It had been two days, two days of nothing, no sound, no visuals, no nothing. It was a limbo of questionable existence for everyone left behind; the Sim Troops had gone up, teleported and gone to their final battle (at least for now; there always seemed to be a new “final battle” every year or so, perfectly timed), while they left everything else to the people below. Then… nothing.
So much nothing.
At least for a bit. Twenty-four hours gave way to thirty-six, to forty-eight, and finally, finally, there was a tired voice that radioed in – Grif – who said they were on their way back. A new wait began, but one with less pressure: they were alive.
How alive remained to be seen.
Like Tucker, for example, who had a sweet new armor upgrade, but lost one of his asshole best friends in the process. He had been strangely quiet, an odd change for him, but there was a level of melancholy that had sat with most of them since that battle. Church wasn’t coming back with them. Someone was going to have to tell Wash and Carolina. Ultimately, it was going to fall on his shoulders, he knew, because Caboose was still having a hard time comprehending it and what other Blue was there?
Even though colors and lines meant nothing, there was still Blue Responsibilities. Fuck responsibilities. Tucker hated them because too many found their way to him.
They pulled up to the motorpool and people were already waiting, happy, cheering. Some of them took it to be a positive thing, Donut waving, but for the moment, they were quiet. Tucker knew they were going to be debriefed, but he just wanted some time to himself before that happened. Or, rather, not himself, but he wanted to make sure Wash and Carolina were okay; the way they had left hadn’t been the most promising. He slid out of the vehicle and started to slink off before anyone could catch him. Kinda hard to miss him now, though.
This armor was going to take some time to get used to, though; it was heavier, larger and taller than he was accustomed to, and he still tensed up when he passed by any reflective surface. Fuck, he looked like a badass. No wonder the Meta had worn it.
Stop staring in the mirrors and go find Wash. Fuck. Yeah.
Things on Chorus had been such a huge clusterfuck that Wash and Carolina had been making heavy weather just keeping the battle from spilling over onto their side and decimating their ranks. But then all communication with the Staff of Charon had ceased and so had its attack.
Washington was worried for the Sim Troopers but he also had faith in them and that faith had apparently paid off. He wasn't so happy about the lack of communication afterwards and he'd been about to steal a Pelican if he had to in order to track down his wayward teammates when news came over the comms that everyone was okay.
The combined armies of Chorus had even managed a weak cheer but most of them were so damned exhausted from the protracted fight that they just wanted to sack out. Unfortunately, there was a lot of work to be done. Weaponry needed to be secured as did prisoners. The wounded needed medical attention not to mention scouts had to be sent out to track down any pirates who might have tried to get away when the battle turned against them.
Wash had volunteered to hunt down strays though by the time he'd killed or captured his last pirate, he got a ping on the comms from Carolina telling him that Tucker and the others were on their way inbound. Seeing as how all he'd managed was to hogtie and gag two pirates in the back of his warthog, the Freelancer radio'd that he was coming back to base.
He dropped off his prisoners at the make-shift brig and returned the warthog to the motorpool. Or he was until he spotted the eerily familiar shape of the Meta's armor. Although, to be fair, it wasn't the familiar white but rather a cyan colored that probably should have clicked in Washington's brain.
And maybe it would have it he wasn't going on like 30 hours awake but as it stood, seeing that familiar fish bowl shaped helmet had his heart leaping into his throat and a complex wash of anger, resentment and dread kindling to life in the pit of his stomach.
The Meta was here!
The wheels of the warthog squealed in protest as Wash yanked the wheel to the right and Wash brought his Magnum up to bear on the armored soldier.
"Meta! Stop right there!" He should have fired, should have just shot the man in the back when he had the chance because there was nothing of the man that Wash had once known. Not the same man he'd shared a companionable meal in silence with or...other things once upon a time.
I am hooooping my replies will be half-way decent today. I'm kinda exhausted and sick today.
Tucker wanted nothing more than to just fall on his bed and sleep for fucking weeks. Fuck soldiering. Fuck laps. Fuck wars. Fuck Chorus. Just sleep. It'd be nice, with dreams containing lots of sex and sleep inside sleep and it'd be the best fucking nap in the world. He longed for it. He could taste it.
Well, that and the rubber from the squealing tires of a warthog coming at him. Tucker looked up, smiling a little under his helmet; shit, less work for him as the search for Wash had suddenly ended so quickly. He opened his mouth to say somethin--
There was a Magnum pointed at him. Wash...was pointing his gun at him. At. Him.
"Whoa, whoa, back the fuck up!" he yelled, holding his hands up, dispelling any idea that the Meta could be the one hiding in this all-too-familiar suit. "What the hell are you talking about?! I'm not the fucking Met--"
Then he looked at himself in the visor of Wash's helmet, remembered what he was wearing, and laughed a little under his breath. Okay. Fair. He had earned that one, hadn't he?
"It's me, Tucker. It's a long fucking story and I'm tired and can you just walk me back to my room before I pass out right here and then you'll have to carry me back? I've...got a lot to tell you."
He instantly recognized Tucker's voiced and realized his mistake almost immediately. Though in his defense, it was certainly a completely understandable mistake to make.
"Tucker? What the hell are you doing in Meta's armor!?" Though now the teal color scheme instead of Maine's predominantly white color choices made a lot more sense. Wash's breathing was elevated and he could feel his heart beating like a drum inside his ribcage but finally the sidearm was lowered and the safety clicked back into place.
"I can't just leave--Bitters! Take this Warthog back to the motor pool." Of course Mr. Anal Retentive Freelancer wouldn't just abandon a warthog in the middle of the road. Thankfully, he'd caught sight of Bitters walking by and unlike the Sim Troopers, the New Republic soldier actually seemed a little afraid of Washington. There was only a little bit of bitching from Bitters as he took possession of the vehicle.
Wash valiantly ignored it as he approached Tucker with wariness in every line of his body. "Fine, but it better be a damned good explanation, Tucker."
"It was up in the asshole's trophy room." Yes, the Meta's armor, Maine's armor, sitting there like a reward, like a souvenir of a grand vacation. Along with other stuff, too, stuff where some of it hit waaay too close to home for some of the people he ...had...been with. "Modified it. It's pretty sweet now. Just cost me a best friend to be able to use it."
Yeah, so maybe he could have found a nicer way to say that, especially considering the connection that Epsilon and Wash had. Shit. He wasn't good at this sorta thing when he wasn't tired and fucking over everything; doing it now was like letting a toddler drive a monster truck through a china shop.
He didn't think about what he was doing, not really; he just leaned into Wash a little as he walked because shit was heavy. Not just the suit, not just the armor and everything else, but weight of the story, the weight of the memory, the weight of the recording the little motherfucker made right before he--
Shit. This fucking sucked.
"I'll play you what he left for us when we're in the barracks, okay? Don't get your hopes up, either; it's not as good as porn." He was quiet for a minute as he walked, steps heavy, echoing over the noise in the motorpool. "You okay?"
"Hardgrove had it? How the hell did he get his hands on the Meta's suit?" It should have been destroyed along with Maine when he fell off that icy cliff to the frozen ocean below on Sidewinder.
