Agent Washington (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
unrecovered) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
legionworld2016-11-08 09:27 am
unrecovered) wrote in legionworld2016-11-08 09:27 am
Entry tags:
Recovery [Open]
Who| Wash, whoever wants to join him
What| Wash is still recovering from Murder World. Come bother him.
Where| Various places
When| Several days after the end of Murder World.
Warnings/Notes| He's kind of Not Okay, so approach at your own risk.
As it turns out, Wash is having a pretty terrible week. Being stuck in a murder arena for a few days on end will definitely do that to you. Seeing a dearly departed friend back from the dead with zero warning or preparation doesn't help either.
Chief had intercepted York and given Wash a chance to get the hell out of Dodge, and he'd taken it, all but sprinting through the threshold gate back to Legion World. He doesn't stop for anyone until he's outside his door, locking it behind him once he stumbles in. Only then does he check his omnicom - still disabled, dammit - and then decide that if anyone wants to come looking for him, they damn well know where to find him.
He takes a breath, lets it out slowly, and then takes another. Breathe. Slow down. It's over. Legion World is secure, for the most part, and he'd Reaper-proofed his room as best he could. It's fine. He's safe-
His brain stutters over the last phrase, and his breathing gets erratic until he forcibly smoothes it out again. No. It's over. He doesn't need to panic - he just needs to calm down and work through this.
He needs to clean up. He needs to get out of the clothes that Arcade had forced on him and into something that belongs to him. He needs to sleep.
He doesn't usually like the sonic showers - seriously, they're just weird - but right now he's grateful for them, namely that they're a lot faster than water showers. He abandons his clothes in a heap on the floor and is in and out of the shower fairly quickly. He digs through his closet to find pajamas - and it had taken him a decent amount of time and effort to try to convince the Anthramites on the ship to make him a plain t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, and even then they'd gone overboard and gotten too complicated and he'd resorted to shopping for one and ordering it for delivery. He finally finds them and pulls them on, tying the drawstring with some difficulty, as his hands have started to shake. Dammit.
He stares down at his bed for a moment, trying to will himself to get in it and rest. He knows he's exhausted. He knows he needs sleep. He's also fighting the urge to look over his shoulder, to turn all of the lights on as high as they'll go and check every square inch of his room to make sure it's secure. It's illogical, and detrimental, and a waste of energy, and he's having a hell of a time shaking the urge to do it anyway. Turns out paranoia is dead useful when it's keeping you alive; the rest of the time, it's a bitch.
After nearly a solid minute of steeling himself and muttering reassurances that he's fine and the room is secure and everything is fine, he finally forces himself to lie down on the bed-
And gets right back up again, shaking worse than ever. Nope. He can't do it. Even in the safety of his own room, it's still too open, too exposed. But there's a few feet of space under it...
This is stupid, he realizes. It's ridiculous. It's probably not healthy. And it's the only way he's ever going to get any sleep with his paranoia keyed up as high as it is.
He yanks the blanket and pillow off the bed, drops to the floor, and scoots into the space under his bed, wrapping himself in his blanket once he gets settled in there. He's sleeping under his bed. It's patently ridiculous, but the extra surface just above his head makes him feel better. It's a small space. He can watch it easily, and it's more difficult to get into than the room itself is. He's hidden. He's safe, or at least as safe as he's ever going to get.
And that's the issue, isn't it? He's spent days on his guard for a spying mission, and days after that in survival mode in Arcade's death arena. This is the first time he's felt safe in a while, and it's what he's been looking for.
It still takes him a long time - too long - to slow his breathing and stop shaking. Finally, his eyes close, and for the first time in days, he sleeps - deeply, dreamlessly, and uninterrupted. It's a rarity in Wash's life.
He wakes up groggy and sore from having slept on the floor for...for...huh. He wiggles out from under the bed, or at least enough to see a clock. According to the date and time readings, he's been asleep under there for about sixteen hours. Evidently he'd needed the rest.
An hour or so later, he can be found in a myriad of places: in the mess hall trying to figure out just how many types of fresh fruit it has and what would taste best; in the training room, pounding away at the punching bag; on the nature deck, in that same wooded area, sitting by the rocky shore of a lake, staring out across the water and thinking. He still looks a little tired, but at least he's not visibly twitchy anymore. He must be feeling better, right?
What| Wash is still recovering from Murder World. Come bother him.
Where| Various places
When| Several days after the end of Murder World.
Warnings/Notes| He's kind of Not Okay, so approach at your own risk.
