Work Text:
The canyon was quiet.
Too quiet.
At least, that was how Sarge felt about the acute lack of any screaming or explosions. It was entirely unacceptable! So what if the sun had yet to rise? Scheming never ceases, especially the scheming of a certain devious Blue across the canyon who, now that Sarge stopped to think about it, never slept more than a wink.
Diabolical.
And so Sarge devised a plan. It would take great courage and fortitude to execute in full, but Sarge had those qualities aplenty, and he was certain he had the qualifications to pull the plan off successfully via the patented step-by-step approach.
Step One being to climb the cliff above Red Base.
Easy peasy! Or so Sarge thought until he reached the top, only to come face-to-face with the muzzle of a battle rifle.
“Sarge?” an all-too familiar voice squeaked incredulously before the barrel of the rifle tilted toward the ground.
“Washington.” Sarge frowned at the man as he hauled himself the rest of the way up, slamming the last anchor into place at the lip of the cliff. “What are you doing up here?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
Sarge huffed and finished checking the integrity of his climbing gear. “I asked first.”
Washington sighed. “I was patrolling the perimeter.”
“And you do this every day?”
“Yes.”
Sarge spluttered at the smile he heard in Washington’s voice. Not even the warm, fuzzy feeling of satisfaction that came with being right about the ceaseless, sleepless nature of the Blue Leader’s scheming could override the cold, cruel knowledge that a crafty, contumelious Blue had been regularly looming over Red Base without any Reds the wiser. “How come I’ve never seen you up here before?!”
Washington sounded surprised. “You climb up here often?”
“I asked my question first!”
Washington sighed quietly before replying, “I don’t usually stop to watch the sunrise.”
“Huh.” Sarge looked over his shoulder at the horizon and took a moment to admire the rainbowed hues of the mists rising above the jungle. “That is a nice one,” he conceded, turning back to the pressing issue presented by Washington’s presence.”Still, what are you expecting to do by patrolling the perimeter in secret every morning? You think you can watch over us all singlehanded?”
Washington shrugged.
Sarge crossed his arms and leveled his most unimpressed (except in secret) look at his Blue counterpart. “Son, your ego’s writing checks that your body can’t cash.”
Washington's helmet tilted quizzically. “...What?”
“Alright. So maybe that quote was taken a bit far from its original context, but my point still stands.”
The incline of Washington's helmet increased. “Original context?”
Sarge raised his eyebrow at the other man, but decided to be generous and give the man the benefit of the early-morning coffee-less brain fog. “It’s from Top Gun, son.”
There was a beat of absolute silence as Sarge waited for recognition to dawn.
It never did, and the silence was broken by Washington shifting uncomfortably in place. “I’ve never seen it,” he finally said, staring down the long distance over Sarge's shoulder.
“What.” Sarge couldn't have heard that right.
Washington shifted again. “What?”
Sarge stood there in stunned disbelief as he realized he had, indeedily-doo, heard Washington correctly the first time. “What?” he asked, looking up into the heavens and getting an eyeful of offensively blue sky for an answer.
“What?” Washington sounded somewhat defensive, as he should be for being in such an indefensible state of ignorance with respect to the popular culture. Though how he’d managed to remain so oblivious was a matter of cosmic improbability.
And so Sarge bellowed out at the blamefully blue sky a “WHAT!?” that encapsulated all his enraged disbelief at the poor quality control that must have invaded Washington's prospects for entertainment.
“What?!”
Sarge refocused upon the bewildered Blue, a new plan forming, one of vital importance to the well-being of every Red in the canyon. “Everyone’s seen Top Gun!” Sarge supplied, his gestures carefully calculated to match the volume of his voice as he advanced on the oblivious Blue. “It’s a classic! How can you call yourself a military man without having watched Top Gun?! Preposterous!”
“Sarge?”
Sarge got right up into Washington's face, the visors of their helmets clacking together. “What have you been watching all these years?” he demanded to know, leaning into Washington's personal space until they were practically fused at the face.
Washington tried to lean away. “Training videos,” he said, taking a step backwards. “Reconnaissance footage.” Another step, then hesitation. “The occasional musical?”
Sarge knew an opening when he saw one, and with an opening that wide, it was all too easy to shove Washington off balance and ram the former Freelancer into a tree with a well-aimed shoulder to the stomach.
As Washington doubled over, thoroughly winded, Sarge hoisted the breathless Blue over that same shoulder, skittered on over to the cliffedge, and rappelled back down to Red Base, all before Washington had a chance to catch his breath (much less protest).
Sarge had just made his way inside via the back door by the time Washington managed to squeakily cough out a “What is wrong with you?!”
