Chapter Text
Wash is aware that they probably have to talk about this. It’s just that some things happen very quickly.
They find Nya. Nya is twelve.
*
Wash comes home and there’s a pre-teen on his porch. She waves as he walks up, in between bits of something she’s been given on a plate.
“Are you Wash?” she asks. Which is a strange question to get when walking up his own steps.
“Um, yes?” Wash asks. She holds out a glass with a curly straw poking out of it.
“Maine said I should give this to you when you walked up.”
Wash stands there, the condensation cold and clammy against his palm, listening to the ice cubes rattle. He looks up at the girl again. She smiles. There’s a comforting air around her, but Wash can see worrylines fighting to form on her forehead. He pokes his head in the front door.
“MAINE?” He yells. “CURLY STRAWS ARE NOT A SUBSTITUTE FOR TALKING.”
He turns back to the girl.
“Would you like to come inside?” he asks. “I have a feeling I’m going to want the whole story.”
*
Long story short: Her name is Nya. Some guy was giving her a hard time. Maine took care of it. Bought her a sandwhich. Somehow during this exchange he got her to tell him about how she was trying to sell hand-drawn portraits near the airstrips to save up money so she could get a ticket.
Not a ticket anywhere specific. Just away from her group home.
“The plan was—“ she explains, “To get to a city or something. Someplace with a bunch of tattoo artists. I was gonna try to get myself an apprenticeship.”
“Really?” Wash asks.
She shrugs, a careful mask of composure on.
“If I’m gonna be alone, I need money,” she says. “I wanna be a tattoo artist someday. It’s just a quicker start than what I thought.”
The girl, Nya, avoids his eyes. She’s twelve. She’s a child. A child trying to be older than her years.
“I had a big brother,” she says, finally. “I had a lot of people. A lot of family. It’s just me now. I don’t see any other way.”
Maine stands and just looks at Wash. And Wash just knows.
“You don’t have to go it alone, you know,” he says.
Nya closes her eyes, heels of her hands digging into her temples.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asks. “I’m not complaining. I’m just saying, people don’t usually pay attention to left-behinds.”
Wash aches. Maine’s shoulder bumps against his, and stays there, a solid point of contact.
“We know a bit about being left-behinds,” Wash says. “We’ve kind of made a family out of them.”
*
They meet up with the same social worker who did Simra and Kellan’s paperwork. She looks at Wash, looks at Maine. Sighs.
“Are you two just collecting strays or some shit? Cats is easier, you know.”
“We know,” Wash says. “Do you think we’ll run into any trouble?”
“Probably not,” she says. “We need more adoptive parents, and you two have been good ones. S’pose I couldn’t convince you to take on another while you’re adding?”
“Three’s probably good,” Wash says.
Maine shifts like he disagrees, but doesn’t say anything.
“I’ll have to interview the whole family again,” the social worker says. “Make sure everyone’s all good with the change, check in.”
“That’s okay,” Wash says. “They’re both excited.”
*
“Can she stay in my room?” Simra shrieks.
She’d taken to the older girl immediately (as she tended to with most people she liked, but the speed with which she’d latched onto Nya nearly gave Wash whiplash). Nya sends Wash a guilty look. Wash can sympathize. As much as he loves Simra (yes, he loves her. He loves his daughter and the novelty of saying it hasn’t worn off yet) he can see why sharing private space with her could get exhausting.
The thing is, there aren’t any more bedrooms. Except that Maine and Wash still sleep in separate bedrooms, despite the kissing thing that’s happening with more frequency (which means happening at all. It’s happened a couple more times since the second incident. Wash still doesn’t know what it means). They could—They could maybe…Would that be assuming too much? Not enough?
“Let me talk to Maine,” he says.
*
“So,” Wash says, joining Maine on the front stoop. Maine sitting on the porch, looking up and down the street like a lion surveying its territory. The neighborhood’s no less shitty, but a lot more safe since they moved in.
“Nya’s gonna join the—the family. And this is a four bedroom house.”
