Chapter One: Lemons and Copper
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Wash's hands shake as his fingers fumble with the device in his hand, carefully pressing each numbered pad. He stares at the illuminated screen, thumb hovering over the fated green button. The florescence from the phone casts soft light across the dark streets around him, shadows curling against his feet on the cool takes a deep breath and hits call. Noise filters in from the speakers, static clouding the conversation and the music so they all blend together as one. There's a click, and a voice talks into the microphone.
"Wash? What the fuck do you want?"
A relieved sigh escapes his lips. "Tex, thank Christ. I've been wandering the streets for like two hours now and I have absolutely no idea how to get home from here-"
"You do realize it's like, midnight, right?" She cuts him off without hesitation, exasperation heavy in her voice. He runs a hand through his hair, wincing as his palm brushes the still-bleeding cut behind his ear. "Yeah, I know. I'm an idiot. Can you just come pick me up please?"
An apathetic sound of acknowledgement. "Where are you?"
Wash turns to check the street sign to his left, pulling his phone away from his ear to shine it across the numbers. "Corner of 64th and 128th." He relays, voice dropping to match the quiet that seeps in from around him.
"Alright, Wash, I'm kinda busy right now." He starts to respond but she talks right over him. "But maybe I can send one of Church's friends? Tucker, probably. You've met him, right?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Okay then bye."
"Tex-" He pulls a last-ditch attempt at an argument, but she's already hung up. "Shit." He mutters to himself before sinking down to sit cross-legged on the pavement and committing himself to the silence.
.
Tucker is, for once, at home on a Friday night. Home for now, anyway, he'd probably hit the party scene and make out with someone he won't remember in morning and drink shitty booze. Nice. But for the moment just chilling, watching some stupid TV show about man eating zombie tigers or something that's just entertaining enough not to turn off, when his phone starts ringing and vibrating off the damn couch making him curse and stoop to grab it and check the caller ID. Church.
"Hey man."
"Hey." awkward hovers over the line but before Tucker can fill it church continues "I need you pick someone up for me."
"Is she hot? bowchic-" Church cuts him off. "I'm serious you perv."
"Ugh." Tucker rolls his eyes like Church can see him. "Fine."
"Thanks assbag." Church mutters "It's Tex's friend, Wash?"
Tucker runs the name though his mind for a minute... Oh yeah... "4th block math?"
"Yeah." Church finishes "I'll text you the street name." and the line goes dead.
Tucker gets up and grabs a coat; this could be interesting. He jumps into his beat up jeep and burns rubber towards the street corner, not that he's in a hurry, he just hates going slow. When he gets to aforementioned street corner he scans the pavement and creepy old trees, branches knocking together like bones. Until he sees Wash's blond hair glinting faintly in sliver of moon. He's sitting all curled onto himself like snail in its shell and it's amazing that someone so fuckin tall can look so little. Tucker steps towards him and is almost knocked over by waves of fear and confusion rolling off this guy. Tucker tentatively touches Wash's shoulder.
"Wash? You okay?" Wash blinks, staring up at the figure before him. He's silhouetted by the car's headlights, casting shadow across one side of his face. His eyes shine, vibrant green bright against the darkness that Wash can feel creeping up behind him. It takes just less than thirty-seconds for Wash to realize he's been spoken to.
"Oh. Uh, yeah." He chokes a little on the last syllable but pulls himself to his feet,brushing the dust off his shirt as he's lead gently towards the vehicle. The door's opened in front of him and there's that sense of panic rising up in his chest again. "Wait!" he blurts out, heat rising in across his cheek and neck as he tries to calm his racing nerves. "You are Tucker, right?" He asks, slowly, carefully, just because he needs to know for sure.
Jesus H Christ.
Tucker almost laughs at the question and gives some snarky answer but seeing the look on Wash's face he just nods "Yeah". But he can't resist adding "Do need ID?" In an only half sarcastic tone.
In the car Wash is almost shaking and the blend of emotion sparking off his skin is electrifying. Tucker tries to concentrate on calm vibes, sending them to the boy in the passengers seat.
It's quiet.
Tucker can't stand silence so he cranks classic rock up loud enough to scald eardrums and peels out the deserted street like a competitor in the Indy 500. Then just hopes to hell Wash doesn't fuckin kneel over and die next to him. He really doesn't need to deal with a body in his car.
Again.
Wash wonders. A lot. It's kind of his thing. So as he sits in the passenger seat of Tucker's car with his forearms hooked under his knees, he stares out the window and starts to wonder. His mind drifts in all kinds of directions, from trying to remember the name of the song on the radio -definitely too loud, by the way- to stupid hypotheticals about his friends and the future he somehow can't envision himself in.
Oh, but then he starts to think and that's bad. Colours and shapes and faces blur across his vision and it takes him a while to realize that their tears. Memories start to flash and he needs a distraction-
Tucker has no idea where he's going. Wash hasn't said jack shit since the car started moving, he just sits there and stares ahead like a deer caught in the headlights. What is with this guy?
Wash reaches up to brush his fingers across the back of his head. His hand comes away stained red and he feels all too exposed in his haste rub the colour off against his shirt.
Tucker's about to ask him where the hell they're supposed to be going when a flash of crimson in Wash's wheat gold hair catches his eye. He whips around, making sure it's not a trick of the light. It's not. It's blood, and Tucker's no doctor, but he's pretty sure there's more blood gushing out of Wash's head than a person can stand to lose. He jams the off button the CD player. Wash jumps at the sudden silence and Tucker takes to the opportunity to ask him "Why the fuck are you bleeding on my car?"