“What’s wrong with you?” Sarge returned, dropping the still-gasping guy onto one of the chairs in the kitchenette. “Never seen Top Gun.” Sarge grumbled mostly to himself as he cleared the microwave of Simmons’ latest science project and hunted down his hidden stash of popcorn. “Even Donut’s seen Top Gun. Next thing you’ll be telling me is that you don’t know who John Wayne or Clint Eastwood are.” He hit the handy Fast Popcorn button, turned around to keep an eye on Washington, and leaned against the counter to wait.
“I know who they are!” the badly-bruised Blue protested, huddled over with his arms wrapped around his waist.
“Oh?” Sarge crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow; the situation might not be so dire after all. The microwave beeped, and Sarge turned back to retrieve the bag, pouring the tasty contents into their predestined bowl. “So what’re your favorite movies of theirs?”
“The Quiet Man and Paint Your Wagon.”
Sarge froze, the last of the fluffy kernels missing the bowl by millimeters.
The situation was more dire than even he had dared to believe.
Washington’s tone was cautiously defensive as he asked, “What?”
Sarge pulled off an about-face so mechanically precise that Lopez could only dream of replicating it. “Son,” he said slowly, enunciating each syllable with disbelieving deliberateness, “are you telling me that you ain’t never seen a proper Western?”
Washington crossed his arms over his chest. “Paint Your Wagon is a Western.”
“Not a proper one!” Sarge broke his rigid, military stance to grab the Ex-Freelancer by the shoulders and shake some sense into the man.
Washington pulled some fancy Freelancer move that broke Sarge's grip before the righteous shaking of sense could properly commence. “It’s still a Western!” was the vile rebuttal thrown into Sarge's face like a full spittoon.
Someone blew a raspberry from the room next door. Grif’s frustrated voice sounded a moment later, muffled by the thickness of sleep (or a pillow). “Think you could tone down that bickering? Some of us are trying to sleep.”
“Then get back to sleep, dirtbag!”
“Now that’s the kind of order I can get behind.” A moment later, the sound of snoring drifted through the gaps around the poorly-fitted door to Grif’s bunk.
Sarge would deal with the insubordination later; right now, there was a far more pressing matter. With one hand, Sarge grabbed the popcorn bowl. With the other, he grabbed Washington’s elbow and tugged the other man into what passed for the rec room.
As was typical of any area occupied by one Dexter Grif for more than a singular moment, the place was a pigsty.
“Ugh.” Washington recoiled at the sight, and Sarge let the poor man stay in the doorway while he cleared away some of the filth. “This is disgusting. How do you live like this?”
“Not by choice.” Sarge punted some old MRE wrappers under the rug before kicking the floor cover back into place. “Say what you will about Donut’s proclivities, but he’s the only person I’ve met who can completely negate Grif’s spontaneous mess-generational abilities.”
“I would’ve thought Simmons would keep things clean.”
Sarge finished shifting the last of the detritus to the edges of the room, careful to leave the walkways and largest wall clear of debris. “Oh, he tries. But like a lot of things Simmons tries at, he fails. Miserably. Like in this case. And in every other case involving Grif.” Sarge inspected his hasty handiwork, which was really more like fancy footwork with how he lost not a single kernel of popped corn.
It would do.
Washington cautiously stepped into the rec room, coming to a stop next to Sarge. “Sounds like you need to designate an official ‘No Grif Allowed’ zone,” the former Freelancer said, his tone a mix of rueful and teasing.
“Now that sounds like an idea.” And a damn fine one, at that. Sarge handed Washington the bowl of popcorn and pointed at the freshly-cleared space on the floor. “Sit.”
Washington did, resting the bowl of popcorn in his lap.
Sarge sat down next to the Blue and took off his helmet, placing it on the floor between them. He tapped a hidden panel on the side and the wall in front of them lit up as the projector modification he’d installed activated.
“You could have just invited me over for some popcorn and movies. I would have said yes.”
Sarge scoffed. “No you wouldn't. And as if I’d ever invite a Blue into Red Base!”
Washington sighed and stared into the fluffy depths of the snack bowl. “No. I suppose you wouldn’t.”
“Damn straight I wouldn’t! The only way I’d ever willingly allow a Blue into Red Base is as a captive!”
“So I’m a captive.”
“Yes.”
“Being fed popcorn.”
“Yes.”
“And watching quality entertainment.”
“Yes.”
Washington’s head tilted to the side in exaggerated consideration. “This is the nicest captivity I’ve ever been held in,” he said, almost flippantly.
“Only because you’re a deviously crafty son of a Blue that can twist any situation to his advantage!”
Washington snorted. “Whatever you say, Sarge.”
“Now off with your helmet!”
Washington leaned away, gingerly placing the popcorn bowl on the floor in front of him. “What? Why?”
