Originally Written in June 2013

I had the urge to write some Dark!Fic, and Crazy!Doc and Victim!Wash was too tempting.

Uh, yeah. *coughs* I think I just wanted to write something dark with Doc and Wash. Wash is adorable and I felt like picking on him. And by 'picking on' I mean make miserable. So I wrote this quick little number.

So, I'm just gonna' post this and go hide.

Company

Characters: Agent Washington & Frank "Doc" DuFresne, Red Team & Blue Team

Pairing: Doc x Wash

Rating: T to M (It's right on the line, I think)

Warnings: Crazy!Doc, Restraints, Drugging, Violence (Hitting/Tasers/Etc.), Psycological Manipulation, Codependence.

Summary: DuFresne has had enough of being left behind. He wanted company. Company that wanted him around. If he learned anything from O'Mally, it's that sometimes you have to take what you want. And unfortunately for Agent Washington, stockholm syndrome runs deep.

Wash felt like Caboose had thrown a grenade at his head. Or was it Donut who threw the grenades? Wash tapped his forehead against something hard once to jostle his thoughts. There was a pounding ache at the back of his neck that reminded him of getting tossed around the training field back in the Freelancer Program. He shook his head out once, head feeling light and opened his eyes. He expected to see the HUD of his visor making notes of his surroundings and the familiar yellow tinting, but instead—everything was blurry, dim, and naturally colored.

As his vision adjusted to the low lighting, and he came to full consciousness, Washington noticed some very important facts about his situation: His armor was missing, he was dressed in pair of grey sweats and a plain t-shirt, he was laid out on a concrete floor, and his wrists were bound behind his back. Wash heard the steady beeping of a pair of UNSC restraining cuffs and cursed.

Training took over from that point. Wash took note of the grey-painted room he found himself in as he tried to remember what he was doing before the world went black. He tried to sit up, but the world spun and he felt nauseous—drugged. He breathed in and out, steady and slow. The UNSC must have found them in Blood Gulch and caught them all off guard. That was the only explanation.

Wash closed his eyes. Simmons. He'd been helping Simmons repair his rocket launcher, when—Wash growled. He couldn't remember. What had happened?

He sucked in a breath and rolled full onto his stomach. He shoved down the urge to vomit as he pushed up onto his knees using his shoulders and the wall as a brace. The world spun as he sat up, but he used his focus to stay upright. Whatever was in his system was on its way out, or he had a feeling he'd be worse off.

Wash licked his lips, and wet his mouth. He turned around at his waist, spotting the door at the front of the room. A small red light was lit on a key pad next to the frame. Electronic locks. Wash could work with that.

He faced forward again and sucked in a breath. He just had to get to his feet. Get to his feet. Get to the door. Get out. Get to his team and make sure they were okay. It was a plan, not a great one, but a plan all the same. Wash shifted on his knees until he could push up. He just had to get to the feet part.

"Ah, shucks. You woke up early."

Washington tensed, his entire body went rigid at the sound of the intruder. He knew that voice. Wash looked over his shoulder. "Doc?"

"I knew I took too long setting up your room," Doc said, dressed in his purple armor. Wash stared at the man, wide eyed. This is the guy who knocked him out? Doc!? The medic crossed his arms, and tilted his head. "You weren't supposed to see this one. Much too bare, and I hated having to leave you on the floor."

"Doc," Wash said. With a sudden need to defend his pride and disciplined training now that there was an audience, Wash pushed up to his feet. Even without his armor, he was an inch taller than Doc. "What is going on?"

"You woke up early."

Wash bit his lip hard enough to bleed to stop the scream when the taser he failed to notice was shoved into his stomach.

His hands were still bound, but this time Wash woke on a bed. He was on top of a quilted duvet cover clad in grey and yellow. It smelled like fresh dye and fabric softener. From his side, he could see a small side table with a few journals and a pen sitting on top of a lace doily. There was a small square-cut carpet on the concrete floor, yellow, and a black duffle bag leaning against the side-table.

