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?
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
no subject
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."
no subject
(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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"Move."