-Copyright notes, I don't own Red vs. Blue. (Obviously.)

The setting/time frame, this chapter is set following York's injury but before Episode 13 where the Freelancer's plan their mission to recover the Sarcophagus.

"To the left."

"I know."

"Bottom left."

"I know."

"Completely off target."

"I know, Wash."

"You sure you're fit for action? You haven't even got cleared by the docs yet, and they told you to take it easy," Washington said, leaning against the wall of the shooting booth, watching York take pot-shots with his handgun. The other Freelancer was busy attempting to reload his handgun, but the magazine was having a difficult time of finding it's way to the openning in the bottom of the grip. While York bumbled with the magazine, his depth perception gone due to an 'inconvient accident' involving a hand grenade during training exercises a few days earlier. Wash wasn't quite sure how he felt about the situation, based on Conn-, CT's statement it was implied the Director had provided the ordenance. Obviously without Agent Texas' interference York would have likely been killed, but a part of him also wanted to believe that the Director wouldn't allow such a hideous lapse in safety to occur on his watch. His internal mulling ceased as the sound of metal on metal made it's beautiful music as a the magazine slotted itself into it's place and York racked the pistol's slide, chambering another round. Wash merely shook his head, here was York, the bandages having been removed only an hour prior and already he was down on the range trying to get his accuracy back, obviously he'd heard the possibility of his being replaced as 'supreme-lock-picker of the world' (a title York had coined himself).

The gun kicked back into York's hand and he muttered obsenities under his breath, another trigger pull and another round missed the target completely. The Agent pulled the trigger ten more times, each round blazing down range to it's most certain doom once it smashed itself against the solid backstop at the far end of the range. York cleared the weapon, safetied it, and laid it down on the table before turning to face Wash, "Look Wash, I'm fine. Okay, absolutely-postively fine. M'kay? Why wouldn't I be fine? I'm nothing short of perfect health."

Washington uncrossed his folded arms, "York, you're lucky to be alive. Take it easy for once, I'm sure I can handle any locks we run into-"

"Holographic locks, know how to crack 'em?"

"With some time I could-"

"How long?"

"Two minutes."

York jabbed his thumb at his own chest, "Not to brag, but I managed it in forty-five."

"Minutes?" Washington replied with a smirk.

York gave him a playful punch to the shoulder, "And for the record, you dolt, it was forty-five seconds," The agent returned to his pistol, picked it up and much more easily loaded it, he glanced over his shoulder, "What? You gonna just stand their and admire my rugged good looks or you gonna shoot?"

"You know the Director would have my head if he knew you were down here unsupervised," Washington replied simply, going to retrieve his own pistol from a nearby locker, his fingers dancing delicately across the keypad that unlocked the olive colored locker. Wash retrieved the gun and a spare magazine before gently closing the door to the locker and returning to the firing line, where he started the procedure of loading up the magazine with ammunition off the table.

York fired the gun once more, the sound reverberating off the walls of the range, the tinny-clink as the shell casing hit the floor and bounced once before rolling halfway across the floor and coming to rest, York scoffed, "Look, honestly, the Director could care less what happened to me, or any of us for that matter. Training keeps getting more dangerous everyday, the missions, everything. You saw what happened to North, and that was tame compared to everything since. I don't figure we'll be so lucky next time around."

"The more realistic the training the better performance in the field," Wash replied, practiced fingers loading rounds into the single-stack magazine while resting heavily on the shooting bench.

"I know what the Director said," York shoot back with slightly more venom than he wished, he sighed, "First it was paint-rounds, then live rounds, and next thing I know Wyoming and Maine are chucking frags. You wanna tell me how blowing half my face off has anything to do with improving my performance?" Noting Wash's silence and general blank expression which accompanied the Agent's mulling over a topic that hit close to home, he quickly added, "Shit. Look, I shouldn't complain, better me than someone else. I need to thank that Texas chick when I see her again."