Wash was more disturbed the glass wall six feet from the bed. He sat up, head clearer than before. Wash pushed his feet over the side, his bare feet landing on the carpet square. Sitting up, he spotted the thin outline of a door, and a small open slot above a clear shelf just next to it.

On the right side, there was an opaque square that had a drain on the floor in front of a squat toilet and a shower head drilled into the wall.

Wash was in a glass prison cell decorated like a bedroom.

The cell was nestled in the corner of a much larger great room, so the walls to his left and back were solid, even though he could see the clear walls of the cell were on all four sides. The larger room had a kitchenette on the far right side, a coffee table in the center, and a large flat screen on the wall directly across from him. There were two sitting chairs to the right of the coffee table, and a very large dresser sitting flush with the left side wall. Wash spotted the pull handle toward the top: Pull-down bed.

Wash tugged at his hands, and hissed when the cuffs scratched against his bare wrists. They were tightened to the max, designed to cuff someone in armor. They refused to budge. Wash huffed, and walked toward the small cut out slot, and said "Doc?"

He was met with silence, and banged on the glass. "Doc! Hey! Can you hear me?"

He heard the sound of keys clattering, and the turning of a lock. He had to press against the glass on the right side of the cell, but around the corner he could see a wooden door. It was pushed open at the base with a foot dressed up in brown leather, and a man entered juggling a few bags of groceries.

The brown paper was moved to the side, and Wash spotted a tan man with dark brown hair, and a pair of oval glasses sitting neatly on his nose. He was in a purple polo shirt, and wore a pair of plain khakis.

The stranger stared at Wash for a full moment in shock, before smiling and saying in a voice that clearly belonged to Doc, "I bet you're always an early riser, aren't you? You keep waking up before I'm ready!"

"What is this, Doc?" Wash asked, banging on the glass with the side of his foot. "Let me out of here!"

Doc dropped the bags onto the kitchenette counter, and adjusted his glasses as he walked up to the wall. "Well, I can't do that second one, but I will say that this," he tapped on the glass, "Is the best use of my overtime pay to date! Can you believe I got this at a Repo Auction for only a few thousand credits?"

"A repo auction had a mobile glass containment cell?" Wash asked, knowing his mouth was hanging open.

"Yup!" Doc tapped on the glass as he walked around and pulled one of the chairs closer to the glass. "They finally finished sorting the last of the confiscated Freelancer program equipment, and the UNSC auctioned it all off two weeks ago."

"They auctioned off top secret Freelancer equipment." Wash licked his lips. That sounded like one of the worst ideas, ever, of all time. "Are you serious?"

"Technically the only top secret things in your facility was the knowledge that the Simulation Troopers were fake, your personal armor suits, and the A.I. Units. Everything else was pretty standard."

"Wait," Wash stopped. "Did you say the UNSC? How'd you buy something from them and not get arrested!?"

"Because like the rest of the simulation soldiers, I was re-integrated back into the UNSC. You all left me behind so much they didn't think I was associated with you. When the Freelancer Program fell apart, and was taken back over by The Chairman, we were all declared innocent parties. Since none of us were aware we weren't in the regular army, and were considered too valuable as assets—thanks to our lovely use of armor—to be completely dismissed, they let us continue serving under a real command. Fun, huh?"

Doc paused and tapped his lip, "You and the rest of Blue Team, and Red Team are all on the wanted list, though."

"Doc," Wash said. This was crazy. He'd been knocked over the head, or taken prisoner, or something by a lunatic and he'd had enough. Wash needed to make sure the rest of his Team and the Reds were okay. If Doc could find them, he was terrified the UNSC might be close behind. "Let me out."

Doc smiled a touch too widely. "Are you hungry yet? I wasn't sure when the nausea would wear off, and you've been out a while. I was thinking something light, like a salad or a BLT."

"Let me out," Wash said again.

