Lavernius Tucker was no hero. He'd always tried to convince himself that he could be, that somewhere deep down he was worth more than some lonely, incompetent idiot stuck in a box canyon in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do but bicker over crazy freelancers and broken machinery.

But if he was honest with himself, he wasn't any better than all of that.

It had never really bothered him before, having been surrounded by assholes his whole career. He'd almost laughed at the thought, because heroes weren't something you saw in real life, and definitely not in his situation.

Then Agent Washington came along.

At first, Tucker hated him. He was strict and ruthless and real, all things that Tucker had never experienced before.

But God, he was kind and smart and brave, just inexplicably better than anyone he could've ever hoped to meet.

Then, through the dull crack of breaking rock and the rubble that clouded his vision, he saw a hero, clad in steel and yellow and fighting with everything he had for the people he'd come to call friends.

He started thinking of him as 'Wash' after that, rather than 'Agent Washington'.


Tucker doesn't believe in heroes anymore. He can't, because heroes are supposed to have happy endings.

He can't imagine a happy ending for Wash.

So he doesn't believe in heroes. Instead, he believes in people.

But Wash is more than a person.

He's a soldier.

The thing is, Tucker's not sure he can figure out what that means anymore.

He doesn't think Wash knows, either.


He's becoming a little obsessive. The words "Freckles, shake!" echo continuously in his head, a broken record stuck playing on repeat with no one around to fix it. And no one close enough to care.

His waking hours are just as filled with that voice as his dreams are, a never ending background hum that keeps him both focused and distracted.

His thoughts stop being his thoughts. He's on a constant mental track of 'What would Wash do?'.

He thinks he understands, now, how it felt when freelancer tore itself apart.

He knows what it's like to miss people.


He's a captain now. It makes him feel a little better, because at least now he's doing something, instead of just sitting around and letting the dread consume him. He's just that tiny bit closer to seeing his friends again.

He's got hope.

A leader, however, is something he's not.

It's just him and Palomo. He lost the other two, and somewhere deep down, past the part of him that doesn't feel at all, that stings, because he really did try. He put everything he had into this, and he still can't get there.

It's almost too much sometimes.

He knows he doesn't belong here, because he's not built for this, he's not like him, dammit. He's not a soldier. He understands now that can't be.

All his life, he's told people "I'm a lover, not a fighter".

He sees the truth in that now.


There's a moment, and he can pinpoint it exactly, where he realizes just how much Wash is to him.

It's late one night, and they've another long day reaching for things that don't seem possible. They're training, but it's not enough, and they all know it.

It becomes a question of what they can hope to do about it.

He's done with it all, a raw, emotional pain locked in his chest. he feels defeated and lost and lonely, and he knows he can't take much more of this before he breaks.

Palomo follows him to his room, not daring to say a word. He watches in morbid silence as his captain flings his helmet from over his head and across the room, the sharp thud as it made contact with the drywall carrying a finality neither man was prepared for.

Tucker feels his hands start to shake along with his shoulders, silent sobs racking his body. He presses his palms against his eyelids, pulling deep, shuddering breaths through constricted lungs.

A small sound escapes his lips, a choked, whispered scream. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, each pulse a fresh wave of unfiltered agony driven straight to the very finer of his being.

Palomo doesn't touch him, doesn't move any closer, but the words he speaks are bad enough as it is.

"Are you okay?"

It's the worst thing he could think to say, because it's an answer they've never tried to convey out loud before. And neither of them really wanted to try.

Tucker whirls, anger and desperation and pain all curled into one. He screams at his lieutenant, because no, he's not okay, how could he possibly be okay when the only person he's ever really cared about is capture and likely dead?

He tells Palomo to get out, voice hoarse and rasping, He hears the door shut as his knees hit the floor, one hand held over his mouth in a futile attempt to hold back the low whimpers that form in the back of his throat.

He can't do this. He can't. He's not a soldier, he's fucking worthless and god, he needs Wash more than anything right now.

It's this moment, right here, that Tucker sees this for what it is for the first time.

And just like that, in the span of a second, his whole world comes crashing down around him.

He's in love with Agent Washington.


For the first few hours after the revelation, he tosses and turns, mind racing as he fights with the surreal concept of sleep. He wishes he could talk to someone, to lighten the weight that hangs over his shoulders, even just for a few minutes.

