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"There we are. Just need to keep the pressure on..."
Washington looks up, away from Maine, who'd either passed out or fallen asleep almost immediately after strapping in. He takes off his helmet and sets it aside, to get a better look around the pelican at his fellow freelancers. They're all tired, a few of them are injured. He's pretty sure that at least one of them is more upset than she's letting on because of the nature of the mission they just completed.
His eyes touch over South, with her head tilted back against the wall, and North and York, talking quietly with their helmets off. North's AI's little projection is sitting on his shoulder, kicking its little feet and apparently listening in on what North and York are saying. Carolina's up front with 479er, and no one's sure where Texas is. Maybe she had her own craft. She's not in theirs. But there's still two people missing from the number, at least among the seats, and he's... actually a little concerned about the one.
Florida had been on the ground with a hatchet in his shoulder when Wash, York, and Carolina had caught up to them. And he'd stayed down for a long time. He'd gotten up like nothing was wrong, eventually, and the entire time he'd been lying there, Wyoming hadn't seemed that concerned about him, so Wash hadn't thought to be. It hadn't been until they'd eliminated the gunners that Wash had found out that not only had Florida been axed, but he'd been knocked off of a high platform at the same time. He'd even cheerfully pointed out where he'd fallen from. It wasn't exactly close to the ground.
So, yeah, Wash is a little concerned about that teammate in particular.
Finally, he finds Florida, sitting on the floor with his back against the bay door while Wyoming kneels in front of him, pulling the dark blue plate armor off and setting it aside. Wash can still hear Wyoming talking, but with his helmet off and it having fallen over between himself and Maine, he can't really hear his radio picking up what the older agent is saying, just that he's talking. Wyoming pauses after removing Florida's helmet and breastplate, and pulls his gloves off, presumably to make it easier to handle medical supplies and work on Florida's injuries. As he sets them down, a pair of unarmored hands snake around to settle on his helmet, weakly tugging on it in an attempt to pull it off. Apparently, Wyoming finds this amusing, as he laughs before reaching up to take it off himself. He sets it down beside Florida's, the visors facing each other almost as if they're talking to one another. Wash doesn't think that's intentional: it's too cute for Wyoming of all people to have meant to do it.
Wyoming moves to Florida's side, starting to peel the bodysuit down to his waist, and allowing Washington a rare look at the wounded man's face.
Florida is a creepy motherfucker, to be sure, but the most eerie thing about him is that he always sounds like he's smiling. And every time Wash has seen him, he has been. Even now, he's got a serene little grin on his face. He looks unsettlingly calm for a man with a yawning gash in his shoulder, one that Wash flinches upon seeing as Wyoming gingerly frees Florida's wounded side from his bodysuit. The smile could be explained, probably, by blood loss or becoming a little delirious from possibly going into shock. Or... Wash doesn't know Florida very well, but honestly, what little he does know tells him that Florida might just be Like That. He always seems so unbothered by everything.
"Right, we'll get you some painkillers," Wyoming says, quieter than Wash has ever heard him, as he reaches up to brush some stray hair off of Florida's forehead. "Then we'll see about this bleeding."
But Florida, still smiling, shakes his head. "Mm, it's not bad enough for morphine."
Wyoming's shoulders very visibly raise and lower in a sigh, but he nods, mumbles something that sounds like "of course," and opens the medkit. He sets to work, cleaning up the injury quickly and carefully, digging in the kit for gauze after he's apparently done making sure that there's no debris left in the gash. All through it, Florida just watches him work, the unworried smile never flickering or fading. In fact, Wash swears that it just gets sweeter as Wyoming's hands get bloodier. Like he's enjoying the sight of his blood on Wyoming's hands.
Wash shudders a little when it occurs to him that, honestly, Florida might be enjoying it. He's creepy, that's a creepy thing to like.
"Come on now," he finally hears Wyoming say out loud as he presses a gauze pad to the wound and tapes it into place. He shifts, moving an arm behind Florida to help him sit up. "Up you get."
Florida actually hisses when he finally moves, and the smile cracks out of existence for a brief moment, but it's back before Wyoming can see that it had gone. But even that fleeting second of visible pain breaks the unsettling illusion of "fine" that Florida seemed to have cast, and it lets Wash see just how pale Florida actually looks. Probably from the blood loss. His eyes aren't serene and unbothered, they're vacant, far-away, and kind of unfocused. It actually looks like Florida might be about to pass out.
