tucker weaved and slashed his sword into anyone who got close enough. The suit was sweltering hot. I know you're tired. Sweat dripped into Tucker's eyes. Stop screaming, stop screaming, stop... Carolina was barely holding her position. Charon soldiers moved to swarm Grif and Simmons while Sarge held the stairwell with his shotgun.
"Tucker! Get over here! Tell those idiots to start running for the ship!" Carolina ordered over the radio.
"Guys, stay close together and start making it towards the Pelican. We're not gonna last much longer out here," Tucker radioed back. He sprinted forward again, but not towards Carolina. "I've got to check on Wash."
"TUCKER!" Carolina shouted. "WE WON'T SAVE ANYONE IF WE DON'T EVACUATE SOON."
"I know, I know, I'm just making sure—" a blast threw Tucker into a metal support beam. The crack of his helmet rattled his organs and bones at a frequency that reverberated on a cellular level. His radio became staticky. You're leaning too much on me. Tucker wheezed as he crumpled to the ground. Shut up, shut up, shut up, stop leaning on me, just shut up... Taking cover behind the beam, Tucker took a few breaths to steady himself and pushed towards Washington.
The bloodied freelancer had gathered himself into a crouched position but was unsteady. "Oh thank God," Tucker said, running to his side with haste. Tucker was sure he had a concussion by the way the ground seemed to shift beneath him like ocean waves.
"Wash, get up, we have to get to the ship," Tucker said, grabbing the freelancer from the side as best he could.
"T-Tuckhh," Wash garbled from in his helmet. He motioned vaguely to the release with a twitching hand. Tucker pulled the helmet from his friend's armor, which gave way with a hiss and a splat.
Splat.
Tucker's heart stopped in horror when blood poured over Wash's torso from inside the helmet, and when the helmet cleared his head Wash coughed and gasped for air.
"T-thanks," he wheezed. Blood stained his teeth, matted his hair, and poured from a gash in the side of his head. "But, I'm not sure I can… I-I think I'm done."
"Shut the fuck up," Tucker ordered. "Don't say that shit, we just have to get you to the pelican."
"No, I… I can't fight anymore." Wash sputtered and nearly slipped from Tucker's hold. "We can't get in without a fight." Washington could taste blood and fear in his mouth, but he knew it was the truth. Tucker looked desperately for help from his teammates, but they were all seriously preoccupied. Carolina was fatigued, and the first Charon soldiers began to board their pelican.
"Oh shit." Tucker said, still holding Wash close to keep him as vertical as possible. Wash's bloodstained head lolled a little with Tucker's every move. "Oh, shit," Tucker said again. "It's over." The screaming in Tucker's helmet buzzed at a deafening volume. Wash clasped a shaking hand around Tucker and latched on tight.
They were dead men.
Suddenly, the power cut out. The ship's electronics sighed in relief as total blackness took them over. A loud voice boomed over the battle, cutting through the noise with a boggling volume.
"THIS IS THE UNSC OF THE PLUTONIAN PEACEMAKERS DIVISION. LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER IMMEDIATELY. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT WITH TOTAL ANNIHILATION OF THE STAFF OF CHARON."
Tucker heard a small gasp from the damaged freelancer beside him. It almost sounded like a laugh. Or a cough. Maybe he was just trying to clear the blood from his airway. Tucker noticed the grip on his shoulder wasn't any less.
It wasn't instant, but within a few minutes the fighting was over. Multiple crafts filled with UNSC peacemakers had already docked and were beginning to decompress the situation. Who even fucking knew where the CEO had run off to in all this.
"Medic! Dude! We need a medic over here, like right now!" Tucker shouted to the nearest peacemakers. Within moments, Wash was carried off on a stretcher marked "PRIORITY". Next thing Tucker knew, Donut was forcefully pulling the Meta helmet from his head.
"Word is the new colonies on Chorus are doing well," Carolina said somewhat lazily over a cup of coffee. It had been over a week since the crew had been taken in by the UNSC Plutonian Division. The ship itself was an old piece of junk. The population on board was mostly science crews, and while there were a handful of soldiers stationed at the base, it really was the middle of nowhere.
But it was quiet.
Everyone was out of the infirmary by now, except for Wash, who was still intubated in the ICU. Whenever Tucker took the time to assess his friends, he couldn't help but think they looked like the sorriest bunch of invalids in the galaxy. Simmons was hobbling around on crutches, his leg broken in four places. Grif followed him around to help hold stuff, but it wasn't incredibly effective with Grif's fractured collarbone. Between the two of them standing there was one good arm, and it was usually just feeding Grif. Sometimes, Tucker would catch him feeding Simmons, too, when Simmons was busy using his arms to walk. That always made Tucker smile.
Sarge was on a strict schedule to get bandage changes every couple hours—Tucker didn't know the details but by the time the old dude was out of his armor, he moved like a creaking, twisted oak tree: slow, deliberate, painful. Caboose and Doc were scraped up pretty bad from a vehicle collision en route to the pelican (Doc had been driving).
Donut recently came out of back surgery where they fused some vertebrae in his back. The story he told was that he'd "had too much fun" for his skeleton to handle it… but Tucker was pretty sure he had splintered his spine when he took a lightshield bash unexpectedly from behind. And Carolina had a fucking eye patch. She definitely looked like a badass, but apparently, she got tossed around pretty hard down in the heat of things. Tucker's concussion had been bad enough that he was still getting dizzy spells.
And Washington… they decided it was better to induce a coma while they waiting for his brain to stop swelling. Last Tucker heard, they were going to open up his skull if the pressure didn't start decreasing. Just thinking about it caused a dizzying crack of pain across Tucker's brow—a migraine flair that threatened to take him to the ground in an instant.
Tucker wandered away from their shared living quarters without a word to the privacy of his room unit. Once he was behind the heavy sliding door, he shuffled to his bed and closed his eyes while his head throbbed. The nurse would be by with more pills soon, he prayed. It hurt to close his eyes. It hurt to open his eyes. It hurt to breath. It hurt to think. His head was pounding with every beat of his heart. He could hear his heartbeat, too, a quick staccato with uneven pauses and jolts. He didn't think that was right, but he was sure the doc would let him know if something was up.
His new quarters were cramped but comfortable, all things considered. There were outdated appliances in his kitchenette and a bathroom with a full-sized tub. An ugly couch nestled against beige walls and beige carpeting, situated in between the doors that led to separate bedrooms.
With his head buried into his mattress, he turned away from his doorway and the ugly couch to examine his armor in the corner. The new get-up was a sweet upgrade… for a minute, anyway. It was… kind of fucked up, actually. Tucker wasn't sure if he understood what had happened in his head yet, when Epsilon deconstructed to power the equipment… After Epsilon split off, Tucker remembered feeling like he was absorbing more information at one time than he could handle. He was acutely aware of… everything. And yet, paradoxically, Tucker couldn't remember many details about any time fighting in the suit.
