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This is true: Wash knows one thing very well; Tucker is most definitely not into him. Which is disappointing, but he’ll live. He’s good at that.
This is true: Tucker knows one thing just as well; he most definitely is into one Agent Washington, but, sadly, Wash doesn’t feel the same way.
And this is also true: The rest of the inhabitants of the farm know this—if Wash and Tucker don’t get their act together soon, they might just murder the two of them.
The farm is crowded almost to the seams, most days. The rest of the Reds and Blues are sleeping in the loft in the farm, with Donut and Wash living in their childhood bedrooms. (It’s been remodeled since Wash left, which saddens him in some ways. But he gets why Mitch did it, and it’s not like she threw away his things. She dug them out of the attic within a month of his return home.)
Luckily, that will change soon, Wash thinks, propping Joel up on one hip as he maneuvers his way through the crowded kitchen towards the table. Martha’s been corralling his friends into building houses, although so far it mostly involves hauling lumber.
Joel clambers out of Wash’s arms the minute the table is within reach, getting into the seat next to Charlie, who looks slightly lost in the breakfast bustle. She’s only been at the farm for a few weeks, and Wash knows she’s feeling overwhelmed, most days. He places a hand on her shoulder.
“You want pancakes, or waffles, Charlie?” He smiles at her.
“Honk!”
“Waffles it is,” Wash turns around to grab the platter that Simmons is trying to maneuver to the table without letting Grif eat any of it.
“Sit down, Wash!” Niner yells, waving a spatula in a manner that really shouldn’t look threatening, but it’s Niner, so she succeeds. Quickly, Wash sits down in the first available seat, which happens to be right next to Tucker.
Very next to Tucker, as it happens. Wash’s leg is pressed right against Tucker’s thigh, and he quickly jerks aside, feeling a flush creep up the back of his neck onto his face. That’s one side effect of being out of armor constantly—he’s so aware of touch. Any touch, but Tucker in particular. It’s not good.
“Are the strawberries sour, Wash?” Mitch asks, frowning at him from across the table. “You’re flushing.”
Wash quickly takes a drink of milk, surprised that Mitch remembered just how sensitive he is to sour foods. “They’re fine, Mitch,” he says, eating one just to prove his point.
He sees her eyes narrow at that, and then her gaze travels to his left, settling on Tucker. Then a knowing smirk begins to creep up her face.
Wash knows that smirk. That smirk is trouble. That smirk means that Mitch has been given ultimate proof of what she’s been trying to figure out for ages. She now knows that Wash has a giant, embaressing crush on one Lavernius Tucker, and she is not going to let this go.
Wash hides his despair by eating more waffles and avoiding his sister’s eyes for the rest of breakfast.
After the dishes are cleaned up and everyone else has gone into town to go fetch lumber, Mitch and Donut corner him in the kitchen.
“So,” Mitch’s eyes are gleaming. “Tucker, huh?”
“I told you!” Donut says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I totally called this! So what are we thinking? Flowers and candles, maybe a nice soft soundtrack to set the mood, silken sheets…”
“Don’t,” Wash snaps.
“Ah, c’mon,” Mitch says. “Let us do a little matchmaking. It’ll be fun. Besides, we all know you seriously suck at actually saying anything.”
“No,” Wash says firmly. He plants his feet firmly, refusing to waver under his younger sister’s glare. “He doesn’t like me, Mitch. You seriously need to stop screwing around!”
Mitch stares at him, eyes wide. “You can’t be serious,” she says.
Donut is also looking at him with wide eyes. “I think he is,” he says, in a stage-whisper. “He’s oblivious!”
“Don’t you start,” Wash snaps, pointing at him. “You should know better! I don’t need you guys messing with things! I’m fine.”
“You deserve good things, Wash!” Donut plants his hands on his hips. “If Tucker makes you happy—”
“That’s irrelevant, Donut,” Wash says, a little harsher than he intends, judging from how Donut flinches back. “He. Doesn’t. Like me. End of story!”
