Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey, you dirty Blue!” Sarge’s gruff voice barked from outside the nearly-deserted Blue Base. “Ready or not, I’m storming your base!”

Sure enough, the stomping of armor-plated boots grew nearer to where Caboose sat, helmet off, surrounded by dozens of half-assembled mechanical parts. He barely glanced up as Sarge approached, the barrel of his shotgun pointing at Caboose menacingly.

“What kind of shenanigans are you getting up to here, Blue?” Sarge demanded. “I can’t abide shenanigans, especially from the enemy. So start talking or I’ll start blasting!”

“Oh, hello Sergeant,” Caboose said after a pause, as though his brain had just caught up to the fact that Sarge was present. “Um, are you here to shoot me? Because I would not like to get shot today.”

Sarge half-lowered his shotgun. “Fortunately for you, Blue, I’m here for reconnaissance and interrogation. You haven’t shown your Blue face in days, and I’m getting antsy without someone to shoot at!” He patted his shotgun for emphasis.

“Yeeaah, I’m sorry I can’t come over and play. But I’m… doing things… that don’t involve robot parts at all.” He looked almost pleased, like he’d come up with a clever lie.

Sarge narrowed his eyes behind his helmet. “When’s the last time you even left this room?”

Caboose looked puzzled. “Well, you know, I’m not so good at keeping track of time, so… uh, I can’t really…”

“That’s what I thought.” Sarge humphed irritably, holstering his shotgun. “Come on, son. Let’s go get some fresh air.”

“But- but I can’t-” Caboose protested as Sarge hauled the taller soldier to his feet.

“Sure you can. You’re a Blue! Goofing off and derelictin’ your duties is exactly what Blues do!”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s our real job. Church always said I’m not allowed to talk to Command, but he usually tells me what they say, and-and I think I’d remember being told to do something like that.”

“And yet, you Blues manage to do it anyway,” Sarge grumbled. “With your stupid colors and talkin’ tanks…”

“Uh, I don’t remember what we were talking about, so I’m just going to…” Caboose moved to sit back down, but Sarge caught his arm.

“Listen up, you little so-and-so,” Sarge barked. There’s nothing so important that you can’t take a break now and again. Trust me, I know all about single-minded obsessions,” he chuckled to himself, “you dirty Blue. But sacrificing your health won’t get you anywhere in the long run. In the short run either, if Grif is anything to go by.” He steered Caboose out of the room, climbing the shallow steps to the living area.

“Oh, sweet Mother Hubbard,” Sarge breathed as he took in the state of the Blue kitchen.

“Yeeeaaaaah,” Caboose said slowly. “I tried to make pancakes, but that was too hard, so I tried to make cereal, and then… a lot of things ended up on fire, so I asked it to stop burning but it wasn’t listening to me. And then there was a lot of water, which was weird because I don’t remember there being a shower in the kitchen?”

“All right, I’ve heard enough,” Sarge muttered. He righted one of the chairs and took a seat at the table, slouching onto his elbows. He stared at Caboose through his helmet contemplatively. “Kinda forgot it was you who was here by yourself.”

“Yeah, I-I forget that sometimes too.” A pause. “It’s very lonely.”

Silence fell. Caboose continued standing in the middle of the room, watching Sarge blankly. He didn’t look impatient; it was more like his brain had paused itself until Sarge said something else.

Sarge stood back up with a grunt and a crack of joints. “All right, Caboose. Come with me over to Red Base and we’ll get you some lunch. I’ll send Simmons over here to clean up this kitchen; it’s more of a war zone than the actual war zone outside. And I’ll make sure someone comes over to help you cook from now on.”

Caboose looked vaguely perplexed. “I’m… confused.”

“You’re always confused, son,” Sarge grunted. “See, you’re the only Blue in this canyon. Without you, we’ve got nobody to fight! The Red Team has no purpose! So it’s our solemn duty to make sure you’re fit and fighting ready at all times. So we can kill you fair and square in open battle!” He pumped his shotgun for emphasis.

“Oh. That makes sense.” Nodding in understanding, Caboose trailed after Sarge towards Red Base.

Chapter Text

Everything was on fire.

The landscape was burning. Thick smoke choked the air, reducing visibility to near zero. If it hadn’t been for the filters inside his helmet, Sarge would already have choked to death on the smell of war.

God, he loved it.

Sarge cackled wildly as he pumped his shotgun, leaning out from behind a boulder to shoot down two or three pirates at a time. No matter how many he shot, more just kept coming.

“Come on, you pansy pirate ninnies! Is that the best you got?” Sarge hollered, pulling the pin out of his last grenade and hurling it over the boulder without looking. When it exploded, he was rewarded with shrieks of pain from the unseen pirates.

Whistling merrily to himself as he reloaded his shotgun again, Sarge scanned the terrain on each side of his boulder. To his left, a squad of New Republic soldiers held off the pirates, working flawlessly together. To his right…

Oh no.

Caboose was alone in the middle of the battlefield, down on one knee while Freckles fired wild shots in the direction of the pirates. He wasn’t anywhere near the squad that was assigned to keep an eye on him. He wasn’t supposed to be on the front lines at all.

“ERROR. ERROR. ENVIRONMENTAL INTERFERENCE PREVENTS ACCURATE TARGET LOCK.” Freckles continued to fire in the direction of the enemy, but Sarge could tell it wasn’t doing much more than keeping them at bay. Return fire tore up the ground, dangerously close to Caboose’s feet. The thick smoke had kept them from hitting Caboose so far, but his luck wouldn’t hold for long.

“Good boy, Freckles!” Caboose shouted, clinging to the autonomous gun as it fired itself. “You are doing your best and that’s great!”

“Idiot,” Sarge hollered. “Don’t call attention to yourself!”

Caboose’s helmeted head jerked around. “Oh, hello Sergeant!” he called cheerfully, lowering Freckles to wave at Sarge.

Only for a shot to send him to the ground with a strangled scream.

Instantly, Sarge lunged out from behind his boulder, firing wildly with one hand to keep the pirates off as he crossed the distance at lightning speed. He holstered his shotgun and pounced on Caboose in one move, putting himself between the wounded Blue and the pirates as he dragged Caboose back behind the cover of the boulder.