He remembered that he could smell him. Wash. And all his blood, and his fear. For a moment, Tucker thought back, it was like he could feel his brain vibrating at such a high frequency he could feel everything everyone else was feeling, too. He felt Carolina's fury, and Doc's quiet paranoia, and Simmons' nihilistic joy.
He had to be honest with himself, he… didn't expect that last one.
But when he was next to Wash, after the helmet came off and the blood painted watercolor sunsets on his armor, he could feel a deep, earthshaking emptiness. Defeat was a stillness so eerie, the whole world could come crashing down without a sound. If he had pressed his ear to the ground of that velvety quiet, he might have heard that deafening apathy, that great sound of nothingness. It says God is dead and you're dying alone.
Tucker gasped as he snapped back to reality. For a moment it felt like he had left his body entirely. His heart was fluttering again, but it didn't last long this time. He checked the time and—shit, did he fall asleep? The clock read 4:34 A.M. Tucker didn't remember dozing off, but he rubbed his eyes and sat up anyway. He needed to go see Washington. He'd already been away too long, so he put himself together for the day and stalked off to the infirmary.
"What's it been, Captain, a whole 14 hours? Can't stand stayin' away from me?" the resident doctor teased in her thick accent. "Looks like you finally got some sleep. Good on ya."
"Aw, you know I'll always keep coming back for you, Doc Padwell," Tucker said with a hint of playfulness in his voice, even if he was still tired. "Any news on our favorite customer?" Tucker leaned over the nurse's station. Their ICU was small. They had five beds here, and ten beds in the general admission. The tech looked a bit outdated, but everything seemed to run smoothly. This ship kind of felt like the dive bar of ships in general.
The doctor flipped through three or four files on her fluorescent blue software. "Hm… Looks like tests have determined brain swelling has reduced to safe levels, and… they took 'im off intubation late last evening. The healing units are runnin' on full power now, so we've cut back the sedatives."
"Is there any indication of… lasting effects?" Tucker asked.
"Naught so far, but we're not quite out the woods yet," Doc Padwell said. "We'll get 'em stable enough for transport, but he's going' to need a lot of follow-up work once you all board the Callisto Seven."
"Wait, the what?" Tucker asked. "When are we boarding a new ship?"
"Oh, I'm sure not right away… couple weeks maybe? But you know us docs, we're always buggin' each other to get our hands on the most interesting patients. Callisto Seven is technically a trade ship, but from what I hear it's a huge city. Loads of cargo and the people that's with 'em, yeah. They're making rounds here to drop off and headin' back. But the military rents a large chunk of the cargo space, so it's like a base town, you know?"
"Why are we going on a civilian-owned ship?" Tucker asked.
Doc Padwell tutted. "Sorry mate, not clear on the details. But I will tell you, they have an excellent psychiatrist facility on that ship. Lots of fancypants doctors trying to get their foot in the door there. It makes stops at all the major hospital satellites between here and the asteroid belt. Quite a chummy group of people I hear…" she trailed off.
"Is that why? They want to pick our brains?" Tucker said incredulously. "What if I don't want to—"
"Ah-ah-ah!" She interrupted. "That is a losing battle you'll have to take up with them." She then muttered quietly while maintaining direct eye contact with Tucker and began annunciating to a peculiar degree. "They want to see what is ticking inside you. What would anyone want with that, I wonder?"
She paused for a moment before turning back to her charts. "Ah well, good riddance to 'em…"
Soon Doc Padwell was simply grumbling to herself, about whatever professional grudge Tucker didn't have a clue. But he needed to see Wash. He thanked the doctor for her time and padded softly around the corner to Wash's room. It was still early enough that no one else had stopped to visit yet, and he was grateful for a moment of peace with his friend.
Yes. Peace and quiet. That's all we really need.
Tucker gently pushed the door open and slid into the dark room. The cables, monitors, and hologram screens made this place feel cramped, but there was room for Tucker to sit down in a chair near the bed. In the soft glow of the screens he could see Wash's chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic beats. Tucker felt some relief to see him breathing on his own again. He looked closer, checking to see if there were any remnants of the medical tubes. Just the IV now, he thought. That was good, too.
Tucker propped one elbow on the side guard and lay his head onto his arm. He took his time gazing at Wash, worried and anxious about all sorts of things. A nagging voice wouldn't leave him alone, either.
You thought you missed you chance before. Maybe you should tell him.
Tucker shook his head as if to physically cast the thought from his skull. Right. Like Wash needs some bullshit drama in his life. Nah. Tucker settled his chin on his forearm and let his eyes cast down again. He wasn't doing anything, he was just… admiring.
Wash was in an ugly blue hospital gown and about five hundred blankets, but it didn't matter. He looked brilliant. Especially like this, asleep.
Injured.
Yeah, injured, and bandages around his head. But with his eyes closed, you could see his blonde, feathery lashes. And his brows rested without a scowl for once. His beard was starting to grow out after eight days of neglect. Tucker smiled at how his hair faded from sunshine-yellow at the tippy top of his head to the handsome ashy brown in his temples. And now Tucker could see in Wash's stubble that it was a lovely dirty-blonde the rest of the way. Except, he noticed, for the grays. There was definitely some of those, too. Tucker's eyes rested on his lips, parted slightly with his steady breathing. He always got lost at this part, on that perfect cupid's bow and he's wanted for so long just to—
Tucker closes his eyes and bites his lip. No, that's not what he's here for today. Not everything is about me. I need to be here for him. But Tucker found it increasingly difficult over time to stop. To stop thinking, to stop imagining, and the next thing he knows his eyes are trailing down Wash's neck and glimpsing a single freckled shoulder where the hospital gown slouched forward. He wanted to know where all Wash's sensitive spots were. He wanted his tongue on those collarbones. He wanted Wash on his—
Stop. Tucker snapped out of it and rubbed his eyes. It'd been a long time since he'd had sex. Maybe almost a year now, once he thought about it. He had a nice rendezvous with the volleyball girl once or twice on Charon. That stopped right about as soon as he couldn't stop calling her "Volleyball Girl" instead of "Jaqueline" or whatever her name was. But Tucker just wasn't interested in flings anymore. He'd had plenty of good pussy in his life, and some damn good dick too. But, hell, what's the point in sleeping with someone if you're not going to… well, get to know them, so to speak. After enough spontaneous sexual encounters, Tucker knew that pleasing someone once was easy. But getting to know someone's favorite spots, reading their face as he touches them, watching their fists catch in the sheets as he dips his tongue along the underside of Wash's—
He shuttered and steered his mind away, again.
Tucker yearned for familiarity, and security, and quiet, and all those good delicious things and something about Washington just made very ounce of him scream that this was the one, this one was right for him. Tucker never imagined he'd want to settle down, and if he did, he never thought it'd be with a dude. It turns out it was the women who were the phase this whole time! Tucker chuckled inwardly at himself.
