Chapter Text
York sleeps on his left side, facing in. He keeps his limbs tucked close to his body, except his right hand, which rests lightly on Wash's forearm. Carolina, in contrast, sleeps flat on her back, with her hair fanned out across the pillow, which always tickles when Wash rolls into her space. When they're both around, York is the middle, with Wash to his back and Carolina pressed in close to his chest.
South is surprisingly clingy. They'll start on opposite sides of the bed, but by the time Wash wakes up, he'll have an arm pinned under her neck and her face will be mushed up into his shoulder. North always loops his arm under him from the outset, and by morning the other arm will have found its way onto Wash's waist.
Connie fits perfectly between Wash's chin and knees, but she prefers to be the big spoon, hooking her leg over his and throwing an arm over his chest. Maine barely moves in his sleep, and doesn't mind if Wash spreads out onto him like an octopus. Wash has never shared a bed with Four Seven Niner, but one time they fell asleep on a couch together, her head on his thigh and legs hanging over the armrest while he drooled on the cushions.
His first night in Valhalla he stares at the ceiling, wide awake, for two hours before he grabs the phone. His first instinct is to call Carolina and York, but she has to get in early for meetings on Thursdays, and D doesn't fall back asleep easily if woken. Connie's still on vacation with her boyfriend, and Maine's in the middle of a shift. The best choice is North, and while Wash feels guilty for disturbing him, he'll be dead at his first day of work if he doesn't sleep now.
North answers on the third ring. He sounds dazed, but is tone is even and calming as usual, and he brushes off Wash's apologies kindly. They talk about the move, and Wash's new place, and Theta's first month at school and South's imminent promotion and somewhere in the middle of a story about the puppy Theta's been eyeing at the shelter, Wash finally slips into unconsciousness. When he wakes, there's a text from North: "Hope you slept well."
Work goes okay, and his coworkers are a little off, and his boss is a dick (something he's sure to report to Carolina later), but it's tolerable. There's a weird dynamic where they're all always bickering and messing around, but the cafe manages to run anyhow, so now Wash is part of the team, he supposes. After work, he goes home and unpacks another box, eats dinner, reads a chapter of his book, and then he's lying in bed, completely awake again. This time, he picks up the phone early, so he can catch Carolina before she retires for the night.
The cycle continues for two weeks until he's exhausted the number of people he can comfortably call that late in the day. He's even bothered Emily and Doyle a few times at this point. He powers through two sleepless days at work without fucking up too much, and through sheer willpower and some of Doc's disgusting homemade health drink, makes it to the end of his third. After his shift though, he's so weary that he slumps into a chair in the backroom, just for a moment of rest before walking the two blocks back to his apartment. Caboose is sitting on a stepladder in front of a fridge, enjoying a snack on his break, but he moves to the chair next to Wash to start regaling him with another Freckles story (Wash has heard twelve already). There's a lot of noise filtering in from the front of house as Sarge chews someone out for something, and Sheila calls out drinks, and Caboose talking right into Wash's ear, but it doesn't really bother him. In fact, it's almost soothing, and his eyes slip shut, for only a second.
"Caboose, what the hell are you doing, your lunch should have ended ten minutes ago!" A voice that sounds an awful lot like Church's rings out from somewhere far away.
"Ah, yes, Church, that is true, but uh, Washingtub needed a nap, and you told me it's not very nice to wake people up when they are sleeping, so," Caboose explains, and Wash is confused, why is Caboose in his room, that doesn't make any sense-
Wash jolts up, whipping his head off Caboose's shoulder to see Church peering down at him. He almost startles at the sight of those green eyes - identical to Carolina's - staring at him.
"Wash, man, you doing okay? You look pretty strung out. Also there's caramel on your face. You can nap back here if you really want, but I can't promise Grif won't try to cannibalize your body if we're out of leftovers by his break." Church looks slightly concerned, and Wash amends his opinion of the guy. Church is maybe like two fifths a dick. He's all right.
"Yeah, no I've just been having some trouble sleeping. Adjusting to a new city and the schedule, you know, the usual," Wash mumbles, trying to scrub the syrup off his forehead.
"Well, you're off tomorrow, so rest up, dude." Church flashes him a lopsided grin and drags Caboose back out front.
As he gathers his belongings, Wash glances at the clock and realizes that he's been asleep for twenty minutes. He's not exactly rested, but it's enough to get him home and through a meal of reheated Thai takeout, before he stumbles into bed. He sleeps fitfully, but at least he manages to sleep. In one of his dream fragments, that night, he's on a hot-air balloon being captained by 479er, and Maine's trying to show him something on the horizon, but that guy Lopez from work won't stop quoting something in Spanish at him. It's all rather nonsensical, but the immense feeling of relief he gets when he rouses and the dream starts fading is priceless. It's the first time he can remember dreaming since he moved.
For breakfast, he eats the last egg in his fridge, and spends the next hour cleaning the entire kitchen, scouring away every odd stain left behind by its previous tenants. After working out and showering, he walks down to the market to restock everything he gave away to South when he left. The only herbs in his spice rack so far are from Florida's garden, picked last month and personally bottled for him. Wash spends more time than really necessary trying to pick out the best five apples on display, and once he's finally done putting all his groceries away, he hops on the bus to the mall in order to pick up a new laundry hamper and hangers. Shopping in a noisy, overcrowded mall is an ordeal without Carolina powering through everyone in her way and Connie slipping candy into the cart, and he's in no mood to cook after lugging his purchases up three flights, so he meanders toward the cafe in the early evening, hoping there are still some sandwiches left in the food case.
Even at six p.m. the cafe is still filled with activity. Wash finds an empty spot in the corner near a group of college students studying for a midterm, their voices urgent but hushed as they compare notes. Simmons fixes Wash a cup of jasmine tea, and even warms up one of Donut's famous savory scones for him on the house. Around him, people filter in and out of the lobby: grandparents shepherding their grandchildren out the door, a couple settling into the window seats wearing matching scarves, a nurse hurrying through the line still in her scrubs. The whir of the grinder and the hiss of foaming milk form a familiar rhythm that slowly lulls Wash into leaning his head against the wall, watching Caboose mop up the spill by the bar as Tucker winks at a regular picking up her americano. Tucker catches Wash in his line of sight and decides to wink at him too.
Wash stifles a laugh and shuts his eyes.
Simmons jostles him awake at closing time, lecturing about sleep cycles and REM and attacking Wash's corner with a broom, trying to get at the crumbs under the chair. Wash waits til he and Caboose have locked the doors before bidding them goodnight and heading home. That night, he gets a little more rest than the last.