“Sweet holy mackerels, you’re heavy,” Sarge grunted as he rolled Caboose onto his back. Armor or no, the guy was built like a linebacker.

Sarge pulled up Caboose’s vitals on his HUD as he noticed the blood leaking from the hole in his armor. The bullet had pierced the weak point between the chest plate and the shoulder guard, angling beneath Caboose’s right arm into his chest. His vitals were erratic but his heartbeat was still strong. For now.

“F-freckles…” Caboose mumbled, somehow still clinging to his rifle.

“Shut up, you lousy Blue,” Sarge barked. “Just hang in there, we’ll get you out of here.”

Caboose let out a rattling cough as Sarge’s radio squawked to life. “This is Colonel Sarge!” he shouted. “I need immediate evac! We’ve got a man down!”

The radio crackled with static for a moment before Kimball’s voice responded. “Just one man? Sarge, I’ve got reports of wounded from a dozen different places. There’s only so much I can do.”

“It’s Caboose,” Sarge said.

There was a single instant of silence. “A Pelican’s on its way.” The radio shut off.

Sarge fired warning shots over the boulder until the roar of engines parted the smoke above them. The pirates scattered as the Pelican landed next to Sarge, the doors opening immediately and the pilot leaping from the cockpit.

“Colonel Sarge!” the man shouted. “I’m here to evacuate you and Captain Caboose!’

“I can see that, numbnuts! I didn’t think you were here for a tea party!” Sarge barked. “Now help me get him on board, double-time!”

Together, Sarge and the pilot half-dragged Caboose into the Pelican. Rather than strapping his stiff, locked-up armor into a seat, Sarge laid him on the floor and crouched next to him. As the Pelican lifted back into the air, Sarge wrapped one elbow around the seat’s restraints and kept Caboose steady with the other. He couldn’t see the face beneath the helmet, but his chest plate was drenched with blood.

“Stay with me, son,” Sarge muttered under his breath. “Just hold on.”

Doctor Grey and her team were waiting at the door the instant the Pelican touched down. In the blink of an eye, they’d loaded Caboose onto a stretcher and whisked him off to the infirmary, leaving Sarge and the pilot behind.

Sarge suddenly found himself at a loss. Without a second thought, he’d removed himself from the battle before it was over, which went against his personal code. He’d left pirates un-killed and the day un-saved. It was just… un-satisfying.

Most of all, there was no longer anything he could do for Caboose. He felt somehow responsible for the other soldier’s injury, as though he could have acted more quickly and prevented him from being hurt.

It irritated him, like a chafe under his armor. It made him want to shoot something.

He ended up pacing the hallway outside the operating room, angrily flipping the safety on and off his shotgun. Nobody who passed by gave him a second glance. Battle-fresh soldiers in full armor were a common sight in Armonia’s hospitals.

Nearly an hour of tense waiting later, the door finally opened. Doctor Grey emerged, stopping short when she saw Sarge.

“Oh! Sarge!” she chirped. “I didn’t realize you were still here. Did you need me for something? Or did you just-”

“Skip the small talk, missy,” Sarge growled. “Tell me how Caboose is doing, and it’d better be good news or you’ll have to answer to my friend here.” He slapped his shotgun with one hand.

Doctor Grey giggled. “Ooh, Sarge, you’ll simply have to let me psychoanalyze you later. Your Blue buddy’s going to be just fine, don’t you worry.” He could tell she was beaming beneath her helmet. He could just tell.

“I wouldn’t exactly call him a buddy,” Sarge corrected, trying to hide the rush of relief that threatened to collapse his knees. “He’s more of an antagonist-turned-acquaintance, or ‘antagacquaintance.’”

Grey giggled again. “Well, you sure take good care of him for someone who’s not your buddy! If you hadn’t gotten him here so quickly, all of his blood would have been gone by the time I got to him! And I can’t operate on a bloodless husk, you know,” she said teasingly, waving a scalpel that Sarge hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

He regarded her for a long moment. “You’re… something else,” he said in awe and alarm.

“Thank you!” she chirped. “You’ll find Captain Caboose next door in Recovery. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to track down my ‘volunteers’ for cyborg testing!”

“You do that,” Sarge muttered distractedly as she dashed off, heading through the door she’d pointed out.

Caboose lay in an otherwise unoccupied room, which was rare for a hospital in a war zone. His face was slack, his eyes closed, his curly black hair streaked with sweat and dust. Sarge realized with a jolt that he’d never seen Caboose without his helmet on. Probably because the simpleton confused his helmet with his face on a regular basis.

Sarge pulled his own helmet off, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair as he took a seat in the chair next to the bed. Propping his shotgun against the wall next to him, Sarge settled in to wait.

Fifteen minutes later, Tucker burst through the door, Washington hot on his heels.

“Caboose!” Tucker blurted, stumbling to a halt. “Oh- oh man, we- we were fighting, and then we got separated, I- I don’t know where he went-” he cut off with a gasp. It sounded like he was holding back tears. Wash rested a comforting hand on Tucker’s shoulder.

“Kimball radioed us as soon as she heard,” Wash said, sounding unexpectedly emotional. “We got here as quickly as we could- Caboose… is he-“

“Oh, calm your empty helmets, Bluetards,” Sarge grunted without standing up. “Your boy’s gonna be fine. You think I’d leave a man behind on the battlefield?”

“Sarge, I- I don’t know what to say…”

“Aw, quit your blubbering.” Sarge waved away Wash’s gratitude. “If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s soldiers blubbering. Or sniveling. Or whining. Emotional expressiveness in general, really.”

“Yeah, we get it,” Tucker said with half a breathless chuckle. “Just… thanks.”

“Humph. Now, are you two going to get your kiesters out of here and let the boy rest, or am I gonna have to let my shotgun do the talking?” Sarge glared at them in turn.

“Um, Wash, I think we had some urgent business over by the, thing?” Tucker inched towards the door.

“Yes, I think we have to go and do the thing… at the place, right now.” Wash backed out the door, pushing Tucker with him. “We’ll… just come back later.”