He knew he should be heading out soon. He needed to eat and do physical therapy for his recovery and he needed a shower. He was thinking about doing something new with his locs, since it was about time for maintenance anyways.
Would you like me with something different? He wondered. God damn, he was such a girl sometimes. Fucking desperate for the approval of a man who was probably hella straight and sexually repressed anyhow. Tucker buried his face into the crook of his elbow, hunched into the side of the bed while he flitted away his silly thoughts before convincing himself to stand up.
But then the whole room faded into the background when he felt something warm touch his hand. He looked up to see Wash, lips parted and eyes heavy, watching Tucker with a look he couldn't quite pin down.
The warmth was from Wash's fingertips. They moved slowly, almost as if on their own accord, and slowly wound around Tucker's hand. Without missing a beat, Tucker gave Wash's hand a gentle squeeze. They held each other's gaze for what seemed like forever, and Tucker could spend his whole life drowning in those icy, steel gray eyes.
Tucker knew he should say something, but he couldn't find the words. He just kept remembering the blood, over and over again, and the way Wash clung to him like he was so close to death.
"Hey," Tucker said. Anticlimactic, and lame. He kicked himself. Where did all his good one-liners go when he needed them most?
"Hey," Wash rasped as best he could. As soon as he did, his brows furrowed in a wince.
"I-I should go get someone," Tucker said, but made no effort to move. He couldn't move, not with Wash staring at him like that.
"How long…?" Wash almost hissed now. He coughed to the side and cleared his throat some, although much of what he felt must have been swelling from the vent.
"How long was I out?" Wash tried again. Better. Still hoarse, but better.
"Eight days," Tucker told him.
Wash's eyes fluttered shut for a moment. He looked for a moment like he was going to fall right back asleep. Tucker understood. Sedatives will do that to you. But just as soon as Tucker tried to release his hand, Wash's grip tightened urgently.
"Wash?" Tucker asked quietly. "Hey, you're okay now."
"Tucker…" Wash murmured. Tucker couldn't help but smile.
"Fighting the sedatives, huh?" Tucker said softly, leaning closer to Wash. Wash's eyes were fluttering every few moments, but every time he fought back the sleep, a hazy fatigue was ready to envelop him in a cocoon immediately after.
"Did we make it out? Did we all…?" Wash managed, his eyes still closed.
"Yeah. You were amazing, and we all made it out safe. We're off of Charon and we're all just… resting," Tucker said warmly. "We're gonna heal up before anything else happens. All of us."
Wash smiled and let out a tired, ugly chuckle. Tucker loved it and wanted to hear it more. "Where are we?" Washington pressed. He was trying so hard to sound like a coherent individual again.
"Some backwoods army junker that sort of hangs out near Pluto. I'm pretty sure this is where the army sends all their nerds," Tucker told him.
"Ah…" Wash muttered. "Finally, I'll be able to beat out the… the competition."
The competition? Tucker thought. Gonna go beat up a bunch of science dorks? Maybe join the mathletes? Start a science fair project? But all of his jokes died on his lips when he felt Wash's grip begin to relax as he surrendered to a heavy sleep once again. Tucker nestled Wash's hand back into the blankets and left to update the Doctor. It felt so good to see him again.
Tucker sighed and brushed his locs away from his face, taking a moment in the doorway to just bury his face in his hands. He was grinning, and he couldn't stop.
It felt so good to see him again.
"I hate to say it, but I've never been so bored in my life," Grif sighed. He and Simmons lounged on one of the couches in the living quarters. The news was on TV, upon Simmons' request.
"Deal with it. I want to know what they're saying about Charon Industries," Simmons said. "Hey, hand me a pop-tart."
Grif rummaged through their pile of snacks on the coffee table. "Want me to feed it to you too?" he said with a smile.
Simmons turned to look at Grif, unphased. Skin and metal seamlessly interchanged on the left side of his face. A metal cheekbone eased down into the soft pale skin of his jawline, and mussed dark auburn hair concealing what it could. Grif was used to seeing Simmons out of uniform on base, but it was different here. There was no sense of urgency, nothing to do. It was Grif's paradise, and Simmons' hell.
"Why would I want you to feed it to me?" Simmons dead-panned.
"I dunno. You're all injured and stuff over there." Grif smirked and handed the snack to Simmons before snuggling down into his blanket. "Just trying to help."
"I have two working arms. You have one working arm. How would that be efficient?" Simmons' eyes squinted whenever he thought Grif was being particularly dumb. Grif thought that shit was cute.
"Hey guys, I see you guys didn't waste any time getting started on your vacation," Carolina's voice came from behind them. She had returned from multiple meetings in the morning with officers on board.
"Uh, it's been like two weeks," Grif said with a smile. "If they don't want me to work then I guess they want me to snack."
Carolina ignored him. "Oh, you got the news on? Good, turn it up."
Simmons and Grif both waited for each other to grab the remote between them.
"You know, you have two working arms and I only have one working arm, so I'm just saying—" Grif started.
"Oh my god," Simmons muttered in exasperation and turned up the volume.
"Leaders of Charon Industries have been detained for further questioning. Right now, military and government prosecutors are fighting for jurisdiction over the case. It is possible that they will be tried in two separate courts, but more likely than not the military will fight to try the whole case because of the number of classified elements involved in the evidence," one expert said.
"And what are the implications of that?" the interviewer asked.
"Well, it means a lot less information will be public. The military prosecutors are currently working to repress as many details as they can, citing confidentiality…"
"Ah, they're useless," Carolina muttered. "Is there still coffee?"
"Yeah, help yourself," Simmons said.
Each suite had a kitchenette, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. The full kitchen in the living quarters was divided by a breakfast bar on the left side with couches and the TV on the right. Three separate hallways lead to the bedroom suites, two on the right and one on the left. It wasn't extraordinarily spacious, but it was surprisingly comfortable. Carolina poured herself a cup and propped up at the breakfast bar.
"Hey Carolina?" Grif asked. "Have you heard anything about when we're leaving this ship? Like, are we done working for the military now?"
"The Brigadier-General told me they didn't have the proper materials on board to really clear us for duty or discharge, so we're going to transfer over to a larger unit next week. Before they can do anything, they need physical and psych evals. We will either get cleared for duty or discharged from there," she shrugged. "But I don't think we'll be going anywhere until this legal battle settles down. I think the military is worried about liability, and they probably need to make sure we are not a liability."
"Do I get a say on if I'm discharged?" Grif asked.
"Please. They're gonna take one look at your fat ass and give you dishonorable," Simmons said.
"I mean, I think by now I'd take it," Grif said.
The main door dinged as it slid open, revealing Tucker with a sack full of groceries. "Hey dudes. You ever hear of plantains? Because I am excited to try some."
"Everyone's heard of plantains," Simmons said.
"What's a plantain? Is it like a vegetable?" Grif asked.