That's what he says, but he's pretty sure the concern in his voice is obvious.
Wash's brain goes dead silent. Dead. Fucking. Silent.
Then the chaos starts. At first it's just white fog but then it clears and it's someone else that asks him the same question. He's screaming at himself on the inside, he 's too far, too late. Watches himself stutter and choke on a response that he doesn't have before clicking the unlock on the passenger side door and throwing himself out the side. His palms scrape against the pavement and he sees the flesh on his hands get peeled back in front of his face. He leaps to his feet and sprints across the road, reaching for the break in the treeline-
And he falls short. Every single time, he falls short. It's not the first, and it's not the last. His fingers tighten around the door's handle, knuckles white. Cold metal bites into his hands as he tries to force his arm away, tells himself he's not going to hurt you.
"Cut myself." He decides to go with instead, because that seems like the best he can do.
Yeah, right. Tucker thinks he saw the way Wash's pupils dilated and the way his breath caught as he answered. Tucker raises an eyebrow to let Wash know he's calling bullshit. But he doesn't say anything, he just pulls the car over into a random side-street and rummages in the glove compartment for a first aid kit he keeps there for Junior; the kid's a train wreck. He can feel Wash's eyes on him as he grabs a piece of gauze.
"Sit still." he orders and Wash nods. But then Tucker's hand grazes his neck and he starts, leaning away from the touch. His breath catches in his throat and he clicks the unlock on the door, pressing his palm into the handle. Pain shoots through his skull like a lance and he struggles with the walls that close in around him until he can barely breathe. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes, so he just stares at Tucker with wide eyes and parted lips and begs forgiveness with his eyes.
Wash looks like he's trying to escape from a nightmare. Tucker leans back to his seat, giving him space. Wash's breathing is rough and he sounds like he's about to freakin cry. Also the rapid movement makes his head start weeping blood again and Tucker really doesn't need him passing out. He should really say something now, but unless he's picking up chicks Tucker's not great with words, but he can see the fear in Wash's eyes and the way he trembles. So Tucker does the only thing he can think of doing; he wraps an arm around the blond and holds him tight enough that he can't shake. Wash's muscles tighten and a strangled sound escapes him. Tucker doesn't let go and after few minutes he sort of relaxes. Sort of.
Wash is ice cold and Tucker can feel his heart beating erratically. Wash pulls shaky breaths through constricted lungs, curling a fist in Tucker's shirt. He holds on like the world's ending and he's not ready to go with it, and it keeps him anchored as everything starts to crumble around him. The silence of the night still heavy on his shoulders as he tries desperately to hold back the sobs that gather in his chest. He forces himself to pull away, leaning back against the closed door. His head throbs, but all he can feel are the tears running down his cheeks. His voice is raw and it breaks but he turns away after he speaks because he doesn't need to be seen like this. "I'm sorry."
Tucker brushes off the apology like sand from a beach towel. "It's okay." But the look on Wash's face says it's not.
Tucker grabs a new bit of gauze and again orders him to "Stay still." He moves slowly, it's like being around a wild animal. Tucker gently begins to dab at the wound, murmuring softly in response to Wash's little hisses of pain. Wash's eyes are still wide open and distrustful.
Tucker tries to ignore the way scarlet poppies bloom on the snow white gauze and begin to spot his own skin.
Tucker's face is carefully guarded as he covers Wash's wound. He mutters quiet reassurances that don't quite get through, but they're there and that's enough. Dark red liquid runs down Tucker's arms and Wash feels sick. Guilt pools in his stomach and suddenly it hits him that he shouldn't have asked for this, shouldn't have called Tex because it wasn't fair to ask for help. Shouldn't have jumped out of a car in the dead of night and should've at least stopped at a payphone or gas station rather than take a Friday night from someone else.
Should've stayed home.
Should've stayed safe.
Tucker can see something in Wash's face change, just slightly. Tucker finishes with the gauze and starts dabbing peroxide on Wash's head making him wince and squeeze his eyes shut. Tucker is pretty sure Wash needs actual medical attention but something about this guy makes him 100% sure that taking him to an actual hospital would be a really bad idea. There's still tiny shimmering droplets clinging to Wash's cheekbones and Tucker stops with the peroxide for a minute to softly brush them away. It feels like a weirdly intimate thing to do suddenly but Tucker doesn't really stop to think about it. He think about the way his stomach swoops as his fingertips skate over Wash's bare skin either. Wash watches Tucker lean back, surveying the bandage for a moment before nodding once to himself and turning back to fiddle with the ignition.
It's quiet.
Really quiet.
"Thank you." Wash tells him, genuine in ever way, as he glances out the windows at the street around them. He swallows, hard. "I think I can find my way back from here." He lies through his teeth "It's not that far." He doesn't have a fucking clue. He reaches for the car door. Freezes. "Sorry to bother you." Cold air hits him with the force of a freight train, and he breathes it in like the poison that it is.
"Bullshit." Tucker grabs the back of Wash's shirt and yanks him back into the vehicle, clicking the auto lock before Wash can react. Thank god for blood loss because otherwise Wash could easily break his grip. Tucker wets his lips and looks Wash straight in the eyes. "First of all, you're not bothering me." Tucker drums his hands on the wheel, noting how the movement draws Wash's eyes like a magnet. "Second, no. I'm not letting you out in the middle of know where with a bloody head."Tucker leaves no room for protest "Just tell me where you live."
