When they get back to base, Tucker's tempted to reactivate his camo and just, like, go. Take the data and the ghosts and go bury both somewhere quiet for a while. Get his fucking head right.
Instead, he trudges in Felix's footsteps to Kimball's office, because fuck it, with his luck the equipment would probably just malfunction halfway through his escape.
Kimball's furious. She's grieving, Tucker thinks. She's known these kids longer than either of them. She doesn't yell; she just stares Felix down while he accepts full responsibility, he's entirely responsible, things couldn't have been more his fault, but at least they got such critical intel, and the sarcasm drips from his voice while he glares at Tucker, who says nothing. Fucking nothing.
Kimball looks at Tucker only once, but they're both wearing helmets so fuck knows what she's thinking. She doesn't ask him any questions, just takes the data and says, "Dismissed," in a tone that you kinda can't help but append "you fuckwits" to the end of. She uses that tone a lot when she talks to them.
Felix waits until they're in the hallway to lay an arm across Tucker's throat, shove him up against the wall. "You stupid fuck," he says. "When we're in the field, you fucking do what I tell you."
"We're not in the field now," Tucker says, shoving him off, and it feels kinda good to talk again after all that bullshit in there, so he adds, "And we wouldn't have been in that situation in the first place if you hadn't fucking stolen their shit and pissed them off!"
"Ohhh," Felix drawls, "so it's on me?"
"You're fucking right it's on you!" Tucker gives him a shove, experimentally. Felix rocks back on his heels. "We could've just waltzed in and grabbed that data. If it weren't for you, Locus probably wouldn't have been there in the first place. He wouldn't have-"
Yeah, great, and what he needs right now is to picture stupid fucking Cunningham dead on the floor in front of him.
"I'm not done with you, Captain!" Felix yells, and Tucker realizes, with some surprise, that he's turned his back on Felix, that he's walking away, his pace quick and clipped. He's breathing kinda funny, like he's not getting enough air.
When he finally clears the building, there's someone leaning against the wall waiting for him. "Hey, man," Grif says, detaching himself from the building to stroll alongside him. Tucker automatically slows his pace to match. "How was being on an actual fucking mission for once?"
"Felix fucked up," Tucker says, shortly. "They knew we were coming. Locus was there."
"Jesus fuck." Grif actually looks around, like he's half-expecting Locus to fade into existence next to them. "So how'd you get out?"
"We ran. Felix decided we had to blow the compound. Locus killed Cunningham, explosion caught Rogers."
"Fuck," Grif says, more quietly. "What a douche."
Tucker's not sure whether he's talking about Locus or Felix, but he's inclined to agree either way. "Hey, I gotta, uh. I gotta go."
"Sure," Grif says, with a little shrug, already turning back toward the mess hall. "Later."
"Yeah," Tucker says, and waits until Grif's almost out of earshot to call, "Hey, can you keep the others off me for a bit?"
Grif groans. "Yeah, but you owe me for having to watch another fucking movie with Caboose and Mr. 'Ooh yes but see that explosion wasn't quite scientifically accurate' McCyborg."
Tucker waves a hand, but his feet are doing that thing again where they just keep walking without him thinking about it, and then he's back in his quarters, sitting on his rack, dragging his helmet off and scrubbing his hands across his face over and over again until it feels numb. He thinks he's gonna puke, and he thinks he should probably stand up and go do that, but the nausea passes before he can work up the strength to do so.
He flops back across his rack and stares at the ceiling until the ceiling starts to look like a shadow standing over him, a fucking shadow leaning in, and bright red letters across his HUD, "EQUIPMENT MALFUNCTION", the slow footsteps closer and closer-
"Sir?" a soft voice says, and Tucker totally doesn't scream. He, like, yelps. In a very manly and restrained sort of way.
"Holy fuck, Palomo."
"Sorry, sir." Palomo's standing over him, but he's out of his power armor, skinny and awkward-looking. "Probably shouldn't have snuck up on you there, huh?"
Tucker wonders how many favors he'd have to owe Grif to get him to start inviting Palomo to his distraction-movie nights. There probably aren't enough Oreos in the world to pay off that debt. "Palomo, go to your quarters. You're off-duty."
"Yeah, that's why I'm not in armor." Palomo hooks a chair with his ankle, drags it up to sit next to Tucker. "See, when I'm on duty I have to wear armor-"
"I get it, Palomo. Now fuck off."
Palomo's face sort of crumples, and you'd fucking think Tucker would've built up an immunity to the kicked-puppy look after all those years around Caboose. "Oh," he says, stumbling up from the chair. "Okay. Sorry. I, uh. I thought maybe you'd want to talk about, you know. What happened."
"Go talk to Felix," Tucker says, with a sneer. "It's all his fucking fault."
"Um," Palomo says. "It kind of isn't. Sir."
"Fuck off, Palomo. That's an order."
"I'm... not on duty," Palomo says, apologetically. Before Tucker can work up the energy to really yell, he adds, "They were my friends a long time before you even met them. Sir."
Tucker shuts up. Looks at the ceiling. Rubs his dry eyes. "Sorry."
Palomo shrugs, moving back toward the door. "You were trying to find your friends. I understand. I just, you know. I hope it's worth it."
The door closes behind him.
In the new silence, Tucker just sort of lies on his rack in his stupid fucking power armor, watching the shadows on the ceiling, and tries very hard not to think about what it means to be a serial fuck-up in a warzone.