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Wash hears a quiet shuffle of bedsheets from the bedroom for what seems like the hundredth time, and wonders if he should check on Tucker, as if his partner isn't an ex marine capable of dealing with falling out of bed if it comes to it. He smiles at the thought, opting to turn his attention to the TV in front of him, noiselessly playing some advert from before the war, of a product that no one would ever have any use for, as he absently runs his hand across the soft fur of their cat's back. They called him Epsilon, and it was Tucker's idea, through some sense of nostalgic irony. Though the little tabby was much more placid than the long lost A.I. unit ever had potential to be. Maybe he'll grow into it, Wash thought as rhythmic purrs vibrated through his fingertips, soothing him more than any amount of Simmon's chamomile tea ever could.
Another creak from the bedroom, followed by the quiet shuffling of socked feet dragging along wooden floor, and wash felt the weight of Tucker's upper body drape across the back of the sofa, his face finding the crook of Wash's neck.
"Not sleepy?" Tucker mutters, sending a small shiver up Wash's arms and back. He shrugs back absently, glancing up at the tv still playing outdated infomercials.
"You know how it is".
Tucker slides himself around to the side with a soft sigh, falling backwards over the arm rest and landing heavily against Wash. His addition to the sofa's occupancy earns a disgruntled mrrow from Epsilon, and Wash breathes out a laugh, thinking that the name might suit him after all. Tucker smells of freshly changed bedsheets, a sweet hint of his coconut shampoo lingering in his hair as he shifts around into a more comfortable position. Wash leans into him, closing his eyes as Tucker wraps an arm around his waist.
"I'll stay up too, then" Tucker sighs, leaning his head into Wash's shoulder, his voice as soaked with sleep as it was moments ago. Wash hums contently, placing a soft kiss against the top of Tucker's head.
Soft dawn light is bathing the room and the dull buzz of morning traffic just about drowns out the early birdsong by the time Wash drifts off. Tucker is still pressed against his side, their bodies leant together as if either might wake at the slightest movement of the other. Epsilon breathes softly, pressed against Wash's leg, ears twitching every time a distant car horn disturbs the quiet morning.
It's been three years since the war ended, and they might be slowly healing.