After Wash passes out everything happens in a blur.
The ambulance and the cops come screaming up to the building and Wash disappears into the back of the ambulance, leaving Tucker clutching a bloody rag and choking back sobs. Cops escort Epsilon to the police station. Tucker takes small satisfaction in the fact that the guy looks like he's been through a meat grinder. Tex has a long cut splitting her collarbone but looks otherwise unharmed. She gives curt responses to the officers questions, but when they try to talk to Tucker she growls. "Can't you fucking see he can't do this right now?" Tucker just sits there trying to get controls of himself while the paramedics examine him; physically, he's fine. Sore and bruised with a severely wrenched shoulder, but nothing rest and ice won't fix.
Tex drives him home without a word. As Tex leaves the apartment she turns back towards Tucker with an expression that's trying to sympathetic but there's real concern in her voice "He'll be okay." And she's gone.
Tucker slowly changes clothes, leaving the bloody ones in a heap on the floor. He swallows hard and then gingerly walks downstairs to his car. He burns rubber towards the hospital. This time he's in a hurry.
Tucker is going to kill someone.
They won't let him see Wash.
The first day they made him leave.
The second he heard Wash was semiconscious.
They made him leave.
Today he's seeing Wash. Whether they want to let him or not.
Wash's entire body feels numb, like he's floating in empty space. Gravity doesn't seem to work anymore so he's lost in the clouds, desperately trying to connect the pieces to figure out what's wrong. To understand why all he feel is pain in his heart and an echo of something sharp through the flesh of his stomach. Oh, yeah, he got stabbed. That's right. It comes to back to him in scattered fragments, all the split second images out of order. He sees Tucker look at him and he also sees Epsilon plunge the knife into his abdomen and they're together so they must have occurred at the same time. He feels his hand over the wound and can hear himself- don't show weakness, don't show weakness -chanting the same phrases over and over in his head. He sees single shots of Tucker's eyes and face through his own tears, and suddenly the horrible guilt is back because the only reason shit went down was because of him.
His breath catches and he opens his eyes.
Wash wakes up to bright lights and white walls, the light whir of machinery filling his brain with static. He's tries to sit up, but only gets halfway, supporting himself with one elbow under his shoulder. He pulls on the other one with it's attached to several different devices, IV disappearing under his skin. He blinks rapidly, attempting to clear the fog from his brain.
Is he in a hospital?
Holy shit, he's in a hospital.
Wash fights with his brain but can't seem to connect being here with being in that building, can't seem to transferring from that image of Tucker's eyes, wide with barely concealed horror. His free hand traces down the skin on his chest, breath catching when he reaches the bandages across his stomach. He runs his fingers along the cut on his cheek, and that's covered too. How long has he been here? Wash looks around the room but it's empty, emptier than he thinks a hospital should be. He pulls himself fully into a sitting position, curling an arm around his stomach when a sharp pain rewards the action. His teeth dig into his lower lip, anxiety gathering in his mind for reasons he can't quite formulate.
He's full of questions but doesn't have any answers.
Tucker sits there perfectly still until he can slip into private ward 223.
Wash is sitting there all crumpled up in a hospital bed. Tucker pinches himself. Hard. Stay calm.
Wash's face changes dramatically upon seeing him. Tucker can't describe his relief. He knew Wash was alive, but he had to see for himself. Wash looks like shit, honestly, but a smile begins to spread across Tucker's face that he's here, he's okay.
"Did you get hit by a fuckin car?"
Wash blinks, then laughs, not caring that it hurts. Then he stops, turning to Tucker with a grim expression. "Yes." He retaliates in total deadpan, somehow managing to keep a straight face. Tucker laughs out loud and sits on the edge of Wash's bed.
They just look at each other and laugh for probably a full ten minutes until Tucker turns serious. "Really, how are you?" Wash shrugs, then winces at the motion. "Sore." He admits, looking down to avoid Tucker's eyes.
Tucker can't keep the emotion from his voice "I'm so goddamned sorry, Washington." he stares down at his hands.
Useless.
A disbelieving noise escapes Wash's lips. "Are you fucking kidding me?" He demands, before sighing defeatedly. "Don't be sorry. Hell, I should be thanking you."
Tucker looks back to Wash, surprised by the flash of anger. "I should've done something sooner, I shouldn't have waited and let him cut you up like that."
Wash shakes his head, running his hand through his hair. "You didn't know." He states, meeting Tucker's emerald eyes with a look that is nothing but regret. "I was letting it happen to myself."
Tucker can feel something inside himself shrivel like paper consumed by flame. For once words fail him and just sits there, too numb for tears. Get it together, it's not like you got hurt. Wash's problems are more important. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
Tucker manages a smile. "I saw the guy when Tex was done with him." He is rewarded with the ghost of a smile from Wash. "He looked like he got put in a blender."
Wash stops smiling.
"Wash?"
Wash bites down hard on his lip, clenching his fist by his side. "It's nothing." He says, steel coating the words.
Tucker looks him straight in eyes. "No, it's not."
Wash is torn between anger and tears but he so badly doesn't want to cry anymore. "What the fuck did you expect, Lavernius? It's not like I can go through all of this shit," He waves his hand around a few times to represent his point. "And come out of it and be fucking okay with him getting hurt."
Tucker closes his eyes for an instant to compose himself but cringes at how frozen he sounds. "I didn't expect you to be fine with it." Clipped, frigid. "I am so sorry for wanting you stay alive, David."
Wash feels like he really is dying inside. "Don't call me that." He whispers, just because he needs to say it out loud.
Tucker is not good at staying icy cool, he's more like a wildfire. "I'll call you whatever I want."
Wash leans slightly away, hating himself for the fear that rises with Tucker's tone. He presses his elbow to his side, a protective shield from the wound that's, even now, eating away at him from the inside. "I want you to leave." He says, limbs shaking with his voice.
"Can't."
Wash is desperately trying to hold himself together. "Why not?"
"Tex has my car." Tucker half smiles. "Bus doesn't come until 4."
Wash blinks the tears from his eyes, unable to speak. He wants everything to be okay but at the same time he fucked up and doesn't know how he'll ever get out of it.
Tucker impulsively grabs Wash's hand and laces their fingers together. Wash flinches sharply but then relaxes, and for a moment, the two of them linked and breathing in tandem, it almost seems like it'll be alright.
Wash is still for second, then leans over to rest his head against Tucker's shoulder, breathing in his essence like it's all that's left. He's not sure if what he's doing is forgiveness, but he decides that he'd be okay if it was.
Eventually Tucker moves away. "You should lie down."
Wash laughs. "I think I can hold myself up, Tucker."
Tucker rolls his eyes. "You got fuckin stabbed, now lie your ass down." He pushes Wash gently back. Wash complies, but he can't help the way his breath catches when Tucker's skin meets his, and he's not sure whether the emotion it comes from is positive or negative.
Tucker can tell Wash is trying to hold the conversation but after about 7 minutes he's asleep.
Wash drifts into unconsciousness with mixed feelings and an image of Tucker's face imprinted behind his eyes. Tucker just sits there, watching him. He has the weird urge to lay down and sleep with him. He quickly squashes it and instead just disentangles their fingers and leaves the room.
The seconds tick by, and Wash stares at the ceiling.
Well, they don't 'tick' necessarily, because the clock on the wall opposite him is stuck hopelessly on 1:15. Once every hour, a nurse comes in to check on him, and each instance that he asks for the time they tell him an hour has passed. He's been cleared for visitors since that morning, but still no one has come to see him. Not gonna lie, even in a family like his, that hurts.