As it turns out, Wash is having a pretty terrible week. Being stuck in a murder arena for a few days on end will definitely do that to you. Seeing a dearly departed friend back from the dead with zero warning or preparation doesn't help either.
Chief had intercepted York and given Wash a chance to get the hell out of Dodge, and he'd taken it, all but sprinting through the threshold gate back to Legion World. He doesn't stop for anyone until he's outside his door, locking it behind him once he stumbles in. Only then does he check his omnicom - still disabled, dammit - and then decide that if anyone wants to come looking for him, they damn well know where to find him.
He takes a breath, lets it out slowly, and then takes another. Breathe. Slow down. It's over. Legion World is secure, for the most part, and he'd Reaper-proofed his room as best he could. It's fine. He's safe-
His brain stutters over the last phrase, and his breathing gets erratic until he forcibly smoothes it out again. No. It's over. He doesn't need to panic - he just needs to calm down and work through this.
He needs to clean up. He needs to get out of the clothes that Arcade had forced on him and into something that belongs to him. He needs to sleep.
He doesn't usually like the sonic showers - seriously, they're just weird - but right now he's grateful for them, namely that they're a lot faster than water showers. He abandons his clothes in a heap on the floor and is in and out of the shower fairly quickly. He digs through his closet to find pajamas - and it had taken him a decent amount of time and effort to try to convince the Anthramites on the ship to make him a plain t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, and even then they'd gone overboard and gotten too complicated and he'd resorted to shopping for one and ordering it for delivery. He finally finds them and pulls them on, tying the drawstring with some difficulty, as his hands have started to shake. Dammit.
He stares down at his bed for a moment, trying to will himself to get in it and rest. He knows he's exhausted. He knows he needs sleep. He's also fighting the urge to look over his shoulder, to turn all of the lights on as high as they'll go and check every square inch of his room to make sure it's secure. It's illogical, and detrimental, and a waste of energy, and he's having a hell of a time shaking the urge to do it anyway. Turns out paranoia is dead useful when it's keeping you alive; the rest of the time, it's a bitch.
After nearly a solid minute of steeling himself and muttering reassurances that he's fine and the room is secure and everything is fine, he finally forces himself to lie down on the bed-
And gets right back up again, shaking worse than ever. Nope. He can't do it. Even in the safety of his own room, it's still too open, too exposed. But there's a few feet of space under it...
This is stupid, he realizes. It's ridiculous. It's probably not healthy. And it's the only way he's ever going to get any sleep with his paranoia keyed up as high as it is.
He yanks the blanket and pillow off the bed, drops to the floor, and scoots into the space under his bed, wrapping himself in his blanket once he gets settled in there. He's sleeping under his bed. It's patently ridiculous, but the extra surface just above his head makes him feel better. It's a small space. He can watch it easily, and it's more difficult to get into than the room itself is. He's hidden. He's safe, or at least as safe as he's ever going to get.
And that's the issue, isn't it? He's spent days on his guard for a spying mission, and days after that in survival mode in Arcade's death arena. This is the first time he's felt safe in a while, and it's what he's been looking for.
It still takes him a long time - too long - to slow his breathing and stop shaking. Finally, his eyes close, and for the first time in days, he sleeps - deeply, dreamlessly, and uninterrupted. It's a rarity in Wash's life.
He wakes up groggy and sore from having slept on the floor for...for...huh. He wiggles out from under the bed, or at least enough to see a clock. According to the date and time readings, he's been asleep under there for about sixteen hours. Evidently he'd needed the rest.
An hour or so later, he can be found in a myriad of places: in the mess hall trying to figure out just how many types of fresh fruit it has and what would taste best; in the training room, pounding away at the punching bag; on the nature deck, in that same wooded area, sitting by the rocky shore of a lake, staring out across the water and thinking. He still looks a little tired, but at least he's not visibly twitchy anymore. He must be feeling better, right?
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"To 'cut to the chase'-" Finger quotes and all, if only in an attempt to shake York out of his temporary funk. Better to address the things they're mutually ignoring and try to skip past the part where York doesn't process shit. "How many people know we are-"
"About us. At all." Avoiding the word means it's not real, even if he's reaching up to rub at a phantom ache where Reggie shot him. "Because seriously, telling the Chief about me? Dunno if I should be flattered or just sad."
