This was my entry for the RvB Angst War on Tumblr a couple weeks ago.
Prompt: Loving you ruined my life.
If any of ya'll read the brief gym!au one-shot I wrote like a year and a bit ago, this fic is set in the same universe. It's sort of become an RvB modern apartment!au in the time since, which I've only really written one other (yet unreleased) thing for.
I've written a fair bit since I last published, but nothing that would be ready to put up really. Mostly poetry that'll probably never see the light of day. On the bright side, hey, I'm nearly through my undergraduate degree and I'm now in my second decade of life, so, yeah. That's what's been happening with me. How are you guys going?
Enjoy the glorious angst, my friends.
…
Tucker wished to fucking god that he'd never met David Washington. He wished he could go back in time and trip his past self on the way to that fucking gym, so that he'd never met the dickbag, and never have to go through this bullshit. He wished they'd never gone to that movie together, that they'd never kissed that first time, or second, or at all, never had that snow-fight, never made those pancakes, never fallen in lo-
"THIS IS YOUR FAULT!" He roared at Wash. The apartment was crumbling around them, plumes of dust settling in the air while a fire alarm blared, and Tucker was all too aware of Caboose's limp weight against his side. The blubbering idiot was unconscious, not dead, but the crimson gash in his side put a dead weight in Tucker's stomach.
"YOU FUCKING BASTARD, YOU DID THIS," he yelled.
Wash was scrambling at what used to be the front door, which was now warped in it's frame from the explosion and open. Tucker watched him throw his weight against the wood, and the whole frame shook, but didn't budge, and the older man let out a growl of frustration.
"THEY TRIED TO BLOW US UP! THEY TRIED TO KILL US, ALL BECAUSE YOU-"
Wash slammed his hand against the door, and rounded on Tucker. Wash had a long cut along his chin that the grey dust was sticking to, and his eyes were wild and panicked.
"Tucker, please, just be quiet, we can talk about this once we're safely out of the building."
"No!" Tucker spat, and those were not tears running down his cheeks, and something was definitely not fighting its way up his throat. "No, why the fuck should I trust anything you fucking say? You've been lying from the moment we met, Wash. You're a FUCKING LIAR!"
Wash flinched as though Tucker had punched him, and indeed, if Tucker's punching arm hadn't been holding up a onesie-wearing man-child who was possibly bleeding out, maybe he would have. The blonde-grey man held his hands out placatingly, in such a familiar gesture that Tucker let out something between a laugh and a sob. Always a fucking diplomat, you fucking asshole.
"I know, I know, you're right, okay," Wash took a step closer, moving his open hands like he was about to touch Tucker's cheeks like he'd done a thousand times, but Tucker blazed a look at him that screamed try it. Something flickered and died in Wash's eyes, and was replaced with something cold determination. "But this isn't the time, Tucker, we need to find the others and get Caboose to the hospital."
Wash turned around, and went back to the door with renewed fervour, and Tucker took the opportunity to choke back a sob and try to steady his knees. Anger and bile was rising in equal parts from his stomach, and at this point his only choices were between curling in on his chest and imploding, or screaming until the fucking heavens could hear him. He looked over at what should have been the living room, but was now just jumbled furniture covered in dust, smoking cushions and a huge fucking hole in the wall, and found that the second option was much more appealing. He was just so angry.
"No, fuck this, this is exactly the time to talk about this, Wash."
Wash didn't turn around again, just kept pushing at the door, searching for weak spots.
"This apartment is my fucking life. This building is my whole life. My only friends in the fucking world live here, and because of you it's- it's-" Tucker almost couldn't finished his rant, his throat closing up.
Wash stopped, one hand still on the door and the other curled into a tight fist at his side.
"Oh my fucking god, what if they're dead?" Tucker choked out. "They could be dead, the Reds, our neighbours, everyone we know. That helicopter full of fucking black ops or whatever probably killed them all."
"Tucker…"
"And it's all your fault, you brought them here," he stuck Wash's back with a wide, murderous gaze. "You did this, you-you… you ruined my life.