"H-Hey...hey, man..." Finally, Wash gets up from his seat and crosses the rear bay to sit down on Florida's other side. "... you uh... you okay?"
It's been a running joke for a long time that nothing can kill Florida. Wash had thought he and Maine were indestructible, but damn if Florida isn't at least six times worse. Well, maybe only four times worse than Maine. At least Wash has the good sense to stay down when he's hurt, and nothing seems to really damage Maine. But after Maine had gotten so hurt, it's actually kind of nice to be able to look to the one remaining pillar of indestructibility.
"Worry about yourself, lad," Wyoming snaps. The English agent’s tone is clipped, annoyed. He even looks angry, moreso than usual. He's got an angry kind of face, but at least he occasionally doesn't sound like you're irritating him by breathing in a three-foot radius of him. Sometimes he even laughs. "We're fine."
Despite his partner's annoyed tone, Florida reaches across with his left hand, and rests it against Wyoming’s jaw. When he finally speaks, he sounds way stronger, far more alert, than he looks right now. "Now, Reginald, don’t be so harsh. He's only trying to help. I'm just dandy, Agent Washington."
"Dandy," huh? That's not new, Florida says that kind of stuff all the time, but Wash can't help but feel like he might not exactly be telling the truth. "Uh... we um... it just looks like you're passing out on us..."
"Oh, a little blood loss never hurt anyone!" God, Florida sounds way too chipper. And that grin is downright eldritch. Lovecraftian, even. It's horrifying up close, especially with the crimson stain of blood so very visible just beyond it from Wash's angle. It becomes even more disorienting as his eyes darken when Wyoming reaches up and takes his hand off of his jaw, placing it into his lap. Florida continues speaking, however, addressing Wash casually, conversationally, as Wyoming continues to bandage him up. "How's Agent Maine? It's a little soon for him to be back in the field, isn't it?"
"H-huh? Oh... Maine's... yeah, he's okay. He's just... he's really tired right now. He wrecked a lot of shop out there today, I think it was just... a lot for him. Like you said, it's really soon for him to be back in the fight. But once we get him back in his bunk for the night, he'll be good to go in the morning. He just needs to rest up."
"That's great. He's very lucky to have such an attentive partner."
"... you'd know about that, huh?" Wash asks after a moment, finally noting how focused Wyoming is on wrapping gauze around Florida's chest and shoulder. It's not the hurry of a man in a rush to get things done, it's slow. He's being gentle. Making sure he's doing a good job. The carefulness is sweet, almost tender, and it actually tugs at Wash's heartstrings a little.
Florida laughs, then exhales a little harshly through his nose when Wyoming helps him sit back against the door. "... I suppose I do. Reggie is very good to me. Fusses over me like no tomorrow, but I just can't be annoyed with him when he's being so sweet."
Florida? Annoyed? At Wyoming? That's rich. Wash would laugh if it wasn't so ridiculous, honestly.
Wyoming makes a noise that Wash can't even begin to read, which prompts Florida to reach for his jaw again. The attempt is denied, with Wyoming pushing Florida's hand down and away, and Florida's smile fades out entirely. Wash clears his throat, going for the medkit to help. "Uh... do you want, like... painkillers or something? I heard you say you didn't want morphine, but there might be like some aspirin in–"
"He can't take it," Wyoming snaps again. "Even if he could, aspirin's a blood thinner, that'd be the worst idea."
"Oh now, you don't need to be so harsh, he's only trying to help." Florida's smile is back, but Wash can see it straining at the corners now. He's forcing it. "No, thank you, Agent Washington."
Wyoming either ignores Florida, or doesn't hear him, and continues speaking. "He's allergic anyway."
"... huh?"
Florida lifts his left hand, waving the fingers to draw Wash's attention to it, before pointing his middle one down to a tattoo on his wrist. It looks kind of like the medical alert bracelet that Wash's own youngest sister wears; it's supposed to let people know about her penicillin allergy, and that she was diabetic. He squints to read the ink on Florida's wrist, and nods when he reads "aspirin." It's in much larger lettering than "tree nuts" and whatever "octisalate" is.
"... oh."
