legionworld | Will you feel better? [Open]

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Will you feel better? [Open]

Who| Wash and whoever comes across him
What| The robot zombie apocalypse did not treat Wash well, and he's due for a breakdown.
Where| All over Legion World
When| A few days after Resistance Is Futile/An Eye for An Eye
Warnings/Notes| Expect mentions of violence and also a full-on emotional breakdown, because Wash.

Before

To say it's been a rough few days would be one hell of an understatement. At least things are getting better - Legion World is starting to return to normal, everyone who got infected by the zombie plague has been cured, and things are starting to settle.

Wash feels like that return to normality has left him behind - when he bothers to think about his feelings, that is.

Nobody slept much during the crisis, but now, days later, he still hasn't really slept. Or eaten much. Or come out of crisis mode at all. He's done this before - gone from crisis to crisis, functioned for days on end through disaster or (more often) war - and he knows that coming down will eventually involve taking a good look at his own actions and coming to terms with them, and that means probing the edges of the fresh pair of (small, bullet-shaped) holes in his soul and-

He can't. He can't do it. The last bit of stubbornness that's been keeping him going wavers every time he gets close, and he's not prepared to deal with that collapse yet.

So he distracts himself as best he can, whether that means getting a snack from the mess hall, helping clean up some of the mess left over from the crisis, or wandering through the biomes on the habitat deck. Anything that keeps him busy. Anything that keeps him out of armor and off of active duty, because he knows he can't trust himself right now. Anything that keeps him from having to think about the past few days.

Breakdown (Closed to Chief)

There comes a point where he just can't do it anymore. He's gone for too long, pushed himself too far, stopped caring about just how close he's gotten to his own limits and whether he's overstepped them or not. He's heading for a breakdown, but he's still running from it for as long as he can.

When he looks at the Legion staffer next to him in the mess hall and sees a bullet hole in her head, he knows it's caught up to him. He blinks, and the hole is gone. Blinks again, and it's back. She frowns, concerned, and asks if he's okay; he makes some paper-thin excuse and leaves.

It's been a long time since he's hallucinated, even one as small as that one. This is bad. He can't run anymore.

So he makes his way down to the habitat deck, to the biome he's just about adopted as his own even though it isn't, only stopping when he hits the tree line before the lakeshore. He sits down, back against a tree, and burrows into his hoodie, pulling his hood up and over his face as far as it will go. If he knows he's going to break, he can at least do it in private.

After

He feels better. That's what's most surprising about all this - that going to pieces was a step forward instead of being a loss of self. Amazing what consistent therapy will do.

He's not completely back to himself yet - he still feels fragile, like the wrong word or look will rattle him back down to base components again, but in spite of that he doesn't feel vulnerable. It's an odd state of being, and it's not nearly enough to get him to hide himself away and rest yet. There's still work to be done. He can still be helping.

But now he's standing a little straighter, and making eye contact, and keeping up his half of a conversation instead of trying to end it - the exact opposite of everything he was doing just an hour or so ago.

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The Chief's section of the habitat deck is quiet, peaceful, and great for losing other people if you need to. Between these facts and it just being his, John has long since figured out it's the best place to look for Wash when he's not doing well.

And Wash isn't, because Legion World is still a mess and members of the team are still recovering and the final proof: he's here.

The Chief wishes they met here less often, really. He likes that his space helps, there's a protective satisfaction in that, but all he really wants is for things to stop making Wash need it.

He approaches with steady steps, then sinks down to sit beside Wash. He doesn't touch him, John is still cautious about initiating touch (especially when things are bad like this), but he's close enough for it to be an open invitation.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

Since they formalized the change in their relationship, his tone has been a little less guarded. There's a gentleness in his voice now, and concern he isn't working to hide completely. The question is only a social ritual, and he has to ask it even though he knows something's wrong.

Chief's here.

He should feel better. Later, when he can sort through his emotions, he'll probably be grateful that it's Chief who's found him here and now and not someone else. But right now, he's drowning, holding on to what remains of his stability with his fingertips, trying not to fall and slipping anyway. He knows Chief can't magically fix this, fix him - the only way out is through, and through just so happens to be hell.

But...Chief's here. At least he doesn't have to do this alone this time.