Sarge smirked at the retreating Blues, then settled back into his chair next to Caboose. The steady beeping of the monitor and the slight rise and fall of Caboose's chest reassured Sarge that he was still alive, that Sarge hadn't failed one of his soldiers like he so often did in his nightmares.

Letting the ambient sounds calm him, Sarge relaxed in the uncomfortable chair.

He was prepared to wait as long as necessary.

Chapter Text

“I think it’s a portal to space,” Caboose suggested.

“We’re already in space, you nincompoop,” Sarge delicately reminded him. ”Now shut your yap unless you’ve got something useful to say.”

The two soldiers stood in front of a deep crevice in the rock wall. They had been exploring a desolate moon with their respective squads, and so far the most interesting thing they’d discovered was a hole in the rocks.

Well, the most interesting thing to most of them.

Caboose’s head turned suddenly. “Look, Sergeant,” he gasped. “Another rock!”

“That’s great, Caboose,” Sarge said for the hundredth time through gritted teeth. “But we’re focused on that cave right now.”

“Oh, right. Did I tell you that I think it’s a portal to space?”

“Yes, you did,” Sarge growled. “And I told you that was a stupid idea.”

“In that case, maybe it is… a cave full of treasure!” Sarge just knew Caboose was wearing that dopey grin beneath his helmet.

“This is a deserted moon, you microcephalic addlepate. Nothing has ever lived here.”

“Oh.” Caboose thought for a moment. “Then maybe it’s uninhibited?”

“Uninhabited. And yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“I don’t see a ‘For Sale’ sign.”

“Caboose, I’m going to shoot you on the count of three if you don’t stop talking.”

“Okay, I’ll stop talking.”

“You haven’t stopped yet.”

“That’s because you keep talking to me.”

“Grrrrrr…” Sarge clenched his shotgun, fighting down the urge to kill.

They went back to contemplating the cave for another few seconds.

“Are we done not talking now?” Caboose asked.

“One… two…”

“Ooh! Ooh!” Caboose blurted. “Maybe it’s a mythical lair with, like, a dragon inside, and it’s the guardian of the place and it’s upset that we’re trespassing on its territory and it’ll be like 'RAWR, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU WITH MY FIRE BREATH!’”

Sarge frowned. “How did you just change your voice like that?”

“I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT,” Caboose said.

Sarge stared at Caboose for almost a full minute. “You know what? Forget it. I’m going to find out what’s in this cave before I end up shooting either myself or you.”

“I bet it’s the dragon,” Caboose whispered excitedly.

“And I bet it’s nothing but a dusty crack in the rock. Let’s see which one of us turns out to be right,” Sarge tossed over his shoulder as he disappeared into the cave.

Caboose bounced expectantly on his toes until Sarge emerged from the cave five minutes later. His armor was blackened with scorch marks from head to toe.

“So? What was it?” Caboose urged. “Was it the dragon?”

“Son,” Sarge said slowly. “Not one word of this gets to any of the others.”

Without elaborating further, he walked straight past Caboose and back in the direction they had come.

“Wait! Sergeant!” Caboose called, hurrying to catch up. “Was it the dragon or not?”

Chapter Text

Victory never comes without a price. That was a lesson the people of Chorus had learned many times.

It was a lesson the Reds and Blues had learned one time too many.

It had come as a complete surprise. The gang had made their noble stand on Charon’s flagship, prepared to fight and die with total faith in one another.

And they had succeeded. They had fought their way out the room and through the ship, Tucker a whirlwind of violent motion as he charged at the head of the group in the Meta suit. When they returned to the planet's surface crammed together into a too-small dropship, the exhausted, battle-weary group of brightly colored soldiers shared more breathless laughter and tearful hugs than any of them would be willing to admit afterwards.

For a few short moments, victory was assured. They had escaped against impossible odds without the loss of a single life. For once, their group- their family- had survived intact.

Five minutes after escaping, the Meta suit shut down and their world came to a screeching halt.

As the remaining Feds and rebels cheered in the streets, throwing their guns down and abandoning their armor, as their radios blew up with messages of congratulations and reports from their surviving friends, as Kimball addressed the crowds with inspiring speeches of hope for the future, the Reds and Blues huddled by themselves in an abandoned building and listened to Epsilon’s last message.

In the scant few days since the Heroes of Chorus had carried said heroes off of said planet, the Reds and Blues had found themselves unable to relax. The war was over. The day was saved. But the people of Chorus and the Blood Gulch Crew would be counting the loss for years to come.

The ship that took the Reds and Blues off the planet was the finest functional ship left in Chorus’ fleets. Therefore, it was essentially a hunk of junk. Hastily stocked with supplies and renamed after its new crew, the ship left the atmosphere amidst the farewell cheers of an entire planet.

The crew themselves, however, was far from cheerful. The days they spent powering nonchalantly through space, rather than being calming, only afforded them too much time to reflect on the recent horrors they had somehow survived… and the one of them who hadn’t.

The team had gone from desperately fighting for survival to traveling leisurely through space within a matter of days. No one dealt with the jarring shift very gracefully, to say the least. Wash and Carolina focused on flying the ship, as they were the only ones besides Grif with piloting experience. When they weren’t in the cockpit, they were usually shut up in their shared room or taking inventory of their supplies, muttering to each other in low voices.

Grif retreated into his room on the first day, claiming that his retirement began now and he would spend the entire voyage taking one long uninterrupted nap. Simmons could usually be heard complaining loudly about Grif’s laziness, but when questioned about the times he’d been seen bringing food to Grif's room, he was curiously silent.

Tucker could often be found pacing the ship's hallways irritably, muttering to himself under his breath, swinging his sword at anyone who tried to talk to him. Donut was usually nowhere to be found, and of course no one sought Lopez’s company.

Everyone was caught up in their own worlds, coping with their grief and recovering from the war in their own ways. During the gloomy, interminable stretch while the team waited to either arrive at their destination or get caught up in another crisis, Sarge and Caboose found themselves gravitating together seemingly by happenstance.

When the hallways echoed with the distant sounds of brokenhearted sobbing until everyone was halfway convinced the ship was haunted, it was Sarge who tracked Caboose down in some dusty corner and sat with him in silent companionship until he calmed down.

