Tucker could see it. Vaguely.
There was a reason he had been put in Blood Gulch to begin with, and it wasn't just because he had 'Bow Chicka Bow Wow'ed his way through the military test Project Freelancer had put in his lap. Sure, that was part of it, but the other half of the equation was his inability to see anything else but those Bow Chicka Bow Wow moments.
Okay, the lady who had handed him the test might have been a bit testy when he tried hitting on her. Maybe she had over reacted a little bit and just gave him a big F on his paper. But, hey, she was hot. It was worth it.
Besides, it was hard work trying to work with the limited material he had at Blood Gulch. When a Bow Chicka Bow Wow moment called, he was there. Because, baby, he was just like a Superman, he knew where his line was needed. Bow Chicka Bow Wow.
Tucker hadn't really thought about much else for most of his semi-adult life, but he liked to think there was more to him than just a childish joke. He really thought that the first person to see that something else had been Church, but it was hard to tell because the man was such an asshole. An asshole who thought Tucker was his best pal, but an asshole nonetheless. Tucker had never really seen it as a compliment, but he was willing to settle with the idea that someone saw something else in him, even if it wasn't a girl. And when Church wasn't praising his own damned ego.
Did that mean he thought Church was hot? Hell, no. He knew Church wasn't an regular human being from the beginning; it was obvious. Okay, not so obvious, but it made sense. Tucker had never commented on it; his mind was only on his moments. His shining moments, when he needed to say his four little words.
Maybe he was downplaying it a bit? He was always looking around, always observing, ready for that moment when he needed to say his line. Could he have figured it out? Perhaps he was selling himself a bit short when it came to his real potential as a military man, but in all honestly, he was a lover and not a fighter. He had only joined the army because he knew girls dig military men with scars.
He supposed there was something to him being special. He had learned to see things without the aid of a sniper rifle and the moment it had hit his hands, he had sniped everyone in sight. He was always getting head-shots now, and it was almost instinctual. He had quick reflexes. Did Church know?
Perhaps not. Church was always more into himself than anyone else, even when he was so bad at everything he did. But that's what happens when you're a broken old A.I., wasn't it? Tucker could never figure out which one came first; the suckiness, or the fragmentation. He hated to think his friend had suffered through all that, and Wash never told him the details so Tucker was left imagining them. When he wasn't thinking of chicks.
He was thinking less and less of chicks now. That asshole had his mind wrapped up in something else entirely, now. He said his catchphrase less regularly. God, why did he spend so much time thinking about that damn asshole?
It took him a moment to realize that he isn't talking about Church.
He was perched on his semi-regular rest spot in their new home next to the crashed vessel that had brought them here, and his scope wasn't pointed at the enemy or out looking for Carolina. It was looking at Washington.
"What the fuck is your problem, asshole?" he hissed to himself, remembering many times when he'd tell Church the same thing. Did he ever tell anyone that Church had nightmares? That he screamed names that made no sense to Tucker every night? Well, no sense until Washington stepped into the picture.
You should be glad you're fucking alive. He remembered too many nights when Church thought Washington and the others were dead. Did Washington even know that his best friend cared so deeply for the man? Or did Wash even remembered Church, Alpha, at all? Or did they just constantly try to forget about each other?
Tucker hated thinking like this. This wasn't his regular train of thought. This wasn't his Modus Operandi. Not during the day. Not when it wasn't Church having the nightmares.
Tucker had good ears. Good eyes and ears. It was a fucking gift, a fucking pain. He couldn't sleep at night anymore because of his damn ears. Caboose could sleep like a log, but when Washington screamed Tucker couldn't even get comfortable in his own cot naked. Life sucked.
Church had never talked about it. Washington never talked about it. Tucker was sick of no one talking about it. Living on four hours of sleep was a bitch, and Washington wasn't making his life any easier. Exercises per day, sleeplessness per night. He was a fucking insomniac.
Fuck Caboose for sleeping through it all. Fuck the Reds for not suffering through the same hell that kept Tucker from his happy wet dreams at night. Fuck Washington-
And his train of thought halted. Because Washington was already fucked. He was fucked up and Tucker had to listen to his fuckery every goddamn night!
Fuck me, said Tucker, with none of his usual innuendo. Fuck me.
