(Originally written June 22nd 2014)

There are hot lips at his collarbone, traveling up in nipping kisses, hands rucking up his shirt, fingers splayed and digging into his back. He can feel the weight of the other person shift, settling more fully over him. The person sighs into his neck, kissing their way across his jugular to the other side of his neck, nosing up until they've found that spot under his ear that makes him keen, back arching and hands desperate to grab onto the other.

Only, he can't seem to get his hands free, trapped as they are under the sheets. The person above him snickers, a low sound that sends a thrum of excitement through Tucker, making him curse and wish he could see the person above him, but it's too dark and he doesn't want the other person to get up and turn on the light, an irrational fear that if they did then they'd never come back.

So Tucker does what he does best, he uses his mouth. His lips latch onto the other person's, sucking their bottom lip into his mouth, tongue licking over the swollen skin before diving in, pushing the other person's tongue back, annoyed at not being able to control the situation more, but more than happy to give back just as good as he was getting.

The other person moans, trying to push impossibly closer into the kiss. Tucker's eyes are closed, enjoying the feeling of slick lips over his, the other person starting to nip at his lips, across his jaw, and to his neck again. Tucker got the feeling that whoever this was, they enjoyed marking, wanting to see bruises darken his skin further than it already was, wanted Tucker to remember this moment, long after morning came. Tucker didn't mind, he was sure he wouldn't forget this, how could he?

Tucker shifts, surprised that he can slip a hand free. When did he get them free? It doesn't matter, he moves his hand quickly, tangling his fingers into closely cropped hair, enjoying the whine the other produces against his neck when he gives a sharp tug, does it again to hear the way the person's voice pitches. He could get used to that sound.

Tucker's other hand is free now, and he takes advantage of that, using it to hook his fingers under the other's jaw, bringing their lips back to his. He brings his other hand out of the other's hair, using both hands to cup their cheeks. He feels stubble scrape against his fingers, racks his brain for who he knows with hair that short and face in that need of a shave.

"Tucker."

'Wash', his brain helpfully supplies a few seconds after the other man moaned his name, all the blood he was using to solve the problem of his mystery bed-mate flying south once that was solved.

It was Wash's fingers traveling down his spine, gripping his hips. Wash's lips on his, moving down to bite gently at his chin.

It was Wash who was pulling away from him. Tucker could feel his own body trying to reach out to him, can feel his frustration mount when he can't get his arms to work, dammit, and cant get his eyes to open even though he so desperately wants them to.

He can feel Wash's warmth drain from him, until he feels the burning again, by his ear, can feel Wash's breath across his cheek, but can't turn his head towards him, can't open his eyes to see the expression on his face, can't do anything but lay there, hearing him breath, suddenly terrified that he won't hear that sound again.

He feels Wash's lips ghost across his ear, "I will do everything in my power to ensure your safety."

'What? What did that mean? Wash?' But he couldn't speak, only roll the words over in his head again and again.

He felt Wash's lips on his forehead, his cheek, then he was gone, leaving nothing but a cold silence.

'Wash? Wash!'

Tucker jerked awake, searching the room frantically, any modicum of happiness he felt in the dream being stripped away from him when he found he was alone, just like he always was.

He could still feel phantom fingers on his body, moving down his back, over his chest, a buzzing that ended in tingling on his forehead and cheek, the ghost of words echoing in his head.

'I will do everything in my power to ensure your safety.'

Wash had said that, not long before he made good on that promise with that stupid fucking martyr bullshit.

Tucker sits on his bed for a long time after that, just staring at his hands unseeingly.

He just feels numb, empty. He knows he should be doing something: crying, yelling, cursing, throwing his helmet across the room because Wash was so fucking stupid and he was mad at him for being gone even though it was irrational, but emotions didn't make sense half the time anyway so he didn't care.

He couldn't bring himself to pick any emotion because if he chose sadness then he'd start crying and probably wouldn't stop and he was so sick of tears, his own or others, and if he chose anger he wouldn't stop being mad, not until it ate him up and took away every good memory he ever had. He couldn't be happy, but he could fake it, has been faking it, just like his dreams have been faking it, trying to drown the constant low thrum of 'he's gone, he's gone, you fucked up, he's gone' that's been on loop since everything started caving in.

"Captain Tucker?"

It's Palomo, his voice sounding like he'd been saying his name for a while now, fist tentatively knocking on his door. Tucker is tempted to ignore him, but knows he can't ignore him when he's trying to ignore so many other things, so he kicks the sheets off from where they had been pooling on his lap, snags a shirt off the floor before answering the door.

Palomo's body language screams sheepish and Tucker has a mild moment of embarrassment that the lieutenant might have heard him, but he gets over it because he really just doesn't fucking care, let the lieutenant think what he wants.

"What is it, Palomo?"

Palomo shuffles, the clipboard in his hand knocking against his chest. "Well, sir, the meeting is going to start soon and Kimball wants you to be in charge of morale? Some of the troops have been feeling down lately and she wants everyone to do their best in training today. Should I tell them to start without you, sir?" He makes a little motion with his helmeted head, likely indicating Tucker's armor-less body without voicing it out loud.

Tucker straightens. "That won't be necessary, lieutenant. I'll be down in five...maybe ten. Tell Kimball to hold her fucking horses." Tucker raises an eyebrow when the lieutenant doesn't move. "Well, get the fuck going, Palomo. We don't have all day."

Palomo starts, hand going up in a salute that just ends up whacking himself in his visor before scampering down the hall, armored feet echoing off the walls.

Tucker closes the door, hand dragging down his face. 'Morale', sure, he could do that. If his brain could trick him into being happy, then Tucker was sure he could do the same to the recruits.

He just hoped no one woke them up.

I'm sorry, audience. Thank you for reading.