But that doesn't make it any easier to talk about this. His only movement is to curl in on himself more tightly. "No."

"Thought not."

Otherwise he wouldn't have needed to come looking.

"Wanted to know if there's anything I can do." He can't fix it, he knows he can't, but just being there and letting Wash vent has helped. And now, even more than before, he's especially invested in wanting to help.

"I don't know."

Can he do anything? Can anyone do anything to help Wash right now? He doesn't know - if Chief can help; if he can help himself; if he even deserves help, or if he should just go to pieces and stay there- and maybe he'll have to stay there- who even knows if he can come back from another mental break-

But he has to. He's needed.

Right?

He needs to keep himself together- but he needs a pressure release or he's going to fucking crack- or maybe he needs to crack- maybe he already has and he's just in denial-

He doesn't know. He doesn't fucking know-

He grips his head in his hands, white-knuckled and shaking, as though he can hold himself together by sheer physical force. It doesn't work that way - he knows it doesn't - but the impending breakdown is terrifying and he doesn't know what else to do.

Wash doesn't know, so John is just going to have to make it up on his own. He decides. John reaches across to the opposite shoulder and, careful but firm, pulls Wash in against his side. He's here.

The last mission might have torn the holes in Wash's facade of okayness too wide to ignore, but the Chief doesn't care about that. He doesn't need Wash to look like he's okay. The Chief has never been one of the people who needs that reassurance from him. Seeing Wash like this hurts, but it hurts in a completely different way. But maybe this, holding him and being steady and warm and here, maybe this will help.

Maybe only a little, maybe not forever, but anything he can do here is worth it.

The sudden warmth and contact nearly shatters him.

Breakdowns, he's done before. Breakdowns are something he's intimately familiar with. They happen while he's alone, or distantly watched over by people who don't really care about him, and then he puts himself back together as best he can and tries to move on with whatever's left of his life at the time. But being supported - being with someone who cares about him while it happens-

Well, of course Chief would be here. He's not going to leave. He's Chief.

His breath hitches, catches in his throat, and he tries to regain control for a few seconds before giving up and letting it devolve into short, nearly silent sobs. He clings to Chief's shirt, bunching fabric in his fists, and buries his face in Chief's ribs.

He hasn't let go completely - there's a part of him that's still inherently terrified of breaking down and never coming back, that each blow his sanity takes will be the one that breaks him for good - but he's close.

John folds Wash in his arms and lets him cry, a final indicator of how serious this is. Neither of them likes when other people can see them hurt, it's bad for the team and the team is the most important. Wash is good at hiding it, and very stubborn, and it still broke through.

This hurt him. It hurt him bad.

"Easy," John says. "It's alright." Not everything is, but this? What they're doing right now? This is alright with him, there is no shame in needing the support. He's happy to give it.

It's alright.

That stops him short. It couldn't be further from the truth. Nothing is alright - there's a reason he's coming apart at the seams-

"No it's not," he manages, voice rough. "I shot Connie. I-" He doesn't know why he's telling Chief. He doesn't know how to stop. "I shot Pidge-"

His voice breaks and takes the last of his restraint with it. Saying it out loud makes it real, just as real as the moment he'd pulled the trigger, and reality is too much right now. He tries, in the space of one breath and then another, to regain some form of control.

He fails completely.

The sobs begin anew, tearing their way out of his throat loud and rough and nearly screaming, because the grief has to come out somehow and this is the only way he knows.

Connie and Pidge are alive, they have to be. The team would know if two Legionnaires had died. Wash shooting them, however, is still news to the Chief.

But he can't drag Wash to the bottom of that right now. Not while he's like this. A dam has broken and the only thing for it is to ride out the flood.

John holds him through it, one thumb tracing a gentle circle between Wash's shoulder blades. It's all that can be done from the outside.

Wash isn't the only one wandering around. Zenyatta wanders to get a better sense of his surroundings, discover new things... and also to find the source of the intense discord he senses. That singular source of discord stands out like a speaker's feedback in a crowded room. It grabs his attention over the noise of everything else.

