I realize this is confusing so just to clarify this is all in Wash's POV.
Something is wrong.
Of that, he is certain. It's just under the surface, a stone out of place under a crashing wave. A slight imbalance, just enough to throw him off kilter.
It's almost too hard to deal with sometimes.
But he gets by.
At least he's home again.
And Tucker. God, Tucker. It feels like forever since he's seen him, really seen him, with his bright, honest eyes and perfect smile.
He hasn't been smiling enough lately.
It's these thoughts that fill his mind in the early hours of the morning, when the silence is so consuming that it gets hard to breathe. He pictures that figure for all that he is, strong and brave and beautiful.
But he knows his memory can't compete with the real image.
Nothing could.
He's afraid of the dark.
It's a bitter type of irony, the way his mind shuts down over the simple absence of light but stays completely clear in the face of a weapon. He's broken himself down from the inside out, and he's only started to pick up the pieces.
At least this time he's not alone.
He's held together by the light touch of hands across his lower back, soft patterns traced gently over the exposed skin. He can feel hot breath across his cheek, a figure hovering just past coherent reality.
And a voice, whispering careful reassurances in his ear.
There's a pause in the sound, a catch, and he knows what Tucker almost says. It's something he's said before, in a moment of vulnerability in a strange place.
He swallows, hard, and doesn't speak a word.
He still gets nightmares.
It's a ghost, just a shadow of something it used to be, but every time it's a whole new feeling. Another glimpse of hope that falls into ashes.
Even now, feeling closer to a group of individuals than he's ever felt before, it still haunts him.
No, not a ghost. A curse. A dark spell woven deep into the nature of everything he's become.
And he's still changing.
When he falls, he falls hard. It's not a soft, easy emotion that deepens over days to become something extraordinary. It's not a quiet understanding in the depths of that night where no one is close enough to notice. No, it hits him all at once, violent and unforgiving, like a hurricane in the middle of a desert; full force with intent to kill.
He closes his eyes, and it all runs through him then, a feather light touch across glass-fragile skin, a stolen moment in passing corridors, a watercolor memory of skin and sweat and heat.
For a split second, he is completely and utterly terrified, shaken to the very core.
Then he smiles.
No one comments when Tucker leans over and rests his head on Wash's shoulder. No one mentions the sad smile. No one interrupts when he starts talking and doesn't stop.
He talks about Blood Gulch. What it was like to first meet Church and Caboose. How it felt to see Junior for the first time. The way Sister would say the most uncomfortable things with fascinating ease. How long before he figured out Grif and Simmons were a couple.
What it was like to meet Wash for the first time.
He describes it as bittersweet, a chance at meeting someone who was different but not knowing what to do about it. An unexpected turn to an easy situation. Like two worlds shifting against each other until each and every edge had been redifined.
He says he doesn't regret it for a second.
Wash whispers "I love you" in his ear. It's the first time he's said it.
Tucker takes his hand and traces the word "Ditto" across his palm.
He laughs out loud, a simple sound in a silent space, and he'd forgotten how good that feels.
He makes a silent promise with himself to never forget again.
An enemy soldier follows them from the crash site. His name is Zachary Miller. Wash almost wishes he didn't know. It's easier to take a life when there's nothing attached to it.
It doesn't matter, in the end. They don't kill him.
Wash breathes a silent sigh of relief at that. He doesn't need any more guilt on his conscience.
He screwed up.
That, at least, is familiar. He just wishes there could've been someone better around to fix his mistake.
Carolina doesn't catch it in time.
The words "I'm an emotional time bomb" echo inside his head, a mantra of guilt and misunderstanding. He hates himself for having to do this, for not having the sense to see this coming.
Epsilon fixes it. But it still stings, deep down.
Static through the radio. A crackle, and a second of silence that feels much longer than it actually is.
Then a familiar voice.
He offers them a way out. A ship, programmed with the coordinates to a place that could've been home.
t's too good to be true.
Wash believes every word.
He tells the others to leave. It's is a sacrifice he'd always known he'd make.
They don't let him.
His jaw aches from where Tucker hit him. He deserved it, of that he is certain. But it's still difficult.
Mostly because he knows they can't all make it out of this alive.