The seconds tick metaphorically by, and Wash traces patterns across the ceiling with his eyes.
There are no windows. It's either really fucking dark or really fucking bright; there's no in between. He's tried to rip the IV out of his arm several times, but all he got for it was a lecture and something chemical to "cheer him up".
Because that's always a wonderful idea.
He's in a hospital. The realization never gets old, especially when hospitals always seem to mean pain and death.
Stitches and scars, Wash. You know a lot about those.
Tucker tries to occupy himself until visiting hours start. His apartment has never been this organized.
Eventually he walks over to Tex's to get his car and heads for the hospital the thought of seeing Wash brings a grin to his face. Tucker almost bounces through Wash's door, a warm surge courses towards his stomach at the way Wash's face brightens at his appearance.
"Hey, feel less shitty?" That's really not what Tucker means to say. He means 'I miss you', he means 'forgive me?', He means 'I'm sorry', he means 'you look amazing'.
But feeling shitty will have to do.
Wash smiles, rolling his eyes. "Yeah." He says, not sure whether or not it's the truth. He shifts to the side a little, making room for Tucker to sit beside him. "How've you been?" He asks, somehow finding the courage to meet Tucker's eyes with an unwavering expression.
Tucker sits down carefully trying not to jar the bed. "I'm surviving." He smiles brightly.
(Dont'thinkaboutjunior)
He looks at all the tubes and wires stuck to Wash like he's a broken robot, "Damn, son." he gestures to the various equipment "When the fuck are out of here?" That's really not what he means either. He means 'I wish you were out of here', he means 'you can stay with me', he means 'I hate seeing you like this', he means 'I never want to leave'.
Wash shrugs. "I don't know." A shadow of a smile is still pasted over his features. "Doctors won't tell me anything for sure. I think they're pissed at me 'cause I tried to pull the wires out like, five times today." He admits, twisting his wrist to show off the marks. "I look like I'm on heroin."
Tucker hates when Wash isn't happy so he shoves his own problems into a locked room in his mind and slams the door.
"Dude, you didn't get the fun of being high." He puts on a blanked out expression "Passss the weeeed."
Wash laughs, authentic for the first time that day. "What the fuck kind of voice is that?" He asks, shaking his head playfully.
Tucker beats down a snicker and gestures sloppily towards Wash. "Duuuude, havvee some." he pauses a second then looks around wildly "Wait where's the floor…"
Wash covers his mouth to hide his stupid, high-pitched teenage laughter. "Is this-" He stops to take a deep breath before trying again. "Is this what drunk people are like?"
Tucker instantly switches personas. He's always been a damn good actor.
He sits straight as a ruler and looks down at Wash imperiously. "How should I know?" He makes his tone as pious as possible "Getting drunk at this age is forbidden." he sniffs loudly and puts his nose in the air.
Wash grins, then it falters, a split second memory of broken glass and dimly lit rooms flashing over his eyes before it clears. "Of course." He continues, picking up right where he left off. "You wouldn't know anything about that."
Tucker skates over the flash of something in Wash's eyes. "Of course!" He adds "I'm far too busy with my perfect grades." His really awful British accent starts to creep into his tone and lets it be because it starts to relight Wash's eyes.
Wash raises an eyebrow. "Yes, I'm sure you're doing very well at school, what with all the mornings you spend copying Kaikaina's answers."
Tucker breaks character to laugh. "It's not always Kaikaina."
Wash rolls his eyes. "Of course, I'm sure you've slept with a lot more women than that."
Tucker snickers "Well I really wasn't sleeping."
Wash presses his palm to his forehead. "Yeah, I figured that out."
Tucker's about to come up with some awesome reply when two cops walk in. Tucker notes the way Wash starts trembling just slightly. Tucker reaches for his and squeezes it reassuringly before standing up. If Wash was slightly trembling before, it's nothing compared to the way he looks when the cops bring in who they were escorting.
"Hi." Epsilon whispers, head down and staring at his hands. He shifts nervously in the doorframe, and Wash is grateful that he doesn't have to look into his eyes. Wash's whole body trembles, but he doesn't say a word.
Tucker grinds his teeth and uses every ounce of his self control to not punch Epsilon's stupid mug in. He looks down at Wash and faces Epsilon, looking coolly into his eyes
"Hey."
Epsilon's head whips around, jumping as if he'd been burned. "What are you doing here?"
Tucker glares. "None of your business." His tone is shrivelling, and Wash ducks behind him like a shield.
Wash can see Epsilon shaking, though whether or not it comes from anger he can't tell. He curls his fingers in Tucker's sleeve. "Don't." He murmurs, quiet enough that only Tucker can hear.
Tucker is about to tell this punk what's what but he takes a deep breath and listens to Wash. He sits down on the bed and links their fingers murmuring "Alright, but I'm not leaving."
Wash takes a deep breath. "Okay." He says, but he pulls his hand away from Tucker's. Tucker digs his nails into his palms and forces himself to stay quiet as Epsilon takes a step forward.
Wash clenches his fist by his side, forcing his head up to meet Epsilon's eyes. The tension in the room grows with the silence, until it's so thick Wash feels like he's suffocating.
It's Epsilon who breaks the silence, but at the same time he seems to make the astriction worse.
"I'm sorry."
Tucker really really almost punches him he doesn't but he can't stop himself from muttering "Shutthefuckup."
Wash's eyes burn a hole through the floor. He hates this, all the fighting. "Stop." he mutters, more for himself than anyone else.
Wash's voice is enough to lapse Tucker into silence.
Epsilon shuffles across the room, taking a seat on Wash's unoccupied side. Quiet immerses the room for a moment, then Epsilon reaches down to trace his fingers along Wash's palm.
Wash lets him. He hates himself for it, but he lets him.
Tucker swallows hard trying to reconcile the superimposed images of Epsilon and Wash, and goddamn if they don't look cute as fuck together. Wash inhales sharply, and turns to face Tucker, brushing his fingers across his shoulder to get his attention. "You can go." He whispers, but it's more of a request than an option.
Tucker forces himself to stay still "No."
Wash tenses, pulling himself higher into a sitting position. "I think," He replies forcefully. "That would be best."
Tucker sighs in defeat. "Fine." His tone is clipped and he looks straight at the wall as he leaves.
Just outside the room, in a long empty hallway. He screams silently and takes a gulp of icy medicine scented air. Fuck.
Tucker wants to leave, he wants to tear out of the parking lot with music jacked up way too loud, he wants to find a grease spattered bar and drink himself into oblivion, he wants to make out with someone who doesn't know his name and grind against unfamiliar bodies.
But he doesn't.
Instead, Tucker sits down against the thin wall and listens, willing himself not to be sick.
Wash watches Tucker leave with lead in his heart and regret on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't dare speak until he hears Epsilon's soft voice.
"I'm sorry."
Anger flashes across Wash's mind but it's quickly overcome by defeat. "It's okay." He murmurs, pulling his knees to his chest in a way that shows it's not. He turns his gaze upwards, blinking away tears. "I just need time."
Epsilon nods, teeth digging into his lower lip. "Do you want me to leave?"
Wash leans over to rest his head against Epsilon's shoulder, numb with the nostalgia that follows the action. "Not yet."
Epsilon's voice wavers when he speaks. "Okay."
Tucker bites his lip hard enough to taste blood but he doesn't notice the rusty tang. He doesn't notice the icy concrete wall pressing his spine or the chill seeping through his clothes.
Goddamn it. God fucking damn it.