The search takes Zenyatta longer than he planned. The discord's source is on the move, and Zenyatta is not fast. However, he narrows it down to the man leaving the mess hall. Zenyatta silently watches him from a distance for a few minutes. The man looks, simply put, horrible. When was the last time he slept? If Zenyatta had to guess, the answer would be since the start of the robotic conflict before his own arrival. Possibly longer.

Mind made up, Zenyatta hovers toward the man shrouded in discord and gives a small wave. "Excuse me, have you been with the Legion long?"

It's not that Wash isn't paying attention to his surroundings; he's a touch too paranoid for that. Instead, he's fallen back on hyperfocusing, keeping his mind on the task at hand in an attempt to prevent it from wandering into dangerous territory. To that end, he's only watching his surroundings enough to keep an eye out for threats; if it doesn't ping him as dangerous, then it generally doesn't ping at all.

Which is why he just about jumps out of his skin at the sudden greeting and whips around to see-

Uh.

Okay, that's new. Most of the Roboticans he's met don't hover. "Um. Yeah." Brilliant conversation. "I take it you're new."

In Wash's favor, Zenyatta doesn't have any footsteps, and people have said he's shaped like a friend. Or the that he's the vilest, soulless creation ever to be made. He would much rather register as a friend shaped non-threat.

"My apologies. I did not mean to startle you." Zenyatta scoots back a little to give the man more space. "I am new to the Legion, and I find myself with an interesting challenge upon joining."

He gently lifts his hand to show a ring on his finger. "Hovering a small distance off the ground is very different than using one of these. I understand that skill with this ring is required for legionnaires."

"It's fine." It's been a rough everything, and Wash isn't going to hold his insomnia-induced paranoia against anyone, let alone a new team member.

He blinks at the flight ring, then looks back up at the new guy. (Okay, what's he supposed to be looking at? Where are his eyes?) "Usually there are flight classes for new members, but things are a little..." He trails off, gesturing uselessly at the busy hallway. "Crazy right now. They should start up again within...I dunno, a few days? Maybe a week?"

"I see. I was hoping to start learning sooner in case the skill was needed in an emergency..." Zenyatta places a hand to his chin as he thinks. It's a gesture he's picked and adopted, knowing that his expressionless face can unnerve some. Most of the gestures he adopts are to show more emotion.

His hand drops, and he tilts his head. "But I do understand that I have joined during a 'crazy' time. Do you know anyone who could give a lesson or demonstration? I might be able to figure the rest out with someone showing me the basics."

Zenyatta really hopes that this man is one of them.

Wash can't tell whether the gesture is habit or an affectation for his benefit, and honestly, he's not sure how to feel about it either way.

"Any Legionnaire that isn't immediately busy with something, probably." It's an honest answer, if an evasive one; hopefully, by not volunteering, he can sidestep flight tutorials without having to tell the new person no.

"May I ask you, Mr....?" His voice trails off as an important detail is missing, but it is something that is also easily remedied. "Ah, how rude of me. My name is Zenyatta."

Name. Not hero name. He doesn't have one, and it hasn't confused anyone so far. Although, he doesn't worry about which name he receives back. Having something to call the man is much better regardless of if it's his real name or a call sign. If it makes it harder to turn down a request because names have been exchanged, Zenyatta won't argue about it either.

"Forgive me. I am still adjusting to my new life here. My appearance is causing some of my new colleagues to... respond unfavorably to me..." Zenyatta is glad the man's holding a conversation with him.

Well, shit.

On one hand, there's still room to say no. On the other hand, that would be closing the door on a new Legionnaire who had the misfortune to be on the wrong end of the Time Trapper's shitty timing, and as much as Wash doesn't want to talk to anybody right now, he can't quite bring himself to do that.

And then he drops that little bit of information, and now Wash is damn well obligated. "Well, we did just survive a robo-zombie apocalypse, and some people still have their heads up their asses about Roboticans, so." He shrugs, like he's discussing the weather instead of subjects like the end of the universe and racism. "And it's Washington, or just Wash."

He nods towards a nearby lift. "We should probably go to the hab deck - more room to maneuver there." As long as he's fucking committed, he may as well do it right.

"Washington, then. You have my thanks for not being among those and for the lesson I am about to receive. Please, lead the way."