It's a good while later that he comes to the understanding that everyone already knows.

It's still some time before he realizes what he needs to do.

And by the time he's worked up the courage, there's sunlight streaming through the windows.


They leave that day. It's abrupt, and they have no room to prepare, but that's okay, because they know that it's the right thing to do.

Tucker doesn't trust himself to drive, so he rides passenger in a jeep with Simmons while Grif takes Caboose.

They stop about four hours in, for some bullshit reason Tucker doesn't pay attention to. He just sits there, trying not to shake and convincing himself that he's not as unstable as everyone knows he is.

He's brought out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder.

His fingers find the clasp under his chin, and he lifts the armour up over his head. Simmons has his helmet off too, a loose strand of red hair falling in his face. They're eyes meet, and through the cloud of emotion in the other man, Tucker sees everything he's feeling. He watches as Simmons' gaze flickered over behind him, and he didn't have to look to know which figure he focused on.

He looks down again, and written in his features are the words 'I understand'.

Tucker makes a soft, strangled noise, and Simmons' hand finds a spot between his shoulder blades and pulls him forwards, his forehead resting against the others' metallic collarbone.

He cries, freely, for the second time that day.


Alarms blare in the distance, the shrill sound rippling across the snow covered landscape.

Tucker's pulse quickens, finger twitching on the trigger. The low hiss of the door opening is harsh against his mind, almost foreboding in nature.

The metal parts, and he stares down the scope of his rifle, jaw clenching in an anxious reaction.

The sight of steel and yellow makes his knees go weak.

His grip loosens, and it's a miracle he doesn't drop the gun completely.

"Wash?" He asks, voice sounding foreign even to his own ears.

When the first thing he hears is "Tucker?", he almost can't stop the disbelieving sound that hovers in the back of his throat.

The words 'I love you' are on the tip of his tongue, but he can't speak them, because they're not out of this, not yet.

Then Felix betrays them, and that hurts, because suddenly trust is something he can't put his faith in anymore.

There's a gun pointed straight at Wash, and he wonders how long it would take to cover the distance between them. But then Carolina shows up and teleports them to strange place and that's kinda confusing, but also okay because Wash is there, and it really is him, and that's all that matters.


It takes a while for him to get Wash alone. It's frustrating, but it makes sense. He understands how people would want to stick together after a thing like that.

Of course, it doesn't stop him from jumping at the chance.

So they stand together in the dark, thin twilight casting soft shadows across the barren landscape. A light breeze ripples through the clear air, cooling the evening as it leads into night. Neither man dares to break the silence, eye contact and almost-touch seeming to be enough.

It's Tucker who makes the first move, reaching out a trembling hand to fumble with the clasp on Wash's helmet. The other doesn't protest, just watching as the armour is lifted over his head, and the same is done to the figure before him.

Tucker takes a moment to compose himself, picking a suddenly fascinating spot in the dirt by his right foot and studying it, etching the rough edges in his brain.

Then he looks up, and his breath hitches, taking in the familiar face that stares back at him, blue eyes bright. His blond hair sticks up in all directions, pale freckles dusted across his cheeks and neck. A startled laugh bubbles up inside him, because he's exactly how he'd remembered, a splitting image of a person from another time.

He doesn't laugh. Instead, he cries.

The relief runs through him in waves, tears falling silently down his cheeks. All of a sudden he can't seem to hold himself together, and he's said "I love you" before he can fully realize that he's spoken.

Wash blinks, surprised, and there's a second where nothing moves before he reaches out a slow, delicate hand to rest against the side of Tucker's face, thumb carefully brushing the moisture from his cheek.

Then Tucker whispers his name, looking like he's going to say something, and wash really doesn't want to hear an apology right now, so he does the only thing he can't think to do.

He leans forward and presses their lips together.

The kiss is soft, and hesitant, laced with unspoken emotion and punctuated by the feel of calloused fingers intertwined.

There's a low whistle in the background, and they both nearly jump out of their skin, pulling away immediately.

Donut cheers, a loud "finally!" echoing across the open space.

Tucker shares a meaningful look with Simmons, and Grif tries (and fails) to hide his smile. Carolina sends wash a subtle wink, causing him to flush bright red.

Their eyes meet again, iridescent blue against florescent green, each iris a beacon in the darkness that crowds around them.

Suddenly, everything feels just a little bit lighter.