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Tucker feels like the designated driver at a house party.
“Wash, I swear to God.”
The Freelancer is laid up in a hospital bed wearing only his undersuit. Bandages peek out from the collar and Tucker’s willing to bet they continue down to wrap around his chest. The asshole takes broken ribs like a paper cut. Tucker’s got an arm spread over the Freelancer’s shoulders, unsure how to best pin him to the bed without fucking up his ribs any further.
“I don’t need to be here,” Wash insists. His voice is clipped, clearly forcing himself to articulate each word. Anyone else with the amount of drugs Wash has in his system would be slurring and struggling to form a complete thought.
“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Tucker grumbles, trying to avoid tangling Wash’s IV line while the man struggles to sit up. “But you can’t even fucking walk –that was not an invitation to try.”
Wash manages to swing his legs over the side of the bed and is halfway to his feet when he suddenly lists sideways. Tucker lunges, grabbing for the man’s waist. Somehow, he keeps them both from crashing to the floor.
“Seriously, dude–”
Wash furrows his brow. “Don’t need to be here,” he says, but this time it’s a little less sure.
“Yeah, sure,” Tucker huffs, lowering the Freelancer until they’re both sitting on the edge of the bed. “Whatever you say, Wash.”
“Agent Washington,” Grey’s sing-songy voice has both men looking up. She’s standing in the door, hand on one hip and in the other a clipboard. Smiling, she cocks her head. “What are you doing out of bed?”
Moments like these: faced with her too cheery smile and a voice that says she already knows the answer to the question she’s asking but is daring you to lie; make Tucker think back to the time they’d had her ‘negotiate’ with a captured pirate.
“I’m fine,” Wash tells her with an air of authority, but the effect is lost since he’s glaring somewhere high over her head.
Grey taps the clipboard. “Your charts would disagree, silly.”
She sets the materials aside to check the bandages on Wash’s neck. Tucker doesn’t miss the way she keeps her hands in the Freelancer’s line of sight as she reaches for him. How she waits several long moments for his eyes to focus on her before she touches him. Wash’s movements are stiff and his entire body tense as he turns his head, exposing his neck to Grey. Tucker’s sitting close enough to hear the way the man’s breathing hitches when her hands travel too close to the back of his neck.
“Well,” Grey chirps as she replaces the gauze. “Everything does appear in to be in order. Though, I would prefer to keep you under observation for the evening.”
Wash is already shaking his head. “I…I’m fine,” he struggles to form the words, dropping his head to his hands. “I just…back to my room…”
“Agent Washington, observation typically requires someone to do the observing.”
The Freelancer doesn’t look up, just runs his hands through his hair until it’s sticking every which direction. “Can’t be here,” Wash maintains.
Grey and Tucker share a look. The doctor leans down closer to Washington.
“Wash,” Grey prods, voice gentle, “you say you can’t be in the infirmary?”
Again, Wash shakes his head. His hands become fists in his hair as he mumbles.
“What was that, Wash?”
The Freelancer groans. “Ng…don’t. I don’t want to be here. It’s too…clean? Or-or…sharp? I don’…I don’ kno…” He trails off into unintelligible murmurs.
And just like that the room is suffocating under the weight everything unsaid: the reasons Wash can’t handle hospitals or hovering medical staff. But Tucker knows. And Grey knows. And Wash knows that they know.
“I’ll watch him,” Tucker says all at once because his mouth can outpace his brain any day of the week.
Grey’s eyes flick towards him. “I can have a chair brought in. Or a cot.”
“No, I mean,” Tucker drags a hand down his face and glances over at Wash who hasn’t moved from his hunched position. “He doesn’t need to stay here so long as someone’s watching him, right? We already share a room–he can go if I keep an eye on him, right?”
Grey flips through her notes. “Given this is one of Agent Washington’s less dramatic visits to my infirmary, I think that can be arranged.”
Tucker’s getting serious flashbacks to college. Or the idealized version of college he’s seen on TV, given being at war with an alien race throws a serious wrench in day to day life. It’s hard to enjoy beer pong and wet t-shirt contests with the threat of the planet being blasted out of the sky constantly hanging over your head.
