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Wash awoke the way one comes up for air after a long dive – with a great shudder of limbs and choking gasps. Wheezing breaths were brought up short by a wave of nausea. Turning his head to retch, the agent struggled to curl around himself.
“No, no, you have to stay still, Wash.”
A grip on his shoulder was holding him back. Not that it was difficult. An average breeze could have toppled him in this state. Years of training had Washington’s head abuzz. Get up. Assess. Move. Report. Get up get up getup.
That plan was squashed when an intense pulse of pain tore through his left side. Wash curled his head back and swallowed down the hurt noises bubbling in his throat, hunching his shoulders–
Another stab of pain radiated through his left shoulder, drawing a shuddering breath from the Freelancer. Wash’s limbs tried to spasm unconsciously, but there were firm hands on his shoulders and forearms. An uncomfortable pressure bore down on his throbbing side.
“Hey, no. Hey, stay with me.”
Whoever this person was talking to must not have been listening. Wash struggled not to lose himself in the fire licking across his chest. The voice started to repeat itself.
“No, no, stay here. Wash? Wash, stay with me. Come on, man.”
Oh, wait. That’s him. He’s Wash… Or is he? There’s another name in his head so he can’t be sure.
“Wash, come on. Open your eyes. Wash. Washington.”
That’s him. He’s almost positive. When his body finally decided to obey him again, Wash cracked his eyelids open a centimeter at a time. It took a monumental effort but that voice was insistent. Anxiety was a gnawing force, burrowed deep in the agent’s chest. Wash needed to find out what was wrong, what he could do. Assess. Move. Report.
Watery eyes blinked open to a hazy world. Everything was a gross gray and seriously needed to stop vibrating and jolting. Those engines, with their growls and metal clanks, were so goddamn distracting. The figure on the left didn’t meet his gaze. They were far more interested in poking and prodding at Wash’s aching side. Each touch fanned the incessant fire. A cloudy haze crept into the edges of his vision. The person on the right patted Wash’s shoulder and spoke again.
“Jesus shit fucking Christ,” Tucker heaved out groan, earning him a tired scowl from the medic across the gurney. The teal soldier ignored him in favor of grabbing Wash’s dull eyed attention. “Wash, can you hear me? It’s Tucker, man. You with me?”
The man below furrowed his brow. “Yeah?” he slurred. It was disconcerting how much concentration it took for Wash to formulate that simple answer.
“Keep him awake,” the medic ordered, never tearing his gaze from the Freelancer. Or the holes peppering the man’s side. The bandages matted against the injury were soaked red. Tucker faltered, swallowing down the bile crawling up the back of his throat that had nothing to do with the pelican’s shaky flight.
“Hey!” The medic snarled and Tucker blinked as if waking from a dream. The sim trooper fought to meet the man’s glare. But Tucker couldn’t help staring at the medic’s blood stained hands. The smudge across his cheek was even more off-putting.
“Keep him awake.” The medic snapped, but behind his eyes lurked something soft.
Tucker choked down a ragged gulp. “Uh, yeah, I g-got– okay, awake. Wash?” Tucker snapped his fingers directly in front of Wash’s nose. “Come on, you can do it–you with me? You with me?”
Wash lolled his head to shoot Tucker a perplexed look.
“Yeah?” This time it was an unamused statement of the obvious. Tucker decided to count that as a success.
“Hey, buddy… um, how you feelin’?” Tucker winced and even the medic pulled a face.
Wash wasn’t perturbed. “Like crap,” he drawled. Drunkenly, Wash made a weak attempt at a gesture, but wasn’t able to do more than heave his good arm a few inches off the gurney and let it flop back down. Tucker edged closer to pat the Freelancer’s arm.
“Yeah, ah. That sounds about right.” Tucker’s gaze slid to the blood spatter decorating the grey and yellow armor. Stomach twisting, he yanked his eyes back to his own hands. But it was no good. The gloves were slick with blood and the teal armor smeared red. None of it belonged to Tucker.
Shaking himself mentally, Tucker focused on the agent. Wash’s eyes were still unfocused as he squinted, as if deep in thought.
“Wha’ happened?”
Tucker rested his forearms on the edge of the stretcher. “Ambush,” he confessed.