--
So, this is the state of Wash's life for a little while: relying on the safe environment of the cafe to catch a nap here and there. Sometimes, it's in the lobby, passing out on a table and trusting Caboose to fend off any customers that try and disturb him. Other times, he hangs out in the back, treating Grif and Sarge's utterly inane and circular arguments as a makeshift lullaby. It's not the most ideal situation, but it's the best solution to his insomnia that he's got so far, until the night he meets Tucker's son.
Out of all his coworkers, Tucker is the one Wash has the most trouble with. It's not that they dislike each other per se, but every other conversation they have devolves into an endless back-and-forth of grievances, often aired far more publicly than could really be called professional. Actually, Wash thinks Tucker is probably one of his more likable and competent coworkers, but he still gets on better with Caboose and Church, despite them being a good-natured airhead and an asshole, respectively. He thinks it's because Tucker's lack of discipline and half-assed effort vex him on a bizarrely personal level.
As Wednesday winds down into the peaceful stillness of an early autumn night, Wash is wiping down the espresso machine when a burly, muscular young woman stomps in with a small boy hefted under her arm like a piece of luggage. She doesn't release him until they've reached the cash register, and when she does, it's so she can peek her head over and scan the floor, her expression turning disappointed when she doesn't find whatever it is she's looking for.
"...can I help you?" Wash asks, walking over to stand in front of her. She perks up when he approaches, sticking out her finger to poke him in the chest.
"Deadbeat cop-looking dude! You must be the new guy."
"I guess that's an accurate enough description of me. Uh, is there a drink I can get for you? Did you leave something behind earlier?" he hazards, backing away from her hand.
"Nah, I was just checking to see if Grif was hiding under the counter and eating a whole pecan pie again," she tells him sunnily. "I'm his sister!" He can see the resemblance; she has the same dusky skin and easy posture, but her hair is more sun-bleached than her brother's, tied up in a loose ponytail at her nape.
"Sorry, his shift ended at five, so you'll have better luck looking for him at home." He still doesn't know a ton about his coworkers' lives, but he's 98% sure Grif only has the willpower to travel to two places: work and his house.
"Oh, no, I'm not here for him. I'm looking for Tucker." At those words, Grif's sister's companion reaches up to tug at her sleeve and whisper something in a language Wash recognizes but can't place. She responds in the same language and ruffles the boy's hair. "My little buddy here is having some trouble going to bed without his dad around to tuck him in."
"Tucker's cleaning out the-wait, what?" Wash is fairly certain he'd just heard her say the word "dad." But that can't be right.
Before he has the chance to really process this new information, the man himself comes out front with a broom in his hand. "I thought I heard a hot chick out here," Tucker quips, leaning his broom against the wall and walking around the glass case to hug Grif's sister (Tucker's girlfriend? mother of his child?), and scoop up his son. "Didn't we agree this was too late to be out on a school night? No caffeine for either of you after three p.m., Kai." He bounces the boy on his hip with one arm.
"Junior wanted to wait until you checked for monsters. We already got his teeth all brushed and his stuff ready for school," Kai says, pinching Junior's cheek. He looks a lot like his father, but his eyes are bright blue instead of brown, and his hair is fluffier, sticking out in all directions.
"We don't close for another half an hour, and I can't leave Wash to finish things up alone, so you think you could hold out for a little longer, Junior?" Tucker follows up his request with another few words in that unknown language and presses a kiss to Junior's forehead. Despite his drooping eyes and small yawn, Junior nods obediently and hops down from his father's arms to take Kai's hand. They head over to a table quietly, but Wash knows Junior's slow shuffle, knows a kindred spirit when he sees one. The kid's energy is sapped. A quick glance to Tucker from the corner of his eye is enough to make up his mind.
Tucker's started sweeping the front, but stops when Wash beckons him. "What, surprised I have a kid?" he smirks. "Didn't think I could handle that kind of responsibility, did you?"
Wash ducks his head, slightly embarrassed. "Honestly, no, I don't think I did. But that's neither here nor there. I just wanted to tell you I don't mind closing early if you don't," he offers. Besides the four of them, the cafe is deserted, and the only thing they have left to do is dump the rest of the coffee and mop the lobby. It wouldn't be difficult to finish up in five minutes, and Wash doesn't really think Church would give a fuck if they locked up early.
"Wait, seriously? Mister stickler for the rules wants to cut and run? Is this real life?" Wash sort of hates that he finds Tucker's minute head-tilt and crooked smile cute.
"Maybe you've rubbed off on me more than you thought."
"Ooh, baby, you ain't seen nothing yet. If you need something 'rubbed', I'm your man."
"Alright, enough jokes. The faster you sweep, the faster we're out of here."
Wash cleans out the last of the coffee urns and wipes down the counters to the sound of Kai and Junior laughing about something; when he glances over, it looks like she's pretending to benchpress him. By the time Wash has everything set up for tomorrow morning, Tucker's got the floors done and gathered up all the trash. The four of them exit together, but to Wash's surprise, Kai leaves them at the first intersection to go home. She waves goodbye before jogging off at a quick clip.
"The two of you. You're separated?" Wash asks awkwardly as he walks next to Tucker, the three of them headed in the same direction. Junior's nodding off in Tucker's arms, but he gets jostled back awake when some asshole blares his horn as he speeds down the street. It isn't enough to keep him alert for long, and his eyes slide close again. Tucker raises his eyebrows at Wash's question, looking back in the direction Kai left.
"Who, me and Sister? Shit, dude, no, she's not like Junior's mom or anything. She just babysits him when she gets out of class and I'm on a shift. Not that I haven't tapped that," he finishes in a rush, puffing up to his full height, which only makes Wash's stare grow flatter in disbelief. "Whatever, we're friends and she's pretty good with Junior, but she lives with her girlfriend near Armonia U."
"Oh. That's good; it must be hard sometimes with your shifts." Tucker usually works mid shifts, coming in late in the morning and leaving around 4, but Wash occasionally sees him at close.
"Yeah, well, Church tries to give me a pretty regular schedule, and I can drop Junior off over with one of the guys if I have to. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?"
"Not really sure the saying applies when half of your team can't use a dishwasher without starting a grease fire, but hey, what does the new guy know."
Tucker laughs a little as they turn a corner. "Don't worry, Junior knows not to let Caboose or Sarge anywhere near the microwave. Or the vacuum. Or other people's satellite dishes."
Junior giggles at that, peeking out from his nook in Tucker's arms to beam at Wash. He says something Wash can't understand, before telling him, " 's a sled. It's really good on the snow."