"I'm already fucked," he hissed aloud. "Fucking fucked up. That's me. And it isn't even the fun kind of fucked. Just fucked."
He tried to hit the hay first that night, but the plan backfired. Spectacularly. He was so used to his forced sleep schedule that he couldn't go to sleep until he heard Washington's screams. It made him want to scream.
If only it was sexual frustration. Fuck.
"I've got beautiful fucking calves!" he shouted. "Why the fuck can't I get some beauty sleep!"
Fuck Grif and his twenty hour nap schedule. Fuck Simmons and his damn robot body's sleep mode. Fuck Sarge and his fucking four hour sleep schedule. The man needed to fucking pass out. Fuck Donut and his ridiculous pink onesies and his fluffy bunny slippers. Fuck Caboose's innate ability to sleep through any fucking thing.
Tucker almost cried. He really wanted to. He hated this stupid box canyon. Hated the ups and downs that constituted his insufferable life. He stared at the ceiling, wondering if naked pictures of supermodels on his ceiling would cure him of his incurable insomnia.
He didn't even know why he was doing it anymore. Why was he following Washington's orders? Why was he even doing it? It couldn't just be because he was afraid of getting shot; getting shot would be a hell of a lot better than what he was currently going through, day and night.
He was already putting on his black suit when he heard something familiar; the sound of another man headed towards bed. He finished putting the black suit on and tip toed towards the door, realizing belatedly that stone doesn't creak underfoot. The false soles of the suit's feet silently padded across the stone floor as he checked to make sure that Washington had indeed gone to bed. It was almost a comfort, standing in front of the other man's door and listening to the familiar sounds of someone going to bed. He sat down, like he did every night when he realized that he wouldn't be getting any sleep for the rest of the night, outside Washington's door, leaning his head back and letting his dreadlocks dangle behind his neck and closing his eyes.
The sound of someone in full armor approaching didn't even cause Tucker to stir; the soft sounds of Washington's whimpers as he entered a semi-dream state had already started to reach his ears.
"Tucker?" came the obnoxiously surprised voice of the only other Blue on base. "Tucker? This isn't your bed."
"I know Caboose." Tucker groaned internally, tiredly searching his mind for an excuse. "I'm keeping watch."
"Oh," said Caboose, and the aqua soldier could imagine Caboose nodding wisely. Idiot. "You are watching Washington."
"What?" said Tucker, honestly questioning why he was even surprised.
"Don't worry. I watch Washington too sometimes. He needs watching every once in a while. Just in case he decides to run away."
"He isn't a pet, Caboose." Tucker didn't know what was worse; being annoyed or being found out by Caboose. "Go to bed."
"Okay, but if you need help watching Washington," began Caboose, earning a raised eyebrow from the unarmored man, "don't ask me."
"Okay," said Tucker.
"Because the last time I watched my cat, he scratched me. He was mean."
"Thank you, Caboose," growled Tucker. "Go. To. Bed."
"Okay. Good luck watching Washington, Tucker."
"Good night, Caboose," Tucker answered through gritted teeth, momentarily forgetting himself and banging his head against the door. He swore vehemently under his breath, half-terrified Washington would wake up and find him out. If Caboose's racket didn't already. He turned his attention to his hearing and listened for the familiar whimpers of Washington drifting into a deep sleep. He heard regular breathing, which was honestly more terrifying than non-regular breathing. He made an experimental knock on the door, cursing himself for even trying to wake the asshole up. He heard nothing from inside so he invited himself in.
"Wash?" he began, cautiously, not wanting to disturb the man more than he already had. He didn't come here to experience the nightmare of a startled ex-Freelancer waking up from his own nightmares. Euh, no.
"What do you want, Tucker?" came the semi-tired response from the blue and yellow armored man.
"Oh, you're awake. Uh, good." Tucker momentarily wondered if Washington had heard anything between him and Caboose.
"Is it important?" Just like Wash. Straight to business.
"Yes," said Tucker, before remembering who he was talking to, "and no."
"Well, which is it?" came the more tired sounding response.
Tucker hesitated, unsure if Washington even cared. Fuck it. "I can't sleep."