Mitch’s gaze grows even more incredulous. “You seriously think that?” She asks, one eyebrow slowly making the ascent towards her hairline. “You really think he’s not flirting with you?”
“Tucker flirts with anyone and everyone,” Wash says, throwing his hands up into the air. “Literally everyone! Remember how Martha threw a mug at him yesterday for it?”
“Yeah but he doesn’t mean it with anyone else, Wash,” Mitch says, and oh no. Wash knows that voice. Wash might have been gone for a long time, but he still knows that voice. That’s her “my brother is an idiot and I’m going to try to solve all his problems” voice. That’s the kind of voice that comes before Interferences of the colossal, embarrassing, and very noticeable kind.
“Don’t,” Wash says. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
Mitch and Donut exchange looks.
“Please,” Wash adds, desperate.
Mitch wavers, uncertainty making its way onto her face. Donut doesn’t budge an inch.
“Sorry Wash!” Donut says airily. “No can do, I’m afraid! Now that Doc and I have ourselves in position, it’s my brotherly duty to ensure that you and Tucker also figure out your positions!”
Wash lets out a quiet groan. “Donut. Tucker and I won’t be in… positions… of any kind.”
“I’m just going to have to disagree with you on that one, David,” Mitch smirks at him.
“I’m not listening to this,” Wash says, his ears turning bright red. “You two are awful. And don’t meddle, okay? I’m fine. Don’t create a situation where there isn’t one.”
Mitch and Donut cross their arms in unison.
Wash decides to flee at this point, before things end up even worse.
It takes less than half an hour for the entire farm to know, of course, because Donut can’t keep a secret, and Mitch probably calls up Jackie and Martha within five seconds of him running away.
By dinner time that night, Wash has been shoved into the smallest shed on the farm with Tucker by Lopez, slipped into Tucker’s arms due to a well-placed set of marble on the part of Shannon, and been on the receiving end of a mortifying sex education talk by Doctor Grey.
When he finds that Grif has pinned a spring of mistletoe to the back of his shirt, Wash is about ready to murder someone.
“I said to leave it alone,” he hisses at Donut, who bats his eyelashes at Wash innocently. Wash might have believed it, but he remembered Donut using that trick to get them out of trouble with their parents enough times when they were kids. “Seriously,” Wash warns. “Don’t.”
“David,” Martha sighs, grinning at him. “You say that as if you’re a threat. Remember the last time you got into a prank war with Frank?”
Wash pauses, vivid images of glitter bombs and marshmallows dancing in his mind, until another image drives it out.
That image being himself shooting Donut.
Wash feels sick to his stomach all of a sudden.
“I’ve got to go,” he mutters, rushing into the bathroom, leaning over the sink, breathing heavily.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Simmons’ voice echoes in his ears, and he bends over further, feeling too warm, feeling like he’s about to throw up—
“Wash?” Tucker’s hand is cool against his back, fingers splaying out against bare skin where his shirt’s ridden up. “Wash, are you okay?”
Wash looks up, and Tucker’s face is close to his own, concern written all over it.
“Just—memories,” Wash says, fingers digging into the edge of the sink. “Had to get away for a bit.”
Tucker nods. His hand starts to move in circles, still under Wash’s shirt. Wash feels himself slowly relax and calm down, leaning into Tucker’s touch.
Wash doesn’t know how long they stand there, but when Donut finally walks in on them, smirking knowingly the whole time and shocking them apart, Wash feels something in the pit of his stomach.
Maybe, he thinks, staring up at the ceiling above his bed that night, too wired to fall asleep just yet. Maybe Mitch and Donut have a point.
Maybe he has a chance.
The week continues. Wash finds himself either catching Tucker or falling into Tucker’s arms five more times, gets locked in seven more sheds, two closets, and a car, and gets sent on at least fifteen errands into town alone with Tucker.
And yet, somehow, when he walks into the house on Friday night for dinner to find it empty of everyone, the table set for two, and a note pinned to the bulletin board in the kitchen saying: Went out for dinner to give you two some privacy. Have fun! –Mitch, Wash still finds himself surprised.
