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“Is it a bad time to ask if I can have some water now?”
Wash sighed, and Doc started to miss the comfort of his wall once again. At least when he was in the wall, he felt less needy when he asked for things, considering the fact that he physically could not pursue anything himself. He liked his wall. He longed for his wall as Wash turned away from what he was doing to glare at him through his helmet. That was how strong his gaze was-- Doc could physically feel the rays of hatred piercing through the other’s visor.
“Fine,” Wash growled, all but throwing his datapad to the side. Doc watched as Wash stalked off to the other side of the cave, a breath of relief falling from his lips. He was almost certain that Wash was going to deny him again. His mouth had been parched all day and Wash had refused to give in to his pleas for water at every given point. But now that they were settling down for the night, and there was no excuse for Wash to not give Doc water.
He watched as Wash walked back to him, and Doc noticed how his footfalls were uneven, and how his feet were basically dragging on the dusty floor. Doc pursed his lips, nearly missing the low “Here,” Wash uttered as he tossed the canteen at him. Doc watched Wash sit down on a rock before he reached for the clasps on his helmet and took it off. His eyes stayed on the freelancer as he greedily drank the water. When he finally finished, nearly depleting the entire canteen, he rested his arms on the outcrop in front of him, eyes trained on Wash still as he typed unrelentlessly on his datapad.
“Are you alright?” Doc decided to ask, and Wash looked up from his work, turning his neck to face him. Doc gulped and continued before Wash could say anything. “Because, you know, I haven’t seen you drink anything all day, and you’ve just seemed kind of tired…”
Doc stopped talking when Wash removed his helmet, nearly biting his tongue. The other man was glaring harshly at him, but the only thing Doc noticed was how tired he looked; there were purple smears under his eyes and his hair was greying near his ears. The worst part, Doc found, was that his face was littered in scars. White, thin lines spattered across his nose and jaw, nearly as plentiful as his freckles. There was a large scar that sliced through his right eyebrow that sharply turned inwards towards his eye at the crease, seeming as though it almost took out his eye. Doc couldn’t help but feel a little bad for Wash. He couldn’t be over the age of 30 and he already looked like he had battled a million wars and lost every single thing that he loved-- and Doc supposed that wasn’t far from the truth.
Wash started walking closer to him, and Doc gulped. He started wringing his hands together, a nervous habit he could never break. When Wash was standing right in front of where Doc was sitting, he crossed his arms.
“Doc,” Wash said lowly, and Doc had to suppress a shiver at how menacing his voice sounded. “I’m going to say this one time, and one time only. Keep your nose out of my life. I did not ask for a psychoanalysis, nor do I want one, nor will I ever want one. You are a prisoner here. You only speak when spoken to and don’t ask any questions. Do you understand?”
Doc started nodding his head before Wash had even finished his last line. “Yes,” Doc said feebly, breaking the heated eye contact that he felt would have given him third-degree burns if he hadn’t looked away at that moment.
“Good,” Wash replied, sounding uninterested. He walked away, grabbing his datapad and helmet from off of the ground. “Now, I’m going to my room-”
Before Doc could stop himself, he interrupted with, “What room? We don’t have rooms here. We’re in a cave. The closest thing to having any privacy here is going around the corner.”
“Doc-”
“Right, no talking, sorry.”
Wash glared at him for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “As I was saying, I am going to my- my quarters. If you bother myself or the Meta, you’ll lose your tongue. Got it?”
Doc shook his head quickly, fear evident in his eyes.
“Good,” Wash responded, turning his back on Doc again. “You sleep out here. If I hear anything, or you try to escape, I will find out. Keep in mind that I am a very, very light sleeper.” With that, Wash rounded the corner, and he was gone.
Doc continued sitting where he was, convinced that the freelancer would skin him if he made any sound. When he finally came to his senses, Doc stood up, careful to make as little noise as possible. Observing the room -is it even considered a room?-, he found that there was nearly nowhere to sleep, at least not comfortably. Sighing softly, Doc started stripping off his armour. As he had no other clothes, he had no other choice than to sleep in his undersuit. He was mildly annoyed by this, as the suit was skin tight, and, considering they had been in a desert all day, sweaty. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Doc piled all of his armour pieces on the outcrop he was previously sitting at and sat down next to it, leaning on the wall beside it.