Wash opens with mouth to argue, but words seem to fail him. Instead, he hangs his head, muttering his address under his breath. A stray lock of hair falls over his face, piercing his pupil like a spotlight in the dark. He takes a deep inhale and lets it go, almost like he's trying to clear smoke from his lungs. He almost whispers 'thank you' and he almost whispers 'sorry' but he can't seem to force the words from his lips, mind locking his speech like stitches and scars.
They drive in silence but for the radio which has resumed screeching. Tucker hates the haze of awkward hovering between them but can't find the words to break it. So he just keeps driving, Wash just looks zoned out, drained. Eventually a dingy beige apartment building rolls into view and Tucker screams the jeep to a stop and unlocks the doors.
He gives Wash his signature half smile. "See you at school." And then roars off into the dark. Wash stands alone in the night, watching Tucker's taillights fade into the distance. A soft sigh escapes his lips, and he keeps the image of Tucker's smile close at the front of his mind. He'd say it was almost...radiant, but the word tastes like cyanide on his tongue.
So he doesn't, just turns to the revolving doors and enters the building to face his fate.
After a brief stop at home to change out of his bloody clothes, Tucker rolls up to a party thrown by some kid he barely knows and proceeds to get absolutely shit faced. He can't dissolve the image of Wash's tortured eyes, though.
The classroom practically buzzes with background noise, conversations thick in the space. Wash keeps his head down, holding his binder close to his chest. His feet make no sound as they glide across the tiled floor, silence following him like a second shadow. He makes a point to maintain a casual pace as he finds his seat at the back corner of the room, opening his book and flipping through each individual page until he reaches Friday's assignment.
A blank page stares back at him.
Fuck.
Tucker scans the room for a good seat. Church and those guys wave him over from near the window. Some hot chick who he might have French kissed last week bats her lashes. Aha, he spots Wash's blond head bent low over the desk. After quickly getting the answers from Fridays assignment from Hottie #4 he strolls to the back of the room and slides into the seat next to Wash. Wash starts as a figure takes the seat next to him, transferring smoothly from from standing to sitting. He tears his gaze from the empty paper, scanning Tucker's face with surprised eyes. The other man flashes him a quick smile, and he finds himself returning it, almost involuntarily. He pushes the negative voices to the back of his mind in favour of turning just slightly to the side, facing the newer arrival.
"Hey." He manages, somehow with a steady tone.
"Hey." Tucker grins lazily and peeks at Wash's paper. Blank. Tucker snickers to himself and slides Hottie #4's answers under Wash's nose. He laughs out loud at Wash astonished expression.
Wash blinks, once, twice. Looks at the paper. Then at Tucker. Does this four more times before slowly taking his pencil and starting to copy out the answers. "Number 8 is wrong." He says, but he means 'thank you'.
Tucker rolls his eyes "Then fix it, smartass."
Wash carefully erases the answer on Tucker's page, replacing it with a simplistic 42. He nods once to himself, looks up and-
Tucker suddenly turns serious, the amused gleam leaving his emerald eyes "Is your head okay?" He asks gently, a concerned note in his voice.
Wash freezes, thoughts starting to run at a thousand miles an hour but he dismisses them in favour of sending Tucker a gentle smile. "Yes, thanks." He replies, even with the half-empty bottle of Advil that feels like lead in his pocket.
Tucker stares searchingly into Wash's eyes. And finally just sighs "Alright".
Silence cloaks the room as the teacher enters. Well, silence from all but Church, who continues scolding Caboose and from Tucker, who finds it necessary to make a joke about said teacher dirty enough to scald Wash's ears and cause more snickering from Tucker.
"What the fuck?" Wash whispers, turning his attention momentarily away from the lesson. "Is this what you're normally like in class?"
Tucker's smirk and crude hand gesture is enough of an answer.
Wash sighs dramatically but can't keep a smile from creeping over his own face.
It's on of the least productive most enjoyable math classes ever. Tucker hates the scared-rabbit look Wash often wore and instead kept Wash laughing (and rolling his eyes) the entire lesson.
Victory.
Tucker's almost reluctant to leave when the bell goes, dammit he wants to stay and keep that rare smile lighting up Wash's face. As Wash turns to leave, something falls from his pocket. Tucker quickly scoops it up.
Advil?
Shit.
Wash is already gone, but Tucker takes off purposefully though the hallway to find him.
The side of Wash's head throbs with a dull ache as the medication starts to wear off, so he sighs and subjects himself to the crowded hallways. He makes it around the corner, supporting himself with his forearm against the wall. He searches for the pills in his pocket but...
Oh, fuck.
Tucker finally sees Wash sitting in a secluded corner near the main staircase, his head is cradled in his hands. "Looking for something?" He demands holding the only half full bottle, Which according to the label was only bought yesterday.
Yesterday.
Wash looks up at Tucker's accusatory face and the bile rises in his throat. His breath catches, meeting his green eyes with an expression that borders on pleading. Pain still shoots through the back of his skull, clouding his mind. He turns his gaze down, a spot just next to Tucker's shoe suddenly becoming extremely fascinating.
Why does Tucker have turquoise shoes, anyways?
"Look at me." Tucker's voice is at once angry and concerned.
"Tucker…" He murmurs, and doesn't comply.
Tucker kneels in front of him, and reaches out cup Wash's chin in his hand and tilt his head up, forcing him to meet his eyes "This is not okay." Tucker almost whispers. "You're going to hurt yourself."
