Chapter Text
Agent Washington had not had a good night. Not that any nights in recent memory had been “good”, but the last night had been less good than usual. In other words: terrible.
It also happened to be the latest in a week-long trend of terrible nights.
The last thing he needed was a certain perpetually-perky Private invading his personal space first-thing in the morning, so of course, that was exactly what he got.
“Good morning, Wash!” Donut chirped, stretching, like a cat, and nope. Wash was not going any further with the cat comparisons. Not with the gunshot and shattering of a windshield echoing in his ears every time he blinked.
Instead, Wash sighed and said, “Hello, Donut.”
“Oh wow.” Donut stopped stretching in favor of peering closer at Wash. “You sound terrible.”
Wash shrugged and added another spoonful of sugar to his coffee. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“That’s awful!” Donut wailed, carefully-manicured hands coming up to cover his mouth in abject horror. “Getting your proper beauty rest is so important. Oh, I know! I have some aromatherapy pillow sprays you could use. The lavender and chamomile one is my go-to for when I need to get wiped out as soon as I hit the bed!”
Wash paused in his stirring a moment before deciding that it was too early in the day to question Donut’s diction. Instead, he said, “I don’t think that will help.”
“Oh, is it the mattress? The standard issue ones are always so hard on my hips, but Doc set me up with a lifetime supply of these amazing inflatables. They’re a bit big, but it’s fun to squeeze in and get squeezed every now and then.”
The spoon halted in Wash’s mug. Forget questioning the Donutisms, it was way too early in the day to be hearing any, much less that many. Wash pinched the bridge of his nose as he focused on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth and not on remembering the way a light-red body had just dropped—
“Wash?”
—just because he was in the way, an oblivious annoyance, just like now, and no, Nope. Nuh-uh. Not going down that train of thought this early in the day. He had soldiers to train, troop assignments to look over—
“Wash!”
—planning meetings to attend, and rescue efforts to oversee. There was work to be done, and he had no time to spend feeling guilty about—
“WASH!”
The former Freelance jumped, the abruptness of the motion sending some of his coffee spilling over the lip of his mug and onto the table. It was then that he noticed that Donut was right in his face, gentle hands on both of Wash’s shoulders.
“Wash. Talk to me. On a scale of one to Gretchen Weiners, how are you feeling?”
“Cady Heron,” Wash replied before his filter could kick in and mentally kicked himself for the dorkiness of the reply, and then mentally kicked himself again for zoning out before that. But before he could dig any further down into the pit of self-aggrandizement, he felt soft hands cupping his face.
“There, there.” Donut patted Wash’s cheeks and gave him an encouraging smile. “I know your past is a touchy topic, but if you ever want to talk about it, I have tubs of ice cream and plenty of romcoms at the ready!” Donut gasped, glanced around the room, and leaned in closer to whisper, breathless with excitement, “Do you like musicals?”
“...What?”
“Oh...” The look of disappointment on Donut’s face was like a physical blow to Wash’s gut, and the younger man slowly pulled away. “Never mind... I just thought...”
“Wait, Donut.” Why was he grabbing Donut’s arm? “I like musicals.” Well, he did. “I used to watch them with my sisters all the time.” Wait, why was he sharing that? “Your question just surprised me.” Because who randomly asks people if they like musicals?
“Really?” Donut’s grin was bright enough to power the entire planet for the next millennium, and the knot in Wash’s gut eased a little. “Oh. Em. Gee! Really?”
“Um.” Wash couldn’t shake the feeling that revealing his fondness for musicals was close to the most dangerous thing he had ever done. “Yes?”
Donut squeed—straight-up squeed—and Wash tried not to pay attention to the number of heads that turned towards the sound just in time to see Donut grab Wash in a very enthusiastic hug, one which Wash’s coffee sadly did not survive.
“Welcome to the Musical Lovers Club, Wash!” the light-red soldier announced while pinning a badge onto the collar of Wash’s undersuit. Wash would have to get a closer look at it later. “Meetings are every Tuesday at 7 pm at Blue Base, but since there’s no Blue Base here and we’re bunking together, we’ll just have meetings in our quarters! Oh, I’m so excited! It’s been so long since our last meeting. I was beginning to worry that the Club was done-for since most of the members are missing.”