Tilting his head up, Doc let out another sigh. He began to wonder how he even ended up in this situation. Well, he knew what happened, of course-- he just wanted to know why it had to be him. Why did he have to be the closest medic? Why was it him who always got caught up in the Reds and Blues messes? Why did he have to be the one who scanned Donuts dead body?
Doc shook his head. He knew there was no sense in analyzing any of this; he didn’t believe in fate. He only believed that he was just on the wrong side of the galaxy at the wrong time. And being where he was previous to this mess seemed to cost him his freedom.
Would Wash and the Meta ever let him go? He knew their goal was to find an A.I., he figured that out somewhere along the way from overhearing the other two’s conversations, but what if they never found it? What if it was destroyed already, or someone else already had it? If their mission failed, and they went back to… back to wherever their command is, what would happen to Doc? Would they bring him? Would they let him go?
Doc let his head fall against the wall. There was no use stressing over it now. It seemed like their mission had just started, and that meant that he probably didn’t have to worry about his ultimate fate for a while. He just had to worry about what was happening immediately.
After all of these thoughts, Doc realized that he should probably go to sleep. If Wash had finally turned in for the night, it means that it must be fairly late. He knew that he had no way of telling the time-the clock inside his helmet had been broken since the Meta knocked him out in Valhalla-so he decided it was for the best if he just slept. The thoughts keeping him company were unsettling at best and if he didn’t get enough rest, Wash would surely yell at him for his unwillingness to move tomorrow.
With that thought in mind, Doc shimmied down the wall, grimacing as he felt the rubble digging into his back. When his head finally reached the ground, he closed his eyes. He was in no way comfortable, but he had to make the most of it. He didn’t have anything except his armour and undersuit, so he had nothing to make his sleep more comfortable.
Doc rolled onto his side, cushioning his head with his arm. Shuffling around a little, he finally found a position in which he thought he could sleep in with the least amount of sore muscles to wake up to. With that, Doc began falling into a dreamless sleep.
-
Doc woke up to a loud groan. Forcing his eyes to peel open, he stayed completely quiet as his mind wandered. Was the Meta up? Was he going to kill him? Doc was sure that if Wash wasn’t around to stop him, that it surely would. Doc wasn’t the best medic by any means, but he could tell that the Meta wasn’t fully human. He seemed more like a mindless killing machine, and if the Meta was up, and found him, he surely wouldn’t live to see the light of day.
Another sound, one that sounded almost like muffled words, snapped him out of his thoughts. Well, that was odd. In the whole time he’s been with Wash and the Meta, he hasn’t heard the Meta say a single word. All he did was growl, signaling that something was probably wrong with his voice box. Doc stayed quiet, curious, hoping to hear another sound.
After a couple seconds, he realized that there was heavy breathing coming from beyond the wall that separated him from Wash. Well that makes sense, Doc thought to himself, sitting up. Wash had obviously had a lot of trauma in his life, if his scars and emotionless attitude was any indication. Doc should have expected earlier that he would be a victim of night terrors.
Doc heard shuffling, and a groan full of pain. He racked his brain for his training on helping patients with chronic nightmares. Don’t wake him up, he remembered. Make sure he knows he’s okay if he does wake up.
“C-Connie…” He heard Wash grunt out, followed by a whine. It sounded like he was in physical pain, and Doc winced. He hated seeing and hearing people in pain. With that, Doc stood up. He was going to help Wash through this, because what knows how long it’s been since the freelancer had anyone help him through a nightmare, or had just given him comfort in general. Wash may hate him, and he may not like Wash the most, but he was a medic. Helping others was his job.
