“Fucking heathen,” he muttered, before kissing him again, short and hard. Sure, Wash wasn’t a bed of roses, didn’t smell like clean laundry hanging from a line, but he didn’t really care. Tucker wasn’t that great either, not after being in a suit that shouldn’t even belong to him. Clean was a relative state of mind.

He liked to think he smelled dangerous.

And because he hadn’t even thought about this happening, he hadn’t thought about cologne, about spritzing up, about showering. He smelled of the same sterilization, of chemical cleanliness that masked the war and hell they had been through. And he didn’t give a fuck.

His fingers slid around to the side of Wash’s head, to the feel of the short strands against his palm, and he smiled before he broke away. “’Killer Queen’, by Queen. It’s a classic, dude.” He kissed his jaw, ignoring the stubble that had grown over neglect and being just plain busy with other things like not dying. It was rough, but interesting, different than he was used to. Women didn’t feel like this. Neither better or worse, and he thought he should be more confused about that than he currently was.

He kissed up to his ear, whispering against it. “I’ve gotta teach you music.” Teeth scraped against his lobe, teasing, careful. His heart was slamming in his dizzy head, fingers threatening to drop the bottle because he was distracted. Wash…damn, this was surreal.