There were other members? “Who are the other members?”
“Well, there’s me, of course. I’m the President, and then there’s Caboose as VP and Doc as Treasurer! Sheila used to be a member. Same with Tex. Church was on probation. I’m pretty sure he only came because of Tex,” Donut’s voice dropped conspiratorially on the last sentence before resuming his regular, cheerful volume. “Lopez is an honorary member since he’s The Projector! That’s his official title, you know, and the Club would be completely lost without him!”
“That’s a lot of members.”
Donut sighs. “On paper, yes, but right now, there’s only the two of us and Lopez. But that’s alright! So long as there are at least two of us, we can hold official club meetings! And the first order of business is to appoint a Secretary to keep track of what goes on during club meetings! We’ve been needing one for a while, ever since Sheila left, so welcome aboard, Secretary Washington!”
“What?!”
“I understand it’s a lot of responsibility, being Secretary, but I know you’re a very responsible person and won’t let the Club down!”
“But I don’t know how to be a secretary!” Wash mentally kicked himself. Again. Because that was not the actual problem.
“Oh, that’s okay, Wash! I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Sheila had a very simple system, and I still have all of the past meeting minutes. I’ll send them to you in a quickie!”
...Yes. It was definitely too early in the morning for any more Donutisms. “Thank you, Donut. I need to go train now.”
“Not at all, Wash! Now, don’t forget! Every Tuesday at 7 pm, and don’t be afraid to ask any questions about the Secretary thing. I’d be more than happy to lend you a hand with that!”
“I have to go.” Wash went to lever himself up off the bench and placed his hands in the puddle of spilled coffee. He cursed under his breath, feeling a pang of sympathy for whoever was in charge of cleaning the mess hall.
Donut handed Wash a napkin before dropping a pile more onto the spill. “Don’t worry about that, Wash. I’ve got you covered.”
“Thanks, Donut,” Wash said, and, to his surprise, he meant it.
Donut wrinkled his nose at the consistency of the liquid. “After you wipe off, don’t forget to wash your hands or they’ll be sticky.”
Any gratitude Wash fostered promptly evaporated in the face of Donut’s unfortunate phrasing. “...I will,” Washington said before making a tactically-speedy exit to the innuendo-free zone of the training halls, his helmet securely back in place over his head, a small badge digging into his collarbone.
Doctor Grey had intercepted Agent Washington on the way to a meeting with General Doyle, demanding to know what he thought he was doing out of bed so shortly after a major surgery. After realizing that she had forgotten to inform Washington that he was on medical leave, Doctor Grey took pains to establish the facts that strenuous and stressful activities would result in further damage to his pretty head, that medical leave was mandatory, that she knew he slept poorly to begin with, that she had a large range of sedatives she promised to employ if he rendered such necessary, that she could see to it that he remained on medical leave indefinitely if she deemed it necessary, and that the infirmary had plenty of room to house him for however long he remained on medical leave. She then told him he was on strict bed rest for the next three days and sent him back to his quarters while she darted off to explain the situation to General Doyle and scold him for disregarding proper medical protocols; even if it was a time of war, neglecting the health of those under his command was simply unacceptable.
Wash had been too tired to argue, which was why he was on his way to bed before it was even 1100, sorely missing his spilled cup of coffee as he focused on not tripping on air. By the time he got back to the room he shared with the three Reds, standing straight was more of a challenge than he wanted to admit.
The room was completely empty for once, Lopez absent from his chosen corner, and Wash staggered to his bunk, not even bothering to remove his armor.
He was out the moment his body hit the mattress, the exhaustion finally catching up and ensuring that he saw nothing during sleep.
He woke up to someone removing his helmet.
Years of training took over, and in a flash, Wash had his assailant pinned on the bed, a knife pressed firmly against their throat.
“Woah, there, son!” said a familiar voice.
“...Sarge?”
Sarge huffed as Wash jerked away. “You need to get your freaky Freelancer murder urges under control. Indiscriminate murder is only acceptable when you have enemies around. Or Grif.”
Wash rubbed his eyes with a tired sigh. “What are you doing here, Sarge?”