If the Chairman had found the Meta's armor...had he found Maine's body? Or was he still out there roaming space like the storytime monster he was? Surely if the Meta were still alive he would have come after Epsilon by now.
"Your..." Wash cut off before he could finish because he suddenly knew something was seriously wrong. Church had been outfitted in Tucker's memory slot. He would have seen his whole freak out and right about now should have been laughing his virtual ass off at Wash being a spazz.
But there was a noticeable lack of digital laughter and generalize lack of Church dickishness. Behind the opaque visor, Wash's expression had grown guarded and there was the faintest uptick in his pulse rate.
"Alright, let's get you back to your quarters." The former Freelancer bore Tucker's tired weight without protest though he had to fight down the urge to wrap a supporting arm around the tired Sim trooper's waist. Tucker would have probably freaked out on him if he tried that and Wash wasn't the most comfortable person when it came to physical contact these days anyway. "I feel like I should be asking you that instead."
Yeah, it was quiet. Too quiet. And fucking hell, he hated those lines right now because he remembered being so annoyed when Church had forced him into reciting those very words in some clichéd joke bit that wasn't very funny. And now they actually meant something. Now they were fucking true, and Church wasn't even here to fucking cut him off and laugh about it.
What a dick.
And judging from Wash's silence, he was starting to figure it out for himself.
"You know, I've been waiting weeks for someone to say that to me. Didn't think it'd be you." His laugh was tired, half-hearted, sex jokes even failing him at the moment. And really, he wouldn't have minded the arm around his waist; he was too fucking tired to care what anyone said. "Dude, I don't even know anymore."
His quarters weren't far and blissfully empty, quiet, dark. Once inside, he waited for Wash to come in and locked the door, not in the mood to fucking deal anymore. Fingers worked the latches of his helmet open, and he took it off, dropping it unceremoniously on a chair in the corner. Fuck. Where to start?
"We were trapped in the trophy room..." And so Tucker told him, told him about the last few minutes, about finding the armor, about putting it on, told him how it wouldn't work to the capacity they needed, though. Told him how they all got ready, all of them knowing they were pretty well fucked. Told him about the quiet.
He told him about...he told him about Epsilon. The message. About the suit suddenly working. About fucking dumbass Church and his dumbass sacrifices and how he just fucking had to go and do this, leaving them behind a-fucking-gain.
"Caboose still doesn't understand, I think. It's nothing new, though, he doesn't ever understand anything. But...I think he thinks Church is on vacation? I dunno."
"Sorry to disappoint you, Tucker. Guess you will just have to make due with me." Wash snarked at him equally halfheartedly because he just wasn't feeling it either. He was only silently grateful Tucker didn't try and trot out his ridiculous bow-chicka-wow-wow's or something of the sort.
Once they reached Tucker's quarters, Wash did in fact lock the door behind them because he was still a paranoid bastard who slept with his sidearm next to the bed and a backup piece within reach as well.
He ended up copying Tucker's movement and took off his helmet which he sat down on the desk before leaning up against it while the other man gave him a rundown on current events.
Wash had always been kind of gunshy about going around unmasked even back on Valhalla. Whether it was because he had some Locus complex or he was simply too damned paranoid to be comfortable out of his armor for even a second was uncertain.
He wasn't that much older than Tucker and the rest of the Sim Troopers but he was aged prematurely by the strains and traumas of his lifetime. Gray was as liberally shot through his hair and there were wrinkles and frown lines edging the corners of his eyes. Wash just looked tired but that was pretty par for course with him.
But hearing about Epsilon's fate had something akin to grief briefly touching his eyes. He'd had a complicated relationship with AI though things had gotten better during their time in Chorus.
"He probably thinks he went off somewhere like when he disappeared with Carolina. That...might not be a bad thing for now. You remember how he got after the crash." Wash said before rubbing a hand tiredly over his face.
Tucker watched Wash remove the helmet, looked at his face on one of the rare occasions it was out in the...well, as fresh of air as they got around here. It wasn't like he hadn't seen it before; they were in each other's orbits for awhile now, but it was fleeting, moments that were barely there. Wash looked...tired. But Wash always looked tired.
He also looked...sad? Or something? And Tucker wasn't sure what he was expecting out of the exchange, but this was pretty much it.
Dark eyes found the ceiling, staring up at the flickering lights. Caboose...Caboose wasn't going to get it, at least not for awhile. And Tucker couldn't let himself be sad in front of him, because he'd know, he'd fucking know. And as much as he hated to admit it, Tucker had grown...a little protective over his team-killing teammate. When had that happened?
"Yeah, don't want another fucking murder pet running around."
Or so that's what he'd admit to, because it was easier than admitting the truth.
"Shit." Crouching down on the floor, he slipped an arm under the bed, searching until he found a small locker that he tugged out. Opening it, he ignored the things that people would expect him to have (porn, lube, condoms) and went for two bottles of whiskey that were unopened. Kicking the box back under, he sat on the bed, set bottle on the floor, and opened the other.
"Want some?" He took a drink straight from the bottle, nose wrinkling a little at the burn. "Doesn't matter either way, cause I'm gonna."
Wash always looked tired and stressed out but tonight he looked downright haggard. The stress of the campaign and almost a full twenty-four hours on his feet would have been enough to wipe anyone's reserves.
This newest emotional hurdle threatened to squash whatever remained of his morale. Epsilon had been his AI and he'd very nearly killed himself because of the stresses the AI had put on his psyche. For the majority of the time he'd spent in that psyche ward, Wash had been incapable of differentiating between what were his memories and what had come for Epsilon.
For months, his dreams had been haunted by the face of a blonde woman who's name he could not recall and he'd screamed out the name Allison until his voice had cracked and eventually lost because he'd been screaming the name for so long.
His experience with Epsilon had scarred Wash for life when it came to AI and now he couldn't even consider the idea of accepting an onboard AI passenger in his neural network without feeling panic bubble at the back of his throat. Yet despite the horrific experience, he came to care for Epsilon as his own unique individual rather than the ghostly echo of the Director's memories.
And he mourned for that loss just like Tucker did.
"One Freckles is enough for one lifetime." Wash agreed quietly while he watched Tucker dig around under his bed only to draw out the locker containing two bottles of whiskey. His eyebrows arched upwards but for the first time in his life, Washington didn't feel the need to lecture Tucker over the obvious contraband.
Or the potential drinking problem he'd apparently picked up somewhere. He just mutely accepted the second bottle and twisted off the cap so he could take a long pull from the bottle. It burned a path down his throat but Wash kept that discomfort to himself.
Potential drinking problem? Hell no, this was celebration booze. This was bought specifically for the time when this stupid fucking war was done, when Felix the Cockbite was dead, and Hargrove was fucking paying for what he had done. This was saved, unopened, waiting like a good woman dressed in lingerie with her arms wide.
This was supposed to be Happy Fun Fucking Time booze to be shared between all the Sim Troops and Freelancers.
It would have to do for now, because the heaviness of the situation was making the burn a little less satisfactory.
Tucker wasn’t sure what he was expecting out of Wash, a glass or something? Washed twice because who knew what happened in Tucker’s room? But nope, he went straight for the bottle, too, and there was a silent, mutual appreciation over mourning something that was human and not, that was…something.
That was Church.
