Oh, Wash, you fucking wound him. Twenty-second? Really? Didn't they have music in that Freelancer program, or was it like a monastery where a vow of silence was law? Shit, man, that's just depressing.

Tucker was about to correct him, too, set that record straight, but then that hand was on his ribs and he didn't realize how much it turned him on. Wash was touching him, and not to shove him away. Wash was probably over-thinking it, too, thinking about how much force each finger in the suit could expel, thinking about how much he could touch him, thinking about what it would take to clean it or something equally too-complicated. He couldn't ever just enjoy something.

But his breath shook, so maybe Tucker was wrong.

Oh, wait, nevermind, because now he was worried about the bottles. Of all things--

"I can start with Queen. Everyone should know Freddie Mercury; he's a fucking god."

Of course, had he known that a little ear nibbles could have gotten his way, well, Tucker would have done that months ago. Laps? Nibbles. Chores? Teeth. Babysit Caboose? A little tongue. No single man should have that sort of power, and Tucker would never wield it responsibly, clearly. He kissed the shell of Wash's ear, breath hissing out, his blind hand pushing his bottle into that gauntlet.

Good. Now he had two hands free. "Nice idea," he muttered, moving down to nip along that rough jaw line again as both hands went to his hair. Maybe Tucker wasn't as helpful as he should have been, but it worked out for him.

It was sure a helluva lot nicer than what they were talking about before.