Wash swallows, skin burning where it meets Tucker's fingers. He's caught somewhere between 'I'm fine leave me alone' and 'If I get hurt it won't be my fault' but he can't say either of those things. "What do I do?" He whispers back, but he's not really talking about the head wound.
Tucker answers immediately without thinking, without words either. Instead he slides down to sit next to Wash against the wall. And like he did he did in the car he drapes an arm over him and Wash rests his aching head on Tucker's shoulder. This time he's almost totally relaxed.
Almost.
Tucker doesn't know why he does that, except that it feels right. It's not weird, maybe it should be, but it seems natural to have Wash leaning on him, close enough that hear his way-too-goddamned-fast heartbeat. Wash leans into Tucker without hesitation, feeling the warmth of the other's body against his own and welcoming it when all he can feel is cold. The touch and the voice keep him grounded, so he doesn't lose himself, sinking until he's drowning in bloody washcloths and cheap painkillers.
Tucker tells him "I don't know." and instead of explaining like part of him wants to he just says "Me neither."
Tucker is close enough to notice that Wash smells like lemons and copper, it's oddly pleasant. Neither moves as the bell starts going. Until Tucker slowly gets up, pulling Wash with him, Wash makes a soft noise that sounds like "Stay." and almost instantly clams up, shit fuck I was not supposed to say that what is wrong with me? His face burns hotter than the sun and he can feel Tucker's eyes on him. He drops his head to his chest, shuffling his feet across the floor. Damn idiot.
Tucker grabs Wash's hand, "What's the rush?" He continues ignoring mumbled excuses about being late for class. Wash looks ashamed. Tucker pulls him back towards himself. "It's okay." His voice is soft. "It's going to be okay."
Wash yanks his hand from Tucker's grip, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his shoulders over his body. "No." He states, with a force that's fuelled by anger and regret. "No, it's not okay."
Tucker goes quiet for a moment, by the time he opens his mouth to speak again, Wash has turned on his heel and stormed off.
Tucker just stands there, his arms feel strangely empty. There's really no point in going to class now he figures, so he grabs his shit and leaves. His body's headed towards home but his minds not getting anywhere.
Wash's fist clenches and releases next to his side as he walks, thoughts following the same pattern of focus and confusion. His feet carry him down the sidewalk without his mind's permission, forcing him to stand in front of that fated apartment building. Then he realizes he doesn't want to go home, he wants to laugh and smile and talk to someone who makes him feel real. He spins on his heel and faces the rural areas, condemning himself to an evening of aimless wandering.
Tucker forces himself to walk slowly into math class the next Friday, scans the room for Wash. Nada. Tucker feels his brow furrow, it really wasn't like Wash to be late. Tucker takes a seat in back of the room, and is about to resign himself to Wash being absent when the blond stumbles into the room. Tucker immediately know something's wrong, Wash doesn't stumble.
Tucker doesn't bother to ask if he's okay.
He's obviously not.
Wash drags himself into the classroom, trying desperately to hide the slight limp in his right leg. He'd spent a half an hour scrubbing makeup across the side of his face, but it had washed away in the rain. Black and blue paints his skin with thick strokes, thin cut line running along his cheekbone. He sits down without speaking, he looks wan and pale. His eyes are weirdly unfocused and his skull is throbbing but he hasn't dared get within 5 feet of the medicine cabinet. Every time he reaches that room, he freezes, wondering what Tucker might do to him if he went there again.
He swallows his pain with his fear and his self-worthlessness, catching Tucker's eye across the room before taking a seat three rows to his left. Alone.
Doesn't expect forgiveness, either.
Tucker is bouncing his legs enough to shake the whole row of desks willing the clock to hurrythefuckup already. Finally the lesson is over and they change seats to work. Wash hasn't written down a thing. Tucker stands abruptly, and snatches his stuff. Something in the way he's walking makes groups of people part like the Red Sea towards Wash's desk.
"Did you get hit by a fuckin car?" Wash looks up, wincing at the fire in Tucker's eyes. He stands, slowly, shakily, trying to make himself small. His shoulders hunch, and he shifts his weight back slightly, preparing for both a run and a fight. "No." He says, carefully but with conviction.
Tucker winces at close up sight of Wash. But before he can see anything Wash wheels around slips out the door.
Fuck.
Tucker's about to follow when the teacher takes notice and makes him sit back down. Tucker sits for a minute before strolling casually up to the second row where some kid who's in this class because he's a fuckin genius or something sits. That kid'll do anything for blackmail material. Truthfully he's creepy as hell and Tucker would prefer to have nothing to do with him. But shit happens.
"Hey," Tucker hisses "O'Malley." Tucker has no idea if that's the kids real name or even if he has one.
"What?" O'Malley mutters "What do you want?"
"A diversion." Tucker fires back "I need out of here."
The kid considers this "Fine, but-"
Tucker cuts him off "This teacher fucks the married janitor."
O'Malley face cracks into a nightmarish grin.
Tucker walks casually back to his seat, suddenly a scream splits the room. He jumps up and hauls ass out of the room as a black smoke begins to seep under the door. Tucker heads towards Wash's locker. He might not be there but it's worth a shot.