"Tucker, be quiet for a minute," Wash said, raising a hand and trying to signal for quiet, but it only aggravated Tucker further.
"Are you listening to me, you dickbag? Everyone's probably dead and my home is destroyed! I fucking loved you and you ruined my life! I hate you!"
"Tucker, shut up!" hissed Wash.
Indignantly, Tucker did so, clenching his jaw shut.
There was a sound beyond the door, several sounds, in face. Booted footsteps were making their way up the corridor, if Tucker's hearing wasn't mistaken, which it rarely was.
"Thank fucking god, a rescue team. HELLO, WE'RE IN HERE, WE NEED MEDICAL HELP!" Tucker yelled. The footsteps stopped outside the door, but whoever it was didn't reply.
Wash had taken a few cautious steps backward, staring intently at the door. "Tucker, I'm not sure it's a rescue team."
"Just shut up, Wash, I'm not listening to you right now," Tucker shot back viciously.
There was a few seconds of heavy silence, both men stared intensely at the front door, Wash curling his fists as though preparing for a fight and Tucker trying not to sag under Caboose's weight.
Suddenly, the wooden door splintered forward with explosive force, and Tucker felt a wave of relief- at least, until he saw the black SWAT suits that he'd only really seen before in terrible cop movies, and the barrels of four guns pointing straight at them.
In the second between Tucker registering how much shit he was in and the brief spot of relief that he had only just taken a piss before all this kicked off, Wash had jumped in front of him and Caboose, his arms flung wide.
"Wait, please! Don't shoot!" the older man yelled. "I'm the one you want, okay, leave these two alone. I'll do whatever you want me to; just let them go on their way."
Tucker stared, in shock, at Wash's back.
"You don't get to give the orders here, Agent," barked one of the faceless black-clad men, who took a step forward and trained his gun directly at Wash's chest.
"I'm not an Agent anymore," was Wash's taut reply, but Tucker could barely breathe
Oh god, they're going to kill him. He was going to watch Wash die right in front of him, and as much as a shot of hatred was boiling down his spine, it was being chased by a freezing dose of fear. He couldn't watch Wash die, as much as he felt the bastard deserved it. The whole fucking situation wasn't fair.
"Look, they're civilians, they have nothing to do with any of this," Wash said, a pleading note at the edge of his voice. He gestured at Caboose. "He needs help, just let him go."
"We have orders to bring everyone in, including them," the head faceless bastard said, with a nod to two of his minions, who moved forward, guns still raised. They both pulled zip ties from out of their combat vests.
Tucker felt himself unfreeze- so he wouldn't have to watch Wash die after all- but even so, they were still in deep shit.
"Oh fuck this," he said loudly, taking a step back and pulling a mumbling Caboose with him.
Wash had drawn himself to his full height and planted himself in the soldier's path, his hands curled into tight fists.
"No," he said firmly, and Tucker could see his back muscles tensing for a fight through the ripped and dirty shirt he was wearing. "I told you, they don't know anything. There's no point in taking them anywhere but the hospital."
"Orders are orders," Faceless Bastard #1 stated. "Come quietly and you won't be hurt."
"Fuck you, dude, I have nothing to with this!" Tucker yelled back. "You're the one who blew a fucking hole in my apartment, asshole. Who the fuck does that, anyway?"
"Tucker, please shut up," Wash said, in his strained way that meant he was talking through his teeth. He was staring the down soldiers with the zip ties, and Tucker could almost see the challenge in his eyes through the back of his head.
"Sir, don't resist," the soldier, a young woman, said coolly.
"I'm not coming with you until you let them go," Wash replied stubbornly.
Bastard #1 nodded again, and the woman shot Wash in the leg. He cried out, a sound that went directly to Tucker's heart. "You bastards, don't hurt him!" he found himself yelling, as two soldiers grabbed Wash and tied his hands behind his back. If it weren't for Caboose, still half-out of it and mumbling something about fairies in Tucker's ear, he probably would have rushed forward, and, most likely, gotten himself killed. He could only hold on to his friend and shake in anger as the soldiers finished incapacitating Wash.