"On a snow hill, fine. Down four flights of stairs, not the best idea. You're lucky you didn't break anything," Tucker scolds, but his smile betrays him. He looks fond, sweet even, in a way that makes Wash take notice. It's nothing like the leer he wears when a buxom customer walks by or the delight that takes hold whenever Grif and Simmons flirt/bicker on the floor.
"Uncle Donut says casts are cool. Your friends can draw pictures and stuff on 'em." Junior nods sagely, like Donut is some supreme authority on the medical profession.
"That's true, but it hurts a lot when you break your arm," Wash tells him, pulling up the sleeve of his hoodie to show Junior his scar, standing out pink against his freckles. "That's where the bone broke through when I fell off the top of a rail. It was pretty gross. I snapped my skateboard in half too."
He intends it as a cautionary tale, but from the sparkle in Junior's eyes, it wasn't taken to heart the right way. "Awesome," the kid whispers, turning to his dad and muttering something Wash doesn't catch. "Did you get to ride in the..." Junior pauses to grasp for the word he needs. "The hospital car? Like what Uncle Doc used to drive?"
"Ambulance?" Wash tries, and Junior nods emphatically, his springy hair bouncing as he does. "I did, but I can't remember much about it since I was too busy trying not to cry. There was a lot of blood and my bone was sticking out like this." He uses his hand to imitate the broken jut of bone stabbing out of his arm. Junior marvels at it, groaning "eeeeewww," growing more excited by the second.
"And you got a cast? Lucky," he sighs, sinking back against his father's chest.
"Not that lucky. I couldn't skate for a whole year after that. I had to save up my allowance to buy a new board, and the cast was really itchy. I don't think I'd do it again, even for a cool cast." With narrowed eyes, Junior considers this advice, while Wash mimes the sensation of spiders running up and down his skin. Tucker watches them silently, but sneaks his hand around to tickle at the crook of Junior's elbow, eliciting a yelp and a shudder.
"See, itchy," Tucker says with a grin while his son sticks his tongue out at him. "You should listen to Wash. He fell off a staircase once and became boring for the rest of his life. You don't wanna turn out like that." Tucker tells Wash on a pretty regular basis how lame he is, but this time, it doesn't sound like an insult. It's teasing, like they're sharing a secret joke, so Wash decides to roll with it.
"Yep. The accident knocked the fun right out of me. Now all I like to do is eat broccoli and do my taxes."
"That's sad," Junior tells him solemnly, and reaches out to pat him gently on the hand. Wash feels his face doing something weird, like he's about to smile but can't because it'd ruin Junior's tragic image of him. He thinks he probably looks like he's suffering from indigestion, from the way Tucker snorts.
They stop walking so Tucker can shift Junior over to one arm, but Wash only realizes they're in front of an unfamiliar apartment when Tucker tries to use his free hand to take his keys from his pocket.
"Here, let me help," Wash offers. He staunchly ignores Tucker's rapidly waggling eyebrows as he grabs a fistful of napkins and cough drops, as well as what looks a folded up coloring book page out of Tucker's jacket pocket with the keys. He stuffs the random junk back where it came from, but unlocks the front door for Tucker so that he can use both hands to support his son. Afterwards, he steps backwards, about to wave goodbye, but changes tack halfway through and jams his hand into his pants pockets, giving a weak nod instead. "Um, I'll see you around, Tucker. Goodnight." He should say something else, but the spell of familiarity has dissolved now that Tucker's standing in a doorway that Wash has never seen before, about to enter an apartment that Wash will never see inside of. It's not like they're friends. They're barely even acquaintances, so he leaves it at that, backing away toward his own empty place for another sleepless night.
"G'night," Junior mumbles, giving a little wave. Wash winds up taking his hand back out of his pocket to return the gesture, and receives a smile from Tucker in response. It's not on the same magnitude as the expression Wash suspects is reserved only for Junior, but there's a warmth there that never existed before.
"See ya, Wash," he calls. Wash waits until they've entered and closed the door before turning away. The night is chillier now that he's walking alone.
He returns home in silence, and completes his nightly tasks: taking out the trash, catching up with the news, trying to finish his book. Then he lies still under his gray sheets waiting for morning, or sleep. Whichever comes first. It's going to be a long night.
--
"Son, I don't know much about these 'latt-ays' and 'frapp-a-whoozits' you make out here, but I do know the milk doesn't belong on the floor." Sarge stops across the bar to gesture at Wash with his tray of bear claws. Wash looks down to see that he's spilled his leftover milk onto the counter, where it pools at the edge, dripping onto Wash's shoes. It's the third time today he's dropped something on the ground.
"Dammit," he mutters, putting the milk pitcher in the sink so he can clean up, but Sheila shoos him out of the way, a rag already in hand.
"Why don't you restock the snacks out front, Washington? I will take over here," she tells him, her voice as pleasant as ever even though he's been screwing stuff up all day from lack of sleep. He thought he could make it to the end of his shift without another mistake, but apparently that was too much to ask for. He nods, grateful, and hurries to the backroom to grab some chips and the gluten-free pastries.
When he's done straightening out the display and wiping down the bottled drinks fridge, he tries to wash some of the dishes out back, but Church quite literally kicks him back into the lobby. For a gangly nerd, his legs have a fair bit of power behind them.
"You look like shit and you should've been off the clock fourteen minutes ago, you dumbass. Go sleep over there," he commands. "I know you're a crazy workaholic, but you're fucking useless like this. Don't come back to work until you stop sucking ass."
"Thanks," Wash responds dryly. Church flips him off and stalks away to take care of the dishes himself, while he settles into a window seat.
He's tired in the way that leaves his eyes dry, but when he closes them, he doesn't feel any relief. Exhaustion has drained even the sleepiness out of him, so he rests on his seat up against the window with his knees up, watching the keel of the sun sink behind the gray sea of Valhalla's skyline. Across the intersection is a high rise with a rooftop garden: an oasis of green in the clouds. In the windowsills of the shops down the block are planters filled with desert blue succulents and blooming chrysanthemums; on each stretch of sidewalk grass is a worn bench flanked by a tree turning gold in the October air, being used by a group of friends, or an elderly couple, or even a squirrel running along the armrest. That's what Wash likes about this city. Valhalla is alive, dynamic - it's brimming with people, but with space enough for them to grow, to learn and to change and make themselves better.
Wash lived in Invention – a dark, crowded, and hopeless city, empty in all the ways that count – for so long that it's shaped the way he walks, skulking in the shadows and turning back in paranoia at every sound. Invention made him brittle, the war turned him cynical, and the hospital left him sleepless; Wash doesn't break so easily, but he does grow cold.
Cold and weary.
