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The mission doesn’t exactly put anyone in particularly high spirits. The reality of war is always made that much heavier when you see the impact is has on the people – the ones too scared, too weak or too young to fight. The ones who never wanted any of this, because there are never only two sides to a war.
All things considered, the small town of Carmen is relatively unscathed. There are far fewer buildings that have been leveled by heavy artillery strikes and for the most part people seem to be content to go about their business. War has a way of disrupting the economy but the inhabitants seem to have worked out a barter system for themselves that provides some semblance of normalcy.
Wash shoots a look over at Tucker walking beside him. The sim trooper’s helmet darts back and forth, as alert as he’s ever seen him. Children run, laughing and chasing each other in the streets though they quiet and scamper off upon the sight of so many armed soldiers.There’s almost no one in armour in this town, save for a few sentries guarding the perimeter outfitted in whatever scraps they could find. It’s a little eerie. Wash can’t remember the last time he was surrounded by so many civilians.
A warthog laden with supplies rolls slowly down the cracked asphalt just ahead of them, salvage from Armonia that the army can spare for the people here. It’s a rather scant offer unfortunately but they’ve managed to scrape together several gallons of clean water, a large bundle of clothes and blankets and some spare weapons for the militants here to protect themselves. The fighting between the Feds and the Rebels may have stopped but their new common enemy is far more dangerous. At least both sides wanted to save their planet before, in their own way, but now they are facing a foe bent solely on the total destruction of Chorus and places like this, while of little consequence to them, are in far more jeopardy than they used to be. They’ve been fighting Felix and Locus long enough that Wash knows they could wipe this place off the map, not because it has resources or tactical importance; they’d do it just to make them hurt. It’s not something he’ll voice aloud. No one does. It’s merely a shared look in the war room or a collective breath held as they approach each of these nowhere towns hoping to still find them in one piece. For now they remain but who knows how long?
The jeep pulls up to the loading bay of a somewhat derelict looking grocery store, the main storage place of the town’s supplies. A man in ramshackle armour meets them out back as a few soldiers help the group of civilians unload. “We appreciate you guys risking your necks to bring us supplies like this.”
Wash inclines his head. “It’s the least we can do. Hopefully it’s enough to help.”
Tucker makes a mumbled comment that Wash doesn’t quite catch.
“You can call me Bryson, I don’t recognize you lot though,” he says, looking their armour up and down. “You’re not more mercenaries are you?”
“Fuck no,” Tucker scoffs before Wash can say anything.
“It’s a long story,” the Freelancer offers instead. “Our presence here is sort of a wrong place at the wrong time situation but we’re making the best of it.”
Bryson stares at them suspiciously for a moment before nodding to himself. “Well we’re appreciative either way. Hopefully these pirates shove off sooner as opposed to later.”
“Have you encountered any of them?” Tucker cuts in abruptly. “Those pirate assholes?”
The man offers a light shrug. “A few have come sniffing around but nothing we couldn’t handle ourselves.”
Tucker looks a somewhat taken aback. “What if they come back? No offense but those guys are pretty well outfitted to kick a lot of ass. Shouldn’t you go to Armonia or something? Some place safer?”
Bryson’s laugh is hollow. “There is nowhere safe. Armonia is the last place we want to go. With all of you there, it’s the biggest target on the whole planet.”
Wash can hear the frustration rising in the sim trooper’s voice. “Yeah but at least there’s people there to protect you. What happens if those pirates decide to show up here? They’ll kill everyone!”
“Then we’ll take our chances,” Bryson growls before turning back to look at Wash. “I should go make sure all this gets distributed properly. Thanks again.”
As the man walks away, Wash risks a glance at Tucker. The sim trooper is glaring down at his boots, arms folded tightly across his chest with a visible line of anger in every angle of his posture.
Reaching a hand out Wash gently places it on his shoulder. “Tucker…”
The sim trooper shakes it off. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he sighs.
Once the supplies are unloaded, the group heads back to their convoy parked just at the edge of town. Tucker doesn’t say a word until he’s loaded up in the passenger seat of the warthog and Wash fires up the engine. Reclined in his seat with his foot on the dash, the sim trooper projects an air of nonchalance but his voice tells a different story as it comes quiet over a private COM in Wash’s ear. “Do you really think they’re gonna hit Armonia?”
The Freelancer takes a moment to think it over as he puts the jeep into gear and follows in with the rest of the convoy. He’s not about to preach false hopes to Tucker. That’s not what he wants to hear. If he wanted something optimistic he would have asked literally anyone else.
“Tactically it wouldn’t make sense,” he offers. “Not with their numbers where they currently at. They would have to be pretty desperate to make a push like that and would be risking heavy losses.”