Wash sighed, dull gaze flickering to the ceiling. Tucker pretended not to notice the tense shiver Wash failed to suppress. Across the gurney, the medic was still hard at work on the Freelancer’s side. Tucker didn’t have a clear view (and didn’t want one), so he started in alarm when Wash jolted like he’d touched a live wire. Shaking, the agent sucked in a shuddering breath through clenched teeth, eyes squeezing shut.
Gut churning, Tucker groped wildly for a distraction. “Everyone’s fine though. Nothing serious.” Except for Wash, that was, whom Tucker was willing to bet had more blood outside his body than in it at the moment.
“Hm.” Wash cracked his eyes open again, but they were unseeing.
“We’re heading back to Armonia. We called for a pelican. Had to leave the warthog.” He admitted as an afterthought. “On its roof.”
The noise Wash made could have been him snickering, or choking on blood.
Tucker swallowed and tried not to remember the sight of the Freelancer lying face down, only a few meters away from the burning wreckage of the vehicle. Thank Christ nobody had been in it at the time. Only Wash had the misfortune of standing in the blast radius when the rocket hit the warthog.
Hacking coughs brought Tucker back to the present. Wash shook, hands clenching and face twisted against the pain. The fits had to be playing havoc on the man’s (presumably) broken ribs. The Freelancer sucked in short laboring breaths, each one quieter than the last. His eyes started to slip close.
Tucker learned the meaning of blood running cold. “Hey, no, no, no. Wash, stay with me. Y-you need to stay with me.” But Wash’s head slumped sideways. Tucker ripped off a glove and cupped the man’s jaw.
“He needs to stay awake,” the medic’s tone was dark and his eyes hard, while he worked to staunch a steady stream of blood.
“Wash, Washington,” Tucker’s throat constricted. Running a thumb over the man’s cheek elicited no response. “Shit, Wash. Please, wake up. Come on. Please, Wash.”
Someone in the background was shoving more gauze the medic’s way. But Tucker’s world narrowed down to Washington, and his eerily pale face, and the cold sweat collecting at his hairline, and the contusion high on his left temple matted with drying blood.
The medic was directing other medical staff, accepting an IV and saline bag from one bystander. Another hunched over left side of the gurney, pressing fresh gauze to the bullet hole in the agent’s shoulder.
The asshole didn’t know how to stay down. Fresh from getting peppered with shrapnel from the warthog and knocked unconscious, Washington was hauling his ass behind the burning vehicle to return fire. Then it wasn’t long before the idiot was dashing out of hiding to provide cover fire for a couple cadets. But the enemy sniper was good and Freelancer’s reflexes suffering. Mere feet from the cover he sprinted for, Wash took a shot clean through the back of the shoulder, sending him sprawling to the dust. This time he didn’t get up.
Tucker struggled to keep his hand from shaking as he ran it softly through the man’s hair. Wash’s expression was lax and his breathing uneven. Tucker flagged down one of the hovering medics and swallowed in relief when one passed him a bundle of guaze.
For a while, the world slid into a dull hum. The roar of the pelican engines vibrated through the walls and floor. Other soldiers shuffled in the background, slumped in seats and braced against walls as they tended to each other’s wounds. There were no gawkers among them. They all knew better than to get in the way of a medic doing their job. And everyone knew better than to get between Captain Tucker and Agent Washington.
The reds loved to tease. Tucker would snort and distract with a witty come back while enjoying the way Wash sputtered until his face turned the color of Sarge’s armor. But that had been months ago. These days Tucker would chuckle along, and watch from the corner of his eye as Wash went quiet and became absorbed in fiddling with whatever weapon was in his hands.
The medics packed Washington’s side with gauze, and the hole straight through his shoulder with biofoam. Someone got an IV line started and was holding the bag up with one hand as they worked with the other. Tucker shifted to kneel beside Wash’s head, one hand cupping the agent’s jaw to hold him steady, and the other dabbing at the blood caked slice in his hairline. The whole time, the sim trooper kept up a steady train of murmurs.
“…It’s okay, Wash. You’re gunna be fine. It’s Tucker, man. You just stay with me. Come on, Wash. Please…”
Once the head wound was sufficiently clean, though still oozing a bit of blood, Tucker grabbed a new square of gauze damp with antiseptic. He had only begun to brush the cut when Wash flinched, eyes squeezing shut as he hissed in protest.