He hadn't noticed, not at first, until suddenly he was looking back at himself three years down the road to find that he was the only one of friends not to have moved forward. It started with little changes. Those tiny nicks and and scars that followed him home after his tour that left him rattled by anything akin to the screech of metal been rent apart, and frozen at the sight of light refracting off high corners and car mirrors. And then he was snapping at South whenever she spoke a bit too loud, or lashing out at Maine for the most minor of offenses. He would catalog every minuscule slight, letting them snowball into incomprehensible grudges, until seeing York's face or hearing Connie's ringtone would be cause for instant irritation. It's easier not to yell at your friends when you don't spend any time with them, so Wash made his retreat. He withdrew, holing himself away in his apartment with the curtains drawn and the volume of every appliance turned low. After eleven months even the most persistent of his friends, aside from Carolina, had stopped coming by.
And after that? After that came the accident, and the hospital. Some things got a little better. He stopped isolating himself, to everyone's relief. Some things, like his sleep schedule, became drastically worse. But most importantly, with all that time to think, alone and trapped on his hospital bed, he came to the realization that he would never get any better while he stayed in Invention. His first few months in active duty, he kept thinking about all the things he missed about home, but now that he'd been back for a year, he didn't get feeling that he was home at all. Each time the sun rose, dreary, over another bleak day, less and less of Wash would wake with it. He was slipping away into the cracks of the plaster in his walls and the billowing smog of the smokestacks outside his window. Invention was killing him, slowly but as surely as the war ever did.
So here he is now, sleepless in a new city full of strangers, and yet, somehow, he feels less alone than he has in years. Valhalla isn't home yet either, but there's a hope here, even in the odd hours before dawn when the city grows quiet, mist on the streets and the glowing asterisms of radio tower lights in the distance.
Yawning, he observes the passing cars, hoping the rhythmic flow of traffic will help draw him into sleep. They pass in a blur of chrome and dashing taillights, but it's not hypnotic enough. His eyes follow the deodorant advertisement on a bus until it passes out of sight, and when he turns back forward there's someone jumping in the window waving his arms around wildly. It's Junior, wearing his backpack around his front so that the whole pouch flops about every time he hops. Wash blinks a few times before pressing his fist to the window; Junior balls up his hand and fistbumps the glass between them. He says something that Wash can't hear from inside, and begins gesticulating, but a hand reaches out and grabs him by the hood and begins towing him away. Tucker walks Junior over to the door, and they enter with a jingle of the bell and a short gust of wind.
"Go sit down while I go talk to Church, okay? I'll get you an apple juice when I'm done," Tucker instructs, patting his son on the head, before disappearing into the back. Junior stands up on his tiptoes to peer into the bakery case, his eyes fixated on the super-sized caramel brownie. He alternates between shooting glances at Sheila, who smiles at him from the bar, and at the doorway to the back room. From the way he's jittering up and down, Wash guesses he's trying to weigh the advantages of getting Sheila to sneak him a brownie with the chances of Tucker's meeting ending prematurely. His dilemma is more entertaining than it really should be. He flounders for another minute before abruptly turning around and traipsing over toward Wash, his backpack still bobbing up and down. Wash is certain that if he starts up a conversation, he'll never fall asleep, but the kid looks so dejected that he nods at the empty chair next to him in invitation. Junior scuttles over and dumps his bag on the ground before sitting down.
"Mr. Wash, what're you doing?" he asks, crossing his legs. His hair is even less tame than yesterday, curls bouncing in every direction as he wriggles around. His shirt is patterned with what looks like an army of red robots, and he's wearing lime green pants covered in fake zippers. It's a fair guess to say that Tucker, whose outfits are usually well matched, lets Junior dress himself.
"I'm trying to fall asleep." Wash leans into the table, resting his head against his arms to emphasize his point.
Junior purses his lips and looks Wash over with a critical eye. "You're not tryin' very hard. You didn't even close your eyes!" He shakes his head, disappointed in Wash's shortcomings.
"Ah. That would help, wouldn't it?" Wash never considered himself good with kids, but he gets a little boost of confidence when Junior applauds him just for closing his eyes. "Do you think it's working?"
"Prob'ly not. People don't talk when they sleep."
"Some people do," Wash responds. His eyes are still shut, but he can imagine the incredulous look on Junior's face is a close copy of his father's. "Some people even walk around in their sleep. A friend of mine went all the way to the grocery store once in his pajamas and didn't wake up until he knocked a bunch of cans onto his foot."
"Whaaat? No way," Junior scoffs.
"It's true. He was even wearing fuzzy slippers."
Tucker returns halfway through Wash's (cleaned-up, G rated) story of the time North almost got arrested at the market for trying to crawl into the ice-cream freezer in his sleep. He perches on the edge of the table, listening to the conclusion with an odd twist to his mouth, but he doesn't say anything.
"...and that's when the policeman found the frozen turkey! It was there all along." Junior's already in hysterics before Wash reaches the end of his tale, but the conclusion pushes him off the edge of his chair, onto the floor. Wash peers down at him, filled with a strange, diffuse amazement that the kid's so amused.
One of Tucker's eyebrows arches up, a wide curve of disbelief. He also stretches over to see Junior gasping for air under the table, letting up little hiccups from laughing so hard. He's clutching at the edge of the table, legs hooked underneath to keep himself from falling off, but Wash has to rest his weight on the table's base to counterbalance Tucker's weight. Tucker watches Junior for a few seconds, almost radiating with paternal pride. He's still glowing when he turns to Wash to demand, "What kind of voodoo BS did you use on my kid?" He really doesn't sound annoyed in the least.
"Such a dramatic and unwarranted accusation." Wash leans back in his chair to gesture at Junior, who's still wheezing. "Here I am, entertaining your son out of the goodness of my heart-"
"What heart?"
"-distracting him from raiding the pastry case-"
"That's not-" a glance at the display and a knowing sigh, "-it was the double caramel fudge one, wasn't it?"
"It was. And for that you treat me like some sort of lowlife-"
Tucker's laugh is bright and unrestrained, as if he himself didn't expect it. "I mean, can you blame me? You never laugh at any of our jokes and you hate fun. What am I supposed to think when Junior starts treating my cranky new coworker like some sort of comedic genius?"
"I'm plenty of fun; Junior gets it. It's not my fault that none of the rest of you are funny." Wash thinks he might be smiling, and he's not even sure that he minds.
"Oho, them's fightin' words, son!" Tucker crows in his best Sarge impression. "You wanna rumble? Let's fucking go!"
"Wait!" Junior suddenly yells, scrambling up by way of Tucker's pants, almost tipping him off the table.
