lightofdawn | [Open Log] Kinks and Freaks, Oh My!

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."

Wash who stood there just radiating that all too familiar air of judgement and exasperation. He had to remind himself that Tucker was drunk and that he himself wasn't exactly sober either.

So letting tempers flare or allowing things to devolve into yet another fight was pointless.

"First off? That makes no sense whatsoever. Second off, people are tired. It's been a long-ass couple of days for everyone." The former Freelancer didn't rise to the bait when Tucker poked him with one bare hand. Somewhere along the way, the other man had pulled off all of his armor and it just served to exaggerate the differences in their height while Wash was standing there in full armor.

Wash was going to blame the weird twisty thing his stomach did when Tucker smiled like that with that look in his eyes on the alcohol.

"Just, try and keep the noise level down to mild bedlam, okay?"

Standing before Wash, Tucker was a small yappy dog in front of a larger one, unaware of his own lesser size and distinct lack of authority in the matter. Wash could take him. Wash could totally take him right now because Wash was ready for a war that just ended, but Tucker didn't care because he still thought he had a chance. Did it matter that he was sans armor? Did it matter that he was even drunker than the freelancer? Fuck no.

Tucker had to look up at him, and he didn't care about that either.

"Yeah, but fuck them. Not literally. Well, some literally." His hand curled in the armor as best it could, and he tried to pull Wash inside. What? The more his door was open, the more the music was filtering into the hallway and wasn't that bad? Wasn't that a bad thing, Mr. I'm-No-Fun-Because-They-Removed-My-Fun-Gland-In-Project-Freelancer?

"I still have your bottle left." Wash's now, not his own. He couldn't see it as anything else. "How did the talk with Carolina go? You're still in one piece."

"Tucker," Wash practically sighed his name, the exasperation and impatience packed into just one word so damned familiar by now.

Now, Wash could have dug his heels in could have stood his ground and Tucker could have pulled on his armor until his arms fell off and the Sim trooper wouldn't have budged him so much as an inch.

But after a moment's hesitation, the former Freelancer let himself be tugged inside the room though he at least had enough common sense to shut the door behind them. "Only if you promise to turn down the music a little, okay?"

He didn't know why he was letting himself get dragged into this mess, all he wanted was to crawl into his rack and sleep for a couple of years, but he was concerned about Tucker. And Wash had always been the type of guy who let the squad come before his own personal wants or needs.

"About as well as you can expect it. Then she made it abundantly clear she wanted to be left alone and I wasn't going to force the issue."

A Wash was acquired, and Tucker shut the door behind him in victory. But, just to play fair, he did head back to the radio, turning it low just as Get Down Make Love started to play, the murmur of the lyrics barely discernible as Tucker dropped bonelessly back to the bed. At his least his steps had been mostly in a straight line. Mostly.

"Yeah, the problem with this is that there isn't even an ass to kick," he said. Not an ass that mattered, anyway. Not the ass he wanted.

...not like that. Just...the one he wanted to kick. The one that hurt him. Hurt all of them. That left them broken just like this.

And if Church hadn't...then...

His hand grabbed his bottle, bringing it to his lips as he took another draw off it. "If he hadn't, I know we would've died. Like, we just...were outnumbered. We weren't enough. Bastard would've gotten away with everything, and you'd be burying all of us." Even Caboose. Even...

"But I'm still so fucking pissed about it! I shouldn't be here! None of us should!"

With Tucker sprawled out on the bed, Wash found his options limited once more. The Meta's helmet was still sitting there on the chair with it's reflective fish-bowl shaped visor starting back at him. Second time around and Wash was no more eager to touch it as he'd been the last time.

Instead, the ex-Freelancer went back to leaning against the desk where he'd originally been standing and pulled off his helmet and set it down so that he could pick up the bottle he'd abandoned before.

"I think that's part of it. She's also a private person and, understandably, doesn't want someone standing there gawking at her while she goes through an emotional crisis." Wash grimaced around those words and opted to chase them with a sip from the bottle before continuing.

Tucker had obviously been drinking while he'd been out and the Sim Trooper was definitely way ahead of him in the drunkenness department but he felt no need to rush and catch up just yet.

Maybe Tucker had needed the booze in order to let out what had truly been eating away at him? Wash sighed and carefully stepped over bits and pieces of Tuckers armor in the small room so that he could move to sit on the edge of the bed once more.

"You lost your best friend for the umpteenth time. Maybe for the last time, you're allowed to be angry." The blond man pointed out quietly. "I'm upset about it too but I know Epsilon would have been even more upset if all of you had died."