“Wash? Wash? You back with me, man? Just open your eyes. Come on.”
It took a few tries but eventually the Freelancer succeeded. The lids were hooded and threatened to droop shut at any moment, but the stormy eyes were clearer than before.
Tucker ran a hand over Wash’s hair without even thinking, weight on the sim trooper’s chest dissipating enough for him to breathe again. Wash’s eyes stayed on him as Tucker dropped his head to rest atop a forearm.
“You can sleep through these assholes messing with the shrapnel in your gut,” Tucker’s voice was weak with relief as he lifted his head to meet Wash’s gaze with a feeble grin, “but can’t stand a bit of disinfectant.”
The corner of Wash’s mouth twitched as he blinked bleary eyed at the pelican ceiling. He wet his lips and managed to mumble, “…fuckin’ stings…”
Tucker let loose a breathy laugh. “No arguments here.”
Most of the circling medical staff had backed off, and Tucker took that as a good sign. Or at least a sign that Wash wasn’t going to drop dead in the next ten minutes. The medic who had been patching up Wash’s shredded left side this whole time was still there, ripping off blood stained gloves. Grasping the Freelancer’s chin, he tilted Wash’s head to the left. The medic snapped his fingers to get Wash’s attention.
“Agent Washington, I need you to follow my finger.” The medic dragged the digit back and forth directly in front of Wash’s face. “…Focus. Follow it with your eyes… Keep going…Focus.”
Finishing the test, the medic produced a pen light. He placed a steadying hand on the agent’s forehead before flashing it in the man’s dazed eyes.
Wash was slow to respond, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing before making a weak attempt to pull away. His head slumped back towards Tucker. Immediately, the teal soldier returned his hand to Wash’s hair, fingers dragging through it at a languid pace.
“Concussion,” the medic warned. Hanging the saline bag from the rail of a nearby seat, the man fixed Tucker with a weary look.
“Just keep him awake and talking. Shout if anything changes.” The man dragged himself off the floor and moved on to his other patients.
Tucker looked back down to find the Freelancer’s eyes cracked open. His gaze was distant. But as Tucker stroked a hand through the man’s hair, Wash blinked drowsily.
Tucker gave a light smirk. “You back with us?”
Wash swallowed and tried to nod, before cringing. Tucker kept his hand buried in the Freelancer’s hair and frowned in sympathy.
“Try not to move. You’ve got a pretty nasty concussion. And you just stopped bleeding, so the doctors are gunna kick my ass if you start again.”
Wash blew a weak breath from his nose. “…’ad wors’…”
Something twisted deep inside Tucker’s chest. He watched Wash’s face, searching for a trace of humor. But the Freelancer’s eyes had a faraway look and his expression remained blank.
“…had w-worse…” Wash echoed, voice flat in a way that made the hairs on the back of Tucker’s neck stand.
Because the only time he’s ever heard even a hint of this defeated cadence from Wash was in the war room meeting Kimball brought up Project Freelancer (Tucker couldn’t blame her. She hadn’t known any better). While planning drills for the soldiers of Chorus, she’d asked the agent for details of his training during the Project. Washington responded in an unnaturally calm voice – perhaps detached was a better word. His gloved hands locked the table edge in a vice grip. Carolina answered the questions coolly from behind her helmet, but never moved a muscle the entire conversation, frozen in place. Meanwhile, Epsilon stretch and groaned with boredom. An unusual purple glow surrounded his blue avatar.
Tucker tangled his fingers in Wash’s hair, giving a tiny tug to grab the Freelancer’s attention. Tired eyes flickered up to meet the warm gaze of the teal soldier.
“You’re gunna be fine, okay? Just– stay awake a bit longer. We’re going back to Armonia– we’re almost there.” Wash blinked, the movement sluggish, and gave the faintest twitch of a nod. Tucker hoped he hadn’t just imagined it.
The teal soldier carded a gentle hand through the Freelancer’s hair. If Wash noticed, it didn’t show.
“Stay awake, okay? Let’s – let’s…” Tucker bit his lip. Wash needed to keep talking. Otherwise he was probably going to conk out, slip into a coma, and fucking die if Tucker didn’t get his shit together. An invisible hand was squeezing deep inside his chest. Tucker sucked in a tight breath and began.