He lets the question hang there for a minute. They could move, if they had to. It’d mean abandoning Maine and Kellan’s garden and all the work they’ve put into it, but they probably could it afford it. He doesn’t hold his breath waiting for an answer. He doesn’t think about the other option. He waits. Sometimes you just have to wait for Maine to speak. Which he does, finally.
“Your room’s bigger,” he says, finally, turning his head the tiniest bit to look at Wash out of the corner of his eye. There’s something warm there. “Good?”
Wash exhales.
“Good,” he agrees.
“My bed’s bigger, though,” Maine says.
And that’s it, Wash knows. That’s all he’ll say on the matter.
“Okay.”
*
It’s surprising how easily all their stuff fits into one room. Neither of them has accumulated all that much in the way of possessions. In some ways, they still act like space marines.
The first night they spend together, Wash goes to bed early, soon after the kids do. He’s not sure how to just crawl into a bed that’s already got Maine in it, so he passes on the awkwardness rather than deal with it himself. He is, of course, still wide awake when Maine goes to bed. Maine pads in, practically silent. Wash’s sleeping on his back tonight, had agonized over the implications of keeping his back towards Maine vs sleeping toward him and finally said “fuck it” and tossed the question altogether. He can hear rustling as Maine changes into sleep pants and gets into bed beside him, sleeping on his side, face turned toward Wash. He’s like a furnace. Something about that heat helps Wash relax and gradually he drifts off.
The next morning, he wakes up before Maine does. In the night he’s rolled into the gravity of Maine’s body, face tucked into his shoulder, Maine’s arms resting across his waist. ` It’s so nice, he doesn’t even want to move.
*
Nya is allowed to come home a day later.
The first thing they do is let her pick out a paint color for her room. Simra lectures seriously about the different merits of pink vs purple on the way to the store, but Nya chooses a bright, slightly burnt orange. It shouldn’t suit a girl with so much steadiness in her, but Wash can’t think of anything else that could possibly suit her better.
They paint it together, (Simra given a little paintbrush and told to do the corners where she can make the least mess of herself and everything) and Wash tries not to think about how they’re all going to get orange paint out of their hair. Next time they paint he’s getting the little ones hairnets. Kellan’s hair is nearly brushing the ceiling from where Maine has him on his shoulders, encouraging him to paint the top edges. Nya smiles at him, dips her roller in more paint.
Wash looks around at all of them and thinks, yeah. This could really work.
*
Nya adjusts. They all adjust.
Simra is overwhelmed at the concept of an older sister. Everything Nya does is right. Everything Nya wants to be, Simra wants to be. Everything Nya wants to do is the best idea ever. Wash wonders (hopes) she’ll grow out of it soon. Kellan’s no less infatuated, but hides it better. It is an unsaid fact at the dinner table that Nya will sit between them to avoid bruised feelings.
Wash notices, however, that Nya is kind of avoiding Kellan. He needs to find a way to talk to her about it, but he doesn’t really have enough proof. Maybe he’s just imagining things. She’s only been in the household a short while, it’s ridiculous to assume everything will just fall together immediately. It didn’t before.
This culminates one day where Nya pointedly turns away when Kellan asks if she wants to help him in the garden (this is high praise from Kellan. Simra has been banned twice over, and cannot be reinstated until her seventh birthday). The sadness on Kellan’s face is apparent, and Wash opens his mouth but he’s not quick enough.
“Do you not like me?” Kellan asks, voice small.
Nya buries her face in her hands and runs out the back door.
It takes one glance between them to have Maine going to Kellan, while Wash goes after Nya. Wash closes the glass door behind him.
“I was going to be a big sister,” she says, without waiting to be prompted. “I mean, I was a big sister. But only for eight months. Then he died, with the rest of them.”
Wash sits down next to her on the porch.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Me too,” she says.
“Don’t be,” Wash says. “Well, you can say sorry to Kellan. But don’t be sorry if you need to hold back a bit. You know, you’ve only been here a little while. It’s okay if you need time to adjust. If you need to be a little more reserved. You’ve lost a lot. You don’t have to feel like you have to do anything.”
“But I like it here,” she protests. “It shouldn’t be so hard.”