"Aren't those just… small bananas?" said Carolina
"Psh. I guess we'll find out! I don't fuckin' know. But with an actual food market available now I'm gonna eat all sorts of crap. I got big plans," Tucker grinned. He started putting his snacks away.
"Waaaaay ahead of ya," Grif said, turning the TV volume down and the channel to something more interesting, like cartoons.
"Seriously," Simmons said with a mouth full of poptart.
"Carolina, how's your eye? You gonna rock the pirate look from now on? Not that it isn't hot. I can think of some booty you could grab—bow chicka bowwow" Tucker said.
Carolina ignored his quips. She was used to them by now. Wash had been right; these guys were total idiots… but they were good people. "The eye is healing all right, but it won't be back to full health for a few months at least. They're going to see how much it heals on its own, and if I get redeployed, they're talking cybernetic enhancements."
"What? Cybernetic enhancements?" Simmons exclaimed. "They should totally fix me up! I'm like, mostly cybernetic at this point anyway. Maybe I could get some upgrades!"
"Ooh, they could give you a laser eye! Both of you!" Grif said.
"Dude fuck that. I want super strength. And like, the ability to shoot bullets directly out of my hand. That'd be badass." Simmons said. He put his left hand right in Grif's face and made pew pew sound effects for dramatic effect.
"Yeah, maybe you could go on Pimp my Ride," Grif snorted.
Tucker snorted from the kitchen. "Dude, that show hasn't been relevant in years. Like, even by our fucked-up timeline standards." He was already halfway into a plantain.
"Ah, whatever. I guess we're old now," Grif said.
"I would be interested in scoping abilities with an eye, if it came to that," Carolina said. "How convenient would that be? Every grenade, every firearm—incredible accuracy and no scope needed."
"You could spy on people, too," Tucker said. Carolina looked at him with a blank stare, her hands cupped around her coffee.
"You know, that's kind of creepy," she said.
"No, I meant for like, military shit. But I mean, you could probably be the best peeping tom of all time." Tucker shrugged and seemed to look contemplatively down at the plantain.
"… Is that any good?" Carolina asked.
A moment of silence passed between them and Tucker dropped the plantain in the garbage. "Nope."
"Yo dude you want a pop-tart? These things are like crack," Grif asked.
"Don't give away our crack, dude!" Simmons stage-whispered.
Suddenly the front door beeped again and two nurses came in. "Hey guys!" the nurse announced. "We're here to drop off a package for you. Oh, and meds." The second nurse began distributing paper bags to everyone in the quarters and left a few on the breakfast bar for the others, who were all off on their initial medical evaluations this morning.
"Uh… what are these for?" Simmons asked, peeking into the bag.
"A standard grab-bag of some light anti-anxieties, some sleep aids, oh—and the big pink one is actually a bioscanner camera, which will live-transmit your stats to our lab so we can make comprehensive health plans for you all. Make sure you take it with food," the second nurse explained.
"Dude is there Xanax in there?" Grif asked Simmons in a hushed voice.
"Shut up you idiot," Simmons responded.
The nurse outside ushered in a groggy Washington in standard issue sweats.
All eyes were on him, especially Tucker's. In the light of their living quarters he could see just how pallid Wash looked, which only emphasized his forever-tired eyes. The right side of his head was shaved where Tucker could see the staples over the swollen seams in his skull where the surgical team had kept his brain from swelling and bleeding out into his body. He was still a pile of bandages elsewhere, and he moved stiffly to account for them.
Yet, Wash was walking on his own, and in his arms were all the materials the infirmary left him. "Thanks... I call if anything comes up," he said. The nurses excused themselves and left Wash standing in the living room. Tucker wanted nothing more than to cater to his every need right that second; an overprotective flare blossomed in his chest. But Wash already sounded so tired, and Tucker thought it better he not get right up in his space yet.
"Wash! Welcome back!" Simmons exclaimed.
"Want a poptart?" Grif offered.
"Hey guys," Wash said with a smile. "No, thanks, I don't… I don't know what that is."
"Who hasn't heard of poptarts?" Grif asked. Simmons shrugged.
"What about a plantain?" Tucker offered. Wash's brows knit together in slight confusion.
"Is that all you guys have been doing? Eating?" Wash asked wearily.
"Mostly," Carolina said, standing up. "You want me to help you get settled?"
"Yeah, thanks." Wash and Carolina shuffled down one of the hallways, and Carolina gave him the rundown of the place.
Tucker could have punched himself. What about a plantain? Is he fucking stupid? It was definitely a good thing Tucker didn't volunteer to help; he would have probably been an even bigger headache for the freelancer. If Tucker could just keep… acting normal… like how things were when they were on Charon. Even that isn't a great comparison, though, and now they were all unemployed and on rest.
This was a pretty weird time for all of them. There was nothing to do—no drills, no supply runs, no missions, no war. It was… really fucking boring. They were supposed to be healing but, in reality, that just meant more time to sit around with their own thoughts.
While it was nice to not have to worry about dying every day, it was also kind of… well, Tucker wouldn't say it was a nice distraction, but it certainly kept all the other stuff safely packed away. He opened his bag of pharmaceutical goodies and wondered if he would need any of them. Otherwise, he thought Grif had a great idea about the Xanax.
Carolina hauled Washington's bag of personal items onto his bed for him. Wash was on a weight restriction for the next couple days, and for once in his life he was going to adhere to that. Mostly because Carolina wasn't having it any other way.
"Who's got the other room?" Wash asked. "This place is already a mess."
"Oh, uh, I think that's Tucker's stuff. I don't think there are any more single rooms open…" Carolina mused. The place wasn't really a mess, per se, but various clothing items—sweatshirts and socks mostly—had been abandoned in the kitchenette and the couch, and the bathroom had various grooming products strewn about. But Wash's bedroom had been untouched.
"You want help unpacking from here?" Carolina asked.
"No, no, I'm fine, thanks," Wash said. "I think I need a shower after all those days in the infirmary."
"Be careful of this while you're in there," Carolina said softly, her fingers grazing the swollen seams on the side of Wash's head. "It looks like its well on its way to healing, but it could still get infected if you fuss with it too much."
Wash smiled. "Yeah, I know Carolina. This isn't my first time going down hard." It was heartwarming to see Carolina's concern, but of all the people in the world she should understand the most.
Carolina sighed. "I hate to say it, but you really owe Tucker. I told him to leave you, when you…" she faltered. "I thought our best bet for getting out of there was clearing the ship. If I had known you were bleeding like that in your helmet…"
"It's fine," Wash said quickly. "You made the right call, you didn't have all the information… Tucker acted recklessly. It just… happened to work out this time."
They shared a brief silence as neither one of them wanted to be the first to breach the topic. Yet, they felt they needed to. Carolina started. "Maine's armor…" But the rest of her thought never followed.