This actually prompted the ex-Freelancer to move, turning his head so that he had one eye on Tucker. The Blue sim trooper noted the black neck of the suit almost absently. Even in the dark, his eyesight was pretty good.
"Do you need someone to hold your hand?" asked Washington, slightly amused.
Tucker felt sudden fury flare in his mind, his memory of another time with someone else's voice coming from where Washington was currently laying but saying the exact same thing flashing through his mind. "Fuck. You."
Why did this man share so many goddamn traits with Church? Tucker suddenly understood why Caboose was confused when Wash wore Church's armor. They were so goddamn alike when it came down to it.
"Do you want to talk about it?" But at least Washington had the decency of sounding admonished. That was a quality Church sorely lacked.
"Yes," said Tucker, fed up. "You scream too much."
There. He had said it. He had talked about it. Talk closed.
"Oh." Washington almost sounded disappointment.
"Yeah, so," he began, nervous again. "Do you want to talk about anything?"
"No." The response was immediate. Tucker almost felt hurt. Almost.
"You know," he began, remembering a time not so long ago when Washington was telling him about the grappling hook stuck to his crotch. Funny how their situations were reversed. Sorta. "When Church had nightmares, we'd sleep together." Realizing how weird that sounded, Tucker quickly added. "Back-to-back. I'd get my pillow and blanket and just, uh, lay next to him. Sometimes the asshole would push me off, but he could at least get to sleep."
"You think it would work?"
Tucker was expecting a very vehement rejection. This was good. "Well, it's Epsilon's memories, right?"
The ex-Freelancer was silent, before Tucker heard the distinct sound of the cot screeching loudly as someone pushed it away from the wall while there was still a heavy weight on it.
"I'll get my pillow," mumbled Tucker, disappearing outside and wondering, not for the first time, why he even bothered to do this. This was a Caboose thing – or at least Tucker could see this as a Caboose thing – not a Tucker thing. He returned to Washington's room and made himself comfortable on the edge of Washington's cot, careful not to bang his shoulder against the other man's tense and muscular back. He settled down and instantly felt worlds better. He was honestly comfortable.
"Don't tell anyone," he hissed.
"I won't if you won't," responded Washington neutrally.
"About Church either."
"Okay."
Tucker waited a full twenty minutes before he heard the strangest sound he had heard yet. The only sound that could have made a ridiculous and embarrassed smile cross Tucker's face, and for once he forgot who was right next to him.
Washington's soft snores made Tucker let go of his own soft sigh and drift off to sleep.
"Promise?" asked Tucker.
"I promise I won't tell the rookie," agreed Church. "If you don't."
"My lips are sealed," Tucker responded with relief.
Living with the Rebel army of Chorus had it's perks. There were all the muscular girls who fawned over him whenever he showed them the tricks he'd practiced with his sword. Not that sword, unfortunately. His mind was still not yet up to snuff. It was odd, thinking back on it, how much he didn't think about his catchphrase as much. There was just too much else to do. (And that sucked balls.)
Too much to sleep on. Without Washington around, he had thought he'd get his beauty rest, but it seemed the absence of Washington was causing him to lose even more sleep.
Fuck me.
Tucker wondered if Washington ever felt this way. Or if he was thinking this way, wherever he was. What did Washington think about? Did he think about all his failures?
"God, I'm turning into the man!" he swore. "Why can't I catch a goddamn break?"
It ruined his attempts at sleep because he knew better than to sleep naked now because he was in a war zone and he hadn't forgotten that he could run into battle at any moment. He angrily threw off the covers to reveal the black suit and put on his armor.
Fuck life.
He could see it. Vaguely at first, but those nights with Washington, those times when he watched Wash when the other man hadn't realized he was looking his way, had made him more aware of the symptoms of trauma. And damnit, now he was experiencing it.
"Don't you goddamn forget me, you asshole," he half shouted at the reflective surface of the still pond. "I know you're fucking thinking it, Wash! But don't you fucking forget me!"
Why should we live while everyone else died? He wondered, hating the thought but unable to think it. Cunningham. Rogers. Is that what you think about everyday, Wash?
"Don't you dare forget the sun." He had gone so quiet he was speaking in a whisper he himself couldn't hear. "Whatever your real name is."
Written while listening to Don't You Dare Forget The Sun by Get Scared.