“Everything that’s worth it’s hard,” Wash says. “Sometimes, wanting something isn’t enough to make it easy.”
Nya doesn’t say anything, stares at her hands.
“I’ll explain what’s going on to Kellan, if that’s okay with you,” Wash says. “You can take a step back, if you need to.”
They’d all barreled into this whole family thing pretty much no-holds-barred, no looking back. It was about time they hit some bumps. They probably should have been expecting this. Wash looks over at Nya. Her jaw’s set in a firm line. She’s got her hair up in thick twists this week, and a couple are falling into her eyes.
“No,” Nya says, standing. “I don’t want to do that.”
Nya walks back inside before Wash can manage to say anything. He turns to watch as she walks inside, shutting the glass door behind her. She walks right up to Kellan, taps him on the shoulder. Wash can’t hear what she’s saying, but it looks like an apology, from her body language. Kellan watches solemnly, nodding to show he’s listening. Her movements go a little jerky, nervousness and shame creeping in. Wash catches Maine’s eye from where he’s watching at the kitchen table.
Nya starts to cry. Wash starts inside, cursing himself for letting her try to handle this herself, when Kellan steps forward. Kellan has never been the most demonstrative or affectionate kid. But Kellan opens up his arms and wraps them around her.
For a moment Wash is scared it’s the wrong thing, too much, but she doesn’t even hesitate to hug him back. Maine gives him a small smile, like he knew all along it’d be fine. Simra pops her head in from the hallway, where she no doubt had been listening.
“Everyone okay?” Wash asks. Nya nods against Kellan’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” she says. “We’re gonna be okay.”
*
Maine and Wash share the same room. They share the same bed. The only awkward part about it is that it really should be, but it somehow still isn’t. They kiss more. Most times he wakes up curled against Maine. Most times he wakes up with Maine’s arm around him, his leg thrown over him, his solid presence at his back. They still don’t have sex. Second base is still far in the distance.
Wash hasn’t ever had much interest in sex. He’d mostly done it because his partners wanted it, and it wasn’t unpleasant. It was actually kind of nice. He can count on one hand the people he’s actually actively wanted to have sex with in his life. On that hand, there’s one or two he actually felt something akin to lust for.
He looks over at Maine, where he’s assembling a dresser Nya’s room. They’ve both kept up general training, even if it’s nothing like what they used to do in the military. Now when Wash goes for a run, he’s usually got one or two of the kids on bikes with him. He doesn’t train like he used to anymore, but if he got called back tomorrow it they wouldn’t find him wanting.
Maine, though, Maine still clobbers people for a living. Or nowadays, intimidates people for a living. Maine’s still all curves of muscle everywhere, bronze skin from working outside, dark eyes, thick dark hair where it’s starting to grow out a bit from his old buzz cut. Maine scowls at the plans, wipes the back of his hand across his forehead where sweat has begun to accumulate. He seems to sense Wash’s attention and looks up, sends him a questioning eyebrow. Wash shrugs in reply, and Maine huffs, a clear Come help me, or go do something useful, jackass, before returning to the plans. Wash smiles, gives Maine’s form one last long look before leaving the room.
He could have sex with Maine, if Maine wanted it. He’d be good with that.
*
The problem is, that regardless of his decision that he would be okay with sex happening between him and Maine, he’s never actually been the initiator in any of his sexual relationships. It’s always been his partners taking the lead, setting the pace, making the decisions. And Maine hasn’t made a move.
*
There’s a meteor shower one night, and they all get to stay up to see the shooting stars. Maine takes a night off work to see it with them. Nya stays up, but Simra and Kellan nod off, have to be gently shaken awake when it’s time.
They lay on blankets under the stars, Simra shrieking every time she sees one. She gets bored quickly making wishes (there is only so much that she wants at five years old) and she gets distracted running around the backyard chasing fireflies. Fifteen minutes later she’s asleep, tucked into Maine’s elbow. Kellan drops off soon after, but the rest of them are awake, and the meteor shower is beautiful.
Eventually, Nya starts talking. She tells them about growing up in Kenya, about when her family started to move out into the stars, how she lost them. She tells them about her full name, Nyathera, and what it means and what it means to her.