The peace lasts for all of two minutes, before the skin on Wash's cheek begins to burn. He sits up straight, brushes his hands over his shirt like he expects there to be dust, and says simultaneously the most satisfying and the most painful thing he's ever spoken.
"Get out."
Tucker hates the sadness in Wash's voice but feels a burst of happiness that he made that scumbag leave. Tucker's content for maybe 10 seconds before quiet, heart wrenching sobs come filtering through the wall.
Wash doesn't watch Epsilon leave. Holds himself together for just as long as it takes for the footsteps to fade away down the hall. Then he buries his face in his knees and lets himself break down. He cries, partly out of pain, partly out of loss, and partly because he doesn't feel at all.
He doesn't need to look up when the door opens; he knows who it is. All he can bring himself to do is find the find the courage to say "I'm sorry."
Tucker sits next to him, the mattress creaking slightly "No apologies." he orders gently "There's no reason for them."
Wash bites down on his lip to keep from speaking, just drags a palm across his cheeks before meeting Tucker's green eyes. The spiral of emotions hiding behind them makes his breath hitch, but he finds himself too captivated to look away.
Wash actually meets Tucker eyes for once so he's careful to make them placid, calm as still water but the way Wash is staring boldly back at him makes Tucker think he might not have hidden his feelings quickly enough.
Wash moves slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, reaching out to trail his hand down Tucker's cheek, resting it against his neck. He's shaking, and something flutters in his stomach, but he holds himself there with a false confidence, as if it's totally normal.
Tucker reminds himself to breath without gasping at the touch of delicate fingers coming to rest in the hollow of his throat. Wash's hand is shivering slightly and Tucker quickly captures the icy palm in both his warm ones, Tucker has to remember that this should be weird because it's so far from it.
Wash fights against his racing heart, forcibly relaxing his shoulders until he's not sure what's real and what's fake anymore. He looks down, trying to find anything else to focus on, but his eyes keep getting drawn to all the wrong places.
What the fuck, Wash?
Tucker can see Wash fuckin checking him out making his stomach flutter and forcing him to fight down a strange urge to laugh or maybe cry. He does neither instead he just slings and arm over Wash's shoulder and pulls him against his side, Wash doesn't flinch away anymore this time he leans heavily into Tucker side and relaxes completely.
Tucker's body is warm against Wash's side, so different from everything he knows. Epsilon was always somewhere in the extremes, burning hot or ice cold, so he'd always be fated to get burned. But Tucker's presence is gentle and soothing and he doesn't need to be drawn in by false charm or woven words to feel something real.
He should be scared, nervous, something. But all he feels is safe.
After a minute of quiet during which Wash stops trembling and starts breathing normally, Tucker shatters the silence "Hey, Wash."
The effect of speaking is instantaneous and somewhat hilarious. Wash acts he's being woken from a trance sitting up straight and pulling away from Tucker while his eyes widen like a cartoon characters.
Wash breathes out an awkward laugh, pressing his palm to the back of his neck and digging his nails into the smooth skin. He lets the sharp sting anchor him, keeping him in the reality that he belongs in instead of the half-memory state in which his mind has a bad habit of lingering. "Sorry about that." His speech is fast and condensed and he suddenly feels a hell of a lot more claustrophobic than he was just moments before.
Tucker shifts away from Wash, giving him his space, as much as he hates to do it. "Didn't I say no apologies?" He half scolds but he smiles. "It was my fault anyway."
Wash winces, a spire of regret burrowing through his chest. He hates himself for not being able to find a response, just starts to speak and then stops, tension running through his muscles in thick cords. He curses life for making him a fucking idiot, then just turns to Tucker and smiles as if that's some sort of recompense.
Tucker looks straight at him and winks playfully as he stands up. "Will you let me come back tomorrow?"
Wash fights with his words again, this time holding them back instead of searching. He has a brief thought of are you kidding me? before he just says "Yes."
"Sweet." Tucker grins and saunters out of Wash's room in search of the hot nurse on the 3rd floor. Although after seeing Wash she really doesn't seem that great anymore.
Wash sighs, laying back down so he can turn his gaze to the ceiling. He folds his hands over his torso, and just breathes, deep and slow and easy. He closes his eyes and smiles, choosing the mental images that come to mind instead of the stark white of the walls around him.
That means something, surely it does, but he doesn't really care enough to figure it out.
Tucker is woken by knocking. Loud goddamned knocking. He sits up yawning, it's what? Maybe 10AM? Does no one have any respect for the very hungover?
Tucker stumbles out of bed and looks around for clothes, he really considers not putting pants on at all but decides not to reward whoever's fuckin knocking at 10am.
He runs his fingers through his dreads and yanks open the door. "What the fu-" Tucker is suddenly conscious that although he is wearing pants he doesn't exactly have on a shirt. "Hey, Wash."
Wash raises his eyebrows, carefully keeping his eyes on Tucker's face. "Hi." He replies, wondering what the fuck Tucker was doing to be this unorganized at 10 in the morning. "I need a place to stay." Well, he feels a hell of a lot less nervous now.
"Oh, yeah." Tucker laughs. "My couch is your couch." He turns into the apartment and then whirls around. "But do you have to be so loud?" He grins "It's 10 motherfuckin AM."
Wash shakes his head in defeat and disappointment. "Yes, Tucker, explain to me why one would attempt to be quiet at 'ten motherfuckin AM'?"
"C'mon." Tucker's voice is mock pleading "A little consideration for the really, really, hungover?"
"Oh?" Wash moves to lean one shoulder against the doorframe. "Thought it was illegal to get drunk at this age."
Tucker just winks at him and puts a finger up to Wash's lips "Shhhhh."
Wash rolls his eyes, smirking slightly. "Go get some rest, idiot." His tone is light and playful, and he bumps his shoulder against Tucker's as he enters the building, pushing the door shut behind him.
"Nah." Tucker waves his words away like gnats. "I'm up now."
Wash shrugs. "Suit yourself."
Tucker smiles wolfishly. "I always do."
He doesn't give Wash the time to even begin to understand the layers of double entendre behind that statement before he disappears into his bedroom in search of a shirt.
Wash pauses, opens his mouth to speak, decides against it, and just shakes his head, small smile still plastered across his face. He puts his weight on his left foot, bracing himself against the kitchen counter as he listens to the destructive sounds and the muffled curses that come from Tucker's room.
Tucker emerges from the bottomless pit in a aqua T-shirt and with a wide grin. "Victory."
He grins even bigger at the disgust on Wash's face as he looks around the apartment.
Wash shoots Tucker an incredulous look. "How do you live like this?" He asks, disbelieved look plastered across his face. "There's shit all over the floor."
Tucker snickers and purposely kicks some of the shit around on his way to the kitchen.
Wash sighs, dissapointed. "Not gonna lie," He states, in a flat voice. "I'd expected better from you."
"Well, then." Tucker tries to keep the fact that he's only half joking out of his voice. "This should teach not to expect jack shit from me or you'll be disappointed."
(Don'tthinkaboutJunior)
Wash sees something flicker in Tucker's expression, but he knows better than to address it. "Good advice." He replies, trying not to show his concern for fear it might upset the other man.
Fuck.
Wash's reply is way too careful way too delicately said for a two word phrase. Tucker would love to say his concern is unfounded but... It's really not. Not at all.
Whatever.
Tucker reminds himself that his problems are microscopic and unimportant, especially in comparison with those of the lanky figure next to him.
But for once Tucker can't think of a thing to say.
Wash smiles, tentatively, offering Tucker the silent it's okay when he doesn't respond.