When gunshots and frantic shouting shattered the dismal tranquility as Sarge saw enemies around every corner, only Caboose was brave and stupid enough to approach within range of Sarge’s shotgun. With gentleness that belied the danger, he would talk to Sarge in a soft voice, convincing him that they weren’t on the battlefield anymore, that he and his men were in no danger on the ship, until Sarge slowly lowered the shotgun and the tension drained out of his posture.

In the in-between hours, when nothing in particular was happening, Sarge and Caboose would often wind up sitting in the galley without acknowledging each other’s presence, together but separate as Sarge cleaned his shotgun and Caboose told Freckles all about his day.

After an undefinable number of days in space, the beleaguered team finally arrived at the temperate, secluded moon where Kimball had sent them to retire. Sarge had little time to spare as he oversaw the construction of the new bases and organized Red Team’s living arrangements, so it took him a few days to notice the conspicuous absence of a certain annoying Blue.

"Haven't seen Caboose," he mentioned casually to Tucker after breakfast one day.

"Eh," Tucker mumbled as he idly turned his sword on and off.

"Woulda thought his annoying keister would be underfoot all the time," Sarge continued.

"Eh," Tucker said definitively.

"You're right," Sarge agreed. "It's probably nothing. I'll just drop it."

It only took Sarge ten minutes to find Caboose in his room in the new Blue Base.

“There you are, kiddo.” Sarge knocked lightly on the wall next to Caboose’s open bedroom door. “Been lookin’ all over for you.”

Caboose was lying on his bunk facing the wall, dressed in shorts and a white t-shirt. He didn’t respond when Sarge knocked again.

“Caboose? Is everything okay?” Sarge asked softly. The only answer was a groan.

Sarge sighed. “You’re still missing Church, huh?” He paused. “Do you feel like talking about it?”

“Nn-hnn.”

That was hardly a surprise. Caboose had been sullen and withdrawn during the voyage, but then again, so had everyone. Now that they had landed at their destination, the rest of the team seemed ready to move on and come to terms with Church's latest death.

All except Caboose. Caboose had never handled Church's absence very well, but someone had always been there to help him deal with it. Sarge hated to admit it, but the team just wasn't the same without Caboose's clueless grin and ceaseless positivity. Now he just lay listlessly on his bed, as though all the life had been drained out of him.

Sarge stared at Caboose for a long moment. He could have sat down next to him, pulled him up and let him plaster himself to Sarge’s armor like a creeper vine, and maybe (maybe) found the right words to console Caboose and help him get back on his feet.

But Sarge was a man of action, not words. And this was a Blue Team Problem™.

Sarge found Wash standing right outside Blue Base, idly watching Lopez drive the Warthogs across the field and park them in a line. His head turned when he noticed Sarge approach.

“Hey-“ Wash’s greeting was interrupted by Sarge’s fist smacking into his helmet, knocking him back a step.

“Ow!” Wash cried, his voice shrill. “What was that for?!”

“For derelictin’ your duties!” Sarge barked.

“What duties?" Wash demanded.

“Caboose, you brain-dead Bluetard! Have you even spoken to him since he lost Church again?” Sarge accused. He had the satisfaction of watching Wash’s body language shift from indignant to ashamed.

“Well, I- of course, but-“ Wash stammered.

Sarge humphed. “That’s what I thought. You know he’s hurting over this. Maybe more than any of us, even Carolina. And you know he sees you as the next best thing. Remember what happened last time you left him to grieve alone? His damn pet nearly killed us all!”

Wash was at a loss for words. “Sarge, I- I’m sorry-“

“Don’t apologize to me, idiot! You’re the Blue Team’s leader, aren’t you? So start acting like it, numbnuts! Go talk to him, double-time!”

Wash shook his head sharply. “Y-you’re right, Sarge. I should have been there for him back at Crash Site Bravo, and- and I should be here for him now.” He sighed, seeming resigned. “I’ll go find him.”

Sarge smirked in triumph as Wash headed into Blue Base. There’s one problem solved, he mused to himself. Now what?

Just then, Lopez drove past in another Warthog, giving Sarge an idea.

“Hey, Lopez!” he shouted, waving down the robot. The Warthog changed course as Lopez pulled up and Sarge vaulted in.

“So tell me, buddy,” Sarge grinned. “How do you feel about… gravity?”

“Mierda…” Lopez muttered.

Chapter Text

“Where is the rest of your team hiding?”

“How many troops do you have?”

“What are your battle plans?”

“Heh heh… you pansies call this torture? I’m in worse pain every time I talk to Grif!”

“You won’t be saying that for long, I’m sure.”

“Bring it on, you lily-livered ninny babies. I’ve got all day.”

Caboose looked up from scratching a smiley face on the floor as the cell door opened and Sarge was dumped inside.

“Hello, Sergeant!” he greeted with a cheerful grin. “Did you have fun with our new friends?”

“Sure did, Caboose,” Sarge grunted, slowly levering himself up until he was sitting against the wall. “We had a blast. An absolute riot.”

“Good. Although I am a bit jealous because they do not want to play with me,” Caboose pouted.

The enemy soldiers had been working on Sarge for five days. On the first day, they had attempted to question Caboose. After ten minutes and a lot of angry shouting, Caboose had been unceremoniously returned to the cell and ignored thereafter.

“Nah, you don’t want to play with them,” Sarge grumbled. “Those guys play rough.”

“Still. It would have been nice to be included,” Caboose said stiffly.

Sarge let out a rattling cough. “It’s alright, son. We can play our own game in here.”

Caboose perked up. “Really?”

“Sure thing. It’s called ‘stanch the bleeding.’ Just come on over here and put pressure on my leg. It’ll be fun.”

“Oh boy!” Like an excited puppy, Caboose bounded across the tiny room and crouched next to Sarge. “Like this?”

“Other leg, dumbass. The bleeding one.”

“Oh. Right.”

Sarge closed the eye that wasn’t already swollen shut, tilting his head back against the cold stone and trying to block out the sound of Caboose’s carefree humming as Sarge’s blood squirted through his fingers. Perhaps if he was lucky, he could even doze off for a few minutes before-

“Mister Sergeant, how do I know if I win?”