He took another drink. “You know, when we were up there, I didn’t think any of us were coming back. Like, it wasn’t fine, it fucking sucked, but I was ready. Prepared. I was going to take as many of them out as I could, and then…whatever happened would happen. But coming back without Church, it feels more real than when we were in the trophy room.” The bottle dangled in a loose fist between his knees, the different suit casting unfamiliar shadows across the floor.
“He’s been a dumbass and died so many fucking times, and I just keep thinking he’s going to come back again. It’s kinda stupid, you know. I feel like Caboose.”
This might have been meant for a victory celebration but instead, it had turned into some grim sort of wake for the dead and undead. Epsilon...Church, whatever name he'd gone for, he'd left his mark on both of them.
There might have even been a time when Wash would have welcomed Epsilon's demise considering the heartbreak and trauma he'd undergone thanks to the AI. But he'd come to learn the AI all over again outside of the traumatizing confines of the Project and had come to value Church as a member of the team.
"It's Church, he's cheated death so many times, that is a totally reasonable assumption if you ask me." Wash pointed out quietly while taking another pull from the bottle. The whiskey burned just as much the second time around as it did the first time. But he knew if he kept drinking, he'd eventually the alcohol would win out and he'd grow numb and not even notice that burn anymore.
"Everything we've gone through lately, all of this uncertainty and upheaval, I think all of us are going to need time to process things." The tired looking ex-Freelancer looked over at Tucker then with a serious look on his face. "Did you tell Carolina what happened to Epsilon?" The AI had been paired with her pretty much from the moment he'd been freed from the memory unit and Wash was one of the few people who understood just what Epsilon truly meant to the woman and the connections he offered her to her past and to her deceased family.
I know you're going to kill me for fucking up nirvana, but I'm so bored at work that I had to. ♥
Yeah, reasonable. Nothing felt reasonable; Church sacrificing himself didn’t feel reasonable. Them still going on like nothing happened didn’t feel reasonable. But him coming back? Him not being dead after all? That was the most sane thing out of this whole stupid ordeal.
And it wasn’t going to happen. Death had lost its finality until it really was standing at their doorsteps. The end.
Tucker drank again, two deep swallows before he hung the bottle back down once more. The burn sucked, and the molten core he was developing in his stomach was a slow comfort. Carolina… “No. Not yet. Figured I’d try to find the words first.” Or, you know, try to run into Wash and test those same words out on him first. Or maybe just have Wash tell her because they were closer than she was with the rest of them; they had a history that the Sim Troops couldn’t touch. Or, fuck it, just leave her a note and run like hell.
Why was this his job? Why was he still trying to fix Church’s fucking bullshit after he was gone? Didn’t they have people who were supposed to inform folks of their fallen loved ones, with all the flags and ceremony and shit? But Carolina would scare them. She only mildly scared Tucker anymore.
And she’d want to hear it from one of them. From him. From Wash. From one of them.
Tomorrow.
“Sit down,” Tucker said, sliding over a little on the bed to make room. “The stuff written on the bathroom walls isn’t right; I only bite when I’m asked to.”
"Yeah, I understand." Wash's face went all inscrutable which was never a good sign but he was thinking about Carolina and felt his heart ache for the other Freelancer. He knew better than many just how much Carolina had lost. Her mother...her father, the Project...York.
And now Epsilon.
Just how much loss could a person withstand before they either lost themselves in the grief or they just no longer allowed themselves to feel much of anything for anyone anymore? Wash knew which end of the spectrum Carolina fell on because he was much the same way. They were both so damaged by the scars of their past that Wash hadn't thought themselves capable of forming bonds and connections with anyone else, ever again.
It was what made the Sim Troopers all the more remarkable. They had resurrected his cold heart and reminded Carolina of her humanity once more.
Tucker dragged him out of his own thoughts with that unexpected offer slash order to sit down. He belatedly realized he was probably making the other man nervy by standing over him like that.
"You know just how to put the mind at ease." He snarked albeit weakly as he came to settle awkwardly on the edge of the bed. The smart thing would have been just to move the helmet...move the Meta's helmet off the lone chair but Wash found himself hesitant about touching the damned thing. There were just too many bad memories wrapped up in that helmet.
"So does that mean I can't believe anything I read on the bathroom walls about you, Tucker?" Wash joked, awkwardly trying to play off his tension with a weak attempt at humor before pulling the bottle up to his mouth again to take another drink.
"Careful, or I'll start my Orgasm Palace Special: Barry White and booze."
That helmet. Tucker caught himself looking at his reflection in it, remembering his own run-ins, his own bad memories. Now it had another one, another person claimed by someone wearing it. Would he put it on after this? He... didn't know. He didn't want Church's sacrifice to be for a onetime thing, even if...even if he had gotten what he wanted to out of it.
But he'd be damned if he ever let someone else in it. No one. Ever.
Fucking asshole, Church.
Was it wrong that it was the only place Tucker felt close to him now?
"If it's about my nine inch cock that I totally did not write myself, then you can believe that. If it's about burning when I pee? Nope. " He brought the bottle to his lips again, took another drag, and the burn was less this time. He was either getting used to it, or he was starting to feel it.
"Now what do we do?" That Hargrove was gone. That Chorus was safe. That Church was... Shit, were they supposed to have a memorial or something? A funeral without a body? Could they just bury the suit and leave it at that? Fuck, it was complicated.
Wash looked both concerned and mildly horrified all at the same time.
“No, no need to pull out all the stops on the…no, I’m not calling it that and please for the love of God don’t use that phrase again.” Honestly, how Tucker still thought he was some kind of ladies man was beyond him. He’d seen the Sim trooper get shot down so many times by various women in both armies.
It might have been strangely endearing if it wasn’t mired down in so much gross sexism and complete lack of respect for the female persuasion in general. When Wash had found out that Tex had been assigned to Blood Gulch and managed to spend a large amount of time with the Blues, he’d been downright stunned by the knowledge she hadn’t torn Tucker’s dick or any other parts off of his body.
“No, I was more referring to the “Tucker is a terrible lay” variety written all over the bathrooms.” What….had that seriously just come out of his mouth? Apparently he’d drunk more of this hooch than he’d realized. It made his tongue looser and allowed the things he normally kept locked up tight inside of his head to be aired out loud.
“Though please, feel free to never tell me anything more about how you pee or the burning sensation. Some things just aren’t meant to be shared between teammates. That’s more Dr. Grey’s purview.”
Of course, Tucker had to go and drag the emotion in the cramped room right back down into the dumps with his next question. The skin around Wash’s eyes tightened and a grimace briefly twisted at his expression before he found himself looking down at the bottle cupped in his hands. “I dunno, Tucker. I think I’m going to try and finish as much of this bottle so that I can put off that question till tomorrow.” He admitted with rare honestly.
It was his charm that allowed him to have his dick still. Well, that and the fact there was always shit going on to distract Tex. Church shit. Drama. Battles. Freelancers. All the normals that allowed his jokes and poor come-ons to get lost in the myriad of other, far more important bullshit.
But he liked to think it was because she secretly wanted him. And his charm.
