Chapter Text
Wash doesn't even realize he’s tensed up. Not until Tucker says something.
“You don't have to do this,” Tucker warns as they approach the hanger doors.
Wash answers without thinking. “Yes, I do.”
Tucker stops in his tracks and that makes Wash stop too. They’re still holding hands as if afraid letting go will undo the events of the roof.
Tucker scrunches his brow. He opens his mouth as if to argue but stops. He takes a breath.
“Okay,” Tucker says slowly. “Why?”
Wash stares down the hall towards the hanger. The pulse of pop music rattles the ceiling lights and sends minute tremors vibrating through concrete beneath his shoes. The balloons have spilled out into the hallway, and Wash nudges one with his foot, sending it bouncing away.
“I want to know I can do it,” Wash sighs.
“Do what?”
Even with eyes on the floor, Wash can feel Tucker’s stare. He shuffles on his feet.
“...be normal?” Wash offers weakly. He shakes his head. “I don't know. Be like you, I guess. You - the reds and blues - make it look so easy. I don’t think I’m built for that. And it’s stupid, but I keep trying anyw-”
“Wash.”
Wash doesn’t even flinch as the teal soldier’s hand comes up to cradle the side of his head, thumb brushing gently across his temple. Wash’s breathing does hitch. But it’s not out of fear. It’s the reminder that this is a thing now - they’re something now even if neither have any words for it. And it’s thrilling.
Tucker dips his head a bit to catch Wash’s eye. “Full disclosure? I’ve got my energy sword stashed in my pocket.”
Wash frowns. “You do?”
Tucker shrugs. “Carolina’s wearing two thigh holsters. Kimball’s dress has a bulletproof lining. And Sarge tried disguising his shotgun as a cane but he’s not fooling anybody.”
Wash presses his lips together in a sheepish smile. “I… have four knives in my sock.”
Tucker lets out a breathy laugh. “Good,” he says, dropping his hand. “I feel safer already.”
He tugs on Wash’s hand.
“Come on,” Tucker says, “I have an idea.”
Wash lets Tucker lead the way, curious as the man tows him into the hanger.
The room is spinning with the light of the disco ball as they reenter together. Inside, the party is in full swing and the dance floor is packed. Tables and chairs have been pushed against the walls to make room for the ever-growing mosh pit surrounding the DJ table. All around the room, dance styles range from couples salsaing to cadets headbanging like their lives depend on it. Everyone is having the time of their lives and that's all that matters.
A voice rings out over the wild chatter.
“Someone finally lock you two in a storage closet, or what?”
Wash turns to find Grif leaning against the wall, nibbling on a sandwich from his heaping plate of food. Simmons elbows the orange soldier.
Tucker marches right past the pair, Wash in tow. “Eat my entire ass, Dexter.”
Grif looks the pair of them up and down appraisingly. Wash is suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that he and Tucker are still holding hands.
But Grif only nods approvingly. “Suck a dick,” he says sagely.
“Oh, yeah?” Tucker calls back over his shoulder. “Well, maybe I will!”
Wash stares back at the reds as Tucker pulls him away. Grif looks to Simmons and lifts a hand, rubbing his fingers together. The maroon soldier begrudgingly pulls out his wallet.
The next thing Wash knows he’s on to the dance floor and the music is fading to something slow. Tucker offers his free hand to Wash and the Freelancer doesn’t even think before taking it.
Tucker suddenly appears unsure. “Um, listen,” he says, chewing his lip, “so, I have an idea. But if it sucks, it sucks and we can bail.”
Tucker looks at the ground. “I know you have a lot going on. Like a lot. And most of it sucks. But I’d really just like to make it… suck… a little less?” The teal soldier glances up.
Wash’s mouth is dry. It’s hardly poetry, but Tucker’s words have his heart feeling feather-light.
“Okay,” Wash breathes.
Tucker smiles, a wave of relief softening his features. “Okay,” he repeats. “Here.”
Tucker brings his hand to Wash’s shoulder, then takes Wash’s hand and moves it to his own waist. Wash lets himself be moved into position until they’re standing in front of each other, inches apart.
Wash knows the answer before he asks the question. He recognizes dance positions when he sees them. He's not that dense. “What are you…?”
“Watching your back,” Tucker says. Seeing Wash’s blank stare he continues, “Now if anybody comes up behind you, I’ll see them. And vice-versa, or whatever. You watch my back and I’ll watch yours.”
Wash swallows down the lump rising in his throat. “I think I can do that.”
There a long pause. The music play but neither of them moves.
“Uh.” Tucker pulls a face. “In high school, this was always the part when the teacher broke in and told us to make room for Jesus. I’m not actually sure… I think we, like, sway? Or something? Maybe shuffle in a circle. Ah, it's whatever you want to do.”
“Whatever you want,” Wash echoes.
“Yep,” Tucker says, fidgeting awkwardly and looking everywhere except Wash. “Just, uh, just whatever, I guess-”
And before Wash can stop, and think, and lose the nerve; he leans in and presses his lips to Tucker’s.