So far, Tucker thinks, dealing with a heavily medicated person isn’t much different than dealing with a drunk one. Grey pulls him aside to discuss the details of watching Wash, most of which boil down to don't let him do anything stupid. In this case, though, there’s more concern about him wandering into the training room and pushing himself until he punctures a fucking lung than there is about him falling asleep in public and getting dicks drawn on his face.
“That’s a high dose he’s on,” Grey tells Tucker as he shuffles out the door with a steadying grip on Wash’s arm. “He’ll fall asleep soon.”
The sim trooper nods. Wash is too fascinated by the light fixtures to add anything.
Just like putting a sleepy, drunk person to bed, Tucker thinks. Piece of cake.
The barracks are a lot farther from the infirmary than Tucker remembers. The fact that he’s basically dragging a jacked sack of potatoes doesn’t help.
Wash relaxes almost immediately after leaving the medical ward, which is a good thing because that means he’s no longer tensed to punch anyone who touches him without warning. Unfortunately, that also means Wash’s shaky grip on coherency is gone.
“’was the name…of–of the conste–constellation,” Wash slurs, waving his hand vaguely.
“Wash, we are inside and that is an exit sign.” Tucker grips the Freelancer’s waist and bicep, keeping Wash at his side even as the man lists back and forth. The halls are deserted, which is a blessing because that means they don’t have an audience. Wash would probably use Tucker as target practice for fucking grenades if anyone got a video of the Freelancer stoned out of his mind. But no onlookers also means no one to offer assistance. Tucker regrets not calling Caboose to carry the agent.
Wash flaps a hand that nearly swats Tucker across the face. “Bu’ ‘was it called.”
Tucker sucks in a breath through his nose and lets it out. “The exit.”
“Oh,” Wash says with genuine surprise. “tha–tha’s…neat…” He trails off and Tucker gets the distinct sense Wash doesn’t remember what he was even talking about.
“Super neat,” Tucker agrees, deadpan. “Come on, we’re close–”
Before Tucker can finish the thought, the Freelancer wobbles and Tucker finds himself dragged sideways.
“Shit, shit, shit, fuck, Wash!” Tucker’s heart catches in his throat as they stumble because the last thing Washington needs to another head injury. Wash collapses against the wall with his shoulder but stays standing. Tucker is immediately in front of him, tentative hands fluttering before Wash’s bowed head.
“Wash? Wash, what’s wrong?”
The Freelancer rolls his head up until he’s pressing his temple against the cool cement. He squints at Tucker accusingly. “Tell tha floor ta… quit moving.”
A laugh bubbles up Tucker’s throat in relief. He fights a smile. “I’ll get right on that. But first, you think you can walk to the room? We’re like two doors down the hall.”
“Yesss,” Wash says with all the authority he can muster, which isn’t much considering he’s slurring like he just downed the contents of an entire bar. “Ye…ah, I can walk.”
He straightens up, pushes off the wall, and topples head first into Tucker’s arms.
“Whoa, okay, shit,” Tucker wraps his arms around Wash’s chest, somehow managing to support the Freelancer sagging against him.
Wash mumbles something from where his face is buried in Tucker’s shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah, okay buddy,” Tucker murmurs back mindlessly against the man’s hair. “Here, Wash. Can you get your arm–like this?”
It’s slow going but Tucker gets Wash’s arm over one shoulder. The Freelancer’s head flops against his own shoulder, bleary gaze turned to Tucker.
“’orry,” the Freelancer sighs.
“Don’t worry about it. Grey’s got you on the good stuff. Heck, maybe even better stuff than she gave me that one time.”
Wash stares at the floor and doesn’t respond. Tucker feels his shirt tighten and looks over to find Wash fisting the material of his t-shirt where the man’s arm is slung over Tucker’s shoulder. A glance down reveals Wash’s other hand wound up in the edge of his shirt and it doesn’t look like he’ll be letting go anytime soon.