"Carolina doesn't seem too happy about having her around," Wash murmured, happy the topic had shifted away from York's injuries and back to a more tolerable subject. The final cartridge slipped into the magazine and Wash slotted it in and hit the slide release on the handgun with his thumb, locking the pistol's slide in the forward position. The Agent squared up with the target, assumed the proper stance, brought his gun up as trained, put the safety in the 'off' or 'fire' position and pulled the trigger.

"I don't think Carolina wants anymore competition. Probably jealous another woman is battling for my attention," York said grinning, whether it was at the possibility of a cat-fight between Carolina and Tex or the fact his bullets were finally hitting paper. Wash wasn't quite sure.

"Your attention? You really think she's interested in you?"

"No woman can resist my charm, that or the fact that I'm an expert lock-pick and a master of Karma Sutra."

"Right."

"It's true."

"I'll take your word for it."

The next few minutes passed in silence, only broken by the consistant hammering of military-issue handguns and usual assortment of sounds as weapons were loaded once more, finally Wash laid his handgun down on the table and turned to York, "Alright, I think that's enough for today, best get you back to the medbay before anyone finds out you're gone."

"Nobody's gonna know," York said reassuringly, looping an arm around Wash, pretending he was some blind man clinging to his son's arm for support, Washington shoved him off, "Hey, hey! Don't push the half-blind man!"

Wash scowled at York, making a scene in the middle of the hallway but relented when he found York's grinning but scarred face looking back. Washington sighed, it was so hard to remain mad or even become mad at York, it was almost annoying how he had such a way with people. If only Washington himself had that much natural charisma...he pushed the thought away with a shake of his head, "Alright, but if Carolina finds out, it's your ass."

York shrugged, "Ah, she always wanted my ass anyway. Speaking of women in our lives, how are things between you and Connie?"

"What do you mean things?" Wash asked, pausing in the middle passageway, the seeming sea of troopers parting around him like the Red Sea parted for Moses.

"You know, things-things," York replied simply, turning to look back at Wash, though he had to reorient himself slightly on account of his bad eye, "Talking softly to eachother, holding hands, making out in supply closets, fucking on Carolina's desk-"

"No, we're-we're just friends, that's all," Wash said, cutting off York before he brought up anything else that had never or would never happen between the two Freelancers. They were both professionals, inter-unit relationships were detrimental to unit cohesion, such feelings could get in the way of better judgement putting the unit as a whole in danger. No, Washington was anything but a hormonally-confused teenager, he was a grown man accustomed to the military life and it's proceedings, such feelings were below soldiers of their caliber. At least that's what he told himself, because that's what the manuals had always said, and obviously whoever wrote the manuals knew what they were talking about, so why should he doubt them? "And besides, she wants to be called CT."

York whistled, the two's slow walking picking up pace, "Damn, that bad? Sounds like negotiations broke down pretty hard."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Did you pull one of your lectures?"

"No, I just told her-"

"So you did."

"I didn't."

"Yeah, ya did. Wash, I know you."

"Shit."

"Hey, we're only human, buddy," York said, clapping an arm around Wash's shoulders, causing the other Agent to dip a bit at the increased weight, he gave him a playful nuggy, "And 'sides, now we don't have to worry about the possibility of a little Washington running around, I deal with you enough as it is, don't need your bastard children too."

Washington gave York a punch to the gut, "It's times like this I question our friendship."

"Eh, you know you love me. And besides, where would you be without me? I'm the peanut butter to the rest of you guys jelly that keeps this whole operation from falling apart."

"That anology makes no sense whatsoever," Wash replied, watching as York paused by the doorway to the medbay, the lock-pick seemingly studying the walls for chipped paint, after a moment, York looked back up at Washington and said, "Because everyone loves peanut butter, Wash. And my armor's the color of peanut butter...but mainly because peanut butter is universally loved by all."

Wash merely stifiled a chuckle as York disappeared back into the infirmary, the future-Recovery Agent spun on his heel and started back down the hallway to his quarters. He had a feeling the next day would be a long and eventful one, they had a new mission on the board.