“I was checking to make sure you hadn’t keeled over and died on us.” The fully-armored man sat up, rubbing at his throat. “Donut has been fretting all over the place about how you looked like a dead man walking this morning, ever since the little lady Doctor informed us that you were officially on sick leave and strict bed rest for the next few days.”
“I’m fine, Sarge.”
Sarge snorted. “I tried waking you up earlier, but you didn’t so much as twitch, even after I started decorating your visor with Donut’s fancy face paints.”
“WHAT?!” Wash lunged for his helmet and looked; his visor was a multicolor scrawl of robots and lasers locked in an epic space battle with a side of profanity. “Saaarge!”
“Don’t be such a baby, Washington. Just wash it off.”
Wash heard a quiet clink when he put his hand down on the bed to properly glare at Sarge. A quick glance at the source of the sound revealed small pots of gel eyeliner, eyeshadow, and lip gloss. With growing irritation fed by childhood memories of makeup mishaps, he held a pot up in front of Sarge’s visor and growled, “This stuff is waterproof.”
“Well then, you’ll just have to apply some good, old-fashioned elbow grease.”
Wash just stared at his Red counterpart. He was so done. So, so done with everything. He put the eyeliner down, flopped back onto the mattress, and rolled over onto his side. “I’m going back to sleep. Goodnight.”
“You’ll wrench your neck sleeping in your armor like that.”
The rush of adrenaline was wearing off and Wash felt the heavy creep of exhaustion weigh down once more. “I don’t care.”
Sarge sighed and stood up, muffled clacks breaking the silence as he collected little jars off the bed and dropped them into Donut’s cosmetics bag. Wash expected to hear heavy footsteps and the door next; he was not expecting Sarge’s hands on his shoulder, or the quiet sounds of armor unlatching.
“What are you doing?”
“Saving the rest of us from a patented pastry deflation.”
“By undressing me.” Wash glanced over his shoulder at Sarge. “You haven’t even taken me out to dinner yet.”
Sarge shoved Wash onto his stomach in reply. “It’s only your armor! You’ve been spending too much time with that sleazy excuse for Alien Virgin Mary.” The red-armored soldier began removing Wash’s backplate.
“Who?” Wash wriggled into a more comfortable position on his stomach while he tried to figure out just who Sarge was referring to. “Tucker?”
Sarge snorted, backplate already off and set to the side. “Who else could it possibly be? He goes off on a pilgrimage, gets knocked up by a mysterious force, and gives birth to Alien Jesus! Only instead of the Angel Gabriel announcing the birth, we got a trash-talking bowling ball named Andy. It’s goddamn blasphemy is what it is!”
“I… what?” Wash wasn’t sure which was more disorienting: Sarge’s rambling or how quickly the man was stripping his armor.
“Let’s not be completely oblivious here: if Junior is Alien Jesus, that makes Tucker the Virgin Mary and Crunchbite the Holy Spirit. Toss in the Prophecy as God and you’ve got the Blasphemous Alien Trinity right there!”
“Do I want to know who the Wise Men are?” Wash rolled onto his back when Sarge nudged his shoulder.
“Why, it’s incredibly obvious!” Sarge divested Wash’s arm of all titanium in record time; the more worked up the Red leader got, the faster the armor pile grew. “Church gave Junior shelter! Caboose gave him blood! Doc gave him knowledge of all the colors! Right before he went and ruined it all by teaching the kid not to judge people by them.” The Red soldier muttered something that might have been, “Once a Blue, always a Blue.”
Wash ignored the latter part in favor of putting on his Most Innocent face. “Then Red Team were the shepherds?”
Sarge took his helmet off just to inflict the full force of his glare upon Washington. “No. For starters, Donut is obviously Joseph in this scenario.”
“...What?”
Sarge rolled his eyes. “He ran off into the desert with Tucker to protect Alien Jesus, spent months living in a hole in the ground with them, and then left the hellhole the first chance he got!”
Wash squinted at Sarge. “You’ve spent a lot of time thinking about these parallels.”
Sarge snorted and pulled off the last piece of armor. “Only because no one else spends any time thinking about anything worthwhile.”
Wash rolled onto his side to face Sarge. “And how were any of those parallels worthwhile?”