Wash murmurs indistinctly.
Tucker leans in closer. “What’d you say?”
“…don’t,” Wash lets his head droop. “Don’ wanta go ta infur-mary.”
“What–no, no, no, we’re not–Wash, look at me.” It takes several long seconds but Wash’s cloudy eyes find Tucker’s. “We are not going to the infirmary. We are going back to our room and going to bed. No infirmary. Okay? You hear me?”
Wash nods.
With a bit of prodding, Tucker gets Wash moving again. They’ve barely made it a dozen steps when,
“...ther’ yet?”
Tucker rolls his eyes. “Geez, everyone’s always rushing to get into bed with me.”
Wash lets out a wheeze and Tucker stops dead in his tracks, grip on the Freelancer tightening before it hits him that Wash is snickering. Actually snickering. It’s not a dry laugh. There’s no rolling eyes. He’s really laughing at Tucker’s joke.
Tucker’s face lights up.
“What, you don’t believe me?” Tucker scoffs. “I’m highly valued commodity. Or is it come -odity?”
Wash rolls back his head and laughs like Tucker’s weak pun is the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and Tucker almost walks straight into their door. A giggle of surprise escapes him as he stares wide-eyed at Wash. Wash looks over at him and starts laughing all over again. Just like that, they’re both cackling like idiots, laughter bouncing up and down the hallway.
As Tucker gasps for breath, he hears a door open.
“Do you cock bites know what time it is?”
The blue soldier looks up to find an unhappy Grif standing in a doorway just up the hall, arms folded across his chest.
Simmons’ head pops out behind him. “Grif, it’s only like 7 pm – Jesus, are you two okay?”
Tucker’s still got Wash slumped against him, and the Freelancer’s not doing a great job of supporting his own body weight. Wash’s head hangs as he wheezes around quiet giggles.
Tucker nods, voice still breathless. “Oh. Yeah, yeah. We’re fine.”
“M’lungs broke,” Wash says helpfully.
“No, Wash.” Tucker looks back to the Reds. “Broken ribs,” he explains, pawing for the doorknob.
Wash notices the two soldiers for the first time. He waves and gives them a grin so stupid Tucker wishes he had a camera. “Heeey.”
Simmons’ eyebrows edge towards his hairline, while Grif’s jaw drops.
“Is he drunk?” Grif gaps.
“Yes, pleas’,” slurs Wash, as he slumps further against Tucker.
“Nah,” Tucker grunts, trying to hip check the door. “Just high off his ass on painkillers.”
Tucker fumbles for the knob again, but it’s impossible to get the door open with the weight of a Freelancer pinning him to the door frame. Goddamnit, he doesn’t want to sit Wash down. The man’s so far gone it’s going to suck getting him back on his feet.
“Here, I got it.”
Tucker looks up to find Grif standing in front of him. Without waiting for a response, the orange soldier swings the door wide open for them.
“Oh,” Tucker blinks, “thanks–”
Suddenly, Simmons is there, ducking his head under Wash’s free arm and taking the literal weight off Tucker’s shoulders. With his help, Tucker hauls Wash inside.
“Which bed’s his?” Simmons asks.
Tucker kicks some laundry under the nearest bed, taking a tangle of unmade sheets with it. “You get three guesses.”
Simmons just huffs and heads for the neatly made cot in the corner of the room. There they carefully lower Wash to sit. The Freelancer wilts like a puppet with its strings cut.
Simmons stands back. Behind him, Tucker sees Grif leaning against the door. The maroon soldier rubs at his arm. “Do you guys need anything?”
Tucker glances back at Wash who’s staring at his shoes, doing a pretty good impression of a zombie.
“I think we’re okay,” Tucker tells them, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh, thanks.”
Simmons nods and Grif rolls his eyes. The reds leave, and Tucker thinks he hears the orange soldier make a comment about ‘how the tables have turned’ before the door closes.
Tucker turns his attention back to Wash and leans down toward him.
“You still with me?”