“Hey, did I tell you I got a letter from Junior the other day? No? Oh, man, I got new pictures of him and everything. Can’t believe I haven’t shown you yet. I’ll make sure you see them once we get back. I got a team picture too. You know how he was trying out for sports?”
Wash hummed.
“Yeah, he’s on the school basketball team and they are killing it this season. Guess how many games they’ve lost? Go on. Guess.”
The look of intense concentration was back. “Two?”
“Wow, ye of little faith. None. They’re undefeated. The coach’s been filming the games and I might get them sent out here. Even if it doesn’t work out, I’ll have a whole stack to watch when I get back. It’ll be a big marathon – like a whole day thing.”
Wash was doing a pretty good job of keeping his gaze focused on the sim trooper hovering over him.
“Junior says he wants everyone to come over and watch. He hasn’t seen you guys since Blood Gulch… Actually, I keep forgetting you two haven’t met. It’s cool though. He’s the best kid in the universe. I’m speaking as a totally unbiased source.”
Wash breathed out a faint huff of laughter. The hint of a smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. Tucker grinned.
“And I say kid, but he’s practically full grown. Aliens grow, like, crazy fast. He might be taller than me now.”
“Where’s he?” The words were a struggle, but they already had Tucker mentally praising whatever powers might be.
“Where’s he at now? With his people, but the colony is, like, half humans. It’s some diplomacy project trying to prove aliens and humans can live together. In peace and harmony and all that shit.”
While Tucker rambled on, he watched the Freelancer fight to keep his heavy lidded eyes from slipping shut. A sick feeling wormed its way back into Tucker’s gut. Here he was going on about Junior, but Wash knew this stuff. He listened to the same stories every time Tucker couldn’t get his mind to power down for the night. Even when Tucker tried to give the guy a break, the asshole had some sixth sense when it came to the teal soldier pretending to sleep. Wash always called him out. And if Tucker continued to fake it, he usually got a pillow thrown at his head from across their shared quarters.
Tucker was more than a bit peeved he didn’t have the same sense. On the rare occasion Tucker found Wash asleep somewhere, the teal solider turned right around and left. For the next few hours, anyone asking for the Freelancer got conflicting reports of where he’d last been seen. There was no way in hell Tucker was going to risk waking Wash up if there was the slightest chance he might actually be sleeping. The guy barely slept enough as it was.
Tucker hasn’t stopped running a hand through the messy blond hair, avoiding the head wound and taking care to brush dried blood from the locks. The sim trooper’s mind clicked at the thought of a new topic to hold Wash’s attention.
“Once I’m done here, I’m going to find him, Junior. Maybe we’ll move back to earth. Or another space colony. Wherever we go it’s gunna be a little place in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. The bigger cities have too much noise. I can just tell all the noise is going to be hell after this shit. And it’d be tough on Junior ‘cause where he’s at now is pretty small. Some place small like that’d be nice.”
Tucker tapped Wash’s cheek.
“Alright, that’s the dream. That’s what I’m doing when this is over.” It took a couple prods to yank Wash back to the present. “Now it’s your turn.”
Even with the glazed look in his eyes, Wash managed to look baffled.
“When this is over. After this shit show,” Tucker encouraged. “What are you going to do?”
Wash squinted and pulled a look of immense concentration. Tucker expected something coherent and was disappointed.
“Isn’t this – aren’t we… going to Armonia?”
Tucker blinked a few times before it hit him. “Oh, no, Wash. We’re going to Armonia. Right now, this pelican is going to Armonia and you’re gunna see Grey an everything’s gunna be fine. That’s what we’re doing right now.”
Wash frowned, but gave a small nod.
Tucker leaned closer, fingers brushing sweat slick hair from the man’s forehead.
“But afterwards,” Tucker urged, “when the war is over. When you don’t have to fight on Chorus anymore. What are you going to do?”
Wash gave a weak shudder, but it appeared his gaze was clearing. Tucker sighed as relief eased weight from his shoulders.
The feeling lasted about four seconds.
“I– don’t know,” Wash whispered, eyes fluttering to the pelican ceiling. His voice was smaller than Tucker had ever heard it. The hurt tone ripped at the teal soldier’s chest. The Freelancer’s next words had Tucker’s heart dropping straight to the floor of the ship.