"That really isn't true. Motherfuckers are jealous of all the chicks I get." Wow, Wash, he wasn't expecting the humor (God, he hoped it was a joke and not real) coming out of his mouth. A little pout screwed into his mouth at the thought that it could be true, and he was already narrowing down the people who would commit such a blatant crime. Grif? That might be too much work for him. Simmons? Defacing property was a blah blah offense and blah. Sarge didn't care, Caboose didn't know what "lay" meant in that context. Well, shit.
"And it doesn't burn anymore since the pills." He chased the words with a swig of whiskey, and the weightless disconnect was starting to set in. Good.
Especially good with the question hanging between them, and the answer offered. Yeah, tonight they could forget about the army, forget about who they lost, forget about the news they needed to deliver. Tonight, they could kill some liquor and just exist in this tiny, albeit messy room that had clothes on the floor and a picture of Junior taped to the wall by the bed. They could forget the helmet in the corner, staring at that.
He raised his bottle up for a toast, fathomless brown eyes looking over at Wash. "To saying 'fuck it, let's deal with it tomorrow'."
There was one perk to everyone thinking you were a humorless robot most of the time and the mingled look of confusion and scandalized disbelief on Tucker’s face was priceless. So much so that it actually garnered a quiet chuffing noise out of the ex-Freelancer which might have even been classified as a chuckle.
“You’re assuming it’s men and not the hoards of dissatisfied women writing that on the walls?” Wash pointed out dryly while taking another sip from the bottle. By now, the alcohol had either burned all the nerve endings in his throat out or he was feeling it’s effects to the extent that he didn’t even notice the sensation anymore.
“What did I just tell you? I don’t want to know anything about you or your bodily functions, Tucker!” He protested loudly but without any real bite in his words. Wash rested the bottle in between his legs so that he could rub at his face with both hands as though trying to scrub that mental image from his brain.
It was easier than looking at the other man when he admitted his own weakness when it came to hiding from the truth of Epsilon’s loss even if it was only for a few hours. Which was an urge he knew to be selfish and that he should probably be looking for Carolina now to tell her before she heard it from anyone else because that would be ten times worse for her.
“I should find Carolina, tell her what happened.” He said softly while meeting Tucker’s gaze for a moment. “I just…don’t want to tell her that. She’s lost so much already.”
"Because how are women writing it on the MEN'S bathroom stalls?" Duh, Wash. "Unless you're going into the women's bathroom, perv. Didn't know you had it in you."
Two could play that game. He watched Wash drink, hard, deep, and he found himself snickering as he did his own swig. His legs felt heavy, the alcohol nothing, and he was disappointed in the lack of toast. There was no bottle smacking bottle, the only response necessary when one raised a container of alcohol, but he didn't pursue it.
Not when Wash said that. Telling Carolina seemed... not dangerous, even if it should be, but sad. Church and her had been close. They had been closer than Tucker could ever understand, not exactly getting what brought them together, but he hadn't bothered to get nosy; Chuch probably had a crush on her or some shit. But either way, she was going to take it bad. As bad as they were, for sure.
Would she want to come back and drink with them? Maybe. Tucker would let her.
Wash, he noticed, had fucking pretty eyes. Shame they looked so tired all the time.
"I should go with you," he said, setting his bottle to the side, even though he was reluctant to let it go. "I was there, and, like, I knew him the longest, and I can protect you if she gets violent."
"And how do you know women aren't sneaking into the men's restrooms to write about your prowess or lack there of?" Wash challenged him smoothly and with an arched brow. The scar through that brow sort of made the expression look a little lopsided and distorted thanks to the deadened nerve-endings not responding but he managed to convey that amusement all the same.
Wash lifted the bottle and took another sip from it and by now, his stomach was feeling so warm, he barely even felt the churning nausea that threatened to swallow him.
Who knew how the older man might have reacted to the knowledge that Tucker was looking at him close enough to notice his eyes were pretty. This close, Tucker could even see the starbursts of yellow-brown encircling the each pupil.
"No, I think I should do it alone. She's...not going to want an audience for this." Wash didn't bother to refute the accuracy of Tucker's statement about knowing Epsilon longer because well...technically he had considering he'd been the first person the AI interacted with. But the Alpha and Epsilon in part were all a reflection of Leonard Church and that was Carolina's secret that he would keep until his grave.
"Thanks for the drink, Tucker." He climbed to his feet and winced at the bright shaft of pain that went through him at that movement. Wash wasn't as young anymore an after a long day of battle, he was paying for it.
Watching Wash get up, Tucker took the chance to fall completely back down onto the cot, causing the frame to protest. He needed to take the rest of this armor off, and he would the second the Freelancer was gone, if it wasn’t too much effort. It probably was. Everything felt like it was right now.
Well, everything other than drinking.
He watched that wince, a little smile crossing his lips. “You’re getting old, Wash,” he teased. “Can’t keep up with young, hot guys like me, but feel free to keep trying.”
For once, he didn’t barge in on the need to do something, to be alone with a woman, or to just avoid a situation altogether; he was just letting it lie as it was. This wasn’t something he wanted to do to start with, and while it sucked that Wash was taking it onto himself, he had his own feelings to process, his own grief. And, maybe processing them was going to happen at the bottom of this bottle.
No. It was definitely going to happen at the bottom of this bottle.
“If you feel like coming back after, I’ll still be up.” He laid his head back on the pillow, lips pulling into a small, twisted little frown. “Nope. Not going to say it. Too easy. …and so was that one. Just, like, you can come back if you want. I can’t guarantee you your whiskey will still be here, though.”
He rolled to his side to take another drink. “Good luck, Wash. Wouldn’t want to be you right now. I don’t even want to be me.”
"You're not that much older than me, Tucker. Just you wait till the first day you wake up and your knees are aching just at the thought of climbing out of bed." Wash informed him with a flat look as he set the whiskey bottle down on the desk where he'd set his helmet and pulled it back on with a sigh.
Wash could smell his whiskey tinged breath in the tight confines of the helmet and fought back a grimace.
"I appreciate your discretion. It's almost like you're maturing into an adult." He drawled and headed for the door.
Something about Tucker's parting words stood out sharply to him and he felt an instantaneous wash of concern for the Sim trooper. But he had bigger fish to fry right now so he let it pass without comment and slipped outside to go track down Carolina.
What came to pass next was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do in his life. But she deserved to hear it from him rather than from base gossip or thanks to the tactless words of say Sarge.
It would be the better part of an hour before Wash found himself wandering back through officer's territory. All he wanted to do was go fall facedown in his bunk and just pass out.
But Tucker's words had stayed with him like a bad song stuck on repeat in his head so instead of heading directly for his quarters, he stopped by Tucker's.
He knocked very gently on the door so as not to wake the younger man if he'd already passed out but hopefully it would be enough to garner his attention if he were still awake.
Passed out? Nope. He had managed to take to take his armor off, but each piece was scattered across the room, begging to be tripped over. Not that it looked much different than his normal state of affairs for his quarters; he wasn't the neatest member of the Sim Troops. But, then again, at least he wasn't Grif.
Tucker hadn't honestly thought Wash would be back; the talk with Carolina would be difficult, draining for anyone, but for a fellow Freelancer, it carried a new weight. He had turned on music in the meantime, flopped down and just drank from his bottle, leaving the one Wash had untouched. He didn't finish his own, mostly because he liked having a liver, not dying tomorrow, and because he couldn't, but the dent he had put in it was sizable.