"Whoa there, buddy, you're gonna make us both wipe out." Tucker hooks his arm beneath Junior's underarms to heft him up before hopping down from the table and depositing him on a chair. "You okay? What's up?" Wash notices that he crouches down so they're at the same level and Junior can look directly at him.
But Junior spins to turn his wide-eyed look on Wash. "We can't go yet, dad! We didn't- we didn't..." He pauses to stare at Wash, blue eyes unblinking in concentration. "You didn't tell the story about the sister," he mumbles out shyly when he sees that they're both watching him. Hair obscures Wash's view of his face when he ducks his head in anxiety, only a glimpse of his eyes peering up from under the curls.
"Oh, the story about the whack-a-mole?" Wash asks with a grin. That's a good one. He's never going to let South or Carolina live it down. But Tucker's finished speaking to Church, and it's gotten dark out, so he shrugs apologetically at Junior and begins to extricate himself from the conversation. They obviously have Friday night plans which don't include a random coworker. "Why don't I tell you next time you see me? It's getting late and your dad probably wants to eat dinner. Ask me again next you come in, okay?" He's become better at negotiating with kids after hanging out with Theta and D, not to mention Caboose.
"Okay," Junior says with a pout, but he doesn't fuss, just bends to put his backpack on. Wash is a little sorry to put the kid out, but he should get out of Tucker's hair and get back to trying to sleep. If he doesn't start soon, his whole Saturday will be shot.
Tucker helps his son tighten the straps of his bag, but shoots a look at Wash afterwards, like he's got something on his mind. After zipping Junior's jacket, he turns back to Wash. He presses his hand to his forehead, frizzing up a few strands of hair before he makes eye contact. "Hey, d'you eat pizza?" he asks.
Wash takes a moment to process before responding. "Huh? Yeah, I eat pizza. Why wouldn't I eat pizza?"
Tucker shrugs, the gesture somewhere between casual and belligerent. "I'unno, you're a weirdo. So. You, uh, wanna get pizza with me and Junior?"
What? "Who, me?" He points dumbly at his own chest.
"Um, yeah, dude." Tucker wrinkles his nose and shares a look with Junior. "I'm talking to Washington, right? Not some other awkward dude with huge bags under his eyes?"
"Yeah!" Junior nods enthusiastically. "It's Mr. Wash."
"That's what I thought. So, you." Tucker jabs his finger toward Wash. "Us." He twirls his finger in a circle to encompass himself and Junior. "Pizza?" He mimes eating a slice.
The smart thing to do would be to decline and go get some sleep. But Junior's bopping around singing a made-up song where every other word is tomato, and Tucker's looking at him with something that's not irritation for once. Something that looks almost like expectation, and Wash has to stop and ask himself, why shouldn't he accept? What's holding him back?
This is his life now. This town, these people. If they're willing to reach out to him, a veritable mess of psychological hang-ups stuck in a mangled insomniac shell, what reason does he have to refuse this kindness?
You deserve more, Connie would say, when they sat huddled by his rattling heater trying to soak up the meager heat and warm themselves from the inside with the dull buzz of stale beer. Even the snowfall in Invention felt dirty: tiny specks of sooty gray sticking to the window panes like dust. He remembered Connie's icy touch was rough even at its tenderest, combing the scraggy bleached ends of his hair away from the healing cut on his forehead. This place is no good for us. For you.
You'll realize once it's started happening, Carolina told him once. They were leaning over the rails of the porch on the brand new, tiny house she and York scraped together enough money to finally buy, out in the satellite suburbs of Invention. Maine was in the front yard, on his hands and knees, digging away at the weeds poking out of the patchy lawn. The scars at the corner of Carolina's mouth had started to fade, but they still stood out pallid and stark when she told him, Not at first, but one day, you'll look around and notice that you've started to move on. And it's okay. You'll still fuck up, and the memories don't ever really go away, and sometimes you wake up feeling more pissed off than you've ever been, but you're gonna be okay. You're going to learn to move forward. Just like I did.
Moving forward doesn't sound so hard when it's just one step at a time. He's gotta start somewhere.
"Okay," Wash says, clearing his throat to relieve the dryness that follows after that one word. "Let's get pizza."
The matching grins he receives from both Tucker and Junior make him wonder why he was ever afraid of saying yes.
--
"Ham and pineapple, really?" Wash folds his slice of pepperoni and mushroom in half while he watches Junior wolf down his pizza. With one hand, Tucker absently pats at the sauce on Junior's cheek while shaking a small mountain of red pepper flakes on his sausage pizza. The pizza joint is a small corner restaurant blindingly lit with fluorescent lights that really bring out the shine of grease on his pepperoni. The walls and floors are white except where a few tiles have fallen out of place, and the tables are red plastic: hideous but resilient. The room is packed full of Armonia U students out to grab a bite before heading out to their parties for the night; Wash is surprised by how clean the floors still are, considering.
"It's my fav-uh, um. It- it's the one I like best!" Junior sits up on his knees to try and reach another slice; Wash frees one up with a plastic knife and puts it on Junior's plate for him. The kid smiles at him and mumbles a thank you before going to town again, shredding ham bits.
"I blame the Grifs," Tucker sighs. "I leave him with them for one week and now all he eats is wacky Hawaiian food like pineapple pizza and Cap'n Crunch drizzled with barbecue sauce."
"I think Hawaiian pizza was actually invented in Canada. And nobody eats that second thing. Nobody."
"Uncle Grif does! For breakfast! Uncle Simmons says it's 'sgusting, but they smooch anyway." Junior's slice of pizza is dropped in favor of pulling a face and using his hands to mimic two people kissing. "And Auntie Kai just eats Sunday Special."
Wash can't decide if he's surprised or not that Grif and Simmons apparently smooch, so he just files that tidbit away for now and asks, "Sunday Special? Do I want to know?"
"It's good! But sometimes it's bad, and one time it gave me a tummyache." Junior frowns at his pizza and pats at his stomach soothingly, apparently trying to forget the trauma.
"It's the slop Kai makes out of the leftovers in Grif's fridge whenever she visits," Tucker explains. "And you know Grif eats fuckin' everything, so whatever stuff it is he hasn't eaten has gotta be really janked up, and that's what Sister stir fries together. Not recommended. Zero stars."
"Don't listen to Dad! Forty stars."
"You can't trust this kid's taste, Wash," Tucker says, chewing away. "He eats octopus and celery ice cream. And doesn't like light up shoes. And his favorite color is red! Unbelievable." He jerks his thumb toward Junior, who shoots up to his feet looking absolutely affronted.