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He raises an eyebrow when Delta speaks up again - since when does Delta do scare quotes? - and the other eyebrow joins the first when York interrupts. Looks like Wash isn't the only one who's decided that the best way to deal with something is to not deal with it at all. "I've told plenty of stories about my friends from home," he says easily. "Chief is the only one who knows the whole story." It's ugly, it's painful, and it involves admitting to his own insanity, so no, Wash isn't about to share the entire saga of Project Freelancer around without good reason.
That imparted, he pointedly turns his attention to Delta. "How many people know you're what?" Wash damn well knows - at this point, he wants an admission from York, if only so he knows what point on the timeline he's working with.
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He's younger, now. And that's- well. Weird.
Knowing people know about him is weird. Knowing the Chief knows what kind of bullshit happened to keep up with the Spartan project and how it all fell apart is fucking weird. Delta hesitating when being asked a direct question is weird but hesitate he does.
"Dead." York answers, weary, rough, flat. "Last thing I remember is telling Tex not to let Delta get taken."
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And now he knows for sure.
God damn it.
"It's been a few years since that for me," Wash says, after the silence settles too long to be comfortable anymore (not that it ever really was). "Get some coffee and we'll talk."
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Does these things without freaking out.
"How long is 'a few' because...I'm thinking more rather than less, bud."
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"I'm not hungry," he finally says to the chef, voice as stable as he can manage. The chef shrugs with their many shoulders and takes the tray away - likely for cold storage, to be available the next time Wash comes by with a better appetite. Drama among Legionnaires happens all the time; this isn't the first time they've had to store food because of sudden drama, and it won't be the last.
Wash finds himself a glass of water and joins York at a table. It's just like old times, except it really isn't at all and he needs to not fool himself.
Delta is gone, or at least invisible for this. He's still listening, though, and probably acting as something between a comfort zone and a stabilizer. For a moment, the old jealousy he used to feel flickers and burns, and Wash douses it. It's years out of date and not worth dredging up, not for this conversation, not ever.
"It's been nearly six years since you died," he says in response to York's question, with zero preamble or attempt to soften the blow.
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Or if it was just one more drop in the bucket of pointless and empty deaths for members of Project Freelancer. It's not like anything they did mattered for the war effort, why the hell would him signing on for a stupid raid matter in the long run? Why should his life be the one that gets meaning when it ends? Delta flickers in the back of his eye, a cool green, bumping those thoughts away for the moment. Not important, not relevant, they have a mission here.
A job. Something to keep to.
The uncharacteristic stillness falls away after a moment, York reaching up to scrub at his bad eye. "Anything else I should know?"
Just. As long as they're on the subject of shit he's been trying not to think about. He doesn't even question- well. Anything. Wash survived, he didn't. If he'd put money on who would make it out alive? Honestly neither of them would've been on that list. Tex and Carolina. Maybe North.
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Really.
"I don't know, what do you want to know?" Wash gives an exaggerated shrug, suddenly animated. "War's over! We won! No thanks to anything Freelancer did, but I think we both knew that. What else do you want to know? I mean-" He takes a breath, doesn't stop. "Two days ago it took a direct intervention from fucking Master Chief to get you to leave me alone, and now you don't know what to say? What the fuck, York!" It's unfair - it's taking out years of buried and unexpressed emotion on York all at once and expecting him to somehow deal with it - but over the past six or so years, Wash has virtually stopped caring about whether something is fair or not. Getting fucked over for virtually no reason will do that to you.
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To be a hero, to be on the side of the angels, to be a good guy. That all handed to him on a silver platter?
Weirdest post mortem hallucination ever. But hey, he'll take it.
This? This is just uncomfortable and awkward enough for him to feel like shit's real. "I was gonna give you a week, man." Drawling and dry and- honestly? Irritated. This wasn't the plan. He hadn't had TIME to get a plan together, what the fuck does Wash want from him.
"What the hell else should be relevant to a dead man, huh? What would YOU wanna hear if shit was swapped around and Reggie plugged two in your chest while you were fucking around trying to help Tex on a bullshit op?" Blaming Tex is easiest- he'd been doing it since she fucking showed up. Why quit now?
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But thanks to the Time Trapper, his past won't stay buried. Literally. And now he has to deal with it - with York - somehow. And he doesn't know what he wants.
None of that helps with the frustration. "I don't know, York! I'm not you!"
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Well it's fucking annoying and in that things feel pretty goddamn normal. The only thing missing is North at his shoulder rolling his eyes and dryly reminding him not to be a dick and suddenly the questions he wants to ask are right there on the back of his tongue-
But he doesn't want to know. He doesn't. Last he'd heard the twins were fine. Holed up somewhere safe, keeping their heads down. He doesn't need to hear if they made it or not. Without confirmation he can just assume they're fine. That they made it.
