legionworld | Recovery [Open]

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?

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Wash doesn't know what he wants, and honestly, that's part of the problem. He'd destroyed York's body, buried him in his memories, and...he'd never really let go, but then again, he'd never truly let go of anything. He'd just stopped focusing on it - on York, on Freelancer, on his past, on everything he'd lost. All it does is distract him and keep him from moving on with his life, not to mention that he's both destructive and self-destructive when he's mired in his memories and that's the last thing that he and everyone around him needs. The part of him that remembers being Recovery One stays locked away in its little corner of his mind until he needs it - until he needs to be cold and driven and horrifyingly effective - and then he locks it up again when he's done. He doesn't need to go back to that full-time. He won't survive.

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!"

"Can we skip the part where you're hysterically angry and get to the part where things are cool between us? Cuz I can't deal with this right now." Thinking about being dead, thinking about how fucking pointless it was- Yeah. He's been avoiding it all this time for a reason and having Wash have a fit over it at him when he'd been fucking trying to give him space is-

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.

"No! No, we can't!" It's explosive, nearly ripped out of him - it's anger, and hurt, and something else he can't quite put his finger on, rolled together and left to simmer for years on end. He'd never planned on unearthing this, but since when does anything he plans ever work out? "We don't have a status quo anymore! It's been seven years since the last time I saw you, and I don't know if you've noticed, but I've changed, and I have no idea if you have or not." There's a pause, the space of a breath - his volume lowers, his tone changes to something angry and deliberate, and he continues. "Except for the part about not giving a damn what I want. That's still the same."

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.

Ok they're doing this. He'd thought- well. About what he'd say if he ever saw Wash again. Hiding with Delta all he had was 'what if I see them again'. Sure he kept in touch with North now and then but it was erratic dead drop encrypted frequency bullshit. Keeping tabs on the project had been difficult for about fifteen different reasons all connected to not getting his ass caught. Best he could figure Wash died in the crash or, well. Was locked up somewhere along with the rest of the Project's mistakes.

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.

"No, you didn't." Memories from years ago may have been what's hurting now, but memories from a few days ago are still fresh in Wash's mind. "I told you to back off and you didn't listen to me. I was having a fucking breakdown and you didn't listen to me! You didn't give me space because I asked - you gave me space because Chief told you to." It comes out snarled and angry - York had admitted to as much just a few minutes ago, so he can't well be angry for Wash calling him on it.

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.

"And I was trying to listen to him. Me. York. Obeying orders." Without question, without poking- well, without much poking. That should be indicative of a hell of a lot but no, here they are, yelling at each other. Or wash is Yelling and York is trying not to because what the fuck is the point of it- this is how everyone ended up DEAD in the project and while he's pretty damn sure that's not what's gonna happen here-

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."

There's a comment there about York respecting Master Chief, a guy he'd known for thirty seconds, more than he'd respected Wash, a guy he'd known and worked with for years, but it never sees the light of day because-

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.

"Oh I'm sorry, was I supposed to ignore what was happening? Just forget the screaming nightmares that weren't mine because of what Delta went through to be fucking born? Was I supposed to just spit on what CT handed Tex to prove what she was, what they'd been doing? Was I supposed to forget and keep playing along?" Wash out for the count, things moving too fast, too many goddamn variables and absolutely no one to fucking trust. Yeah. He made his call. "I thought I killed you. I know I got Carolina killed."

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."

There's information in there that he'll pick apart later - CT's access to files, for one. Epsilon had had those files, and now Wash had them emblazoned in his brain, but he hadn't known CT had pulled them and handed them off to Tex. That explains Tex's change of heart, at least.

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."

A benefit to being as in synch with an implanted AI as humanly possible without becoming some kind of gestalt entity- incredibly quick processes for decision making and conversation. Every word, every barb, every shot fired his way, Delta's had ten, fifteen, one hundred reasons why lashing out in turn is pointless, is harmful, is going to do absolutely nothing to benefit either of them. It hasn't stopped York from falling into habits older than even the Project and baiting Wash-

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.

He really should have seen this coming.

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.

Often that he harped on being more lucky than good- it doesn't change the fact that York? Had been good. That he'd yanked the number two slot back from being punted down after losing the eye in less than a week. That he could keep up with Carolina on a good day and kept up with Tex when it mattered (till it killed him), that he kept out from under the Project's thumb while on the run and he was as locked in with Delta as was possible without driving either of them crazy.

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.

Oh. Well. Evidently they're getting down and dirty.

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.

The Chief had hoped the whatever it was between Wash and York would get resolved eventually. Quietly. Without anyone getting punched. It's clearly some personal and private business he doesn't need to know about.

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.

"Fuck you-" The eye. Of course he goes for the eye, it's the biggest fucking target on someone half blind and citrus is NOT FUN- all blind and scrambling, swearing- he has no idea what's hauled him up till he hears the Chief's voice and honestly?

"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.

He feels that yank on the back of his shirt, and for a moment Wash forgets where he is and panics, paranoia sharpened by Arcade's murder arena screaming unbidden to the surface of his mind. Something has him- he's not prepared- he's going to get killed- he has to fight back-

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.

"Then you shouldn't have been sprocking having it out in the Legion cafeteria."

You wouldn't know that Kid Quantum is the smallest person by far to get involved in this 'conversation' by the way she's bearing down on the three of them. Master Chief has the immediate problem well in hand, so hers are free to curl into fists on her hips as she stares down the two men dangling in the air.

"We're going to take this somewhere more private now," she says. "My office."

Where she can turn them into living statues, if they start swinging at each other again.

"You wanna walk there yourselves, or be carried?"

From the Chief's expression, it's clear he'll totally do it, don't try him.

"I was minding my own damn business, eating my breakfast." Wash fucking started it, the asshole. He's wiped enough of the grapefruit juice from his eye to glare across the gap and oh, that's rich. Freelancer Business. Fifteen different kinds of acid black replies are waiting on his tongue but it's not worth it.

Wash is not worth jeopardizing what he might be able to build for himself here. Not even a little.

"As long as he's in front of me and on my right." Like fuck he's going to have Wash at his back or blindside any time soon. Never is more likely. He yanks his gaze from Wash to offer the closest thing to a contrite expression as he can handle while hanging from the Chief's grip. "Sorry about the mess, ma'am. Won't happen again."

Wash's expression goes flat when Kid Q arrives on scene. Of course. If Chief didn't call her, then someone else probably had - either way, this is inevitable, and he shouldn't be surprised.

(He should probably be disappointed, angry with himself that he'd fucked up badly enough to get chewed out by Kid Q twice in a month, but...eh. That'll come later, he's sure.)

"I'll walk," is all he says, clearly enunciated and toneless. He doesn't bother looking at York, doesn't look at Chief, doesn't look anywhere except straight ahead. He's still furious - that hasn't changed with her arrival - but he can bury it long enough to get through this.

The Chief, satisfied they're not going to lunge at each other again, puts them down on their feet. The boss is here to sort it out, his job is done.

"Now, if you'll excuse me...?" He looks to Kid Q to confirm that she doesn't need him involved in this any further, then makes his way back to where he was sitting before this mess. He takes a moment to right the flipped table with one hand as he goes.

Sometimes, it's a relief not to be the one in charge.

"You're sprocking right it's not going to happen again, because we are going to my sprocking office to resolve this like sprocking adults," Kid Quantum says. She nods her thanks and a dismissal to Chief, then points Wash and York toward the door.

"Move."

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Recovery [Open]

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