Wash's feet have a mind of their own as he strides purposelessly down the long hallways. The space all looks the same, twists and turns holding no significance. Until he's staring at a number. He fumbles with combination for his locker, grateful for something he can do with his hands. The door pops open with a soft click, and he rummages through it before pulling out a bottle of water and downing half of it in one go. He pours some on his hands, splashing it over his face. He hears footsteps behind him, turning his head just slightly. And his breath catches in his throat at the sight of those stupid turquoise shoes.
Miraculously Wash is at his locker, the look on his would be funny if it weren't so terrifying. "What the fuck do think you're doing?" Tucker's voice is harsher than he meant it to be "Wash, what the hell are you doing to yourself?" Tucker feels like punching something or shaking the answers out of Wash because he can't stand not knowing. I barely know this guy. Tucker thinks. Why the hell do I care? He has no answer for that.
Wash keeps his eyes trained on the ground. "I'm not doing anything." He replies meekly, shrinking away from the anger he can feel radiating off the other man.
Tucker tries unsuccessfully to stay calm. "Then tell who the fuck did so I can pay Tex to beat them death with their own skull." His voice, even to his own ears is a feral snarl and he hopes Wash know he's not made at him. The way he's standing though, he doubts Wash gets it.
Wash tilts his head upwards, meeting Tucker's angry eyes. He stays still, holds his ground until Tucker's hand moves and then shoots back like he's been struck by lightning. His back hits the wall with a dull thud and pain reverberates along his spine but it's nothing compared to the fear the grips his heart like ice. "It was an accident, I swear!" He pleads, praying to every deity known to man that he doesn't need to hide another wound from someone else.
Tucker lowers his hand in a gesture of surrender. "Fine." his voice is clipped and tight. "Assuming you just got hit by a bus." He hates the way Wash looks so damn scared of him.
Wash wishes Tucker wouldn't assume. He also wishes he could say that out loud. He wishes for a lot of things. None of them come true.
"At least let me clean you up." Tucker gestures to Wash's head, it's bleeding again, and to the cuts going up his arms "It's going to get infected." Wash shakes his head and shrinks towards the wall "Come with me to the car or I will get a damn ambulance over here." Tucker doesn't like threatening him, but he likes the idea of Wash getting gangrene from open wounds even less.
Wash follows Tucker with a wary distance, shuffling across the empty corridors. He lets himself be led to Tucker's beat up jeep, trying not to stare as he pulls the first aid kit from his car. He flinches a little when Tucker's hands brush over his cheek, eyes locked. He can see the fury held back in the other man's gaze, just barely covered with frustrated concern. Concern for him. He feels a little nauseous at the thought.
Tucker isn't sure how much self control he has left. Wash looks like fell off the Empire State Building, covered in nicks and cuts. But Tucker manages to keep a straight face until he's lifting the collar of Wash's shirt and finds perfect finger shaped bruises along his neck.
Wash watches with barely contained fear as all the blood drains from Tucker's face when he sees the injuries along his collarbone, knowing the bruises look like perfect imprint of his hands. Remembers the pain and the claustrophobia of being held by the throat until he felt like he was going to die. Tucker's hands press lightly against the black and blue marks, a horrified look plastered across his features. Wash can't help but think he's looking that way at him and not at the wounds.
"Wash." Tucker's voice catches, shock and worry and rage painting his skin. "Wash," He starts again. "Please, please tell me I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing."
Wash opens his mouth, tries to speak, but the words don't come. Tears cloud his eyes and he blinks rapidly in an attempt to clear them. His teeth dig into his lower lip and he just looks away, wanting to lie almost as badly as he wants to tell the truth but he can't seem to do either. He hangs his head in shame and waits for whatever's coming to him.
Tucker's first instinct is to run the fuck away before he gets any more entrenched the pain surrounding David Washington. His next instinct is to cancel out the first one. And Tucker has a habit of speaking without thinking. "Need a place to crash tonight?" He asks because he somehow gets the feeling that Wash is going to end up sleeping on a bench otherwise. And even if he's not there's no way in hell he wants Wash going back to the sinister, dinghy beige apartment.
"No." Wash snaps with venom in his voice, because it's always better to be angry than hurt.
Tucker shuts his eyes for a moment, tries to tell himself it's not his problem. "Okay, okay, Wash." He says, finally, and unlocks the door to let him go. But as Wash gathers his things Tucker slips a paper with his number into Wash's pocket.
Wash heads north on foot, in the direction of the apartments. Tucker notes the direction, counts to ten and follows.
Wash crosses his arms over his chest, holding them close to his body for warmth. There's no point in going back to the school now, and he's been falling down on his studies as of late anyways. His feet carry him in the direction of his house (house not home) and he lets them, cold and numb being the only registered emotions in his mind. He wanted to accept Tucker's offer. Really, he did. More than he's wanted anything in a while.
Tucker skulks after Wash, and it should say something that normally perceptive man doesn't notice Tucker's ninja attempts. Tucker feels a shudder skip over his shoulder blades as the building comes into view.
Wash hesitates at the front door, pulling his hood over his head as rain starts to fall from the heavens again. He stares at the doorknob for a total of sixty seconds, shaking slightly. Then his hand reaches in his pocket, searching for his phone before brushing something that wasn't supposed to be there. He frowns as he pulls the paper from his sweater and unfolds it, staring wide eyed at the ten digit number and the name written below it in messy scrawl. He swallows thickly and shoves it back into his pocket, fingers somehow drawing his keys instead of what he was initially looking for. He studies the two silver keys in a brief moment of astonishment that he's been allowed to keep them. Rage sparks in his chest and grows with the inferno behind his eyes, and he decides that he's going to do something stupid. Something that will probably get him killed.