“Names are important,” Wash agrees.
She burrows a little closer into his side.
“Simra calls you Papa Wash and Daddy Maine,” She says, hesitating. “What should I call you?”
“Whatever you want,” Maine says.
“Your choice,” Wash adds.
Nya nods into his shoulder.
“Okay.”
*
Hours later, after they carry the sleeping children inside, that thought’s still with him as he and Maine curl around each other in bed.
“My name’s David,” Wash says.
Maine nods.
“I know.”
“You know?” Wash laughs. “How do you know?”
“Paperwork.”
Wash laughs again.
“Never took you for stealth,” he teases.
Maine chuffs, not stealth, that’s common sense, he means.
“You can still call me Wash, though,” he adds, as an afterthought. Wash hesitates, suddenly unsure. “Yours?”
For a minute he thinks he’s pushed too far, by the way Maine’s breath stills in his chest for a second. But then he burrows in closer to Wash, adjusts the grip of his arm around him, and he knows they’re okay.
“Got a few.”
That’s right, Spartan’s have many names, Wash thinks. Names they’re born with. Code names given to them by the program. And then his Project Freelancer designation. Wash wonders at how much of Maine there is that he still doesn’t know.
“Which do you want to be?” Wash asks.
Maine ducks his head, face tucked into the top of Wash’s spine.
“Maine,” he says finally.
Wash nods. Trust Maine to keep it simple. Straight-forward.
“Okay,” Wash says.
He closes his eyes, ready for the few hours of sleep he’s going to get. He almost doesn’t hear the continuation of Maine’s thought, rumbled next to his ear.
“Maine’s the one who knows you.”
*
Look, it’s not perfect. Simra throws one hell of a tantrum when she wants to. Nya’s still adjusting, and has shown signs of sullen teenishness coming through. Kellan still tries to hide when he’s upset, will withdraw into his room, go silent for hours until someone realizes something’s wrong. And there’s something about having three kids that makes yelling more of a thing that happens. Like a lot. Sometimes even Kellan gets in on it, which Wash was not prepared for. These days he’s just as likely to come home to someone yelling across the house, or yelling about not fair or yelling about the game they’re playing as he is to silence.
“How do three kids make ten times as much noise as two did?” Wash asks.
Said kids are currently outside playing, so the shrieking is somewhat deadened by the walls.
“I thought you might be more bothered by it.”
Maine shrugs. Wash looks at him incredulously.
“Project wasn’t exactly quiet,” Maine says. Wash concedes the point.
It’s not perfect. They’re all kind of a mess, in their own ways. They’re just messes that are holding on to each other.
*
They’re kissing, slow and easy, like they always do when they make out like this. Slow and easy, like Wash could fall asleep between one kiss and the next. He thinks he might have once. It’s nice. It’s good. He could do this forever. He could be happy with this alone, just this for the rest of his life. B
ut Maine probably couldn’t, Wash thinks. And Maine won’t make a move. So he’s going to have to.
He reaches for Maine’s belt.
“Do you want—“ Wash starts. “Do you want me to—“
Maine catches Wash’s wrist, brings it back up. For a minute, Wash just thinks he was doing something wrong, that there’s somewhere else Maine wants him to touch him, but then Maine takes Wash’s palm and cups it around his own cheek. He tips his face against Wash’s palm, practically purrs contentment.
Wash gets it, then. It’s exactly like the feeling you get when you snap to puzzle pieces together, the moment of rightness, when everything makes sense. Where all the possibilities before fade and of course this is how things were supposed to be, because how could they be anyway else? He leans forward, tips his forehead against Maine’s.
“God, I’m lucky,” he whispers.
Maine rumbles in reply, kisses him again.
*
They gradually get more tactile. Maine tugs Wash against him on the couch. Wash leaning against Maine’s back while he cooks. Kisses goodbye to and from work. He worries this new change will weird out the kids, but the only response he’s noticed so far is that Simra demands kisses goodbye too.