“I–I wasn’t supposed to– make it this far.”
The way he said it: like it was a fact, like it was indisputable, made Tucker want to reach out, and grab Wash, and shake him, and call him an idiot for believing such a thing.
But Wash looked so goddamn tired. And it had nothing to do with the man’s erratic sleep schedule or his current head trauma. The guilt flickering behind his shining eyes was something aged, something accepted.
Tucker knew about Project Freelancer. He knew the asshole Church was based on did some really fucked up things and not everyone made it out in one piece. The sim troopers, the AI, the Freelancers – they were still reeling from the effects years after the Project’s fall.
Tucker knew some of what happened to Washington during the project. Most everything Tucker did know came from second hand sources – comments from Epsilon, or Carolina, or Caboose (who’d apparently worked with the guy while breaking into Command? Tucker had missed a lot while out in that desert). Some of the Chorus citizens were still learning the unspoken rule, don’t talk to Freelancers about Project Freelancer, but Tucker was well aware.
It wasn’t that he was uninterested in the evil military organization he’d had a hand in stopping.
It was the way Wash’s voice went flat when anyone asked about it. It was how he tensed and his eyes got far away. It was the nervous tick of brushing a protective hand over his implants. And when Wash became aware of it, he locked his hands in white knuckled fists at his sides. It was the way he kept his back to walls, counted exits, and tracked sudden movements. It was the way he flinched away from unexpected contact, and tensed if someone came up behind him.
So Tucker knew enough to name the guilt smoldering deep in Wash’s eyes.
Agent Washington was never meant to escape Project Freelancer, especially after learning its secrets. Recovery One was never meant to find Epsilon, or to put the pieces together and locate Alpha. Prisoner 619-B never meant to see the light of day again, or receive the pardon he’d been promised.
Tucker knew the guilt and couldn’t stand it.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Tucker told the agent.
Wash rolled his head back and scowled. Yep, he was definitely feeling better.
Tucker waited for a response. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he repeated.
“I–I heard…” Wash muttered. “Why?”
Tucker snorted. “You’re staying with us.”
In the following silence, Wash did nothing but blink at Tucker like a deer caught in car headlights. Tucker scoffed.
“Your melodramatic ass is staying with us.”
That was enough to snap Wash out of his trance, but not enough to get his brain back online. “What?”
Tucker suppressed the grin spreading across his face and snorted. He patted Wash’s shoulder with his free hand, the other still tangled in the Freelancer’s hair.
“After the war, you can come home with me and Junior. Two space marines and a massive alien under one roof – in some distant space colony far away from city noise, and rocket launchers, and snipers, and war. You’ll stay with us. And you and Junior will get along great, and we’ll never have to eat another fucking MRE, and the coffee won’t taste like cremains dumped in water. And maybe you’ll actually sleep for once in your goddamn life. That’s something to look forward to– now brace yourself, we’re coming in for a landing.”
Now, Wash was aware of his issues. He knew Project Freelancer had shattered his sense of trust in others. He knew most days he had the emotional availability of a rock. But he also knew, with the help of the sim troopers, he was getting better. A year ago Wash would have flinched violently away from Tucker’s hand on his cheek, or even the medic at his side. But here the agent was, intent to stay as still as possible lest Tucker remember the soothing hand carding through Wash’s hair and pull away.
Washington also knew that delirious with blood loss and head trauma was no state for critical thinking. Christ, he was having trouble recalling what happened five minutes ago. And yet, he was unable to forget his short emotional outburst in the face of lacking post-Chorus plans. It was entirely the concussion’s fault– he wasn’t thinking straight, that was all. Wash imagined his face turning red, but wondered if he had enough blood left in his system for it to show.
The thready grip on reality he’d worked so hard to maintain slipped with each jolt of the pelican’s descent. Fiery claws dug into Wash’s side and shoulder with every unexpected movement until the room spun. A wave of nausea flooded his senses. Firm hands held him in place, but Wash barely had the strength to retch pitifully. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Wash couldn’t recall the last time he ate, and was grateful he had nothing in his stomach to throw up.