"Wait, what is that sound?" said Bastard #1, as one of the men went to grip Tucker's arm. The sound of Polka music was growing gradually louder in the hallway. It took Tucker a couple of seconds to realise that it was emanating from the big red door across the hall. "What the hell is that music?" Bastard #1 cried, turning to the source, and Bastards #2, #3 and #4 did as well.
The door to Red Apartment burst open with a bang, and with a "Yeehaw!" Sarge rushed out wielding his prized shotgun, Grif and Simmons behind him wielding a taser and a baseball bat respectively and sharing a garbage can lid shield between them, and Donut bringing up the rear with a can of mace. Tucker watched with a gaping mouth as the four dumbasses took the soldiers by surprise, Sarge clocking Bastard #1 in the face with the butt of his shotgun and knocking him to the ground, Grif tasing one of them into next week with a "Take that, bitch!", Simmons somehow managing to knock the gun out of the soldier holding Wash, and then smacking the bastard across the face, and finally Donut, who rushed forward and maced the soldier next to Tucker so quickly, Tucker saw little but a pink blur.
"Told you this thing would be useful one day, Grif," Sarge said, grinning and holding his precious gun out with pride.
"Yeah, good to know it's finally being used for something other than threatening me out of bed in the morning," grumbled Grif. He and Simmons had gone straight for Wash, one bracing him and the other using a pair of keys to remove the zip tie. Tucker could see the beads of sweat rolling down Wash's neck.
"You guys… saved us?" Wash huffed.
"You didn't think we'd let those shady soldier-types take you away in that black helicopter, never to be seen again, did you?" Sarge said. "Besides, no one blows up my building and gets away with it." He cocked his shotgun menacingly and kicked the nearest unconscious form.
Lopez appeared in the doorway, a stuffed backpack hanging off his shoulders. "Tenemos que salir ahora", he said, in his usual monotone Spanish drawl. "El edificio no podría ser estructuralmente sonido más"
Sarge chuckled. "Why thank you, Lopez, I think that was pretty badass too."
Lopez gave a long suffering sigh, then said, "Vamos retrasados mentales, antes de que todos morimos."
"There's no time, we need to get out of here. The building's structure may have been damaged by the missile," said Wash with a strained voice, and Lopez rolled his eyes.
"Man, I haven't seen this many unconscious men in one place before!" quipped Donut, surveying the downed bodies, the can of mace in one hand and the other on his hip. "Well, actually, now that I think about it, there was that one time-"
"Donut, for god's sake, stop talking and help us!"
Simmons quickly wrapped some bandages around the bullet hole in Wash's leg, while Donut pushed a t-shirt into Caboose's side.
Tucker couldn't help but give a lingering glance around the apartment as they blundered their way out the door, the destruction of the last eleven years of his life leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. They all managed to hobble their way, Tucker and Donut with Caboose, Simmons and Grif dragging Wash, with Sarge leading and Lopez taking the rear, all the way to the fire escape at the end of the corridor.
While Grif and Simmons bickered over how to get Wash out the window without putting too much strain on his injured leg, Tucker took a good look at Wash's face. His teeth were clenched in pain, and the cut on his stubbly chin had dribbled down his neck, probably, Tucker realised, a result of the older man pushing Tucker down and out of the way as the missile had flown towards their window. All at once Tucker felt his anger flow back. How was this fucking real?
They bumbled their way down the fire escape, miraculously without anyone falling despite two close calls, and a small incident where Donut almost dropped Caboose down the last set of stairs. Everyone made it to the ground in one piece, which was a fucking miracle really, and by the time they made it several alleyways away from the throng of the growing crowd and the sirens surrounding their building, Caboose had even begun pulling some of his own weight.
"Alright, we need to rest now," puffed Grif, as they rounded yet another dark corner into a back alley.
"You fat-ass, we can't stop now, we're basically fugitives!" cried Simmons.
"No, Grif's right, we need to recollect ourselves," Wash gritted out. His limp had been growing worse the further they went.