Doc began to walk towards the wall. Taking a deep breath, he tiptoed around it, and stopped almost immediately. There Wash was, head thrown back, cushioned by what seemed like a thin jacket. His body was sprawled everywhere on the ground, except for his arms, which he was clutching to his chest. He looked as pained as he sounded, breaths falling uneven and eyebrows knitted together harshly. His left hand was circled around his right wrist, squeezing as if his life depended on it. Doc could hear jumbled muttering spilling from his lips. He caught the phrases, “She’s gone,” and, “Why her?” Doc’s heart hurt for Wash. By the sounds of it, he had lost someone close to him, and it plagued him still.
Doc moved to sit down next to Wash. He stayed a healthy distance away from him, as to not get hit if he suddenly moved, but close enough that he could help him if he woke up. Doc watched for a while, watched Wash’s face scrunch, muscles clench, and let out pained noises. Doc wanted so badly to reach out to Wash and wake him up and assure him that he was okay, that nothing bad was happening. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know how Wash would react if he woke him up. From what he remembered from training, patients reacted badly if their sleep cycle was broken unnaturally. Most of them were confused or angry. Others, the ones like Wash who were military veterans, would sometimes start punching, screaming, or, worst of all, think that they’re still on the battlefield.
Suddenly, Wash sat up. Doc jumped, surprised that he didn’t notice Wash starting to wake him up. Wash backed up quickly, bringing the jacket he was laying on which him and pulling a pistol out of it, pointing it at Doc with shaky hands. Doc felt his heart drop.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my quarters?” Wash gritted out, eyes squinted. It hit Doc all at once that Wash either didn’t recognize him, or it was too dark to realize that he wasn’t an intruder.
When Doc didn’t respond, too shocked to get any words out, Wash clicked the safety off on his gun and hooked his finger around the trigger. “You have twenty seconds to tell me who you are, and why I shouldn’t shoot you.”
This was when Doc’s mouth remembered how to move. “Wash, it- it’s me! Doc! You’re keeping me prisoner because I have medical training and I know about your A.I.’s and… stuff,” Doc sputtered out, hands now reaching up in surrender in front of his face. “Please don’t shoot me!”
Wash lowered the gun slightly, still training it on Doc’s chest. Wash squinted his eyes even more, tilting his head in confusion. “Doc… what? But…” His voice lowered to a whisper as he said, “Why am I holding a prisoner? Wasn’t I just on the…” Wash’s head shot up. Doc figured he just realized something. Wash looked back up at him. “I’m not… on the Mother of Invention, am I?”
Now it was Doc’s turn to be confused. “No, Wash, we’re in a desert. You’re kind of dragging me on your mission with the Meta, remember?”
Wash sighed heavily, dropping his gun to the side and letting his head fall into his hands. “Yeah, I remember,” Wash groaned, dragging his hands through his hair in frustration as he looked back up at Doc. “Why are you in my room, Doc?”
“Oh, um,” Doc said unintelligently. He decided to just tell Wash the truth. “Well, I, um, I heard you a bit earlier, and you sounded like you were in pain, and I, um, decided to check on you?”
There was a long silence that followed Doc’s words. Doc began wringing his hands together as he tried to decipher what Wash’s reaction would be.
“Doc.”
“Yeah?”
Wash moved closer, and Doc could see that Wash’s eyebrows were pulled together tightly and his jaw was set menacingly. Doc wanted nothing but to back away into the furthest corner.
“You and I? We’re not friends. We never will be friends. You are a prisoner here, and do you know what prisoners don’t do? Go into their captors room when they’re having a nightmare. They stay. The fuck. Away,” Wash growled, punctuating every word by moving his face closer to Doc’s on each one.
Doc was pretty sure he was going to start hyperventilating if Wash got any closer, he was so terrified. Despite this, though, Doc had disagreed with what Wash had said. And being ever the honest man, who also happened to have nearly no filter, he voiced his opinion, saying, “Um, Wash, I know you don’t like me and all, but you’re keeping me around for my medical skills, and as a medic, it’s my duty to make sure that everyone around me is healthy. You obviously have underlying issues that you don’t-”
Doc was cut off by a hand around his throat, pushing him up to the cave wall. Doc whimpered, thinking that he was surely going to die right here. He was going to get killed for caring too much for his patient. He could feel the irony stabbing him in the temple at this very moment. Or maybe that was the barrel of Wash’s gun. Yeah, on second thought, Doc realized, it was Wash holding his gun to his forehead.