The steady drumming of pelican engines grew to a scream, no longer muffled by the metal walls of the ship. A dull sky obscured by clouds swum in his narrow crack of vision. People chattered all around him, desperate to be heard over the roaring engines which were beginning to fade into the distance. A medic on the left pressed down on Wash’s side so hard he saw stars. A choked off cry of pain was dragged from his throat, but he didn’t have time to be embarrassed because that hand was back, running through his hair again. Another cupped the side of his face, brushing a thumb against his temple.
A high, cheery voice seized Wash’s attention. He couldn’t remember closing his eyes, but now he struggled to open them. Blurred white and purple armor hovered over him, back lit by harsh fluorescents. It took several long moments for his mind to supply a name. Grey smiled down at him, but Wash didn’t have the energy to return the gesture. When had it gotten so cold? Grey’s mouth was moving; he should probably pay attention.
“–ry, Agent Washington! We’ll have you fixed up in–”
Wash registered an oxygen mask being slipped over his face, before he blacked out.
Thanks to Grey’s bullying, Washington was set to stay in the infirmary for two days following his injuries. It had started at three days, but Wash had bargained for less by promising to avoid serious training for at least four days and not running missions for a week.
The last part was Carolina’s doing. She’d been kind enough to stop by the infirmary wearing her version of a shit eating grin – which was more of a taunting smirk that left one eternally grateful she was not the enemy. At the agent’s prompting, Kimball and Doyle forbid Washington’s return to the field without express permission from Dr. Grey. Carolina was a traitor, and Wash made sure she knew it. She barely raised an eyebrow at his murderous stare. On the way out the door, Carolina ruffled Wash’s hair as if he were a child. His squawk of protest carried down the hall.
Despite Wash’s determination to continue building training schedules via his data pad (and convince Kimball and Doyle he was perfectly capable of returning to work), he spent almost the entirety of his first day in the infirmary sleeping. Whatever painkillers Grey prescribed left Wash dozing on and off. His time spent awake was mostly taken up by visitors. The cadets who had accompanied him on the ill fate mission tumbled into the ward not long after Carolina. They thanked Washington for his ‘heroics’ until his face turned red. In the end, the group wouldn’t leave until Wash had reassured them over and over that he was fine; and yes, he would be training them again in no time; and no, he wasn’t going to drop dead of an alien super virus– stop spreading that rumor.
The sim troopers trickled in throughout the day. Someone in the ward must have been keeping them updated because a visitor always managed to appear minutes after Wash woke up. Caboose was the first to arrive, fidgeting in barely contained excitement. But the hulking sim trooper made sure to stand back from the bed, explaining Dr. Grey said not to hug Washington yet because that might break him. He left promising lots of hugs once Wash was feeling better.
Later, Simmons came by to return Wash’s helmet, which apparently needed repairs after the blow it took. Donut swooped in bearing an armful of celebrity magazines and wouldn’t leave until Wash promised to attend the pink soldier’s next wine and cheese event. Grif popped his head in to congratulate the Freelancer on not being dead, and claim Wash’s untouched lunch. Sarge stormed in soon after, in search of the lazy captain, adding an assortment of gun catalogs to the stack Donut provided. Wash set the pile on the bedside table, shuffling the magazines and leaving a few open to give the appearance of being read.
Tucker was noticeably absent from the infirmary. Each time Wash nonchalantly brought the teal soldier up to a visitor, he was given a weird, knowing look and told Tucker was debriefing from the mission, or meeting with Kimball.
A sick feeling having nothing to do with recent injuries settled in Wash’s gut. On the bright side, he had plenty of time to agonize over his brief display of weakness on the pelican. That was in addition to wracking his brain to recall if he said anything particularly embarrassing.
Wash must have drifted off again because the next thing he knew, night had fallen and the lights of the infirmary dimmed. Around the room, machine lights twinkled like stars. The steady hum of life in the medical ward had softened. The murmurs of staff, beeps and whirrs of technologies, and the echo of footsteps and gurney wheels had all faded.
It took a solid two minutes for Wash to notice the figure sitting at his bedside. Tucker’s unexpected presence no longer set off alarm bells in Wash’s head, no longer causing his adrenaline to spike or muscles to tense. The rest of the sim troopers and Carolina still did – startle him that was. But not Tucker.
Yeah, that train of thought needed be set aside for a time Wash wasn’t still reeling from Grey’s painkillers.