Sarge glared at his captive, arms crossed menacingly over his chestplate. “Because I said so. Now off with it!”
Washington glared back. “No.”
“Is that a prisoner uprising I’m seeing?”
“I am not taking my helmet off witho—ack!” Whatever insubordination Washington was about to spout was cut off as Sarge tackled him.
It took quite the kerfluffle and a hit below the belt to get Washington’s helmet off. Sarge would’ve felt sorry about employing his ultimate armor-piercing knee-to-the-groin technique on the guy, only he was never above fighting dirty, and when fighting a Freelancer, especially a Blue Team Freelancer, you used every dirty trick you had to just break even, much less come out on top. And this time, Sarge did come out on top, so he sat back on his heels to observe his handiwork, yellow-striped helmet securely in hand, the popcorn bowl miraculously safe.
“Heh heh heh. Now you can’t sleep through the feature film undetected,” Sarge crowed, feeling mighty pleased with himself.
Washington groaned from where he still lay curled up on the floor, unshed tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. “Why would I do that?” he whined, voice still recovering from the manhandling the family jewels had only recently suffered.
“Grif does it all the time. The dirtbag’s even mastered sleeping with his eyes open.” Sarge grumbled to himself about Grif being a good-for-nothing disgrace upon Red Team (as always) before squinting consideratingly at Washington. “Where’d you complete basic, son?”
Washington groaned again as he sat up, wiping at the excess moisture in his eyes. “Leonis Minoris system, just before the Covvies attacked.”
“What.”
Washington looked at Sarge funny. “Sarge?” he asked tentatively, the bruises under his eyes adding at least a decade to his features; Sarge tried imagining what Washington would look like without them (not to speak of those grays).
The mental image was astonishing.
“What!” Sarge exclaimed more to himself than to Washington.
“What?” Washington asked, his brow wrinkling with a mix of confusion and worry.
Sarge bristled and demanded to know, “What’s a baby like you doing looking like a grandpa!?”
Washington flushed, his voice pitching up with indignation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“With how world weary and worn out you’ve always acted, I thought you were older than me!” Sarge threw his hands up in the air, looking to the heavens for answers; all he saw was the hole in the roof that Simmons had badly tarped over.
“What?!” squeaked the Squeakylancer. “I thought we were around the same age! How old are you?”
Sarge looked down from the sad excuse for a ceiling and straight into Washington’s eyes. “Older than you,” he said, daring the other man to contradict his claim.
The staredown was intense. Eventually Washington blinked.
“You don’t look it,” the former Freelancer deadpanned.
Sarge glowered and crossed his arms over his chest. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’d expect you to be grayer.”
Sarge snorted. “Donut would never allow it!”
Washington squinted at Sarge but didn’t press the issue.
Victory assured, Sarge took his seat and retrieved the popcorn bowl as Washington recovered his helmet from where Sarge had dropped it. Once Washington had also settled into prime movie-watching position, Sarge hit PLAY, and they spent the next 110 minutes watching fighter pilots in a timeless dance of bravery, bravado, camaraderie, and combat, Sarge quoting along with the more memorable lines and providing valuable historical context where necessary.
Washington, for his part, was the model first-timer, asking the occasional question about events and characters that Sarge was proudly capable of answering.
When the movie had ended and the credits finished rolling out, Sarge looked over at where Washington sat cross-legged, hunched over with his elbows propped on his knees and his chin resting in his hands. The man looked a bit too thoughtful, so Sarge casually stretched, the almost-finished bowl of popcorn shifting in his lap as he reached towards the ceiling.
“You have a Goose, son?” he asked on the tail end of a yawn.
Washington stiffened, his face hardening into an unreadable mask. Then the former Freelancer sighed, and the tension melted slightly from his shoulders. “Yeah,” he eventually replied, voice barely above a whisper. His voice was stronger when he said, “North. He was...” Washington looked away from Sarge and swallowed hard. “He was everyone’s Goose.”
When Washington didn’t say anything more, Sarge lowered his arms and brought one hand gently down on a yellow-and-gray shoulder.
“How’d it happen?”
Washington’s breath hitched.
“The Meta.”
Sarge gave Washington’s shoulder a firm squeeze and nudged the morose man with the snack bowl. “Have some more popcorn, son. I’ll get the next film going.”
It became a sort-of regular thing, those movie meets: regular because they happened whenever Sarge would catch Washington on patrol, which was fairly often; sort-of because Washington started taking pains to vary his patrol schedules and routes, not that it worked. When they ran out of movies, Sarge introduced Washington to the heartbreakingly-compelling world of telenovelas.
In any event, Washington’s reign of unobserved observational terror was at an end, and Sarge now had a captive audience for his binge-watching sprees.
Mission accomplished.