Chapter Text
There was a long list of things Wash expected to happen when he finally came home after years of being declared MIA, assumed dead. Yelling, fighting, hugging, crying, lots of awkward comments from Donut.
Doc had not featured on that list.
And yet.
Here he is. Sitting right across from Wash at the kitchen table, between Donut and Mitch, while Dad cooked. Mitch might own the house now, but no one is going to keep Dad out of the kitchen. Apparently Mitch’s wife had tried once, and it hadn’t been pretty. Andi, or, as Wash has always known her until she came through the door of his childhood home, married to his sister, Four Seven Niner, is clearly not happy, but she’s eating the food, which is probably a good sign.
Although she might still be mad at him. He isn’t sure. She’d tried to run him over with her wheelchair repeatedly when she’d realized that “You’re still alive, you complete and utter bastard!”
Things are still tense. Wash keeps his head down and just eats. He’s missed home cooking. Tucker’s a fine cook, but he was working with army rations, not homegrown Iowa produce.
“So Frank,” Mom asks. “Where did you and Franklin meet?” Why Mom can’t just call Doc his nickname is beyond Wash—but then again, Mom isn’t much for nicknames. She’s the only one who still calls Mitch “Michelle”.
“Blood Gulch,” Doc’s grin is brilliant. He’s perfectly comfortable here, in a domestic setting. He’s wearing what looks suspiciously like a track and field high school jacket. He’s already charmed Mitch by asking her about her organic produce, Martha by complimenting her dogs, and Jackie seemingly just by existing. Dad loves anyone who eats his food, and Mom is just so happy that one of her kids is dating someone that she’d probably have been happy if Donut brought Grif home. “I was sent there because there was an injury that needed attending!”
Wash stuffs more food into his mouth to stop himself from protesting that he’d been sent there to help with Agent Texas, whose body was long dead by the time that he got there. He’s let Donut do most of the talking about their adventures, and he’s not about to break in to correct Doc.
“When did you two get together?” Dad asks, bringing out another dish loaded with something. Wash suddenly can’t swallow, because he knows the answer—after he shot Donut. He keeps his eyes down.
“Oh you know!” Donut doesn’t seem to notice Wash’s expression or fear. “The others went off on a grand adventure to figure out more Blue Team problems! So Doc and Lopez and I started a farm!”
“Lopez was a great help!” Doc agrees.
“Did he do mechanical work?” Mitch asks. “Donut says he’s handy with machines.”
Donut grins. “He sure is handy! He’s always playing with nuts and bolts!”
“We mostly just used him as a scarecrow!” Doc replies. “He was great at yelling at the birds.”
“Can’t have machines on an organic farm,” Donut says sagely.
Mitch frowns. “Donut, that’s not—”
Jackie shakes her head at her, cutting her off. Jackie has longed since learned the pointlessness in trying to correct Donut about anything. “That’s great!”
Doc goes off on a tangent about proper methods of fertilizing corn, and Wash stares at his food, wishing that he’d thought to bring Tucker or Carolina as backup.
It’s not that he hates Doc. It’s just that the man is a complete and utter idiot. And he also has the distinction of being one of the most annoying person Wash has ever met, and he shared a canyon with the Reds and Blues for several months.
“Stop it,” Jackie says to him, her elbow digging into his side. “I know you hate absolutely everyone Donut dates, but this is ridiculous.”
“I don’t hate him because he’s dating Donut!” Wash protests, trying to keep his voice down. He glances over. Doc and Donut are holding hands under the table, and it reminds him oddly of Chorus, on those last days before they’d managed to book the ship back to Earth. “I disliked him before they were dating!”
“It’s not psychologically healthy to hold grudges, Wash,” Jackie tells him.
Sometimes, he really hates the fact that she has that degree of hers. Jackie’s the youngest of his sisters, but she’s always acted so much older. Not responsible, mind you—Wash and Mitch got all of the responsible genes the family had to offer. But she’s too smart for her own good.
“Don’t psychoanalyze me Jackie. Please,” he adds, when he sees her expression.
“He never likes it, Jacqueline,” Doc says serenely. “When he was holding me hostage in the desert—”
“You held him hostage?” Mitch is glaring at him.
And this is another reason why he doesn’t want Doc here with his family.
“Wash!” Martha says. “You can’t just attack anyone Donut dates, just because he has a history of dating bad people!”
“He wasn’t dating Donut yet!” Wash protests. And then he pauses, her words sinking in. “And wait, who else has Donut dated?”
“Don’t worry,” Mitch says, stabbing her meat with more force than necessary. “I took care of them.”
Mitch and he are sometimes worryingly alike. He nods at her, and she grins at him. He’ll have to get her to tell that story later.
“Violence is not the best solution for everything!” Jackie snaps. “Don’t encourage Wash, he’s in a delicate mental state—”
“Can we please not talk about my mental state?” Wash snaps. He really doesn’t need to hear this—he only managed to get out of UNSC mental evaluations by convincing Grey to sign off on it. He still owed her several opera recordings.
“Yeah guys!” Donut nods. “Wash doesn’t like psychologists. He killed his last one!”
Jackie stared at him, horrified. “Wash—”
“I didn’t kill him!” He pauses, remembering how Price died. “Technically. I didn’t know he was on the ship, and he was working for the enemy anyways!”
“Feeding them psychological weak points!” Donut grins.
Jackie seems to be getting more and more distressed. “What kind of psychologist did you have?”
“Trust me,” Wash says, mouth full of mashed potatoes. “You don’t want to know.”
Jackie’s glare promises him more questions in the future. “I’m setting you up with a real psychologist,” she snaps, pointing her fork at him.
“Look, Freelancer was messed up, okay? I told you that.” Wash can’t meet her gaze. He fiddles with his silverware, trying to ignore how they’re all looking at him.
“One day you’ll tell us what happened to you,” Martha mutters.
“Doubt it,” Wash mutters back.
One of them kicks him.