"I don't!! Celery's bad! And light up shoes are cool but ninjas need sneaky shoes and that's why I can't wear 'em. And- and red stinks!" Junior's cheeks are all puffed up as he yells at Wash to defend his honor. Wash nods back kindly so the kid doesn't turn and see his father stuffing his face full of pizza to keep from laughing at him.
"Don't worry, Junior. Your dad can't trick me," Wash reassures him, sipping at his water to hide his amusement. "He doesn't know anything about ninjas, does he? People would see you from miles away with flashing shoes. Your dad needs more training."
The heat leaves Junior's demeanor, and he nods a few times in agreement, his expression first turning pensive, then satisfied when he realizes he's got Wash on his side. "Yeah, I think so too. Dad's smart but he doesn't like to practice."
"That sure sounds like him," Wash agrees, ducking to dodge the lump of burnt crust Tucker throws at his head.
Tucker abandons chucking his dinner in favor putting his son in a headlock. "Hey, what'd I say about tattling on me? We gotta keep each other's secrets, remember?!" He pokes Junior's cheek mercilessly, expertly evading whenever Junior tries to grab his finger. "You know what happens when Church gets dirt on us."
"Daaad! You started it first," Junior squeals before freeing himself and dashing around to Wash's side of the table. There's a piece of ham still stuck to his face, and Wash almost instinctively goes to wipe it away, then remembers that might be kind of weird and hands him a napkin instead. "And Mr. Wash isn't like Uncle Church. He's cool," Junior says decisively. There's a unexpected thrill that comes with being called cool by a six year old wearing ham.
"Wash? Cool? No way, little dude. That's even crazier than having red for a favorite color."
They take the rest of the pizza to go after splitting the check; Wash declines Tucker's offer for half the Hawaiian pie. It seems like the appropriate time to thank them for the dinner invite and part ways, but they have to walk in the same direction to go home, so Wash refrains for a little longer yet. Tucker's texting someone with his free hand, thumb flashing furiously as he scowls at his phone. Wash figures he's occupied, so he watches Junior tiptoe down the sidewalk, trying to avoid all the cracks.
"Training to be more stealthy?" he asks.
"What's stealthy?" Junior asks, leaping lightly from concrete square to concrete square.
"Um, it's like being sneaky. Quiet. It's a very important skill for spies and ninjas."
"Yeah! You gotta be quiet to be a ninja. Or a bunny. Or an alien! They need to be tricky if they wanna eat people's guts. That's why I'm practicing."
Wash is momentarily stumped by the sudden change in subject. "Is that what you want? To eat guts?"
Junior tugs at one curl, thinking about it. "No, I just wanna go to space and fight bad guys. But not like a normal space man."
"Astronaut?"
"Yeah, not an astronaut. I wanna be a volcano ninja alien."
"That's...that's a lot to be all by yourself. You'll really have to practice a lot if you want to succeed."
"I'm gonna do it. I just gotta work really hard, is what Uncle Doc says. If I try my best, I can probably be good at something." Doc's advice is...underwhelming, but it seems to have had some constructive effect.
"I think he's right. If you try your hardest, you'll do great," Wash tells Junior. It can't hurt to start early with positive reinforcement. Tucker seems like a good dad, the kind who gets excited whenever Junior achieves anything, but Wash gets the strange urge to say the words out loud to someone himself.
"I dunno, though. I'm still..." Junior slows his leaping to a walk, until he's not even tiptoeing anymore. He continues in a whisper, "I'm still scared of monsters. And scaredy cats can't beat bad guys." His gaze drops to his feet and his shoulders hunch in, like he's trying to shield himself from a threat. It's a learned defensiveness, Wash can immediately tell.
The memory of Grif's sister reminding Tucker to check for bedtime monsters prompts Wash to nod. "Monsters that might get you in your sleep?" After a noise of confirmation, Wash lowers his voice as well. "I'll tell you a secret. Remember how I was trying to sleep in the cafe?"
"Yeah, with your eyes open."
"The reason I do that is because I know the cafe is safe. Because people I know, like your dad and uncles, are there, and I know they won't let any bad guys get to me. But when I go home, it's hard for me to sleep, because there's no one else in my house to check for monsters."
Junior whirls to face him with a gasp. "Really? You're scared too?"
"More scared of bad guys than monsters, but yeah. It's basically the same."
"And there's no one to tuck you in at home?!"
"Ha. No, there isn't. When you live alone, you tuck yourself in. But then that means I can't check in the closet and under the bed once I'm under the covers, and that makes it tough to fall asleep."
"Oh..." Junior looks down and reaches over to pat Wash's hand again like he did yesterday. He looks over to Tucker, who's put his phone away. "Dad, did you hear? Mr. Wash is like me."
"Yep. See, other people get scared of stuff too. It doesn't make you a chicken." Tucker pulls Junior into a one armed hug, squishing him against his side. He mouths a silent 'thanks' to Wash, who shrugs, trying to keep it casual. It's not like the guys don't know about his insomnia, and the reason for it will probably come out eventually, so might as well be out with it on his own terms.
When they reach Tucker's apartment, Wash spins to start retreating from them backwards.
"Thanks for dinner, guys. It was...it was fun. I still don't really know the area; I'm glad I got to try something new."
"Hey, no problem. Next time we should go get quesadillas. There's this place near Junior's school that we all stalked Lopez to one time; it's the best."
Next time. Okay. That's good, right? He's got this acquaintanceship/maybe-friendship-thing to the next time level. "Yeah. That- that sounds good, Tucker. Goodnight." He makes it three feet away before a small hand shoots out and puts his hand in a vice grip.
"Wait, Mr. Wash. Are you going home?" Junior asks, pulling on his wrist to stop him from leaving. Wash is impressed by how strong his hold is.
"I was planning to?" he responds tentatively.
"But you can't sleep at home! You should come back with us. Dad's really good at looking for monsters. He can keep you safe."
Wash lifts his head to meet Tucker's gaze. The other man looks bemused, throwing his hands up helplessly.
"Dad, if Mr. Wash doesn't sleep, he'll get sick." Junior's mouth starts to do a wibbly thing and he shakes Wash's arm around to push his point.
"Junior, it's okay, I'll be fine-"
"Nah," Tucker sighs, beckoning them toward the door. "Why don't you come in and grab a beer. A little booze in your system might help you doze off. C'mon, Junior, help me open the door." Junior drops Wash's hand like a hot iron and jogs over to take the keys from his father. Wash raises his eyebrows when only Tucker's looking at him, but he just shrugs, and makes a shooing motion until Wash walks over. "Sorry, hope you don't mind humoring him for a little bit. After I put him to bed, we can knock back a few and then you can duck out." He looks vaguely embarrassed, but he jerks his head toward the stairway, moving back to allow plenty of room for Wash to enter.