Wash took in a sharp breath. "Maine's armor." They locked eyes, seeking validation in each other over whatever triggered feelings were brewing within them. "It was their best chance for survival."
"The guys said Epsilon ran the equipment before he fractured," Carolina said softly. "I think he fragmented while Tucker was in there."
Washington's grey eyes widened in surprise. "Epsilon… fractured? On Tucker?" Carolina nodded. "Is he—how did…?" Wash could feel his heartrate quickening against his will, the panic threatening to bubble up from his chest. "I knew Epsilon was gone, but I didn't realize he fragmented."
"Tucker says he's fine. I haven't breached the topic with him more than once, but I wanted you to know… in case something happens with him. Just… be on your toes." Carolina whispered.
"Always," Wash told her.
With a reassuring smile, Carolina left Wash in his room to unpack. When the door closed, a blanket of silence fell over Wash. He sat down on the edge of his bed, needing a rest from talking about Epsilon. He needed space from all of that, but he knew better than most that recovery didn't mean space at all. Recovery meant being trapped, unable to do anything. Unable to distract yourself from unpleasant memories or looming anxieties. Wash took a shaky breath and centered himself as best he could, scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. First thing's first, he was taking a shower.
Tucker returned to his quarters late that afternoon. He was bored out of his mind with an oncoming migraine, so he figured he'd pass the time swiping through his datapad in bed. He shrugged off his sweatshirt and tossed it on the counter of his kitchenette, which is when he realized someone had cleaned for him. Tucker examined the freshly tidied counters, and observed a small pile of his belongings heaped in front of his door. Peeking into the bathroom, he saw his stuff similarly piled to one side. On the other side sat only a toothbrush, deodorant, and a comb. The bathroom still felt warm from a shower—although there were no towels left on the ground.
Uh oh. Tucker thought to himself. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a door creak open behind him.
"Oh shit, you scared the crap out of me!" Tucker finally said after an awkward moment of staring. Wash's hair was still damp from the shower, and he wore heather grey joggers and a slim-fitting knit shirt. Wash's face looked drawn and exhausted; still, Tucker's chest tightened in some whirlwind of emotions he didn't have the capacity to sort through on such short notice.
"I guess we were assigned together," Wash said with a shrug. "You should really lock the door."
"Uh, okay. I guess so. It's just our friends here, so, I wasn't worried about it," Tucker said. After a brief pause and seeing Wash's unchanged expression, Tucker realized this was not up for debate and quickly went back to the door to lock it. "Okay, locked. All good?"
"And your clothes on the counter," Wash motioned vaguely. Tucker sighed, grabbed his hoodie from the kitchenette, and started kicking the pile of clothes into his bedroom.
"You know, you're not my CO anymore," Tucker said. "Like, I'm happy to accommodate you as a roommate, but don't get any ideas about wake-up times or anything."
Wash's face was priceless: so honest and surprised and open.
"What?" Tucker finally asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?'
Wash nearly cracked a smile and buried his face in one hand. A low chuckle came from his lips. "I can't believe you," he said.
"Can't believe what?" Tucker asked.
"You-You just… Maine's armor, and Epsilon, and you save my goddamn life out there, and here you are acting like nothing happened. You're so… normal." Wash's hand moved from his face to slide through his hair, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Whoa," Tucker said in surprise. "I did not think you'd want to go there so fast, but… okay." Tucker perched on the arm of the couch, since it seemed Wash was ready to talk. "I mean, yeah that was all really intense, but I guess I don't see the point in dwelling on it?"
"It's just… Epsilon, in my head, i-it was debilitating. I don't understand," Wash said with a disbelieving smirk. "And, you know, I owe you. For checking on me, by the pelican. If you hadn't removed my helmet—you know, I would have—" Wash faltered, the look of Tucker's shocked expression suddenly making him second-guess himself. Maybe he should have waited to bring this up. Was it just him, or were his hands shaking? "You know, Maine died that way. The Meta. He drowned in his own blood. In that helmet of yours."
"Whoa, whoa, Wash, hang on," Tucker rose to steady Washington's hands, out in front of him as if he was looking for something to latch onto. Tucker guided Wash to the couch to take a seat. "You don't need to obsess over this shit anymore, okay? We're on a break, so be kind to yourself and take a break. Let yourself heal before you decide to pick at your scabs. Christ." Tucker was still holding Wash's wrists, leaning protectively over him. "We don't have to unpack all of this today, all right?"
Wash seemed to snap back to himself all of the sudden as he ripped his hands from Tucker's grip, rubbing his wrist as though it had hurt. "I know, I know, it's fine. I'm just saying-," Wash couldn't look at Tucker now. He felt foolish for letting it all spill out like that, without warning or context or anything. "I'm just saying, I know I'm not your CO anymore. Don't worry about that."
Tucker's golden eyes seemed to peer into Wash, his lips forming a tight line as he seemed to be hedging whether or not he believed Wash.
"But really…" Wash added, quietly. "Thanks. For saving my life."
Tucker's eyes went still again, and Wash could hear his breath hitch. And then—laughter. Tucker threw his head back with a peel of laughter before lazily crashing onto the couch next to Wash.
"You're fucking funny," Tucker said. "You've saved my life like, a billion times now. And now you're gonna get all sentimental about the one time I get to return the favor?" Wash suddenly felt horribly insecure as a tinge of blush crept across his cheeks. He was just about to go crawl into his bed and pretend he wasn't the most awkward human alive when Tucker rested his hand on Wash's forearm.
"Dude, we're friends. It's okay. Friends do stuff for each other."
Tucker's warm smile was like sunlight and an ocean breeze and a comforting blanket all at once. Wash could only look at him, frozen underneath the hot, burning sensation of Tucker's skin on his. When was the last time he felt the comfort of human contact? His bones ached under the touch, yearning for something more, and yet he was terrified of the inevitable moment when Tucker's hand would move.
"Yeah," Wash said in a voice that was much softer than he intended. "You're right."
"I'm sorry, what was that?" Tucker's smile took on a mischievous note. "Can you repeat that for me? I'm not sure I heard you."
Wash groaned and found himself standing up, leaving that touch and sunlight and comfort. "I'm going to bed," he announced, leaving Tucker to snicker gleefully to himself on the couch while Wash closed the door on him. He leaned against his closed bedroom door and squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to focus on the chill he felt in the wake of Tucker's hand.
That's right, he remembered, touching always hurts more when it's gone. A familiar twinge of something painful twisted in the depths of his gut, and he pressed his hands to his solar plexus without thinking. Better to keep it away at all cost.
He knew he needed to take Tucker's advice and try to relax. For the moment at least, Wash could finish unpacking and curl into the covers of this new bed. It was still early, so he considered he might not sleep. Probably won't sleep. But if he could just have the rest of the day to untangle his racing thoughts and figure out how to deal… that would probably be best for everyone.