Sarge’s eye opened. “If I don’t bleed to death in the next few minutes, then you’ve won.”

“Okay.” He was silent for a few more moments. “Is there a points system?”

He longed for Simmons’ non-stop attention seeking.

“Does this game have a name? How about push-ball?”

Or Donut’s uncomfortable innuendos.

“I know there’s no ball, but it involves pushing, and I like games with “ball” in the name.”

Wash’s theatrics. Church’s shouting. Tucker’s… whatever it was.

“Doc played this game with me once, when Church shot me in the foot. But that time was less fun.”

Hell, he’d even take Grif at this point. Literally any other human being, living or dead, would have been preferable to being stuck in close quarters with Caboose. His ingenuous grin, inches away from Sarge’s own face without so much as a helmet between them, was practically blinding him with its positivity. Such pure unfiltered cheer was nauseating to a man whose pinnacle of positive emotion involved shooting someone's head off. This was turning out to be the most unpleasant evening in captivity.

“This is my new favorite game.”

Well, unpleasant for one of them anyway.

Caboose’s inane chatter managed to fade to a background rumble as Sarge’s eye drifted shut again. Before he knew it, he was sliding sideways until his shoulder hit something warm and solid. Without pausing his prattle, Caboose shifted so Sarge was leaning against him, one large hand around his shoulders with the other still pressing against the injured leg.

Moderately comfortable, or at least less uncomfortable than before, Sarge allowed exhaustion and blood loss to drag him into unconsciousness.

They came again in the morning.

Before Sarge was even fully conscious, he was being dragged out of the room again, with Caboose’s “have fun!” dwindling into the distance. He put up a token resistance as the pirates manhandled him through the dingy pirate base into the same dark room for the same interrogation as usual.

Honestly, Sarge was getting bored with the routine. Torture he could handle, but he couldn’t abide unimaginative opponents. As much as he despised the Blues, at least they were creative about their antagonizing shenanigans. These pirates couldn't come up with anything more interesting than trying to beat information out of Sarge every day for a week. 

Today, though… the enemy were huddling in the hallway rather than going straight for Sarge, muttering to each other in low voices. If nothing else, he appreciated the variety. If these bottom-feeders were really the best army Felix and Locus could drum up, it was a wonder Chorus hadn't won the war in a matter of hours. Hell, if Sarge hadn't been caught by surprise, he could have taken out these miscreants with just a shoestring and a paper clip.

“Finally giving up, you rotten excuse for soldiers?” Sarge hollered, rattling his cuffs for emphasis. “There's no way you can make me talk! Y’all can take my red armor, but you’ll never take my Red pride!”

“You’re absolutely right,” the apparent leader agreed, leaning casually against the door to watch Sarge. “The usual methods aren’t working on you. So, we’re going to switch things up a little today.”

“Good,” Sarge humphed. “You’re finally getting with the times. Only took you a whole week.”

The pirate chuckled slightly, shifting out of the way as Caboose was ushered into the room by two of the interchangeable thugs. He was grinning in his usual vapid way; utterly oblivious to the danger they were both in.

"Hello!" Caboose greeted Sarge casually, as though he weren't handcuffed to a chair. "Are we playing a game? I like Chutes and Ladders, but I am maybe not so good at Monopoly because of all the counting," Caboose confessed in a conspiratorial whisper.

“What in Sam Hell is this pack of nonsense?” Sarge barked, trying to conceal his sudden spike of anxiety. “You nutbags know he can’t give you any information!”

The leader’s chuckle turned sinister. “No, but you can.”

Sarge didn’t catch on until one of the thugs sank his fist into Caboose’s stomach.

“No!” Sarge shouted as Caboose doubled over with a grunt of pain. He thrashed against the handcuffs, but was only able to watch helplessly as the enemy beat Caboose until he was on the ground, wheezing and coughing.

Sarge had never been more furious in his life. "He didn't do anything," he snarled at the pirate leader, straining against the cuffs until the metal squealed. "He's got nothing to do with this!"

The pirate shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, you're not giving us much of a choice here. So you see,” he said as he turned back to Sarge, “If you’re not willing to reveal what you know, then we’ll have to take it out on your retarded friend until you do.”

“Don’t call him that,” Sarge growled through gritted teeth.

The leader laughed again- he sure did laugh a lot; it really grated on the nerves after a while- and waved for Sarge and Caboose to be dragged back out of the room. “All right, I suppose you’re not “friends.” In any case, we’ll see how long it takes for you to change your mind. Until then, you'll just have to watch as we peel the idiot's skin off. ”

With a final obnoxious snicker, Caboose and Sarge were thrown back into their cell and left alone in the bare room.

Sarge and Caboose sat silently on opposite sides of the room. Sarge was determinedly avoiding eye contact, while Caboose kept shooting him glances as though he was waiting for Sarge to break the silence. He'd tried to initiate a conversation four times in the past few hours, but his one-sided chat always petered out when it became obvious that Sarge wasn't about to answer. After a while, Caboose had stopped trying.

For his part, Sarge offered no conversation, no companionship, no acknowledgement of Caboose’s existence whatsoever. He couldn’t even bring himself to glance over, to see the blood trickling out of Caboose’s nose and over his lip, at the way he held his arm close to his chest, or hear the labored breathing that indicated some sort of internal damage.

Sarge was a pragmatic man. If need be, he was willing to make the sacrifices that were required of him or his men to serve the greater good. In Grif's case, Sarge would sacrifice him for the "decent" good, or even the "mediocre" good.

In all his years in the military, faced with making life-or-death decisions on a daily basis, Sarge had never been so conflicted as he was at this moment. His principles as a soldier, the guidelines that he believed in with all his heart and followed more zealously than any religion, prevented him from giving up his secrets to the enemy. Sarge would rather tear his own skull out of his head and beat himself to death with it, however physically possible it may be, than allow the enemy access to his classified knowledge.

Caboose, though… Caboose was innocent. He knew no privileged information to confess, and wouldn’t be capable of coherently confessing even if he did. He didn’t even understand what was going on most of the time. He probably wasn’t even aware of the danger he was in.