By now, however, Tucker's blood was boiling in anger. He'd left a trail of poisonous thoughts behind him since the fire escape- indeed, it felt as though the longer Wash didn't have a gun pointed at him, the more Tucker was reminded of how fucked up this whole situation was, and how it was all Wash's fault. He pushed Caboose, now mostly lucid, but with eyes still scrunched in pain, onto Donut and swung his arm around a couple times to get some feeling back into it. Then he dashed across the alley and punched David fucking Washington right in the face.
"Recollect that, asshole!"
"The fuck's your problem, Tucker!" Grif yelled, struggling to keep Wash upright.
"What in Sam Hell is going on here?" demanded Sarge.
"Tell them, Wash." Tucker spat, "Tell them what you told me. That you're not ex-military, you're fucking ex-secret military program or whatever the fuck you said! That you've been fucking lying to us from the minute you arrived! That those assholes in the helicopter were after you, and now they're after all of us, and they destroyed our home because you fucked with them!"
"Tucker, please," Wash begged, dabbing at his now bleeding nose. "Now isn't the time for thi-"
"STOP FUCKING SAYING THAT!" Tucker screamed right in Wash's face. A hand appeared on Tucker's shoulder, pulling him back before he could draw another punch.
"Son," Sarge said in his ear, "As much as I hate to agree with a dirty Blue Apartment member, what we need right now is to be quiet and stealthy. Don't want to give our position away to the enemy now, do we."
"It's not the fucking war, Sarge, and some of us aren't fucking soldiers," Tucker grimaced, looking down. His hand stung from punching Wash, and he massaged his fingers, trying to see if he had accidentally broken any of them. The ring he'd gotten for Christmas last year was covered in blood.
"You might not be, Tucker, but even soldiers need time to rest and come up with a plan of attack. If those no-good red-belly blacks ops bastards think they can attack us and force us out of our home, well, they have another thing comin'!"
Tucker gnashed his teeth together, and pushed away from Sarge with a barely contained growl of frustration. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wash looking at him with those goddamn fucking puppy-dog eyes, his eyebrows deeply furrowed and his nose already beginning to swell. Tucker shot him a venomous look, and the cool, determined mask once again took residence in the other man's eyes. Tucker almost regretted it. Almost.
"Look, I'm sorry, all of you," Wash said, "I'm so sorry for putting you all in danger. For ruining your lives," he said this last bit looking directly at Tucker, but all Tucker could think about was that five hours ago he'd been kissing Wash on top of the kitchen counter. How quickly things could change, his stinging hand was a testament to that.
"Wait, so what Tucker said is true?" asked Donut.
"Yes, it is," Wash replied.
"Never mind that now, we just need to focus on getting Wash and Caboose some medical attention," said Simmons, who had pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Wash for his nose. Fucking nerd carrying a hanky with him, thought Tucker angrily.
Caboose chose this moment to speak for the first time. "My tummy hurts. Tucker, why's it Washingtub's fault that the world exploded?"
"Apparently, that's something that needs to be talked about later, Caboose," Tucker said sternly, but it was with a gentleness that he walked over and pulled Caboose's arm back over his own shoulder, taking the burden back from Donut.
"I know a place we can hide in the meantime," Wash said thickly, eyes on the ground.
"Alright-y, let's go there then," replied Sarge, who pushed forward down the alley.
Their ragtag group made to follow, with some grumbling from Grif. Tucker was left with his world in pieces, and having to walk past the man that just last week he'd realised he was in love with.
"I fucking loved you and you ruined my life! I hate you!" The words echoed in his brain. He wondered if Wash had even listened to him when he'd said them.
"Hey Wash. I still mean what I said back there, in the apartment. Don't forget that, you asshole," Tucker said as he passed Wash and the others.
"I understand," was the soft, cracked response that Tucker pretended not to hear.
Tucker wished he'd never met David Washington, as they furtively ducked through back alleys, and melded into the shadows between street lamps, pulling injured friends along with them. He wished to fucking god that this had never happened. He wished he'd never fallen in love.
"Yeah, well, right now we don't have much choice but to not get caught, Tucker," chimed in Grif.
...
Thanks for reading!