"Is that what you're doing? Gawking at me? Because, dude, you could choose a better time to gawk rather than when I'm in mourning. Like, morning runs? In the shower? When I'm commanding my squad or some shit."

Another joke. It was that, wasn't it? A joke and not a low come-on? All of the burn of the alcohol was gone, lost in a memory that he didn't care to remember, and there was only this disconnect, words that tumbled without inhibitions to fuck them up. Or stop him from fucking up. Whatever.

The bed sank as Wash sat on it; the armor didn't help. Thank fucking God it was all reinforced metal. Tucker sat up, ignoring the vertigo that came with it, the dizziness of intoxication that was pleasant until the sun rose. He was allowed to be angry. He was justified in his anger. Sweet. He wished he had it in writing.

"Yeah, I know. And then Hargrove would have had him, and you would've had to bury us, and...no, I get it, man. I get it. But it doesn't make-" hurt any less "-me any less angry."

He took another drink and scooted closer to Wash, mostly because sitting up was hard and he needed something to lean against. The wall was far; Wash was not. "You miss him, too?"

"Of course I'm not gawking at you or anyone! It was a turn of phrase is all!" Wash didn't have the benefit of his helmet to help him hide the fact that his ears were beginning to turn pink with embarrassment.

And now that he was sitting on the edge of Tucker's bunk, the younger man would be able to pick out the flush of color that was crawling down the back of his neck and beneath the thick material of his undersuit.

Wash looked over at the other man as he pushed himself shakily upright and that eyebrow bisected by the scar twitched ever so slightly as he resisted the urge to raise both brows incredulously at the Sim Trooper.

"Hargrove getting his hands on Epsilon when he had the Meta's suit would have been devastating. As would all of your deaths. I know you're upset about what Epsilon did, but he make the best call he could make."

Wash knew all about being angry and didn't try and talk Tucker out of his anger. The younger man had a right to his anger; both at Epsilon, Hargrove and the entire shitty situation. The Freelancer sort of swirled the alcohol in the bottle in a contemplative manner before deciding that...yeah, he was going to drink it until he couldn't feel much of anything anymore. Maybe then, he might be able to burn the memory of the look in Carolina's eyes when he'd told her what had happened from his mind.

"Yeah."

Sometimes, Wash talked like a robot and it frustrated the hell out of him. Epsilon getting taken, their deaths. Devastating. But Tucker was fairly sure Wash was talking on a strategical level (which was still true) rather than a personal one.

Sure, technically their deaths would crush morale. Sure, Hargrove being able to run that suit would change everything. Sure. Sure. But--

He couldn't bury Caboose. Couldn't. Just like he couldn't bury Wash. But that was the nature of war, wasn't it? Didn't matter; those were real feelings. That was his fucking family, and he realized on this damn planet on how fucking fragile it all was. Losing Wash at the beginning--

Armor wasn't comfortable to lean against, all sharp edges that dug into his back, but leaned into he did. It felt good to be close to it, even if he didn't want to be in it. At least Wash had flushed. At least he was still a person under all the layers of death and pain. Chorus had been the first real tragedy Tucker had ever known, first real battle, wetted his tongue on how it felt to lose something, to be responsible, to taste what it was supposed to be like.

So he washed that taste down with more alcohol.

"But just because he did doesn't make this feel any less shitty." He sighed around the lip of the bottle. "You had friends who died. What'd you do to, like, I dunno, honor them?"

The Freelancer was speaking from multiple levels. Both from a strategic angle but also as a man who had lead the Blues for the past year or so. And perhaps even as a friend.

Washington wasn't good at talking about emotions or feelings but he'd been willing to sacrificed his own life to protect the Blues.

But he seemed to sense that there was some kind of shift in the air because he went still when Tucker finally just sort of sagged up against him. The blond man had such a confounded look on his face, it might have been endearing under other circumstances. Wash knew how uncomfortable it was to lean up against hard metal plating but he was at a loss as to what to do about the drunken Sim Trooper who was now leaning against him.

Wash's arm had been stretched out kind of behind him but the younger man had apparently taken that as an invitation to sidle right up against him. It was a move he might have expected out of Caboose but not Tucker. Caboose was pretty vocal about when he wanted a hug or someone to reassure him though he'd gotten somewhat better since he'd found Freckles.

"Tucker..." Wash had started to ask him what was up but then Tucker went and cut him off at the knees with that unexpected question. His face went absolutely blank but try as he might to hide the pain in his eyes, Wash couldn't quite mask his grief.

"I...I never got that chance, Tucker." No, they'd just sent him to rob the bodies of his best friends and then forced him to wipe out all trace of them from existence. Wash would be lying if he didn't admit it fucked him up more than most other things the Project had done to him.