"I don't mind if you don't," Wash says, and follows him in. He's graduated from next time status to home invite status, and it's almost a little too fast, but then he remembers he's been here for close to four months now, and all of his leisure time has been spent alone. Being alone doesn't make him feel better. Not anymore. So he winds up the creaky wooden stairs after Tucker, up and up until they reach the 4th floor. Junior is waiting by the door of 4C, straightening the paper pumpkin that's hung under the number. He unlocks the door when he sees them coming up, and runs off ahead into the apartment himself.
"Just dump your shoes wherever," Tucker says as he flicks on the lights. "Take your time. I gotta go put this pizza away." He kicks his sneakers off next to a small pair of boots. Wash carefully removes his own shoes and leaves them next to Tucker's, then examines the entryway before venturing further inside. Unlike his jacket, which has been left in a crumpled pile on the floor, Junior's backpack is hanging from one of several wall hooks under a lopsided bulletin board completely blanketed in takeout menus and appointment reminders, along with a crayon drawing of two lizards.
After locking the door, Wash leaves the small foyer space for the main room, which is connected to an open kitchen, where Tucker's currently trying to fold the stiff cardboard box in half so it'll fit in his fridge.
"That's not going to work," Wash says, leaning against the kitchen table to watch him. Or, more accurately, watch his backside moving around as he rummages around inside, shoving condiment bottles and juiceboxes out of the way. He realizes a split second later how creepy that is, and averts his eyes, looking instead at the small stack of dishes piled up inside the sink.
"I got this," Tucker responds, punching at something Wash can't see, and slamming the refrigerator door closed before anything can fall out.
"I get the feeling that's gonna come back to bite you in the ass later," Wash says, waiting to see if the door springs back open, but Tucker leans against the appliance, pushing against the door handle until an unnatural humming begins.
"See? All good," Tucker tells him smugly, then freezes. His face plainly says that he's just remembered something important. "No, wait, shit. I forgot to get the drinks first." He pouts at the fridge in dismay.
"I don't want to say I told you so, but..."
"That's a fuckin' lie. You so wanna say it." Tucker side eyes him as he braces himself to release the fury of the pizza box he just managed to contain.
"You're right, I do. Told you so," Wash says, grinning. "Hey, it's not a big deal. I'm not thirsty, anyway. No need to put yourself out for my sake."
"Wash, drinking has nothing to do with being thirsty," Tucker chides, but he steps away from the fridge, giving it up as a lost cause. There's a moment of silence as Tucker deliberates, but Wash doesn't realize what he's thinking about until he continues, "And when I put out, you can bet it's gonna be for your sake, hot stuff."
Wash groans, putting his face in his hands. "I can't believe I didn't see that coming."
Tucker snickers, drawing close enough so he can jostle Wash's arm with his elbow. "Don't worry, you can still see me com-"
"Jesus Christ, shut up." Wash uncovers his eyes long enough to see Junior tromping out of a room to the left, dragging a pillow behind him and wearing footie pajamas. "Is it his curfew already?" he asks Tucker, trying to ignore the fact that his face is still burning with shame.
"Nah, it's the weekend; he doesn't have to sleep until 10:30. Hey Junior, whatcha up to? Building a fort?"
Junior marches over and holds out the pillow to Wash, who receives it dutifully. "No, dad," he says with all the exasperation of a child who's used to adults not thinking quickly enough to be on the same wavelength as him. "It's bedtime! Mr. Wash needs to sleep now. An' if you're gonna look for monsters anyway, I'm gonna sleep too."
"Don't you think it's too early?" Tucker asks. He crosses his arms and bends to loom over Junior, poking him in the forehead. "You don't wanna stay up and watch cartoons today?"
"We can do that t'morrow. If Mr. Wash doesn't sleep his brain's gonna 'splode. That's what Andy said."
Tucker smirks. "Okay, but I'mma remember that the next time. No more 'daaaad, five more minutes!'." His demeanor changes when he remembers the rest of what Junior says; frowning, he asks, "And when'd you start talking to Andy again? Thought you said he was a jerk."
"He is," Junior says matter-of-factly. "But he's good at fireball and he lets me sit at his table for lunch."
A glance at Tucker's face shows that he doesn't exactly look pleased, but he just pokes Junior one more time, and starts walking him off to the bathroom on the left. "You really want to sleep now? Okay, let's get those teeth brushed. You know what Simmons said would happen if you get a cavity. And Wash will, uh. He'll get ready for bed too?"
He and Wash make eye contact and sort of shrug at each other again, which seems to be their new default mode of communication. "I'll go make my bed," Wash offers, still watching Tucker, whose expression settles on something between mystified and thankful. It makes him seem younger, and Wash realizes this is close to a glimpse of what the early years must have been like, with single father Tucker suddenly raising a kid on his own. Despite his questionable work ethic and unfortunate habits, he's seemed pretty self-assured and well-adjusted as a parent, but Wash and Junior in combination together have managed to throw him for a loop. There's something oddly winsome about the way he persists on playing along with Junior, when Wash is pretty sure he'd have already given up for most other ventures.
"Mr. Wash, Mr. Wash, you can have one of my stuffies too," Junior calls back as Tucker herds him away. " 'cept my chupathingy. But the others are okay."
"Thanks, Junior. That's quite generous of you," Wash says, but he can't help the way his eyebrows draw together as he tries to decipher what a chupathingy could be.
"Chupathingy's the one that looks like a warthog. But kinda like a big cat? You'll see," Tucker tells him as they leave the room.
That description doesn't seem helpful until Wash peeks into Junior's room and sees a large stuffed...something taking up half the bed. The pillow in his hands is part of the same set as the rest of Junior's bedding: dark blue and patterned with stars and a bunch of Saturns. Seems like the designer couldn't figure out how to draw any other planets. On the walls are posters of some basketball players and a map of the solar system; an airplane mobile dangles over a small bookcase in the corner filled with books and toys. Besides the few stray socks and t-shirt on the ground, and one drawer hanging open, the room is fairly clean, which kind of surprises him. There's a scattering of other stuffed animals on the bed; Wash picks a worn gray kitten to appease Junior and turns to leave, when a set of photographs taped to the wall catches his eye.