“You listen to me, DuFresne,” Wash nearly shouted. Doc almost winced at the use of his real name. It had been ages since someone addressed him by that name. Wash was obviously furious. “When I say not to bother me, you don’t bother me. It’s as simple as that. But you seem to want to make it as difficult as possible. So,” Wash shoved the barrel harder into Doc’s forehead, and this time he did wince, closing his eyes as he felt his death coming near.
Doc was surprised when he felt the barrel move off of his temple, but even more surprised when he felt pain explode on his jaw. He stumbled back into the wall with a gasp, his glasses flying off and his hand coming up to cup his jaw. He curled in on himself, holding back tears that were threatening to spill out. When he finally reoriented himself again, he trained his blurry vision on Wash, eyes glassy and head fuzzy. “What the hell?” Doc asked incredulously, unable to keep the overwhelming feeling of pain out of his voice.
Wash stared down at him, eyes and expression void of emotion. “That’s just a preview of what you’ll get the next time you stick your nose in business that isn’t your own.” And despite himself, Doc nodded.
Wash grabbed him by the arm, and Doc struggled to walk there Wash pulled him. He was disoriented and could barely see anything-- he was legally blind without glasses and he was pretty sure he heard glass shattering when they flew off, but that could have been his jaw as well.
After a minute of stumbling and groaning through the cave, Wash let go of his arm and all but threw him to the ground. Doc whined as he hit the ground on his knees, reaching his arms out as to not faceplant into the wall. When he regained his balance and turned around, Wash was still standing there. Doc looked up at him, unable to decipher what Wash’s expression was.
“You are not allowed to do anything that I don’t tell you to do. You follow my orders, and don’t do anything that I don’t approve for you to do. Do you understand?”
Doc nodded his head vigorously, watching as Wash muttered, “Good,” and stalked back to his quarters. When Wash was finally gone, Doc sighed and let himself fall against the wall. He felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, and as much as he didn’t want to let them fall, they did. He wasn’t just crying because of his injury-but damn, did it hurt, he would be surprised if it wasn’t broken-, he was because of the terrible situation he had gotten himself into.
Doc never expected his life to end up like this. What did he even do to deserve this? It seemed like it was just some sort of twisted curse on him-- he always ended up in the worst possible situation with the worst possible people. He doubted that the Reds and Blues would even think him worth of a rescue, despite the fact that he had been nothing but kind towards them since they first met. Sure, there was the O’Malley incident, but that wasn’t his fault at all.
He didn’t understand why he was so expendable. Why, everywhere he went, he ended up being the one injured, the one taken captive, the one forgotten. Simmons had left him for dead in that wall without a second thought when he could have at least tried at least a little harder to get him out. The people he felt the closest to had abandoned him with what seemed like little remorse.
Being held hostage was his punishment for being who he is. Forgettable, useless, and unlikeable. Doc had nowhere near the bond that both the Reds and Blues had with their teams, and he yearned for it. He wanted to feel important for once.
But there he was. In a cave, a prisoner to an emotionally-stunted super soldier and a merciless killing machine. No one looking for him, and no way out.
This is my life, Doc thought hopelessly, looking up at the roof of the cave. His head, jaw, and heart were pounding mercilessly. He knew he should sleep. He knew that Wash would be mad if he wasn’t in good shape tomorrow.
Doc slid down the wall for the second time that night, stopping once his head reached the floor. He wanted to sleep. He was exhausted and he wanted the day to be over. But, for the first time in a while, he found himself having trouble falling asleep. It was no surprise why-- he just wished that something would come easy to him for once. Doc almost laughed at hoping for something as unrealistic as that. He knows not to expect that, of course. He is himself, after all.