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Wash has had a lot of time to think about his time in Freelancer, and a new perspective from which to do it. He's had quite a while to mull over the fact that not all of his friendships in Freelancer were great. He had the skills to run with the top of the board, but that didn't mean they had to like him or care about him in terms of anything that wasn't mission-critical, and...a lot of them just didn't. He'd put up with a lot of shit in an effort to fit in and be part of the team, and while he hadn't seen it that way then, he has a very different perspective on it now that he's no longer desperate for their approval.
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Five years to think about this and he's still got nothing. Blackest kinda bile laid out in front of him and he's got fuck and all to offer.
Delta takes charge enough to make his hands move, make him take a sip of his coffee to swallow past the knot in his throat. He could argue, he could yell- and he will in a bit. As soon as he finds the right words. "You ask for space, I give you space. You haven't told me what you want, you're just yelling. Like you always do. So I guess that hasn't fucking changed either."
Yeah, they're doing this. He sets the mug aside, lacing his fingers deliberately- a habit that's neither his nor Delta's- a shade of the Director neither of them can really shake off. Side effect of being a part of that man till he broke. till they broke.
"I don't think you give a flying fuck how I've changed. You wouldn't have given a fuck back then if I wasn't number two on the list." None of them would've. Hell, none of them did. They weren't supposed to.
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The snarl creeps into Wash's expression with York laces his fingers. He knows that gesture intimately - he does it himself sometimes when he's not thinking - and he fucking hates it. It may not be on purpose, but it sure isn't helping.
"Like you have room to talk. You didn't give a shit about anyone who wasn't Carolina." It's a low blow, but as far as Wash is concerned, it's true - anyone would have known it just by watching how York acted around her.
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retreading old patters is fucking old.
And easy.
Way, way too easy. All the calming words from Delta in the world aren't enough to keep him from standing, hands slamming down on the table- in direct opposition to the sudden violence of the gesture his voice is low and tight. Clipped. "Fuck you. I cared about North. I cared about Connie. I even gave a shit about Maine up till he fucked up my eye. Just because I didn't have the patience to play babysitter and make nice with what I was pretty sure was gonna be just another fucking bodybag in a few months doesn't mean I didn't give a shit about anyone else."
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Well.
That had been the exact right button to push - or the exact wrong one, depending on your point of view. Wash rises to his feet, virtually nose to nose with York, all tightly compressed fury and simmering anger threatening to explode again. "Well, guess what. CT died on orders from the Director. Maine burned from the inside out thanks to Sigma. And when everything started going to hell, you made your fucking choice." Hours upon hours spent by Carolina's bedside, even when nobody was sure when - or if - she'd wake up. Yeah, York had made his decision.
"And for the record, there's a huge difference between making nice with your walking body bag of a rookie and telling him he makes everything worse every time he opens his mouth." It had been before Epsilon, but Wash still remembers it in perfect clarity. Some things scar too deeply to heal.
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He'd held onto hope. Tex had been less than specific but- when it finally became apparent that it wasn't Carolina giving the Project trouble anymore? He laid that ghost to rest. More fucking blood on his hands that he'd never wanted.
His anger takes a vicious glint, smirking wide and false and darkly bitter. "You're not exactly proving me wrong now, Rookie. Keep talking."
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Things to consider when he's not burning white-hot with rage.
It's been a long time since he's felt like this - wronged and furious and wanting to lash out, to hurt whomever caused this in him. He'd swallowed that rage before, burned with it enough to formulate an entire ill-conceived revenge plot against what was left of the project. Now, it's hotter, more immediate, and focused on York - York, who'd hurt him in the past, disregarded his wishes a few days ago, and is currently baiting him-
Wash's expression isn't a smirk so much as it is bared teeth, anger and bitterness mostly lacking grace. "You're wrong," he says, flat and level with the edge of a knife being slowly unsheathed, promising pain. "Carolina's alive." It's delicate information for York; had this conversation gone differently, he might have tried to couch it in something gentler, or simply not told York at all.
But the conversation is what it is, and so he uses it like a goddamn battering ram. "Forty-nine agents and the only two left alive are her and me." He pauses for the space of a breath - time enough for that to start to sink in, but not nearly enough to start comprehending the full weight of the information - and continues on. "Looks like you picked the wrong body bag."
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Hasn't stopped him from grinning and spreading his hands, fingers flicking in a 'come here' curl. Bring it, bro.