Some days Maine brings him lunch at work. He can tell some of the guys would love to tease him about that, but the thing about teasing your co-worker about their 6’4 built-like-a-brick-shithouse Spartan partner is that you shouldn’t.
“You suck,” Jenkins says, staring at his shitty microwavable meal.
“You’re just jealous,” Wash says, sucking gravy off his spoon. “I got a kiss, and stew for lunch from my awesome partner who could kick your ass.”
“Dude, you could probably kick my ass, you don’t need your partner’s help,” Jenkins grouses.
“I probably could.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
“Wanna see pictures of my kids?”
“Asshole.”
*
There’s a picture done in crayon the fridge. It says “My family” and it’s got all five of them on it. There’s a second picture next to it, a sketch in pencil of the same thing. Wash hopes that little things like that never stop being special.
*
“How’s parenting life going?” Wash asks.
“I sleep now,” Carolina answers with a tired smile. “She’s sleeping right now, York too, I think. Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Go ahead,” he says.
“We were thinking about having a reunion,” Carolina says. “Everybody seems like they’ve settled down into their new lives, but we thought it might be nice to meet up. Catch up. What do you think?”
“It’ll be nice to see everyone again,” Wash says. “Outside of screens, you know.”
“There’s only so much you can catch up on through a vidcall,” Carolina agrees. “You and Maine up for it?”
“Yeah,” Wash says. “Let me know. You think we can get Connie out? I haven’t talked to her in ages.”
“If I have to walk into special ops headquarters and drag her out myself,” Carolina says. “North always seems to know where South’s at. We’ll make a party of it.”
“Sounds fun,” Wash says. “But what about the baby?”
“Oh, she’s coming,” Carolina says. “York barely lets her out of his sight. Kids, new flames, bring ‘em all. We’ll have a potluck or something.”
*
When they show to the Freelancer reunion, Wash realizes that he doesn’t actually know if anyone else but Carolina is bringing kids. Or if he told anyone about that bit.
“Did you ever tell anyone we were bringing the kids?” Wash asks suddenly. “Do they know about…about us?”
Maine sends him a look, like, you’re asking if I volunteered information about my life.
Wash realizes he’s the one who mostly comms the others, Maine peeking over his shoulder when he wants to join in. He’s been the one confirming the date for the reunion with Carolina, asking if he should bring any food for the potluck. He realizes he hasn’t talked to Connie since her last special assignment, and while she does know about the whole we got kids now thing she doesn’t know about the us thing beyond the former co-parents thing. He can’t remember if it came up when he messaged the others.
“Uh oh,” Wash says.
Nya sends him a concerned look.
“It’ll be fine,” he says. “It’ll probably be…loud, but it’ll be fine.”
Maine full out laughs.
This is the picture they make when they roll up to the pavilion where the other former Freelancers are setting up the potluck. Maine’s got Simra sitting on his shoulders. Kellan’s walking between Maine and Wash, carrying a box of disposable silverware because he’d insisted on helping. Nya’s on his other side, carrying the cookies. Wash’s got a platter of whatever Maine made for this thing tucked under his arm.
“Oh my god,” he hears someone say as they get close. “Is that Wash and Maine?”
They stop. The two groups stare at each other. Connie’s changed her hair since he last saw her. South has a large tattoo spiraling down from her shoulder that he doesn’t remember. York’s got the baby in his arms while Carolina mans the grill. He hadn’t realized from the vidcalls how long her hair has gotten. He wonders what looks different about them. Besides the obvious, of course.
“Uh,” Wash says. “Hi, everybody.”
Nya looks at him like he is awkward and an embarrassment and she still cannot believe she’s more poised than he is, he’s supposed to be a UNSC marine for godsakes. Kellan grabs for his hand, picking up at the tension and not sure what it’s about yet. Wash squeezes it back comfortingly. Simra waves.
“Oh my god,” South says, breaking the silence. “You have a brood. I knew you two were shacked up together, but I didn’t know you fucking spawned.”
North shoves her a little. When she sends him an incredulous look he clearly nods toward Simra, who’s making eyes at a tray of brownies. Wash takes note to keep an eye out for her, she knows better but she’s also not above leveraging her cuteness against unsuspecting adults.