Zenyatta clasps his hands before him and bobs up a little. Washington did not dismiss him or push him away. This is encouraging. So far Zenyatta's plan for helping Washington has been as such:

1: Meet with source of discord.
↳ Source identified as "Washington," "Wash."
2: Establish a scenario to spend more time with Washington.
↳ Flying lessons.
↳ Also a beneficial skill to learn.
3: ????
4: Washington gets some sleep.

There are gaps in his plan. He can only hope that the flying lesson will lead toward a more concrete idea on how to make Washington get some rest. The discord isn't as strong at the moment, presumably because he is a distraction, but it will come back. Zenyatta doesn't know how this man hasn't collapsed from exhaustion yet.

Locus had spent a good deal of time observing Agent Washington during their residence on Chorus. That fact hadn't changed when the two of them found themselves on Legion, and in that time certain patterns of behavior remain, despite his ability to surprise -- and on occasion, disappoint.

Of course that disappointment isn't wholly Wash's fault. The issue seems to come when Locus attempts to use his own experience as the benchmark, the standard to measure by. Empathy has never been his strongest suit, which explains how Washington's behavior could continually take him off-guard despite his behavior and motivation remaining so consistent.

But they are friends now, are they not? Friends who, as Washington has shown time and again, are there for you. Even when you don't particularly want them to be.

Locus may not understand his motives as well as he likes to think, but he understands the look that has been haunting Washington since the crisis began. He recognizes when a soldier locks down, shuts everything else out. Maybe he arrives at the scene too late to actively deal with the issue at hand, but he's likely not the best person for it.

Nothing demonstrates this fact better than when he arrives at Washington's side midway through the day and holds out a crisp, cold bottle of beer, with an almost ridiculously solemn look on his face.

Edited 2017-09-05 19:35 (UTC)

Breakdowns are never fun, and even though he feels better afterwards, Wash knows he's still rough around the edges. He takes a few minutes to himself, retreating to the observation deck for a little time to think and gather himself before he throws himself back into Legion World repairs.

Locus appearing out of nowhere isn't terribly unexpected (because it's Locus); no, the beer is the odd part of this equation, and Wash accepts it with a quizzical look. "Thanks?"

He continues to stare for a moment, apparently waiting for something. Whatever it is? He doesn't appear to get it. The severity of the expression eases with with a breath that carries the tinge of disappointment that Wash ought to know well by now.

"I've done this incorrectly."

"No, you were pretty successful in bringing me a beer." After a few days of overwhelming trauma and controlled nothingness, it's nice to have his ability to make shitty jokes back, and Wash takes a moment to appreciate it.

But he's pretty sure that's not why Locus is here. "What were you trying to do?"

What was he going for her? Comfort? Distraction? He's not very good at either, but he knows it's probably not the sort of thing Wash wants to talk about at the moment, which is the only familiar ground he has.

His brow furrows once again.

"I was trying to help." He says it simply, matter of fact. Follow these steps and you two can be a halfway decent friend.

Supposedly.

"Oh."

This sort of thing doesn't really come naturally to Locus; that said, the fact that he's even trying does mean a lot. It really is the thought that counts here.

So he casually pops the top off the bottle. "The beer does help. Thanks." Congratulations, a winner is you.

That's something, at least. He looks mildly skeptical at first before nodding silently. Seconds pass as he tries to think of something to say, some words to offer. They all seem a little hollow, considering.

Well. When sentiment fails, go for something practical.

"...we have not done a gathering for movies in some time."

Perhaps that will also help. Perhaps he's not quite there yet. Hard to say.

It's a little familiar, watching Wash wander into his biome. Not the wandering or their surroundings- but the posture. First time he'd seen Wash in this new strange level of life he'd been harried and harrowed and borderline hollow. At the end of his rope. This whole...everything had been rough for everyone. York coped by forcing himself to stay stable. Shoulder the burden of not freaking out for once and letting everyone else have their space to lose their composure.

Even Delta needed that space. In the aftermath- people still need to not be rocks.

Last time it'd been more than a little condescending and mostly selfish. It's the only thing that gives York pause before swinging off his porch and raising a hand, calling out to Wash. "Hey- want a drink?"