He existed in the space beyond the place of pleasant buzzing, and instead had steamrolled into drunk. His body was a weightless machine, and even on the bed with just a pair of teal and black plaid sleep pants, he felt light. Buzzing. Numb. It was a contradictory experience, but he didn't care about that, either. For the moment, the things he had seen, the things he had dealt with, the hole that now existed was lessened. It felt surmountable. It felt less real.
Tucker sang with Queen as it blared through the speakers, an almost bitterness that came with "We are the champions," that made his voice crack. He didn't hear the door; the knocks were too quiet. Now, his neighbors who had pounded on the wall to get him to turn down the music, he had heard that. Told them to fuck off and turned it up louder.
They had shut up after that. Or maybe after he had carved douchecanoe into their door with his sword.
But for as loud and victorious as Freddie Mercury sounded, Tucker didn't share in the feeling, even if they had won.
Wash leaned in closer to the door and could hear the thrum of music from the room within. He wasn't as versed with twentieth-first century music like Tucker and didn't recognize the song. And in truth, it just sounded like a whole mess of racket to him.
A lot of racket at close to midnight which he was sure his neighbors really appreciated.
This time, Washington's thumps on the door weren't quiet or hesitant but instead were more akin to a loud pounding.
"Tucker! Turn down that racket, people are trying to sleep!"
That's because Washington had no taste. None. Seriously, Queen was a classic. Epic.
Fucking lameass.
The pounding against the door stopped his off-key singing, but the music didn't turn down; this was the good part. He did, however, swing his legs off the cot, finding the floor under his bare feet. Vertical was never as pleasant as horizontal. When he stood, the room swayed but didn't spin, like gravity was altered but not gone.
The cement was cool under him, which shucked away some of the top layer of intoxication, but he didn't really feel any more sober. He made his way to the door, fiddling with it until it opened and he was staring at Wash.
Wash with no musical appreciation.
"Fuck you. Freddie's not racket. Your mom's racket."
Maybe his finger poked Wash's chest. Maybe he smiled a little. Those fucking eyes.
"I'm a war hero. I get to decide when people sleep."
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lightofdawn) wrote2016-05-31 01:00 pm
Tuckington - Post 13. Now I need icons of that suit.
So much nothing.
At least for a bit. Twenty-four hours gave way to thirty-six, to forty-eight, and finally, finally, there was a tired voice that radioed in – Grif – who said they were on their way back. A new wait began, but one with less pressure: they were alive.
How alive remained to be seen.
Like Tucker, for example, who had a sweet new armor upgrade, but lost one of his asshole best friends in the process. He had been strangely quiet, an odd change for him, but there was a level of melancholy that had sat with most of them since that battle. Church wasn’t coming back with them. Someone was going to have to tell Wash and Carolina. Ultimately, it was going to fall on his shoulders, he knew, because Caboose was still having a hard time comprehending it and what other Blue was there?
Even though colors and lines meant nothing, there was still Blue Responsibilities. Fuck responsibilities. Tucker hated them because too many found their way to him.
They pulled up to the motorpool and people were already waiting, happy, cheering. Some of them took it to be a positive thing, Donut waving, but for the moment, they were quiet. Tucker knew they were going to be debriefed, but he just wanted some time to himself before that happened. Or, rather, not himself, but he wanted to make sure Wash and Carolina were okay; the way they had left hadn’t been the most promising. He slid out of the vehicle and started to slink off before anyone could catch him. Kinda hard to miss him now, though.
This armor was going to take some time to get used to, though; it was heavier, larger and taller than he was accustomed to, and he still tensed up when he passed by any reflective surface. Fuck, he looked like a badass. No wonder the Meta had worn it.
Stop staring in the mirrors and go find Wash. Fuck. Yeah.
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Washington was worried for the Sim Troopers but he also had faith in them and that faith had apparently paid off. He wasn't so happy about the lack of communication afterwards and he'd been about to steal a Pelican if he had to in order to track down his wayward teammates when news came over the comms that everyone was okay.
The combined armies of Chorus had even managed a weak cheer but most of them were so damned exhausted from the protracted fight that they just wanted to sack out. Unfortunately, there was a lot of work to be done. Weaponry needed to be secured as did prisoners. The wounded needed medical attention not to mention scouts had to be sent out to track down any pirates who might have tried to get away when the battle turned against them.
Wash had volunteered to hunt down strays though by the time he'd killed or captured his last pirate, he got a ping on the comms from Carolina telling him that Tucker and the others were on their way inbound. Seeing as how all he'd managed was to hogtie and gag two pirates in the back of his warthog, the Freelancer radio'd that he was coming back to base.
He dropped off his prisoners at the make-shift brig and returned the warthog to the motorpool. Or he was until he spotted the eerily familiar shape of the Meta's armor. Although, to be fair, it wasn't the familiar white but rather a cyan colored that probably should have clicked in Washington's brain.
And maybe it would have it he wasn't going on like 30 hours awake but as it stood, seeing that familiar fish bowl shaped helmet had his heart leaping into his throat and a complex wash of anger, resentment and dread kindling to life in the pit of his stomach.
The Meta was here!
The wheels of the warthog squealed in protest as Wash yanked the wheel to the right and Wash brought his Magnum up to bear on the armored soldier.
"Meta! Stop right there!" He should have fired, should have just shot the man in the back when he had the chance because there was nothing of the man that Wash had once known. Not the same man he'd shared a companionable meal in silence with or...other things once upon a time.
I am hooooping my replies will be half-way decent today. I'm kinda exhausted and sick today.
Tucker wanted nothing more than to just fall on his bed and sleep for fucking weeks. Fuck soldiering. Fuck laps. Fuck wars. Fuck Chorus. Just sleep. It'd be nice, with dreams containing lots of sex and sleep inside sleep and it'd be the best fucking nap in the world. He longed for it. He could taste it.
Well, that and the rubber from the squealing tires of a warthog coming at him. Tucker looked up, smiling a little under his helmet; shit, less work for him as the search for Wash had suddenly ended so quickly. He opened his mouth to say somethin--
There was a Magnum pointed at him. Wash...was pointing his gun at him. At. Him.
"Whoa, whoa, back the fuck up!" he yelled, holding his hands up, dispelling any idea that the Meta could be the one hiding in this all-too-familiar suit. "What the hell are you talking about?! I'm not the fucking Met--"
Then he looked at himself in the visor of Wash's helmet, remembered what he was wearing, and laughed a little under his breath. Okay. Fair. He had earned that one, hadn't he?
"It's me, Tucker. It's a long fucking story and I'm tired and can you just walk me back to my room before I pass out right here and then you'll have to carry me back? I've...got a lot to tell you."
Me too ._.
"Tucker? What the hell are you doing in Meta's armor!?" Though now the teal color scheme instead of Maine's predominantly white color choices made a lot more sense. Wash's breathing was elevated and he could feel his heart beating like a drum inside his ribcage but finally the sidearm was lowered and the safety clicked back into place.