“Dude, lame,” York adds. “I already did the bring-a-surprise-partner-and-a-kid-thing. You are so twenty minutes ago.”
“I’m fashionably late,” Wash snarks back, walking forward and putting down the food. “Also, no one was surprised, jerk. You’ve been singing from the rooftops since you knew Carolina was pregnant,”
“Before,” North adds. “I’ve got a voicemail saved about how she let you move in with her from years back.”
And just like that, it’s like they’re all a family all over again. Connie comes over to give him a hug, ruffles Kellan’s hair and telling him she’s heard all about him. Carolina smiles at him, but doesn’t leave the grill. Nya wanders over in her direction.
Maine puts Simra down and makes a bee-line for the baby. Wash knows what’s up there, but clearly very few of the others are prepared for this revelation. If Maine refuses to put her down the entire time they’re here, walks around with her tucked into the crook of one arm, Wash won’t be the slightest bit surprised.
York looks at the behemoth of a man cooing over the baby in his arms like he’s not sure whether to be charmed, flattered, scared or pissed off, especially when Maine glares down at him until he lets him hold her. Maine then sits, letting a curious Kellan get a better look.
“What’s her name?” Kellan asks York in a hushed voice, like he’s afraid of waking her even though she's clearly awake and grabbing at Maine's face. York’s eyes kind of go big, and yep, that’s Wash’s kid. Doesn’t even know he’s a charmer. As opposed to Simra, who is ten seconds away from convincing North to give her a cookie.
“Not before real food, kiddo,” Wash says loud enough that North hears and has the sense to look guilty.
South cracks up.
“Holy—“ She stops when North glares at her, “stuff, Wash. The baby freelancer grew up. And has babies. When did you two get babies?”
“Almost two years,” Wash says. “We adopted Kellan right around the time Carolina found out she was pregnant. We’ve had Simra for almost a year. Nya a little under six months. We didn’t really have a plan, it just kind of…happened.”
South sends him an incredulous look.
“Yeah, it’s been happening awhile.”
“I think you won the roots-putting-down contest, dude,” York says, hovering uncertainly where Maine’s still holding his daughter.
“Yeah,” Wash says, exchanging a look with Maine, “Guess we did.”
*
Simra immediately takes to South. He feels he should be more concerned about that. Whatever they’re talking about, they both think it’s hysterical. No, he’s concerned. He’s starting to be very concerned. Meanwhile, Nya is bouncing back and forth between Connie and Carolina like she can’t decide who she wants to listen to most. Maine had wandered over toward the grill awhile back, Kellan a burr on his side. He and Carolina are laughing at something as they teach Kellan to flip burgers.
“You should comm me more often, you jerk,” North says, sitting next to him. “Although I can see what’s been keeping you so busy.”
“Sorry,” Wash says, wincing.
He realizes he doesn’t actually remember the last time he called North, or even sent him a message.
“Hey, man, don’t worry about it. We haven’t exactly been keeping still much. Especially South. Which by the way, you better be careful she doesn’t steal your kid.”
“That is not happening,” Wash says. “She’s destructive enough on her own, she doesn’t need my five year old’s help.”
“HEY PAPA WASH!” Simra yells across the pavilion.
North chokes on his drink.
“CAN I PLAY ON THE SWINGS?”
“Stay within sight!” Wash replies.
Simra tears off, dragging South with her, and Wash makes a mental note to get a photo of what’s about to happen.
“She calls you Papa Wash?” North asks, recovered.
“Yeah, it’s pretty adorable,” Wash replies in undertone. “They call Maine ‘Daddy Maine,’”
“Stop it.”
“Simra came up with it all on her own.”
“You’re in trouble when that one gets older,” North says.
“Hell, I’m in trouble now. Those three are a circus act of bad ideas and charm. What am I even talking about. How are you, North?”
North shrugs, avoids his eyes, watching Kellan transport a plate of burgers to the table.
“We’re good. Still figuring things out you know? South moves a lot—“
“I asked how you are, North.”
North sighs, takes a long gulp of his drink, throat working.