Sarge would have proudly allowed himself to be tortured to death for the sake of his pride as a soldier. But he could not permit Caboose to take his place. Even though he was a dirty Blue, allowing the oblivious sim trooper come to harm on his behalf was not something Sarge was willing to have weighing on his conscience. It was... it was just wrong.

“Are we done playing the quiet game now?” Caboose finally said. Sarge glanced up guiltily.

Caboose’s grin was as guileless as always. He didn’t seem angry or resentful in the slightest. He didn’t even seem aware that Sarge was the reason he’d just had the stuffing beaten out of him.

“We’ve played a lot of fun games today,” Caboose continued cheerfully. “I’m glad that our new best friends wanted me to play with them today, even though they play rough like you said. Church used to play that sort of game too. It was fun.”

“They hurt you, son,” Sarge said grimly. “That’s not a game.”

“If it’s not a game, then why were they laughing?” Caboose retorted.

Sarge sighed heavily. “This just isn’t getting through to you, is it?”

“What is? Is it because you have a bad internet connection?” His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Did you try turning it off and on again?”

“How... how are you like this?” Sarge asked, utterly bewildered at the clueless soldier in front of him. “How do you just… not understand?”

“Understand what?”

"Everything," Sarge snapped before he could stop himself. He hissed in a breath through his teeth and bit back the nearly irrepressible urge to give him a kinder lie. “They’re hurting you because of me, Caboose,” he explained harshly. “Because I won’t tell them what they want to know.”

“Did you tell them about your pirate ship?”

“No- Caboose, that’s not-“

“Did you tell them your recipe for chocolate pancakes? Because that is a closely guarded secret between you and me,” Caboose said sternly.

Sarge shook his head slowly. “I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “It’s almost like…”

“Did you tell them where babies come from? Because no one will explain it to me,” Caboose said irritably.

“…Like you do it on purpose…” Sarge finished slowly.

“Do what? Ask where babies come from?”

Sarge considered for a long moment. “I never thought anyone could possibly be as empty-headed as you, even for a Blue…”

“Nah, I just have a different helmet from everyone. It was a present from Wash when we became best friends.” Caboose sounded pleased.

Could it really be possible... Sarge knew Caboose had sustained brain damage; Doctor Grey's scans had proven that. The trauma of having three A.I.'s in his head at once , especially when one was as destructive as Omega, must have left lasting damage (not to mention the incident where his armor lost oxygen for an extended period). Even Carolina, the toughest badass on whichever planet she was inhabiting at the time, hadn't been able to handle two A.I. for more than a few minutes before breaking down completely. Hell, Wash couldn't even deal with one. 

Still, though... Caboose had proven that he was, in fact, capable of understanding his surroundings on occasion. Especially when it pertained to Church. Caboose seemed to have a radar-lock on Church's location, activities, and well-being at all times. Sometimes he was a little too aware of Church. Unsettlingly so. Why, then, did he seem so oblivious to everything else? Was he really...

Sarge scoffed as he dismissed the notion. “Nah, there’s no way you do this on purpose. You must really just be this dumb.”

“I resemble that remark!” Caboose said indignantly. “You are just casting asparagus on me.”

“You mean ‘aspersions?’”

“No. I mean asparagus.” Offended, Caboose crossed his arms and turned away from Sarge with a pout.

With a pained sigh, Sarge leaned back against the wall and returned to pondering his crisis of conscience.

When morning came, Sarge was no closer to reaching a decision. He was no more prepared to abandon his principles than he was to throw Caboose under the bus.

If he gave up Caboose, he would never be able to live with himself.

If he gave up his knowledge, Chorus may well be doomed.

Could he sacrifice an entire planet for the sake of one innocent?

He silently argued with himself until the moment footsteps began to pound through the hallway outside the door.

Sarge’s gut twisted. “I- Caboose, I-“

Caboose’s eyes opened immediately. Either he hadn’t been asleep after all, or he always went from unconscious to completely aware like flipping a switch.

“Good morning, Sergeant!” he chirped. “That was another fun sleepover.”

Sarge squeezed his good eye shut as the footsteps grew louder. “I… I’m sorry, Caboose. I can’t- I can’t…”

Caboose tilted his head curiously. “Can’t what? Can’t have a sleepover? Was it something I said?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, son. I’m just… I’m sorry.” With that, Sarge slumped over, unable to look Caboose in the eye, and waited for the inevitable. As long as he lived, Sarge would never be able to forgive himself for this.

It was a small comfort that Caboose would probably never understand what Sarge had done.

The footsteps approached… and continued straight past the door. Three more sets of feet quickly followed.

“What in Sam Hell is going on?” Sarge muttered, straining to hear what was happening outside. “Is that…”

Sarge had always thought that gunfire was his favorite sound in the world. But he had never truly appreciated how beautiful the noise of semi-automatic carnage was until that moment.

Caboose sat up straighter, proving that the shots weren’t just a figment of Sarge’s desperate mind. “Is someone lighting fireworks without us?” he complained.

Sarge chuckled breathlessly. “No, son,” he assured him. “It’s the cavalry.”

Minutes of tense waiting later, the cell door was blasted open with a tremendous bang. The part of Sarge's brain that wasn't preoccupied with not getting blown up, nice going you idiots, we're sitting right here there's no need to use explosives on a door that you could just break down was proud that his team had managed to launch a decent rescue without Sarge's iron-fisted leadership. When the smoke cleared, Sarge’s field of vision was dominated by orange and maroon.

“Sarge!” Simmons’ voice cracked impressively. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Are you dying?”

Sarge just stared at the two for a moment, allowing immense relief to flood through him. If he hadn’t been such a naturally masculine and stoic soldier, he might have almost teared up slightly. But of course that didn't happen. Nope.

Grif’s voice sounded oddly strangled. “Sarge? Sarge? Don’t do this to us, Sarge. Tell us you’re okay. Yell at us for being worthless. Don’t just sit there! Sarge!”

Sarge humphed, shaking off his daze. “Oh, quit your blubbering, you whiny babies. That's no way for a proper soldier to behave. You too, Grif. If getting run down with a Warthog doesn’t kill me, how would a bunch of second-rate wannabe baddies manage to leave a mark?”