He spins on his heel and strides along the grass until he reaches the parking garage, yanking the door open with a sugar coated agony.
Fuck his stupid boyfriend. He's getting out of here, if only for a while.
Tucker thanks every god that he's long since stopped believing in that Wash doesn't go home. He not stupid, though, he knows Wash'll go home sometime but the fact that he'll avoid whatever's in there for even a minute makes Tucker smile. He walks back to school without feeling the rain, drives home in a fog and sits on his bed and laughs until he cries.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Wash glares at the blue painted convertible with hate filled eyes, spinning the keys around and around his index finger. He lean heavily on his right hip, fingers curled around his waist. His foot taps against the floor and goddamn is he angry. He opens the driver's side door and swings through the opening, pulling the handle shut with a force that makes the whole vehicle shake. His knuckles are white where he grips the steering wheel, and he smirks before jamming the key in the ignition. He pulls the car sloppily out of the underground shelter, still getting a feel for the handling. It's been a while since he'd dare touch it, and it feels good to be doing something. He drives down the streets, taking winding roads to somewhere he's never been before. He pulls the car over to one side of the street after about 40 minutes, purposefully scraping the curb. He exits with a flourish, footsteps heavy on the pavement. He stops for just a second, spinning the key in his hand before digging it into the paint on the side and dragging it in a thin line. He stares at the scratch and laughs like a madman, taking the small chain and launching it into the treeline.
He spins extravagantly in a wide circle, sprinting off into the city. He doesn't look back.
.
Tucker wonders what Wash is doing. Then wonders why he's wondering. Everything's fucked up.
.
Wash's thoughts eventually make their way back to Tucker, as they seem to always be fated to. He sighs, pulling his phone and the paper from his pocket and copying the digits on the screen. He knows he can't get back to the apartment now, at least not until tomorrow, unless he wants a bullet through his head. He's not quite ready to go yet. He hits call and presses the device to his ear, inhaling deeply to calm the adrenaline from his act of rebellion. There's a small click from the other end, and he almost stops breathing altogether.
Tucker doesn't bother to check the caller ID. "Hey?"
Wash smiles, and it's genuine. "Hi." He says, and it comes out shy and quiet, not at all like he expected.
Tucker can't help the grin cracking across his face. "Need a ride?"
Wash shrugs. "Can't go home." He states, listing off his current address as a way of answer to Tucker's question.
"Be right there." Tucker hangs up and puts on shoes. Then heads downstairs and peels out of the garage like its on its on fire.
Wash takes a deep breath and then lets it go, holding the phone next to his ear for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary. His lips curve slightly at the corners, and his heart feels lighter than it has in months as he takes three steps to the street corner and waits. Tucker screeches to a stop on the corner and is momentarily stunned by how bloody hot Wash looks when's he's smiling. He flings open the door "Where to?" Wash grins as he climbs into the passenger seat. "Surprise me."
Tuckers laughter rolls around the car and envelopes them both. Wash is wearing a wide grin contrasting sharply with the bruises. They tool around all over the place, stopping at the park to try and bean pigeons with rocks (and failing hard) the mall where Wash can't hold in snickers at Tucker's numerous attempts to pick up girls and Pizza Hut (because why not). Tucker's ribs are sore. They travel all over the city and all at once Wash stops thinking about his abusive boyfriend and feels alive for a while. It's beautiful and it's perfect and he can't get enough, but he's not sure whether he's talking about their adventures or about Tucker himself.
Tucker stops the car at the beach after a while. It's almost dark now, so no chicks in bikinis but it's still one of his favourite places on earth. They walk down to wards the water, waves lapping at the sand. Tucker cups a handful of seawater and hurls it at Wash. They splash around like idiots for close to an hour, and Tucker can't help but grin to himself at the look on Wash's face when he strips his shirt off to use as a weapon.
The beach is enchanting in the dim light of the setting sun, last rays of light bouncing off the water to create pinpoints of white against the dark of the sea. Tucker smirks at Wash as they wade in to their knees, taking a moment to splash water all across his face. He responds with laughter and a muffled "Tucker, no." to which the response is "Tucker yes." Wash is laughing so hard it hurts but it's the kind of hurt that he craves. It's a pain that's wonderful and he wishes he could stay there forever, soaked and breathing hard while staring into Tucker's eyes, which almost glow in the night. Tucker gives a screech of laughter and takes advantage of Wash's momentary stillness to dunk Wash's head underwater
"Say uncle!"
"Never!"
Wash bursts into insane laughter again, desperately fending off Tucker's attempts to push him below the surface again. He almost glad there's no one around to here him as he repeats Tucker's name over and over again, tone light and breathless. He needs this, he realizes as they continue to joke nonsensically until Wash can't even keep track of the time anymore. He needs this like the air he needs to breathe because he hasn't been happy for so long. He doesn't want to go back.
Finally, they half drag each other back up the beach, and collapse on the sand. They lay there breathing hard and staring up at moonless sky. Until Tucker breaks the silence. "Wash?"
"Yeah?"
"Who are you?" Wash's features crease in confusion and concern. "What?" He asks, nervous edge to his voice. Tucker props himself up on one elbow, "Well, I feel like I've known you forever, but really I only met you on Friday." He grins "So tell me about you."
Wash's mind goes blank, and as he stares at Tucker he comes to the horrifying realization that he can't actually remember defining himself as anything other than black and blue and mistakes. "I don't know." He says quietly. Then, "What do you want to know?"