Most of the people in the pictures are familiar: each coworker of his shows up in at least one picture. Some were taken in the cafe, but most happened elsewhere, whether at the park or the aquarium or someone's house. For all that they claim to hate each other, the employees of Blood Gulch really are a family, and it sets off a wistful twinge in Wash's chest. All the people in his pictures, all the people whose pictures he's in: they're miles and hours away now, and on certain nights, it feels like they're even farther. He stops to look at a photo that appears to be a selfie taken by Junior and Caboose, who are smiling madly at the camera. Tucker's in the background giving Church a piggy-back ride, but they look like they're caught between bickering with each other and running away from Freckles snapping at Tucker's heels. It's so typically absurd and so typically them that it brings a faint smile to Wash's face.
When he draws away from the wall he notices there's one photo separate from all the rest. This one's in a neat silver frame, resting on top of Junior's desk, at the other end of the room. From here, Wash can tell it's a picture of a woman with dark wavy hair, but that's all the detail he can see before Junior comes barreling into the room. He almost falls when he trips on the balled up shirt on the ground, but Wash blocks him with the pillow so that he bounces back on his feet.
"Easy there. You don't want to knock out those teeth you just brushed." Junior bares his teeth to show off how clean they are.
" 'kay, Dad's gonna come tuck me in first, then you. Goodnight, Mr. Wash," Junior says and leaps onto his bed. He burrows under the sheets with remarkable speed, rolling himself into a blanket burrito before Tucker even makes it to the living room.
"Goodnight, Junior. Thanks for letting me borrow your friend," Wash replies, lifting the cat for him to see.
Junior perks up when he sees the raggedy cat in Wash's hand. "Oh! That's Skittles. Good choice."
"All right, you guys ready?" Tucker lopes over holding a flashlight, a towel draped over his hair for some reason. At Wash's questioning look, he explains, "Some people can't wash their faces without splashing water all over their dads. Not naming any names, but. Anyway, let's do the closet." He pulls the closet down open and squats down to shine the flashlight in the dark corners, exposing nothing but dust bunnies and a fallen hanger. "All clear," he announces to the room.
"All clear," Junior echoes.
"Behind the door," Tucker says, brushing past Wash to push the door closed and check the nook behind it. "Nothing here either. And the bed?" He lays down on his stomach and waves the flashlight back and forth under the bed. "All clear!"
"All clear," Wash and Junior parrot back. Junior beams at Wash and settles down into bed, nestled in his space pillow. He loops an arm around chupathingy, which is about the same size as he is. From the way his blinking slows, Wash guesses he wouldn't be up for watching cartoons even if Wash weren't here.
"So we're safe, then?" he asks Tucker, who's sat on the edge of Junior's bed after brushing the lint off his knees.
Tucker swipes the towel briskly across his hair, looking up at Wash. "Safe and sound. Don't worry, I'll tuck you in once this guy's asleep." There's a smile playing around his lips, and with the blue-green glow of the nightlight in the wall casting an otherworldly tint over his features he feels both closer than he's ever been and yet newly unfamiliar. Esoteric, but not unknowable; if Wash were to reach out his hand...
He's made abruptly aware of how intimate this scene must look to an outsider. He's standing so near he can make out the ring of black around the dark brown of Tucker's irises and see the crescent shaped birthmark on his temple, normally hidden by his hair. Little details, like the marks on the shell of his ear from old piercings and the broad, puckered scar that begins on his left shoulder and vanishes under the fabric of his shirt - things he never stopped to notice before today will now be burned like a camera flash into his memory.
It's too close, for this soon. He snorts, and steps away toward the door, widening the space between them. "Always something to look forward to when I'm with you, isn't there?"
The smile blooms into a laugh, and Tucker waves him off. It's like the weight in the air is dispelled with that movement. "Yeah, I'm a riot. Feel free to go watch the game, or the news, or whatever. I'll join you in a few."
"Sure. 'night, Junior." The kid nods sleepily back, already halfway to sleep.
Wash goes to sit gingerly on the edge of Tucker's couch, but from the ripped upholstery and splotchy stains on the left arm, he decides he'll never be the worst thing to happen to it, and sits back, sinking into the indentations that form in well-used furniture. He scans the stout coffee table in front of him for the television remote, but all he can see are worksheets and a really ragged recipe for blueberry scones poking out of the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated. His right leg feels slightly elevated, so he roots around under the seat cushion in hopes that it might be buried down there, but the object he pulls out is a toy train. Its wheels are coming a little loose, and when he flicks one, its spin is wobbly. He places it on top of a paper where the name "Lavernius Tucker Junior" is painstakingly written out in capital letters of various size and begins to stand up to hunt for the remote when he hears the conversation coming from the other room.
"-and that's when Tex booted me into the hole onto Grif!" Tucker's saying in a hushed voice. "He's pretty soft, so it didn't hurt. I mean, not until she threw Donut in too. Then she used her crazy gorilla strength to- remember how Simmons was hiding behind that bush? Yeah, she ripped it right out of the ground!"
An awe filled "whooooa" follows.
"Simmons tried to run away, but you know Tex isn't gonna give up just like that. So she chased him until they were back at the pond, and then..."
It appears to be a story about a very violent game of hide and seek that took place before Junior was born. It's a really odd choice for a bedtime story, since it seems to be getting Junior riled up instead of putting him to sleep, but Wash can't help listening in. From the way Tucker's pitch keeps rising, the tale's headed toward its climax; whoever Tex is, Wash bets she's going to win this game unless Sarge and Caboose pull off a last second turnaround.
Here, from his vantage point on his couch, he can see almost everything in the apartment, even into the bathroom, where the light is still on, and Tucker's bedroom, where a pair of jeans is somehow hanging from the doorknob. The only sound besides the strange hum from the fridge and Tucker's voice is the creaking of old floorboards from the upstairs neighbor walking around. The door is locked and the windows are all closed, with the blinds drawn. No hidden corners. No surprises. No monsters.
Safe.
Wash closes his eyes, to better imagine the look on Church's face when Tex descends upon him from the tree she was lurking in. He'll open them when the story is over, when Tucker enters the room. In a minute or two. Soon.
--
Consciousness – like waves, each higher than the last, rolling gently until steepness surpasses height and water and foam crash upon the shore – returns to Wash, and the first thing he notices is the crick in his neck from having fallen asleep on his couch.
Except he doesn't have a couch.
His sleep-blurred vision sharpens until his brain comes to recognize there's someone slumped next to him, their face half crushed into the gap between the cushions, snoring lightly. Black eyelashes brushing against dark skin, one hand resting in his lap and the other arm flung wide so that it's almost touching Wash's thigh. He's still asleep, a light snuffling snore coming out of his slackened mouth, even with sunlight peeking through the gaps in the blinds to speckle the carpet in gold.
Wash fell asleep on Tucker's couch, in Tucker's house. Next to Tucker.
Well, shit.
This is going to be awkward.