Coming off the battlefield has always been challenging for Wash. Back in Project Freelancer, the fight never ended and the battlefield was everywhere he went. Things were easier when the fight was either "on" or "off." This nonsense with waiting for the next fight was frustrating. A new round of intense physical therapy for four weeks, thanks to a busted ACL and three cracked ribs, was all he had to keep himself busy. Even so, depending on how reactive his body was to the healing units, he wouldn't be giving his all for another two months at least. On top of that, Doctor Padwell mentioned they would start the psychological review process on their new ship. Psych evals were usually low on Wash's to-do list, but something about how cagey the doctor had been about their program put him additionally on edge.
Flipping through his discharge instructions, he noted a handwritten note demanding his presence for an "Initial Psych Review" two days from now. Included with the appointment appeared to be prescription renewals. Wash groaned to himself—of course she'd hold his meds hostage to ensure cooperation. He needed to remember to ask Carolina ASAP about her thoughts on the process. Psych evals were totally normal procedure any time a soldier is removed from an extended stay in combat, but Carolina and he had their reasons not to open certain topics for discussion. It would be helpful if they got their stories straight, in the event a doctor unfamiliar with Project Freelancer might feel entitled to gauge how any person "should respond to stressful, violent, or high-intensity combat situations."
The problem with the shrinks, in Wash's opinion, is that the whole concept of healthy coping mechanisms was fatally flawed. How can anyone tell Wash how he is supposed to react to his own trauma? His own guilt, or terror, or desperation? How could a bunch of labcoats know what it was like to survive his training? Had they ever run a mission after staying awake for three days? Had they ever been forced to train for thirty hours straight? Had they ever had the experience of trying to stand from blood loss and fight for their life at the same time?
In all the psychiatrists he's met, there were two types. The first are the doctors who wanted to stretch their boney little fingers into the deepest crevices of his nightmares and claw out the good stuff. They wanted to hold his feet to the fire; they wanted his pain to mean stuff.
The second type was the doctor who saw Wash as a wildcard, tantalizingly dangerous and only one bad day away from snapping. Which, if the psychologists had their way, meant he would either become a vegetable or a raving madman. Sometimes they would make a big show of walking on eggshells, other times they antagonized him intentionally so they could catalogue his reactions as "dangerous to himself or others."
Wash finished putting his clothes away, turned off all the lights, and crawled beneath the fluffy comforter in his bed. He had his datapad to keep him company—he frequently read volumes and volumes of books whenever they were on a break. Anything to keep him occupied. If he was too fatigued to pass the psych evals, not only would he not be cleared for reassignment, but his discharge might look less like retirement and more like a padded room. That was the last damn thing he needed, he thought. If he was ever institutionalized, he might actually go crazy.
He scrolled through the first few pages of some book on neoclassic literature before he decided to settle in for a long read. Even for a couple hours after that, Wash was pretty good.
Tucker was up earlier than usual around 6:00 AM after a crazy dream. He woke with a massive startle, sweat cooling down the back of his neck and his heart beating a mile a minute. He scrubbed his face, blinking until the details of his room were clear again. Already, the specifics of the dream were fading. His eyes flicked to the glowing digits on his alarm clock and he sighed, crawling out of bed and resigned to start the day. He changed into a dry t-shirt, took his locs down from the bun on top of his head, secured his hair into a loose ponytail, and grabbed some thick socks. He already had plans to make coffee and watch some garbage early-morning news show. Maybe, if he felt motivated, he'd go up to the observation deck and check out the galaxy in the morning.
As much as Tucker generally hated mornings, the fact that few people were out and about so early was something he appreciated. Which is also why, when he opened his door and saw Wash hunched on the sofa in the pitch dark, Tucker shrieked in surprise.
"Holy shit man! Turn a light on or something, fuck! Scaring the shit out of people, lurking in the dark, unannounced and shit. Who raised you?!" Tucker griped.
Wash's eyes were wide and calculating. "Tucker, are you okay?"
Tucker sighed and fumbled for the light switch to their foyer, finally reaching it with a thwack of his hand. "Yeah dude, I just didn't expect you to be hunkered down like a gremlin out here. It's early."
"I mean, er, Tucker…" Wash hesitated, "You were screaming?" It wasn't a question, but Wash made it sound that way.
"Yeah, because you surprised me," Tucker said again with an edge of annoyance in his voice.
"No, I meant, before—Tucker, did you just scream yourself awake? Are you sure you're okay?" Wash's voice was small and concerned, but he took on that tone he did whenever he was trying to establish some kind of professional boundary. Tucker fucking hated that tone.
"I didn't… I mean, I woke up, yeah. I had a crazy dream. I don't think I screamed though, Wash." Tucker said, all memories of the dream having faded. "What are YOU even doing up? You look like a gargoyle! Did you sleep at all?"
Wash sputtered for a minute. There was no doubt that he definitely heard Tucker scream, but even Washington could take a hint once in a while. He dropped it, and shrugged off Tucker's next comment. "I slept some."
"Yeah what, like three hours?" Tucker snorted.
"Five hours," Wash interrupted firmly.
"Go back to bed you fucking lunatic," Tucker waved at him before shuffling into the bathroom. When Wash hadn't moved a muscle after Tucker had relieved himself, brushed his teeth, and spent a solid ten minutes checking social media, Tucker crossed his arms and stood directly in front of his dense roommate. "Wash?" His tone was suddenly parental, surprising even himself.
"Hm?" Wash's eyes barely met Tucker's. Stormy grey lenses seemed preoccupied. This is when Tucker notices Wash has a fucking handgun clutched in his hands, poised with his elbows resting on his knees like it's the most casual thing in the world.
"Wash, what are you doing with a gun right now? What are you doing sitting in the dark at the ass-crack of dawn?" Tucker softened his tone. He didn't want to attack Washington, but he certainly wasn't going to stand idly by if Wash started self-destructing. Simply put, he refused to be an enabler to Wash's drama.
Wash sighed heavily and shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet Tucker's gaze at all now as he suddenly found the crown molding on his door frame exceptionally fascinating. After some fidgeting, Wash licked his lips slowly before confessing.
"I had to watch the door," he muttered.
Tucker blinked a couple times before glancing behind him at the front door and back to Wash on the couch. "This door? The door that's locked, and is in a living quarters that is also locked from the rest of the ship? Wash, we've had less security than this the whole time we were on Chorus."
"I know," Wash said, shifting his eyes to the side. He almost looked… guilty? Tucker reached out to touch the blonde's shoulder, but Wash's sudden intake of breath and apparent flinch away from Tucker's touch stilled his hand. "I'm sorry. I need to do this. It's just because I'm somewhere new. That's all," Wash said in a slow, measured voice. "Once I'm used to the place, I won't be out here every night like a lunatic."
"Yeah, but we're moving to the Callisto Seven in like, six days," Tucker scratched the back of his head while his brows scrunched together. "Are you gonna, like, not sleep until you're used to sleeping at the new place?"