Tucker quickly shakes off whatever dark thoughts he'd rather stay the hell away from to instead slap on a half smile and ask "So the wounds weren't fatal then?"
Wash tenses for a second, the laughs. "No, they were absolutely fatal." He says, somehow with a straight face. "I'm actually dead and this is just the ghost of my essence."
"Aw, shit dude." Tucker fakes confusion. "Ghosts?" He sighs dramatically. "I thought I didn't smoke any weed today."
Wash eyes widen, but he quickly reels himself back in. "You never know." He grins. "I probably have supernatural powers over your drug life, too."
"Shit." Tucker laughs "Do I have to make a salt ring or something?" He wiggles his fingers in Wash's direction. "Begone foul beast."
Wash raises an eyebrow. "You're gonna have to do better than that." He states, challenge heavy in his voice. "At least get some holy water or something."
Tucker looks around. "Will diet coke do?"
Wash grins. "No, but it might make the ghost happier so he doesn't kill you in your sleep."
"In that case." Tucker rummages in the fridge. "Here." He tosses the aluminum can towards Wash and grabs another for himself. "Drink up."
"Thanks." Wash replies, struggling to keep liquid from fizzing over the edge as he pops the tab. Wash spends about thirty seconds looking for some way to fill the space that's currently being occupied by the void of silence, but comes up empty handed. He's considering just asking random-ass questions because he has nothing better to do, when a sharp ringing echoes across the room. Wash jumps about four feet in the air, fumbling to pull his phone from his pocket.
He takes one look at the caller ID and punches the reject button with an necessary amount of force before slamming the device face down on the counter, trying to avoid staring anywhere but the floor.
Tucker looks mildly over at the phone "Don't break my counter there, Hulk."
Wash winces. "Sorry." He answers, tensing as the ringer blares through the speakers again. "Sorry." He whispers, quieter.
Tucker relaxes his shoulders and tries to send calm vibes. "It's okay man." He smiles warmly "Am I allowed to ask who you're avoiding like the plague?"
Wash struggles with a response. He's tempted to just say no, but for some reason he feels the need to explain everything. "My mother." He decides, leaving it at that.
Tucker nods as the phone starts shrilling away again "As much as I hate to state the obvious," Tucker tries to read Wash's expression. "You might want to answer that."
Wash sighs. "Want is not the right word for it." He mutters, hitting 'accept' and pressing the phone to his ear, only to wince and move it away as his mother's loud voice clicks over the other end.
Tucker cringes slightly at the explosion of sound from the speaker and cringes a lot at how Wash's form crumples like newspaper in a campfire. Tucker silently pushes him into a sitting position on the couch and sits next to him. He scans a magazine without reading.
Wash takes a deep breath. "Hi mom." His voice is a little rough around the edges, but he's proud of how steady he can keep it. The line goes dead silent and Wash takes a second to mentally prepare himself for the shitstorm that's headed his way.
Tucker keeps his eyes pointedly on his PentHouse! magazine and feels a shiver skip across his shoulder blades at the torrent of emotion pouring off Wash.
Wash waits for what feels like centuries before his mother responds. "Are you ready to admit you were wrong?"
Wash flinches. "I...what?"
Tucker is itching to move to do something,anything. But he keeps his fingers locked on glossy pages, teeth sawing at his lower lip.
Wash's mother sighs through the phone. "Do you regret your life choices enough to come home?"
Wash tenses. "Mom, just because things with Epsilon went to shit doesn't mean I'm straight."
Tucker bristles at Wash's voice. If this conversation is going the direction he thinks it's going he'll start screaming.
"Well, you obviously don't care about your family enough to make the right decision. Therefore we have nothing to discuss."
Wash cringes. "Mom, don't-" She cuts him off without hesitation. "And watch your language." The line goes dead with a soft click. Wash pulls the device away from his ear, staring at it with startled eyes.
Tucker curls and uncurls his toes in the carpet. His muscles are way too tense. Because honestly, people getting shit about not being straight pisses the hell out of him. And yeah he'll rib his friends a little about it but not seriously. Seriously is fucked up. He can remember how fuckin scared Simmons and Doc were at first and, and- shit fuck.
Anger tends to make Tucker's thoughts a little less than coherent.
Wash places his phone face down on the coffee table in front of him, pulling his knees close to his chest. He tries so damn hard to look at it but his eyes keep getting drawn back there. "Sorry about that." He murmurs, knowing that Tucker will understand it's directed at him without having to change his position.
Deep breath Tucker. Calm the fuck down. "Sorry for what?" Tucker rolls his eyes. "Being human?" That's better. A teasing note creeps into his tone. "Existing?"
Wash laughs, but the sound is bitter and carries no humour. "I meant more on her behalf than on mine."
Tucker sighs "I can only guess her side of that." he turns towards Wash "But going on what I was hearing, I accept your apology."
Wash tries to say something to explain away his family's ignorance but all he can come up with is "Thanks."
"Everyone has some shitty family stuff" Tucker says with a small shrug. Tucker does not think about J- not going to think about it.
Wash can see something flicker in Tucker's eyes, but knows better than to question it. Tucker forces a smile and is about to make a dumb joke or something because it's depressing as fuck in here but he notices Wash staring off into space. "Hey," He knocks lightly on Wash's skull. "Earth to Wash."
Wash blinks, pulling himself out of his thoughts. "Sorry." His speech is quicker than it needs to be. "Got a little lost there."
"Yeah." Tucker smiles for real. "Your mind seems like a pretty big place." Wash returns the expression, albeit hesitantly. "Are you insinuating that I'm smart?"
"Well your grades point yes." Tucker drops his grin and shakes his head in faux sadness "But everything else is no."
Wash gasps, making a show of being overly offended. "And I thought we were friends."
Tucker just shrugs. "Wellllllll."
Wash reaches over to push against Tucker's shoulder with his palm. "Jackass." He mutters, in an attempt to hide his smile.
Tucker pushes him back laughing. "Bitch."
Wash grins. "Look who's talking."
"Your face won't be!" The look of absolute confusion on Wash's face is priceless and Tucker takes the opportunity to grab him in a headlock and proceed to scrub his fist into Wash's blond hair. "Nougie, bitch!"
Wash tries to defend himself through his laughter "Tucker, no."
Tucker cackles. "Tucker hell yes."
Wash paces back and forth across Tucker's kitchen, phone held tight in his grip. He speaks more than he listens, which isn't something he would normally attempt.
"Look, I don't need a lawyer." He cuts off the protests from the other end. "I'm not going to court."
Tucker is awake enough by 11am to overhear the conversation through the thin wall of the kitchen. Tucker kicks his sheets off and runs a hand though his hair and yanks his teal striped pyjama pants back over his hips, entering the room as Wash hangs up the phone.
"Why the fuck aren't you going the hell to court?"
Wash's entire body goes stiff. "None of your buisness." He replies, not caring how volatile he sounds.
"Yeah, you know what's my damn business." Wash is already pissed off so it seems pointless to stop now. "Look!" Tucker gestures to the hair thin scar on Wash's cheekbone, to the stab wound hidden in powder blue fabric "Maybe you're blind but I'm not."
Wash looks him straight in the eyes, pouring all his vulnerability into his words. "You have to be blind if you want a chance at being happy." His voice drops. "You have to blind to be loved at all."
"No." Tucker plants himself firmly in front of the blond. "Not real love you don't." He really wishes he was better at words. "You only have to close your eyes when there's things you don't want to see." He takes a half step forward "Real love makes you see clearly and you can go into real love with your eyes wide open."