Wash can feel Tucker’s gaze on him as he ponders over his words. “You don’t think they’re desperate now?”
“Not yet,” he admits. “I think they’re looking for something. An edge or an upper hand. I don’t think Locus is above brute force but Felix is.”
Tucker makes a small noise of agreement. “Fucking, douchebag.”
“We have to expect it will happen eventually,” Wash concedes, “but until then I think we have time to prepare. To be ready when they do.”
The sim trooper doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that and is silent for the rest of the trip. Obviously there’s still something bothering him but Wash doesn’t pry. He knows Tucker well enough by now to be patient. The sim trooper doesn’t bottle things up per say, he’s more of an overflowing glass of water than anything, but he’ll stay quiet until he feels safe enough to let everything spill out. Washington is the opposite. He keeps it all inside, pushing it down and down, the pressure compacting it like the hardest stone. But like water, Tucker always finds a way to get into the cracks, to break him open piece by piece. It works. They work.
When they get back to Armonia, there isn’t much change. Tucker is still subdued throughout the debriefing but with no poor news to report it goes quickly and they’re dismissed. Helmets in hand, they make their way to the mess hall and Wash can see the distant expression on Tucker’s face. He bumps their shoulders lightly, the action a little clunkier in power armour but it gets a small smile out of Tucker and Wash feels his own lips quirk.
Dinner finds them in the company of the rest of the Reds and Blues, who more than make up for Tucker’s unusual quiet. Wash sits at his side as the Reds argue over the logistics of weaponized banana peels.
“I’m just saying, it’s a legitimate strategy,” Sarge reasons.
“It’s not physically possible! A single banana peel is only going to affect one tire of a warthog,” Simmons rambles, far beyond exasperated. “That’s not enough to send the whole jeep into a skid!”
“It is in Mario Kart,” Grif grumbles.
The maroon soldier levels him with a look. “That’s probably because those banana peels are nearly the same size as their vehicles, or you know, the fact that it’s a fucking video game??”
“That’s it!” Sarge exclaims. “We just need to get some egg-head scientists to make warthog sized bananas!”
Donut gasps. “Think of all the banana bread I could make!”
Simmons looks like he might be having an aneurysm. “I mean… I guess it’s possible but it would take years of selective breeding to create a banana large enough. The peel alone would weigh almost two-hundred pounds!”
Tucker finally chimes into the conversation, mumbling under his breath. “Still lighter than Grif.”
Wash almost chokes on his food and the rest of the table erupts into laughter.
“And that’s without armour,” Doc adds.
Grif takes the jab in stride as per usual. “Fuck you guys. I’m still the best looking of this whole table!”
Donut grins as he claps his hands together happily. “I’m so proud of you, Grif! Body positivity all the way! You don’t need to conform to outdated beauty standards.”
“And somehow, I feel worse now,” Grif deadpans.
Tucker’s shoulders shake a little with a suppressed chuckle as the Reds continue to bicker.
Wash merely rolls his eyes and pushes away from the table. Dropping off his empty dishes, he turns to leave the mess and head towards the barracks for the evening.
Tucker follows, a familiar shadow hovering close at his heels as he walks. Wash isn’t perturbed and continues through the barracks, even as they pass the sim trooper’s room. This isn’t an uncommon occurrence. Usually Wash might try to dissuade him seeing as they both have training bright and early next morning but he can’t quite bring himself to turn Tucker away. Not tonight. If he’s being honest, maybe Wash wants this too. He’s getting better at wanting things these days; Tucker’s influence. It’s nice to be a little selfish.
Opening the door to his small room, Wash steps inside but Tucker doesn’t immediately follow. Glancing back he looks to see the sim trooper standing with his helmet hanging from one hand, eyes downcast as he lingers at the door. Wash isn’t sure he’s ever seen him so hesitant. So unsure.
“Tucker?”
The sim trooper finally meets his gaze and Wash motions with his head for Tucker to enter. It seems to be what he was waiting for because he rushes inside, locking the door behind him. When he starts pulling off his armour, Wash takes that as his cue to do the same. It’s a little different than usual. Most of the time they can scarcely undress each other fast enough. Only when they’re left in just their underclothes does Tucker come over and press his lips to Wash’s.