So, yeah, this wasn't comfortable at all, but it was too much effort to move. And Wash's look... that had been worth every piece of metal, every hard edge, every angle jutting into his kidney. It was almost cute, the rare moments when the Freelancer looked a little less like a soldier-robot and a little more like a human being.

Not that he'd say anything. At...least not at the moment. Because things were still dark and laden with bombs and this was an active minefield they were both navigating through. His head cocked back a little, watching him from where he could, the angle all wrong. He sat up, sliding up the other's body, trying to be more on par, more even with him, an impossible feat.

"Not even like a beer on a certain day? Or, like prayers or some shit?" The heaviness of the talk was robbing the slurs from his words; he spoke quiet, tired, a little spent. Surprised. Because wasn't military about all that camaraderie? Always remember? Memorials? Holidays? Wouldn't Freelancers be the same?

The glass of the bottle's mouth was cold against his lips, the alcohol flavorless. "You know, we could do something. For your dead friends and mine." Sighing a little, he closed his eyes, trying to let the numbness drag him down, down, down. "Don't ask me what, but...something. A big fucking statue or something. Probably shoots fire. A fire fountain. Just...just so everyone can see it and know there were people here once. Fucking assholes, but fucking assholes who had friends that cared about them."

Wash wasn't very good at being a human being and most days, he felt almost completely removed from the human race in general. His own emotional traumas and scarring made it nearly impossible for him to connect to other humans but he'd found in his time with the Sim Troopers that it was actually becoming easier to do.

A year ago, he never would have let Tucker or anyone else even get this close. Even Caboose would have been shut down promptly and coldly.

The Reds and Blues might be hapless idiots but they had helped to heal his soul and bring him closer to something that might be labeled human.

"No, Tucker. I was instead assigned to rob their bodies and then destroy all trace of them. That's what Recovery did." Recover equipment so that it didn't fall into enemy hands, destroy the bodies so there was no trace of the Project. Tucker, he had to remind himself, hadn't been there when he executed South and destroyed her body.

He'd never seen Washington at his most ruthless and perhaps that was for the best. Wash brought the bottle up to his lips and took a very long swallow from it. By now, it didn't even burn but he hoped that if he drank enough of it, then maybe he'd become numb to everything.

"Yeah, maybe. Didn't Church say he wanted a statue of him on a horse or something like that?"

No, Tucker had missed all that. He missed what Wash had done, the depths of darkness he had walked, and saw him after. Saw him when he betrayed them. Saw them when he tried to become something other than a Freelancer. Honorary Sim Troop, maybe? At least, that's how Tucker liked to see it.

Nah. Honorary Blue. Drama, much like batteries, are totally included.

"Yeah, but I'll make it have a laser face because that'd be fucking better. Who the hell wants a boring Church statue when...laser face?" He laughed a little under his breath, watching Wash take another drink. How much catching up did the Freelancer have to do? Could Wash ever get as drunk as Tucker was right now?

"Wash." He leaned back enough to look at him, his brown eyes glassy but still retaining some coherence, something that was so innately Tucker. His bottle clinked off of Wash's, a silent cheers. "Do you ever, like, fucking regret doing Recovery?" Not just Freelancer, but Recovery. How fucking bullshit that must have been. How...fucking just painful.

Did Wash still feel pain?

Well, he was drinking.

"How'd you deal with that?"

Tucker had seen him at his worst but not him at his coldest, most ruthless. He'd seen a man driven by desperation and cowardice but not the agent Washington he'd once been.

He'd been a real piece of shit and Wash readily owned up to that fact.

"I think he'd probably approve of that. It's a terrible idea. You could kill someone with it." Wash didn't have it in him to work up any true outrage or exasperation over this plan.

But then Tucker was pulling back slightly and looked at him with so much sympathy and so many questions in those brown eyes and the ex-Freelancer felt his throat threaten to close up from the amount of emotion choking him.

Did he regret doing Recovery?

Only. Every. Single. Day. He'd regret it for the rest of his life and beyond.

"Of course I do, Tucker. Every damned day but it put me in the position I needed to be in so that I could take the Director's entire house of cards down. That trade-off makes up for any sacrifice I made." All of Freelancer's sins had been dragged into the light including the truth about the Simulation armies. But at least Leonard Church had such a light cast on him that he'd never been able to destroy another set of agents lives in the process of chasing his mad goals.

"I imagine it's different for every person. You'll figure out how to deal with it too in your own way and time." Those bleak words when coupled with the dull light in the blond man's eyes seemed more like a creepy portent than anything else.

"I think that's why he would like."