"I can't just leave--Bitters! Take this Warthog back to the motor pool." Of course Mr. Anal Retentive Freelancer wouldn't just abandon a warthog in the middle of the road. Thankfully, he'd caught sight of Bitters walking by and unlike the Sim Troopers, the New Republic soldier actually seemed a little afraid of Washington. There was only a little bit of bitching from Bitters as he took possession of the vehicle.
Wash valiantly ignored it as he approached Tucker with wariness in every line of his body. "Fine, but it better be a damned good explanation, Tucker."
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Yeah, so maybe he could have found a nicer way to say that, especially considering the connection that Epsilon and Wash had. Shit. He wasn't good at this sorta thing when he wasn't tired and fucking over everything; doing it now was like letting a toddler drive a monster truck through a china shop.
He didn't think about what he was doing, not really; he just leaned into Wash a little as he walked because shit was heavy. Not just the suit, not just the armor and everything else, but weight of the story, the weight of the memory, the weight of the recording the little motherfucker made right before he--
Shit. This fucking sucked.
"I'll play you what he left for us when we're in the barracks, okay? Don't get your hopes up, either; it's not as good as porn." He was quiet for a minute as he walked, steps heavy, echoing over the noise in the motorpool. "You okay?"
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If the Chairman had found the Meta's armor...had he found Maine's body? Or was he still out there roaming space like the storytime monster he was? Surely if the Meta were still alive he would have come after Epsilon by now.
"Your..." Wash cut off before he could finish because he suddenly knew something was seriously wrong. Church had been outfitted in Tucker's memory slot. He would have seen his whole freak out and right about now should have been laughing his virtual ass off at Wash being a spazz.
But there was a noticeable lack of digital laughter and generalize lack of Church dickishness. Behind the opaque visor, Wash's expression had grown guarded and there was the faintest uptick in his pulse rate.
"Alright, let's get you back to your quarters." The former Freelancer bore Tucker's tired weight without protest though he had to fight down the urge to wrap a supporting arm around the tired Sim trooper's waist. Tucker would have probably freaked out on him if he tried that and Wash wasn't the most comfortable person when it came to physical contact these days anyway. "I feel like I should be asking you that instead."
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What a dick.
And judging from Wash's silence, he was starting to figure it out for himself.
"You know, I've been waiting weeks for someone to say that to me. Didn't think it'd be you." His laugh was tired, half-hearted, sex jokes even failing him at the moment. And really, he wouldn't have minded the arm around his waist; he was too fucking tired to care what anyone said. "Dude, I don't even know anymore."
His quarters weren't far and blissfully empty, quiet, dark. Once inside, he waited for Wash to come in and locked the door, not in the mood to fucking deal anymore. Fingers worked the latches of his helmet open, and he took it off, dropping it unceremoniously on a chair in the corner. Fuck. Where to start?
"We were trapped in the trophy room..." And so Tucker told him, told him about the last few minutes, about finding the armor, about putting it on, told him how it wouldn't work to the capacity they needed, though. Told him how they all got ready, all of them knowing they were pretty well fucked. Told him about the quiet.
He told him about...he told him about Epsilon. The message. About the suit suddenly working. About fucking dumbass Church and his dumbass sacrifices and how he just fucking had to go and do this, leaving them behind a-fucking-gain.
"Caboose still doesn't understand, I think. It's nothing new, though, he doesn't ever understand anything. But...I think he thinks Church is on vacation? I dunno."
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Once they reached Tucker's quarters, Wash did in fact lock the door behind them because he was still a paranoid bastard who slept with his sidearm next to the bed and a backup piece within reach as well.
He ended up copying Tucker's movement and took off his helmet which he sat down on the desk before leaning up against it while the other man gave him a rundown on current events.
Wash had always been kind of gunshy about going around unmasked even back on Valhalla. Whether it was because he had some Locus complex or he was simply too damned paranoid to be comfortable out of his armor for even a second was uncertain.
He wasn't that much older than Tucker and the rest of the Sim Troopers but he was aged prematurely by the strains and traumas of his lifetime. Gray was as liberally shot through his hair and there were wrinkles and frown lines edging the corners of his eyes. Wash just looked tired but that was pretty par for course with him.
But hearing about Epsilon's fate had something akin to grief briefly touching his eyes. He'd had a complicated relationship with AI though things had gotten better during their time in Chorus.
"He probably thinks he went off somewhere like when he disappeared with Carolina. That...might not be a bad thing for now. You remember how he got after the crash." Wash said before rubbing a hand tiredly over his face.
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Tucker watched Wash remove the helmet, looked at his face on one of the rare occasions it was out in the...well, as fresh of air as they got around here. It wasn't like he hadn't seen it before; they were in each other's orbits for awhile now, but it was fleeting, moments that were barely there. Wash looked...tired. But Wash always looked tired.
He also looked...sad? Or something? And Tucker wasn't sure what he was expecting out of the exchange, but this was pretty much it.
Dark eyes found the ceiling, staring up at the flickering lights. Caboose...Caboose wasn't going to get it, at least not for awhile. And Tucker couldn't let himself be sad in front of him, because he'd know, he'd fucking know. And as much as he hated to admit it, Tucker had grown...a little protective over his team-killing teammate. When had that happened?
"Yeah, don't want another fucking murder pet running around."
Or so that's what he'd admit to, because it was easier than admitting the truth.
"Shit." Crouching down on the floor, he slipped an arm under the bed, searching until he found a small locker that he tugged out. Opening it, he ignored the things that people would expect him to have (porn, lube, condoms) and went for two bottles of whiskey that were unopened. Kicking the box back under, he sat on the bed, set bottle on the floor, and opened the other.
"Want some?" He took a drink straight from the bottle, nose wrinkling a little at the burn. "Doesn't matter either way, cause I'm gonna."
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This newest emotional hurdle threatened to squash whatever remained of his morale. Epsilon had been his AI and he'd very nearly killed himself because of the stresses the AI had put on his psyche. For the majority of the time he'd spent in that psyche ward, Wash had been incapable of differentiating between what were his memories and what had come for Epsilon.
For months, his dreams had been haunted by the face of a blonde woman who's name he could not recall and he'd screamed out the name Allison until his voice had cracked and eventually lost because he'd been screaming the name for so long.
His experience with Epsilon had scarred Wash for life when it came to AI and now he couldn't even consider the idea of accepting an onboard AI passenger in his neural network without feeling panic bubble at the back of his throat. Yet despite the horrific experience, he came to care for Epsilon as his own unique individual rather than the ghostly echo of the Director's memories.
And he mourned for that loss just like Tucker did.
"One Freckles is enough for one lifetime." Wash agreed quietly while he watched Tucker dig around under his bed only to draw out the locker containing two bottles of whiskey. His eyebrows arched upwards but for the first time in his life, Washington didn't feel the need to lecture Tucker over the obvious contraband.
Or the potential drinking problem he'd apparently picked up somewhere. He just mutely accepted the second bottle and twisted off the cap so he could take a long pull from the bottle. It burned a path down his throat but Wash kept that discomfort to himself.
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This was supposed to be Happy Fun Fucking Time booze to be shared between all the Sim Troops and Freelancers.
It would have to do for now, because the heaviness of the situation was making the burn a little less satisfactory.