Beer, cider, anything. Just. Something that's not work and not...wandering like that.

It's not surprising that wandering the hab deck has brought Wash back into familiar territory. There's only so many biomes he's really comfortable in, and he tends to gravitate when he lets his mind wander.

He pauses at the offer and has to spend a few moments honest to God deliberating it. On one hand, York is a distraction from his state of mind, and a drink sounds good. On the other hand, York is liable to pry, and he's nowhere near able to fend that off right now. Is the chance of a distraction for a good chunk of time worth the possibility of triggering the breakdown he knows is on the horizon?

...not really, no.

"Nah," he finally calls back, after what he knows is a few moments too long. "I'm- I'm fine."

"...Uh-huh." This is his believing face- but he mentally retraces how he was an asshole the last time things were like this and figures that...Chief'll handle it when Wash lets himself finally deal with whatever's on his mind. "Wanna come in and play with Emu?"

He props his elbows on the porch, lean and worried but very much not prying. It's not his place to pry and this time? He remembers that. Wash is a grown ass man, he'll handle it on his terms. In York's territory is probably not where he'd choose. "She's figuring out gliding from one perch to another and it's pretty damn adorable."

Joking about one's zombie plan was one thing; actually having to use it was another. Tucker wanted it to be far more fun than it actually was, because who didn't have a dream that a possible zombie apocalypse wouldn't be more involved in heaps of gunfire and heroic poses? But... it just wasn't.

They should have been happy when it was over, and they weren't exactly that either.

Tucker was better than some of the others, though, which meant he was trying to keep tabs on them as much as anyone would allow (which was, truthfully, not at all). Wash had him the most worried, something scratching at the back of Tucker's mind that felt almost ghostly reminiscent of after their own first encounter and his subsequent adoption into Blue Team. Coupled that with his totallynotatallconcernnowayno towards Grif, and when Tucker found Wash in the mess, he was making a complete beeline towards him, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"You know, zombie plans aren't as fun when they're real." He headed over to get a sandwich, waving a second for Wash if he wanted it.

Edited 2017-09-08 02:41 (UTC)

On one hand, he's grateful for Tucker - having someone from home who's familiar with how he is now as opposed to how he was years ago helps. On the other hand, Tucker wants to talk about the robozombie apocalypse, which is the exact last thing Wash wants to think about right now.

Great.

He shrugs noncommittally. "It's almost like real life doesn't live up to your fantasies."

Tucker wants to simply talk about anything, and right now the robozombie hell that they managed to survive seemed as good as anything else. It was fresh, it was new, it certainly had nothing to do with his curiosity on if Grif survived or not. Dumbass.

Tucker took the shrug to mean nothing, so he brought the sandwich anyway holding it out. "Dude, it rarely does. Why do you think I watch so much porn?"

Okay, maybe TMI, but this was easy stuff, light stuff in comparison to what he normally shared. No rashes here, so bonus on the small favors. Tucker smiled a little, waving the sandwich; come and get it, Wash.

"No offense, but you're not looking so hot."

"I try not to think about that." It's almost easy, falling back into banter like nothing out of the ordinary has happened, like their lives haven't been even more insane and traumatizing and dangerous this past week than they usually are.

It's almost easy.

He holds his hand out expectantly for the sandwich. "Yeah, well, your standards for hot have always been unrealistic."

Pidge is taking a break from working with robots for a little while.

But she's still holed up in her lab and has been for a few hours now. Which has actually been nice, she needed a break from just...people for awhile. There have been too many emotions. Too much stress. Too much pain that she's been trying to stop feeling.

Her mouth opens wide without her really thinking about it, and she lets out a huge yawn. Sleep, dreamless sleep, has come surprisingly easy since the last mission and goodness knows she's needed her share of naps, but somehow it's less restful than usual. Or to put it another way, her eyes are watering so bad she can't differentiate between the lines of code.

And it's stupid. She's been getting plenty of sleep for once in her life and it's not doing jack! She puts her head in her hands and closes her hurting eyes to give them a quick rest and-

And she's running, running with more focus than she's ever shown for physical exertion in her entire life. Clamoring over obstacles on all fours until she can run on two legs again, barely passing eyes over the darkened machinery in the halls.