"You look like a bacon man," Doc said. He slapped the top of his thighs and pushed off the chair. "BLT it is."

"Doc!" Wash shouted, slamming his shoulder into the glass. The other man ignored him, humming to himself as he dragged bread and a jar of mayonnaise out of the bag.

Wash took a few steps back and sat on the bed, his arms sore around the wrists. "Can you at least take the cuffs off?"

"Un-tie a Freelancer after I knocked him out and kidnapped him? Are you crazy?" Doc had the nerve to laugh as he slathered mayo on one side of a piece of toast. "Not going to happen, my friend. It took way too much effort to get you into my house, why would I waste your company by letting you go?"

Wash growled, and thumped his head on the glass.

Doc fed Wash the sandwich slices dressed in full armor. Wash bit into the toasted bread as held by the purple medic, and the man wiped away the bits of mayonnaise that clung to the corner of his mouth with his glove covered hand. It was embarrassing as hell, but no one was there to see it.

And Wash was starving.

At least Doc didn't gloat about it. He just kept talking about his new job on base and his patients, and other unrelated things while Wash tried to think.

He was still furious about being kidnapped-, but he was at least impressed the medic was covering his bases and considering Wash still a threat even while cuffed. Without his armor, Wash was at a serious disadvantage against Doc. That was more embarrassing than not being able to eat his own food.

Doc held a glass of water to Wash's lips, and he drank. This was probably Doc's only real weakness in the plan. Keeping Wash at full health was going to bite him later. All he needed was a second, and he'd be out. Staying hydrated and fed would make that easier. Wash swallowed a large gulp.

"Why am I really here, Doc?" Wash asked. "And what happened to Simmons? He was right beside me when I blacked out."

"He's still in the canyon. Probably smarting from the taser shock though," Doc hummed, stacking the glass on top of the empty plate. He backed up to the cell door and entered the code to open it—Wash couldn't see, and was aggravated to note all the chimes sounded the same. Doc left and resealed the cell. "The rest of them are fine, too, if you're worried."

"You didn't answer the first question." Wash said.

"It's late, I think I'm going to bunk down for the night." Doc pulled off his helmet, and shook out his hair. "You should probably do the same. See you soon, David."

"David?" Wash asked himself, looking down. How did he know that name? Wash looked up to see Doc hit a button on the side of the cell. The glass flashed once, and solidified opaque, leaving only a sliver of dimmed light in the cell. After a second, the outside light must have went off, as the cell went black. Wash slammed the wall with his shoulder. "DOC!"

Eight days.

Wash's sense of time wasn't perfect, but he was fairly certain he'd been alone in the cell, walls still solid and light near non-existent, for at least eight days. He was hungry, bored, and his only triumph had been maneuvering his hands to his front so he could pull his pants down to use the toilet and operate the shower. Which was good, since his wrists were bleeding after struggling to turn them in the cuffs enough that he could pull his arms under his legs.

Wash knew he should have paid more attention in the cuff breaking lessons back on The Mother of Invention.

He buried his face into the thick fabric of the quilt. He had doodled in the provided journal and scrounged through the duffle bag, but spare clothes he couldn't change into thanks to the cuffs and the blank paper lost their appeal after a few hours. So he slept, and planned, and thought of all the things he was going to do to Doc once he got his hands around him.

Wash pushed off the bed and shuffled to the shower area. He turned on the faucet and dunked his head under the water. He sucked in a breath when the ice-temperature water hit his neck, waking him up.

Sometimes he just thought of Blood Gulch. Did Tucker and the others know what happened to him? Was Simmons really okay, or was this situation worse than he realized? How was Caboose coping? Wash leaned his head on the side of the wall. He really missed them.

Even Grif and Sarge.

A hiss filled the room, and Wash blinked his eyes rapidly across the room. He glanced across the room, the water still pounding in his ears. He flopped back on the wall, glaring at Doc who—wasn't in armor? What sort of game was he playing now?