Wash laughs, but he feels like he's crying, and knows he sounds hysterical. "You're a fucking idiot for believing that. Maybe." He takes a deep breath. "Maybe that's what it's like for you. But I only have blindness to rely on." He closes his eyes, partly in symbolism and partly because he can't look at Tucker anymore. "No one wants to see me at all."
"I want to see you." Tucker's voice is small and it could never make a dent in Wash's armour but damn he hates this.
Wash stands there like a fucking idiot for at least sixty seconds. "Tucker..." He whispers it more than he says it, and he hates that he can't even talk through the breath that's frozen in his lungs. "Don't."
"Don't tell you the truth?" Tucker subtly rotates his arms so that the delicate flesh on his wrists is forward in submission.
Wash inhales sharply, blinking away tears. "I want to see you too." He murmurs, spins on his heel and walks away, head down and hands shoved into his pockets. He's sure he means something else but he'd never say that out loud.
Tucker stands there until the door slamming jars him out of his stupor. "Bye." He whispers into the empty air.
Wash slams the door with more force than he thinks he needs to, and contemplates just collapsing right there on the pavement for a good long while before deciding he just needs a walk. His face burns but his blood runs cold, and he can't stop shivering. Or shaking. He can't tell the difference anymore.
Tucker is scared by how much he meant what he told Wash. Tucker usually doesn't mean things, he whispers false poetry across damp pillows against expectant ears in the dead of night and then leaves apologies scrawled in lipstick and feels no regret at dawn.
Tucker shakes his head to clear the fog, fuckin Wash.
Wash feels like he's tearing himself in two. He kicks over a trash can on 40th, then spends twenty minutes beating himself up over it. He walks and walks and walks and his head doesn't clear. His feat just take him somewhere and he follows. Until he rounds a corner and stops dead, feeling panic start to build in his chest as he stares at the familiar blue paint and silver scratches.
Tucker drags his feet towards his room and pulls on a T-shirt and wrinkled jeans before wandering into the kitchen. It's unbelievable how quickly he's gotten used to having Wash around and the apartment feels empty and cold.
Wash caves and sits on the curb, pressing his palms to the wound on his stomach, amazed at how suddenly it hurts. Tears stream down his face, and he feels like the air is solidifying and he can't breathe. That fucking car. He closes his eyes and frantically tries to pick up the pieces (Not your fault not your fault) before he's too shattered to be repaired.
Tucker wanders around a bit more before sitting down and wondering how it's possible to be so lost in such a familiar place.
He glances at his watch and notices that Wash has been gone over an hour.
He's not a little kid. He's fine. He can look after himself. Don't be creepy. Why do you care?
Fuck it.
Tucker grabs his phone and punches Wash's number in.
Wash breathes a sigh of relief when his phone starts ringing. He accepts the call without checking the ID and presses it to his ear. "Hey." He rasps, pulling the microphone away so his coughing doesn't reach the other end.
"Hi?" The embarrassment colouring Tucker's voice makes the greeting lilt up like a question. Dammit.
"Shit." Wash mutters. Then louder. "Hello."
"Hey, it's me." Silence. He clarifies. "It's Tucker."
"I know." Wash whispers, and can't find anything else to say.
Tucker hates talking on the phone. He hates text and he hates email. He hates not seeing a persons face because he can't judge their expression. He takes a chance though. "Need a ride?"
Wash glances over at the car beside him, and decides to experiment a little. "No, I think I can make my way back."
"Alright." Tucker knows the relief is apparent in his voice but he really doesn't care "Call if you need." He hangs up before Wash can reply.
Wash smiles, staring at Tucker's name on the screen for longer than strictly necessary. Then he stands, turns, and starts his methodical search through the bushes along the road. He passes about twenty feet of sidewalk and is about to turn back when the glint of metal catches his eye. He takes the keys with careful hands, then slides the ring over his index finger and twirls the objects around in victory before climbing into the vehicle and clicking the ignition.
Tucker hangs out at his apartment for awhile before heading out towards the beach. He needs to not think for awhile.
By the time Wash gets back to Tucker's place, the other man has already left. It feels empty and alone, and Wash is too afraid of disrupting the peace to do something about the void of silence. He eventually just curls up on the couch with a book about talking cats.
Tucker leaves the shore about an hour later with 5 phone numbers and a slap print on his face. He heads inside humming to himself and notes the really nice car outside the building. Sweet. He enters the apartment silently and sneaks towards Wash, before jumping onto the arm of the couch. "BOO MOTHERFUCKER!"
Wash jumps a foot and suddenly Tucker slips off the edge of the couch and before either of them can do anything Tucker ends up in Wash's lap.
Wash flinches at Tucker's close proximity, before becoming more worried about the flush that colours his cheeks than anything else. His hand twitches, feeling the need to do something about the situation, but in the end he doesn't move.
Tucker looks up at a very startled very red Wash. Tucker waves sheepishly up at him. "Hi?" It's silent for almost a full minute before Tucker bursts out laughing.
Wash is hesitant to let down his guard, but he finds himself laughing too, gently uncoiling the ball of fear in his gut.
Tucker squirms around grinning inwardly at the resultant laughter from Wash.
They stay like that for a second. "Get off me." Wash half snickers.
"No." Tucker contradicts "You're comfy." Wash rolls his eyes but makes no protest.
After a few seconds Tucker flicks on the TV to some weird ass special on giant snakes and a few minutes into the show Tucker feels slim fingers fiddling with his hair. Tucker doesn't hesitate to lean into the gentle petting. Enveloped by the scent of lemons and copper. Wash carts his fingers through Tucker's hair, hesitantly at first but with growing confidence when he doesn't pull away. His skin is soft and his form is warm against him, somehow comforting. Tucker closes his eyes and stops trying to focus on the big ass cobra on screen to instead concentrate on the warmth flooding through him from tips of Wash's fingers. He shifts slightly and the hands are instantly gone.
Wash kind of goes into a trance, and he somehow seems to forget that Tucker's real and with him and knows what he's doing until Tucker moves and he draws back without thought or hesitation. He pulls his hands to his chest and clasps them together as if they were that way all along, and the shaking and the white knuckles are completely normal.
Tucker opens one eye to see that Wash's lips are slightly parted, like he's about to explain, or apologize; he has that type of expression but Tucker doesn't give him a chance. He reaches up and grabs one of Wash's icy hands and places it firmly on his own head. It's seems like the best way to say this is fine.
Wash blinks, startled by the action, but feels his tension start to seep away at Tucker's soft smile. He lifts the corner of his mouth in return, trying to keep the uncertainty from his eyes. He takes a strand of Tucker's hair and curls it around his finger, pretending that he's more focused on the TV than anything else.
There. Right there. Tucker's insides swoop pleasantly at Wash's touch and he relaxes into the cradle of Wash's knees. Tucker is dimly aware that, being as Wash is guy he probably shouldn't be enjoying this so much. But he silences the warning bells in the back of his skull and almost purrs.
Tucker makes a noise that reminds Wash of the cat his parents had when he was younger, and he struggles to hide his laughter. Tucker turns slightly to face him, and narrows his eyes at Wash in an attempt to look unamused. But there's something behind the barely held straight face that makes Wash want to do something stupid.
It's really hard to look mad when what Tucker really wants is to shut his eyes so Wash's touch can keep dissolving the ache in his chest. He can barely contain himself at the way Wash looks right now and It's really hard to glare when Tucker really wants those soft, seeking hands to travel over every inch of his flesh and fill him up with light.
No he doesn't.
No fuckin way.