“They weren’t,” Sarge said, his expression deadpan. “That was the point. No one else spends any time thinking of anything worthwhile, so thinking of worthwhile things is a complete waste of time and energy! Time and energy that can be better spent contemplating robots and lasers! And explosions! And the occasional over-extended metaphor.”
“And pastry deflations?”
“Oh no. Those are serious. A worried Donut is a force to be feared! He will smother you with sweet kindness and saccharine consideration until you become a lifelong diabetic! And not the dietary kind.”
“And why would Donut be worried about me?” Wash asked, a bit more bitterly than he had intended.
Sarge looked at Wash like he was stupid. “He’s a good kid.”
It couldn’t be that simple. Wash rolled over onto his stomach to think.
“He doesn’t know I shot him, does he?”
Sarge sighed and paused in stacking Wash’s armor. “He might.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“As far as I know, no one’s told him you were the one who pulled the trigger. But Donut’s not stupid, and your dramatic change of armor color is hard to miss. Especially for someone as color-oriented as Princess Peach.”
Wash let that observation sink in for a moment, the muted clatter of armor being stacked keeping the silence comfortable. “If he knows,” Wash said at length, feeling more tired than he had that morning, “then why hasn’t he brought it up yet?”
“Because—and I just said this, so pay attention this time because I don’t like going around repeating myself—he’s a good kid. He’s probably already forgiven you.” There was a slight, but meaningful pause. “And even if he hasn't, he’ll probably forgive you as soon as you talk to him about it.”
Wash muttered into his pillow, “I don’t want to talk about it. At all. With anyone.”
“Well, tough luck! You’re going to have to eat that can of worms. Ain’t no way to avoid talking about mushy feelings things with Mister Cuddly-Wuddly around! You’ve just got to get it out of the way as fast and close to the event as possible, like lopping off a limb after a zombie bite!”
Wash huffed into his pillow. “Are your pep talks always so inspiring?”
Sarge just muttered to himself about ingrates, cocky bastards, and Blues in general as he continued to stack armor in neat piles at the foot of the mattress.
Wash had almost drifted back to sleep when he felt an insistent nudging against his ribs. He groaned and turned his head to look, his sleep-clouded eyes only making out a red blur against a backdrop of militant gray. “What now?”
“You’re in my bunk.”
“...Huh?” was his very articulate response.
Sarge grumbled a bit before explaining. “I called dibs.”
“But you sleep on the top.”
“Yes.”
Wash blinked, tried to focus his eyes, failed. “But I’ve been sleeping here.”
“Since when?”
“Since we got here.”
Sarge spluttered and groused about sneaky Blues lurking under beds like childhood monsters.
Wash just blinked sleepily at the red blur and said, “You can’t just call dibs on an entire bunk.”
“Dibs on this here entire bunk. There. I just did, and the International Dibs Protocol states—”
Wash buried his face in his pillow and said, “I don’t care.” It probably came out more “ahdunkay”, but Sarge clearly understood the message.
“This is an outrage! Borderline infractionism! A near violation of sacred protocol!”
“I’m not moving,” Wash mumbled, not even Sarge’s loud blustering able to keep his eyes from sliding shut. His eyes flew open an instant later as a pair of arms shoved themselves under his shoulders and hips, flipped him onto his back, and lifted him off the bed, blankets and all, as armor clattered to the floor. Wash was too surprised to do more than clutch his pillow to his face, and then he was being gently deposited onto a different mattress. A moment later, Sarge pulled the pillow away and tucked it behind Wash’s head before proceeding to tuck the rest of the former Freelancer into bed.
“What?!” Wash managed to finally choke out.
Sarge took off a gauntlet. “Can it, you damned baby Blue.”
“But! Why are you—?” Wash’s question was cut off when Sarge placed his hand just below Wash’s hairline.
“Have to check for a fever,” the Red leader replied as if Wash were stupid for not realizing the obvious. And maybe he was, but Wash still glared at Sarge until his eyes drifted shut, the lids gluing themselves together almost upon contact.
He fell asleep to a cool, calloused hand resting on his forehead.
When Wash woke up later that night, Donut and Sarge were sleeping, the former muttering about tiramisu while the latter snored like a freighter. Lopez sat in his usual corner, a slight turn of his visor the only sign he had noticed Wash.
The only thing out of place was the neat stack of armor at the foot of an empty mattress.