Wash starts, lifting his head and blinking. “Wha–what?” He manages to look alarmed even with his eyes drooping.
Tucker chuckles and waves a hand to get the Freelancer’s attention. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he puts a light hand on Wash’s shoulder. “Just checking you were awake.”
“Awake,” Wash echoes, nodding. “I can stay ‘wake.”
“Not really the point of the happy drugs, but at least we can get you changed.”
Luckily, Wash is still coherent enough to lose the undersuit and put on some sweatpants and a t-shirt. Tucker keeps him upright and prods him along whenever he starts to stare off into space. Finally, Wash sinks onto the bed and flops back with a sigh.
Tucker snorts. “Sorry, dude, gotta check your bandages. Grey’s orders. In case you pulled something on the way here.”
Wash makes a disgruntled noise, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. With a sigh, he tries to sit up. Tries being the optimal word. The Freelancer doesn’t even make it off the mattress. Smirking, Tucker sits down beside him, presses a hand to his back, and helps him the rest of the way.
“Alright, real quick,” Tucker reassures, lifting the hem of the man’s shirt to check the bandages wrapping around the side of his chest. He probably should have thought to do this when Wash had his shirt off, but too late now. Satisfied, Tucker moves on to the man’s neck and shoulder. He tugs gently at the collar of Wash’s shirt. “Okay, now, Wash, can you turn your–”
Before Tucker even finishes speaking, Wash tilts his head.
The teal soldier doesn’t move. He’s too awestruck at the sight of Wash freely exposing his neck to him without flinching, without even tensing.
Tucker realizes his mouth is hanging open. Snapping it shut, he swallows and tries to speak around the tight feeling in his chest. “Ah, y-yeah. Okay. Yeah, like that.”
The teal soldier checks the bandages with feather light touches, waiting for Wash to react to hands so close to his implants. Instead, when Tucker brushes his chest against the man’s shoulder, Wash leans into the contact. Tucker’s hands stutter.
“Who are you and what have you done with Wash?” Tucker mutters as he finishes with the bandages.
Wash looks up at him, blinking hard in a desperate attempt to keep his eyes open.
“What? Wha–I’m ‘wake.” He says a bit too quickly.
Tucker snorts with laughter. “Yeah, dude, that’s the problem. You should be sleeping this off.”
He’s not sure what compels him to do it, but Tucker tussles the Freelancer’s hair. He’s also not sure what he expects to happen, but he certainly didn’t expect Wash to press into his hand. Slumping further into Tucker, Wash drops his head, burying his face in Tucker’s shoulder.
The teal soldier goes stone still. For several long moments, there’s no sound but the brush of Wash’s breath against the fabric of Tucker’s shirt. Tucker swallows, hardly daring to breathe himself and break the spell.
Tucker’s long since grown used to giving Wash space in moments of weakness (hover just close enough to help if he asks, but he doesn’t). Wash pulls away from offered hands, help. Tucker hasn’t yet decided if the man’s trying to prove something or punishing himself. So, he’s entranced by the way Wash leans into him, openly drinking in the support in a way Tucker’s never seen.
What’s he supposed to do? Hug him? Or will feeling restrained freak him out? Tucker tests the waters, running a lagged hand through Wash’s hair. It earns him a sigh and, if it’s possible, Wash relaxes even further into him.
Dropping his head to the Freelancer’s ear, Tucker whispers, “Alright, Wash. We’re gonna lie down now, can you do that?”
The only response is an indistinct hum, but Wash goes obediently as Tucker guides him down.
Once there, Wash curls up, buries his face in a pillow and doesn’t move.
Tucker stands up and pulls at the blanket underneath the Freelancer. “Come on, buddy. Otherwise, you’ll be freezing your ass off later.”
Wash shifts a bit, though his movements are slow and uncoordinated. Tucker maneuvers the blanket out and spreads it over him. Wash remains boneless, his face still hidden in his pillow.
Tucker smiles to himself. Ready to settle into a few hours of Freelancer babysitting duty, he turns, reaching for a nearby desk chair.