Wash tensed, and breathed evenly. This would be his only chance. He swallowed. "How'd you know my name?"

"Medical records," Doc said. "F.I.L.S.S. erased all the current files on the Freelancers and the program, but even she didn't have access to the remote back up discs that are disconnected from the system. They were easily recovered and recorded in the new system. Bit of an oversight on The Director's part, if you ask me."

Wash stood straighter. "And how'd you get access?"

"Medic, Medical files, it's pretty obvious if you ask me," Doc said. "Speaking, someone's been without food for five days. I bet you're feeling a little out of it."

Five? Only Five? Wash sucked in a breath. He must have been more out of it than he realized. Or gone soft with the simulation soldiers. How had he lost that much of his touch just by hanging out with the crew? Wash shook his head.

"It's rude to ignore guests."

Wash flinched when Doc jabbed him in the arm with a needle, he pressed a button on the top and the needle pierced his skin in a quick jab. He growled and pushed forward, knocking Doc into the wall. Whatever that was, it was bad.

He made it out the door Doc had left open to the living room before his legs gave out on him. Wash knocked his head into the coffee table as his knees buckled, and groaned as he listened to the soft footsteps of Doc. He saw feet come into his vision and he hissed, "What was in that?"

"Paralytic agent," Doc answered. Wash saw him lean over, and felt him reach under his arms. Okay, so he couldn't move but his nerves still worked. Great. With a heave, Doc pulled Wash off the ground and maneuvered him into a chair. Doc breathed heavily, leaning on his knees when he was finished. "I am out of shape."

Doc pulled the second chair around about a foot from Wash and sat down. He crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back. He picked up the remote from the coffee table and flicked on the flat screen. "You have a TV preference? I like soap operas myself, but you strike me as a cop-show sort of guy."

Wash couldn't believe his ears. Caboose made more sense than this. Wash tilted his head to the side, his muscles aching and protesting even that little bit of movement. "What is this? You leave me alone for ei-five days, paralyze me, and then turn on the tv?"

"The five days was to weaken you enough to make sure the paralytic agent worked," Doc said flipping through channels. "Who knows what Freelancer training you've had to counter drugs? The paralytic agent itself, though, is to ward off any tricks you may have out of armor when I allowed you to sit and watch television with me."

"You're insane," Wash said. His arms hung in front on his thighs, still constrained by the cuffs. His body was heavy, and muscles numb. "Absolutely crazy."

"If you keep that up, David, you're not getting any dinner." Doc flipped the channel. "Only soldiers who behave get fed, and I know you're hungry."

"Something is wrong with you," Wash said, eyes wide and feeling a touch of nausea not related to the shot he'd had earlier. "What the hell happened—"

Doc back handed Wash across the face with the butt of the remote, hitting the solid part of his cheekbone. Pain exploded across Wash's face, and his head whipped to the side.

"Bad soldiers get punished, David." Doc sat back in his seat. Wash breathed heavily to the side. Doc leaned over and turned his head back toward the screen. "Watch the TV like a good Soldier."

Wash opened his mouth but shut it quickly. He caught sight of the metal pipe leaning against the table. And Doc's hand around the handle.

Doc was trying to brainwash him.

As ludicrous as it was to contemplate the quiet, pacifist medic doing, that's what Wash figured out was going on.

The starvation, followed only with food if Wash 'behaved.' Aside from his extended times alone, the only human contact he was 'allowed' came from Doc, no matter how well he acted. They had breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the same time every day. TV was after dinner. If Wash had been good, they'd watch a cop show. If he was bad, they watched the cooking channel and Wash went to bed without dinner. Doc had a routine set and engrained, and then he shook it up with days Wash wasn't allowed out of the cell.

The end goal was clearly dependence.

Wash was always drugged to the gills when he was out of his cell. It made figuring out his surroundings and a way to escape his overly pleasant and polite captor harder than he'd like to admit. He couldn't get out of the cell without Doc's help. He couldn't eat without Doc.

