Yep, another Wash drabble from little ol' me. This is a short something that came to mind while watching Season 10 for the umpteenth time last month. Hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: Red vs. Blue and all of the characters belong to Rooster Teeth.
Little Things
Sometimes, Wash wondered why he stuck around.
It didn't make much sense, if he thought about it. He was Agent Washington. He was a specially trained operative of the Freelancer Project. He was Recovery One. He was the one to find the Alpha. He was a major factor in bringing down the Director. Really, he was just one long list of "was." He was also, as far as anyone reading the paperwork was concerned, dead. There was nothing obvious left to fight, escape, or protect. So why stick around with a bunch of idiotic simulation troopers when he could so easily take off? Go to old and new places? Start over fresh, this time without the armor?
He supposed it was because of the little things. Things like Simmons telling Grif to not shovel food into his mouth at a sickening pace. He could almost hear York telling him to swallow before talking. If memory served, Wash had been waving random fruits in one hand, and holding a drink with a curly straw in the other.
Or there were the times when Sarge was harsh on Simmons, despite Simmons' best efforts to get a single word of praise from the C.O. Those were the times that brought Carolina to mind. That woman had done anything and everything to seek approval from the Director.
There were times when Grif would bring up some memory of living with his sister, and Wash could almost see the Dakotas through him. But it was the Dakotas from before the A.I. program, when the twins were still close and either one would eagerly gun down any who thought of harming the other sibling.
Some days, Tucker reminded Wash of York on a bad pick-up line kick. Other days, Tucker reminded him of South on one of her moody I-don't-really-give-a-damn binges. On the few remaining days, the blue was back to resembling York, but it was the York that had his head on straight and acted as that last bit of sanity in the madness.
There were times when Sarge reminded him of the Maine Wash had known in training, all grunts and battle-ready. Or of Wyoming: the man who lived for knock-knock jokes and witty one-liners. The occasional flowery speech was almost reminiscent of Agent Florida. Other times, Sarge's ramblings of different conspiracy theories caused Washington to think of C.T.
Wash would give a wry smirk at that last one. Given each of their histories, half of Sarge's crack-pot theories were probably truth.
The way Tucker would speak of his time serving with Church, it was almost the same begrudging camaraderie he had seen between Connie and South on a regular basis.
And Caboose? Caboose was him. The old him. Just Wash—just David—without the extra titles. The little brother figure filled with optimism, hope, and idiotic rookie antics. Caboose, like the old Wash, was the one who needed correcting the most, but was excluded the least. He had even started to pick up more of Wash's preferred catch phrases (of all time).
Sometimes, Wash wondered why he stuck around. But then he would look at the other soldiers around him. He would look at the odd, makeshift team that he had come to halfway consider as friends. He would look at the little things. And in looking at them, he would realize there was nowhere else he'd rather be.
Little Things - End
Thanks for reading!
