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David Washington is used to this treatment by now. Used to never being the first, second, even third choice. He hardly thinks about it in the light of day, so used to hiding, so used to secrets. It's just so much easier to pretend that he isn't bothered by this, isn't bothered by the fact that he's just a replacement, that the troopers only brought him along in the first place because they were down a member after... After Church.
Yes... It's better, easier, to just forget. Pretend. Push on, push them, because they deserve so much more than some shitty Freelancer. The worst on the team. They deserve better than a man selfish enough to shoot an innocent soldier - oh, Donut - just because he was angry.
But Washington can't allow himself to think about all of this now. When he first joined the Blues, he knew exactly what was happening. Even so, he went with them, desperate to help them in a last-ditch attempt to do something to assist. Anything to help.
Washington knows that the troopers hate him. He knows that he's acted like a massive douche, but he can't make himself stop because, fuck, if he lets his guard down again he knows that he'll just get hurt. He knows that he can't handle that again. No... Never again.
Washington doesn't sleep much anymore. Not really. He's afraid to fall asleep, terrified of his own nightmares, scared of waking up and not knowing who he is. Scared that his memories are not his own.
He can't keep down much food. It hurts to have a full stomach after everything, and he can't bring himself to take from the soldiers because they already have so little. They've already had to sacrifice so much for Project fucking Freelancer. It makes him sick to think about it.
Tucker's voice brings him out of his thoughts, as it often does these days. Washington prefers to think that Tucker's cold, harsh word's don't hurt. He likes to think that Tucker doesn't scare him, doesn't make him flinch (as unnoticeable as it may be). He likes to tell himself that he keeps his armor on to be prepared, not because he's absolutely terrified of seeing someone else's face in the mirror. Not because he's afraid of fucking Tucker of all people.
"... Is stand around and talk to my friend. But he's gone now, and all I have is you!"
Wh... What? Washington's world shifts, and he's nearly unaware that he's spoken out loud.
"Yeah, it's fucking bullshit," Tucker snaps, as if he's unaware of how badly his words hurt.
Washington can't bring himself to say anything, shocked that Tucker had been so cold, so blunt. Without a word, he turns and walks away, his head fuzzy and shrouded in pain. Neither of the men look back.
Washington finds himself walking for a while, almost aimlessly. He's... Stunned, to say the least. Nobody's said something like that to him since York had admitted that he was the worst on the team, and that... It hadn't ended well.
Forcing these memories away, he takes a deep breath and sits down, slowly pulling his helmet off. With just a glance, he realizes that somehow he's made his way to the caves he pushes Tucker so hard to train in. Washington stares at his armored hands, numb, lost. He wants to cry. He wants to scream and sob and eat and sleep and fall apart, but he doesn't trust himself to put all the pieces together again. So he hides. He fakes and pretends because maybe if he pretends long enough he won't see their faces anymore, won't see their bodies falling one by one or hear the tortured screams of not only his friends, but someone... Something foreign to him. Maybe he won't see her.
He leans back, closes his eyes, and tries to forget.
He doesn't mean to fall asleep.
He's just... He's so tired, so weak... always too weak.
The dreams start again. Friends, falling one by one. North, South, York, Connie, Carolina... Screaming, pleading, begging Washington to save them. He knows how the dream plays out by now, but he falls victim to it every time. The second he makes up his mind to save them, he feels the knife in his back. It's like clockwork. Washington cries out, because he's never ready and he can't help it because it just hurts so damn much, and before he can take another gasping breath, the screaming starts. So many voices, so familiar, followed by flashes of the pretty woman with a smile that rivals the sun, choruses of "Allison" and "Please," always followed by "It hurts" because what doesn't anymore?
The voices never go away, not when he appears, and Washington sobs- not that he can hear himself over the screams, the names. EpsilonAllisonDavidAlphaAllisonLeona-
The voices stop, finally, replaced by just another ghost. More pain, more cries, but Washington is used to this too.
When he wakes up, he scared. He's alone. It's dark, and unlike the other times he's woken up from this nightmare, he can't quite get his feet under him. Washington knows he's slipping, sliding downhill, but he can't stop. He can't seem to slow his descent. He doesn't know what to do to help himself because there's nobody left to catch him anymore, and... Fuck, he misses North.
Washington drags himself to his feet after several long moments, putting his helmet back on thoughtlessly.
Back to base. He just has to get back, and then maybe he'll be able to lie to himself again... Just until he's able to breathe again, because it's getting so hard to just hold on.
The sun has gone down, and as Washington makes his way toward their base, he finds himself to be in a sort of trance, lost in the panicked fog of his mind. It's almost as if he's no longer in control of his body, because Washington would never enter his room and begin to remove his armor willingly. Piece by piece, his armor, removed from him finally, clutters to the floor. Washington closes his eyes.
When he opens them once more, he finds himself in his bed, curled up on his side. Washington can't remember how he got there, or when he put on the large shirt and sweatpants and he finds himself wearing.
It scares him. Not knowing who he is, not knowing what he's done, Washington's afraid. But he's always afraid now, and it's so, so much. Too much for him, especially as fragile as he is now.
Washington knows he's weak. Unwanted, even. He always has, but he still can't help but feel even worse when so easily the tears that he's been holding back for so long are released. He cries and an almost violent manner, curling in on himself with his nails digging into his head.
Washington's first sob is similar to a strangled gasp, followed by a series of whimpers and a desperate, shuddering breath. He doesn't know why some stupid, flippant words hurt so badly.
All he knows is that he's foo far gone to care anymore.