At first glance, Wash thought the teal soldier was asleep. Tucker leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, and head drooping. But the man’s eyes were open and fixed on some point in the distance.
“Hey,” Wash’s hesitant murmur broke the silence.
Tucker didn’t startle, just immediately looked to Wash, pulling the chair closer to the Freelancer’s bedside as he did so.
“Hey, dude,” Tucker leaned heavily over the edge of the bed. “How’re you feeling?”
The question sounded familiar, but Wash only managed a grunt as he sat up. Or tried to. A gut packed with gauze and stitches wasn’t exactly conducive to anything except flailing his tired arms. Tucker stepped in to help, supporting the man and shoving together some pillows for him to lean against.
The pitiful amount of movement left Wash breathing hard. He dropped his head back with a heavy sigh. Pulses of pain, dulled by the drugs, consumed his shoulder and chest. He closed his eyes, riding it out. Maybe Grey had been right about staying for three days.
A warm hand lighted on his arm. Wash turned to find Tucker watching him, brow furrowed.
“I’m alright,” Wash reassured the man, voice soft, hesitant to shatter the peace of the dim infirmary.
Tucker’s expression didn’t change. “How’d you feel?”
Wash shrugged, but only with his good shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ve had worse.”
The stricken look flickering across Tucker’s face told Wash that was the wrong thing to say. The Freelancer opened his mouth to…what? Take it back? Lie? But it was too late, Tucker was already looking at the floor.
“Yeah,” the sim trooper sighed, voice little more than a whisper, “I know… just – yeah.”
Tucker still wasn’t looking at him, and suddenly the silence of the space was all too loud. Wash resigned himself to face the elephant in the room.
“Tucker.” The man looked up, but Wash became absorbed in plucking at the stiff bedsheet in his lap. The agent cleared his throat, trying and failing to stop the nervous fidgeting. “I…I wanted to thank you for your… assistance – on the pelican – and on the mission. I have no doubt you helped save my life.”
Tucker snorted, and nudged Wash’s good shoulder with a fist. “Don’t be dramatic. You weren’t dying, asshole.” The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Wash frowned. “In any case, I just wanted to thank you for all your help,” his words rushed together as he tried to get them over with, “and for generously offering your couch to me, but it’s really not ne–”
“I didn’t offer my couch.”
He’d fucked up. Wash fucked up and remembered wrong. Or, on the pelican, he heard wrong or took some stupid joke to heart. Tucker hadn’t offered – he hadn’t been serious. And now he’d know Wash had taken him seriously. And now Wash had put him on the spot to explain – of course Tucker didn’t want a paranoid Freelancer following him home.
Oh god, he’d really fucked up. Maybe he could blame the painkillers.
“Wash.”
He managed to tear his eyes from the blankets. Tucker had edged closer, his curious gaze was locked on Wash, head cocked. Behind Tucker’s eyes, Wash could see the puzzle pieces clicking into place. Shit.
The Freelancer raised a hand to hide his face, eyes squeezing shut. He could feel the blood rush to his cheeks. Thank god the infirmary was dark.
“Forget it,” Wash mumbled, fighting to keep his voice from rising in pitch. “Just–forget it. I–I was confused–that’s all. I know–”
“Wash, there’s no fucking way you’re staying on the couch. You can have your own room.”
Wash’s eyes blinked open to peer at the teal soldier through his fingers. A few moments later, the agent remembered to let out the shaky breath he was holding. His voice came out in an embarrassing stutter, but he barely noticed. “W-what?”
With an exasperated sigh, Tucker reached out to tug the hand away from Wash’s face, guiding it down to the mattress. But once there, Tucker didn’t let go. Instead, he left his own hand lying lightly on top of Wash’s, as if hesitant to actually grip it. The Freelancer was paying such close attention to this, he almost missed Tucker’s next words.
“You can have your own room. Unless you wanna double up – bow chicka wow wow.” The hint of a smirk pulled at the corner of Tucker’s mouth, but his eyes were lined with nervous tension as he continued.
“I wasn’t – earlier – I wasn’t saying you should sleep on our couch, get your shit together, and leave. I meant you can stay with me. With us. You can move in with me and Junior. If you want.”
Wash’s brain was having difficulty keeping up with the conversation and it had nothing to do with the drugs. “Why?”