The pace is slow and exploratory and nothing like the desperate passion he’s come to associate with kissing Tucker. It’s not unpleasant though. Tucker kisses him like they have all the time in the world, like there is no war waiting for them outside this room. His fingers move up into Wash’s hair and he releases a quiet moan. Their lips break and Tucker guides his head down to rest on his shoulder as his fingers work. They move through his hair and over his scalp, his nerves lighting up in a cascade that sends shivers down his spine. Wash’s eyes slip closed as his mind goes pleasantly blank. Eventually Tucker’s hands move down his neck, carefully around his neural interface port and over his shoulders, working his deft fingers into the dense muscle there. Wash isn’t sure what he did to deserve this and he might ask if he could form words at the moment. They stand there for a while and Wash sways a little on his feet, utterly relaxed beneath Tucker’s expert hands.
“There were just so many kids,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. If his lips weren’t directly beside Wash’s ear he might have missed it.
Wash opens his eyes and at first he thinks Tucker is referring to the armies of Chorus because it is true. There doesn’t seem to be a minimum age to enlist, only a minimum size; if you’re big enough to wear armour, they’ll a put a gun in your hands. But when Wash raises his head to look at Tucker, his eyes are far away. Carmen, Wash realizes. He’s talking about the people in Carmen.
It’s easy to forget sometimes that Tucker really never saw much of the war – the real war. Back when the Covenant was hell bent of eradicating mankind in its entirety, wiping out cities and glassing planets. Instead of defending humanity he was shipped off to a training base in the middle of nowhere as a glorified guinea pig in a sick experiment. Wash knows he’s seen conflict and battle but seeing the civilians always hits the hardest.
“Tucker…” Wash sighs.
“Please don’t tell me 'that's war,'” he says a little sharply, mocking Felix’s words.
With a frown, he pulls out of Tucker’s arms and guides them both to his narrow bunk. He goes without a fuss and presses close to Wash’s side, arms wrapped around his waist. Wash just threads his fingers into Tucker’s dreads and returns the favour.
The sim trooper releases a deep breath of his own, relaxing just a little. “This planet is such a fucking bummer.”
Wash isn’t going to argue there. A human colony on a planet chock-full of mysterious alien structures of unknown function; abandoned by the UNSC and left to fight among themselves; and on top of that a target of a very shady business venture? Wash has crash landed on far better planets.
It takes a moment for him to think over his words because he can’t promise that there won’t be more casualties, that more people won’t get hurt before the end of all this. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think Locus and Felix are going to win.”
Tucker nearly smacks Wash in the chin his head flies up so fast. Wide brown eyes frown down at him as the sim trooper gawks. “Dude. When the fuck did you become an optimist?”
Wash is slightly affronted by that. “I’m a realist, not a pessimist!”
“Okay Agent Assumes-the-Worst,” Tucker jabs back with a raised eyebrow. “Enlighten me, then.”
“Look, I’m just saying there’s evidence to back me up here,” Wash tries. “You guys have beaten just about every enemy you’ve gone up against. That includes me.”
Tucker shifts a little uncomfortably. “It’s a fluke, Wash. You’ve seen how useless we are. It’s dumb luck.”
Wash catches Tucker’s face between his hands, taking him somewhat by surprise with his firm tone. “You’re not useless. None of you are.” Because he needs Tucker to know that he means it. The Reds and Blues of Project Freelance may not be conventional soldiers but the lot of them all together are something far more pivotal. They’re a wildcard; an explosive chemical compound that could go off at any second. They’re something their enemies can’t predict and that makes them very dangerous.
Tucker rolls his eyes but there’s no real gusto behind it as he rests his chin atop his arms, folded on Wash’s chest. “You really think we can win against Felix and Locus? ” he asks skeptically, though there is something faintly hopeful in his eyes.
The Freelancer manages to lean forward enough to press a kiss to Tucker’s lips. “Their biggest weakness is that they always underestimate you guys. I think if anyone can, it’s you.”
“You mean us,” Tucker is quick to correct. “I know you Freelancers like to think you’re all high and mighty than us sim troopers but you’re one of us now. Just another jackass in goofy armour.”
Wash smiles at that as something warm settles deep in his chest. “I’m fairly certain my armour is the least goofy.”
Tucker grins back wickedly. “Maybe since you painted over it but it’s goofy on the inside.”
Resting his head back down on the pillow, Wash closes his eyes and tries not to grin. Tucker’s right of course. Between the dents and bullet scars, the blue is still visible beneath the chipped gunmetal grey paint of his armour. A reminder. “Goofy” isn’t a word he’s associated with himself since his early Freelancer days where he felt constantly outclassed by every one of his peers. Wash doesn’t quite feel it but maybe, just maybe, it’s hiding somewhere under the layers of paint too.
Tuckers lips find his once more before he lies back down and nestles into Wash’s side. The Freelancer presses a kiss to the top of Tucker’s head and breathes a deep sigh before both of them drift off to sleep.