He could move around in his cell when the paralytic agent wore off, but he was alone.

Wash hated being alone. He never knew if Doc would leave him in there for a few days, a few hours, or a week. His mind played tricks on him. It was dark, and he was always hungry. He counted down the seconds until Doc would return. And Wash was always off with his guesses of how much time had past.

Doc had to tell him what time it was, or where he was half the time.

It didn't help Doc rearranged the furniture when the cell was opaque so he always came out drugged to a new environment, either. Wash leaned heavier on Doc each time. Tried to fight the confusion less and less each time. Desperately clung to whatever nonsense came out of the man's mouth in his desperation for company.

Doc'd deemed the cuffs unnecessary on his last adventure outside the cell. Dinner was pasta with pesto. Doc had to feed him because his hands were too swollen and heavy. Wash hadn't cared, or made a fuss when Doc kiss away a lick of alfredo from the side of his lip. It hadn't been romantic, or sexual. Just intimate. Contact with another person.

Wash was disgustingly impressed with Doc's technique.

Wash was terrified by how much it was working.

He wasn't paralyzed today.

The world spun around Wash as his foggy mind tried to focus, but he was outside the cell and standing on his own power. Wash wasn't sure what had been in today's needle, but it was different. He swayed in place, glancing around the room and his full height.

Doc had a clock shaped like a cat on the wall. It'd always been too high to see from the chair.

"You like cats, David?" Doc asked, slipping his hand into Wash's. He gently tugged, leading the man toward two doors he'd never noticed in his constant daze. Doc pushed it open and he saw a bed in the center of the room, and a dresser along the wall. There were thick books stacked in corners, and if he squinted he could see words that started with 'M' on the side. Doc rubbed Wash's hand with his thumb. "I like cats, too."

"Cats are nice," Wash mumbled, the words a fog in his head. He felt light and he leaned on Doc. "Where are we?"

"This is my room," Doc said. He dragged Wash over the door's threshold and pushed up his glasses. Doc leaned on Wash's arm, and he played with the man's fingers. HIs smile was bright. It was aimed at Wash. Doc cooed, "It's lonely at night, isn't it?"

"Yes," Wash answered. Night meant closed walls and silence and being alone. No way to tell time. Alone. He shivered. "Yes."

"And why is that?" Doc asked, his voice chipper, cutting through the haze. Wash narrowed his eyes and shook his head. Was this a trick question? Doc squeezed his hand. "Why is it lonely at night, David?"

"Because…you're not there?" Wash asked, unsure. That sounded right, but wrong, too. His head hurt.

"That's right!" Doc said. "And since you've been such a good soldier, I thought it would be good to make sure you weren't lonely tonight."

Something sliced through the haze. A single moment of individual comprehension that tightened his stomach and pumped adrenaline through his thick and slowed blood and heartbeat. Wash hoped. "I'm staying with you tonight?"

"If you can be a good soldier." Doc said. He moved away, but held onto Wash's hand. He pat the back and nodded. His eyes were warm behind the glasses. "If you eat all your dinner, and talk to me during TV time. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Wash said. He stood straighter. He could do that. That was easy. And he liked company and dinner time. He could eat on his own now. Doc let him because he was good. Wash could be good. "And then I don't have to go back into the cell?"

"Nope, you can stay with me." Doc rubbed Wash's arm. It was firm and grounding. "Would you like that, David?"

"Yes."

"You want to stay with me, don't you?"

"Yes."

"No one else, right?" Doc asked.

Wash narrowed his eyes. Why did he keep asking the same question. Or questions that didn't make any sense. Wash covered his eyes with his hands and rubbed. "Who else is there?"

"Exactly," Doc said. He let go of Wash's hand, and walked away, back into the main room. "You're such a smart, soldier."

Wash stared at his empty hand. He breathed faster. His hand felt cold. Empty. Doc was leaving. Wash whined, and stumbled after the shorter man.