“Whoa,” Tucker says. “Where is everybody?”
Wash glances over his shoulder, wishing desperately for Donut’s influence to become less obvious. There are rose petals spread all over the fine white lacy tablecloth. There are candles. Soft jazz croons in the background. All other chairs have been relocated, emphasizing that this is absolutely a date setting.
“I’m—look, I’m sorry,” Wash says, a little desperate. He can’t believe them. Tucker’s going to hate him after this. Or he’s going to laugh at him. Wash isn’t sure which one is worse. “Mitch and Donut have been getting ideas and I—”
“Wash,” Tucker’s starting to smirk. “Is this a date?”
“I—look, this wasn’t my idea, I’m sorry,” Wash says, and he’s blushing again, this time the color spreading everywhere, and he just wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole so he doesn’t have to deal with this anymore. “Look, we can just, pretend this never happened, I’m—”
“Wash,” Tucker’s suddenly up in his space, which isn’t helping the blushing. Wash takes a step back, bumping against the table. “I don’t mind.”
Slowly, moving as if afraid that Wash will spook and run if he does anything sudden (a fair assumption, Wash will have to admit later), Tucker gets up on tiptoes and presses his lips against Wash’s.
Wash kisses back without thinking for about thirty seconds before his brain kicks in and he rears his head back in shock. “You—?”
“You didn’t notice?” Oh god, and Tucker’s laughing at him. “Wash, you oblivious—”
Wash decides he’s not having any of that, and bends over to kiss Tucker again, cutting off whatever mockery there might have been.
Tucker’s mouth is soft and warm, and Wash tries not to melt into it, because it’s been so long since anyone has touched him like this. Tucker’s hands are against Wash’s shoulders, pushing him backwards slightly and Wash flails slightly with his own hands, unsure of what to do.
Tucker pulls away with a groan. “Man, we could have been doing this for ages,” he complains.
“Tucker, I… I didn’t… I’d never…” Wash can’t find words, he has no idea what to say in this situation.
Tucker presses a finger against Wash’s lips, which feel slightly swollen and sensitive after all the kissing. “Are you going to say anything important or are you just going to babble?” That’s when Wash notices that Tucker’s eyes are dark and hungry, and he’s looking at Wash like… oh.
“It can wait,” Wash manages, and then Tucker pulls Wash down slightly so he can kiss his neck.
Wash really doesn’t know what to do with his hands this time. “Tucker.” His voice is embarrassingly high and he grabs the tablecloth because he doesn’t know what else to do, because it feels so good, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to have bruises there in the morning and it should not be as hot as it is, but Tucker’s hands are grabbing his ass and slipping under his shirt and Wash is quickly losing the ability to think clearly.
Suddenly, too soon, Tucker pulls away. “What?” Wash manages, incoherent.
“Wash,” Tucker looks dazed as well. “I think there’s a fire.”
Wash spins around, and sure enough, he’s been yanking on the tablecloth to the point that he knocked over the candles, and the fire is quickly spreading, and shit.
It takes them five minutes to put out the fire, rescue the food, and then migrate to the living room.
“Ooh, spaghetti,” Tucker says, grinning as he pokes at the pot. “Very romantic. Want to Lady and the Tramp this?”
“I swear, if Simmons comes in with an accordion, I will shoot somebody,” Wash says.
Tucker laughs. “C’mon,” he says, a strand of spaghetti already trailing out of his mouth. “Gotta at least try it.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Wash says fondly.
They do end up trying, though.
“Don’t be smug,” Wash tells Mitch the next morning.
“You set fire to Niner’s favorite tablecloth, got spaghetti on the rug, and nearly took Tucker’s eye out with a fork last night,” Mitch says, glancing at him. “But I’m going to take those hickeys as a sign of success.”
Wash freezes. “That was Niner’s favorite?”
“You’re a dead man, Wash,” Mitch says with a laugh.
Wash groans.