Tucker wasn’t sure what he was expecting out of Wash, a glass or something? Washed twice because who knew what happened in Tucker’s room? But nope, he went straight for the bottle, too, and there was a silent, mutual appreciation over mourning something that was human and not, that was…something.
That was Church.
He took another drink. “You know, when we were up there, I didn’t think any of us were coming back. Like, it wasn’t fine, it fucking sucked, but I was ready. Prepared. I was going to take as many of them out as I could, and then…whatever happened would happen. But coming back without Church, it feels more real than when we were in the trophy room.” The bottle dangled in a loose fist between his knees, the different suit casting unfamiliar shadows across the floor.
“He’s been a dumbass and died so many fucking times, and I just keep thinking he’s going to come back again. It’s kinda stupid, you know. I feel like Caboose.”
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There might have even been a time when Wash would have welcomed Epsilon's demise considering the heartbreak and trauma he'd undergone thanks to the AI. But he'd come to learn the AI all over again outside of the traumatizing confines of the Project and had come to value Church as a member of the team.
"It's Church, he's cheated death so many times, that is a totally reasonable assumption if you ask me." Wash pointed out quietly while taking another pull from the bottle. The whiskey burned just as much the second time around as it did the first time. But he knew if he kept drinking, he'd eventually the alcohol would win out and he'd grow numb and not even notice that burn anymore.
"Everything we've gone through lately, all of this uncertainty and upheaval, I think all of us are going to need time to process things." The tired looking ex-Freelancer looked over at Tucker then with a serious look on his face. "Did you tell Carolina what happened to Epsilon?" The AI had been paired with her pretty much from the moment he'd been freed from the memory unit and Wash was one of the few people who understood just what Epsilon truly meant to the woman and the connections he offered her to her past and to her deceased family.
I know you're going to kill me for fucking up nirvana, but I'm so bored at work that I had to. ♥
And it wasn’t going to happen. Death had lost its finality until it really was standing at their doorsteps. The end.
Tucker drank again, two deep swallows before he hung the bottle back down once more. The burn sucked, and the molten core he was developing in his stomach was a slow comfort. Carolina… “No. Not yet. Figured I’d try to find the words first.” Or, you know, try to run into Wash and test those same words out on him first. Or maybe just have Wash tell her because they were closer than she was with the rest of them; they had a history that the Sim Troops couldn’t touch. Or, fuck it, just leave her a note and run like hell.
Why was this his job? Why was he still trying to fix Church’s fucking bullshit after he was gone? Didn’t they have people who were supposed to inform folks of their fallen loved ones, with all the flags and ceremony and shit? But Carolina would scare them. She only mildly scared Tucker anymore.
And she’d want to hear it from one of them. From him. From Wash. From one of them.
Tomorrow.
“Sit down,” Tucker said, sliding over a little on the bed to make room. “The stuff written on the bathroom walls isn’t right; I only bite when I’m asked to.”
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And now Epsilon.
Just how much loss could a person withstand before they either lost themselves in the grief or they just no longer allowed themselves to feel much of anything for anyone anymore? Wash knew which end of the spectrum Carolina fell on because he was much the same way. They were both so damaged by the scars of their past that Wash hadn't thought themselves capable of forming bonds and connections with anyone else, ever again.
It was what made the Sim Troopers all the more remarkable. They had resurrected his cold heart and reminded Carolina of her humanity once more.
Tucker dragged him out of his own thoughts with that unexpected offer slash order to sit down. He belatedly realized he was probably making the other man nervy by standing over him like that.
"You know just how to put the mind at ease." He snarked albeit weakly as he came to settle awkwardly on the edge of the bed. The smart thing would have been just to move the helmet...move the Meta's helmet off the lone chair but Wash found himself hesitant about touching the damned thing. There were just too many bad memories wrapped up in that helmet.
"So does that mean I can't believe anything I read on the bathroom walls about you, Tucker?" Wash joked, awkwardly trying to play off his tension with a weak attempt at humor before pulling the bottle up to his mouth again to take another drink.
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That helmet. Tucker caught himself looking at his reflection in it, remembering his own run-ins, his own bad memories. Now it had another one, another person claimed by someone wearing it. Would he put it on after this? He... didn't know. He didn't want Church's sacrifice to be for a onetime thing, even if...even if he had gotten what he wanted to out of it.
But he'd be damned if he ever let someone else in it. No one. Ever.
Fucking asshole, Church.
Was it wrong that it was the only place Tucker felt close to him now?
"If it's about my nine inch cock that I totally did not write myself, then you can believe that. If it's about burning when I pee? Nope. " He brought the bottle to his lips again, took another drag, and the burn was less this time. He was either getting used to it, or he was starting to feel it.
"Now what do we do?" That Hargrove was gone. That Chorus was safe. That Church was... Shit, were they supposed to have a memorial or something? A funeral without a body? Could they just bury the suit and leave it at that? Fuck, it was complicated.
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“No, no need to pull out all the stops on the…no, I’m not calling it that and please for the love of God don’t use that phrase again.” Honestly, how Tucker still thought he was some kind of ladies man was beyond him. He’d seen the Sim trooper get shot down so many times by various women in both armies.
It might have been strangely endearing if it wasn’t mired down in so much gross sexism and complete lack of respect for the female persuasion in general. When Wash had found out that Tex had been assigned to Blood Gulch and managed to spend a large amount of time with the Blues, he’d been downright stunned by the knowledge she hadn’t torn Tucker’s dick or any other parts off of his body.
“No, I was more referring to the “Tucker is a terrible lay” variety written all over the bathrooms.” What….had that seriously just come out of his mouth? Apparently he’d drunk more of this hooch than he’d realized. It made his tongue looser and allowed the things he normally kept locked up tight inside of his head to be aired out loud.
“Though please, feel free to never tell me anything more about how you pee or the burning sensation. Some things just aren’t meant to be shared between teammates. That’s more Dr. Grey’s purview.”
Of course, Tucker had to go and drag the emotion in the cramped room right back down into the dumps with his next question. The skin around Wash’s eyes tightened and a grimace briefly twisted at his expression before he found himself looking down at the bottle cupped in his hands. “I dunno, Tucker. I think I’m going to try and finish as much of this bottle so that I can put off that question till tomorrow.” He admitted with rare honestly.
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But he liked to think it was because she secretly wanted him. And his charm.
"That really isn't true. Motherfuckers are jealous of all the chicks I get." Wow, Wash, he wasn't expecting the humor (God, he hoped it was a joke and not real) coming out of his mouth. A little pout screwed into his mouth at the thought that it could be true, and he was already narrowing down the people who would commit such a blatant crime. Grif? That might be too much work for him. Simmons? Defacing property was a blah blah offense and blah. Sarge didn't care, Caboose didn't know what "lay" meant in that context. Well, shit.
"And it doesn't burn anymore since the pills." He chased the words with a swig of whiskey, and the weightless disconnect was starting to set in. Good.
Especially good with the question hanging between them, and the answer offered. Yeah, tonight they could forget about the army, forget about who they lost, forget about the news they needed to deliver. Tonight, they could kill some liquor and just exist in this tiny, albeit messy room that had clothes on the floor and a picture of Junior taped to the wall by the bed. They could forget the helmet in the corner, staring at that.