Computer. Computer. Computer. These things are good, these things are correct.

At the end of the hall, there is a thing. Two things. A human in armor that insults the perfection of the mechanical by wearing it's skin and a smaller human wearing nothing but scraps of clothing. A not-machine thing. These are errors.

She must fix it.

She lunges, racing as fast as she can with her claws outstretched. He raises a gun and then-

Pidge knocks over her mug of tea thrashing at her desk.

To say it's been an exhausting week would be an understatement. Wash is about due for a rest himself, now that he's pretty sure (or at least slightly hopeful, if he's going to be honest) that horrifying nightmares won't follow him as a result.

He passes by the door to Pidge's lab and pauses. He hadn't been in the best frame of mind the last time they'd talked, to put it lightly, but that's no reason not to at least check on her. He pushes the door open and enters slowly, sees her slumped over her desk-

-And shuts down the goddamn red alert blaring in his head when he sees her back rise and fall. She's breathing. She's fine. Calm down.

It's going to be a while before he can ease that panic reflex, isn't it.

He manages to even out his breathing right about when she starts flailing - goddammit she's having a nightmare - and goes into immediate overdrive again, darting towards her. He catches the mug of tea before it hits the ground and shatters (it's stone cold; she must've been here for hours) with one hand and grabs her shoulder with the other. "Pidge! Wake up!"

The image of the dream Wash falls away and the image of the real Wash fades in. Armor bleeds into facial features as Pidge comes back to reality and-

She starts. It's instinctive and unconscious but she jerks to the side to get out from under his hand.

...Oh no. She shouldn't have done that. Even if it was out of her control, she still shouldn't have done that. Somehow.

She looks up at him for just a moment before she breaks eye-contact to stare at the keyboard. "I'm sorry," she mutters, feeling shame that she knows is totally irrational. Which just makes it feel even worse.

Ouch.

It's not like he didn't expect something like this - you can't heal trauma just by saying it's okay - but something in him twinges when she startles away from him.

"It's fine," he says, because it has to be - he doesn't get to hold this against her when he's the one who shot her in the first place, and he doesn't particularly want to. Instead, he puts her mug back in its place on her desk. It's fine. Everything's fine.

"No, it's not!"

The one and only thing Pidge is sure of right in this moment is that she doesn't want to keep dancing around him. She's having nightmares. What's happening with him, she can't imagine.

"I don't want to have nightmares about you! I don't want to think about it every time I see you!" She sounds childish, she knows, but it needs to be said. "I want to move past this but...I don't know how and I need your help."

He pauses, staring down at the mug. They've both been traumatized by this - that much is obvious - but she wants his help recovering? Him of all people?

It strikes him just how few people here know how completely fucked up he truly is and how badly he tends to handle it.

But this isn't about him - not really.

"What you need is time," he says, not looking up. "Trauma is an injury, and you can't just wave your hand and make it better. You need to process. Dr. Ry'kerr can help you with that."

The noise that tears itself from Pidge's throat is a cocktail of exasperation and frustration.

"What about your processing? Have you gone to Dr. Ry'kerr?"

Well, she has him there.

He could lie, but that sort of lie is easily found out around here, which makes it essentially pointless. Plus - and more importantly - he doesn't want to lie to her if he doesn't have to. Their relationship is damaged enough as it is right now.

"Not yet," is what he settles on. "I'm waiting for everyone who got turned to have their session. I can hold the fort until then." The first part of that is true, at least.

Oh, of course. He hasn't taken care of himself. What a surprise.

She's never been good at dealing with people, but he's also not the best at keeping secrets. Not when he pretty much just admitted that he's trying to take care of everyone else before himself.

"Then maybe," she says, hoping this isn't going to make him run away, "we could go together?"

It's an idea. Problem is, it's an idea he's not willing to entertain at this exact moment.

"Look," he says, and finally looks at her. "I'm pretty sure you're going to have things you won't want to say in front of me, and I know I have things I don't want to say in front of you. Going together to the first session after trauma is probably not a good plan." There's a reason he'd had his breakdown all over Chief instead of anyone else; there were things you just didn't say to people who had healing of their own to do.

"...second one might work better, though."

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Will you feel better? [Open]

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