“Adjusting,” he says. “Still adjusting. But I’m good. Gotta find my shore some time, you know?”
Wash pats him on the shoulder. He pretends not to notice the tension leeching out of North at the human contact.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says. “And if you need any help figuring it out—“
“I’ll call you,” North says, smiling tiredly at him. “Let’s talk about something different.”
“I think the PTA are all afraid of Maine,” Wash says.
North bursts out laughing. Wash sees Carolina’s head jerk toward them out of the corner of his eye. He glances at her and she looks relieved.
“I think he’s encouraging it,” Wash continues. “Like, he’s never really been a talker, but he goes practically caveman whenever we have to talk to teachers or god forbid other parents—“
“How do the kids deal with that?” North asks, still laughing.
“Nya oscillates between being horrifically embarrassed and weirdly protective of him,” Wash says. “Simra doesn’t even notice, she’s too busy hanging off his elbow. I think Kellan’s the funniest, he just looks at people like they’re the ones being weird, it’s great to watch. He’s really good with all of them, really.”
“And you?” North asks, pretending like he’s not interested. “You two good?”
“Oh, yeah,” Wash says, not even trying to bother controlling his smile. “We’re good.”
*
“I’m glad you figured it out, Wash,” Carolina says to him.
Wash tears his eyes away from where Connie is listening intently to Nya telling her a story to look at her where she’s sitting next to him.
“…You knew,” he says. “You knew, about Maine and me—“
“I suspected,” she corrects.
“Well, you suspected before I had any idea,” Wash says. “…I’m glad, too. For you, too.”
Carolina makes a quiet pleased noise, her eyes trailing to where York is using his daughter to illustrate some story he’s telling Kellan, waving pudgy baby fists in the air.
“I didn’t think it would work out,” she confesses. “I really didn’t.”
“Is it?” Wash asks.
“…Yeah,” Carolina says, seeming to surprise herself. “We had to work at it, but, yeah.”
“I’m glad.”
They exchange a smile.
“Looks like we’re both pretty happy, Boss,” he says.
It’s a nice moment, just the two of them. It’s interrupted by York’s squawk of displeasure.
"I think I have to go deal with that," Carolina says, getting up.
Then, "Maine, gimme my kid."
*
The sun’s going down when they wrap up. South brings a tuckered out Simra to him in her arms, head lolling against her shoulder.
“You’re kid’s hysterical,” she says. “A real comedian.”
Maine takes her, rests her against his shoulder. Wash is thankful. She’s getting big. Kellan’s leaning against his side, tired as well but unwilling to show it.
“Did you have fun, buddy?” Wash asks.
“Got tips to deal with loud girls,” Kellan replies sleepily.
“From who?” Wash asks.
Depending on the answer, he has a new Thing to Be Concerned About. But Kellan’s practically asleep on his feet and doesn’t answer.
“This was awesome,” Nya says, walking up with Connie. “You guys’s friends are cool. Connie showed me a couple of her knife tricks!”
“We’ve made a horrible mistake,” Wash deadpans.
“Relax, I didn’t teach her to do any of my knife tricks.” Connie says. “And you’re not to try any. Seriously, kid. When you’re eighteen, I’ll teach you. Don’t let your Dad try to teach you, he’ll just mess it up.”
“Hey,” Wash protests.
They say their goodbyes, hugs made awkward by former space marines who were never big on that kind of thing, but are learning, and also the multiple children being supported. They aren’t going to wait five years to see each other again. That’s for certain.
Last time Wash left these people he was the last to leave. Last time he left them, Maine was a step behind him.
This time, Wash looks back. They’re all standing around, saying goodbyes, the baby in Carolina’s arms, York’s arm slung around her shoulders. North is saying something, and Wash can tell from here that he’s smiling just from the way he’s standing. Connie shoves South, a gentle hip-check and the blond woman throws back her head and laughs.
The last time Wash left these people, he didn’t look back. This time he does.
The last time he left these people, he hadn’t wanted to leave. He doesn’t this time either.
The last time Wash left these people, Maine was two steps behind him.
This time, they’re side by side.