It keeps his knees locked when the world's cut out from under him. Keeps him upright while his mind whites out, logic and reason falling away entirely to the single thought running around. Alive, alive, alive alive-
He'd let her go. They'd let her go. Years on the run and she'd never-
Why would she? Things had been fucked before he crashed the MOI and this is all of his sins laid to rest on this fucking cheerful table with eggs and toast and a fucking grapefruit he'd never wanted, coffee that never tastes right, and Wash using the fact that he'd survived like a fucking knife- clumsy but effective enough to strike home, somehow, in that absurdly lucky way of his. The whole fucking world slows down for a beat, his pulse a deafening roar that drowns out Wash's last biting remark but-
Again.
Lip Reading- it's a hell of a fucking skill.
Delta doesn't begin to try to talk York out of it, his eyes, their eyes flashing magnesium bright as his hands snap down and haul, violently upending the table to give himself that split second distraction before vaulting over the mess he'd made, swinging with all the force rage and training can give him, with all the accuracy of Delta glowing green and furious in the back of his eye.
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Wash doesn't know what he expected - he's been skirting his breaking point for days and just shoved York to his own respective breaking point, and here they are, breaking down all over one another, a string of firecrackers, a chain reaction of explosions with the promise that, when all is said and done, something will be completely wrecked in the end-
And Wash has survived too goddamn long for it to be him. Let York get wrecked for once in his life. See what it feels like when the luck he was always so goddamn proud of runs out.
(He's not thinking rationally, he knows, and he doesn't care. Rationality is caught in fire, burning up and too hot to touch, and he's not about to bother with it.)
The table flip is a surprise, and he takes a step back; the followup attack is not, but his block is too slow and he takes the punch full in the jaw, half-twisting from the force of the blow and staggering-
Go with the inertia-
He drops low, weight on one leg while he lashes out with the other, attempting to sweep York's feet out from under him.
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That Wash surviving long enough to get older and more grey and more angry means fuck and all in the face of what kind of tactics that he dips into. They were trained the same, beaten into bloody shape the same, and five years, seven years isn't enough to wipe away old patterns. Wash was the worst out of the top ten. The worst out of the best and that's never been nothing.
None of that matters in the face of what's been painted a bright red acceptable target- Delta working overtime to track and compensate for the blind eye, to bring their legs up while York brings an elbow down. Wash wants to grapple, they'll fucking grapple.
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The elbow hits Wash and he twists, doing his damndest to get York under him. York had always been good, damn good, and Delta only made him better, but Wash-
Wash had survived. Epsilon, the Meta, betrayals so often he ought to have a goddamn punch card by now, Felix and Locus and his second genocidal war-
He'd survived it all, and he'd learned from everything. The Meta taught him to fight someone stronger than he is; Felix and Locus taught him to fight someone crazier than he is; and while the Reds and Blues don't fight well, they definitely taught him to fight dirty.
The grapefruit is on the floor, half-split from the impact and definitely within reach. Wash grabs hold of it and slams it into York's face, as close to the right side as he can get. York's already blind on one side; might as well go for the other.
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But this isn't be the first or the last time the Chief won't get what he hoped for.
He notices things getting bad over here, though he can't follow exactly what's going on. He pulls Kid Q up on the comm and is about halfway through saying, "We might have a problem down here," when the table flips.
Well then.
Wash and York each get a shot in at each other before he gets over here (mostly because he's not keen on running anybody down in a crowded room), and suddenly they're both being hauled up by the backs of their shirts. The Chief drags the freelancers apart with inhuman force and holds them out away from him and each other, their boots dangling clear of the floor.
"What the hell is going on over here?"
He scowls at both of them. John is very, very disappointed.
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"Fuck you too, buddy." Fuck him and fuck Wash and FUCK every single shade of the UNSC possible for their collective bullshit. He died for nothing, North died for nothing, they killed for nothing, Delta was made out of torture and pain and bullshit for nothing-
Hands ground in against the sting of grapefruit juice (more reasons to hate the damn things), hissing and hanging and furious to be fucking fighting like a kid in bootcamp because of Wash. If nothing else he damn well knows it's not worth it. It's never worth it.
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Chief yelling at him is almost a relief. It snaps him back to reality, at least. He hooks his arms over Chief's and pulls himself up a little, trying to ease the pressure of his shirt collar around his neck. "Freelancer business," he grinds out, flat and icy, and boy does he ever hate himself right now for taking Freelancer as his code name.
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