He raised his bottle up for a toast, fathomless brown eyes looking over at Wash. "To saying 'fuck it, let's deal with it tomorrow'."
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“You’re assuming it’s men and not the hoards of dissatisfied women writing that on the walls?” Wash pointed out dryly while taking another sip from the bottle. By now, the alcohol had either burned all the nerve endings in his throat out or he was feeling it’s effects to the extent that he didn’t even notice the sensation anymore.
“What did I just tell you? I don’t want to know anything about you or your bodily functions, Tucker!” He protested loudly but without any real bite in his words. Wash rested the bottle in between his legs so that he could rub at his face with both hands as though trying to scrub that mental image from his brain.
It was easier than looking at the other man when he admitted his own weakness when it came to hiding from the truth of Epsilon’s loss even if it was only for a few hours. Which was an urge he knew to be selfish and that he should probably be looking for Carolina now to tell her before she heard it from anyone else because that would be ten times worse for her.
“I should find Carolina, tell her what happened.” He said softly while meeting Tucker’s gaze for a moment. “I just…don’t want to tell her that. She’s lost so much already.”
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Two could play that game. He watched Wash drink, hard, deep, and he found himself snickering as he did his own swig. His legs felt heavy, the alcohol nothing, and he was disappointed in the lack of toast. There was no bottle smacking bottle, the only response necessary when one raised a container of alcohol, but he didn't pursue it.
Not when Wash said that. Telling Carolina seemed... not dangerous, even if it should be, but sad. Church and her had been close. They had been closer than Tucker could ever understand, not exactly getting what brought them together, but he hadn't bothered to get nosy; Chuch probably had a crush on her or some shit. But either way, she was going to take it bad. As bad as they were, for sure.
Would she want to come back and drink with them? Maybe. Tucker would let her.
Wash, he noticed, had fucking pretty eyes. Shame they looked so tired all the time.
"I should go with you," he said, setting his bottle to the side, even though he was reluctant to let it go. "I was there, and, like, I knew him the longest, and I can protect you if she gets violent."
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Wash lifted the bottle and took another sip from it and by now, his stomach was feeling so warm, he barely even felt the churning nausea that threatened to swallow him.
Who knew how the older man might have reacted to the knowledge that Tucker was looking at him close enough to notice his eyes were pretty. This close, Tucker could even see the starbursts of yellow-brown encircling the each pupil.
"No, I think I should do it alone. She's...not going to want an audience for this." Wash didn't bother to refute the accuracy of Tucker's statement about knowing Epsilon longer because well...technically he had considering he'd been the first person the AI interacted with. But the Alpha and Epsilon in part were all a reflection of Leonard Church and that was Carolina's secret that he would keep until his grave.
"Thanks for the drink, Tucker." He climbed to his feet and winced at the bright shaft of pain that went through him at that movement. Wash wasn't as young anymore an after a long day of battle, he was paying for it.
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Watching Wash get up, Tucker took the chance to fall completely back down onto the cot, causing the frame to protest. He needed to take the rest of this armor off, and he would the second the Freelancer was gone, if it wasn’t too much effort. It probably was. Everything felt like it was right now.
Well, everything other than drinking.
He watched that wince, a little smile crossing his lips. “You’re getting old, Wash,” he teased. “Can’t keep up with young, hot guys like me, but feel free to keep trying.”
For once, he didn’t barge in on the need to do something, to be alone with a woman, or to just avoid a situation altogether; he was just letting it lie as it was. This wasn’t something he wanted to do to start with, and while it sucked that Wash was taking it onto himself, he had his own feelings to process, his own grief. And, maybe processing them was going to happen at the bottom of this bottle.
No. It was definitely going to happen at the bottom of this bottle.
“If you feel like coming back after, I’ll still be up.” He laid his head back on the pillow, lips pulling into a small, twisted little frown. “Nope. Not going to say it. Too easy. …and so was that one. Just, like, you can come back if you want. I can’t guarantee you your whiskey will still be here, though.”
He rolled to his side to take another drink. “Good luck, Wash. Wouldn’t want to be you right now. I don’t even want to be me.”
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Wash could smell his whiskey tinged breath in the tight confines of the helmet and fought back a grimace.
"I appreciate your discretion. It's almost like you're maturing into an adult." He drawled and headed for the door.
Something about Tucker's parting words stood out sharply to him and he felt an instantaneous wash of concern for the Sim trooper. But he had bigger fish to fry right now so he let it pass without comment and slipped outside to go track down Carolina.
What came to pass next was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do in his life. But she deserved to hear it from him rather than from base gossip or thanks to the tactless words of say Sarge.
It would be the better part of an hour before Wash found himself wandering back through officer's territory. All he wanted to do was go fall facedown in his bunk and just pass out.
But Tucker's words had stayed with him like a bad song stuck on repeat in his head so instead of heading directly for his quarters, he stopped by Tucker's.
He knocked very gently on the door so as not to wake the younger man if he'd already passed out but hopefully it would be enough to garner his attention if he were still awake.
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Tucker hadn't honestly thought Wash would be back; the talk with Carolina would be difficult, draining for anyone, but for a fellow Freelancer, it carried a new weight. He had turned on music in the meantime, flopped down and just drank from his bottle, leaving the one Wash had untouched. He didn't finish his own, mostly because he liked having a liver, not dying tomorrow, and because he couldn't, but the dent he had put in it was sizable.
He existed in the space beyond the place of pleasant buzzing, and instead had steamrolled into drunk. His body was a weightless machine, and even on the bed with just a pair of teal and black plaid sleep pants, he felt light. Buzzing. Numb. It was a contradictory experience, but he didn't care about that, either. For the moment, the things he had seen, the things he had dealt with, the hole that now existed was lessened. It felt surmountable. It felt less real.
Tucker sang with Queen as it blared through the speakers, an almost bitterness that came with "We are the champions," that made his voice crack. He didn't hear the door; the knocks were too quiet. Now, his neighbors who had pounded on the wall to get him to turn down the music, he had heard that. Told them to fuck off and turned it up louder.
They had shut up after that. Or maybe after he had carved douchecanoe into their door with his sword.
But for as loud and victorious as Freddie Mercury sounded, Tucker didn't share in the feeling, even if they had won.
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A lot of racket at close to midnight which he was sure his neighbors really appreciated.
This time, Washington's thumps on the door weren't quiet or hesitant but instead were more akin to a loud pounding.
"Tucker! Turn down that racket, people are trying to sleep!"
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Fucking lameass.
The pounding against the door stopped his off-key singing, but the music didn't turn down; this was the good part. He did, however, swing his legs off the cot, finding the floor under his bare feet. Vertical was never as pleasant as horizontal. When he stood, the room swayed but didn't spin, like gravity was altered but not gone.
The cement was cool under him, which shucked away some of the top layer of intoxication, but he didn't really feel any more sober. He made his way to the door, fiddling with it until it opened and he was staring at Wash.
Wash with no musical appreciation.
"Fuck you. Freddie's not racket. Your mom's racket."
Maybe his finger poked Wash's chest. Maybe he smiled a little. Those fucking eyes.
"I'm a war hero. I get to decide when people sleep."
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Why do you like him, Wash?
He doesn't even know himself
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