Shit.
Wash can see something change in Tucker's expression, hears the nervous laughter and feels the awkwardness with it. He tries to find something to distract him, even for just a second, but instead his fingers reach down to brush a stray lock of hair that falls in Tucker's face.
Dammit.
"Sorry."
"No." Tucker doesn't know if he's ever heard that particular note in his own voice before. "No." he repeats trying to catch Wash's eyes for some confirmation that is not really happening. Wash won't look him in the eye.
Wash can feel the walls closing in around him, and the heat from Tucker's body is stifling. He hears Tucker's voice more than he hears what he's saying, and desperately tries to hold on to the sound even as it starts to slip away.
Catching something is Wash's expression, Tucker sits up gingerly and looks searchingly up through his lashes at Wash's face. "Wash I-" Tucker doesn't know what he's trying to say except that he should say something. "Wash I didn't-" he tries again.
Motherfucker.
Wash shakes his head. "S'okay." He mumbles, keeping his breathing steady so as not to be cause for alarm.
Tucker looks at him somewhat apologetically, his shoulders curl forwards as the lingering heat trails left by sweeping fingers dissipate into the stale air.
Wash clears his throat, using that as cover breaking the silence. He starts to speak, then stops, then tries again, and proceeds to fail miserably. In the end, he just leans back against the side of the couch and folds his arms over his chest.
They both just sit there awkwardly for a few minutes before Tucker slowly stands and heads to his room, Wash's probably wants to get rid of him, right? Every creak of the floorboards is deafeningly loud. Tucker folds himself into a ball on his unmade bed more confused than he's ever been in his life and what feels like a tangled mess of rubber bands in the middle of his chest.
Wash tries not to watch Tucker leave, but can't help how his eyes trail his hesitant figure. He takes a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart, and mentally kicks himself for the apologies he didn't offer.
Tucker doesn't bother to turn on the lights he just lies there trying to sort himself out.
Fact: Tucker doesn't like dudes but Fact: Wash's hands on his skin felt amazing so Fact: Tucker is messed up.
Tucker lies there staring up at the paint chipping off his bedroom ceiling and trying to find his brains off switch. He doesn't know how long it takes but eventually his eyelids grow heavy and he drifts off.
Wash falls asleep with his head in his hands and his heart in the pit of his stomach.
Tucker doesn't know what time it is when the screaming starts.
Wash stares at the dark behind his eyelids for what must be hours before the shadows begin to take form, start to twist and shift until they form images. Colours pulsate across the beings, first illuminating a snake, hued by green and violet, and then to people he's known. First he sees his mother, then his father, and then one current juvie host who he can't seem to shake.
Then he's staring at the floor, watching red seep through his fingers and pool along the hardwood beneath him.
His head snaps up and he sees his reflection through the shards of a mirror, but his skin is coarse and peeling away from his face. Blood drips from his hollow eye sockets and down his cheeks, lining his features with gruesome framework.
He tries to scream but doesn't hear a sound.
Tucker sits bolt upright heart staccato beating against his ribs screams reverberating back and forth in the midnight air as he darts (somewhat cautiously) into the living room. Wash is no longer on the couch. But he is the source of the ghastly noises, he's writhing and thrashing around on the floor which might be funny if it weren't so horrifying.
Tucker steps hesitantly towards him.
Wash breathing is harsh and ragged as he fights the demons his mind supplies, not caring whether he gets hurt in the process. Desperation courses through his veins like an adrenaline rush except adrenaline doesn't let you feel pain and he hurts all over. His side throbs in an almost electric motion as he curls in on himself to buy some time against the claustrophobia. This would be hell, if he believed in such a thing.
Tucker has heard that you shouldn't wake a sleepwalker or they'll die or something, he's not sure if that applies to nightmares but he is sure that if he doesn't do something, like now, Wash is either going to kill himself or wake up the whole building. Neither are good options.
But the way Wash's arms keep flying out to attack invisible enemies, Tucker knows he can't get close without getting punched in the dick.
This whole train of thought happens in less than a minute and he steps into the kitchen, runs a cup of ice water and dumps it on Wash's head.
Wash wakes with a gasp, sitting bolt upright and coughing. Water runs down his face and he shivers, trying to distinguish the tears from what was poured over him. He takes in air like he's never breathed before, pulling his legs up to shield the wound on his stomach. His eyes scan the dark room, passing over shadows and shapes until he finds Tucker's face. A laugh bubbles up in his throat, but he knows it's not laughter at all so he keeps it down.
His voice makes it sound like he got hit by a car, but he forces a half smile anyways. "Morning."
"Morning." Tucker watches the thin smile on Wash's face falter until his wet blond head sinks to his knees and sobs wrack his form.
Tucker sits next to him and wraps his arms tightly over Wash's chest. For a minute Wash's struggles weakly to break Tucker's grip and mutters something completely incoherent but then he seems to give up, going limp and pressing his damp face into Tucker's shoulder.
Tucker can feel him shaking and he holds him tightly. He can't do much for Wash but he can do this.
Wash is startled with the familiarity of Tucker's arms around his shoulders, and tries to tell himself he doesn't need help. Doesn't want support. Doesn't deserve comfort.
But he can't articulate his sentiment, and Tucker just holds him tighter until what would be a cage becomes a safe haven and he hates himself for ever wanting it to end.
Tucker is ridiculously happy, the emotion blended with concern but still, he was sitting in a puddle on his living room floor, Wash's head tucked against his shoulder with his shirt getting more soaked by the second all with what he can't tell, and he is happy. They sit there like that as Wash's breathing slowly becomes more rhythmic and his shuddering subsides.
Wash pulls himself together slowly, like pieces of a puzzle sliding into place. There's still a few spots that remain unfilled, fragmented holes that burn with a sense of hollow, but he feels like everything he has is arranged to hold him strong. He lifts his head to look up at Tucker's face. "Thanks." He murmurs, soft smile painting his features.
"Yeah." Tucker's voice is barely above a whisper. Tucker starts to disentangle the mess of limbs they've become but "Stay." Wash lets himself ask without retraction this time, not quite willing to give up what they have here in favour of the awkward that no doubt awaits them.
Tucker looks at Wash in surprise before a smile warms his face. He still gets up, though only in favour of the couch before gesturing the empty space beside him.
Wash sits next to Tucker, a little hesitant but still going through with the action. He leans carefully into Tucker's side, only fulling relaxing when the other man wraps an arm over his shoulders.
Maybe because it's dark, maybe because no one knows what time it is or maybe because of how surreal the whole situation is but for Tucker reality goes on hold for the time being. Wash is a graceful knot of long limbs, curled like an oversized cat in the curve of Tucker's waist. It doesn't take long before Tucker's asleep, with his heart in his throat and Wash leaning heavily against him.
Wash feels the transition from Tucker awake beside him to Tucker asleep, and feels a pang of guilt for waking him up this early, but he quickly pushes it down. Eventually, Tucker's soft breathing lulls him to sleep. And when he closes his eyes and lets himself drift off, he doesn't see a thing.
Light streaming into the room wakes Tucker way too early. He sits up slowly, trying not to wake Wash up. He stands and slips out the room in silence. Back to reality.
Tucker heads into his room to get dressed but instead of leaving the space he lays on the bed and and tells himself he's not imagine cool cotton into warm, rough flesh. Tells himself he's not into it. Tells himself a thousand of those comforting lies.
Breath in. Wash is your friend. Breath out. Nothing else. Breath in. Wash doesn't like you. Breath out. He still loves That Scumbag. Brea-
But that doesn't matter because you don't like him anyway. Of course you don't. Breath in. Nononononononono. Breath. Just breath.