But in that moment, the statue-plans didn't matter. Honoring still did, of course; it always would. But the logistics didn't matter, the specifics, the ideas. They could draw up fantastical blueprints with bullshit powercores so Church could have his laser face when they were sober and the light hurt their eyes.

Right now, there was this. This shit of loose tongues and memories that haunted Wash like ghosts. It was crap, all of it. It was crap and the fact that Wash had to deal with it...Fuck, it wasn't fair. Underneath all the bullshit, Tucker wanted to believe that he wasn't as fucked up as he looked sometimes, but how couldn't he be? With all that drama haunting him.

It made him feel guilty for being this hurt over one person, when Wash had years and years of torment built up.

It didn't stop Tucker from being hurt, though. Those were two different things.

"Don't you wish you could've just been a regular soldier, though?" he asked. "Like the rest of us?"

He wondered if Wash's old friends would agree that it was worth the same sacrifice.

"Yeah, I guess. Just not tonight." He leaned into him a little harder, his lips parted in a soft sigh. "Fucking deal with it and this hangover tomorrow."

"He probably would." The blond man agreed subdued and tired sounding.

Normally, Wash would never be so open about his own past or personal demons. The whiskey it seemed had loosened his tongue enough that he actually unclenched long enough to actually talk about it.

He'd probably be ashamed and aggravated tomorrow about this and the inevitable hangover would have nothing to do with his sour mood.

Tucker's next question drew a quiet sounding sigh from the Freelancer and Wash slanted another look over at the Sim trooper. "I don't know, honestly. I was a regular soldier once and then the Project happened and now I can't even remember what that was like any more."

Wash didn't talk about what Epsilon had done to his memories. How he'd spent a year in the Freelancer psych-ward under twenty-four hour supervision because he'd tried to kill himself repeatedly in an attempt to get the sounds of screaming and Epsilon's horrors from his mind.

"Why don't I take my bottle and let you get some rest? That can't be very comfortable." Admittedly, Wash didn't have too much experience with trying to snuggle up against someone in full armor in little more than civvies.

"I can't imagine you as regular anything. Like, not even stupid shit like cooking or doing laundry or whatever. You'd do it all Batman-cryptic and overdramatic and just tell me to do laps around you, but screw off, because I'm not answering to Robin."

Tucker laughed, and none of the words were cruel or even mocking, just teasing. Just friends trying to make a shitty night less shitty as they mourned for all their losses, singular and inclusive. He...liked it. He liked being able to look at Wash like a friend and just be here.

...But then he had to go and fuck it up and talk about leaving.

Tucker pulled off of him, his eyes narrowed as he stared. "Seriously? That's your fucking excuse?" Because he wasn't sure if Wash was the one uncomfortable or if it was him, but he couldn't stop fucking staring. That bisected eyebrow. How'd he get that? Was he born with it? A fight? Did he run and trip over a fucking chair?

Goddamn, he hated the height difference right about now. He leaned up, curling a leg under him so they could get nose to nose, his eyelashes long and half-mast as he looked at freckles.

Wash. He had hated Wash because he wasn't Church, and now Wash was the only person he could go to because he didn't have Church. He was the only one he could trust with this fucking grief. He was the only one--

"You're a fucking idiot." He wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or the Freelancer, but he spoke it low and soft and against Wash's mouth before he kissed him.

"Sure you can. A regular pain in your ass, I believe I've heard on multiple occasions. And you're obviously forgetting the time Simmons defected to Blue team and we all adopted that ridiculous chore wheel of his."

Actually, Wash hadn't minded that so much and had been perfectly happy following it. But the rest of the team hadn't been thrilled with it. Of course, that was because they were slovenly and generally lazy as a rule and utterly without any kind of military discipline.

Wash had made his offer to leave with good intentions in mind. He knew leaning up against an armored shoulder couldn't be comfortable. The Sim trooper had looked like he was going to pass out at any second. Which just made Tucker's outburst all the more unexpected when the younger man pulled back with a glare and an accusation.

"What? You looked like you were going to pass out, I didn't want you to get a crooked neck." Wash's brows knit together in a confused looking little frown. It was the ex-Freelancer's turn to pull back ever so slightly when he suddenly found himself with Tucker leaning into his personal space close enough he could smell the booze on the other man's breath.

"Tucker, I-" That was about all he managed to get out before Tucker leaned in to close those last few perilous inches of distance and kissed him. Wash knew he should have seen this coming but he was so mired down with alcohol that he hadn't been able to stop it. It took his booze-soaked brain a few seconds to compute the sensation of Tucker's mouth pressing against his and another two seconds to move beyond the generalized realization that it felt shockingly nice. When was the last time he'd actually kissed someone? Mai--no, his brain shied right away from that train of sluggish thought.

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