"Mmhm. I can sometimes have reactions to ibuprofen as well, unfortunately. So, most over-the-counter pain relievers, and even some of the good medical grade ones, are off the table. Acetaminophen is alright, and morphine works just fine, but this is a little too extensive for acetaminophen and not nearly bad enough for morphine."
"Not that you're an authority on that," Wyoming grumbles.
Florida's eyes seem to flash, and his smile drops away abruptly as he honest to God glares at Wyoming. Wash can't imagine what it's like to not be able to pop an aspirin for a headache, or take painkillers at all unless it's morphine, or whatever the hell "acetaminophen" is, but he can imagine that it leads to a much shorter temper when someone is in that much pain. And he can't believe that Florida isn't in pain. It's just... scary to see Florida looking so angry.
"... why don't you go back to Agent Maine, Agent Washington." Florida's voice is low and dangerous. It doesn't really sound like he's asking a question at all. Wash can still hear that note of near-playfulness in it, but it sounds more now like Florida's current idea of "playful" involves some degree of evisceration. It's chilling. "We should be landing soon. You should wake him up."
"I mean, nah, he'll be--"
"I really think you should."
Wash swallows. Message received. Loud and clear. He just nods this time, and scrambles back to his place beside Maine. He keeps an eye on Florida and Wyoming, though. He watches Wyoming reach for Florida's face, looking apologetic, but Florida pushes his hand away and speaks too quietly for Wash to hear. Wyoming ignores the physical, and possibly verbal, reprimand, and catches Florida by the chin. Wash can't hear Wyoming speaking, but he sees Florida's face soften, sees Wyoming rests both bloody hands along either side of Florida's jaw, and then the whole sight is obscured when Wyoming leans in closer to his partner.
They stay like that for awhile, for most of the rest of the trip back, and when the Mother of Invention comes back into sight, Wash finally sees Wyoming move again. He pulls his discarded armor back on, leaving Florida's, and bundles his partner into his lap before apparently piling the smaller agent's armor on top of his own torso. When they finally touch down, Wash sees Wyoming stand, lifting Florida up, before the rear door opens. Florida's head lolls to one side, and Wash can see that his eyes are closed: either Wyoming convinced him to sleep it off, or he finally passed out.
Almost as soon as the door opens, Wyoming is down the ramp and nearly out of sight, moving quickly toward the medical bay. Not running, it stands to reason that running would probably jostle Florida too much and agitate his injury. More like a fast walk.
Actually, now that he thinks about it, Wash is pretty sure he's only ever seen Wyoming run in drills, when there's someone standing nearby and telling him to. Usually, even in training, he pretty much just jogs anyway. But maybe that's just a perk of being the sniper, Wash guesses. No one's really expecting you to charge into the fray at top speed. As he understands it, you're kind of supposed to get in position and stay there. But then again, you're supposed to book it out of there once you've taken your shot or whatever, so maybe Wyoming does run sometimes. Though he might not need to if he's got someone covering him...
By the time Wash finishes contemplating whether Wyoming ever runs, or if he's even capable of moving faster than a light jog or brisk walk, Wyoming and Florida are completely out of sight, and York and the twins are almost gone too. It's actually Carolina shoving past him, knocking him into Maine, that actually makes him realize he's spaced out.
Rather than sound annoyed at being hit by a carelessly flung body, Maine huffs quietly down at his partner as he snags his helmet, tilting his head toward the open bay door as if asking why Wash hasn't gotten out yet.
"Huh? Sorry, we're going, big guy, it's just..." Wash spies an abandoned piece of plate armor on the floor, and wanders over to scoop it up, frowning when he identifies it as being off of one of Florida's shoulders. "... well, fuck. Better get this back to him. Wanna come with me?"
Maine just snorts, tossing Wash's helmet to him and chuckling when it hits him in the chest.
"... you dick. You're really gonna make me deal with Florida and Wyoming by myself?"
"Agent Maine would prefer not to have to speak with Agent Florida, Agent Washington," Sigma says, projection crackling into existence just over Maine's right shoulder. "Agent Florida... unsettles him."
Maine growls, turning his head sharply in Sigma's direction, and Sigma's projection disappears as quickly as it came. Wash just laughs a bit, reaching up to pat Maine's shoulder. "I get it, buddy, Florida scares the shit out of me too. But he's fucked up right now and I wanna be nice to him so that when he snaps and murders everyone, I'm safe. You go ahead, save me a spot in the mess hall."