Wash's rapid blinking gave away his surprise. He hadn't thought of that. Hoo boy, he was in for a long two weeks. With a heavy sigh, Wash finally looked back to Tucker. "Yeah, Tucker. That's what that means." Tucker could see from his roommate's freckled face that he wasn't super pleased about that.
"Well, look, if you're gonna be up, why don't you just come have breakfast? We can watch the Today Show, or whatever crap they've got on local news," Tucker offered. Wash rolled his eyes, but conceded.
"I guess… something tells me that might be more entertaining than watching the front door," Wash hedged. Tucker smiled then. Sometimes when Wash was wound up extra-tense, Tucker would have to engage in what he called de-icing. Washington could be a frigid, non-negotiable pain in the ass. By now, Tucker knew most of the time when he could de-ice his friend with a little humor and when to back the fuck off.
He was always glad when Wash thawed out. He was a surprisingly fun guy to be around, but the complications of the freelancer were many.
Wash had stood up, but spent a moment too long looking down at his pistol. "Can I—"
"Leave the gun, Wash," Tucker said while rolling his eyes. "If you bring a loaded firearm out there, Caboose is definitely going to find it and he is definitely going to shoot someone."
After some kind of inner debate, Tucker watched Wash lie the handgun on the counter. "Yeah. Let's not… invite… trouble," Wash concluded.
The following couple days were exceedingly normal. Tucker would wake up screaming sometime in the early-to-mid-morning hours; Wash would camp on the sofa in front of the door. Wash read his books and hung out with the reds and blues. Tucker went shopping with Donut, watched TV, and jammed in his room with his music turned up too loud whenever he wasn't napping. Wash was thinking about the softness and ease in which he managed to glide through the past 48 hours. He found himself worrying that he hadn't enjoyed himself sufficiently, that he had taken such normalcy for granted. In an instant, Wash found himself reminiscing for sunnier times as soon as the doctor clicked her ballpoint pen.
"All right, Wash," Doc Padwell started. "We're just going to start with routine questions and get a sense of things as a… base line, if you will."
"Base line?" Wash asked. "You mean, this isn't part of the process? To get cleared for reassignment?"
Doc Padwell hummed a noncommittal noise. "I'm interested in preserving your mental state as of this moment the best I'm able. For the records. This way, if we need to look back-,"
"Look back?" Wash asked incredulously. "If you'd looked at my file, you'd know there's plenty to go off—,"
"Wash I have looked at your file," Doc Padwell said, "and I understand you don't want to be here. I get that." The doctor took a tense breath. "But I'm afraid if we don't establish a base line, the integrity of your treatment could be at risk."
Wash stupidly blinked for several moment. "What treatment?" he asked dumbly. His voice was strained and he could feel his heart rate jump again. Oh no. Not here. The doctor continued to speak.
"When you and your friends transfer to Callisto Seven, the psych teams they have there are cooperatively owned—civilian and military. The idea is to have as ethically-neutral teams as possible, but there's been some criticism in the medical community. Sometimes information doesn't get passed between care teams, which can be dangerous for the patient. Worse, they wear their ethics like a flag, and use overly broad terms to define their success of treatments. If they ever come under direct criticism for findings or results, they tout themselves as the best in field and claim 'best practice,'" the doctor rolled her eyes. "Frankly, they can be unscientific. If anything happens, I want to make sure we have these answers on file now, so they can't skew their data for the god damn insurance…"
Doc Padwell was muttering off into a tangent, but Wash only heard half of what she said. "Doctor Padwell," he said forcefully. "What. Treatment."
The doctor paused her pontificating to look carefully into Wash's face. It's a thing all psych professionals tended to do. Wash's heart was starting to pound while he directed his attention to taking measured breaths.
Doesn't she know I can see her when she stares like that? No, stay cool, he thought to himself. Stay calm. Don't panic.
"Just the treatment plans they're going to draw up after the initial analysis. Every patient gets one—it's a plan of addressing the patient's unique issues and mediating unfavorable responses."
Wash seemed to be frozen in place. When he didn't say anything, she continued. "It's normal, Wash, it's nothing out of the ordinary." A brief pause. "I didn't mean to alarm you, hon."
Wash stood up silently. "I appreciate what you're trying to do here, Doc, but I'm going to take my chances with the new team." He looked down at the woman still seated in the chair opposite himself.
"Wash, if you leave, I'm legally obligated to mark in your file—" the doctor rapidly explained.
"Do what you have to do, Doc. We're done here." Wash's curt exit was matched in rudeness only by its speed. His heart was pounding, shaking, crashing in his ears. The sounds of the busy medical office faded into the distance. If you start to hyperventilate, it's over, he thought. Keep it under wraps.
His swift exit put him on a path to his living quarters in record time, but by the time he opened the main door he was hanging on by a thread. His slow, measured breathing seemed to do little to calm his trembling hands, and his thoughts were racing: Do not hyperventilate—Do not start—Do not lose it—do not panic—do not lose control I swear to God if you—
He didn't even hear the chaos of Donut and Grif bickering over the TV or Carolina trying to catch his attention. Every sound was deafening on its own, and the violent symphony of it all made his ears ring. With a final push he made it to the other side of his unit's door, frantically locking the deadbolt and covering his ears. Wash stilled himself and took slow, controlled breaths. He counted them: Inhale one, two, three, four.
Somehow, the noise wasn't going away. For a moment he couldn't determine the source, as though it was some omnipresent voice shouting into all directions equally. He counted his breath: Hold one, two, three, four.
He focused and strained to listen. Tucker's room. The noise is from Tucker's room, and Wash thinks it's music. He counted his breath: Exhale one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
Okay, again. Wash took another deep breath and found himself outside of Tucker's door, knocking loudly. When the door opened the noise came pouring out like a mudslide over Wash's senses.
"Can you turn your music down?" he managed to grit out. Tucker looked moderately annoyed, but he complied. The music was low enough that Wash could recognize that it was, in fact, music. But everything was still sharp and awful.
"Anything else?" Tucker asked.
"I'm sorry," Wash paused. "When I asked you to turn it down, I think I meant, if you could turn it off, please." Wash rubbed his brow with his fingers and realized he was holding his breath.
No, no, count it. Inhale one, two.
Two.
T-two…
Washington's chest threatened to quiver. No, no no no no… Inhale one, two, three, Exhale one, two three, Inhale one…
"Wash!" Tucker was practically shouting in his face for the third time. He was close, Wash realized, and with a jolt he stumbled backwards for fear of that closeness.
If he touches me again, I am going to burn up, the errant thought flitted across his mind.
"Wash, are you okay? Can you hear me?" Tucker's voice is softer now, but more urgent. It's several moments before Wash notices he's on the floor. He seems to be sitting up okay, if he leans on his arms, but the trip backwards had sent the room spinning.