Tucker smile doesn't falter, and doesn't need to think "Tell me something simple." He suggests "What's your favourite colour? What time of day is best to you? What's your ultimate comfort food?"
"Grey." Wash replies to the first question easily. "I'm guessing yours is turquoise." He adds as an afterthought before taking a moment to consider the next. "I like dawn. Sunrises always feel like new beginnings, and it's refreshing to me to see so many things start to come alive." A pause. "I don't know about the food thing, I've never really thought about it." He turns to face Tucker. "How about you?"
"Well turquoise, obviously." Tucker says a hint of laughter colours his voice "Night, because then I'm either partying, making out, or sleeping." Wash rolls his eyes as Tucker continues "And probably waffles."
Silence.
"Definitely waffles." Wash chuckles. "I'll remember that, so if you're ever upset I can take you to IHOP."
Tucker scoffs at him "I can cook way better than IHOP."
"Sure." Wash rolls his eyes and Tucker sits up, mock offended "I will be proven right after you try them tomorrow."
Wash laughs again "You're on." They lapse back into quiet as both realize what Tucker's indirectly saying: that Wash is not going back to his house tonight. Neither of them says they're glad.
Wash sighs, raising himself to a standing position. He takes a moment to brush the sand off his clothes before reaching out a hand to help Tucker up, which is taken without hesitation. "It's late." He says, almost regretfully, looking down at the same green eyes that have somehow become familiar. "We should get going." Tucker nods and they walk slowly back towards the jeep and playfully bumps his shoulder against Wash's. He grabs his keys, cranks the music and they race towards home singing along at the tops of their lungs. Wash can tell that Tucker's trying to make his singing obnoxious, loud and pitchy and he grins all the while. It's stupid and immature and he can't help but join in.
He doesn't question it when the building they pull up in front of is not his own. In a way, he's grateful.
It's nearly midnight when Tucker chucks a blanket towards Wash's head and motions towards the couch. "Sleep well." He heads towards his bedroom, giving Wash a glimpse of teal walls. He purposely leaves the lamp by the couch on. There's no real reason, just a feeling he has.
Wash catches the blanket before it hits him, smiling just slightly. "You too." He whispers even after Tucker's left, taking a second to look around the room. His turquoise favouritism is definitely expressed here, little splashes of colour thrown around the room. Tucker left the light on, making Wash sigh with relief. He didn't want to have to explain his fear of the dark, or worse, freak out in the event that he's left with it. He curls up the couch, which is surprisingly comfortable, feeling strangely at ease. He has to remind himself that he doesn't really know Tucker, but even then there are no effects of anxiety at all.
He falls asleep within an hour, with a smile on his face.
Tucker wakes up sometime around o'dark thirty, gets up and pads into the kitchen for a drink. On the way he passes by the living room and feels oddly gratified at the peace on Wash's face.
Tucker gets up at 9:00, which is early for him. And checks on Wash, still asleep and snoring faintly. Huh. He really didn't seem the sleep-late type.
Tucker heads for the kitchen and grabs the stuff for waffles, time to win a bet.
Wash wakes up to the smell of fresh food around 10:30, and holy shit, he's going to lose a bet. Tucker laughs at the sight of Wash's face when he sees the mountain of food piled on the small table. "You're going down."
Wash shakes his head. "Dammit." He mutters. "Just so I know for when I lose, what do I owe you?"
Wash looks like he's expecting a joke, Tucker doesn't like to squash his smile but he's nothing if not blunt. "Tell me what's going on."
Wash freezes, going absolutely silent. His stillness coats the room with tension so thick you couldn't cut it with a knife, expression immediately going dark. Then he breaks the trance, chuckling artificially. "Okay, funny. What do you really want?"
Tucker groans inwardly at the return of the terrified expression on Wash's face. I'll find out somehow Tucker tells himself. He forces a laugh, proud of how real it sounds. "I want math homework done for a week!" He grins, feeling the tension in the room begin to disperse.
All the astriction in Wash's shoulders dissipates, leaving him shaky but relieved. "Done." He replies with ease, shrugging the fear off of his back and taking a seat at the table.
As expected Wash loses the bet.
Almost immediately, though, the awkwardness returns. They both know can't stay here forever, however much they both want that. Wash clears his throat, breaking the silence as he stands. "So," He starts, pausing to formulate a sentence that doesn't sound weird. "Thank you for breakfast and all…" Dammit, Wash, pull yourself together. "I think I have to go now…"
Tucker searches Wash's face, "Yeah." He agrees finally. "I guess so."
But it's with a heavy heart that they head for the car.
The ride is quieter than last time, a little more morbid. Wash desperately hangs on to the moment, counting the inevitable seconds until he has to face his problems. They get closer and closer until Wash spots a familiar figure in front of the building from about a block away. "Stop the car." He commands, aggressive tone leaving no room for argument.
Tucker can feel something about Wash change in a moment and obediently rolls to a stop. However, after parking the jeep around he scuttles back into the shadows. He can't let Wash know he's there. But there's no way in hell he's leaving him alone.
Wash exits the car without speaking, footsteps heavy against the pavement. He doesn't look back to make sure Tucker's okay, because now the figures noticed him and is waiting with a blank expression on his face. Wash's heart drops, adrenaline pounding through his veins as he comes to a halt in front of the taller man.
"David." The name rolls off Epsilon's tongue like cyanide, a poison driven straight into Wash's being.