It takes way longer than usual for Tucker to stuff that cat back in the bag and step out of his room.
Wash wakes, alone, and to a brightly lit room. He blinks, sitting up and dragging his palm across his cheek. He looks around, searching the apartment for signs of life. Wash shakes his head, running a hand through his hair and tugging slightly. He doesn't see Tucker anywhere, so he must be back in his room. Did he imagine that whole thing?
Wash starts at the sound of a door opening, sending Tucker a strained smile as he walks in. "Hey." "
Hi." Tucker double checks that the mental closet is locked as shit before stepping into the room and catching Wash's eye with a concerned expression. "You okay?"
Wash swallows, then nods. "Yeah."
"Good." Tucker's voice is warm but does nothing to dispel the awkwardness hovering around them.
Wash's teeth dig into his lower lip. "So." He tries, desperate to fill the space. "How are you?"
Tucker laughs a little "Tired." He admits, but doesn't add 'confused as hell'.
Wash nods, and doesn't question the waiver in Tucker's voice. "Okay."
Tucker flicks the radio on to cover the silence and starts making food, after a few seconds most of the uncomfortable vibes dissipate.
Wash slowly starts to relax as Tucker busies himself with the day. He can't help but follow his form with his eyes, and tries (AKA fails) to be discreet about it.
Tucker refuses to look in Wash's direction on the grounds that he'll start glowing like Rudolph the motherfuckin reindeer. Wash notices that every time Tucker's gaze runs close to his form he recoils as if he's been burned. Then notices he's been doing the same thing.
Then decides to stop noticing.
Wash busies himself around Tucker's kitchen, holding his phone in one hand and rereading the recipe displayed on the screen as he does so. He's just about figured out the room's layout by now, and is prouder than he should be about the achievement.
He almost doesn't want to have to find Tucker to explain his intentions, but this apartment has a weird ass stove and he can't for the life of him figure out how to use it.
Tucker is in his room. Door locked. Pretending to do homework. Refusing to think at all about perfect Wash's fingers felt tangling his hair. Determinedly not indulging in fantasies of more contact, skin on skin and slipping an arm around Wash's hips and slender fingers placed just- Tucker is in his room. Door locked. Doing homework.
Wash spends an unfortunate amount of time alternately worried for Tucker's recent lack of human contact and wondering if he did something wrong. More specifically, the long list of things he probably did wrong.
Two hours, a half finished project and a headache later, Tucker emerges from his cavern, drawn by the fuckin delicious smell.
Wash may have chucked something heavy at one or more of Tucker's kitchen appliances if the man in question hadn't walked into the room, carefully avoiding Wash's eyes. Wash winces a little as his stiff entry, and there's a moment of stillness before Tucker sends him a casual half smile and makes his way over to lean his elbows against the counter.
Tucker has to tell himself that there's no reason for the nerves grating like knives in his stomach.
God, what's wrong with me?
He leans back on the island "Do you always have dreams that violent?"
Wash freezes, metal (and thankfully empty) bowl slipping through his fingers and making a sound like electric thunder where it hits the ground. He spins tentatively, turning to face Tucker with a look that spells out fear in every sense of the word. "What?" He asks, knowing he must be pale as a corpse.
"Wash, calm down." Tucker holds his hands up as if facing a firing squad. "I'm just curious." He doesn't add 'I just want to make sure you're okay'.
"But..." Wash struggles to find the words to encompass his point. "How did you know about the nightmares…?"
Tucker laughs softly more in surprise than anything else. "How could I not?" He takes a half step forwards. "That really wasn't the type of thing that would be easy to forget."
Wash shakes his head. "You weren't..." He takes a shaky breath and tries again. "You were asleep?" He doesn't mean it to sound like a question but his voice breaks on the last syllable.
"No?" Tucker reins in more laughter at the look on his friends face. "No, Wash, I wasn't." he reaffirms.
Wash blinks. "But...you...what?"
Tucker's forehead creases in concern. "Wash." He licks his lips and tries again. "Wash, I really don't know what's confusing you….?"
Wash places his palms on the counter just opposite Tucker. "You mean," Pause, accompanied by a sidelong glance in obvious anxiety. "I didn't dream that?"
"Wash." Tucker's voice is insistent as he presses his palms flat to the others chest, encouraging him to sink into a chair. "Sit down before you pass out."
"Well, whatever you were screaming at, yes." Tucker rests a hand reassuringly on Wash's shoulder, feeling his skin twitch slightly. "But me... No."
Wash lets Tucker guide him into a seating position, confusion still etched across his face. "Well." He looks up to find Tucker's eyes. "Shit."
"What?" Tucker sits next to him. "Is that not a normal thing?"
Wash is somewhat enamoured by Tucker's half worried, half amused expression and can't seem to look away. "Why?" He asks after a tense moment of silence.
"Well, if you're going to live here." Tucker drums his fingers on the tabletop "I'd like to know what you want me to do when that happens."
Wash finds his gaze drawn to his shaking hands. "I-It's fine. I just..." Images flash across his vision but he pushes them back. "Wasn't expecting you to...be nice to me."
"When am I ever not nice ?" Tucker smirks, raising one eyebrow.
Wash inhales sharply to try to keep his mind in the present. "I don't know." His voice ends up sounding struggled and weak but he doesn't fight it.
"Hey." Tucker laces his fingers into Wash's "I meant it, asshole." The insult is greatly watered down by the obvious concern in his voice.
It takes a moment for Tucker's touch to register, but when it does, all the pent up tension leaves Wash in one fluid motion. He jerks his head halfway to the side, then realizes his reaction and gently pulls his gaze back onto Tucker's face.
Something in Wash's piercing gaze is making Tucker's insides squirm, not unpleasantly, when a sharp ringing fills the air.
Wash stands with an abruptness that's not usually associated with someone like him, reacting to the noise by stumbling clumsily backwards until his back hits the edge of the counter. He curls away from Tucker as if he's been burned, or more likely, expects to be.
"Oh shit!" Tucker jumps up looks over towards the oven. "Wash, you set off the fuckin' smoke alarm." He smacks the 'cancel' button on the stovetop and hurries to shut off the machines incessant beeping.
Wash stands in silence, eyes wide, lips parted as the smoke starts to clear before blurting out "Sorry!" And frantically trying to puzzle out a way to help.
After shutting off the alarm Tucker can't help but burst out laughing. "Crisis averted." He takes a deep breath and then rolls this eyes. "Well that's one way to ruin a moment huh?"
Wash tilts his head slightly. "We were having a moment?" He whispers, trying to ignore the way his stomach flutters at the thought.
"Uh, sure?" Tucker half smiles, then changes his answer. "Yeah."
Wash can't fight the small smile that surfaces when he looks at Tucker's grinning face. "Okay."
Tucker is pretty sure he has a goofy grin on his face and he's pretty sure he doesn't care at all. "What were you doing anyway?" He slants a quizzical gaze at the oven.
Wash face twists in some form of apologetic contempt. "I was gonna make dinner."
A warm little pressure rushes down Tucker's spine at the words, well less the words and more how Wash said them. "Lets start over."
Wash nods. "Yeah. I like that plan."
Eventually, after a lot of smarmy fake flirting, begging, and a smattering of death threats no-one took seriously, Tucker did manage to get Wash to be his 'date' for Donuts Spring Break Bash.
On the night of, Tucker's standing in the kitchen half watching TV and waiting for Wash to get ready. He's dressed casually in clean, slightly faded, jeans and a turquoise button down, open just enough to show off a generous slice of firm chest.