Count it up. Count it up. Count them. Count. His thoughts tumbled, and his chest heaved. He couldn't catch his breath anymore, and he clutched a hand to his solar plexus again. Tucker was on his eyelevel in an instant, locs tumbling down one side and glasses… Wash hadn't even noticed Tucker wearing glasses before.
But that didn't matter, because Tucker's beautiful copper eyes were close again and a hand was cradling the side of his face. This is it. I'm going to burn. An icy bolt of lightening pierced Wash to his core in anticipation.
"Wash," Tucker cooed softly, "Hey, everything's okay, remember? It's just you and me here, and the door is locked, and the music is off. Just breathe. Are you breathing? Wash?"
All of the sudden, Washington's bleary grey eyes came back into focus. He wasn't burning, after all. With one shaky breath, Wash found himself leaning into Tucker's hand—a hot touch like good coffee, warm spices, and dark chestnut. Oh, that beautiful skin, Wash thought. Gently, he pushed Tucker's hand away because Wash knew how much his face would ache now that he's felt that touch and suddenly it's gone.
"Tucker," Wash started with another slow, measured breath. "I am so, so sorry. For this whole… performance," he started to chuckle despite feeling foolish.
"Wash, what was that? Was that… a panic attack?" Tucker looked invariably concerned. Tucker had seen Washington have rough days both before and during the war on Chorus, but he was beginning to suspect he only ever saw the aftermath. Tucker never saw Wash lose his composure before, and he definitely never saw any panic attacks.
Wash felt the vines of shame wind into his chest, the way they do when he's feeling particularly crazy. "I'm such a fucking mess," Wash's voice bordered on laughter. If he didn't know better, he thought there might be a wayward tear forming in his eye. "I'm having anxiety about my anxiety and my migraines have their own migraines. Oh my God. Fucking Christ, I'm sorry, usually I can keep it all… you know, behind closed doors."
"Hey, where is your med bag? You need a pill. Like, a big one," Tucker said. Wash stopped laughing and began to search Tucker's face for… something. Tucker glanced to the side uncomfortably. "I don't mean like that. It's just, it's good to have, with the anxiety." Tucker glanced back into Wash's face. Every freckle seemed illuminated in his post-panic daze, with a faint rosiness tinging his cheeks from the stress of it all. The scar over his eyebrow that usually made the freelancer look gruff now appeared soft. But his eyes, those blue-grey storms, were just teetering on the edge of disappointment.
"Hey, I get it too sometimes. I don't think you're crazy," Tucker said firmly, and Wash seemed relieved. There it was—the de-ice. Wash let out another deep breath and Tucker saw his shoulders visibly relax. "Let me go find you that pill," Tucker said before quickly getting to his feet. Wash managed to find himself off the floor and onto the couch. His eyes flickered up to the door again, just to make sure it was still locked.
Wash rubbed his eyes with one hand, suddenly overcome with the desire to chastise himself into oblivion: fucking thirty-six-goddamn-years-old and I'm still pulling this stupid shit… But Tucker was already back with half a pill and a glass of water to interrupt his thoughts.
"Here. This isn't enough to fuck with you, but it should take the edge off," Tucker explained. Wash noted he needed to ask Tucker how the hell he knew all about prescription medications but couldn't figure out how the thermostat worked. Regardless, Wash took the medicine. Tucker slouched into the sofa next to him. "You sure know how to make a man worry," was all he said.
Wash gave a weak smile. "Yeah, I've been told I'm good at that. I'm sorry you have to deal with it. I… I know it's a nuisance."
Tucker waved his hand in Wash's face with a pshh. "Don't feel bad about, you know, having the reactions you do. Or whatever. We've all got our quirks. I just worry you won't… reach out… you know, if you need it."
Wash couldn't help himself from looking too closely at Tucker's face then. Sharp cheekbones, lovely locs that rested just on his shoulders, and that glowing complexion that was part melanin and part sunny disposition. He didn't know Tucker wore glasses in his downtime, though. They looked good. "I can reach out," Wash said somewhat defensively.
"I don't know that you can, dude! Look, I'm not a doctor, but are you sure you would have had a panic attack today if you hadn't straight-up avoided me the past 48 hours? I knew you had that fucking therapy appointment today. I tried to touch base with you, but you were all 'I'm fine, stop bothering me, put some pants on and get out of my room,'" Tucker argued. The exasperated look he gave Wash told him Tucker was serious. Wash groaned and buried his face in his hands. Here he was, thinking the past two days had been nice.
"Tucker, can we not? Like, right this second? I mean, at least give the meds a chance to kick in," Wash said from behind the palms of his hands. Tucker was still, then, and patiently waited. After a few moments of silence, Wash leaned back into the couch and dropped his hands at his sides. "It would help if you didn't try to pry it out of me after barging into my bedroom, for starters," Wash corrected. "But I can try, you know, to be more honest when you ask. About how I'm doing."
The freelancer grimaced inwards a bit. "I'm not good at this… emotional stuff, Tucker. You're my friend, and I don't want to become a burden to you. However, I think I can own up that I have a hard time striking a balance between honesty and…," Wash sighed. "I don't know. All my baggage."
"Wow." Tucker said. "You're totally right dude, I thought I was gonna have to pry it out of you."
Wash opened his mouth to make a retort, but the words dissipated when Tucker reached over and grabbed Wash's hand. Deftly interlacing their fingers, Tucker gave a gentle squeeze.
"Tucker…" Wash said quietly. He seemed to be searching for the words. "You don't—you can't touch me like that." His voice was more choked than Wash's pride would have liked to admit; his hand was burning hot in Tucker's grip. "Not… if you're going to let go." His voice was barely above a whisper.
Tucker only squeezed his hand tighter. "Don't worry dude, I won't let go." His tone was light, and there it was again—normalcy. How does he do that? Wash wondered. Tucker could find calmness in a hurricane, the way a biting cold wind dies down in the sun. Tucker was his sun, his warmth, his normal. Wash found himself focusing on the feeling of Tucker's outstretched hand. "Do you remember when we would do this in the hospital?" Tucker asked suddenly.
Wash's brow furrowed as he tried to think back. "When?" he finally asked.
Tucker's thumb was now stroking steadily over Wash's torn and battered knuckles. "Here, when you were in-patient. And before…" Tucker's voice quickly became a hushed thing. "I remember you held my hand like this when I was recovering from my stab wound."
Wash's face flushed red and he could feel every cell in his body freeze in trepidation. He did, in fact, hold Tucker's hand then. He held Tucker's hand other times too, but he never thought the other soldier was aware of it.
"It was nice," Tucker added. "This is nice." Tucker didn't let go, and Wash felt the anti-anxieties kick in with a whoosh. His muscles gently melted into the couch as his breathing became effortless. His head naturally eased backwards into the couch. He wasn't even sure how long he'd been sitting there before he promptly fell asleep, with Tucker's hand in his and everything finally quiet.