He followed Doc.

Sleeping with Doc was much nicer than sleeping alone. It was warm, and the blankets were thick. If he took his pill like a good soldier, Doc would let him snuggle.

Wash clung to the medic, his head buried in the man's chest. Doc would pet his hair. It felt nice. Company was nice.

It was warm. Wash was a good soldier.

There was no more cell. Only Doc, and their little living room during the day. The bedroom at night.

They talked.

They kept each other company.

Doc said he wasn't lonely when Wash was with him. That was good.

Wash hated being lonely. It didn't feel good.

Being together was much better.

Doc made soup tonight. Wash let Doc feed him with the spoon.

Wash lost track of the days. Doc threw out the calendar.

They didn't need it.

There was someone else in their home.

Wash stared at the soldier in teal—Aqua something told him from the back of his mind in a voice he didn't recognize—standing in the middle of his room. Wash looked up from his spot on the floor, his hands wrapped around the small puzzle cube Doc had given him for being good. Something nice so he wouldn't be bored when Doc had to be at work. Doc was nice that way. He took care of wash.

The teal soldier was staring at him and his cube.

"Who are you?" Wash asked. He held the cube closer to his lap, and covered it with his hands. It was a gift from Doc. This man couldn't have it! "Why are you here?"

"Ah dude, oh this is bad. That sicko, just. Okay," The man said. There was a loud click and the man turned his head to the side. He started talking to the air. "Simmons, worse than we thought. His eyes are glazed, he's slurring his words, and he doesn't recognize me. Doc really pulled a number on him. I'm pretty sure he's drugged."

"You know Doc?" Wash asked. He stayed on the floor as the stranger ignored him, listening to something in his head. Wash tapped on a piece of the leg armor. "Hello?"

"Got it, Simmons," the man said. He knelt down next to Wash, and the head tilted to the side. Wash could almost see eyes behind the tinted visor. "Hey Wash, I'm Tucker—you know me dude, you're just loopy right now—and you and me are going for a trip, okay? We're gonna' get you out of this little hell hole."

"No, Doc'll be back, soon. I can't leave! Then he'll be lonely!" Wash scooted away when the man in armor grabbed at him. He was new. He didn't know. "Besides, if I do that, I'll be bad and he'll make me go back in the cell!"

"Oh, that son of a bitch. I'm gonna' kill that stupid medic," the man mumbled to himself. He shook his head and leaned over. "Come here, Wash!"

"No!" Wash's heart beat too fast. His world felt dizzy. He ran. "Go away!"

"Sorry, dude." The man said from behind him. "But this is for your own good."

Wash didn't understand the warning, until his world went black again.

Wash shivered. He was always cold, or too hot, and his head hurt, and everything ached. Nothing he ate would stay down and there was a constant ringing in his ear.

Doc was missing and couldn't give Wash his pill.

Instead, he was outside on the roof. Some guy in red said fresh air was good for him. It would help the worst of it. Wash didn't think it was working, and that man clearly had no idea what he was doing.

Did Doc miss him?

Wash flinched when the sound of footsteps neared. A man with metal welded to his face—Simmons—Wash's mind provided, sat down next to him with a bowl of porridge. He stirred the dish and set the bowl down. Wash reached for the spoon, his hand shaking.

Simmons rubbed his back, sighing deeply. "Make sure you remember to eat slow, or it'll all come back up like last time."

Wash grunted, and forced a spoonful in his mouth. It was hot and he smelled cinnamon. "Where's Doc, Simmons?"

"Not here," Simmons answered. He smiled a little crook on the side of his face. Satisifed with something Wash had done. He pat Wash on the back. "And you remembered my name."

"I'm not stupid," Wash mumbled. He licked a bit of grit off the spoon. "I miss Doc."

"I know." Simmons sighed heavily and leaned on Wash's shoulder. "You're going to be okay."

Wash didn't believe him.