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Wash doesn’t mean to intrude.
He doesn’t mean to do much these days. Since arriving on the helicarrier, his brain has been in a fog, a fog of what-if’s. What if they made it in time? What if they saved them all? What if it was him instead? The questions make thinking about anything else impossible and as a result, he works mostly on autopilot. Does what Carolina and Kimball tell him to do. Check on Tucker, Sarge. See if Lopez has rebooted. Don’t try to plan the funerals.
When he doesn’t have orders, he walks. Walks through the hospital, checks on the men. Mathews looks like he’s going to make it. Tucker will regain consciousness any day now. And Sarge-
Sarge is dying.
Wash is almost shocked he’s made it this long. His injuries were extensive when they found him, and by the time they got him on the pelican, he thought Sarge was going to die in front of his eyes. But that man had remained stubborn enough to make it to the end, to make it to the hospital, to not die on the operating table.
That was until he woke up. Because when Kimball told Sarge that Simmons, Donut and Lopez were probably dead. Wash saw that fighting spark in Sarge flicker and die. And that was before she even breathed a word of the Blue team. When infection settled into Sarge’s injuries, no one was surprised.
Wash doesn’t pass by Sarge’s room on purpose. He tries to avoid the place as much as possible, unable to see the man so quiet, so reserved. He plans on only staying to see the end. But as he walks by, brain captured in fog, he notices a man sitting in Sarge’s visitor's chair. A man who should be in a bed of his own.
“Sarge,” Grif says and Wash has never heard him talk to his Captain like this, like he actually respects him. “Sarge, wake up.”
From his place in the doorway, Wash can’t see Sarge move. Grif’s form is blocking him. But he hears a sharp inhale of breath, almost strangled.
“What do you want?”
He sounds as grumpy as ever, even though there’s a heavy layer of tired to his voice. Grif is gripping onto the handrails of his bed, and Wash can see his knuckles go white.
“Grey says you’re dying.”
Wash visibly recoils. To hear such a thing said, without emotion, is like being struck. Sarge lets out a sigh.
“I figured.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“You figured?” Grif’s voice is no longer empty, no longer detached. There’s anger in it, real anger, the first hint of it Wash has heard since he found Grif shaking Simmon’s body howling for a medic. It makes him sound like the Captain he’s supposed to be. “That’s it. You just figured. You’re fucking dying Sarge.”
“It’s not exactly subtle,” Sarge says. He doesn’t sound grumpy anymore, just plain tired. Grif stiffens at that, going still, and Wash can see the posture for what it is. Rage. White, hot, rage.
“So that’s it, then,” Grif says. His voice is a whisper but the edge to it could cut through steel. “You’re just gonna lie here and die. Like some sort of asshole.”
Sarge chuckles at that. Even now, Wash can’t predict him. The sound, no matter how faint, brings him back to a happier time, when they were stuck in a stupid box canyon, when they weren’t captains or colonels, when Wash didn’t even dare to think of a world where they could die. “Not gonna claim it’s ideal. Always wanted to die with my shotgun but Grey won’t allow it in here. Says it’s a safety hazard”
Another pause. Grif lifts up his hand. Clenches it into a fist. Brings it back down onto his chair handle. The plastic cracks from the force.
“ I am not here to listen to you fuck around!” Grif is snarling now. “You’re dying, Sarge! You’ve made it all this way and you’re fucking dying! How can you joke about this and just lie there! You’ve never just lied there! When Tucker ran me over with a tank, you told me to stand up so I could die on my feet! And now you’re going to just let it happen!”
Wash can hear Sarge move in his bed from the sound of the bedsheets. From what he can tell, the man is trying to sit up a little. Trying to grasp some authority.
“My men are dead. An old man can only take so much.”
Grif throws his hands up. “What happened to being only 27!” He leans forward, and Wash is positive he’s in the Colonel’s face, baring his teeth. “News flash, you bastard. Not all your men are dead. I’m still fucking here. Like it or not.”
Wash can hear the silence echo. For some reason, it sounds like surrender. He wishes he could figure out why.
“Son,” Sarge says, and Wash is stunned to hear a hint of affection in it. “The Dexter Grif I knew would not bother training the day after getting out of surgery. He would not cling to his rifle like he needed it as a lifeline. He’d never admit he actually gave a shit.” Sarge takes a deep breath. “My men are dead. At least in the ways that matter.”
Grif doesn’t breathe. It was like Sarge hit him. Then, all at once, he crumples. His shoulders slump. His chin falls to hit his chest. His hair covers his eyes.
“Fuck. You,” Grif says and it is that moment Wash realizes he’s crying.
“Didn’t know you cared, private,” Sarge rasps and that’s it, that’s all Wash can take. He runs. Get’s the fuck out of there.
Two days later, Sarge is gone.