Enter Wash.
Tucker holds back a laugh at Wash's awkward expression, he's dressed way too formally, collard shirt and neatly combed hair. Looking very uncomfortable and also, Tucker thinks ruefully, oddly attractive.
Wash crosses his arms over his chest, blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes. He shuffles but doesn't move away from the doorway, a spot at his feet suddenly becoming rather fascinating. "Hey." He greets, though with a little more force than necessary. "What time do we leave?"
Tucker raises an eyebrow. "As soon as you don't look a goddamn bank manager."
He steps toward Wash and, ignoring the others squawks of protest, Tucker loosens Wash's collar and ruffles his hair until it swirls up in feathery spikes. Tucker chooses to ignore the shade of scarlet warming Wash's pale face as he steps back.
"There."
Wash just stares in silence for a few long seconds before sending Tucker the most condescending look he can manage. "I fucking hate you." He tells him, ignoring the way heat rises to his cheeks in favour of walking across the room to collapse on the couch.
Tucker shoots him a cocky grin. "Likewise." He gestures toward the door. "You coming my lady?" He teases. "Your carriage awaits, Cinderella."
Wash shakes his head, but gets up to follow Tucker as he makes his way outside.
Tucker laughs off Wash's shrivelling glares as they head down to the parkade and hop in Tucker's car. After just a few minutes, they roll up to Donuts luxurious home (his parents are always out of town). It's already dark but the house is glowing, pulsating with laughter and movement. There are beer cans and deflating balloons decorating the lawn.
Tucker turns to explain to his silent companion the legendary quality of Donuts parties.
He's never seen Wash look more terrified.
Wash can see Tucker's grin fade as he turns to look at him in his peripheral, and he turns to avoid having to meet his familiar emerald eyes. He swallows, sending Tucker a wavering smile before stepping out of the vehicle and into the cool evening air.
Tucker steps down slamming the door. The pair makes their way up the steps and into the front room. The air is thick and heavy, bodies crushed together, dancing, talking, drinking and kissing. Tucker laughs, calling out greetings to people he knows and winking at cute ones he doesn't. This is his element, his scene. But it's obviously not Wash's, he's twisting he's fingers together and his shoulders all hunched. Well, it makes sense. Tucker thinks. he's never seen Wash around the party scene before and he's pretty sure the dude is at least a little claustrophobic. He takes Wash's elbow and gently steers him to a marginally quieter space in an alcove near the stairs.
Wash takes a deep breath. "Thanks." He murmurs, trying to find some sort of distraction so he's not hanging off of Tucker's shoulder the whole time.
"Whatever." Tucker shrugs, eyes catching Wash's reluctant ones in a searching look. "We don't have to stay long." He murmurs.
Wash tries his best to shake it off. "Nah, man." He weaves false security into the words. "I'm good."
Tucker rolls his eyes "Bullshit." He laughs, though, and playfully punches at Wash's shoulder. "I'll bring a beer okay?" And he weaves his way off into the crowd.
Wash starts to say something in return, but Tucker's already disappeared. He feels a little sick at the thought of putting something so toxic into his system, but he doesn't want to be impolite either.
Donut was looking great, if the sidelong glances Doc kept sneaking at him were any indication. But tonight he had a more important mission than fabulousness (not that that had stopped him from OD-ing on hair gel). Tonight's mission was to get those two obviously, obliviously lovesick idiots to admit to having feelings for each other. Donut had been watching (and totally not stalking) Wash and Tucker dance around the issue for nearly a month and half! It was totally tragic. Donut his eyes in exasperation and sashayed towards his target, being sure to add extra swing to his hips for Doc's blushing benefit. Time to get the ball(s) rolling.
Wash is still leaning against the wall just outside the fray when he hears footsteps approach him from behind. He notices the beat is a little off from what he's used to, but brushes it off as paranoia. He turns, tucker's name on his lips, and stops dead.
Fuck.
"Hi!" Donut squeals, throwing his arms around Wash before stepping and giving his outfit a once-over. "You look great!" Or you know like he tried to. Whatever, A for effort.
Wash opens his mouth to speak, then stops, taking a moment to compose himself before managing a choked "Hey."
Donut wipes the mega watt grin off his face. Time to get down to business. "You know he's crazy about you right?"
Wash flinches a little at that, but would deny it vehemently if ever asked. "Huh?"
Donut waves his hand impatiently. "Tucker." He laughs. "Earth to Wash, he's in love with you!"
Wash gives him the most unimpressed look he can manage. "This is making me very uncomfortable." He speaks slowly, as if talking to a child. "And I think I'm going to go away now." He takes a hesitant step back, looking around for some sort of escape.
"Hell no you're not!" Donut cocks his head and sticks a hand on his hip. "Did you hear me?" He locks their eyes. "And guess what Wash?" He steps forward. "You love him back."
Wash leans back, running a hand through his hair. "Look this is really creepy, okay?"
"Well then you two shouldn't be so obvious about it." Donut stamps his lightish red converse in annoyance. "Just kiss him already!" He adds before blowing a kiss over his shoulder and practically skipping away. Mission accomplished.
Wash breathes a heavy sigh of relief at Donut's retreating back, trying to calm his racing nerves.
What the fuck just happened?
Donut strolls around for a bit before locating Tucker near the bevs. "Tucker!" He giggles. "You made it!"
Tucker knows he's a little drunk but not quite sloshed yet when a giggling ball of hot pink glitter bounces over.
"The hell do you want Donut?"
Tucker gets a little worried about the devious look in Donuts eye and downright terrified at the blonds next words. "For you to admit you like Wash."
Tucker looks at him incredulously. "What the fuck?"
"Oh come on!" Donut sighs (does his have to be so difficult?).
Tucker rolls his eyes. "How drunk are you?" He snarks as Caboose starts dragging Donut away.
Donut loves Caboose, he really does but this is so not a good time. He disentangles himself from the insistent grasp to add. "He likes you too by the way."
It takes Tucker about 36 seconds to realize that holy fucking shit Donuts right. And about 34 more to realize that he doesn't give a damn.
Wash stands in the same spot where Donut left him for much longer than intended, afraid of running into someone else he doesn't need to see right now. Eventually, after convincing himself that he's safe, he makes his way through the crowd to stand outside, enjoying the fresh air and the change of scenery.
Tucker starts walking, like that will help the sticky gears in his brain.
Donut was fuckin right.
But it's really not that surprising, on some level he must of know that.
A slew of freeze-framed images start a slideshow behind his eyelids.
Wash curled up on icy pavement with moonlight reflected in his hair.
Click.
That day in math class and the way Wash's eyes crinkle up when he laughs.
Click.
Anger coursing his veins as he traces indigo bruises.
Click.
Wash's voice on the phone.
Click.
Fading sunlight splashing shadows and seawater.
Click.
"Who are you?"
Click.
A scarlet snake welling on porcelain.
Click.
His own fist connecting with Epsilons flesh.
Click.
Tears.
Click.
Hands intertwined, a contrast like wheat and dark earth.
Click.
Wash's head on his shoulder.
Click.
Fingers wrapped in his hair.
Click.
Bodies pressed together at midnight, screams hanging in the air.
Click.
David Washington.
Goddammit.
When Tucker snaps back to reality he realizes that he's been mindlessly pacing the lawn for nearly 20 minutes. A shout and the resultant drunken laughter reminds him there's a party going on. He smiles to himself and struts in to join them.
Now he has a reason to celebrate.