There’s a tug of resistance as he takes a step away from the bed. Tucker looks back down to find Wash has flung an arm out from the bed and managed to hook Tucker’s belt loop, his aim accurate as ever despite his drugged-up state.
“Don’ leave,” the agent slurs, his half-lidded eyes peering out over the edge of the pillow.
Tucker puts on a smile and ignores the tightening in his chest. “I’m not leaving–I’m just getting a chair.”
Wash shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut tight.
“Don’ leave,” he says again, voice trailing off, “pleas…don’ leave.”
Heart in his throat, Tucker sits back down on the edge of the bed, beside Wash’s pillow.
“Wash,” he says, waiting until the Freelancer’s unfocused gaze is back on him before continuing, “I’m not leaving. I swear, I’m not leaving.”
Wash rolls his head, bumping his forehead lightly to Tucker’s hip.
“Warm,” Wash says.
Tucker raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“You’re warm.” It’s the most coherent he’s sounded in hours. “Don’ leave.”
This whole evening has been one big display of trust from Wash to him, so Tucker’s not exactly jumping to crawl into bed with the Freelancer drugged out of his mind–even with the most innocent intentions. So, he does what he does best: distracts with humor.
Tucker flashes a cheeky grin. “I know, right? I’m one hot piece of ass.”
And just like that, the stoic leader of blue team is giggling like a child. Fucking giggling.
“Oh, come on.” Tucker teases, giving the man a shove. “I am!”
Wash snickers behind a hand, smiling as he closes his eyes.
“Yeah.” He says. “I know.”
“It’s like, a scientifically proven fact–whatthefuck. Did you just agree with me?”
Eyes still closed, the Freelancer sighs as he presses back into the pillow.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Tucker says, leaning in closer. “You don’t get to drop shit like that then fall asleep on me. Wash, you fuck, get back here.”
Wash’s eyes flutter open and he lifts his head. “What? What? I’m here. I’m ‘wake.”
Tucker snorts. “Yeah, I believe you were just saying something about how hot I am?”
Wash curls a bit closer to where Tucker is seated on the edge of the bed.
“You’re warm,” he tells Tucker, closing his eyes again.
Tucker rolls his eyes. “So I hear.”
When Wash doesn’t respond for several long moments, Tucker goes to stand. And again, he’s tugged back by the agent, who this time has a fistful of the teal soldier’s t-shirt.
“Don’ leave,” he groans.
“Jesus, you’re clingy when you’re high. Alright, here.”
Tucker takes a seat at the head of the bed, reclining back against the metal railing (his back is going to hate him tomorrow). He stretches his legs out atop the blankets and scoots in as far as he dares. He’s teetering on the edge, doing his best to give the Freelancer a bit of personal space. Not that that’s an option on the tiny cot. Wash doesn’t seem to mind though. He leans into the sim trooper, apparently content to leech off the heat even with the layers of blankets between them.
“Happy now?” Tucker asks, looking down at the man. But Wash doesn’t answer, just nudges his head against the teal soldier’s side. Eyes closed and breathing even–Tucker doubts he even heard him, until,
“Yea…” the Freelancer breathes, so soft Tucker almost misses it. “’anks, Tuc-ker.”
The bars at the head of the bed dig into his spine and there’s nowhere to rest his head. But even with Wash finally sleeping soundly, Tucker doesn’t move to get up. Instead, he stares down at the top of the agent’s head where his hair is already sticking a thousand different directions. And with a hesitant hand, he runs his fingers through the mess of locks. He thinks he hears Wash’s breathing change, but he can’t be sure.
Tucker’s got several long hours ahead of him, but he isn’t thinking of that. He’s wondering about the morning. Wash likely won’t remember tonight. Tucker’s wondering if he should slip away before Wash wakes up, letting his friend continue unaware that the teal soldier knows just how deep the Freelancer’s trust in him runs. Or Tucker could stay, wait for Wash to open his eyes and for his shields to come back up.
And maybe, just maybe, those walls won’t be so high this time around.