Simmons appeared to be crying. His visor was fogging up from the inside and he was wringing his hands uncertainly, as if he wanted to hug Sarge but was afraid of hurting him. Sarge idly wondered if tears would rust his mechanical face-parts. Grif was clenching his gun like a security blanket.

Sarge rolled his eyes. “Can the theatrics, boys. I’ll be right as rain as soon as you quit lollygagging and get me out of here already!”

With a great deal of stammering and bumping into each other, Grif and Simmons pulled Sarge to his feet with one arm around each of their shoulders, keeping his weight off his bad leg. Across the room, Caboose had wrapped himself around Wash in a crushing full-body hug. Wash looked about eight different kinds of uncomfortable with the contact.

“Y-yes, Caboose, it’s nice to see you, too,” Wash squeaked. His armor was audibly creaking and his knees were buckling under the strain of Caboose’s viselike grip.

“Hey, are you guys both okay?” Tucker leaned into the room, his sword hissing with energy as he kicked a pirate's corpse out of the doorway.

“Oh, we had was so much fun!” Caboose spoke up before Sarge could say anything. “We had sleepovers, and we played games with our new friends, and everyone was really nice.”

Tucker glanced in Sarge’s direction. “Is that so? I have a hard time believing that for some reason.”

Sarge grunted. “Nah, he’s right. It was a total riot. Practically a vacation. Now get us out of here before I start punching someone.”

“You don't look too good. As soon as we get your armor back, we can plug in the healing unit and get you both fixed up,” Wash said as he tried to lead the clingy Caboose out of the room without overbalancing and toppling over. "We should still take you to the infirmary afterward, though. Doctor Grey's probably got some choice words for the surviving pirates."

“Humph. You namby-pamby Freelancers and your reliance on fancy tech,” Sarge grumbled as Grif and Simmons half-carried him after the others. “Back in my day, all you needed was a bottle of whiskey and some boiled rags. Soldiers these days are coddled. Coddled, I say!”

He eyed the dark bruise partially hidden by Caboose’s sleeve and felt a twinge of guilt. “But… if you’re using it anyway, then give it to Caboose first.”

“Sir, you look a lot worse off than-“ Simmons tried to argue, but Sarge interrupted.

“Simmons, since when do you back-sass your superior officer? I’ll hear no arguments about this, men. You’re fixing Caboose first and that’s final.”

"Uh, okay. Whatever you say, Sarge," Simmons capitulated.

Caboose looked up from nuzzling Wash’s helmet and locked eyes with Sarge. For the briefest moment, Sarge saw a flash of what appeared to be understanding. And maybe… forgiveness.

But that must have been Sarge’s imagination.

Chapter Text

Red Base had gone quiet. Simmons and Grif had fallen asleep in front of the television, Donut had disappeared with Doc, and Lopez was doing whatever Lopez did when he wasn’t tinkering with the Warthogs or grumbling at his team members.

Under the light of a single bare bulb, Sarge sat in his workshop and dismantled his precious shotgun. He whistled under his breath as he meticulously cleaned every piece, ensuring that the gun was in perfect working order.

“There, there, Betsy,” he muttered lovingly. “They’ll take you away from me when they pry you from my cold, dead hands. That’s my good girl.”

As he reassembled the gun and moved on to his pistol, Sarge cursed under his breath.

“Stupid pleated pants,” he grumbled. “Damn Grif and those dirty blues. I can be the Fonz if I want to. I can jump a shark if-”

“Hello!” a cheerful voice came from an inch behind his head.

“Sweet buttered crumpets!” Sarge hollered, nearly falling off his stool. “Dammit, Caboose, don’t sneak up on a man like that!”

Caboose stood there in his teddy bear pajamas and a dopey grin, utterly oblivious to the fact that he would have had a hole blasted through his head had the gun in Sarge’s hand not been in several pieces.

“Sorry, Captain Sergeant!” he said cheerfully. “I was just taking Freckles for a walk and I thought of bunch of mean things to say to you!”

For once in his life, Sarge was at a complete loss. “You… what?”

“For the french-invention-thing from today! You wanted me to say all the stuff I didn’t like, but I didn’t not like any things about you. But now I do!”

Caboose beamed as though he was giving Sarge a birthday present. Sarge let out a long, slow breath.

“Sure thing, son. Let me have it.”

“Okay!” Caboose grinned at Sarge for another ten seconds. “Oh! So you don’t let me give Freckles baths, or play near the cliffs anymore, and you yell a lot and some of us get confused by yelling.”

Sarge waited for Caboose to continue, but he just kept standing there with the same vacant smile.

“That’s it?” he finally said.

“Yep!” Caboose sounded proud. “That’s all the stuff I can think of!”

“What about my perpetual quest to kill you and eradicate your entire team? The way I betrayed my values and changed sides the moment some idiot offered me everything I thought I wanted? My irrational paranoia that there are enemies around every corner? Have you even been paying attention at all over the last decade?!” Sarge stopped, slightly breathless.

Caboose blinked. “Yeah- I don’t know what all that stuff was, but you said to tell you the stuff I didn’t like, so I did.”

Sarge heaved a frustrated sigh. “Either you’re just that oblivious, or you really just like me that much.”

Caboose brightened. “Yes! Your pirate ship is the best and you always remind me to brush my teeth and and you give me coloring books and juice boxes and let me play in your base with Donut!”

“Caboose-”

“Also we had a fun slumber party with the pirates, and you sent Gruf and Simon to make me breakfast in Vamalla, and you read me bedtime stories when Freckles has bad dreams about scary people! You’re like a cranky, shooty dad!”

“Stop. I’m not anyone’s dad,” Sarge said firmly.

“Of course you are! You’re everyone’s dad! Just like Wash is everyone’s mom!”

“What- that’s- no!” Sarge protested.

“And if we did another friend-zone about happy things, they’d all say how you make sure none of us get killed or left behind or lose our helmets again!”

Sarge was silent for a long time. Caboose stood motionless, grinning at him with an unchanging expression. "Also I hate mushrooms too," he added.