Tucker rolled his eyes. “Uh, in the years I’ve known you, neither of us has murdered the other? That’s more than I can say for the rest of blue team.” He chuckled, but when Wash just continued staring, it died down.
Tucker’s face became a touch more serious. “And besides,” he trailed off to look down at his hands. Or rather, their hands– his on Wash’s. Tucker stared for a moment, as if he had just noticed what he had been doing this whole time, before returning his gaze to Wash. Neither made any motion to pull their hand away. Tucker locked eyes with the Freelancer.
“You know you’re my best friend, right?”
Wash felt his throat tighten and lost any confidence in his ability to keep his voice steady. So he ended up giving a short nod. He should say something, he had to, he needed to, but Wash couldn’t. So, after a moment of hesitation, he squeezed Tucker’s hand.
For several long moments, Wash tried to look anywhere but Tucker, because the Freelancer had no idea what emotions where playing out across his own face. Finally, curiosity, or maybe fear, won over and he glanced up.
Tucker was wearing a relieved smile, and this time it actually reached his eyes. He let loose a low laugh.
“Well this got fucking sappy. Is your melodramatic shit contagious?” Wash rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I told you, we’ve got to find some place away– away from all this shit,” Tucker gestured vaguely, but Wash knew exactly what he meant.
Tucker shrugged. “I mean, nothing against Chorus, but I’ve got to find Junior first, and I couldn’t live in the middle of Armonia, not anymore, you know? But maybe someplace smaller. I’ll find somewhere Junior can finish school, and you don’t have to wear armor every time you walk outside.”
Wash hummed in agreement, his eyes fond and a ghost of a smile playing across his face. Tucker caught it and his eyes lit up. “You like cats, right?”
The Freelancer stared. “I…that’s–what?”
“Dude, it is a simple yes or no question.”
Wash wet his lips, brow furrowing. “I like cats, yes.”
“Cool. Then we’ll find you a cat. Or four cats. There’s gotta be an animal shelter around here somewhere, right? Or we can catch some of the strays living down town. It can’t be that hard…”
A low rumble started in Wash’s chest and before he knew it, he was laughing, face half buried in the pillows. Tucker’s eyes widened in alarm, but once he realized Wash wasn’t dying, the teal soldier scoffed playfully.
“What’s so funny?”
Wash shook his head. “I don’t know,” he snickered, but that wasn’t true. He just didn’t know where to begin, because Tucker wanted Wash around – after the war. After the war – following basic training it had been a distant concept that had no place on the battle field. Even before Freelancer fell, it had become an unsettling blank space that shouldn’t be thought about because that would mean recognizing it would never be filled. Since the reds and the blues though… after the war was a gnawing fear that everyone else spoke of in wistful tones, but Wash shoved to the back of his mind because it was something he had no right to.
But, here was Tucker inviting him – the supposedly dead, paranoid ex-special ops guy arguably guilty of treason; among other things – into his home, with his son, and wanting to get him a cat.
So Wash kept chuckling around the pulsing pain of his ribs until he broke off in a light coughing fit. Tucker perched at the edge of his chair, leaning over the Freelancer with concerned eyes. Wash waved him off. Tucker snorted and lifted a hand to ruffle Wash’s hair. He made a small noise of protest but didn’t pull away.
“You really need to sleep,” Tucker told him, leaning back in his seat.
“’m fine,” Wash complained.
“Yeah. Tell me again in ten minutes.”
Wash let himself relax back against the pillows with a resigned hum and his closed eyes. When he didn’t hear the sound of Tucker standing or the chair scrapping the floor, Wash looked back to his bedside. The teal soldier appeared to be making himself comfortable in the stiff hospital chair.
“You should too,” Wash said, voice quiet.
Tucker shook his head. “I will. I’m just gunna stick around a bit longer.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know,” Tucker confessed. “I just– somebody’s got to make sure you don’t try and make a break for it before Grey’s finished with you, right?”
With a final huff of laughter, Wash turned his head to stare up at the dark infirmary ceiling. The Freelancer sighed as sleep pulled at his exhausted form. “Thank you, Tucker.”
The teal soldier’s chair whined as he settled into it. “Go to sleep, Wash.”
Washington did, armed with a renewed future to look forwards to.