"Yes?" He replies, curt and short and void of emotion.
Epsilon curls his fingers around Wash's chin, yanking his face upwards so they look eye to eye. "Where the fuck is my car?" He demands, dark and dangerous and riddled with promises that can be nothing but threats.
"I don't know." Wash says blankly, numb feeling encasing his body. A low, animalistic growl escapes Epsilon's throat. "Bullshit." He mutters, taking Wash by the bicep and dragging him forwards, into the building.
Wash doesn't fight, just hangs his head as he's taken again into the realm of his nightmares.
Tucker hates what he's hearing. And then this asshole comes swaggering over like he owns the damn world and Wash along with it.
Tucker follows the pair into the building. He's getting to damn bottom of this right now. Luckily they don't see him slip inside apartment 385 just after they do.
As soon as the door closes behind them, Wash is shoved violently against the inside wall. His breath catches, and he finds a spot on the floor to look at so his fear doesn't show. "I'm gonna ask you one more time, and if you don't me an honest answer, I will tear the truth from your lips whether you want me to or not." Epsilon's features are twisted in an angry snarl. "Where. The. Fuck. Is. My. Car?"
Wash swallows. "I-I don't know." He says, choking on the overwhelming smell of Epsilon's cologne.
Epsilon grins, a sickening light in his eyes. "Wrong answer." He whispers, and his hand finds the switchblade he keeps in his back pocket before reaching up to drag it across Wash's face in one fluid motion. Blood pours from the spot where blade meets skin, already discoloured from the bruising. Wash holds back a cry, but tears still fall down his cheeks.
Tucker sees red. Rage starts boiling over in his stomach and filling his head, making his limbs hum with fury. He doesn't think 'oh shit he has knife' he doesn't think 'I'm gonna fuckin die' all he thinks is 'Wash'.
Tucker takes a deep breath and steps away from the wall, "Hey, you." he addresses Wash's tormenter. The surprise on the dudes face is priceless. Tucker takes a step forwards and draws himself to his full (though not necessarily tall) height. "Leave him the fuck alone."
Panic rises in Wash's throat, choking his speech. He calls out Tucker's name, knees going weak. He feels queasy and can see Epsilon getting angrier and angrier. He sobs openly, shaking his head slowly as he meets Tucker's green eyes. "Tucker, no." He whispers, begging him silently to run because he knows Epsilon won't kill him, but he might go for the fatal shot on Tucker. "Please."
Epsilon is momentarily distracted by the fact that a black dude just jack in the boxed out of his kitchen. Tucker uses the opportunity to simultaneously hit 'call' on the predialed number on his phone and to look at Wash to mouth "Tucker yes." That's when the blows start, raining fast and furious. Epsilon clearly knows what the fuck he's doing but the adrenaline coursing Tucker's veins is letting match the other hit for hit. The knife blade flashes. Tucker is dimly aware of Wash looking on in horrified silence. Sharp pain explodes through Tucker's right shoulder, his knee flies up instinctively and the action is rewarded with a grunt of pain. Tucker's just trying to keep this prick's attention on him while praying fervently that the recipient of the call will be here soon.
Suddenly, there's a sound of splintering wood and the door goes flying off its hinges under the pressure of a black and silver studded combat boot. Tucker almost smiles as Epsilon starts at the low growling voice belonging to the owner of said shoes. Tucker has never been so grateful to see Tex's scowling face before.
In an instant she puts herself between Tucker and Epsilon muttering "Get Wash out of here." and then louder "Let me handle this piece of shit." The contempt in her voice makes Tucker really glad he's not Epsilon right now. As Tucker turns to Wash, he notes the confident smile on Epsilon's face and knows that yet another guy has made the deadly mistake of underestimating Texas. Tucker doesn't have one ounce of pity for him.
Wash feels Tucker's hands brush his wrist and then fingers intertwined with his own, leading him away from the scene. He follows dutifully out of the apartment, not once looking back to see the fight unfold. Once into the hallway, he pulls his arm back, resting his forearm against the wall for support when his body fails him. He looks up at Tucker with fearful eyes, slowly lifting his own hand away from where he'd been covering the wound, watching as blood begins to seep through the hole in his abdomen.
Tucker feels his breath lodges in his throat. How could he have not seen that? Tucker is a damn good actor when he wants to be, though, and puts on an appearance of calm. "It'll be alright." He says slowly, "But you may need an actual Doctor for this one." Tucker quickly tears a strip off his T-shirt with shaking fingers.
Don't think, just act.
Wash presses the make shift pad to the puncture it's alarming how fast the teal turns to crimson. Wash is going really pale. Tucker gently sits him down against the wall.
Don't think about the dangers of stab wounds to that area.
Tucker pulls Wash's phone out of his pocket and dials 911.
Don't think about how you could have prevented this.
Tucker tries and fails to shut his brain off as he gives the address. He hangs up and then slides down the wall next to Wash. Wash parts his lips slightly as if to speak "No." Tucker murmurs "Rest now." He takes the blood soaked piece of shirt from Wash's limp fingers and presses it down himself "You'll be okay."
Wash isn't crying anymore but silent tears keep coursing over his face. Tucker softly sweeps the moisture from Wash's features and this time he doesn't flinch away.
Don't think. Don't think at all.
Wash mumbles something incoherent and then slumps unconscious against Tucker's shoulder. Don't think about how now he smells like blood and death instead of lemons and copper.
Don't.