“You just don’t get how these things work, Caboose,” Sarge finally said.

But he was repressing a fond smile as he went to bed.

Chapter Text

“Sir, please,” Simmons implored as he blocked Sarge’s way into the Pelican. “You’re not cleared for duty yet. Technically, you’re supposed to be on bed rest until-“

“Ah, quit your namby-pamby whining, Grif,” Sarge growled, trying to push past him. “I’m rain as right! I won’t let any quack doctor tell me when I can and can’t fight. Not when there’s enemies to shoot!”

“Sarge, I’m Simmons. And this is a scouting mission, we won’t even be shooting anyone,” Simmons protested. “You’ve got a concussion, sir. You can’t come with us.”

“Tell that to my shotgun!” Sarge barked.

“Sir, you’re not holding your shotgun.”

“Dagnabbit! Foiled again by those accursed Blues,” Sarge grumbled. “You watch out for them, Donut. Especially that Washington fella.” He leaned in until they bumped helmets. “I don’t think that’s his real name,” Sarge whispered conspiratorially.

“You got it, Sarge.” Simmons pulled away uncomfortably. “I’ll… make sure to look out for the Blues. You just keep watch for them here. They might be up to something.”

“Galloping Gumdrops! Why didn’t I think of that?” Sarge gripped Simmons’ arm tightly. “Listen, son. I know it won’t be easy to complete this mission without my guidance and leadership. But I have to protect the base from those insidious Blues. You’re a good soldier. I know you can do this.”

Simmons made a strangled noise. “R-really?” he squeaked.

Sarge clapped him on the shoulder once before turning away. “Sure thing!” he called over his shoulder with a wave as he left the hangar unsteadily. “Do me proud, Lopez!”

“Close enough,” Simmons whispered.

The city of Armonia had been embroiled in war for decades now. This suited Sarge just fine, as war was his sole reason for living. However, this also meant that when someone was unable to participate in said war, his potential hobbies and distractions were sadly limited.

Sarge found himself wandering through the halls aimlessly, with half a mind to go to the armory for some target practice and the other half to track down that pretty lady doctor and give her the ol’ razzle-dazzle. Unfortunately, the walls seemed to be peculiarly ambulatory, leaning in odd directions and getting in Sarge’s way repeatedly.

“Hello, Captain Sergeant!” a friendly voice chirped directly in front of his face.

Sarge jerked back. “Hot Belgian waffles!”

Caboose’s head turned excitedly. “Where?”

“Oh, for heaven’s-- Caboose,” Sarge growled. “Don’t sneak up on a man like that!”

“Sorry, Dad,” Caboose said contritely, holding his arms out.

Sarge obligingly returned the hug. Caboose had mastered the art of hugging as though the bulky armor wasn’t in the way, squeezing Sarge so tightly his bones creaked.

Sarge hadn’t hugged anyone in… years? Decades? He couldn’t remember why. It felt nice. Though he knew it was impossible, he swore he could feel the warmth of Caboose’s body heat.

“Are you on an important mission, Sergeant?” Caboose asked earnestly, holding the hug for an uncomfortably long time. He might have been happy to have the entire conversation while hugging, had Sarge not peeled the clinging arms off of him.

“Of course I am, son!” Sarge declared. “I’m on the lookout for any enemy Blues. You haven’t seen any around, have you?”

“Ah- I haven’t seen any of those around here. Just the friendly kind. But we can look together! Freckles and I are ready for duty!” Caboose’s gun beeped in acknowledgement.

“Excellent idea, soldier! We can cover twice as much ground if we search together.”

“Makes sense to me.”

Elbows linked, Sarge and Caboose made their way through the halls in search of enemies. Caboose’s meandering sense of direction seemed at direct odds with Sarge’s concussion-induced confusion. Sarge would careen towards one wall just as Caboose forgot where they were going and turned towards the other wall, ensuring that between them they managed to travel in a more or less straight line.

After a half hour of aimless searching, during which they both forgot what they were doing, Sarge and Caboose ended up at a table in a sparse rec room where the soldiers of Chorus spent their rare moments of downtime. Caboose was humming happily while drawing puppies, and Sarge had worn down the red crayon coloring a bloody hellscape under a red sky.

“Isn’t this fun?” Caboose said cheerfully.

“You bet! Almost as fun as killing Blues!” Sarge grinned.

“Or eating ice cream! Ooh! Ooh! We should eat ice cream!”

“And kill some dirty Blues!”

Just then, the door whooshed open and Wash strode in.

“Caboose, why did you turn off your- wait, what are you doing?” he said as he took in the sight.

“Coloring!” Caboose and Sarge said together, with an added eye roll from Sarge. “Duh.”

Wash was speechless for a moment, which Caboose took advantage of to leap up and wrap himself around Wash like a strangler fig.

“Hello, Agent Washington!” Caboose shouted at full volume. “We were just about to eat some ice cream!”

“Sarge, what are you doing here?” Wash said, slightly shrill as he struggled to free himself from Caboose's hug. “You’re still supposed to be in bed, and it’s Tucker’s day to watch Caboose. It’s not your turn until next week. Go back to your room and get some rest.”

“I’ll die before I take an order from a dirty Blue!” Sarge howled. “Death before dishonor!”

“Yeah!” Caboose cheered. “Death before dishwashers!”

Wash put one hand to his helmet as though he was trying to suppress a headache. “Just… just… Fine. Whatever. If I take you to the mess hall for ice cream, will you please go back to bed?”

“Aww, but I don’t want to have naptime yet!” Caboose complained.

“Not you, Caboose.”

Sarge growled in annoyance. “Fine. You’ve got yourself a deal, Bluetard.”

Still grumbling under his breath, Sarge nonetheless allowed Wash to lead him and Caboose to the central cafeteria, where most of the snacks that Grif hadn't stolen yet were kept under lock and key.

By the time Simmons returned from the scouting mission, Sarge was fast asleep in his quarters with chocolate smeared in his beard stubble. His red drawing was taped to the wall next to Caboose’s picture of puppies.

Later, Grif would happen across Sarge sprawled out across his bed, covered in chocolate and snoring loudly, and take a picture for future blackmail material.